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Narrative

Malware Solutions

When Spruance Del Curtin got Steffi Roderick’s voicemail, he’d assumed that would be the end of it. But about fifteen minutes later, he’d received a call from her: get down to the IT Department ASAP.

So here he was, doing his best to look the part of the hotshot Shep who wasn’t afraid of anything. He didn’t usually go down to IT, and when he did, it was mostly to drop off or pick up stuff related to the station for Lou Corlin.

But tonight it looked like Steffi had assembled most of her division chiefs on pretty much a moment’s notice. Not all of them — he knew from Lou’s descriptions that several of the hardware people weren’t. But the key systems analysts and network security people were all here — hardly surprising given they’d been working around the clock trying to restore Shepardsport’s network connectivity ever since this mess started.

Now he had to explain his theory to the real professionals, when he wasn’t entirely sure whether he was even using the correct terminology. He’d learned some of it in the course of his training on audio streaming technology, but he still wasn’t entirely sure of things like the precise difference between a gateway and an access point, or how a router differed from a hub. Not to mention that he might not even have the right term for the kind of malware he was envisioning.

However, all these people were listening to him with genuine attention. Not just the polite smile and nod he would’ve gotten back on Earth, but actually taking notes.

Of course it probably helped that Captain Waite himself was sitting at the side of the room, looking very much like Alan Shepard himself preparing for his moonshot. Being reminded that they were listening to one of the commandant’s clone-brothers, and that he had the favor of the boss himself, went a long way to keeping the adults from doing the old auto-brushoff.

Which is.a far cry from him calling me on the carpet — when was it? Already that awkward interview felt like another lifetime ago.

And then they were actually asking him questions, sometimes technical enough that he’d have to admit most of his background in networking came from his work with Shepardsport Pirate Radio. But they showed him no condescention for the admission, which truly astonished him.

However, it looked like they weren’t actually going to be pulling him into their team. Steffi reminded everyone that he was already committed to Dr. Doorne’s project, and needed his rest to be ready to meet with her tomorrow.

Oh well, you can’t have everything. Sprue did his best to look genuinely pleased as he thanked everybody. With luck, nobody would be sure whether any stiffness wasn’t just the Icy Commander peeking through.

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Narrative

For a Bit of Quiet

Reggie Waite didn’t usually eat meals in his office. Unless he was particularly busy, or had to squeeze lunch in between back-to-back meetings, he preferred to go down to the dining commons. Especially in such troubled times, it was good for people to see their leadership sitting at the head table.

Tonight he was enjoying a quiet, private supper with his wife. He and Steffi had agreed they’d keep business out of their conversation, just pleasantries and family matters. They’d even agreed to put their phones in a hush box so they wouldn’t be interrupted by incoming calls or texts. If a real emergency were to come up, Betty Margrave knew where they were and why, and her office was just down the corridor.

Even so, all good things must necessarily end. And as they pulled their phones out of the hush box, Steffi’s came on with an alert: missed call and voicemail. “What’s Spruance Del Curtin calling me about? Maybe I’d better check.”

Had it only been a few days ago that Reggie had called Sprue on the carpet right here in this office? The last few days had been so crazy that it seemed like another lifetime ago. “Put it on speaker. I want to hear what he’s up to.”

There was a buzz of background noise that made it difficult to hear Sprue’s words. “…have an idea … not what we think … different kind…. something something malware…”

Reggie looked at his wife. “Is it just me, too many years of jet and rocket engines battering the old ears, or is he coming through really badly?”

“It may just be having it on speaker. This is an older phone. With everything so tight, making it work a little longer with a bit of judicious application of a soldering iron has been one fewer resource we have to find.” Steffi woke the screen. “Let me take it off speaker and replay it for you to listen.”

This time it was a little better, although it also made it easier to hear a couple of younger kids passing through whatever room Sprue was in. Maybe preschoolers, using the module corridors as a playground — kids up here learned to keep their voices down young.

However, it did enable Reggie to follow what Sprue was saying, enough to tell the kid seemed to think he was onto something. “Steffi, I think you’d better listen to this a couple of times. If he’s right, the whole IT department may have wasted two days on a completely wrong strategy.”

