Author: Alastair Millar

Prosperina Station’s marketing slogan, “No sun means more fun!”, didn’t do it justice: circling the wandering gas giant PSO J318.5-22, better known as Dis, it was the ultimate in literally non-stop nightlife, seasoned with a flexible approach to Terran laws. Newly graduated robot designer Max Wayne knew she was a decade or so away from a salary that would justify going, but NearlyHuman Inc. had gifted her the trip as a signing bonus; granted, her grades had set a new record and made her ‘one to watch’, and she’d told them about that offer from NeoBodies, but it still made her vaguely uncomfortable. It was terribly close to bribery, something she’d normally shrink from.

Her unease hadn’t been improved by the complimentary ticket to the famously expensive *Cirque de géante gazeuse* waiting in her suite. The card had been disquieting: “We’re hearing some strange rumours. See if anything strikes you. Andy will want to know. John in HR”. His new boss wanted her to sniff around? She was no corporate spy, but maybe that was the point. And the show was reputedly one of the great experiences for spacefarers; getting dressed up and taking it in would be better than spending years regretting a missed opportunity, after all.

So she went, pleased to find herself in a good (but not the best) row, close to the circular stage as she goggled at the high plastiglass dome above, framing the extraordinary backdrop of the rogue planet’s luminous bands. The show was as incredible as billed – jetpack acrobats, highwire clowns, fabulous dance routines, low-gee jugglers, levitating contortionists and more.

The evening’s featured soloist, however, the trapeze artist Billy Flyer, was exceptional. Powered by a discreet partner, he was a spotlit star in the glowing, colour-tinged darkness. Disdaining safety nets, strong throws launched him ever higher, and Max gasped as he spun, rolled and jackknifed through the recirculating air. When disaster came, it was completely unexpected: coming down from a mighty leap, his partner mistimed the catch, and he plummeted 30 metres to the ground. Max groaned as others in the audience screamed in shock. A stage hand rushed to where the crumpled body lay, but before she could reach him, the acrobat stood, laughed, bowed and ran off out of the lights. Half the crowd were stunned, and the other half went wild.

“That’s impossible,” the woman next to Max yelled over the noise. “No,” she shouted back, “it’s inhuman. He’s an android. Or maybe a heavy cyborg. Must be. Never seen one that limber or real-looking though!” And that was the rub: someone off-Earth was already making machines that could pass as, and almost outperform, the most athletic of human beings. But who? And more importantly, why were they so shy about their achievements? What were they planning? The implications were huge. Suddenly, her career and a lot else looked far less certain. She’d have to find his maker, and not just for her employer’s sake: it wasn’t just her own future riding on it.