Hanne had to leave her quarters sometime. She was running low on food and it had been days since she’d closed the door, silenced her messages and given up. But the idea of going back out there, amongst the arguing and the anger—it was almost impossible. Just the thought of getting cleaned up and walking outside her quarters made her heart race. She called up the clock on her handheld—01:42, the middle of the night. If she had to leave, now was as good a time as any. Hardly anyone would be out, she could get to the canteen, stock up and probably wouldn’t see a soul. It would have to do.
She took a navy shower, her first since her self-imposed exile began. She smiled to herself—at least she was was doing her part in the conservation effort. Not that water reclamation was a significant source of fuel expenditure and she was fairly certain that, with some effort, an alternate source of power could be arranged for that task. Still, at least she was doing something. As she turned the water back on and rinsed, the analytical part of her mind was amused by the fact that she couldn’t seem to stop thinking about solutions. Giving up might be harder than she’d thought.
She got dressed and grabbed a canvas bag. She took a deep breath and tried hard not to think about how much she did not want to leave this room. She palmed open the door and stepped out into the hall.
It was dimly lit, part of the ship’s day/night simulation. Still, she could easily see her way down the corridor to the common area. She’d read that it was modelled after a town square, but Hanne couldn’t imagine something like that in open air. How unsanitary. Various public facilities for the sector were located here—several canteens, shops selling clothes or other items, the theatre and concert hall. Hanne paused at the entrance, knowing that this was where she’d be most likely to run into someone she knew. However, she doubted most of her colleagues would be out after two in the morning.
She slipped into the hall and let out a breath. She couldn’t see anyone—doubtlessly there were people around, in the taverns at least—but the main area was clear. She headed directly for the largest canteen, which sold both pre-made meals and raw ingredients. She stepped through the door and saw that the large space was empty of people. She began choosing items and stowing them in her bag, her credit account automatically debiting the cost. She was reaching for a sack of apples when her stomach lurched. She heard the sound of the door opening.
She turned and saw a young man she didn’t recognize. He nodded at her, but then turned away and began examining the selection of sandwiches. She decided she had enough and walked toward the door. It was opening when she heard him say, ”Hey, aren’t you Hanne Puuka? I read about you in the Green Scene.”
She wanted to run out the door, but as a child her mother had tried to temper Hanne’s solitary inclinations by drilling into her a sense of politeness. Her desire not to be rude fought with her wish to flee and, ultimately, won.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s me.”
He took a step toward her and Hanne clutched her bag of groceries to her chest. “I really wasn’t sure about this fuel issue—I’d decided I wasn’t even going to vote. But then I heard what you said, that speech they posted, and it really made me think. You made a lot of sense and, personally, I think it’s why the measure passed. They’re saying it’s a combination of things, but if people hadn’t heard you getting angry, I don’t know if it would have gone the way it did.” He cocked his head and looked at her. Hanne didn’t know what he was talking about, but what he seemed to be saying sounded positive. “You should be proud,” he said, finally. “I think you’ve done something really amazing here. I’m… I’m really glad I got a chance to meet you.”
If she hadn’t known better, Hanne would have thought that he had an expression of awe on his face. “Uh, thanks,” she stammered. “I better go.” She gave him a weak smile and left the canteen. She slipped the bag’s strap over her shoulder and hurried back to her quarters. She’d been looking forward to a fresh meal, but now she had a few things to do first. She needed to find out what he’d been talking about.
In the days she’d locked herself in her quarters, there had been a ship-wide vote. She wasn’t surprised; there had been talk of asking everyone to decide. Hanne had been opposed to a vote; reality isn’t something that can be determined democratically. It didn’t matter if the vast majority of people chose to believe that there was no problem—they would still run out of fuel early and be unable to stop. The will of the majority wasn’t going to change that.
The vote, however, had overwhelmingly been to enact measures to ensure that the fuel would last. People were, it seemed, willing to give up conveniences and comforts in order to ensure that the mission could be achieved. Hanne felt tears sprout to her eyes. The arguments, the fighting was over. Now the real work could start. She saw the words on her handheld blur and let the tears come. She gave herself a moment.
After, she made a meal and began to think about where to start. She’d have to look at the projects that had been suggested, have to get a list of the people she’d want to work with. There was so much to do. As she planned, something the fellow from the canteen had said rattled through her mind. Something about a speech? She wiped her fingers and picked up her handheld. As much as she was still angry at Oliver, she pulled up the archives of the Green Scene and poked through the recent issues. Her own name caught her eye and she noticed that it was from a few days after the initial article had run. She frowned and punched the link.
Her own voice startled her as a recording began to play from the device. “There aren’t two sides,” she heard herself say. She sounded so angry, so tired. It was the voice of someone who was fighting for their life and losing. “There’s the reality and then there’s wishful thinking.”
She let it play to the end. He had recorded her, without her permission. Recorded her and then posted the recording on his log. She wanted to get angry, wanted to feel violated. Part of her, she knew, did feel those things, but that part was buried deep for now. Because it had been what people needed to hear. Her personal frustration, her individual fear had been what swayed the vote when real facts and hard data just confused them.
