Chapter – 2
I entered the control room of my ship, a small, unimpressive space. Every working panel had taken me months to repair. Some were shattered, while others flickered feebly. It was the flickering ones that worked.
I went to a panel, reading over the words, numbers and symbols flashing across its surface. I might have recognized the occasional passing scrap of data, but for the most part, the workings of the ship's computer core were a mystery to me. I could assemble the hardware, but the software was more difficult.
I knew enough to work my way around locked doors or troublesome hatches, but when it came to navigating our way through space, my sister was much more proficient. That's why I built this room with her in mind. Growing up, she spent a lot of time watching the data flow past.
It were the languages that made the computer so difficult to understand. There was Martian English, and Terran English, neither of which I could read competently. In speaking, they sound nearly identical. I know because I was raised with an awkward mix of the two. Neither stuck with me in written form, but my sister blended the two together very well, in real life, and in the digital work of this ship, in which she spent much of her time.
My sister entered the room, her hand clutching an aged cane. She looked very tired and hungry, but we were all hungry. She was wearing the same torn and filthy rags I was.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
It was a valid question, because I rarely visited this room. There wasn’t much to do but let the computers chart their course.
“I’d like to know how close we are,” I answered, turning back to the panel. Whenever I was bored of the small, and often unimportant repairs to be made on the ship, I would visit this room and ask the same question every time.
How close were we?
My sister, April, stepped forward and ran her hands across the controls, reading over the data.
“Just under a month left to go, but I don’t know how reliable this is,” she answered.
“It can't be that far off,” I assured her.
“How do you know?”
“I used several components from the original computer to build this one,” I answered. “And the original computer has already made this trip.”
April nodded, and moved to a flickering panel. “It was going in the other direction though, and that was a long time ago, Abel. Besides, the planets were in entirely different locations back then. It may be less reliable than you think.”
I agreed.
“Whatever the case," I said, "we are at least going in the right direction.”
I looked to my right. Above the far row of computer panels was painted the insignia of the Martian Orbital Guard. Its paint had been scratched enough to see the Terran United Fleet symbol beneath it. Both of those fleets were long gone when I was born.
“Were you moving through the halls last night?” I asked, without really thinking.
“No,” she answered, without looking away from her screen. “Why?”
I hesitated, abruptly turning to another flickering panel. Getting on my knees, I opened a compartment beneath that held its circuitry. Turning off the power, I began tinkering with the wires.
“No reason,” I answered, trying to sound calm. I became aware of the pearls resting in my pocket.
April turned away from her panel the moment I touched the first wire. “Were you moving around last night?”
She really didn’t need to ask. I wandered the ship often. Even if I were afraid of what my playful mind would create, this was still my home.
“There was a problem with the water supply,” I answered. “I had to correct it.”
She exhaled deeply, looking to the ground. Walking behind me, she set her hands on my shoulders and rubbed them softly.
“Abel,” she said quietly, “You know that your mind plays tricks. You also know that none of it’s real. Don’t let it get to you.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “I was just wondering.”
“Okay. If you’re sure,” she said.
I noticed she had become very thin in the past few years, since we launched into space. Her muscles, for reasons we didn’t understand, were degenerating over time, even with a diet the same as everyone else’s. With only one meal a day, the unnamed disorder was slowly eating away at her. We were both still young adults, but she was already using a cane. In time, even that wouldn't be enough.
My current task didn’t have much of a purpose. I was attempting to make the panel still more functional, but it wasn't necessary. Any other functioning panel in the room could do the same jobs. I was never out of work, but in our first years off Mars, I'd fixed all the essentials. Me repairing this panel wouldn’t help the ship. Me destroying this panel wouldn’t hinder the ship.
__________
We flew a large vessel. There were only five of us, operating a vessel meant for several hundred. Most of the ship’s decks were vacuums, areas with a direct connection to the lifeless space beyond. Some of these areas could be fixed from safe locations, by using the ancient circuits still in the walls and floors to close hatches or seal breaches. It was a very slow process, but yet, it was something to take up my time.
During the years of labour required to make the ship space worthy, I developed the powerful need to be doing something at all times. It didn’t matter what, really, just something. My parents call it the Orion Gene. It’s something I learned from them. I it was the urge to move forward, no matter what the direction.
We were forced to escape Mars, but there was no clear destination when we launched. We chose Earth because we knew it was there. We hoped to find something on that abandoned planet that would allow us to survive. Didn’t matter what.
Faith, by definition, is the belief in something without reason. It’s believing purely by choice. We made our choice, because at the time, any choice would have been an act of faith.
On this ship, my parents provided food, a welcome change of pace for my father, who had rough hands from a lifetime of scavenging. Gardens were revered in Martian culture. The planet’s soil was so poor that any place plants grew became holy ground. My mother taught me to believe in some of these things, and I took to it passively. I’ve seen few of the gardens on Mars, but never have I seen a great garden. I would have given anything to. From what I was told, they were large enough to feed people by the thousands, numbers I never believed existed.
