by Jason Gurley
She came to America on a work project with a team of professors. They were going to be in Boston for three days, meeting with academics from all over the world. She told me she wished Boston was close to Montana.
I made it close.
I borrowed my friend's van -- I didn't have a car of my own -- and drove for forty hours, sleeping as little as I could. I spent most of my money paying highway tolls. When I got to Boston, I hadn't showered, I was exhausted, and I couldn't find Isona fast enough. I sat in the parking lot of the hotel she was staying in, and waited behind the wheel for her to walk out. She didn't answer my calls. I sent her text messages that she didn't answer.
In those days, it wasn't unusual to find out that someone you'd met online was not who they said they were. I'd been talking to Isona for twelve years -- half my life -- and I had never wondered if she was real. But sitting there in that van, I had the darkest thoughts. A beautiful teenage girl who lives in Greece? Who picks cotton and is studying archaeology?
Come on. She wasn't real. I'd fooled myself. She had sent photos over the years, but she'd probably stolen them from the Internet.
I fell asleep, a bundle of nerves. And I slept for eleven hours right there in the front seat of my friend's van.
And when I woke up --
Gretchen's head slides down Emil's chest.
-- she was there, he finishes.
He lifts Gretchen's head. Her eyes are closed, her mouth slightly open.
He kisses her forehead, then lowers her to the glass floor. He brushes the snow-white hair away from her eyes. He carefully extends her arms and legs, and tugs her gown to her knees. Below her, the dark side of the Earth has become light again, and the oceans seem a little brighter.
He presses a thumb to his wrist.
Nurse Allen answers. Yes, sir?
Send a gurney down, please, he says. Miss Gretchen has passed.
Yes, sir, Nurse Allen says. Oh, and Doctor? Nurse Lynne says that Miss Kyoh has arrived.
Tasneem, he says. I'll be there shortly.
Emil bends over Gretchen. You should have lived ten thousand years, he says.
With a heavy sigh, he gets to his feet and heads back into the corridors.
Tasneem
Tasneem is waiting for him. She steps back to allow the orderlies to pass.
Be gentle with her, Emil says to the first orderly. She's precious.
Yes, sir, the orderly answers.
The two men disappear down the corridor, pushing an empty gurney ahead of them.
Doctor Widla, Tasneem says.
Oh, call me Emil, he says. It's good to see you.
And you, she says.
Walk with me, Tasneem.
They walk the length of the corridor together.
I saw your interview, he says, finally.
I think everybody did, Tasneem says. I've been contacted by a number of your patients, actually. They all want to know why I haven't died.
Why you haven't gone completely white, Emil says. Yes, I am not surprised. Do you have a theory? Have you had tests?
No tests, Tasneem says. But I do have a theory. That's why I came so quickly.
What is it?
Is there somewhere private we can go? she asks.
The lounge is, again, empty.
In here, Emil says.
He holds the door for Tasneem.
You can't tell anybody about this, she says.
I don't know if I can promise --
You must.
But if you have an idea about a cure --
I don't think I do, Tasneem says. I insist.
Alright, Tasneem. I promise.
Okay.
She removes something from her wrist, and he looks down to see a vintage wristband.
What's this? he asks.
Put it on, she says.
He wrinkles his forehead, but does as she instructs. The band does not fit him so well. It is tight around his wrist.
Now what? he asks.
Take a deep breath, Tasneem says. Exhale slowly.
Tasneem --
Do it, please, she says. You should be calm right now.
I'm calm, Tasneem.
Please, she says.
Emil inhales deeply, then breathes out in a patient rush.
Okay, he says. Now what.
I don't want you to be startled. Okay?
Tasneem, this is ridiculous. What are you talking --
Doctor Widla, says a strange voice. We haven't met. I'm David Dewbury.
Emil throws the wristband to the floor. What the fuck, he says. Who the fuck?
Tasneem picks up the band and puts it back on. I knew you'd be surprised, she says. I'm sorry.
What was that? Emil asks.
He is flustered, his eyes wide.
You remember David --
David fucking Dewbury, yes, yes, I remember. God fucking damn it, how could I not? Emil thrusts his fingers into his hair and begins to pace. The media would never let me forget. Why did you keep Soma from a genius? they asked me. As if I should have broken regulations for him! As if --
Doctor, Tasneem says. Please.
Emil stops speaking, but continues to pace. He stares at her.
David is not completely dead, she says.
Bullshit, Emil spits. Bullshit! I saw the body, Tasneem. I saw --
David's body is dead, Tasneem corrects. But David is not.
Emil stops pacing.
What the fucking hell are you saying? he says, finally.
I'm saying that the smartest man in the world is still with us, Tasneem says. And he has an idea.
The elderly were left behind.
Children were taken from their parents.
Entire towns and regions were excluded from the great migration.