It wasn’t the way she wanted to think of her shipmates, of the future of the species. That qualitative emotional pleas were more powerful than quantitative facts. But it had worked. Thankfully, finally, before it was too late, something had worked.
Chapter 7
from little acorns grow
The scent of chlorophyll was overpowering. It made Mark lightheaded, the smell of the plants filling his nostrils with their arrogant proclamation of life. He liked the arboretum with its tangle of branches, the mat of greenery, the sound of insects and, of course, the smell of the trees. When he sat among the plants he sometimes liked to imagine that he, too, was a tree, instead of a man.
The particular tree Mark sat under was older than he would ever become. It was constant, nearly immobile, but Mark could see where it had angled itself slightly toward the lights embedded in the ceiling, where its roots had grown over some lump in the soil. It was solid, this tree, but adaptable.
He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t hear the sound of approaching footsteps. “What are you staring at that old thing for?” the voice said and Mark jumped at the sound. He turned his head then smiled.
“Hi, Mom,” he said, patting the seat of the bench next to him. She sat, her movements slower than he’d remembered. He looked at her white hair tied up in a complicated braid, the style the same as she’d worn it when he was a boy, only the colour changed.
“I was just thinking,” he said, looking back at the tree which shaded the bench on which they sat, “this tree will still be alive when the White Cloud arrives at new Earth. It may even be planted in the new soil.” He shook his head. “It’s amazing to think about.”
“Pfft,” Mark’s mother said. “It’s just a tree. Instead, you should be thinking about children. That’s what your legacy on new Earth will be. My descendants will step on the Earth, w
ho cares about some dirty old tree?”
“Mother,” Mark said, sighing.
“It’s long past time,” she said, scowling at Mark.
“I’m not old yet,” he said.
“No,” she said, “but I am. I want to have some time with my grandchildren before I die, Mark, can’t you understand that? I know there are plenty of women who would have you, so don’t give me that argument. Stop being so selfish.”
He sighed. It was always the same argument, now. He was certain that his mother hadn’t always been baby-mad. He was sure that they had gotten along, once. But now. Every conversation was a struggle. He almost dreaded their weekly get-togethers.
When Mark was fifteen, his teacher called his mother into a conference. Mark was sure that he was in trouble for something, but what? He’d called Margarita Osterberg an asshole, but he didn’t think she’d ever squeal to the teacher. Not after she’d been the one who started it by punching him in the arm and stealing his brand new paper notebook. Even so, he spent the half hour his mom was at the school sweating and practicing his apology.
So when his mother came home from the meeting, still in her mechanic’s coveralls, smiling and humming, he hadn’t known what to do. He just sat at the small table which dominated their quarters and waited.
“I had no idea you were so creative,” Mark’s mother finally said, once she’d poured herself a glass of fruit water and kicked her shoes off. “Siân tells me that you got the best grade on the land vehicle design assignment. She showed me your plans—they were very… original. Siân said they were technically excellent.” Mark wondered if this were some elaborate psychological trick to get him to admit to something. His mother was very fond of what she called “giving him enough rope to hang himself.” He played it quiet.
“What’s wrong with you?” his mother said after a moment. “Your teacher called me in just to tell me what a good job you did and you don’t even have anything to say?”
“Uh,” Mark said, “what’s there to say? I’m glad she liked my design?”
Mark’s mother laughed. “Oh, honey, you are something. Tops in your class, work that’s a good couple of years ahead of the rest, Siân said. And you don’t even get it.” She shook her head and finished her glass of water. “Well, at least you don’t have an ego about it.” She stood and slotted her glass in the cleaner. “Siân has recommended you for early entrance to the Engineering Academy. You should think about it. It’s a great opportunity, but don’t feel pressured into anything. You can be anything you want to be—the important thing is that you love your work.” She looked at him, looked deep into his eyes. “I know it’s a bit rushed, but if you want to go, we have to tell them in four days.” She leaned down and kissed Mark’s forehead. “I’m proud of you, sweetie. Let me know what you decide.” She walked into her bedroom and the door slid shut.
Mark didn’t understand what had just happened. He was still half convinced that she would come out of her room, yell “gotcha” and then yell at him for the asshole comment. It took him several minutes to replay the conversation in his mind and finally understand what she was telling him.
The Academy was almost as far away from home as it was possible to get on the ship. Almost all the other students would be boarders as well, since they drew enrolment from the whole population. “Excellence Above All” was the motto and they meant it. When Mark first stepped on to the large campus he could feel an almost physical sense of purpose to the place. He knew that all the ship’s engineers were graduates, but also all the head technicians for the medical and food labs, plus the designers who worked on the Landing Project all came from the Academy.