It just took her one listen to be convinced. “I think he’s onto something. We’d better have a talk with him.”

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Document

The Cyber Conflict

Hacking had its roots in the development of TouchTone dialing by Bell Labs. Because the system did not distinguish tones generated by the dialing telephone and tones generated by an external device placed near the handset’s microphone, it was possible to create a device that would enable a user to obtain free phone calls throughout the network. Although many of the original “phone phreakers” learned how to navigate this system by trial and error, it became vastly easier after an internal AT&T document was leaked (some said stolen, others said found discarded in a dumpster), becoming one of the first major examples of the perils of security by obscurity.

By the 1980’s and 90’s the rise of the Internet made hacking both more widespread and more publicly visible. However, as long as it was perceived as being mostly the actions of nerdy juvenile delinquents, concern about it was viewed largely as verging upon a moral panic.

Even the incidents of attempts to hack US military assets during the Energy Wars were not seen as a major threat, mostly because of the sheer ineptitude of many of the organizations involved. Yes, it was a threat, and security measures were quietly put in place to make it more difficult, but it was generally regarded as better to say nothing about it and leave the other side wondering whether they had been successful or were wasting their time.

However, it was during the Sharp Wars that cyberspace truly became a battlefield. The Sharp Wars were a civil war within an Information Age society heavily invested in technology, in which both the Administration and the Resistance were heavily dependent upon control of channels of information in their strategy. This was particularly true as the locus of resistance shifted towards the Moon. With the rise of Shepardsport Pirate Radio as one of the foremost information organs of the Resistance, the Flannigan Administration began to focus its cyber-warfare efforts on blocking its Internet radio streaming service, preventing US citizens on Earth from listening to Shepardsport commandant Reginald Waite’s dissenting views.

—- V. Taylor, “Cyber-war.” Battlefield Dynamics, Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 2055.

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Narrative

Connections

Spruance Del Curtin was sitting in the module lounge, struggling with the latest problem for statistics class. Now that Dr. Doorne had selected him as a research assistant for her special project, he was leery of asking her for help. Not just because she might think he wasn’t up to the job, but because the rest of the class might think she was giving him special help.

He was concentrating so hard he only halfway heard someone calling his name. Just another distraction to shut out, like the daughter of one of the other Expulsees sitting on the far side of the lounge and pretending to study on her laptop while she watched a video on her phone.

And then a hand interposed itself between Sprue’s eyes and his laptop screen. Sprue looked up, straight into the bright blue eyes of Juss Forsythe. “Uh, hi.”

Juss’s lips curled upward, not the big grin of a Shep in Smilin’ Al mode, but still a real, friendly smile, not that forced thing some people used when they were putting a good face on something unpleasant. “Spence tells me I should talk to you about the network problems.”

“Yup.” Sprue’s cheeks grew warm and he hoped that his face wasn’t betraying him. “Is IT still proceeding on the assumption that we’re dealing with a DDOS attack?”

“As far as I know. I don’t work that closely with the software side of things. I’m mostly a hardware troubleshooter, but the last I heard when I was down there, that’s still their primary thrust.”

“I think they’re mistaken.” Sprue explained his theory, that there was some other kind of malware making it look as if Shepardsport were under a DDOS attack. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s right here on one of our own servers. Someone was careless about their passwords, or loaded a piece of software from a shady site, and that was all it took. As long as everyone keeps looking for an attack from without, they’ll never find it.”

Juss took a moment to process it all. “That’s pretty sneaky. But why didn’t you just go down to IT and tell them?”

“Because I don’t have any background in IT, for starters. I go down there, and they’re going to act like I’m just wasting their time.”

“Sprue, you’ve got lineage rights to go straight to the head of IT herself. I think it’s time you use them.” Juss paused to let those words sink in, then continued, “Or would you rather I tell her you’re too scared to talk to her?”

“Don’t call me chicken.” Sprue retrieved his phone and started hunting through the directory for the IT numbers. He wasn’t sure he had Steffi Roderick’s direct number, but he figured he could find it. He’d be damned if he let that goody-two-shoes clone of Ed White make him look like a coward.

