“So what were you thinking about?” Pollux asked as he sat up and swung his long legs out of his bed.
For a moment, Castor wondered if his brother could really be so daft, so detached from the life they had been sharing for eighteen years. It was Selection Day at their school and several hundred other schools and workplaces across the country, the day when another couple of hundred people would find out whether they were condemned to life on Earth in a post-apocalyptic world or whether they were struck by the improbable and dubious luck of being one of the chosen few who would get to leave it all behind and embark on a voyage across the galaxy in order to establish human colonies light-years away from home.
“Seriously?” Castor asked.
“What?”
“It’s Selection Day. What do you think I was thinking about?”
“Right,” Pollux said. “So you’ve been thinking about reaching out to the stars in humanity’s silly little quest to colonize the galaxy? To boldly go where no man bla bla bla? You haven’t been thinking, bro, you’ve been daydreaming.”
“Does it matter what you call it?” Castor asked. “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”
“Thanks for proving my point, Shakespeare. You’re the family poet. You of all people should know that words matter.”
Castor sighed. “Fine. Daydreaming then. So what?”
“So nothing.” Pollux shrugged. “It’s just a waste of time, that’s all. Not that there’s anything wrong with wasting your time every once and again. I’m just saying.”
“It’s not a waste of time,” Castor insisted. “Have you never thought about what it would mean if you were selected for Project Exodus? Not only for you and your life, but also for the people you know. Mom and dad, me, your friends. Leaving everyone and everything you’ve ever known behind … how could thinking about that be a waste of time?”
“Because it’s not going to happen,” Pollux said. “Twelve billion people on Earth. Twenty-four thousand get to go. The chances of being picked are literally one in a million.”
“Two in a million,” Castor corrected him. “Twelve billion, twenty-four thousand, that’s two in a million.”
“Whatever. The point is, the chances are incredibly small. I might as well worry about getting struck by lightning or winning the lottery.”
“And you probably should. Some fifty thousand people are killed by lightning strike every year. That’s a hundred and thirty-seven every single day. And somewhere in the world somebody wins the lottery jackpot almost every week even though the chances of that happening are only about one in a hundred and fifty million.”
Pollux snorted. “Except lightning strikes and lottery wins are completely random. This is not. Do you really think they’re gonna man the greatest endeavor in human history by randomly drawing names out of a hat?”
“The greatest endeavor in human history?” Castor asked. “A minute ago you called it a silly little quest. Now which one is it?”
“Whatever,” Pollux said, waving his hand dismissively. “The point is, if you embark on a mission to save humanity, you’re not gonna invite every Tom, Dick and Harry along for the ride. You want to pick only the best of the best, those who are best equipped to help such a mission succeed. They only call it a ‘lottery’ in order to fool people like you and me into believing we stand a real chance. But I’m not fooled. The term ‘Selection Day’ is a dead giveaway. I’ll bet my bottom dollar that the exodants are not randomly picked. They’re being selected behind closed doors by some secret committee, based on merit and on what they can bring to the mission. What they want is scientists and engineers, people who can put their emotions on hold and focus on the job. No offence, bro, but they will pick someone who can fix and maintain magnetoplasma ion engines over philosophers and poets, because the need for philosophers and poets in outer space will be very limited. Sorry, but that’s just common sense.”
“Humanity will always have a need for poets,” Castor said in a low voice, hating how little convinced he sounded.
“That’s probably true.” Pollux got up, walked over to Castor’s bed and sat on the edge of it. “But you see, it’s much more likely for a poet to emerge from among a group of engineers than for an engineer to emerge from among a group of poets. And so, since it’s not the main purpose of Exodus to bestow our undoubtedly brilliant achievements in arts and entertainment on the galaxy, they’re never going to pick someone like you, so stop worrying already.”
Castor turned his head away from Pollux, back towards the sky, and mumbled, “Asshole,” when without a warning, Pollux pounced on him, wrestled him into a headlock and gave him a noogie. Moaning in discomfort, Castor tried to escape his brother’s rough but playful embrace to no avail when the door opened and their mother walked in, wearing only a slip, an oversized T-shirt, and a sleepy face.
“Guys,” Meitner said. “Guys!”
Pollux sported an angelic, innocent look on his face. “Yes, mom?”
“It’s the middle of the night, guys,” Meitner said in a sleepy voice. “What the hell is going on?”
“Nothing, mom,” Pollux said, still holding Castor in headlock. “A bad dream, that’s all. I’m just comforting him.”
Struggling to free himself, Castor found his attempt at protest stifled by his brother’s hands sealing his lips tightly.
Meitner sighed. “Let him go, Pollux.”
“Gee, mom, I don’t know if that’s a good idea. He’s very upset. Like a little tiger cub who’s lost his mommy.” He looked down at Castor. “Isn’t that right, little tiger?”
“Now, Pollux!”
“All right, all right.”
When Pollux finally loosened the grip around his neck, Castor freed himself and kicked Pollux off the edge of his bed as he rubbed his bruised scalp.
