Their first instinct was for windows, just as someone telling a story initially thinks that the best course is to tell the bare, unvarnished truth. But as anyone knows who has lived in the shifting, complicated realm of humanity, truth is not a singular thing. Facts are something else; facts are finite and unchanging, but truth is different from fact, and there are as many versions of the truth as there are people to consider it. It was a fact that these architects and engineers were designing a ship whose purpose was to propel itself through space for a period of centuries, until it reached the new home world. But this would also be a place where people would be born, grow, and die without ever knowing the ship’s origin point or its destination. In fact, it was a ship, but in truth, it would be the world to the people living inside it.
In the end they opted to keep it an enclosed space. It is not for us to say if that was a wrong or right choice, but it was a choice made by people chasing the spirit of the truth. They hid any especially unsightly scenery between two layers: the outside hull and the walls of the inner world. Inside this narrow space is a world of gears and grease and machinery, rusted spots patched with tar on the walls, and wires in bundles following mazelike patterns along the ceilings and the walls and underneath the grates in the floors. A lot of moving parts go into making a world work. It is a monstrous, exquisite machine, and it takes a lot of people to maintain and operate it.
At first workers tasked with the job were paid engineers and mechanics, but their morale started breaking as they worked between the walls. Eventually the government opted to keep a small staff of mechanics on the job to oversee operations, well paid and rotated out weekly for sanity’s sake. All grunt jobs were taken over by runaway contract workers, placed in a new work detail by the government’s penal system. There was less worry for these workers’ psychological well-being: they were all half-insane already.
The workers in the hull were the first to know that something had gone wrong with the ship. They knew on instinct, they knew it without knowing, based on the sounds of the creaking metal, the change in the vibrations of the engines, the static in the air. They knew before the engineers checked in, before word was relayed to politicians, before the public was alerted and consumed in despair. That was their privilege.
It is also their privilege to see the space outside; unlike the inner confines of the world, the outer hull does have windows. They were installed for practical purposes, but the workers in this part of the world regard them with deific adoration. After a lifetime encased in narrow, dark machinery, most workers do not wish to go back into the aesthetically designed world. They look out at the stars through these windows and comfort themselves with the knowledge that they are seeing the universe as it really is. This is their truth.
When the world finally cracks open, the workers in this in-between place will all be sucked out into the black. Being so close to the outer layers of the ship, they will be the first to go. And for them, as it is for all, death will be confusing and terrifying. But they will have spent their lives looking out at space through a pane of reinforced plexiglass, with their faces pressed against it, feeling the cold, mere centimeters away from oblivion. They have been waiting for oblivion; it has always stood right outside their door. There will be relief in finally meeting it, mixed in with all the pain, like pulling out a loose tooth—the soreness, the uncertainty, then a pop, a sting, a bleed, and: done.
35
MYRRA & TOBIAS
They kept walking, occasionally stopping to talk to people clustered together in underfed groups, when they looked sober enough to speak. There was a lot of interest in Charlotte, people reaching out to her with waggling fingers, big smiles on their faces. Myrra responded with smiles of her own, but kept a tight hold on Charlotte. Some folks seemed normal enough: pale and thin, but able to laugh and hold a conversation. Others seemed as if their sanity was on a knife’s edge.
One woman, old, but hard to tell how old, since everyone here had skin that sagged and cracked around the eyes, asked Myrra about their previous lives and occupations. Myrra told the truth about herself: being a contract worker here meant solidarity, that she was to be trusted.
Before Tobias had a chance to open his mouth, Myrra also cut in on his behalf. “He’s a journalist,” she said, shooting Tobias a look. “He wrote obituaries for the New London Times.”
Tobias nodded, agreeing to the lie. Being a Security agent wouldn’t go over well here.
“That’s nice,” the old woman said. “Did you ever write one for Beverly Moss? She was my employer; died about ten years ago from liver failure.”
Tobias looked slightly confused but played along.
“No,” he said. “That was before my time.”
“No matter. I certainly didn’t mourn her.” The woman shrugged and chewed on something absently in the back of her jaw.
Through the bits and pieces of half-drunk conversation, they finally figured out that the hull was divided into ten giant vertical sectors. They were in Sector Nine.
“We’re lucky—Sector Eight is where the breach is. Could have been us,” the old woman said. “They’ve had that sector vacuum-sealed for over a year, trying to make repairs.”
Myrra pictured the diagram of the world again, a tin can cylinder. In its interior, one flat circle was the ground, and the other the sky. Thinking of these sectors, she pictured them separating in tall vertical stripes along the sides of the cylinder.
“Does that sound right?” she asked him, trying to convey the visual she’d imagined. Tobias had been to university, surely he would know.
He looked apologetic. “I honestly don’t know. They kind of glossed over the mechanics of the hull—I’m not sure the teachers really understood it.”
The music was getting louder. They must be getting closer. They asked directions from a young couple raiding a utility closet; according to them, the person running the DJ booth was named Tom. The young woman pointed to her right. “If you walk three levels up on the stairs, it’s an hour’s walk that way.”