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Narrative

Be Careful What You Carry

The Roosa Barracks had become uncomfortably quiet of late. Drew Reinholt kept catching himself wanting to look over his shoulder whenever he walked down an empty corridor.

Sure, there were stories about certain parts of the Roosa Barracks being haunted by the ghosts of the astronauts who’d died in the 1996 disaster and whose bodies had been left there when the contaminated area had to be sealed off. But they were the sort of things you told newbies to see that frisson of fear, not something you actually took seriously.

He tried to tell himself it was just the absence of activity making his own thoughts too loud in comparison. And truth be told, he would be resting a lot easier if he could get more than sporadic text messages through to Brenda over in Shepardsport. So far what little had come through had been upbeat, and she hadn’t used any of the codes they’d agreed upon if something serious had happened.

On the other hand, he had no idea how many text messages might still be stuck in the system, waiting for an open connection between Farside and Nearside. Any of them might contain one of those warning codes, telling him he needed to read between the lines of what she’d written.

And it didn’t help that the news coming from Earth was getting worse all the time. Small countries in Africa and Asia had simply stopped communicating with the outside world, as if they’d fallen off the map. He was hearing RUMINT through the Air Force grapevine about overflights of villages full of unburied bodies, of other villages reduced to burned-out wreckage.

Of course those were places still struggling to get a toehold in the Twentieth Century, where poverty and ignorance were so common outside the major cities that even an American small town of the Revolutionary War would’ve seemed sophisticated and futuristic.

But even in wealthy countries, things were going from bad to worse. The most worrisome was the reports of flight control centers having trouble maintaining staffing. Just a few days ago, an old friend who’d gone back to Earth to work at Johnson had e-mailed him, saying that all the NASA space centers were going on full lockdown. Non-essential employees were to stay home, and essential employees were to stay in place, sleeping in makeshift accommodations on military cots.

And the Moon was only three days away from Earth, well within the incubation time of this new bug. All it would take would be one person breaking pre-flight quarantine on a lark — his own ur-brother had made an unauthorized jaunt just days before his Apollo flight — and they’d have it up here too. Somehow knowing that Mars was far enough away to be spared had proven cold comfort.

Especially since Shepardsport is still a lot more crowded. Even here in the Roosa Barracks, we have more room per person, and we’ve got the tightest quarters of anything here at Grissom City.

Even as he was considering that, a familiar voice called his name. He turned to face Peter Caudell. “What’s up?”

“Bad news.” Caudell looked worried. “We’ve just heard from the Indian Space Agency that they’ve had an accidental exposure. Apparently some of the support staff for their quarantine facility are daily commuters, and one of them has turned up sick — two days after their astronauts docked with Space Station Harmony and boarded the Sakura for the Moon.”

Although India had its own spacelift capability into Low Earth Orbit and its own lunar settlement, it paid Japan and the US for transport up here. Which meant their carelessness had now endangered not only Chandra Settlement, but also a good segment of Japan’s space infrastructure. And considering there was only a single station serving all nations on the lunar end–

“Have they gotten to Luna Station yet?” Drew tried not to think too much about the implications until he was certain. Still, cultures that focused too much on saving face had a tendency to cover up these sorts of problems, which had proved dangerous, even deadly, in the demanding environment of space. No one would ever forget what happened to Phoenix.

“At the moment they’re still a day out, and JAXA is still negotiating on how they’re going to handle it. So far, none of the Indian astronauts are showing any symptoms, but we can’t afford to risk any contact with anybody aboard the Sakura until everyone is past the longest possible incubation period. I’m also hearing some discussion of a strict quarantine for all pilots.”

“Damn, that’s going to suck. Shepardsport’s already confining visiting pilots to their port facilities. If we can’t visit at all–” Drew realized he was coming dangerously close to self-pity.

“It’s not just ports of call. They’re talking about closing off the Roosa Barracks and Slayton Field from the rest of Grissom City. Nobody in or out without a three-week quarantine.”

