by Dom Testa
“But what?” Triana said.
“Well, I wear a lot of hats on this trip, right? Keep the air fresh, keep the gravity close to Earth normal, dim the lights, take out the trash, sweep up at the end of the day—”
“What’s the problem, Roc?”
“The problem is with the ship’s life-energy readings. They don’t add up, and to an incredibly efficient being like myself that is … well, it’s just not acceptable. They’re screwy, and that will make me crazy, Tree. Crazy, do you hear me?”
Triana sat up. “What do you mean? What’s wrong with the readings?”
“They’re not balanced. As you know, every person on this spacecraft has been accounted for and cataloged by their energy output. Glad I didn’t have that job. Booorrrriiiiinnnngggg.”
“Roc—”
“Anyway, for a journey of five years it’s critical to maintain balanced levels in order to sustain food and life-support systems. You know that.”
“Yeah, so what’s the problem?”
“Well, there must have been a mistake made before launch. Some of the measurements were either inaccurate or … ”
Roc paused, as if thinking to himself.
“Or else what?” Triana said. “Could they have made a mistake before we left?”
“It’s possible, but … no, I don’t think so. I mean, c’mon, it’s so vital to the mission, I don’t believe Dr. Zimmer or his little elves could have botched that.”
Triana smiled at the vidscreen. “I know you’re referring to it as ‘the mission’ for our sake, and I appreciate it, Roc. No sense in us locking ourselves in this can for five years and calling it a ‘desperate last chance’ or something. But about this imbalance: what else could it be?”
“Hmm. The experts say that stress could do it. Of course, the experts also said that Barry Bonds’s home run record would never be broken, and don’t they look stupid now. But with all of the stress this crew has been under, I suppose it might knock things out of whack a little bit. I’ll check it out again in a day or two.”
Triana nodded agreement. She rose from the chair and stretched, her arms crossing over her head. Leaning back, her long dark hair fell almost to her waist. It was unlikely, she thought, that there had been very many ship commanders in history like her. But because this was no ordinary ship—and such a unique moment in history—convention had gone out the window. A sixteen-year-old girl was in charge. She sighed and turned to leave.
“Tree,” said the computer voice from the screen.
“Yes?”
“Not to get too sappy or anything, but I think it is a mission. I think it’s the most spectacular mission of all time.”
Triana smiled again and walked out.
“Remember, you’re supposed to congratulate me later for that very smooth launch,” Roc said to the empty room.
4
It was a university professor in Japan who solved the mystery.
Nine months after Earth’s close call with Comet Bhaktul, and two months after the initial reports of illness, he announced the bad news.
Samples collected from the atmosphere during the pass through the comet’s tail revealed microscopic particles unlike anything ever seen before. Something in the gaseous exhaust of Bhaktul had contaminated the planet, and its effect on human beings was fast … and fatal.
In almost no time the spread of the flulike disease had escalated at a frightening pace. Scientists calculated that perhaps 10 percent of the population had already begun to show the physical signs, and tens of thousands more were pouring into hospitals every day. It didn’t matter where you were. No place on Earth was spared.
News reports began to include stories of people abandoning their homes, their careers, and setting off for a secluded place in the mountains, or to a remote location in the South Pacific. They assumed that the disease was spread from person to person, and if they left densely populated areas they would decrease their chance of becoming infected. The problem was that you couldn’t hide. Bhaktul had saturated the atmosphere, and human contact had nothing whatsoever to do with it. Nobody, it seemed, was excluded: rich, poor, black, white, male, female … this disease did not discriminate.
That was hard for many people to accept, because now lifestyle wasn’t important, there were no risk factors to avoid, and no vaccination was on the horizon. And when the most advanced medical teams on the planet threw up their hands in frustration, it sent a shock wave of fear throughout the civilized world.
Strangely, the illness seemed to spare the children. In fact, there were only a few scattered reports from around the world that mentioned a child suffering from any of the symptoms. Test after test was run on both children and adults, but without any definite answers. All that could be determined was that kids were immune to the disorder … until they reached the age of eighteen or nineteen.
If you were older than eighteen, Bhaktul was coming for you.
There were many more questions than answers. What were these particles in the comet’s wake that triggered the sickness? Why were some people affected sooner than others? Why not young people?
And how much longer did Earth have?
That question, in particular, led to millions of workers walking off their jobs. The attitude was “Why should I bother? We’re all going to die anyway.” Society began to break down into two groups: those who wanted to fight, and those who preferred to just give up and wither away.
On the West Coast of the United States, a group of scientists led by Dr. Wallace Zimmer reached the conclusion that an alternate plan should be developed in case no protective vaccination was found. Their plan was radical … and not what anyone expected.
“We believe,” Dr. Zimmer said, “that there are only two possible measures capable of sparing the human race.”
The faces of hundreds of colleagues looked up at him on the stage with wide-eyed wonder. For the past two days they had listened to a parade of experts discuss their ideas on defeating the disease. Now, at the close of the scientific assembly, they were emotionally drained and hopeful for something that could work. All morning there had been a buzz that Dr. Zimmer, a well-respected researcher and scientist from California, would be delivering a speech that would electrify the attendees. Now he had their rapt attention.