“See?” Pollux said. “A little tiger. Rawr!”
Meitner sighed again and rubbed one of her tired eyes. “I really hope they put you on two different ships that travel in opposite directions as close to the speed of light as possible.”
“Not gonna help,” Pollux said, cockily flexing his muscles as he put on a white T-shirt. “Our actions will always affect one another, even if we’re light-years apart. It’s called quantum entanglement.”
Castor rolled his eyes. “I call it a nightmare.”
“Hey, it’s physics. Blame Schrödinger, not me.”
“What’s Schrödinger got to do with anything?”
“He came up with it, stupid!”
“No, he didn’t.”
“He did too,” Pollux insisted.
“It was Einstein who came up with the concept.”
“And it was Schrödinger who named it ‘quantum entanglement.’”
“So what?” Castor said. “A rose by any other name …”
“Oh shut up!”
“You shut up!”
Meitner threw her arms in the air. “Guys, how about you both shut up? Anybody listening to you would pray for mankind to go the way of the dodo.”
“Getting killed and devoured by a species of superior intelligence?” Pollux asked, winking at Castor.
“Going extinct was my point,” Meitner said, “but yes, essentially.”
“Mmmh, now I’m hungry,” Pollux said. “Is breakfast ready yet?”
“Breakfast?” Meitner said. “It’s five-twenty!”
Pollux shrugged. “So?”
“So what do you think? Let me put it this way, bwana: the ingredients are ready to be made into an opulent breakfast—a breakfeast, so to speak—by you.”
“Fair enough, but first I need a shower,” Pollux said and headed for the door.
“Good boy.”
“Seriously, though, ‘breakfeast’? The things that pass as puns in this family would be considered torture under the Geneva Conventions.”
“Get out!” Meitner shouted, picking up a shoe and hurling it at her firstborn. It hit the door frame just as Pollux slipped out of the room.
She looked at Castor. “It was a good pun, wasn’t it? Breakfeast?”
“Mom …” Castor said and smiled a pitying smile.
He hid behind his pillow as the second shoe came flying fast.
* * *
That evening, Castor Pendergast was popular. In fact, his popularity exceeded everything he had ever experienced—or asked for. It was almost as though he had somehow, magically, switched places with his brother. Now, for the first time in his life, he was the popular one, the one everyone wanted to talk to and be seen with, the cool twin, the sexy twin, the twin who was adored and revered, passed back and forth between dignitaries, media people, and random admirers, asked for his opinion, his views on matters great and small regardless if he had anything meaningful to say about or any interest in them, while his brother was reduced to an inconspicuous bystander, irrelevant, unimportant, standing on the sidelines, quiet, faint like a distant star outshone by its bigger and brighter galactic neighbor; insignificant, useless and ultimately unnecessary like an appendix. At least that’s how Castor assumed Pollux must have felt, and he didn’t like it one bit. Unlike his brother, Castor couldn’t seem to enjoy being the center of attention while the other one was ignored. It didn’t seem right, it didn’t seem fair, and it made him feel uncomfortable. Throughout their whole life, their relationship had been that of a twin star system with one star significantly bigger and brighter than the other, yet both of them still stars in their own right. It was what Castor was used to and felt comfortable with. But tonight the situation was more than just reversed. Pollux had been reduced to nothing more than a comet, a dirty lump of ice and rock on an elongated elliptical orbit around its star, spending most of its time traveling through cold, dark, empty space, invisible, almost undetectable, until the star’s gravity pulled it inwards again, causing it to heat up and shine in all its fragile glory. Castor had to pull him in many times that night, forcing Pollux time and time again to take his rightful place beside him, to share the limelight, to play his role in the galactic spectacle, to be near him, to be there for him, to offer his reassurance in what was not only the most exciting but also the most frightening night in Castor’s life.
“So how does it feel?” he was asked for the thirtieth or fortieth time by yet another reporter brandishing her microphone in his face.
“It’s a great honor,” Castor said, tired and robot-like, “to have been picked for this extraordinary mission to the stars in our attempt to ensure the survival of the human race.”
“Of course,” the reporter said. “Of course it is. But how does it feel?”
How indeed? Castor had been asked that question so many times, but he still hadn’t come up with an answer that was either satisfactory for the interviewer or an accurate reflection of his inner state. He tried to remember how in the past few weeks and months, the many times he had been thinking about this unlikely event, he had imagined what it would be like and how it would make him feel. All he could remember was a sense of excitement about an opportunity to start a new life that was remote from any established cliché. That excitement, however, had yet to materialize, and the longer Castor thought about it, the more he came to realize that he didn’t seem to feel anything at all.
“Numb,” he finally heard himself say.
“What’s that?” the reporter asked, leaning into Castor like an amused adult would lean into a child who had just said something profoundly innocent and wise. “Did you say numb? Speak up a bit, will you?”
“Y-yes,” Castor said and threw a helpless look at Pollux who was standing behind the reporter and watching his brother die a slow and painful death in front of the camera.
