"And here we are now, orbiting a waterless mudball, circling a star too bright to look at, a world that's supposed to be a place of hope, not despair, and we haven't gotten away from anything at all. We've brought it all with us! The problem isn't Earth, sir. And it isn't Luna. It's us! Every problem that human beings have ever had, they've all had one thing in common—we were there! Because for all of our talk about all of our grand commitments and noble ideals, when the crunch comes, the first thing we toss overboard is our humanity. And I guess what I'm trying to say is that if we're ever going to stop doing that, then this has to be the place where we take that stand. Right here. Because if we don't do it here, where are we going to do it? And if we don't do it now, when are we going to do it?" I realized I was done. I had nothing else to say. So I said, "Thank you for listening to me."
Boynton's expression was unreadable. He looked uncomfortable. Like he had a lot to think about that he really didn't want to. "Thank you, Ensign," he said.
"Thank you, sir."
I glanced over at Pettyjohn. He glowered at me. "You can go to Hell."
"No, sir," I replied. "That'll be a decision for God to make. Not you."
I turned and headed back up to where Mickey and Douglas were perched. Only then did I realize that people were applauding—I didn't understand why. What I said—it should have been obvious to everyone.
MAKING MUSIC
I was tired. Exhausted. I'd missed two sleep shifts. But I was too full of feelings to sleep. I couldn't explain what I was feeling, I just knew I had to let it out—so I found my way to the practice room and started playing.
I started out with Little Fugue in G Minor, nice and slow. Just to get myself in the mood. It's an easy piece for me, because I can start out lazily—and that gives me time to listen to what I'm doing. As I put myself into the mood, I can bring up my energy, and then I can start inventing variations for each subsequent repetition. A fugue can be repeated endlessly, and it can be reinvented every time; it's a great way to experiment and blow off steam at the same time. The Little Fugue was my favorite, because no matter what mood I'm in, the Little Fugue can express it, depending on how I attack the keys—happy or sad, angry or triumphant, it's all in the feeling. There's this place inside the sound where it stops being music and starts being something else—pure soul, I guess. There's no word for it, but if you've been there, you know; and if you haven't, then I feel sorry for you.
I played it fast, I played it slow, I played it loud, I played it soft—I played it every way I knew. I played it with all the different feelings that were churning around in me—how angry I was at this whole damn mess, how sad I was for those who had died, how lonely I felt out here behind the backside of nowhere, how much I cared about J'mee—
At some point, I realized that I wasn't alone. J'mee was behind me, playing the drums. And Trent had come in and picked up his clarinoboe. And a little later, Gary joined us, filling in the melodic line with guitar-riffs. And after that, two of the crew members who made up our string section arrived. By the time we finally segued into "Amazing Grace," we were right where I always wanted us to be, riding inside the flow of music and emotion like our own personal hyperstate.
As the final chords died away, I looked around the cabin, breathlessly. Almost the entire orchestra was here. Waiting for my next instruction. I swiveled around to look at J'mee. "Why are you all here?"
"We heard you playing."
"Huh?"
She pointed at the console above my keyboard. The red lights were on. We were broadcasting to the entire ship. How long—?
"Didn't you intend this?"
"Uh—no, I just came up here to work out my own feelings. I didn't realize—"
"Well, now that you have everybody's attention, Chigger—" I knew what she was going to say, even before she said it. "Let's go for it—"
The others nodded their agreement. There was a piece we'd been rehearsing—
"We're not ready. We haven't rehearsed it anywhere near enough. And we planned it for the arrival at Outbeyond, not here—"
"So what? We need it now."
"But—"
"Do it, Charles! It'll be fine. Trust me."
Yes, she was right. And I did trust her—and I was thrilled that I could.
I looked to see if Mom was here—she was—so I nodded my agreement. "Okay, everybody, let's do it." I took a breath, then brought up the score on my display. As the specific parts came up on everyone else's monitors, I could hear their quiet approval and enthusiasm. They were ready for this too.
I glanced around to see if everybody was ready—
Beethoven's Ninth Symphony is a landmark among landmarks. Dad regarded it as the greatest symphony ever written—possibly the greatest piece of music ever written. (Though sometimes he liked to argue that the Beach Boys' "Good Vibrations" was the Ninth all rolled into one; but I never knew if he was teasing or not when he said that.)
As an orchestral construction, the Ninth is a nightmare. It's long, it's complex, it's exhausting. It's seventy-five minutes long, without the repeats. To do it justice, you need a small army of strings and a battalion of brass on their flanks. And for the fourth movement, you need four singers trained in the impossible, and a chorus of at least forty to back them up. Dad said that only geniuses and fools attempted the Ninth. And he had a shelf full of recordings to prove it—especially the fool part. (There was this one performance he liked to drag out that was so slow and turgid, so bad you could almost hear the audience moaning in pain.)