Until he wandered into the Landing Building, Mark had no idea that already there were fully formed designs for landing craft for when the ship reached new Earth. It seemed like that was still so far away; none of them would still be alive when that day arrived. But he learned in his introductory classes that it was never too soon to begin creating prototypes. The longer ideas were made real, the more people could tinker with them and the better the final product would be. It was like evolution, his teacher said. It made Mark think about the trees.
There was a small park on campus, about a tenth the size of the arboretum back in his old neighbourhood. It wasn’t the same, but Mark spent more than his share of time on the lush clover of Moana Park. He’d read his texts, work out some mathematical problem, stare at the leaves of the tiny plants. Trying to make his designs as seamless, as robust as the plants. Sometimes, he would find that minutes would pass while he was just staring at the clover, his mind blank as he imagined a plant’s mind must be. He loved those moments, though the guilt from wasting time which inevitably followed cancelled most of his enjoyment.
At the term’s break, Mark caught the train back to his neighbourhood. The students had twenty days off and Mark went back home. His roommate, Jorge, was going to a resort on the reservoir along with several other first years, but Mark couldn’t imagine not going home. He hadn’t seen his mother in almost half a year. He had never been away from her this long before.
“Come on,” Jorge had said, “come with us. It’s going to be great. We’ve got a hut right next to the reservoir. There’s going to be swimming, rowing; Mathilde is bringing that jet boat she built. You’ll love it.”
“Jorge,” Mark said, looking at his feet. “I have to go home.”
“No, you don’t,” Jorge said. “You can do whatever you want. Look, you can always go home next break, but this trip won’t come around again. It’s now or never.”
Mark had just shaken his head. Jorge was already eighteen, already a grown man. The two years between them was a gulf as wide as the reservoir itself but Mark didn’t know how to explain it to his roommate. He just said, “I can’t,” and that was the end of it.
Mark’s mother hugged him hard when she met him at the train station. “Tell me everything,” she said once she’d let him go. They walked the few hundred metres to their quarters—her quarters, now—and Mark told her about school. He was still talking when they got seated at the table, a pitcher of his favourite fruit water and a tray of nuts and bread in front of them.
“Phew,” his mother said when he’d finally run out of steam. “It sounds like you made a good choice. The Academy sounds right up your alley.” She grinned and Mark ate a piece of bread. “I’m so happy you found something you love,” she said, and Mark thought he saw a shadow cross her face. “You know what they say, if you love your job, you never work a day in your life.”
On Graduation Day, Mark looked out over the audience seated on the clover of Moana Park. As if her face was lit specifically, he immediately picked out his mother in among the other families. She smiled as if it were the most wonderful day of her life and Mark felt something grow in his chest. He felt a nudge in his ribs and turned his eyes toward Mathilde, trying not to move his head.
“You see your mom?” she whispered as her fingers wriggled down Mark’s side to find his hand.
“Yeah,” he whispered back. “You?”
He could feel her nod. He squeezed her hand and grinned. He wished he could squeeze this moment like a fruit, saving the nectar for later. He would take tiny sips each day to taste this feeling of accomplishment, the excitement of new beginnings, the pride in his mother’s face. But he knew that this moment would pass like the dying leaves on a tree, to be replaced with new moments, new feelings, new experiences. He knew that this is what it meant to be alive, to have moments come and go, only imperfect memories lingering. He knew, but he wished that he could stop time, just this once. For this one moment, his life was wonderful.
Later, he would remember that day with sadness. The screaming match when Mathilde left him. The nights spent curled up in his small bed, covers pulled over his head, as self-doubt ate at him. He had been a prodigy in school, but he was one of many above-average students at the Academy. He’d done well at the Academy, but he was just another new hire at Planetary Designs, and the
rest of his team treated him as if he knew next to nothing. He had to admit, they were right—school taught him a lot, but experience taught more. The people he worked with were stars and he was just the new guy.
In those early years, when he remembered that afternoon on the clover, his mother’s pride beaming up at him like the lights in midsummer, he almost wished it had never happened. The promise of success, belied by the reality of life, hurt more than he imagined never having experienced that moment of confidence would have. Is it truly better to have loved and lost, he wondered. Is it?
For a topic that he’d only first learned existed when he began at the Academy, planetary engineering was surprisingly suited to Mark. It was as if it had always been his specialty, he’d just never known until then. He struggled at first—so much was new, and it didn’t come easily like his school work always had previously. But the challenge was intoxicating.
It was that challenge, the puzzle of making the machines work in different gravities, in unknown terrains, that kept him going the first few years at PD. Aside from his immediate supervisor, Mark couldn’t tell if any of the other engineers in his unit even knew his name. No one was impressed with him any more, which was both demoralizing and liberating. If it kept him under his blankets feeling sorry for himself on his days off, it also freed him to make mistakes, to take risks.
He never talked to his mother about any of this, though. When she would call, he’d put on a smile and tell her everything was fine. He’d talk about the technical aspects of whatever he was working on, and when she asked about friends or relationships, he’d change the subject. He knew she knew what he was doing, but he silently thanked her for never pushing. Not then. Not in the early years.
The Voyage of the White Cloud Page 6
