by David Salvi
“I’ll tell you later.”
“So, you named it after her?”
“Not exactly, but everything in this world has meaning, Chris.” Riley was focused.
“Who are those men?”
“Those are my men.” Riley walked to the edge of the rock to await her troops. They smiled at her and erupted in a chant of “Alala!” It was a battle cry of some sort, but Chris didn’t know what it meant. You didn’t cheer in Canaan, except when Motus members were prosecuted, sent to the stockade, or executed. But that was more riotous than thunderous applause as Chris witnessed here.
Riley caught a rope tossed from the ship. Because of the height of the deck, passengers were forced to slither up the rope using their feet against the ship. She insisted Chris climb first.
The rope was wet and slick. Chris was tired of slick things and wanted to find a dry spot on his vessel to Motus Island. He managed his way upward despite swollen hands and a litany of physical ailments plaguing his nervous system. Gritting his teeth helped push through to the top before massive human paws grabbed his shoulders and swung him aboard.
Looking around, Chris shot the crew—he counted over twenty quickly in his head—a faint smile and hello. Without speaking, they stared at him, then closed their eyes and bowed their heads a few inches forward, then returned to staring at him.
“Christopher, I am Lavik. Captain Riley’s lieutenant. Welcome to the Santa Maria.” A raspy and authoritative voice. He stood almost a foot over Chris.
“Thanks.”
They shook hands.
Chris analyzed his welcoming party. A mixture of men and women—rugged, dirty, and damp from the storm. Most of their attire was ripped or fraying at the ends. Men’s beards needed a shave. Women’s hair were aching for a wash.
“Don’t mind the men. You’re a new face,” Lavik smiled, which made the mustache look larger as it covered most of his teeth. He barked orders at the crew, who returned to their posts. He then called out to Riley over the roar of the storm. The crew hustled downstairs into the hull, where the chain directed itself through, from one end of the ship to the other.
Before the ship embarked to the island, sweeping their bread crumbs was necessary. Riley had released the beam and crossbeam from its resting hole in the rock. It lowered back into the ocean, and the remaining slack of the chain dipped into the surface of the water. She stood idly as the crew heaved the chain to move the ship.
“You’re going to leave her?!” Chris shouted at Lavik.
“Not exactly, mate. Take a looksee at our hero.”
Waiting for the exact moment, Riley sprinted to the edge of the rocks and leaped, grabbing the rope and swinging herself on deck gracefully. She winked at Chris and headed to the bow.
Lavik smacked Chris on the shoulder while laughing, “Cap always loves to do dat.”
“Wow,” Chris said. Again, he only had a word.
Lavik raised an eyebrow at the comment, sighed, and said, “Keep your distance, mate. She’s a firecracker.” He walked over to his captain to consult on the voyage, and Chris followed.
“Another ‘cane, or is it a squall?” Riley asked Lavik, both looking out to the gray horizon. Visibility was nearly nil.
‘Cane, something Chris had heard of back at the city. Hailing from a cycle on the Ocean of Antiquity, these ferocious storms pummeled the western side of the Albertrum mountains, endangering anyone venturing that way. The mountains acted as a shield for the Canaanite population. It was said Motus’s hideout was inconspicuously located to the west but never confirmed. Canaanite military didn’t dare to find out. City dwellers kept a ‘cane’s wickedness to their imaginations.
“Our sensors say ‘cane, Cap, I’m afraid,” Lavik replied. There was a twinge of worry in his normally steady voice. Riley noticed and gave Lavik a playful shoulder shove.
Although he was a physically imposing man, his deference for Captain Riley was a paradoxical sight to behold, Chris thought as he watched the conversation. He’d shield his eyes from time to time as gusts and spray stung his body.
“How long until we make it to the island?” Chris asked. They both turned to him, then turned back to the western horizon.
