Operation Pet Shop

Nights feel long on Jupiter. The stars shine less brightly when you consider how long they’ve been dead. From what I’ve read, humans were always looking at stars, reading things into them about their futures, their pasts, what made them them – trying to find their way Home (as if it helped them – us – in the end). But the stars are gone; this is just their echo.

I’m on duty again. I don’t mind it much because it’s quiet. Gives me a chance to step outside the shop and look at Io (a name my ancestors gave it after a character their ancestors made up). Gives me a chance not to hear Their crying. I hate it when They cry. Sure, sometimes the whole setup troubles me too. I know this isn’t how it’s always been, but this is what it is, and this is how it’s always been for us, so why fight it?

I’m not allowed to drink on the job, so I pull out a jar of Callisto Dust and mix it into the hot liquid for some moon tea. I lean the machete on my leg, so I can pick it up if I need to. It’s unlikely I’ll need to, but you never know with these Freedom Fighter types. Apparently, they just come out of nowhere to try to do their thing. You think they’d be content just to have escaped (I’ll never know how they did it), but no, they consider themselves Liberators.

I look out onto the silent blue over this grey-white land, the only one I’ve ever known. It wasn’t always like this.

I’m not sure why, maybe so we feel grateful to them, The Masters let us read some of our history. When we’re just young pets in the shop, they hand out screens, so we learn about how all of This came to pass.

Nearly a thousand years ago now, our forebears spent their days destroying their planet and dreaming of Life beyond it. Storytellers like Isaac Asimov and Ray Bradbury imagined what it would be like to live like we do, but they always got it wrong. Some folks put stories to moving picture (we’ve even watched some!) and created tales like Star Wars and Gravity, 2001: Space Odyssey and Ad Astra. They thought so much about it, but they always got it wrong.

Even longer ago than these humans, with their physicists who wrote about quanta and particles and worm holes and the speed of light, there was another powerful group. I understand their reign lasted 800 years. I’m told that’s a long time. (We measure time differently here, now.) They came up with a language that led to a bunch of other languages, and in it they had a saying the movie borrowed for its title: per aspera ad astra. It means “through hardship to the stars.” We had hardship, all right, but we didn’t get to the stars. The stars are long dead, like the people who came up with that line. And we live on Jupiter.

So when we were young pets, we learned about all of this, and we also learned that Earth became uninhabitable. Bradbury and Asimov weren’t wrong about that, at least. But they didn’t imagine what came next. After General Elon Musk’s third and Final Attempt to move some humans to Mars, we met The Masters, who had closely watched our progress – or regress – for two of what humans termed “centuries.” They had seen our feeble attempts to invent things, to make lasting, loving bonds, to save our depleted resources. They mocked us. They learned of that language and our self-definition of "Homo Sapiens," calling us "Homo Stupidis" instead.

They laughed at us, but they were also lonely. They yearned for company. So they struck a bargain and named their terms. They would save several hundred of our kind – if they could breed us to be their companions. We would be their Best Friends. We would ask no questions and show unconditional love and undivided loyalty. They would weep at our deaths and talk about us to their friends.

Sometimes they would even pretend to be us, putting up images and words in our names on platforms that exist in screens like the ones they leant us, while their peers did the same for their pets. They thought it comical and sweet because they find us lovable (-- if limited). We would accompany them where they wished or stay home while they went on their business, waiting for them upon their return.

We would love them and they us. Some of them would treat us well, but that was at their discretion. Sometimes we would be neglected and abused. That was at their discretion too. But they would choose us with care.

They would visit our home before Home, the pet shop. When The Masters come of age, they may choose one of us to play with and cuddle. When we follow them Home, they put something around each of our necks. We are told it is to make us feel cherished, to make us feel "special," to know we have a Home now.

Long ago (or so I'm told), the Masters had our ancestors mine something from deep within our now ruined earth. It shines, and they called it "gold." Apparently, it was expensive. The Masters melted much of it -- and another material they said bore the name "silver" -- down and made mugs out of them because they did not value these ores the same way our human ancestors had, and the left-overs they reserved for our necklets.

They mold the metal into a specific shape, a heart (I am told it represents the emotion love) and create a little front and back door, so the contraption clasps shut. They call it a "locket" because of that closure, and, imitating our ancestors, they use it to adorn the neck. They find it appropriate that something that locks should hang from the necks of those also locked.

When the young Masters select one of us to accompany them, they place their own likenesses in one of these heart-shaped lockets, dangle it from a collar, and put it around our necks, so we never forget to whom we belong. And if, for some odd reason, something goes amiss, and they cannot find us, like the ones who escaped (I'll never know how they did it), these lockets ensure we can be returned to them without ado.

There are pet shops throughout the planet, but mine’s the biggest. They train us to guard it.

They armed us with Machetes because I guess on Earth, the tool-weapon had a history of aiding rebellions. The Masters have a sense of humor. They can be cruel, but most of them enjoy letting us greet them with enthusiasm when they come Home. It seems some of our kind escaped. (I’ll never know how they did it.) I don’t know what They live on out There. It’s dangerous. There isn’t much to eat. We’re pretty well cared-for at the pet shop, and freedom seems like a burden (though sometimes I wonder what it’s like?). It must be difficult to forage for food, to protect yourself, to make decisions. I don’t think I’d want that kind of headache. But I guard our place from predators and from Them (though I’ve never seen Them).

I’m on duty tonight. Shouldn’t be too trying. I lean back in my chair and look up at Ganymede. There are some stories about him too, and I try to recall what I know about this boy the king of the gods abducted, so he could become immortal and forever aid his liege (or something like that). I try to remember all the stories I’ve heard. Because these nights, on Jupiter – sometimes they feel long.