Hope (Nadyozhda)

by Wil C. Fry

  The Captain sipped carefully out of the steaming mug. "Whew! Uh, make it Eggs - three, please, and toast, bacon and milk."

  I said, "At your service, Cap - I mean James," trying to get involved in the work too. It appeared to me that the Captain and Forrest got along better than they should have, for a starship captain and 2nd alternate mineralogist, but I didn't think too long about it; others were starting to arrive.

  They came one by one or two by two through our line, fueling their bodies for the day's work. Another man and a woman joined Forrest and I behind the counters, helping to serve, and keep food coming. In slower moments, I glimpsed a view of the excess grease draining off the grill, where I knew it went into a powerful filtering system, to be used again. The chunks that were filtered out were transported to the recycling plant in engineering, separated into their component elements for use all throughout the ship. The same applied to the dishwater. All the dishes were cleaned to be used again, and even the sweepings from the dining room floor were taken to the "Recycler".

  When the cooking was finished, I tossed my apron and gloves into the laundry chute, washed my hands and headed forward, to open the Chaplain's office, or relieve the #5 Chaplain, if he had gone to work. Forrest followed me, probably heading for the farm to meet Mr. Davidson, leaving the other two to clean the kitchen.

  Just after I entered the passageway, Forrest caught up to me, and drawled, "Say, Rev'ren', what's yer creed?"

  I stopped and looked at him. Many people do not inquire of another's religion, especially out in space. I have heard of many quarrels starting this way, which ended in someone taking an exit through the airlock without remembering to wear a spacesuit. But by his accent - a little sloppy, but somewhat European - I judged that he was either fresh up from Earth, or a Venusian colonial, and a lot of them are really free about what everyone believes. So I decided to answer.

  "Technically, I'm New Revised Interplanetary Calvinist Pentecostal. Personally, I try to interpret the Christian Scriptures to the best of my ability, and help people get right with the God of those Scriptures... if they choose to believe in Him. You?"

  "Huh? Oh, I guess ya c'd say I'm a Heinz 57 - a mix, that is. But you read a Good Book. I'm sure I'll see you again, either here or there, or on the ground."

  "Thanks, Forrest. I'll be looking forward to it."

  He took the branch in the passageway that led to the office of Mr. Davidson, just as I assumed, while I followed the same route I had taken the day before, straight through the heart of the ship, all the way to my office.

  On the door, the label read: Office of the Chaplain. Underneath it had my name and degrees in somewhat smaller letters, then the names of the other four chaplains, in tiny script. I decided to have that changed, if I could. I can not stand for anyone to have any reason to gossip about me, or to make me look bad, and besides that, I'm no closer to God than those other ministers. I just happened to get the luck of the draw. In parentheses, behind each minister's name, it gave the name of the organization that held his or her credentials. I noticed Reorganized Martian Muslim Churches For Christ, which gave me a start. I had apparently not kept up with the expanding and constantly changing religious world of which I had been a part. I did remember something about one of our crews having a Muslim minister, because of an unusually high number of Islamic families, but I did not remember this strange mixture of Christian and Muslim faiths.

  I let that thought slide, and glanced at the other creeds: Whitfieldian Mathematical Christian Scientist-Adventist, Southern Baptist of Venus (now that was original!), Assemblies of God-World Pentecostal Fellowship, and The Martian Orthodox Jewish Assembly. What a concoction! I thought, I hope we never have to explain how all of this stuff is true, yet completely separatist and contradictory!

  With a thumb- and voice-print, I was allowed into my office, or actually into the small anteroom before the office. I had forgotten about this, but suddenly remembered my last-minute suggestion to provide a place for people to wait or pray or read while waiting for someone else to exit the actual office. I noted the shelves, holding the only real, bound books outside of the cabins. Glancing over them, I was pleasantly surprised to find some of the titles that I had sacrificed in favor of my dumbbells, but also many other books, and a twelve volume set that outlined the statements of faith and basic structure of every known religion in 2164 AD. Goodness! I wonder how many creeds exist in 2314? Maybe this volumed set's new edition has expanded to three hundred volumes.