Earth drowned. It burned. Cities were rebuilt, and destroyed again.
The fires were visible from space.
They never went out.
Generations of children were born who had never stepped on soil.
Man began to change.
In 2132, Station Tycho, named for the great astronomer, went online.
Three years later, Station Atlantis followed.
In the ensuing decades, five more stations -- Eden, Yuri, Virgo, Copernicus and Gan -- were deployed. Each housed more humans than the last. Fewer and fewer people were rescued from Earth below. The stations began to fill with new generations of space-born humans.
Earth's former leaders, presidents and kings and ministers, collaborated to govern mankind's fleet of lifeboats. For the first time in human history, a sort of peace was established. Men and women of all origins fell together, humans and survivors all, until mankind was no longer sortable. All were one. One were all.
In 2182, the great jewel of the fleet, Station Argus, was brought online.
Though few understood its implications, Argus and its social experiments represented great change.
The era of peace began to wane.
The uprisings would soon begin.
Argus
What did you think of me? When you first saw me.
Well, I thought you were beautiful.
Really?
I thought, She has beautiful hair.
My hair. What about my eyes?
At first I couldn't see them. Not through your hair.
But then you did.
But then I did.
What did you think?
I thought, She has lovely eyes.
You did not.
I did. I really did.
Do you still think so?
I do. I always will.
Always is a very long time. It's the longest time.
It could never be long enough for me.
You're sweet. Do you think that will ever happen?
Do I think what will happen? Us? Always?
Yes. Us, for always.
It could. I think it could happen.
Don't you think you'd get tired of me? Everyone gets bored with ev
eryone else.
I would be grateful for every moment, forever.
Grateful to who?
I don't know. To the universe.
That's easy to say now.
It's easy to say things that are true.
But you think you mean it.
I know I mean it.
Do you think that in one hundred years we'll remember this?
This conversation?
This. The conversation. You, there. Me, here. Us, together.
I think we'll still be having this conversation.
I'm going to pretend you meant that in a nice way.
I did. I meant it in the most wonderful way.
The young man stares quietly through the window. He stands with his hands in his pockets. His shoulders are tired and slump a little. The satchel over his left shoulder scoots down a little. Without thinking about it, he pushes the strap back up. His knees are bent, as if he's being pressed down by some unseen thumb.
He sighs.
In the glass he can see the reflection of people milling around him. Most of them are doing just what he's doing: staring out into the dark.
Beside him, an old man in a sweater stands next to a little girl. He holds the girl's hand. The girl holds a rich orange gerbera daisy in her other hand. The vibrant color reminds the young man of autumn on the island.
There you are.
Good morning.
I don't know why I thought you would be anywhere else. It's so pretty here.
I like to watch the fog peel away from the water in the morning.
You're even literary when you talk. I like that.
Is that for me?
I made two cups. They're both for me.
Funny girl.
Silly man. I'm glad you brought me here. It's gorgeous. The leaves are starting to fall.
My grandparents used to bring me here when I was small. It was always cooler here than on the mainland. I used to run around on the lawn and kick through the leaves. There was almost always a steep wind off the water, so the leaves would sort of tornado around me, like they were trying to get away.
Did they live here?
My grandparents?
Yes.
No. They lived in northern California, just where the rolling hills turned to scrub. But Grandpa had a friend -- from the war, I think -- who owned this place, and let them use it once a year. Almost always in the fall.
How many times did you come?
Oh, I don't remember. The first time they brought me here, I think I was seven. Maybe eight. The last time was the year I was a junior in high school. The year Grandma died.
Do you miss her?
I do. I miss them both.
You brought me here. That's pretty special.
I tried to think of the most wonderful place.
There's no place more wonderful?
Not on Earth.
Ah, so there are possibilities.
Even if there are, I wouldn't care. You can't argue with this place.
It does have a special pull.
That's exactly what it has.
Like a gravitational force.
Sure. I guess.
The old man elbows him.
At first the younger man ignores this. There are enough people around the windows that he has been jostled several times already.
But then the old man elbows him again, and the younger man turns.
The old man smiles broadly, all teeth. He raises the little girl's hand and nods at it, then leans in and says, Do you think she appreciates this? Do you think she can even understand how precious this moment is?
The younger man rocks forward on his toes and looks at the girl more closely. She stares through the glass with a blank expression. Her hands are content to be still. Her fingers don't so much as twirl the stem of the daisy that rests against her collarbone. She's precious herself, small and delicate in a knee-length polka-dotted dress and dark shoes with tiny buckles. Her strawberry-blonde hair frames her freckled face in ringlets.
She's seven, the old man says.
When I was seven, I'm not sure I would have, the younger man says.
The old man frowns at this, then reconsiders, and smiles once more. But you're not seven now. You and I, I think we recognize this moment for what it is. You're a young buck, but I think you know.
