The Far Shore

by Glenn Damato

  Mikki lets out her breath. “We’re caught.”

  “We have a few things going in our favor,” David says in his best firm and confident tone. “These naval forces haven’t had to take military action at sea for twenty years. They don’t know what to do. They might suspect us of hauling contraband. They don’t know exactly who we got in here. They’re waiting for instructions from the higher-ups, and they’ll assume there’s plenty of time. When we rotate the tower they’ll see Big Fucking Rockets but we still have the advantage. The commander won’t take action unless his own vessel is threatened. They won’t know who made the rockets or why. What if they’re part of a classified operation?” He swallows and looks directly at me. “Cristina, you’re going to launch very shortly after the tower is vertical. The instant you’re vertical, the snap launch option will enable.”

  “Independent from you?” I ask.

  “That is correct. Ideally, we want to launch all six spacecraft simultaneously, as soon as we’re happy with your status. This morning isn’t ideal. When the time comes, we may not be able to communicate. Executing a snap launch will cancel the pre-launch program, disconnect the rocket from the tower, and fire the booster stage.”

  “I understand,” I tell him.

  “Remember, you can snap launch without permission from me.”

  “Why don’t we launch right now?”

  “Would if we could. Need to tank eighteen thousand tons of fuel and oxidizer.”

  Alison touches my arm and I take her hand. On top of the headache comes a growing sense of strangeness. Leaving Earth forever? Today? How could this happen so fast? Yesterday was one week since normal, since Isabel and Nathan, Marco, my Apollo book. Is all this real? Everything around me shrinks and drifts away.

  A strange male voice snaps me back to reality. From out in the corridor, mature and gruff, and for a crazy instant I think it’s Paco. The door cracks open and Dr. Ordin speaks to someone I can’t see. “Did you wash and sterilize it like I showed you? Go in. Two minutes, no touching.”

  An oldie with intense eyes and short silver hair, every bit of it perfectly combed. He’s dressed all in white like us, but it’s a uniform, a magnificent, flawless uniform with gold buttons, a gold and white cap, plus a medal of golden wings on his chest. He fidgets with something in his hands, a triangular package of clear plastic over dark blue with white stars.

  He stands for a moment, inspecting us. We inspect him back.

  “Cristina Flores?”

  For some reason I stand. “Yes?”

  He stares as if soaking up every feature of my face. “I am Lieutenant Commander Stephen Baines, United States Navy. My father was Captain Richard Baines. He carried this flag aboard the Space Shuttle Atlantis on November sixteenth, two-thousand nine.”

  “The space shuttle? NASA?”

  “He was a mission specialist at NASA, yes. This flag was the pall over his casket, and it flew over the U.S. Capitol in his honor. I’m asking you”— his eyes sweep the table—“asking all of you, to carry this flag in the spirit of freedom and independence it represents.”

  “Freedom!” Ryder echoes. He can’t keep quiet when he’s tired.

  I take the flag from his hands. “Sure. I mean, of course we will.”

  He nods, and suddenly his body stands straight and rigid. He places the edge of his right hand against the brim of his cap. It’s a salute, like in vids. He’s perfectly still, so I salute back, awkwardly, my first and probably last military salute. I repeat his words, “Freedom and independence.”

  Stephen Baines smiles, a half-smile, really, almost bitter—like a condemned man enjoying his last meal. He gives us one last look before leaving the room, closing the door softly behind him.

  I place the flag on the table. The whiteness of the stars over the deep blue cloth is dramatic, or maybe fatigue is playing tricks with my emotions. The flag of the America states—first time seeing it. Like religious icons, flags other than Harmony, Alta California, Texas, Alberta, and other official homelands are required to be kept out of view.

  Ryder runs his hand across the plastic covering. “Not sure what we’re going to do with it. Mars doesn’t have enough atmosphere to fly a flag.”

  Mikki grunts. “You sound pretty sure we’re going to get there.”