And Drew realized why Peter looked so worried. His daughter works up in the rodent labs. Either she has to change jobs or she has to find some place to stay in Grissom City for the duration.

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Paying the Bills

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At the publisher’s request, this title is sold without DRM (Digital Rights Management).

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Narrative

The Sound of Silence

When Cindy got to the dining commons for supper, she noticed Kitty sitting all by herself. Unusual, since her younger sister usually sat with her circle of friends unless it was Family Night.

Although Cindy had been planning on joining her regular study group and continuing their discussions from class, she decided she’d better make sure things were OK with her sister. She sat down beside Kitty. “How’s it going, kiddo?”

“Worried.” Kitty pushed her beets around with her fork as if trying to find the willpower to get the next bite down. “It’s been almost three days now since I’ve heard anything from Amy.”

“Which means you have no idea what her situation might be.” Cindy cast a look over at the tables where the married pilots and their families sat. “I think a lot of people are worried right now. We know that things are not good on Earth, and we have good reason to believe that the authorities are trying to cover up just how bad things are getting.”

She stopped, realizing she was about to repeat what she’d overheard Uncle Carl and Aunt Betty talking about last night. Not just that Flight Operations was considering quarantining pilots even if they hadn’t had any contact with the crew of Luna Station, but also some very disturbing messages both of them had received from people working at Johnson and some of the other NASA centers around the country.

Except she hadn’t been part of that conversation. She shouldn’t even have been listening in, and sharing that information with Kitty would only compound her lapse of civility.

If Kitty noticed the sudden pause, she made no remark on it. “I just wish I knew what were going on.”

“I do too. But with the problems IT’s been having with our Internet connection, we’re not getting much in the way of news from Earth.” Again Cindy had to pause and think about how much she should say. At the station she’d overheard a lot of stuff, and she had good reason to believe that a lot of it was not for public consumption. “I’ve heard a few people have been able to get e-mail messages through, but that’s mainly because of the way e-mail works.”

Even as Cindy was struggling to remember how Lou had explained the principles of e-mail server operation, a familiar voice asked, “May we join you.”

There stood Brenda Redmond, children in tow. Beyond her, Cindy could see that the other tables were rapidly filling up. With her husband stuck at Slayton Field, Brenda would be looking for familiar faces — and a table that still had three seats available.

“Oh, hi, Brenda.” Cindy hoped she wasn’t blushing too badly. “Sure, have a seat. We were just talking.”

“Thanks.” Brenda got her children seated first, then sat between them. “Have you heard anything more from Amy?”

Cindy and Kitty exchanged those awkward glances, trying to determine who should speak first. Brenda picked it up. “If you’d rather discuss it in private, drop by my apartment about 9PM tonight. I’ll have the kids put to bed, and we can talk about the situation in private.”

“Thanks.” Cindy gladly let Brenda move the conversation to more neutral topics: work, classes, settlement life in general.

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Narrative

Give Me Shelter

Autumn Belfontaine looked at the text message from Brenda Redmond again. I have a problem. Can we talk?

Although Autumn had plenty of work already on her plate, she’d texted back that Brenda should come to the newsroom and they’d find a private place to talk. Brenda wasn’t the sort of person to panic over trifles, or to need her hand held. If she needed to talk, it was something serious.

The newsroom door opened just a hair, and Brenda peeked in. “Are you where you can talk now?”

“As much as I ever will be.” Autumn waved to the multiple monitors surrounding her desk, some showing what few news websites she could manage to reach, but most with reports in various stages of completion, from rough drafts turned in by her junior reporters to polished copy she was ready to read aloud to the mic. “Pull up a chair and sit down.”

“Thanks.” Although Brenda was maintaining her professional voice, she managed to create the impression of breathless anxiety. “Just this morning I got a message from an old friend.”

That ought to be happy news, but I can tell it’s not. However, Autumn didn’t interrupt Brenda, just listened as she told about the e-mail she’d received this morning. Brenda was doing her best to provide a reasonably orderly report, but it sounded like her source material was rather confused.

Perhaps it would be best to take a look at this e-mail herself. “Could you show it to me?”

