by A. G. Riddle
My mind races like a computer doing a dictionary assault on a password—running through combinations trying to find a key to unlock this argument, to convince her to stay on Earth. The harvester mission is a true long shot. Longer odds than the first contact mission. Much longer. It’s a Hail Mary. I can’t take the woman I love up there.
I decide to pursue the most logical approach.
“Emma, you’ve already lost too much bone density. You simply can’t go on another mission.”
“My bone density won’t matter if I’m dead. And it won’t matter if you’re dead.” She swallows hard and inhales. “Just listen to me for a minute, okay? Really listen.”
“Okay.”
“Here on Earth, I’m broken. I’ll never be the woman I was before. I’ll never regain the strength I had before I left for the ISS. Down here I’m weak. Up there, I’m whole again. Strong. And I have a role to play. I can help you. And if it’s your fate to die up there, then it’ll be my fate too. I’m going, James. I’m going.”
I know when I’m beaten. She needs to go. And, deep down, I want her there. So she’s going.
I nod slowly, and she puts her arms around my neck, and the decision is made. We’re going back into space. Together. Possibly for the last time.
Chapter 45
Emma
The next morning, I do something I haven’t done in a long time: I wake up and get dressed for work. It feels good. I hadn’t realized how much I missed it--waking up with a purpose.
Outside the habitat, the sun shines dim on the horizon, the sky hazy, snow dropping in sheets. The weather’s getting worse. And it’s getting worse faster.
At the Olympus Building, James and I visit Lawrence Fowler first. He poses only a single question to me--the same one he asked before I accepted the mission to the ISS--"Are you sure you want to do this?"
I give the same answer I gave then: "I am."
The crew of our ship will be drawn from across the triple alliance. That was one of the conditions the Caspians set forth: mixed crews. The crewmembers from the AU are here in Camp Seven, and they’re all at work when we arrive, milling about the team room.
James escorts me around the large space, introducing me to each of them individually: Heinrich, Sparta One’s German navigator; Terrance, our British ship’s doctor; and Zoe, a lithe Italian woman who will be the ship’s engineer. James activates a camera and begins a recording for the crewmembers in the other two territories, explaining to them that I'll be leading the drone construction and repair team and serving as the backup mission commander.
The video will be couriered to the other two states via drone. Plans for a global communication network have been drawn up and discarded several times, the alliance unable to settle on an acceptable solution. Satellites could be disabled by the array--just like the satellites that used to orbit the Earth. The weather could compromise ground lines or towers. Any option would take time and resources to build--two things we don't have. For now, data between the superstates moves at the speed of drones, and probably will for a long time.
I can't help but notice how guarded James is around our new crew. I know why. I'm perhaps the only person on Earth who would. What he's feeling here isn't about the challenges ahead of us. It's about what we left behind.
In his office, he shuts the door and starts pulling up his drone schematics.
"The drones we're working on are similar to the attack drone we launched from the Pax. With a few upgrades of course.”
“I would expect nothing less.”
“We can run through them, and start talking about the prototypes." He scratches his head. "You want to work here or at home?"
I shrug. "Doesn't matter to me. What do you prefer?"
"I'm open. But I'll say this, I've just about got my hands full here every day with design on the ship and its systems."
"Working at home would cut out travel time to the labs."
"That's what I'm thinking. And I would be free to focus on it there."
"Home it is."
He nods. "Good."
I motion behind me to the closed door. "They seem like a good crew."
"They are."
"I know what you’re feeling, James."
He raises his eyebrows.
"It's hard to let yourself get close to them after what happened on the Pax."
"Was it like that for you, when you came aboard--after the ISS?"
"Yeah."
"Does it get better?"
"With time."
Chapter 46
James
For the first few days, I regretted agreeing to let Emma come on the mission. It’s too dangerous.
In the weeks after, however, I’ve become glad I said yes. I have the weight of the world upon me now. I need someone in my corner, who is my rock, someone I know will never waver, who can share the burden with me. She’s that someone for me.
We’ve been working around the clock on the ships and drones, me at the Olympus Building most of the time, Emma at home. For me it’s sort of like first shift at the office, second shift at home.
It’s getting colder. Every morning, the sun fades a little more. Snow falls in sheets now, piling up on the ground. The roads are deep gorges cut in the icy landscape, the walking paths like gullies beside them.
We’re running out of time. No matter how hard we work, we never seem to get there.
I wish I could somehow buy more time.
At the same time, I almost dread going on the mission. I dread leaving this place, where Emma and I are happy, where we work together, live together, and go to sleep next to each other, talking about everything under the sun.
We talk about the mission, our childhoods, our families. But there are two topics we never discuss: the future, because we don’t know if there will be one; and my past—the event that landed me in prison. She dances around the subject, but I know she wants to ask about it. And I should tell her. She deserves to know. That’s part of being together: knowing each other fully and accepting each other.
That’s why she was so forthcoming about her own health. She thought it might scare me away. I need to reciprocate. But I’m terrified to do anything that might change things between us.