  David says, “Our hardware will probably soft land on Mars. The long-term outcome is up to you.” He picks up the flag and turns it over in his hands. “Freedom. Independence.” He lays the flag on the table and looks at us one by one. “In a little while you’ll have all the freedom and independence you ever wanted, more than any of your fellow human beings left on this old Earth. For the first time in your lives, no one will tell you what to do and force you to do it.”

  Paige murmurs, “Whoopee for us.”

  “Freedom is your prize,” David tells us. “And your most critical challenge.”

  “Discipline,” I say to no one in particular. “He means we need to make our own discipline, and right now we have zero experience in that area.”

  David continues. “Every minute of your educational indoctrination was intended to form an obedient servant to an omnipresent master. What happens when the eternal threat of instant punishment is suddenly gone?”

  Mikki shrugs. “We create another Autoridad.”

  “I don’t think you’re going to do that. But you’ll have to organize some system of law that preserves freedom and independence. Figuring out how to do that will be just as important as making air and water and power and food.”

  Shuko opens his eyes from his nap. “Other people throughout history have faced these problems.”

  “Yes, the lessons of history. Through no fault of your own, you know little about the history of your species, practically nothing about the struggles your own ancestors had to overcome, ordeals not too different from what you’ll face over the coming months and years. Hell, that may turn out to be a positive, who knows?”

  The flag, the deep blue, the white stars. Paco’s words from long ago. United States of America.

  Not America states. United States of America.

  “My father told me a few things about history,” I say out loud. I’ve never told anyone a word of what Paco said to me those times we were on the beach. It was our secret, up to now. “He told me a few things about freedom, too. Freedom is hard, and it needs discipline and honesty or it’s not going to work.”

  “Discipline, honesty. Check,” Mikki mumbles.

  I’m not going to tell them more because I’m tired and I have to get the details straight in my head first. Paco and I had this talk long ago. I was eight years old and for the first time my Score was crap. These were still the baby Scores that went from two to eight. We didn’t get the full-range adult Scores until our teenage years, with high scorers moving into the adult territory sooner.

  I was a three and that hurt me deeply. I couldn’t sleep at night. I thought I had learned all the tricks to keep it at seven or eight. I sang all the songs praising Harmony and thanking them for our food and everything else. I recited my lessons perfectly, I was sparkling clean, I was polite to everyone.

  It wasn’t enough. My face betrayed me. My face and my voice. I could make myself say the words I was supposed to say, but my facial expressions, my voice tone as they called it, told my instructors my heart truly did not believe. I was a pretender, and high Scores belonged to those who believed.

  They knew I was a liar before I knew it myself.

  When I hurt inside, I could see my hurt reflected back in Paco’s eyes. For the first time ever, he didn’t know how to help me. This was a problem I never fixed. From Paco, I learned that wasn’t necessarily a terrible thing.

  “What do you always do for yourself?” he asks, the setting sun casting a red glow on his skin.

  “I do my own math.”

  “Always. You sing two plus two equals five, but you know it’s not true.”

  “My face shows I don’t believe it.”

  “Don
’t change that, Cristina.”

  Which means I’m going to stay at three and maybe even hit two. My special privileges gone. Beans and rice for lunch. And the others now look down on me. They don’t want me as their friend. They don’t trust me. They’ve learned not to pull their own Scores down by coming too close to me.

  I hoped Paco would have some idea how to raise my Score, how to trick them at their own game. But they can’t be tricked.

  “You have the freedom to do your own math, and now you’re learning you have the freedom to believe your own math. And you do believe it, Cristina. You’re thinking on your own, and it shows. That’s why they’re punishing you. You’re an honest person and their system doesn’t know what to do with you.”

  Honesty, Paco taught me, is important for freedom, for making your own decisions. In this world where we are told what to believe and what to say and what to wear and what to think, he taught me about honesty and freedom.

  Discipline, according to Paco, comes from knowing what you want and honestly deciding whether or not you’re willing to do what’s necessary to obtain it, to pay the price in terms of effort.