  When I reached the door to the main office, I noticed the status lights on the frame. There were three words that could be lit, in combinations or individually, either by a manual control inside, or automatically, by the M.C.C. The "Chaplain In" was glowing softly, but the "In Prayer" and "With Someone" were dark. With my thumbprint again, I was allowed to come in, and I heard the speaker inside announce in a soft feminine voice, "Rabbi Joseph, The Reverend Petr Novgorod is here."

  The Jewish minister from Mars looked up from a large book that was open on the desk. "Well, Reverend, I have heard so much about you." His voice was weak and sounded tired, but his eyes looked healthy to me, and his hair was not completely gray. His beard, trimmed short for the cryostasis, was also gray, and he looked very much like an authentic Jew, although I have always doubted how many actual descendants of Jacob really had kept the blood pure. "Come in, sit down. No, no, have your seat. I've got to get some lunch, my watch shows 12:50. Of course, no one's been here yet, seeking counsel, but I know they will, when we get closer. This will be very traumatic for all of us, don't you think?"

  He seemed to struggle slightly when he first arose, and my first thought was because of his age. Then I remembered where he was from. "Gravity giving you a problem?"

  Smiling, he answered, "Yes, son, even after that last six months at three-quarters. But I shall grow accustomed to it over time." As an afterthought, he added, "I hope we find a light gravity planet here in the Banard's Star System."

  Then I remembered his question. "Yes, Teacher, this whole mission will surely be very traumatic for all of us. This will be the human race's first contact outside our solar system. But enjoy your lunch, sir, and don't hurry back, remember, I'm already on my third day."

  "Of course, Petr - may I call you Petr?" - I nodded - "but I have many things to look over today. And then tomorrow, I must receive my longevity treatment. I'll be back."

  When Rabbi Joseph returned, he took the corner desk in the inner office, in deference to my position, and reopened his thick book. I had not had a chance to notice the title, so I kept my curiosity to myself. I spent the day thinking of Elizabeth and my sermon for Sunday, and jotting a few notes concerning Friday night's open dialogue.

  I spent my lunch hour with my wife, and directly afterward went to Dr. Massaan's clinic to undergo my rejuvenation treatment. I awoke at almost 16:00, feeling slightly dizzy, but still able to resume my duties. After receiving a bottle of medicine to help the dizziness, I returned to my office, to speak with the minister from the Reorganized Martian Muslim Churches for Christ.

  When the minister from Crew #2 had showed up at 12:30 (my time), the first thing I noticed was the fact that she was a she. That accounted for the "Reorganized" part of her Church's title. But I had left quickly, and then returned at about 16:15. When I walked in to the anteroom, I noticed all three lights were lit on the inner office doorframe, so I waited for a while, spending the time looking up the RMMCFC in the encyclopedia of religions. Just about the time I found it, the door opened and a man walked out about the same time as two of the indicator lights stopped glowing. So I went in.

  Reverend Kristie Jurabi was a tall but very slim woman, obviously born on Mars, or at least she had lived there since she was very young. And she was very dark, probably of Arabic ancestry. "Good afternoon, Number One Chaplain," she said. She was already in the process of standing, to move to the corner desk.

  "And good morning to you, number two. Someone having spiritual problems already
." I sat down at the main desk, casting a questioning look in her direction.

  "You could say, maybe, sir. But more likely a psychological problem. The man came to tell he is fearing the open spaces of the planet that we choose. Lived he has in space stations and vessels all the life."