Our family gatherings have become routine, dinner every Sunday night with Fowler and his family, Madison and her family, and Abby and her kids. Absent only is Alex. I think there’s little hope that he will ever show up.
So I’m shocked when there’s a knock at the door one Saturday afternoon and I hear his voice from the anteroom when Oscar answers. Emma glances at me, alarmed.
We both rise from the dining table.
“I’m here to see James,” Alex says.
He steps forward, and he and I stare at each other for a long moment, me waiting for him to make the first move, to reveal what this visit is about.
“I thought we could talk,” he says carefully.
Behind me, Emma says, “Oscar and I have a few errands to run.”
“No,” I say over my shoulder. “We’ll take a walk.”
“In this weather?” Emma asks. “Are you crazy?”
It’s a fair point.
“Update,” I say. “We’ll take a drive.”
I see a small smile curl at Alex’s lips. I’m encouraged by that. It’s the first time his stone façade has cracked in front of me in a long, long time.
I instruct the car to drive to the Citadel site, and it complies, powering quietly down the scraped, hard-packed roads.
“Emma told me you’re going on another mission.”
“Yeah.”
“She said it would be dangerous.”
“Maybe.”
He glances over at me, waiting for us to make eye contact, silently urging me to tell him the truth.
“Probably,” I say, meeting his gaze.
“I thought it might be nice to spend some time together before you leave.”
I simply nod. Partly because I’m not sure what to say, but
mostly because I’m overflowing with emotion. Joy. Sadness. Gratitude to Emma for telling him. It’s like I’ve had a broken bone, a broken leg that I’ve walked on for so long that I’ve learned to charge forward, ignoring the pain, or working around it because I thought it would never get better. But now a splint has been put on it. It’s not healed. And there’s no guarantee that it ever will be. But instantly, with his words, I feel stronger. Whole. Like the aching deep inside of me has ceased.
I know Alex isn’t the sappy type. I’m not either, for that matter. So I do what most guys like us do when things get emotional. I change the subject.
“You want to see something cool?” I say.
“Like what?”
“An underground bunker.”
Chapter 47
Emma
For a while now, it has felt like my world is shrinking. I live and work in this habitat, spending every spare minute on the mission. I feel guilty when I’m not working. Personal time feels like an indulgence or worse: a betrayal to the people who are counting on me.
We haven’t had one of our Sunday dinners with family and friends for months. Everyone is consumed with one thing: the mission. Survival.
It’s affecting James too. He’s stressed, worn out all the time. He eats, sleeps, and works. He only takes about an hour off each week, and he spends that hour with his brother, on Saturdays, after work, playing cards or talking. I still haven’t learned what happened between them, but I know James treasures his time with his brother. We all sense that time is now a precious commodity, one that’s quickly running out.
Time isn’t the only thing slipping through our fingers. The last regions of habitable land will be gone soon. Our world is disappearing before our eyes, the ice eating away at it each day. It’s like we’re on an island, watching the sea rise, the ground beneath our feet disappearing, knowing we’ll drown if we aren’t rescued.
Before the Long Winter, this region of Tunisia was a desert. It's now a desert once again, of a different kind: a barren land of ice and snow as far as the eye can see, rolling snowdrifts like dunes, wind flowing over them, scattering the snow like sand.
Every morning I walk outside at first light and hope that I'll see the sun blazing bright on the horizon, that the solar array has moved on, or malfunctioned, or that fate has somehow spared us.
What greets me is a dim glow through the clouds, seen in glimpses through the falling snow, a lighthouse we're drifting away from, into dark and uncertain waters. Perhaps never to return. That is the feeling here in Camp Seven. It's not just the lack of sun. Or the lack of Vitamin D or the fact that the kids can't play outside or that we can't walk to work. It's a shared sense that the sun is setting on our time on Earth.
A snow plow rumbles by, its blade channeling fresh snow into white piles that settle in mounds like an icy hedge along the road. The bucket trucks are already out, parked in the middle of clusters of habitats, scissor arms extending over the domes, workers in parkas, heavy caps, and goggles holding the snow blowers over the solar cells, sending waves of white powder off, freeing the cells to soak up the scraps of sun that no longer fill the habitats' batteries. Every week there's less energy to heat the habitats and charge our tablets and cook with.
Last night, James added another blanket to our bed, and we snuggled close together, the way we do every night, but no matter how close we get or how many blankets we add, I still feel the cold on my face, pressing into me, aching in my lungs as I breathe. I've learned to sleep when I’m cold. I've adapted. But I wonder how much more we can adapt. It's not just the cold, it's what the cold is taking from us. Our freedom. Our food supply. Our future.
It's easy to think it's the government taking these things from us--that's what we see: the curfews that keep us inside after dark and the rationing that shrinks the food on our table every week. Some do blame the government. There's talk of riots, of an uprising against the government, but I think deep down people know that won't change anything. It won't make more food, or more sunlight, and without the government, we might just lose our last chance of surviving. If we haven't already.