  When Paco was in grade school, he explained, many people got into the habit of neglecting honesty and discipline. This went on for years and grew worse. Without honesty and discipline it became easier for people to trade away their freedoms for what they hoped would be an easier life. I think Paco wanted me to draw the conclusion that the people of the United States of America, and many other places, forgot how to solve their problems. They forgot how to fight for what is right.

  Ryder, Jürgen, Mikki, Eric, all of them—do they understand what Paco told me? Do I understand it myself?

  My head is against Alison’s shoulder. The ship sways back and forth, and we all float toward something like sleep . . .

  The peace doesn’t last. A fierce roar from outside! We jolt upright and turn as if we can see though the wall. It grows louder, then recedes. Something just flew past the ship, something huge.

  Ryder cries, “What the hell was that?” and bolts for the door.

  “Stay here,” David snaps. “No one allowed topside.”

  Another rumble, this one from deep within the ship, a thunderous rush like a waterfall.

  “Counter flooding!” David tells us. He checks his wrist for second time in less than a minute. “They’re gonna rotate early.”

  “Is that good?” My words quiver.

  The black box on his shoulder lets out a hiss. “Systems, OPS-one. Get them seated.”

  PART II

  GUTS ARE ENOUGH

  FOURTEEN

  My hand flies to my right chest pocket—the bump of my rosies. Are they supposed to be sterilized like everything else? No matter; they’re coming.

  Everyone rises except Alison. Ryder and I tenderly lift her to her feet. Our fingers interlace. She trembles and stares at the wall.

  The door to the corridor swings open. Dr. Ordin positions herself behind me and within reach of Alison. Is she going to assist with this potential problem?

  Paige and Shuko move toward the door. It’s time. But Alison’s right hand grips the edge of the table as an anchor. Ryder nudges against her but she’s not moving. I need words here. Strength? Courage? Consider those who would joyously take our place if they could?

  Dr. Ordin’s arm flashes past my face. Her hand presses against the side of Alison’s neck. There’s a tiny orange tube between her fingers. Alison flinches.

  No!

  I punch the doctor’s arm and send the needle flying across the room. I snarl, “Perra bruja!”

  Alison’s eyes blink, her face goes empty. She slumps and Ryder grabs her other arm.

  I scream at Dr. Ordin, “Just like the Autoridad!”

  She whispers, “Start walking.”

  Soldiers jam the corridor. Four of them take position ahead of us. They’re in full combat gear, with helmets and goggles, machine guns at the ready. Four more soldiers follow as we move forward, two facing backwards and guided by the other two. They scan everywhere around us, as if we are precious jewels to be protected from a hostile enemy.

  The walls and floor along the corridor are covered in yellow plastic. I guide Alison with Ryder’s help. Her face is peaceful, her blue eyes vacant. When we reach the first narrow staircase, Ryder carries her down with an arm around her waist.

  The waterfall rumble grows louder as we descend. David holds his ear against his black box and snaps, “Copy!” He tells us, “Pick up the pace! Don’t run, just walk as fast as you can.”

  Alison understands and keeps up with us. Even so, the staircases slow us down. The rolling ship makes it tough to walk straight and not crash into the walls.

  Clusters of technicians watch us. Why are they here? Is it only to catch a glimpse of us? Alright, here we are. None of them says a word; they simply study us with bloodshot eyes. There’s a short, dark-haired woman pretty much like me but around ten years older. She stares directly into my eyes as we walk past. There’s no expression in her face other than exhaustion.

  I shout to David over the roar, “What’s going to happen to you and these people?”

  “Not your concern! Keep moving!”

  We reach the vast cavern enclosing the horizontal rocket and launch tower. The place is alive with the rumble of machinery and the thunder of rushing water. The spacecraft swirls with white smoke—no, not smoke, water vapor condensing because of super-cold liquified natural gas and oxygen. Moving banks of spray heads douse the sides of the rocket stages with green liquid. Directly below, under a metal grate, seawater churns like the inside of a giant washing machine.

