by Joe Ollinger
“So did I,” I confess. “I’m still not sure I made the right choice.”
He stops, and I stop with him. We stand in silence for a second, as a cool, dry wind sweeps through the street. “Taryn,” he says, struggling with his words, “I have a lot of money saved, and tomorrow morning it’ll be nearly worthless. There may still be time . . . I’d . . . I think I’d . . . I’d like to buy you a ticket. Anywhere you want to go.”
My heart jumps. “You serious?”
He nods. “I’m getting what I wanted. Why not you?”
Time seems to slow. The idea that I could leave is suddenly tearing me apart. Minutes ago I was reconciling myself to living on a broken world as it collapses and remakes itself. But now I could leave before things get bad here. I’ve done my part. Why not take my dream?
Where will I go? To Ryland and its vast, towering cities and shallow, thriving oceans? To Farraway with its mild climate and bountiful open fields and low gravity? To Earth with its extreme density and cultural and political influence? To some outworld backwater or moon where I can work hard and make a decent living and put down roots? I always assumed I would pick Farraway because the price of a ticket there is within reach and the journey is relatively short, but with cost less of a concern, would I still choose it? Where do I want to be?
This world is about to go through some major changes. Things may be on the verge of getting better here, but most of the planet is still a wide-open space with incredible challenges and difficulties and dangers waiting to be tamed. For the first time, I can see the promise my parents saw in this rough red ball of rock.
For the first time, I think I want to be here.
“You know, Brady . . . ” I take a deep breath, aching with doubt. “I’m gonna kick myself for this when everyone’s running around with their hair on fire a month from now, but . . . but I don’t want to go.”
His eyebrows arch. “You’re sure?”
I throw my arms up. “I don’t know!” The words come out in a yelp. “Maybe there’s more to do here. Maybe if everyone ran from problems, they’d never get solved.” I stare up at the sky. The stars shine high in the clear Brink night, so many of them sharp and bright even through the light pollution of downtown Oasis City. The dots might just connect to form a picture that’s not so ugly. “Maybe I found a few reasons to stay.”
When I look back down Brady is leaning in and he kisses me, pressing his lips to mine and pulling me close. I kiss him back, letting myself lean back slightly, letting him support my weight.
I break it off, catching my breath. “I didn’t say you were one of those reasons, Kearns.”
“Kearns? Come on, I’ve put in my time.”
“There’ll be a lot more time for you to put in.”
He smirks. “I guess I can accept that.”
I start walking. “Let’s get out of here. Before they turn it into a tube company or something.”
“Tube company?”
“Or something, I said.” The Collections Agency falls behind us and the brighter lights of downtown loom ahead, the arcologies of Rumville towering behind the skyscrapers, gray and black sparkling with lights and topped with dimly lit green. “So where are we going?” I ask.
“Well,” he says, “I’ve got a whole lot in the bank . . . ”
“I’ve got a bit myself.”
“And it won’t be worth much tomorrow.”
“Spending spree?”
“Hell, we’ve earned it.”
I turn north, toward The NewLanding, where everything will be open, where everything is high-end and expensive. “So what are we going to use for money now?” I wonder aloud, thinking Brady might be well equipped to hazard a guess. Because of his recent promotion and his role in all this, he’ll probably even have input on the decision.
“Maybe still calcium,” he answers. “We don’t really know yet how much is going back into the supply. It may not make a big enough difference to eliminate the utility of the system in place . . . But, if not calcium, maybe a fiat, maybe a precious metal. Maybe Dutch tulips. I don’t know, but I hope someone pays me a lot to help figure it out.”
“Try and make it something they’ll pay me a lot to go get.”
He laughs, then winces and clutches his chest. “Ouch, bruises.” He gazes upward, at the oblong sliver of moon hanging above the skyline. “Lyto,” he says, “looks like we’ll have both moons tonight.”
“You can bet your bottom dollar on it.”
He cocks his head, confused. “What?”
“Doesn’t matter. Metal, paper, bones . . . they may not last forever, but tomorrow there’ll be sun.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I get to thank people on this page. So here is a chronological list of people to whom I’d like to express gratitude.
Mom and Dad for causing me to exist.
All the great educators I had the luck to work under over the years, including Rob Gardner and Ron Friedman, whose wisdom in the craft of storytelling is invaluable. And all educators everywhere, for doing a difficult and vital job.
Danielle Stone, for encouraging me to develop this story and for generally putting up with a lot of clownery.
My good friends and colleagues who have believed in me or given me feedback on my writing, particularly Kristina Maniatis, Lynn Hamilton, Arvin Bautista, Genevieve Pearson, and Sean Quinn. I’m blessed to be around such brilliant people.
My great agent Rachel Ekstrom Courage, who gives the best notes in the business and is an exemplar of what every author hopes for in an agent. Rachel’s diligence and faith are the most meaningful compliments I’ve so far received for my writing.
The team at Diversion Books, for all their hard work and efforts. Thanks particularly to Keith Wallman and Amanda Farbanish, whose intelligent and careful editing helped shape this book.
Every reader who gives this book some of their time. Entertaining you guys is the sole reason I write. Triple thanks to anyone who says anything nice about this book to anyone. Word of mouth and online reviews can have a huge impact, and your opinion means a lot to me personally.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Joe Ollinger grew up in a small swamp town in Florida. After graduating from USC, he worked for several years as a reader and story analyst for an Academy Award–winning filmmaker. Currently residing in Los Angeles, he works as a lawyer when he’s not writing.
Twitter: @joeollinger
Instagram: @joetographic