“OK.” Brenda pulled out her phone, handed it across with a little hesitation that matched the one in her voice.

You’re asking her to show you a private communication. Of course she’s going to be hesitant, wondering if she’s betraying a trust in the process of trying to help.

Autumn read it once quickly to get the gist, then went back and read paragraph by paragraph, sentence by sentence, struggling to sort out just what was happening to the young woman down on Earth. One thing was certain — she had been in a great deal of emotional distress when she’d written it.

“I can certainly understand why you’d be concerned about her situation, especially considering the constraints you’d be facing in any effort to help her.”

“I know.” A hint of bitterness colored Brenda’s voice, for all she tried to hold it professionally neutral, to do herself credit as one of the station’s on-air personalities. “Here I am at the far end of a very skinny data pipe, and I’m not even sure what exactly she told her parents that made them so mad. And I have this awful feeling that if I were to try to contact her parents and intervene, I’d only succeed in making things even worse.”

“That’s always a risk.” Autumn considered what to say. She was a journalist, not a counselor or social worker. “Especially if they consider it a private family matter, they’ll view you as butting in where you have no business, and regard her as a blabbermouth who exposed these things to a stranger.”

“That’s what I’m worried about.” Brenda spoke those words slowly, as if dreading what they might signify. “And if she’s in actual danger, there’s nothing I can do up here. You know as well as I do that the cops aren’t going to intervene on her behalf under her own parents’ roof. If anything, they’re likely to tell her that she’s the problem and needs to be more pleasant and deferential.”

Autumn wished she knew what church Brenda belonged to. She was pretty sure that Ken Redmond had been raised in the Church of Christ like his ur-brother Gus Grissom, but she had no idea what tradition Jen had been brought up in, or whether either of them had brought Brenda up on a faith tradition.

“Brenda, I think it’s probably just as well you came to me rather than trying to do anything on your own. I’m going to try to make connections with some people who might be able to actually make a difference in her situation, rather than ‘help’ by just telling her to chin up and put a smile on her face. Let her know we’re working on things, but don’t tell her anything that might build hopes we can’t follow through on.”

“Got it.” Brenda paused, moistened her lips. “Of course there’s no telling how long it may take for an e-mail to get to her. From the headers I saw, it looks like this one bounced around servers for three or four days before it got up here.”

“At least it got through. That’s the strength and the weakness of store-and-forward systems. In the meantime, let’s hope for the best and concentrate on what we can do up here, not worrying about what we can’t.”

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Narrative

Remembrances

The formal entrance to Shepardsport was quiet today. Not surprising given the current situation, but Payton Shaw wasn’t used to having such complete privacy for his annual observance. Of course there wasn’t complete silence — no shirtsleeve environment on the Moon was ever completely silent, although the various fans and other devices to keep the air breathable could be made extremely quiet.

On the other hand, the place was now clean, with nothing to distract from the significance of this place. Payton remembered when he first arrived up here, when it was still stacked with boxes and bins unless there were a formal ceremony. Now the floor remained clear and polished at all times, the squid emblem of Shepardsport on display for all to see.

Payton approached the Wall of Honor, the three slabs of polished basalt flanked by the US and NASA flags, which was the real focal point of the room. In another place and time, the fallen might be honored by elaborate monuments with sculptures of marble and bronze. Here there was nothing but columns of names engraved in stone, a memorial that reinforced the gravity of what was remembered here in the spartan severity of its presentation.

Often people would touch the names of friends or family members who had given their lives in the pursuit of spaceflight. Although the lunar basalt was regularly shined, Payton could see a few fingerprints, especially on particularly famous names.

However, the name he was looking for was relatively recent. Payton knelt to look more closely at it — his clone-brother, Gavin Etlund.

Sometimes it seemed like yesterday — the growing tension, the horrible row in the dining commons and Gavin racing out after his girlfriend, pleading with her not to do anything rash. Other times it seemed like another lifetime, standing vigil outside Medlab as Dr. Thuc desperately tried to save Gavin’s life, to stabilize him enough that he could survive being transported up to Gagarinsk, where Colonel Grigorenko had arranged for him to receive regeneration.