Her companion had one bony arm gripped around her waist, and the other arm was filled with boxes of food and bottles of drain cleaner. His pupils were wide and black, his eyes bloodshot, but his smile was warm. So many of the younger workers were paired up, huddled together, flirting. Maybe the end of the world was just more tolerable that way. He pulled two energy bars from one of his boxes and pressed them into Myrra’s hands.
“Give these to him when you see him,” he added. “Say hi from Lin and Maya.” Then the two scurried off, giggling, clutching their loot.
In the distance a crowd formed around a raised metal platform next to an elevator shaft that ran up through the scaffolding, literally sky-high, like an infinitely long pneumatic tube. Tobias noticed that, unlike the rest of the darker, greasier metal surfaces in this place, the elevator was outfitted in polished chrome. It practically glowed, even from this far away. As a person who valued cleanliness, Tobias regarded it like a shining beacon. Everywhere they walked, he tried to protect his clothes from all the grimy soot-laden surfaces, but it was in vain—streaks of black grease ran down his pant legs, he could feel soot accumulating in his pores.
More than anything, Tobias felt tired, and he was having trouble remembering the last time he’d felt awake. Time had become unmoored, like a ball of yarn unraveled and left tangled on the floor. The sped-up carousel of sunrises and sunsets in the desert, and now here in this world with no light, it was impossible to tell… Was it evening? Was it morning? Was it the middle of the night? He looked down at his watch, wiping soot off the glass screen.
“What time is it?” Myrra appeared over his shoulder, making him jump. Had she been that close the entire time? Her hand was on his arm.
“It’s four in the morning.”
The absurdity registered on Myrra’s face and she let out a sound, halfway between a moan and a laugh. It occurred to him that she was still carrying Charlotte. If he was tired, she must be exhausted.<
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“You want to stop and rest for a while?” he asked. He watched her consider it, nearly give in to temptation.
“No—”
“Want me to take Charlotte?”
Myrra put a protective arm around the baby nestled asleep in her scarf.
“It’ll be OK,” Tobias said, sensing her hesitation. He knew she could use a break, but she needed to be the one to decide. As far as he was concerned, she was entitled to make all the decisions from here on out. She nodded and unwound the scarf, cradling Charlotte gently. Somehow, even with music pounding around them, Charlotte was asleep. Tobias couldn’t help but feel a little jealous. Myrra leaned into Tobias so that they were face-to-face, almost touching, transferring Charlotte into his arms. She tied the scarf around him so that Charlotte could curl against his chest. A lock of Myrra’s hair caught in his glasses. She smiled and reached up to untangle it.
“I’ll walk ahead, so you can keep an eye on us,” Tobias said. He wasn’t sure she heard. The music was getting louder the closer they got to the elevator platform. Tobias pulled an old shirt out of his bag and wrapped it awkwardly around Charlotte’s head, trying to muffle her ears. She cried out, her eyes still closed and her face scrunched together, but then fell back asleep again in minutes. Poor thing—to sleep through any of this noise, Charlotte must be completely spent.
The closer they got the denser the crowd became, everyone moving in unison, eyes closed, dancing with a kind of ecstatic oblivion. They wove through throngs of people until they reached the platform. The air was filled with the salt of sweat.
They both looked around, craning their necks over the dancing bodies. Tobias noticed a small glass-paneled room off to the side of the elevator shaft. Inside, a dark-skinned man was adjusting sliders on a control panel, a set of headphones halfway over his ears. He was shirtless, sweating and smiling, bobbing along to waves of music pouring out of the speakers. It had been a long time since he had seen sun, and a long time since his hair had met with a pair of scissors. It hung in dreadlocks down his back, his beard a tangled mess in the front.
Myrra leaned in close to Tobias so that he could hear her over the music. “I think that’s Tom,” she shouted in his ear. Tobias grabbed her hand and pushed through the throng of people until they reached the glass room. They rapped loudly on the door, trying to get his attention over the noise. Eventually the man noticed them, nodding and smiling beatifically. He cracked open the door and poked his head out.
“Requests?” he asked. He was older than he’d looked at a distance. A blue workman’s shirt hung over the back of his chair. Someone had drawn a flower on the front of his chest in black marker with a smiling face in the middle. Tobias examined his eyes. He seemed sober.
“No,” Tobias said. “We’re looking for Tom.”
The man threw his arms up in the air in an ecstatic wave.
“You found him!” He smiled even wider at the two of them.
“We need information!” Myrra shouted. Tobias could barely hear her. He noticed she was shifting her expression to match his energy, smiling, leaning in. Tobias stepped back, full of admiration, and let her work her magic. Myrra and Tom spoke back and forth, all smiles, but Tobias couldn’t make out what they were saying. Eventually Tom sat up and nodded at her, giving them both a goofy grin. Myrra turned back to Tobias and shouted in his ear.
“Come on,” she said. “He’s taking us someplace where we can talk.”
Tom hopped out into the crowd, pulled off his headphones, and tossed them at one of the dancing bodies near the door.
“Ryan, you’re deejaying,” he shouted at him, then gestured to Myrra and Tobias. “Follow me.”