“Two, maybe three days,” Lavik said in his raspy voice. Lots of screaming and hollering at disobedient men caused such a hoarse effect, Chris figured. He continued, “As long as the storm doesn’t capsize us.”
“Has that happened?” Chris asked.
“A few times. She’s a bitch to turn back over,” Lavik said. He shook his head as he thought of the time it did capsize. He was a younger member back then, and it was a hard memory to erase. They lost a lot of fighters that day.
“You talking about me again, lieutenant?” Riley quipped.
“Never, Cap.” Lavik smiled. The two obviously had a long-standing rapport that Chris witnessed firsthand.
Riley thought for a moment, analyzing the chaos ahead of their trip, and told Lavik, “Let’s get them going then. We have to fight this storm.”
Their conversation halted when her lieutenant barked again at the crew in the hull. More barks from within the hull.
“Get some rest. You need it,” she told him. “That’s an order.” Another wink.
Full speed ahead to Motus Island.
July 2065 Entry -- Yukon Territory, Canada
I write these for future generations. Always make progress possible.
As the Northern Hemisphere warmed into this summer, the Bios Plague ripped right through populations of livestock and mankind. An alarming drop in global population has everyone hysterical, from twenty billion to five billion in one year. Hospitals and makeshift hospitals are overflowing with patients. Survivors are scrambling with what to do with the bodies. Most are buried to feed the soil, but scientists are worried the bodies are contaminated. What has come of us?
Existential crisis call for existential reflection. And an existential solution.
As I’ve learned from research in medical journals, this plague is a dormant, deadly, and vicious bastard of a disease. The bacteria, they are calling the advanced next-generation Yersinia Pestis, is a super bacteria immune to current medicines. They don’t know where it came from. They just know it’s attacking fast and violently.
And it’s easy to spread. Our interconnected world is more than computers. The swell of population at the turn of the century eliminated isolated societies. Automation and on-demand has created a network of needs and movement. Through food, or currency, or travel, a local in Nepal could essentially “touch” an agave farmer in Mexico within days. We weren’t ready for this. This will be our demise.
The irony falls in our ability (or inability) to survive. For the genius will always be the genius, from generation to generation. There are only so many. But, the remaining population, regular and ordinary people, is at a loss. We’ve cultivated a culture comprised of children, who spend hours a day wasting their lives in virtual realities and leisurely travel, hoping the escape will give them a happier sense of the real one they are living—boring, mundane, and bullshit jobs. Our lives are dependent on machines, both rudimentary mechanics and advanced artificial intelligence. People don’t cook anymore. They don’t know how to farm. They can’t start a fire. Machines till the land. Machines cook food. Everything is voice-activated. We sit on the couch and allow our lives to tick away, mostly without purpose. If we don’t get what we want, then we pout like a toddler. If batteries are running low, we order a fresh batch at the click of a button. We don’t know how to take care of ourselves, only how to charge our devices. We successfully caught and swallowed our tail but won’t stop chomping. All of this is ironic because it is from our innovation that we have made this possible. Because life is easy now. Except when it realizes that and hits us back ten-fold.
And thus, a new world and a new world order are needed.
You read that I am writing this entry from the Yukon Territory in Canada, along the Yukon River. We had to leave the States, espec
ially an urban environment. The weather is more tempered this far north, and the population less connected. I purchased this land twenty years ago and built a compound, claiming it was for scientific research. Canada had no objection.
My most loyal companions, dozens of the world’s smartest and most ambitious people, and I have successfully isolated ourselves from the rest of humanity. Solar power during the summer, hydro power in the winter. Thanks to the increased global temperature, the river doesn’t freeze as much as it used to, and the undercurrent is where we generate the power anyway. If those fail to provide energy, a natural gas generator, with two-year supply, is our backup.
Food sourcing comes from hydroponic fields and choice livestock, and their manure fertilizes our fields. Much of our plant choices center around how long certain foods last and how quickly they grow, including their yield. Our livestock choices made by ease of maintenance and food output. Goats were a natural choice since they have iron stomachs, can produce milk, and are a protein if necessary. Chickens as well for eggs. Our diets in the compound are strict. Our production techniques and strategies will be carried to Canaan.