“What does that mean?” the reporter pried on. “Can you explain to our viewers what that means?”
“I …” Castor shrugged, trying to figure out what that reporter wanted from him. Did she want him to explain the meaning of the word ‘numb’? “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
At last, Pollux squeezed himself in the gap between Castor and the reporter and bent down to speak into the microphone.
“I think what my brother is trying to say is that he is overwhelmed by this unexpected turn of events and at a loss for words, and I can’t blame him.”
The reporter turned to him. “And you are …?”
Pollux frowned. “I’m my brother’s brother.”
“Oh! I can see the resemblance now! Are you twins?”
“Yes.”
“Oh! That’s interesting! So how do you feel about your brother becoming an exodant?”
“I think he will be an asset to the mission,” Pollux said. “He is the kindest, most honorable, and most humble person you’ll ever meet, an exemplary human being. If I were to start a new civilization somewhere, I’d make sure to have people like him around to represent and to propagate the very best of human values. Plus, he is extremely intelligent, the smartest person I know. He thinks before he speaks. Sure, sometimes all that thinking takes a while, but I understand there’ll be plenty of time to think on the voyage to …” He turned to Castor. “Where are you going again?”
“Gliese 667 Cc,” Castor said.
“Gliese 667 Cc.”
“Right,” the reporter said. “Are you proud of your brother?”
“I am immensely proud of my brother.”
“And how do you feel about the fact that once he’s left the earth in about two years time, you will never see him again? Considering you’re twins and you must be having a very close relationship and all.”
Pollux didn’t flinch at the question, but in his eyes Castor could see the pain, a pain that corresponded directly to his own feeling of being stabbed in the stomach with a knife, a knife with a very blunt blade.
“Excuse me,” he said to the reporter, “we have to go.”
Castor grabbed his brother’s arm and pushed him through the crowd, through the hundreds of people who surrounded them and reluctantly gave way, smiling, cheering, giving him pats on the back, congratulating him on his great achievement of having been randomly picked from among a pool of millions of people, wishing him the best of luck and a long life. Making their way across the overcrowded gymnasium of their school, Castor realized that although it looked as if he were pushing his brother through the mass of people, he was merely holding onto his arm as Pollux was leading the way, determined to get them both out of the soul-devouring spotlight. They finally ended up at the passage to the locker rooms where their parents were waiting.
“There you are,” Huxley said, his arm around Meitner’s trembling body as she kept wiping the tears out of her eyes with a crumpled paper tissue. “How’s it going?”
“Not good,” Pollux said as Castor finally let go of his arm.
Meitner embraced her second-born son, slowly, gently as if she were afraid of breaking him. “My baby,” she sobbed into his ear as Castor felt her warm, wet tears on his face.
“We need to get out of this fucking circus,” Pollux said.
Huxley shook his head. “I know, but I’m afraid we can’t. Not yet. They’re trying to get your grandma via video link from New York, and they’ll probably want your brother on stage for that.”
“Yeah, fuck that,” Pollux said. “What are they gonna do, revoke his ticket? They can’t do that, it’s in the rules. Once a slot has been allocated to an exodant, it can’t be taken away unless they die or commit a felony. It’s not a felony to not talk to your grandmother. Besides, we talk to grandma every other day. Why would we want to make a show out of it?”
“Because it’ll put your grandma in an awkward position if they have to tell her, ‘Sorry, but your grandson doesn’t want to talk to you.’”
“Oh please. Like grandma ever gave a flying fuck about what people think of her or her family. She’ll be the first to understand if we don’t want to take part in this … this glorified cattle market.”
“Pollux!” Meitner said.
“What?” Pollux asked. “It’s wh
at it is, isn’t it? I mean, look around. Nobody gives a damn about the mission or its implications. All these people want is some fucking raw human emotion, the drama, the tragedy, the tears. It’s sickening!”
“It’s enough!” Huxley said, shooting Pollux an angry look.
Castor freed himself of his mother’s embrace, feeling dizzy. “I think I’m going to be sick,” he said.
Pollux nodded at Huxley. “See? Sickening, like I said.”
On shaky legs, Castor tottered down the hallway towards the locker room door.
“Castor!” he heard his mother call after him. “Where are you going?”
“Don’t worry, mom,” Pollux said. “He’s going to puke his heart and soul out. That’s my bro. Years ahead of his time, as always. Getting space sickness before he even gets to space.”
“Pollux!”
“I’m just saying.”
Castor entered the restroom and went straight for one of the stalls, holding his stomach as if that would in any way delay or even prevent the inevitable. In the stall he sank to his knees, his hand lifting the broken toilet seat, closed his eyes and opened his mouth. He was surprised at the immediate relief he felt as the sandwich he’d had for dinner left his body in a bitter tasting, acidic smelling stream of half-digested sludge. In a series of violent spasms, his stomach emptied itself into the toilet bowl. It was almost as if his body was trying to rid itself of everything it had taken in that day despite knowing full well that the real reason for his queasiness was not physical.
Eschaton - Season One Page 13