But for all of the difficulty in performing it correctly, the Ninth is its own reward because the music is so sublime. And as big a fool as a person might be for attempting it, he's an even bigger fool for never attempting it …
So I did something that was either dreadful or magnificent, depending on your prejudices.
I reinvented it.
We didn't have half the instruments we needed, so we handed around the parts to the instruments we did have and we used synthesizers and doublers to create a different body of sound. The hard part was the chorale movement. Mom and I had struggled the hardest with that.
I could hand off the choral parts to a synthesizer and we could even superimpose the actual words onto the sound, that was no problem; a single talented keyboardist could carry a large part of the burden—a fact which used to make Dad crazy sometimes. He used to do a great rant about how synthesizers would be the death of the grand orchestra—only they hadn't killed the orchestra in two centuries, so maybe it was just part of the performance of being a traditional conductor.
—But the four interlocking voices in the finale of the "Ode To Joy" simply couldn't be faked by instruments. They had to be sung by real people. And we didn't have four singers on the whole ship who were classically trained. We had Mom.
Finally, in our only concession to our own limits, we prerecorded the vocal parts. Mom did all four—soprano, alto/contralto, tenor, and baritone—we transposed her voice up for the soprano and down for the tenor and baritone parts. We put them into the conductor's master program so that they could be conducted like any other instrument, and Mom rode that board. Only three of her voices were canned, she insisted on singing the alto/contralto part live.
Dad had once told me to think of the Ninth as a voyage from chaos to joy. The first movement is the void movement, in which order is invented out of mystery; the second movement is a wild dance of delight, overexuberant and almost out of control; then suddenly, dropping us down into the startling surprise of the long slow adagio of the third, a time of thoughtfulness and grace and preparation for the gathering excitement still to come; and then finally, the fourth movement, which momentarily reprises the first three and then abruptly discards them all and explodes into the most beautiful noise possible—
I gave the downbeat and we started playing.
If you've heard the recording, you don't need me to describe it. And if you haven't heard the record, then no amount of description will do it ju
stice.
We were good.
We were very good.
We were brilliant.
We were inspired.
We got inside the music and we didn't come out again until the sweat was puddled up underneath our arms and glistening on our faces and floating in globules throughout the cabin. We were flushed with emotion and triumph and a giddy feeling of delighted astonishment at what we had just accomplished. And if anyone had spoken to me in that final moment while the echoes were still bouncing around the cabin and inside my head, I wouldn't have been able to answer, I'd have just broken down crying in frustration and joy that the universe was filled with so many beautiful ways to be human. I was crying anyway—
J'mee swam over and hugged me. And then Mom too. She whispered into my ear, "Your father would be so proud of you!" And then everybody else in the cabin was cheering and applauding too.
We didn't hear the rest of the applause until someone popped open the hatch to the cabin. And even then, we still didn't have any idea how big an impact the music had made—not until later, when Kisa Fentress swam up wide-eyed. Everything on the entire ship had come to a halt, she reported. People just stopped what they were doing and listened in awe. Even Boynton had given up what he was trying to do—which was make a decision on the mutineers, probably—and had just surrendered his heart to the music.
For seventy-five minutes, the starship Cascade had been united. It wasn't quite peace, but it was a start.
And not only the starship, but the colony below as well. When the trials had started, Boynton had ordered all of the ship's proceedings relayed down to the surface, so there wouldn't be any doubt about the whys and wherefores. So they received our entire concert too.
The thing about rapture … it stays with you. It changes you. It makes you a better person.
I can't prove it, but I think that moment was the turning point. Maybe everything would have gotten better without the music, but the music was there, and just by existing, it was the seed around which the healing crystallized—because for a moment, just for that moment, everybody on board rediscovered their ability to smile.
And for that little time while the music filled the emptiness so far from home, a lot of people had time to think and feel and remember who they really were and what they were all about.
And maybe that was enough. Maybe that was all that was needed. Because after that, things did calm down and folks stopped talking about getting even and started talking about getting better. And that was a much more useful conversation to have.
DECISIONS
Boynton announced his decision to a packed gymnasium. He spoke without prelude.
"We will honor our part of the contract. We will deliver supplies and colonists to New Revelation. We will drop all of the contracted cargo pods as agreed. We will deliver all colonists who choose to conclude their journey here.
"In addition to all of the supplies we have contracted to deliver—and as a humanitarian gesture to the desperate people of New Revelation—we will also send down as much extra food and medical supplies as we can fit into the landing pods. We will drop cargo pods, containing as much water as we can spare beyond our own needs.
"But we will not send down any landers. Nor will we pick up any passengers. We will not risk exposing our equipment and personnel to further attacks or confiscation. Therefore, any colonist who wishes to debark at New Revelation will have to ride a pod down. The landings can be a little bit rough, but we will make appropriate accommodations for your safety.