His large frame dominated the podium. He stood exactly an inch over six feet, with wide shoulders and a stout neck. Although the lines on his face gave evidence of his fifty-plus years of age, his hair had remained full, even while losing the battle with the gray. He adjusted his glasses and looked out over the crowd.
“The first solution would be to remove or filter the deadly particles from Earth’s atmosphere,” he said. “As you are aware, we have barely identified the particles responsible for the destruction, and it could be many, many years before we could even begin to understand how to contain them.” He looked over the rim of his glasses at the packed auditorium. “By that time, it would be too late.”
The silence was grim. Dr. Zimmer leaned forward on the podium. “The other idea is extremely radical, but at least a possible alternative. After careful discussion, we feel that if we can’t take the deadly organisms away from our kids … we should get the kids away from them.”
A gradual low hum of chatter spread throughout the assembled scientists and world leaders. Finally, as the room began to quiet down, a biology professor from Michigan stood up and addressed Dr. Zimmer. “Are you suggesting that we build some sort of bubble or domed environment and stash a group of young people? They’d have to come out sometime, you know.”
“Yes, that’s right, and to doom the race to living out its existence in small, cramped domes would be brutal,” agreed Dr. Zimmer. “We believe the planet’s atmosphere could remain contaminated for possibly hundreds of years. For that matter, it might have been altered permanently. People living in a dome might never be able to leave.”
“Then what are you saying, Dr. Zimmer?”
“A spacecraft. Or, to be
more precise, a lifeboat.”
This time the room exploded in sound. Dozens of individual arguments broke out spontaneously throughout the auditorium, and Dr. Zimmer simply folded his arms and waited. After a few minutes order was restored, and a woman from Texas rose to be heard.
“Dr. Zimmer, you’re not serious, are you? A spaceship?”
“Absolutely serious, madam. A spaceship. But unlike any other craft ever assembled. I mentioned the word ‘lifeboat’ and that’s exactly what it would be: a haven for protecting the lives of several hundred kids.”
A tall, thin man in the middle of the room stood up, and Zimmer recognized him immediately. It was Tyler Scofield, a former colleague and now the science department head at a major university.
“And what would you do with this lifeboat?” Scofield said. “Let them orbit around Earth forever? That’s no different than sealing them up in domes.”
“No, sir,” Dr. Zimmer said. “The ship would be automatically piloted to another world. One that we feel has the best chance of sustaining the crew when they arrive.”
Once again the room erupted in sound as the various members of the scientific community argued aloud. During the chaos Tyler Scofield remained calm and quiet, looking up at Zimmer. When the uproar had died back down, Scofield addressed the stage again.
“I’m curious about your plan, Dr. Zimmer. A spaceship, which we don’t have, filled with children, who have no idea how to operate the ship, on a mission to a planet or planets that we have yet to identify as suitable for human life. On the surface one would think that you have not put much thought into this. But, of course, I’m sure you have.”
Dr. Zimmer smiled at his old friend. If the thinly veiled criticism had come from anyone else he might have been irritated. But Zimmer and Scofield had worked together for many years, and although they now rarely saw each other, they still communicated from time to time and provided whatever help they could with the other’s projects.
“Yes,” Zimmer said, “on the surface it would indeed look like a desperate, maybe even hopeless, shot.”
The audience sat quietly, listening. Tyler Scofield sat down and waited to hear what his old friend proposed.
“I will concede that the word ‘desperate’ applies. Is there anyone in this room who is not desperate to find a solution to the Bhaktul problem? Every account that I have heard has stated that our planet has five, maybe six years, before almost one hundred percent of the adult population is affected. I would say that leaves us in a desperate spot.
“But I take exception to the word ‘hopeless.’ For the same reasons I just mentioned, I feel that this is our best hope. Will we find a cure for Bhaktul Disease within the next three to five years? I hope we do. Will we be able to protect the lives of our children and ensure that they never have to cope with this disease? I hope we can. But I’m also a practical man. What if—as awful as it may be to imagine—what if we don’t find a cure? What if, after five years, we discover that we have wasted an opportunity during those many years to save something of our civilization? To at least give mankind the chance to survive somewhere else?”
Dr. Zimmer paused and gazed around at the solemn faces looking up at him. “Do we choose to give up? Do we throw up our hands and say, ‘Well, we gave it our best shot,’ and just go quietly? Or do we try to save a portion of our history, our heritage, our achievements? I can’t believe that our species would fight, scratch and claw its way up to this level, to have achieved so much, to have overcome so many improbable odds, just to give up now. It’s not our way. It’s not what we owe to our ancestors who toiled so hard. And it’s not the legacy that we owe our children.
“So, I will never say that this is ‘hopeless.’ It’s anything but hopeless, Tyler. It’s the embodiment of hope.”
The room remained silent for a few moments, an uncomfortable break that left Zimmer wondering if he had gotten through to anyone. Then, in the back of the room, one person began slowly applauding. Then, another. Soon, more than half the room was applauding, with many people rising to their feet to cheer him on. Zimmer felt a wave of relief spread over him, and nodded to the assembly, thanking them.