I'm old enough, the younger man says.
So am I, the old man agrees. I've waited a very long time to see this. Now that it's here, I'm too interested in what other people think I think about it to feel the way I think I feel about it.
What other people?
The old man waves dismissively at the crowd that mills around them. Eh, he grunts. They're just people. Strangers, the whole lot of them. I take your point. I shouldn't let it bother me.
The younger man turns back to the window. Outside it is a starless night. The Earth is somewhere below, the moon somewhere behind. One of them casts a pale pool of light on the approaching wall, but he cannot tell which. Mae would have known.
Looming large in the window is the enormous crystalline flower of the space station, its petals cast open to reveal an interior of glittering spires and complex geometric structures. These are visible only for a moment, and then the shuttle passes below the station's horizon line. The beautiful surface modules disappear, and all the younger man can see are shuttle bays, dozens of them marked with reflective panels and pulsing caution lights.
This is so exciting, the old man says. I've waited so long for this moment.
The younger man grunts.
The old man looks at him with surprise. Not you?
The younger man says, Not particularly. No.
The old man opens his mouth to reply, but is interrupted before he can begin. The little girl tugs at his hand.
Grandpa, she says. I'm sleepy.
Okay, sweetheart, the old man says.
He crouches next to her and opens his arms. Up?
She nods, and steps into his embrace, resting her head on his shoulder. The old man closes his arms around her, tucks her knees in, and struggles to stand up.
The younger man offers a hand.
The old man grips it fiercely and pulls. The younger man did not expect such force, and locks his elbow and draws the old man to his feet.
Thank you, the old man says.
The girl stares obliquely into the distance as the old man gently sways.
The younger man returns his gaze to the window. The slow acceleration towards the docking bays has halted. Another much smaller shuttle drifts into view, adjusting tiny attitude jets to propel it gently into a lower bay. He watches it settle into place and sink on its broad duck feet.
The old man says, I didn't mean to offend you before.
The younger man turns. No offense. Really.
How impolite of me, the old man says. I should remember that not everybody cares what I think.
Not at all, says the younger man. Truly.
The old man regards him carefully, then adjusts his granddaughter in his arms and extends one hand. I'm Bernard, he says.
Micah, says the younger man.
Micah, the old man repeats.
Bernard nods in Micah's direction as the shuttle empties. Micah waits at the window a little longer, until the stream of passengers spills across the deck below like a box of brightly-colored candies. He is not entirely sure what he had expected from the journey, but so far it reminds him of little so much as a cattle car.
When he steps onto the landing platform, he pauses to collect himself. His fellow passengers, most of them, have swarmed to the processing checkpoints, where attendees in glass cubicles study and stamp paperwork and wave people on to their new homes. But a few mill about, perhaps waiting for the dishearteningly long processing lines to dwindle. Micah looks for a familiar face and sees none, though there is a middle-aged man standing next to a baggage trolley, alone.
Micah adjusts his satchel and starts to walk towards the stranger. He doesn't
really want to talk to the man, but he also feels uncomfortable here, disconnected from other people among a crowd of partners and posses.
An electronic squeal bursts from the shuttle, and the passengers jump and stare up at the shuttle in alarm.
A voice says, NO DALLYING, PLEASE.
Micah cringes. It's louder than any voice he's ever heard, and he remembers what rock concerts were like, once. He casts about, looking for the owner of the voice, and spies him, a tiny, rotund man in an administrator's uniform and white cap.
The little man speaks into his hand again. PLEASE CONTINUE TO THE ARRIVALS PROCESSING CHECKPOINT IMMEDIATELY.
As his fellow passengers grumble and fall into line, Micah catches the administrator's eye.
He offers a small wave and a smile.
The administrator cocks his head, then, quite slowly, raises one small, gloved hand.
Micah stands at the end of the line, alone. Ahead of him, the trail of passengers winds forward like a knot of licorice, uneven and clumped in places. He reaches into his pocket and plucks out a small gray card. It glimmers slightly. Its corners are rounded beads of fine glass. The card is blank save for a tiny engraved rectangle on the back.
He doesn't want it.
The line moves at a glacial pace. Micah takes advantage of this to look around. There's nothing particularly remarkable about this, his first close look at the interior of a space station. The landing deck is vast, and his shuttle is not the only one that has landed here to deposit its human payload. Micah squints and counts three more shuttles. The space between each is easily a quarter mile. He thinks about how many shuttle bays he saw during the approach -- there were probably fifty or more.
He approximates the math. If each shuttle bay is a mile wide and half as deep, and there are fifty bays...
He blinks. The station is even larger than he had imagined.
Ahead, there is a disturbance in the line. He can hear scuffling and raised voices. He takes a step to his left to get a better view, and sees an administrator in a red uniform and white gloves. The administrator is waving his hands at the people in line, several of whom look like they might revolt.