Gavin was honored here, but only by name. One simply did not speak of the young woman whose life he’d tried to save. Never mind that it was pretty well agreed that Clarissa Munroe had had a bad case of undiagnosed Earth Separation Anxiety Disorder, and that her desperation led her to believe that if she just screwed up badly enough, she could be sent back home, never mind the Writ of Expulsion against her. Her actions had endangered not only herself and Gavin, but potentially the entire settlement, and as a result no sympathy toward her could be tolerated, lest it appear to excuse her actions.

It was a harsh damnato memoria, but uncomfortable as Payton was about it, he knew better than try to buck it. Up here, the margins of survival were too thin.

As he rose, Payton realized he was not alone. He turned to face the gray-haired man with the craggy good looks of Deke Slayton, the “forgotten” Mercury astronaut.

Payton’s mind raced with questions he dared not air in this sacred space. Colonel Hearne? What’re you doing here?

Bill Hearne just gave Payton a stern look, an unmistakable Wait. I want to talk to you.

Payton gave him a polite nod and retreated to the corridor while the older man paid his own respects. He’d come all too close to having his name on that wall himself: the rescue of the crew of the Falcon had been a close-run thing, still talked about in awed tones three decades later.

The longer Payton waited, the more he wondered just what Bill Hearne wanted with him. Was he in trouble? After all, getting down here meant going through the port facilities, and that meant being seen by the pilot-astronauts. And Bill Hearne had been the one to lay down the law that terrible night, using his authority as the last commander of the Falcon.

On the other hand, the name Hearne was looking at was clearly much higher on the wall. Maybe one of his friends who’d died in the NASA Massacre, back in the Energy Wars? He’d been commanding American Eagle that day, doing repairs on a spy satellite, and it had always bothered him that he was above it all while terrorists were rampaging through Johnson Space Center, shooting up offices and murdering astronauts and support staff.

Finally Hearne completed whatever personal memorial he needed to perform and walked back out to join Payton in the corridor. “I’m rather surprised to see you down here tonight, Mr. Shaw. I thought you had quite a bit of work to do these days.”

Payton’s gut twisted in ill-ease. What was with the formal address? And why the indirection?

On the other hand, if he were in trouble, the last thing he wanted to do right now was say or do anything that could look defensive. Keep on his guard, but maintain the appearance that he was taking the greeting and question at face value, as politeness, not accusation.

He chose his words with care, hoping that it wouldn’t make him look deceitful. “I do, sir, but today I needed to honor someone’s memory.”

Hearne nodded, a curt movement of the chin up, then down. “We may soon have a lot more memories to honor.”

Something’s seriously wrong here. Payton studied Col. Hearne’s expression, seeking any hint of what was going on. He decided to take a risk, based on some things Autumn Belfontaine had said at the recent all-hands staff meeting at the station. “It’s pretty bad down there, isn’t it?”

“NASA’s trying to keep it quiet, but that damn bug’s gotten into Johnson, and I’m hearing scuttlebutt that they’re having trouble keeping critical operations staffed.”

Payton considered that information. Why would someone so senior be sharing it with someone as lowly as himself? Might it be a test, to see whether Payton could exercise discretion with a choice bit of RUMINT? “That’s not good.” He spoke those three words with deliberate care, hoping it would convey that he understood both the gravity of the situation being described and the significance of being given the information.

“No, it’s not. You work logistics, so I’ll leave the full implications as an exercise for your edification.”

There was a finality in those words that made it clear the conversation was at a close. Make it definite, this was some kind of test — and Payton had absolutely no idea what.

“Uh, thanks, sir.” Payton hoped he sounded reasonably enthusiastic about being handed this puzzle. He certainly didn’t feel like it.

Conversation completed, Col. Hearne made a sharp turn back to the pilot-astronauts’ offices, leaving Payton to make his own way back to Dunwich Sector and his apartment.

Something’s going on, and I need to find out what, without letting it get noised about that I know just how bad things are getting dirtside.

Damn. He almost wished that Col. Hearne had given his ears a blistering about Clarissa Munroe.