Yet not everyone was cheering. Looking across the sea of faces, Dr. Zimmer could see more than a handful of scientists shaking their heads, talking quietly to each other and gesturing at the platform. He had not won everyone over to his side, nor did he expect to. Most troubling to Zimmer, on a personal level, was that Tyler Scofield remained seated, arms crossed, a grim look upon his face. He was not among the believers, apparently. After a minute Scofield rose from his chair and walked out of the auditorium. Zimmer’s heart sank briefly, but within moments his attention refocused on his plan.
Questions came at him with lightning speed. Details were being demanded and he had few to offer. When pressed for at least a rough concept of the mission, Dr. Zimmer explained the idea of a ship that could hold at least two hundred kids, separated into compartments that contained housing sections, agricultural domes, recreation facilities, and more. No, it would not be an easy project, but mankind had run out of time. There was no room left to bicker about cost, either. There could be no price put on the plan or the objective. It had to be done, and it had to be done immediately.
The most pressing need, it turned out, was to design a computer brain that would act as pilot, teacher and adviser.
5
Let’s get one thing straight, all right? I’m not a babysitter. These kids are way too old and way too smart to need that. If I’m looking over their shoulders from time to time, it’s not to baby them; I just happen to be a natural snoop. A nosy computer, Roy called me. Okay, maybe I listen in sometimes when I should be busy testing the filtering system in the water recycling tanks, but is that interesting? Is it? No, it isn’t.
Gap Lee is interesting. A good-looking kid, too. Good athlete. Funny when he wants to be. Smart. Oh, and the coolest of the Council members.
Yes, I do know cool when I see it. Who do you think you’re dealing with here?
Anyway, Gap is cool, and one of my personal favorites on the ship. Just don’t tell anyone I told you that. Anyone, okay? Especially Gap.
Gap Lee waited in the Conference Room, as usual the first to arrive for the meeting. He sat at one end of the table and looked out the window. It faced away from Earth, a frame filled with stars. Gap was again struck by how many you could see outside the Earth’s atmosphere. “One of you is our new home,” Galahad’s Head of Engineering said to the stars. “I hope you’re ready for us.”
He turned his thoughts to his old home, the one that was falling away at thousands of miles per hour. Soon that speed would increase greatly, propelled by the power of the sun’s nuclear wind. After shining down on Gap for all sixteen years of his life, the sun now pushed him away, like a mother bird shoving a chick out of the nest, urging it to take wing and begin its new life.
Gap thought of his early childhood in China, raised as an only child by his parents, both of whom were college professors. An early interest in gymnastics was fueled by his training with a former Olympic champion. By age ten he was being groomed for his own championship run and had caught the eye of China’s Olympic committee.
Then, on his eleventh birthday, his parents startled him by announcing that they had accepted an invitation to teach at a prestigious school in America. Within three weeks the family had packed up and relocated to Northern California, settling into a modest home amid large trees and rolling hills. And although his parents were concerned about the abrupt change in his life, Gap immediately accepted the challenge of meeting new people and forming new friendships. It seemed everyone warmed to him as soon as they met him. A year of intense language lessons quickly made him fluent in English, and his school grades reflected his obvious intellect. He kept up his training with gymnastics, keeping an eye on that Olympic future.
The only thing that drove Gap’s parents crazy was his affection for Airboarding. Even though he wore a helmet and pa
ds, spills were inevitable. His mother would cringe every time he walked in the door with another scrape, bruise or torn clothing. “You would sacrifice a chance at a gymnastics world record, just for this silly hobby?” she would cry. Gap would always smile, melting her heart, and then kiss her lightly on the cheek. “Gymnastics is what keeps me from really getting hurt,” he would assure her. “You should see the other kids.” She would wring her hands and walk away, chattering in her mother tongue.
Gap sighed now, alone in the room, thinking of his mother. He remembered her tortured look when he was selected for the Galahad mission. He also recalled, however, the look of pride on her face when Dr. Zimmer tapped him for a spot on the Council. While home during his last visit before the launch, Gap sat with his mother on their porch, watching the rain gently fall. The air had smelled so good, so full of life, the way it always smelled during a rainstorm.
“You were born to do great things, Gap,” she had told him that day. “I always knew that. But your father and I were sure it would come through athletic achievements, not like this.” She had taken his hand and looked deep into his eyes. “Destiny does not always take the path we expect,” she said. “Yours has taken a change we could never have expected. But you were ready. And we are so very proud of you.”
Gap had slipped his hand out of hers and tightly wrapped both arms around his mother. He still remembered the words she had whispered in his ear during that embrace.
“Your path will change again and again. Do not curse the change; embrace it, and make it work for you.”
Gap had begun to sob quietly, the sound masked by the falling rain. His tears, slowly trickling down his face, mixed with the raindrops blown onto the porch by a gust of wind.
He often thought about that moment, and had vowed never to forget his mother’s advice: embrace change. As he stared out at the multitude of stars, he knew that change would be a regular occurrence over the next five years of his life. Was he ready to embrace it?