They certainly don't exist anymore.
Our garden on the ship was as large as we could make it. In such a confined space, with limited resources, we did everything in our power to ensure a full circle. The energy went from the plants to us to the plants and back again. We'd done well, far better than we had planned, but after so many years of travel, we were losing our nutrients, water, and atmosphere slowly.
I entered the garden to find my mother and father working away. My mother was checking the soil temperature, and my father was cautiously watering a few small sprouts. They understood plants. The garden took up the entire room. There were rows and rows of plants, some in pots on benches or in contained areas of soil on the floor. hundreds of species spread in every direction, which made walking somewhat difficult. There were vines and small trees growing up the walls, coming in contact with overhanging light. It was a beautiful room.
This room was always bright. The ceiling lights cycled, effectively mimicking the sun’s rays. I could feel it on my skin. It was pleasant. The smell of fresh air was always welcoming.
“How are you doing, son?” my mother asked, a sweet smile on her face. My father didn’t turn to me, but I knew he was listening. He didn’t like taking his eyes off a job.
“Honestly, I’m feeling a little aimless,” I answered. In times like this, I needed a little motivation, and there’s no better people to turn to than my parents.
“You really can’t think of anything to do?” my father asked, looking at me afte
r finishing a row of plants. “There must be something.”
I shrugged. “I was toying with a computer panel in the control room, but didn’t get very far.”
They both nodded in understanding.
“Why not go see what your brother’s doing?” my mother suggested. I didn’t find the thought very appealing. It would only be a temporary solution. My brother wouldn’t be doing much more than me. He focused on his painting mostly, or he watched the stars through his telescope. His job was to help someone if they got hurt, but at any other time, he wasn't very busy.
As I was leaving, my father stopped me.
“Hey, there was something you were doing. Didn’t you start a project a few months ago? Weren’t you trying to get somewhere?”
“Yeah,” I answered hesitantly. “I was going to get to the command deck…the actual one.” It, like most of the ship, was still a vacuum, and a distant one. It was on the outskirts of the ship. I had made plans to reach it someday, but gave up after having reached a point in the ship I found more inaccessible than usual.
“What ever happened to that idea? Did you just give up on it?” my father asked, looking at me curiously.
“Um,” I began. “The route I would have to take in order to get there would bring me to some…” I trailed off, not wanting to continue.
My father knew what I was getting at. “Oh, this is about comfort, isn’t it? Son, I know it’s difficult for your mind to stay calm in places like that. You can’t let your fears rule you. You said you wanted to reach the command deck, so I think you should do just that. But as always, it’s your choice.”
“Just think about it,” my mother put in. “It’s something that interested you, so maybe it’s worth overcoming.” She smiled again. I smiled back weakly, and unconvincingly.
Someone came rushing into the room. It was my brother, Cain. His reddish skin was glistening with sweat.
“Come to my room!” he said hastily. “Where’s April? She has to see this!”
“What’s going on?” my mother asked. My father seemed distantly interested, finishing up the last of the plants.
“No. You have to see this. Come on!” He ran out, shouting April’s name down the halls.
My boredom immediately vanished, replaced by something comparable to excitement. There were only so many things that could be happening on this ship.
I walked to my brother's room. I hated the corridors Cain lived in. The windows in this section were huge, large enough to take up entire walls. There were also very strong, at no risk of failing against the vacuum of space, but visibly seeing the multitude of stars frightened me, like the weight of eternity was closing in around me. I could fight the feeling most times, but not always.
Entering my brother’s room, I saw him and my sister kneeling next to his telescope. My sister was peering through it.
“That’s…incredible,” she said. The room itself was very long, most of it covered in paintings. The paintings my brother created were all done with his bare fingers. He never learnt any other way. One of the walls was just one giant window, giving a spectacular view of space. This window, as with all of our windows, was located at the ship's side. We couldn't see Earth from here, or anywhere. This didn't bother me much. It would be interesting to see the condition of Earth, but my vision was so poor I couldn't be able to make out any detail. Even stars were a blur to me for the most part. I can only see clearly when objects are close.
I felt the urge to back up, away from the massive window and stars, but my brother beckoned me forward.
My parents came in after me, and went to the window.
“There!” my brother said enthusiastically. They looked where he was pointing, trying to see anything in the endless black. They must have seen it, because their expressions turned from interested to awestruck.
“Let him look,” Cain urged to April. She moved aside so I could see. Getting on my knees, I leaned forward and saw the enhanced view of space. Centred in the frame was one of the most ghostly things I had ever witnessed. In the distance, drifting lifelessly, was a monstrous space station. Its hull had several breaches, and bits of metal circled it ominously. The station spun on its axes so slowly the motion was almost unnoticeable.
“That’s a station thrown from Earth’s orbit,” my mother commented.
“We’re getting close,” my father added.
Abel Page 2