The interior of the elevator carriage was more brushed chrome, large enough to lie down in, larger even than the penthouse elevator at Atlas Tower. With all the noise and the dark outside, it took her a second to adjust to such a calm, well-lit environment.
“Have a seat.” Tom waved at the bench in the back, and Myrra and Tobias collapsed onto the cushions. Tom had put his workman’s shirt back on but left it unbuttoned, the blue fabric flapping against the skin of his chest.
It felt good to sit, as though her body were floating and her legs had vanished completely. Tobias lowered Charlotte onto his lap and leaned against Myrra’s shoulder. She could feel the warmth of his skin through the fabric of her dress. She felt the vibration of his breathing, and under that the breathing of Charlotte, who had slumped down and now lay half in each of their laps.
Tom gave them a quizzical look, as though seeing them for the first time. His eyes roamed over their clothes and shoes, their hair. “Where did you two come in from?”
“We followed the road from Kittimer,” Tobias said. His voice sounded hoarse. Myrra dug into her bag and handed him a water bottle. He looked at her gratefully, as though she’d just presented him with a chest of gold, and took a long drink. After a moment of consideration, Tobias passed the bottle to Tom, who gulped down the rest.
Tom’s eyes grew even wider. “Through the desert? Why did you head here?”
Myrra paused. She worried about asking questions, the desperation of it, and she worried about the answers.
“I heard that there might be some sort of escape plan in place—shuttles, or pods, or something…” Myrra was rambling. She wished she had something more concrete to go on.
Tom laughed at her, not entirely cruelly, just in shock and disbelief. “Does it look like anyone’s got an escape plan?”
“Well, not for us, but we’d heard there might be some sort of program that the rich were buying into. Charlotte”—Myrra stuck out a finger and let Charlotte wrap her tiny fingers around—“is the daughter of one of the richest families in New London—the world, really. We figured she would qualify for special treatment.”
Myrra could feel, even as she spoke, that she was grasping at straws. She felt Tobias’s hand rest on her knee, a preemptive gesture of comfort. Tom looked down at her, his eyes softening with sympathy.
“No, there’s nothing like that here. Not in the hull, anyway.” He spoke with incredible gentleness, but it still felt like knives stabbing through her. “Honestly, I don’t think anyone’s conceived of a shuttle that could keep people alive long enough to get them to Telos. It’s just not technologically possible. We put all our engineering into this one ship. If this ship can’t do it, then nothing can.”
He crouched down and rested his eyes on the baby, reaching out a large hand and placing it softly on Charlotte’s knee. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Her thin string of hope snapped.
You knew this, she thought. You knew this was too good to be true.
But she mourned anyway. She would die. She’d come to terms with that. But she’d hoped, if she forced pure will onto the universe, she’d hoped that she could save Charlotte. Now in the image of her frozen and drifting through space, she was also holding a small frozen child.
She would hold her till the end—she wouldn’t let go of her, she wouldn’t—
Her body hunched and shook from sobs. She wanted to fold in on herself, layer by layer, until she was as small and compact as a marble. Another part of her brain kept chiding her for her reaction. Why couldn’t she stop crying? Why couldn’t she calm down?
Myrra felt warm arms wrap around her body. She looked up and realized Tobias was hugging her, with Charlotte squished in between them. It didn’t make her sadness go away, but it felt better. She leaned into it and kept crying.
Tobias kept hugging her, rocking her back and forth. Charlotte reached up and touched her hand to Myrra’s cheek. She looked confused.
“What do you need? What can I do?” Tobias whispered to her with gentle curiosity. Nobody’d ever asked her that before.
“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. She wasn’t used to answering such a question. But she was deeply moved that he’d asked.
Tobias held on to Myrra as she shook and cried. She bent herself around Charlotte, as if her body al
one could act as a buffer against the universe. He wished he could help her more. He wished he could know what she needed.
A part of him had known it wouldn’t work. But he’d still hoped, for Myrra’s sake. For Charlotte’s sake. But he’d been so happy to be a part of their little unit, to have a shared purpose. Maybe he should have spoken up.
But would it have mattered?
“This might be too much,” she said, her face muffled in her own lap. “This might be too much for me.”
He just wanted to fix everything. He clenched his fist. In his hand he imagined a million long silver strings, reaching out through the hull, back into the world, attaching themselves to the ground and the horizon and the sky. If he could just hold on to those strings tight enough, if he could twist and pull hard enough, maybe he could hold the universe together.
Tobias rubbed Myrra’s back and shoulders and felt the muscles relax a tiny bit. That was something, he thought. He could fix that. Just a tiny bit.
“It was always going to be too much, at some point,” he said.
Minutes later, a million years later, Myrra came up for air. She felt numb and impossibly sad, but her body still felt relief in sitting up and taking fuller breaths. Instinct always dominates, in the end.
Tom was still with them in the elevator, but he stayed politely silent. Myrra was grateful.
“Thanks for talking to us,” she said when she was composed enough to speak.
Tom nodded at her. “I’m actually really grateful you guys asked for my help. I was getting a little tired of the DJ booth.”
“That sound setup is impressive,” Tobias said. “Do you do a lot of the tech work around here?”
The World Gives Way: A Novel Page 33