The Furthest Planet

by James Ross Wilks

  Staples clenched her fists, but she couldn’t deny that he had a point. Finally she said, “If you think you can do what you want because I can’t hire another mechanic to replace you, you’re wrong. I’m not that desperate. We both know that Dinah and Brutus, who will have a body soon, can do your job better than you. If you think the threat of Victor will keep me from kicking you off this ship, you’re wrong again. And if you think that using the threat that hangs over this ship to act like a spoiled child doesn’t make you an asshole, you’re wrong about that too!”

  He looked at her, grinding his jaw and possibly trying to decide whether she was bluffing. She wasn’t. Part of her hoped he would think she was.

  “Just do your damned job,” she said.

  “As long as it pertains to this boat, I will,” he replied.

  She stared him down for another few seconds, unwilling to concede, and then pushed off for the hatch that led up into the ReC. She suspected that she’d feel pretty good about the conversation once her adrenaline slowed. She thought again how much she missed Don.

  Jabir Iqbal and Evelyn Schilling walked through the beautiful and breathtaking streets of Chaandanee. The tubeway along which they were strolling was arced in shape and made of enhanced polycarbonate. This gave those inside the impression of standing on the surface of the moon without the accompanying vacuum and asphyxiation. Whales, birds, dragons, and other fanciful digital representations, the creations of local artists, swam through the glass at intervals. At a glance, a tourist might be fooled for a moment into thinking that the moon was populated with creatures both actual and fictitious.

  “The story of how this artist’s haven came to be is actually quite interesting,” Jabir said to Evelyn. “Do you know it?”

  She shook her head, a coquettish smile on her lips. “Only broadly. Why don’t you tell me?”

  He bowed slightly and nodded. “As you wish.”

  Around them couples and families walked up and down the thoroughfare, some entranced by the digital art, others by the surface of the moon, and still others by the city that rose up around them. Chaandanee was a modern architect’s dream. Buildings made of glass, steel, and carbon-reinforced polymeric composites were shaped in ways not seen anywhere on Earth. To their left a pair of skyscrapers twisted around each other like two lovers, their walls and windows a scant meter from one another in places. Another building arched over the tubeway like a great polycarbonate wave frozen in the moment before striking. Other structures seemed to hover over the Lunar surface, their solid foundations giving rise to horizontal and vertical sections that by all appearances defied gravity.

  The illusion was not far from the truth. The moon’s gravity was not quite seventeen percent of Earth’s, and this allowed architects a freedom that was impossible on Earth. There was also no weather on the moon. The only stresses that buildings had to endure were those put on them by their occupants and their belongings, and even those were slight in the light lunar gravity. Meteor activity was very light, and the buildings were constructed to endure them when they occurred.

  “Well,” Jabir began in his richly accented voice, “in 2055 there were already some burgeoning towns on this delightful little grey satellite. The sense of pride in our potential was palpable, I have read. India, China, and Japan had recently signed a partnership compact of some kind. Quite historic, or so the historians say. They decided to celebrate this in a joint venture to build a city on the moon. What could be more grand or more ambitious?” He smiled and raised his hands airily as though all that he surveilled were his kingdom.

  Evelyn gazed at the majesty around her and did not reply.

  “At the risk of being reductive, these three countries have ancient and proud traditions that, at times at least, tend to insist upon their own cultural superiority. So what happens when people like this embark upon a mighty work?”

  Evelyn raised an eyebrow. “They compete?”

  “They compete,” Jabir smiled. “You are quite perspicacious. Each wished to contribute the most talented designers, the best buildings, the greatest influence. Chaandanee benefited greatly from their efforts. Less fortunate were those who could have used the money, resources, and time that these countries poured into their shining new city on a hill.”

  Evelyn sighed. “Someone always pays.” They were coming to the end of the tubeway, and the arched and transparent cavern let out into a massive polycarbonate dome rife with restaurants and galleries.