"Any colonist who chooses not to land at New Revelation may continue on to Outbeyond—with the following exceptions: Dr. Daniel Pettyjohn, all of the members of the now-disbanded Revelationist Council, the sixteen individuals involved in the manufacture of illegal weapons, and the seven individuals who attempted to use those weapons in a mutinous uprising. These individuals will all be sent down in cargo pods. Their families may accompany them, or they may continue on with the rest of us to Outbeyond.
"However, be aware—there is a condition. Those who continue on with us will be prohibited from practicing the Revelationist faith—not because we disapprove of the faith, we do not, but because the actions taken in the name of this faith have disqualified it from recognition and participation in the social contract of Outbeyond.
"I am ordering these measures under my authority as Captain of the Cascade. They will take effect immediately.
"We begin dropping cargo pods in twelve hours. Those of you who are landing, you will report to Flight Engineer Damron by oh-six-hundred for docketing. Those of you are continuing on with us, you will report to Security Chief Lang by oh-six-hundred for clearance. If you have any questions, see either Damron or Lang.
"Let me also state for the record that these orders were submitted for advice and consent to the elected representatives of the Outbeyond Colony Council. The Council voted unanimously to endorse them."
That last part was the most important. Boynton didn't need to ask anyone to approve his orders. A Captain has Supreme Authority. But it was necessary for the rest of us to know that he was not acting alone—but with the full support of Outbeyond's local authority. He was acting in our name and on our behalf. It was imperative that we stand with him.
He made as if to turn away, then stopped himself and turned back to face us all. "There is one other thing … "
This time, his voice was more relaxed. If it had been anyone but Boynton, I'd have even thought friendly. "This morning, I have ordered one of our landers to be refitted as an interplanetary shuttle. That conversion should be complete just about the time we cross the orbit of Gabriel. We intend to locate an appropriate ice-asteroid and detach the shuttle in a favorable trajectory with a crew of Revelationist volunteers who will bring that ice-asteroid back to New Revelation.
"It is a difficult and risky mission, and the chances of success are not great. There are no guarantees. And in this situation in particular, success will require the triumph of human determination over the laws of physics in an obstinate universe. Nevertheless, we are committed to making this effort. We recognize that all of us—Outbeyonder and Revelationist alike—have a common bond of humanity that will always be larger than any of our differences. No matter how hard some of us might argue that our differences are insurmountable, they are not.
"This is the lesson we must learn, here and now, and for all time to come. Because we are human beings, we are partners in a common cause. We forget that at our own risk. We have already seen how dangerous it is to make our disagreements more important than our partnership. We must never do that again. There is nothing to gain by that and too much to lose.
"It is time for human beings to create a community of mutual respect and partnership. It begins here. It begins now.
"Thank you, and let's go to work."
After that, it was simply a matter of carrying out the orders. Most of it was simple, because we already knew how to do it. But some of it wasn't—
Trent Colwell's dad had been a member of the Revelationist Council. That meant that he was a mutineer. That meant he was going to be sent down in a cargo pod—that wasn't negotiable. But the rest of the family had to decide if they were going down with him.
They weren't the only family who had to make such a decision, but they were the only family I knew. I'd heard there was a lot of crying and anguish in the other hearings. I'd heard that Boynton and the Council were determined to be as compassionate as possible. But it was a troubling process for everyone.
J'mee and I were there when the Colwell family came before the Outbeyond Council. We wanted to be there for Trent.
Trent's mom was holding three-year-old Willa. Trent was holding onto six-year-old Jason. They all looked scared—all except little Willa, who had no idea what was going on and kept asking if she could have a peaner-butter sammich. Trent looked at us once, then looked away, embarrassed. But every so often, he'd sneak a look back over at us, and I got the feeling he wanted to say something. Or
maybe he just wanted to talk to us for a bit. But that wasn't possible right now—
Commander Boynton came in late, and he didn't look happy. He never looked happy, but this time he looked unhappier than usual. "Have you made your decision?" he asked.
"My family will go with me," Mr. Colwell said bluntly. He was wearing plastic handcuffs and there was a security guard on either side of him. Mrs. Colwell looked like she wanted to object, but was afraid to speak up.
Boynton ignored Mr. Colwell's declaration, looked instead to Mrs. Colwell. "Sarah, is it? What is your choice?"
She hung her head. She couldn't look directly at him. She mumbled something.
"Say again? Louder this time."
"I have to go with my husband. I promised before God that I would love, honor, and serve."
"You understand, of course, that you will probably die down there. And your children as well. You cannot depend on the ice-mission to save you."
Before she could answer, Mr. Colwell started shouting. "You're trying to break up my family, you devil-spawn! You have no right to do this!"
Boynton ignored him. To Lang, he said, "If the prisoner speaks again, stun him." He turned back to Mrs. Colwell. "Sarah, doesn't your faith tell you to preserve the lives of your children?"
She nodded unhappily.
"And you still want to accompany your husband?"
"It is my duty—"
"So be it—" Boynton started to make a note on his clipboard.
That's when Trent finally spoke up. "I'm not going," he said.
"Eh?" Boynton looked up.
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