  Paige screams, “We’re sinking!”

  David shouts back, “Not sinking, don’t worry! Just move!”

  More steep stairs, but wide enough to pull Alison up, side-by-side. There’s a walkway to the nose section. A pair of technicians await. They’re covered head to foot in yellow plastic suits, their faces framed by hoods.

  The hatch. This is it. Goodbye, world.

  David growls, “Cristina and Shuko first! We’ll talk later on the com channel.” He takes my chin and gently runs his index finger across my temple. “Go!” A quick glance at everyone else, then he strides away without another word.

  Something soft touches my arm. Mikki offers me the flag. The flag! My mouth is so dry I can hardly speak. “Forgot! Thank you!”

  The techs guide me to a temporary access ladder positioned straight down through the circular hatch. The hatch itself is narrow, no more than a meter wide. They yank the plastic slippers from my feet. I tuck the flag under my left arm and take a careful step down through the hatch. I reach out and touch the name Liberty, then one more step and I’m inside.

  The roaring thunder dwindles to nothing. I’m in the airlock, a cramped box filled with pipes and valve handles. It stinks of medical clinic disinfectant, only worse. A panel shows the air pressure in glowing yellow numbers: 100.64 kilopascals.

  All over the walls . . . writing? Rows and rows of signatures, black against pale green. At least a hundred of them, plus LIVE FREE scripted big and bold. Toward the edge someone had drawn a rectangle enclosing a block of small print.

  It begins, The Lord is my shepherd.

  I wince. My stomach churns and my arms burst out in goose bumps.

  Paco, dead.

  Dead on his hospital cot. A little white paper in his hand. The Lord is my shepherd. It’s a poem of some kind, a poem or a song about palm trees. Paco must have read this song before he died, which makes it a death song. Why did he do that? Why is Paco’s death song here? It’s a horrible memory, Paco—small and dead. I took his rosies from his other hand, but not the death song.

  But it followed me all by itself.

  Three more steps down, and I squeeze through the inner airlock hatch and into the equipment bay. The disinfectant smell is stronger. There’s barely enough room to move. Color-coded cables and hoses snake between storage lockers and machinery. There’s the p
ower panel, lit up with yellow and green voltage and current readings. There’s a constant hum all around me, like I’m inside a running machine.

  “Come up forward, Cristina.” The voice is soothing and affectionate.

  Two faces peer from the other side of a square access hatch, a man and a woman, their heads enclosed in plastic hoods. “Put your leg over this divider,” the man tells me, indicating the bottom edge of the hatch. It’s the hatch to the control center. “Give me your hand.”

  I carefully step through the opening with the flag cradled under my arm. He holds me steady against the rolling motion of the ship.

  The woman is old enough to be a mamina. She asks, “How are you this fine morning?”

  I open my mouth but no words come, not even a feeble okay. My fingers tremble. Muchacha atontado! The missing sleep, the newness of it all.

  “You just relax,” the man tells me. He tenderly pulls the flag from under my arm. “I’m going to stow this away safe and secure, then we’re going to get you situated.”

  The control center is scarcely large enough to hold six seats. There are two on either side of the access hatch and two further forward. The black seats are bowl-shaped to cradle our bodies from the thighs up, with a separate support for feet and lower legs. They’re mounted upright, which means we’ll be on our backs when the spacecraft is vertical.

  “This is yours, Cristina.” The woman guides me into the seat’s soft center. Thick black straps go over both my shoulders and connect to a round center piece. Three more straps come together to secure my lower torso.

  “This is your rotary buckle,” explains the man. “When you want to release your harness, push the front part down and twist to the right.” He demonstrates. There’s also a strap securing my calves. How rough a ride is this going to be?

  He shows me the lever to loosen and tighten the harness. The straps pull and the seat conforms to my body, a pleasant sensation even better than a bed.

  The Guidance and Navigation Panel is within reach. Switches, dials, and a shitload of colorful numbers scrolling past. I’m supposed to know what all this means?