Water is taken from the river, cleaned and purified, and distributed through the compound.
Incoming materials for the interstellar journey are checked at the border, enter sanitation, and tested before entering the compound. Everything in pieces and in rawest form possible as to not raise suspicion. So far, so good. A few scares, but we managed them with diplomacy. And bribery.
For fun, we play our versions of popular sports at the fieldhouse, which is designated for an array of physical activity. Popular sports leagues in the world have died off, no pun intended. Local leagues and backyard games are all we have left. More important things, like surviving, occupy the human existence now.
The reason I document our operations is to help everyone understand the conditions. What we have to do to survive and eventually thrive will take sacrifice. Control, order, and containment from compromising situations is how life needs to be lived. For survival sake.
Forgive our perceived heartlessness. It is for posterity that we do this, not for ourselves. Given the technology, innovation, and opportunity, we must act. And convincing a population that has now dipped below the levels of adequate resolve is a fool’s errand, one I do not wish to engage in at this present time. Our work remains crucial.
Reality is the reality. And the reality also is: I’m sad. I see the news. I hear the horror. And I hate it all. I wish I could say I will find a cure, but instead we must think larger. This version of humanity must die with the bodies that housed such erroneous notions that forced life into a corner against itself.
It’s a matter of time before Earth’s life deteriorates and something breaches the compound.
If we can do it in our corner of the world, we can do it on another world. Apollo, we are coming for you. Grant us safe haven.
End of Entry.
Oscar Marian
CHAPTER 8
CHRIS COULDN’T SLEEP aboard the Santa Maria, disobeying Riley’s superficial order. Instead he read his Hemingway because the prose made him feel at peace. Nothing trying to complicate him. Only help him feel a time and a place in an honest form, even if it were about a foreign land he wasn’t supposed to call home.
The young man was alone. He used his Apollo-powered flashlight to illuminate the pages as he leafed through with his hand while hunched over the anthology of great works he knew little about. The places and things were foreign to him, yet he felt connected through the words.
Captain issued him vacant quarters, located at the bow, midway through the hull. There was a flat, uncomfortable bed pushed against the wall, and a wooden chair for exactly what Chris was doing or another personal activity. Only a few crew mates aboard were afforded quarters. Chris preferred it over the pull line below.
At times, he’d pause mid-sentence and think of his mother. She too frequently was protective and cautious with Chris’s behavior, especially reading and writing—a major offense on Canaan. Yet, he knew she never wanted to truly stifle it. She only wanted Chris to exercise caution and not alert suspicion, or it was the stockade. Or worse, the Games.
He’d pick up mid-sentence, track back to the beginning of the sentence, and re-read to remind himself of what the clause was about. This happened too at home, and it took him longer to read complete stories. His active imagination and emotional tendencies dictated behavior like a primal instinct he couldn’t fight. It was because of this that he felt like an outsider and an outcast, seeking a way to normalcy and solidarity with fellow Canaanites.
Waves crashed into the side, splashing overhead on the deck as globs and drips like rhythmic rainfall, though the storm had calmed since their departure. She’d tip past a comfortable degree once in a while, but the steady pace of the Santa Maria toward Motus Island neutralized the power of the Ocean of Antiquity enough.
The ship was in the dead of the night. Its crew worked deep in the hull, pulling the chain on the pull line and propelling the ship to Motus Island. They worked in shifts, and heaved and hoed endlessly like a constant clock. They wore thick gloves and had forearms twice the size of a normal person’s. Chris heard the name “Popeye” a few times in reference but raised his eyebrow, not knowing what in Eros they were talking about.
The methodic tune of chain links clunking and grinding against wood, and Santa Maria’s crew grunting, denied Chris a sleepful night. Reading it was.