  Jabir nodded. “Someone does. It is occasionally difficult to enjoy this city, marvel of the system and testament to human ingenuity and perseverance that it is, without remembering those who must have suffered for it. History rarely remembers the dark underbellies of such endeavors.”

  “I suppose not,” Evelyn agreed, stepping gingerly in the light Lunar gravity so as to keep her feet literally on the ground. “But then, art is the yardstick of civilization. You might as well shut down every movie production and spend those hundreds of millions on eliminating poverty. Or eliminate space travel so long as there are still problems on Earth. We could even burn books to create heat for people.”

  “Your point is well made, Evelyn,” Jabir replied. “Without art in all its many forms, what are we? Little more than hairless apes.” He stopped walking for a moment and faced her.

  She stopped as well. “Art is one of the things that sets us apart from animals. Without art and science, the only point to life is survival.”

  “And reproduction,” Jabir added, pointing at her.

  “That is the crudest and least subtle proposition I have ever heard!” She feigned offense.

  Feigning slight mortification, Jabir replied, “I was saying nothing of the kind.”

  “Between your suggestion that we need to reproduce for the good of the species and calling me a hairless ape, it’s a wonder I can keep my pants on around you.”

  Jabir looked down at the woman’s knee-length skirt that bounced tantalizingly when she walked.

  “It’s a metaphor.” She pushed him playfully on the shoulder and almost stumbled backwards as a result. Once she’d stabilized herself, she added, “If you don’t want me to storm off Southern belle style, you had better buy me some dinner. What did you have in mind?” She looked around at the various storefronts that surrounded them. They were unquestionably in a nice part of town.

  Jabir scanned the options before them. Couples, tourists, and the artists for which Chaandanee was famous half-strolled and half-bounced here and there, immersed in conversation.

  “Look at them,” Evelyn wondered. “You’d think the moon hadn’t just been moved sixty-thousand kilometers by a mysterious alien force.”

  He shrugged in response. “It has been my experience that one cannot underestimate the human ability to affect denial. There are undoubtedly many who are quite outwardly frightened, but I would postulate that those who are have not chosen to go out to dinner in the fancier part of town. Chaandanee is known for its blasé attitude. Artists tend to live in and for the moment. No doubt many are out simply to demonstrate their immunity to cosmic events and show off just how nonchalant they can be. How does curry strike you?” he asked, eyeing an Indian restaurant called Fez Luis.

  Evelyn followed his gaze to the softly lit and welcoming restaurant with gilded lettering. “Looks fine to me,” she smiled. She began walking, and he kept pace. “You were saying?”

  “Where was I?” he asked.

  “Wasteful extravagance, I believe,” she rejoined.

  “Ah yes. Apparently, many naysayers predicted its doom. The city was horrendously expensive, too far away, and too modern to appeal to many, they said. People said that it would stand uninhabited and dead like the empty Chinese cities and airports fifty years earlier. They didn’t count on the artists.” Jabir paused as they entered the restaurant.

  Once inside, they could hear the dim hum of conversation running throughout the room. A central bar stood in the center of the space, and tables and booths surrou
nded it. The décor was a fascinating combination of ancient and modern. Depictions of Hindu deities adorned the walls in technologically progressive mediums. There was a neon Ganesha over the bar, a holographic Shiva dancing to end the world, and a laser light parade of minor deities marched across the ceiling. As was the rage amongst the affluent stores and eateries of Chaandanee, the designs and works were commissioned from local artists.

  A host greeted them in Hindi. Jabir effortlessly answered the man and held up two fingers. The host nodded and moved off for a moment to check for a table.

  “How many languages do you speak?” Evelyn asked, wide-eyed.

  Jabir shook his head. “Only four, and none of them well.”

  Evelyn rolled her eyes. “Since you’re largely incapable of modesty, I’ll assume you’re being ironic.”

  Jabir smiled at her. “As I said: perspicacious.”