  I was finding it difficult to follow her English, since I myself still think in Russian from time to time, translating all that I say and hear. It was obvious that she was doing the same, from one of the Arab languages, or possibly the Martian lingo of 2165, which was a mix of Russian, Arab, Chinese, English German, and (some claimed) actual ancient Martian languages. But when I understood what she had said, I realized that I would have the same problem. I had never, as far as I could remember, set foot on the surface of a planet. I had been to Luna several times, and once to Mars, but both visits kept me safe inside pressurized chambers. And I had lived most of my life in Armstrong, one of the first actual Space Cities.

  "I think I understand the man's problem," I commented. "I will probably encounter the same feelings when I first step outside of the shuttle. I have never breathed air that was not contained and maintained by mechanical devices."

  "Then maybe you will come to pray with me?" She smiled quickly, then let it disappear.

  "Maybe." I thought for a second, then plunged on in. "Reverend Jurabi, what is the significance of the title that your church holds?"

  She did not smile this time, but her eyes did. "Thought I you would ask. People times of many can not reason the mysteries of our religion at glance first." She seemed to have learned her English from a cross-lingual dictionary, rather than a teacher or class or exposure. "But will I explain try it to you?"

  "Uh, yes, please."

  "Reorganized means now that female people can ministers become. Martian means we that are from Mars. Muslim applies to moral code and customs ours, it known being that of us many Islamic children were. Churches means 'group of people meeting to indulge in religious practices,' plural form implies more than one. For Christ means that intellectually and spiritually - if there is a difference - we have been persuaded to believe in the atoning death, empowering resurrection, and delivering Second Coming of Christ. You will now ask about Muslim moral codes and customs ours. We believe the Prophet - Mohammed, that is - had of a purpose in mind to purge the existing Church of his time of Sin, to make it pure more. So, as it must be all over known, his moral code was stricter much by far more than that of most what you and me call Christian Churches. We follow his code."

  My mind reeled. Outwardly, I nodded, which was merely a token promise that I eventually planned to understand what she was saying. I let her get back to her work, while I rewrote the outline for Sunday's sermon and scribbled another question for Friday night's open forum.

  * * *

  Day 3 (Nov. 5, 2314): (Harley)

  I sat down in my office, just in time to hear a man larger than me entering the farm area. I knew it had to be Forrest Harmon, since no one else on the ship was heavier than me - as far as I knew. I looked at my desk, wishing there were papers and forms to rustle through. How can you call this an office when it's so clean?

  Forrest leaned into the doorway, a questioning look on his face, apparently awaiting my instruction. Then I realized that he was probably wondering how both of us could fit in the cubbyhole that was called an office. "Let's talk outside," I said, as I stood.

  Now, I make most men look thin when I stand beside them, even though I'm short. It seems all of the early cosmonauts had been small, wiry fellows, and even the majority of the early colonists were a light bunch, because of fuel considerations and maybe health concerns. It was only early in my generation that heavier people had spaced - except for those very wealthy people, or members of NAAFA, the National Association for the Advancement of Fat Americans. Yet next to Forrest Harmon, I felt like a ballet dancer.

  I offered, "Breakfest wus good. Ya cook much?"

  When he shrugged, it seemed to me that the ship's course was slightly altered. Maybe the man's a miniature planet in disguise.

  "Not really, Mr. Davidson. Just McDonald's as a kid. What'd'we doin' today, Boss?"

  "Well, the number five shift will still be here a while. Why don'ch ya take a gander and see what we got. Don' ferget yer O2 mask."

  "Sher thang, Boss."

  I went back to my office, thinking hard, while Forrest walked through my pride and joy, the farm of the Hope. There were endless aisles of tanks, where sprouts were beginning to grow. To most people those sprouts all look alike, but I can tell them apart, by their leaves, their root structures, even the stems have different configurations. As Forrest walked down each aisle, I recited in my head all the plants we had. Asparagus, artichoke, blackberries, blueberries, beets, broccoli, cabbage, corn, cauliflower, cucumbers, carrots, cherries, apples... Basically, every kind of fruit or vegetable or grain imaginable, all the way up to watermelon, yam, and zucchini. On the tanks, there were tiny plastic cards posted, detailing the chemical solutions best suited to the growth of that plant. I noticed Forrest reading some of them carefully, ignoring others completely. He looked up at the CO2 vents and the controls that regulated the flow to different sections of the farm.