Riley, the captain, marched down the stairs from the deck and waltzed into Chris’s temporary quarters. Before she arrived, he shut the book and shoved it into his knapsack, which rested on the bed. Chris erected his posture like he was on trial and awkwardly placed his hands on his knees, while not knowing what to do with the flashlight. She laughed at the sight as she walked in.
“We aren’t in Canaan anymore, Dorothy,” Riley said finishing a smirk. She took a seat on the bed and rubbed her hand across the knapsack. She smiled at him.
“Huh?” Chris said. The reference eluded him.
“Listen, you don’t have to watch everything you do now. This isn’t the social servitude of Canaanite City.”
A wave smashed into the wall behind Chris. He jumped and looked to see if water was leaking through. It wasn’t. And Riley giggled again.
“What’s up with you, wonder boy?” Riley asked inquisitively. She cocked her head and cracked a slight smile out of curiosity. Who is this kid, she wondered with her face to reinforce her words. What’s he all about?
“Whatta you mean?” Chris said. He still awkwardly placed his hands on his knees. This world, even when escaping the old one, was foreign. All of it was foreign.
“I can’t figure you out.”
“I can’t seem to figure myself out,” Chris said. He paused a moment at the notion, then asked, “Why am I here?” He looked into Riley’s eyes with an intense earnestness. He really wanted to know the answer.
“We were sent to rescue you and your mom. You know that right?”
But mom wasn’t saved, he thought. Chris lowered his head and gritted his teeth in anger.
“We are going to bring them to justice, Chris. For what they did. You and what you have are the key to everything. This knapsack,” she padded it like an old friend’s shoulder, “has answers we’ve been waiting for for over two hundred years.”
A moment of silence endured between them with wind, waves, rain, and grunting crew members infiltrating the room to fill the void.
Riley, ever more curious of Chris, asked, “So, why can’t you figure yourself out?”
Looking down, Chris said, “I don’t know.”
“Oh, come on.”
“I guess I never felt like I belonged on Canaan. Everyone looked at me funny. Like they knew something about me. I felt like an outcast. And my mom told me to not let it bother me. But it did. It always bothered me.”
“We Motus can relate.”
He let out a hefty singular laugh, and said,
“True. But, you weren’t forced to live with the people who looked at you like a walking alien.”
“Ah, we are all aliens to this world,” Riley stated.
Ain’t that the truth, Chris often contemplated.
“You ever think the tigrus fish are wondering, ‘what the hell are these things trying to catch and eat me?’” Chris asked.
Riley laughed hysterically and slapped his knee. Contact. The energy jolted from the knee to his heart. More shifting uncomfortably.
“What’s next?” Chris asked, breaking his nervousness.
Riley was relieved to say, “Next is Motus Island. Then a crash course in this whole damn experiment gone wrong.” She stood up.
“What experiment went wrong?” Chris’s face spelled confusion.
“This. Here. The wars, the fighting, the division. We didn’t travel light-years away to just become worse versions of ourselves.” She walked out.
Stunned, Chris just uttered “Hm” to himself and stared past her shoulder.
***
In the afternoon of day three, Chris walked the deck. The ocean had calmed, and the moons were in full view to the east as Apollo dipped into the western horizon. He rested against the wood railing and felt the wind shift his hair. A stubble grew on his face, to which he took a liking, mainly because Riley told him the facial hair suited him. He most likely won’t shave again. Unless she tells him the beard is ugly.
Ahead of the Santa Maria was the chain dangling in the foreground and background, dipping in and out of the water in unison with the ship’s pull line. For three days straight, working shifts, they continued their mighty hull. Chris offered to help, but they scoffed at the idea, since he’d probably callous up at the hands and bleed, or worse—throw them off rhythm. The gesture alone made them respect their greenhorn shipmate a bit more beyond the reputation that preceded his family legacy. He stood a little taller, even though he didn’t know it.