I've wondered: even if we are successful--if we can vanquish the solar array strangling our sun--will it matter? What's under the ice that covers the Earth? The plants and animals are probably long dead. If the sun this world has always known returned, could it reignite life here? Or have we already burned down too far? Every time my mind brushes across the thought, I dismiss it. In those moments, I realize the true nature of hope. Hope doesn't have to be rational. Hope is an end unto itself, a renewable source of energy inside of each of us, a fragile thing that can be damaged with our darkest thoughts, dimmed almost to darkness, but never completely extinguished. And like our sun, when it returns, it brings life and energy to us.
I've put off telling Madison that I’m going on the mission. I’ve waited as long as I can, but I can't wait any more. The launch is in a few days.
Most of the families have moved to the barracks now. There's more heating capacity per square foot there, plus the combined body heat of everyone around you. Residents also get a slight bump in rations--an incentive for folks to abandon the free-standing domed habitats, which now funnel their paltry energy collections to the barracks. James, Oscar, and I would have moved here if not for the drone lab in our third bedroom.
The first time I entered one of these buildings to visit Abby, I was reminded of a rest home. The barracks now feel like a prison. The doors to the rooms stand open, allowing a modicum of fresh air to circulate. The residents inside stare out with hollow, hopeless eyes. They play chess and checkers as I pass by, their tablets lying in piles, dead with no chance of resurrection (the charging ports are off and being caught with a charged tablet outside of work carries a ration cut).
Despite the density of people, it’s quiet. The smell I can't quite place. It's a bit musky, like old air, confined and recycled and used up. Trapped, like the people here, with nowhere to go except outside, into a cold world where nothing can survive anymore.
Some of the adults are filing out, trudging down the central corridor in thick coats, ready to work another day in semi-darkness. They march like prisoners, people working to survive, knowing only a full day's work earns a full day's rations.
The door to Madison's room stands open. I stop just shy of it and peer in. Adeline is reading a book. Owen is lining up a string of miniature soldiers, preparing for battle. They're rail thin, two bean poles lying on the couch, looking tired.
I inch closer and spot Madison standing at the table, scrubbing clothes across a washboard and dunking them in the basin. I was alarmed at the sight of my niece and nephew. But my heart breaks when I see Madison. The skin is tight on her face, her jaw line sharp, eyes sunken unnaturally, hair stringy, arms like two broomsticks pushing the clothes across the ridges of the washboard.
She sees me before I can wipe the sadness from my face. We lock eyes for a long moment, and I think she's going to break and cry, but she forces a smile as she drops the thermal underwear into the basin with a plop and comes around the table, arms held out like limbs of a dying tree reaching out to me. I wrap my arms around her and my fingers touch her back, feeling the ribs protruding like the ridges on the washbasin on the table. She feels fragile in my arms, a precious thing on the verge of breaking.
She releases me and calls to Owen and Adeline and they both wave and come over and hug me. I feel more meat on their bones, and I'm thankful for that. I don't think I could bear seeing them in the same state Madison’s in.
She closes the door and motions to the couch, shooing the kids over to the bed they share.
"I didn't know you were coming."
"Just thought I'd stop by before work."
She nods absently, a far off look in her eyes, like someone who has been up for two days straight. She motions to the small kitchenette. "Do you want some..."
I figure she was going to say coffee, but there is none anymore--except in the government buil
dings, where it's guarded and rationed like the precious fuel that it is. Or maybe she was going to say, "something to eat." But she clearly doesn't have any of that either--and isn't getting enough. I pretend as if she had completed the offer.
"No, I’m fine. Thanks."
Her gaze drifts to the floor.
"Madison, are you getting your rations?"
"We are. But they’re not enough." She glances around, as if she had heard something. "They're based on age, you know?" She pauses. "Why would they do that?"
"I…"
"It should be height, don't you think?"
"Yes. That makes sense."
She nods quickly. "I mean you could have two ten-year-olds--both the same age--and one is a foot taller than the other. Obviously the taller child needs more calories. It's obvious. Isn’t it?" She stares at me, waiting for confirmation.
"Yes."
"We had a meeting about it." She checks the door, seeming to have forgotten that it was closed. "The AU says they can't go around and measure everyone's height. They know their age. They think we'd lie about how tall our children are. And they're saying—as if we don’t know--that kids grow." She throws her hands up. "Of course they do. Of course. But no one is growing right now. That's for sure. But some are--" She lowers her voice and says more carefully, "some need more food than others."
"I'll talk to James."
"No," she says quickly. "That could cause problems… Preferential treatment… The gossip mill around here. It's all anyone does."
A long moment passes, Madison staring at the floor again, the kids playing quietly, the shuffle of footsteps beyond the door.
"I just came to tell you that I'm going on the mission. With James."
She looks at me as if she's just realized I was here. For a split second, I see a flash of fire return to her eyes, the sister I know and love staring back at me. Her grin isn't happy or sad--it's one of determination. Of pride.