  “I have a small booth for you, if that’s all right,” the host said in English; he had evidently overheard a few words of their conversation.

  “That’s fine,” Evelyn replied, beaming at the young man who seemed unaffected by her charms.

  A moment later, they were seated with drinks on the way.

  “So, the artists?” Evelyn asked.

  “Yes, the artists perhaps saved Chaandanee. The architecture was a draw, of course. Many describe the local infrastructure as inspiring. Then there is the gravity. Apparently, Luna’s gravity allows artists to work in mediums and ways that are not possible on Earth. More than all of this, however, was the cost of living. When Chaandanee didn’t fill to bursting with people desirous to start their new lives in the sky, the rents dropped. The starving artist might be a stereotype, but that is for a reason. The artists came in droves.”

  “And then the critics?” Evelyn ventured.

  “Indeed. The musicians, the collectors, the filmmakers, the socialites, and of course the usual hangers-on. Where there is business, there is a need for businessmen, and so the city filled up. There are still many poor parts of Chaandanee, but they resemble the now near-mythic Soho or Harlem in the 1920s. Architecture and low-gravity is all well and good, but desperation remains one of the best muses, or so it seems.” Jabir finished with a tone indicating that his story was complete.

  “Interesting,” Evelyn said absently, her eyes on the dancing Shiva across the room.

  “I imagine, if you wanted to stay here, you could gain employment as someone’s muse,” Jabir said, leaning forward.

  Evelyn returned her attention to him. “Oh, I like that better than hairless ape. What do you think? Should I stay here? Settle down and watch some artist tear himself or herself to pieces out of love for me?”

  He considered her for a moment. “You wouldn’t be happy,” he finally declared. “You’re a computer scientist, not a muse. Being beautiful is your hobby, not your life’s work.”

  “Hm,” she said, looking at her drink and lightly touching her lips. “I don’t know. Part of me wants to stay. Part of me wants to run out of here and never see you or Clea or Dinah or any of the crew ever again.”

  Jabir, startled at the serious turn in the conversation, furrowed his brows. “How big a part?”

  She looked at him and laughed, but it was half-sob. “Not a small one.”

  “Evelyn…” he began.

  “I’m scared, Jabir. I love everyone on the ship. Almost everyone. I even love the ship. But I’m…”

  “Scared,” he finished for her. “We all are-”

  “No,” she interrupted him. “It’s more than that. It was like I was on a grand cosmic adventure before. Like we were heroes. And then Don died.” She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.

  “It’s not at all uncommon to feel a keen sense of our own mortality when confronted with death,” Jabir said.

  “Shhh,” she said, her face a mix of amusement, frustration, and sorrow. “I’m talking now.”

  He pressed his lips together as though to seal them.

  “It’s not that I’m afraid of death,” she continued. “I mean, I am. Of course I am, but that’s not it. It’s that we’re it. We changed the solar system. We changed the course of human history and, for the love of God, we did it with a vote. Fourteen people. And we’re still the only ones who know about Victor. It’s not death I’m afraid of. It’s responsibility.”

  She paused and looked at him, but he remained silent. “I mean, I didn’t even want a cat because it was too much responsibility. Now if I misread a coms or Bethany steers us wrong or Clea makes a bad call, we’re dead. And then maybe humanity’s dead. And that’s really, really unfair. No one should have to bear that. And at first I was having fun, but then Don died and I realized that the number of people who have to save the human race dropped by seven percent, but it’s still fun and exciting, but then I feel terrible for having fun when it should be so serious, and…” she trailed off, seemingly aware that she had been rambling.

  After another moment of silence to see if she had truly finished, Jabir said, “You might be thinking about it too much.”

  Another combination of laughter and tears exploded from her, and she used her napkin to wipe her eyes and blow her nose. When she was finished, Jabir took her hand. “I mean it. We’re dealing with what’s in front of us right now. History is replete with people who bore incredible secrets or fought the good fight, but it’s exhausting, utterly exhausting to bear that month after month. Just know that you are not alone. My advice is to just deal with what’s in front of you.”