  Every pressurized section of the ship was connected by vents to the farm, where we had a miniature 'cycler under the floor. Every person's exhalations contained valuable Carbon Dioxide, and other non-breathable compounds. Certain ones, especially CO2, were separated out and sent into the farm for plant consumption. The plants in turn produced oxygen for human consumption, along with valuable sugars, starches and proteins necessary for the crew's survival.

  After a few minutes, I bored of watching my new trainee, and thought about him instead. Now here was a man at least six foot six, and probably weighing in at around 275, on a space ship, assigned to the farm, when he obviously didn't know too much about it. Yet he seemed to have great powers of observation, for I saw how his eyes moved slowly and confidently from item to item. And he obviously could read chemical solutions, or there would've been a very confused look on his face when he read those little plastic cards. And from his accent, I'd say he was from the East Coast (of North America, that is), or possibly Venus. And it sounded a little like an accent that I'd heard in an old movie once.

  Out of curiosity, I decided to pull up his file. There wasn't really a need, since as long as he could do the work, I didn't care where he came from. Yet, something bothered me about his manner. So I flipped on the PC at my desk, selected the main menu icon and clicked, general info - click, personnel - click, files - click, and "by name" click. Then I typed in "Forrest Harmon" and hit 'return'. All the computer said was "No File for 'Forrest Harmon'." So I tried it last name first, and with only one "R", and then several different spellings. Each time: "No File...."

  Reaching to the wall beside me, I tapped the intercom switch, and tapped in the code for the Captain's office. "Chief Hydroponicist. Is the Cap'n in?"

  A rumbling baritone answered, "This is Captain #5. Captain Cochran is in the control room. Is this an emergency?"

  "Not really." I could feel the lines on my face deepening, as if a year's crop had been destroyed by a drought. "Will ya be there fer a few minits? I need ta come up."

  "Come up if you feel it necessary. Are you sure this can't be discussed over the phone?"

  I'm goin' ta smash his God-damned skull when ah git up there! I touched the "end call" button, and stood up. I strode angrily into the hall, wishing that I could slam the door shut behind me, but it slid quietly shut as it always would. I opened the door into the farm after taking a deep breath and shouted to Forrest, "Don' fergit ta milk the cows!" I hoped he would realize it was a joke - all the animals were still in cryostasis. Then I headed for the Captain's office.

  When I got there, I stepped in through the open door, only to see a very familiar face, but before I could even think about who it was, Cochran spun on me. I hadn't even noticed he was there until his barrage hit me.

  "Now wh
at is so fucking important that you can't discuss it with Wilson here?" He jerked a thumb at the familiar face I had seen and continued. "Look here, Davidson! I realize you've got an important position here in this ship. Now YOU must realize that you're supposed to be able to handle these little things that come up. I-"

  "Cap'n, I-"

  "Shut up, Davidson, and tell me what your problem is."

  I can say that when that little man started to swear at me, with his veins all puffed out and his face getting red, my first thought wasn't What a poor, overworked man. My first thought was about how I could beat the crap out of him. And I'm sure I could crush him in a split second. Then I realized who "Wilson" was.

  "Okay, Cap'n. I - Well, hello, Robert!" I had suddenly recognized the quarterback from my freshman year. "Well, sirs, I planned on discussin' it with Wilson here, but I couldn' say nothin' over the tube." I hesitated a little. "It could be somethin' ya don' wan' gettin' out."

  Cochran was looking a little more subdued now, like the stuck pig who just realized he was really stuck in the barbed wire fence and decided to stop screaming. "Go ahead, Davidson."