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The Stranded and the Afraid

Disasters are frightening enough when you are at home, among familiar faces, people who know you and whom you know. It’s even more frightening to have an emergency strike while you are traveling, and suddenly find yourself stranded among strangers, who may well view you as an unwelcome mouth to feed in a difficult time. If you have money to pay your way, they may well charge you ruinous prices for ordinary necessities. And if your money should run out, what help you get may be offered grudgingly, even with a side dish of cruelty, like disliked or inedible foods presented as saved “just for you.”

It is even worse when you are told to return to a “home” that is not safe, and the authorities refuse to take your word, or even what evidence you can offer, and insist that you are the problem, not the people you’re expected to live with. When the initial quarantine orders turned into general “stay at home” orders, there were many people who found themselves in just that sort of situation.

Victims of domestic violence were one obvious group. Because most people recognized the danger of returning a person to a home occupied and controlled by an abuser, accommodations were generally made for such individuals to shelter in a safe location.

However, there were also some less obvious groups who did not regard themselves as able to return safely to their nominal homes. Many of them were living in academic dormitories and various kinds of hostels, especially for work-study situations, when the orders came through to clear these group living situations. Everybody had to go home, immediately, often with barely enough time to pack their belongings and arrange transport or storage if those did not fit into the typical personal vehicle.

Most such individuals had reasonably safe homes. Those homes may not have been the most comfortable, but they were not torn by violence, and they generally belonged to reasonably flexible people who were willing to agree to disagree, even with their adult children.

However, there were some whose parents or parent-substitutes were not known for such flexibility. While they might not be physically abusive to their charges, they could make life a Very Special Hell for a young person who had been briefly independent and become accustomed to making their own decisions and forming their own opinions. In many cases these opinions were at variance with the narrow range considered acceptable by Adult Authority in the household.

One immediately thinks of persons of atypical sexuality, but on the whole most of them were sufficiently plugged in with the LGBTQI+ community that they were able to find temporary accommodations with an accepting friend or mentor. It was the others who often fell through the cracks: neurodivergent people who had found the freedom to embrace neurodiversity, only to be expected to return to a home where the only acceptable mode of living was Indistinguishable From Neurotypical. People with interests that parents derided, particularly in the arts, given how society has often regarded artists as unstable and therefore suspect.

But there were also those who had simply used this time apart from their parents to explore political or religious philosophies, and who had examined the ones they’d been brought up with and found them wanting. To go home would be to have to choose between continual conflict with the authority figures in the household and living a lie in order to keep the peace, with all the stress that is involved in preventing any leakage of information to the contrary.

The US had its own particular set of issues in that regard, and curiously enough, it was not just with students in in the liberal arts. Given that the US cloning program had focused on highly successful people — not just senior political and military leaders, but also business magnates, inventors, athletes, and all the early astronauts — many of their clones were active and even prominent in a multitude of fields of endeavor. Young people in college or internships often had reason to develop contacts with these individuals, generally via the Internet, and had come to see them as people, not monsters. In some cases they had established romantic entanglements, sufficient to consider emigrating to the Russian Empire or to the Moon.

Now they were suddenly being expected to return to homes were clones and other Sharps were viewed as monsters, where it was not sufficient to condemn cloning and human genetic engineering as Frankenstein science if one did not also condemn its products as the fruit of a poisoned tree, forever morally suspect. Homes where their Internet access was apt to be monitored, where their devices might have to be surrendered for examination at a moment’s notice. Suddenly they were faced with the choice of whether to be true to themselves and face an unlivable home situation, or to cut off all contact with these individuals for the duration, even erase every document that contradicted the approved orthodoxy.

But given that the authorities to whom they had to appeal if they were to find alternate housing were all supportive of the Administration’s position, trying to claim that their home situations were not safe was apt to net them not merely accusations that they were making their own problems, but that they were the problems.

—– Virgil Gadsen, “When Home is Not Safe: the Unseen Crisis of the Diablovirus Pandemic.” The Diablovirus Pandemic: A History. Carpenter Point, Tycho: Kennedy University Press, 2034.