  Evelyn arched an eyebrow at him to indicate that he himself was currently in front of her. “That’s a much better proposition than your last one,” she said, a smile returning to her face.

  “I meant,” Jabir said, squeezing her hand lightly, “that I am here as your friend.”

  “I know,” she nodded, sniffling. “But I should probably tell you that I have a habit of sleeping with my friends.”

  “Captain Staples?” a young man asked.

  Staples eyed him suspiciously. He looked familiar, but she couldn’t place him. He was standing at the tubeway that led to her ship; he looked as if he had been standing there for some time. His hair was blonde, and he wore casual street clothes. Nothing about his stance implied threat, but she was nervous all the same, perhaps because she was alone. Though the crew had attempted to travel only in groups since the attack on Titan Prime two months earlier, their adherence to the rule had waned as the threat of Victor had seemed to diminish. Staples had just left ship briefly to purchase a few snacks for herself, and now she carried two shopping bags full of assorted groceries. They had cost her more of her dwindling funds than she would have liked, but she had an affection for yogurt and there weren’t many cows on the moon.

  “Yes?” she asked, confirming her identity as a matter of habit.

  “I’m Roger Templeton,” he said. She looked at him blankly. “Donovan was my father.”

  She stared at him for another moment, then surprised herself by dropping the bags and hugging him. He seemed surprised himself, but returned the embrace briefly.

  She pulled back from him and looked around, somewhat embarrassed. No members of the crew were in evidence. They were scheduled to leave within a half-hour, so everyone was supposed to be onboard. The berthing area was fairly full as people came and went, and this gave them the anonymity that came with bustling crowds.

  Now that she looked at the young man, she could see a bit of his father in him. He had a similar complexion, though he had not inherited his father’s freckles. She had never met him, but Don had shown her pictures; that was why he had looked familiar.

  “How can I help you, Roger?” she asked.

  “Is there somewhere we can go and talk?” he asked.

  Staples sighed. It would have been the right thing to do to grant this boy the time to discuss his father or whatever he wanted to talk about. She was not proud of herself for feeling relieved at the fact that she was expected in the cockpit in fifteen minutes for pre-la
unch prep.

  She smiled regretfully. “I’m afraid we’re due to leave in little less than half an hour.” It was a valid excuse, but it still felt like a dodge.

  “Oh,” he said flatly. He had clearly been anticipating this meeting for some time, and the situation had derailed him. “Could I…come with you?” he asked hopefully. “Where are you going?”

  She laughed. “Usually those questions come in reverse order. We’re going to Mars for a job. I’m afraid I can’t let you come with us. I’m not sure where we’d be going from there.”

  “I could get a ride home from Mars on my own. I have money,” he said.

  “It’s...” unsafe, she wanted to say. “Impractical.” She looked around in a way to suggest that they had relative privacy despite the people. “Is there something I can do to help you?”

  He gathered himself up, then said, “I wanted to know about how my father died.”

  Staples looked at him. His eyes were large and green like his father’s. She thought about the vague message she had sent to him and his family along with half of Don’s ashes. All she had said was that Don had died in a tragic accident in space, one that was no fault of his own or anyone else’s. She prepared to repeat this, but then something quite different came out. “Someone shot him.”

  There was a moment of silence while Roger digested this and Staples cursed herself, perplexed at her own behavior.

  “Who was it?” Roger asked eventually.

  Who indeed? The simple answer was that Amit Sadana had done it. The man was only a hundred meters from where they currently stood, locked in a room guarded by Kojo Jang. But Amit was a pawn, and Staples knew it. She wasn’t ready to excuse his actions, but nor did it feel like the truth to say that it was all his doing.

  “A man shot him. I can’t tell you who. I can tell you that this man was manipulated… he was trying to kill all of us. Don was just unlucky. He was shot in the chest. Did you know that he saved my life?”