Deep Breath Hold Tight: Stories About the End of Everything

by Gurley, Jason

  Once aboard, Ansel settled into a comfortable routine. Temporary residents were required to work for their board, and Ansel joined the arboretum crew. He trimmed and mulched and planted, and in the evenings, he ate quietly and alone in the cafeteria. Four weeks passed as he integrated himself into the crew, establishing his face, his name, his reserved manner.

  He attended meetings that were strangely anonymous and vague. Nobody said the word revolution. Nobody said rebellion. Nobody talked about the Council or the Citadel at all.

  He made no friends.

  He was eating dinner when the operative found him.

  She sat across from him. Ansel didn't look up, but he knew who she was.

  Hello, she had said.

  Ansel had just nodded.

  I'm from Titan, she said.

  There were a dozen pass phrases that an operative learned, one for almost any sort of environment or social encounter. I'm from Titan was one of them. No names, no details. Just the pass phrase.

  Took your time, he said.

  I had to, she answered. You can't rush these things. I'm probably more at risk here than you are.

  Fair enough, he said.

  What are you here for? Are you deep?

  Not deep, he said. This is my true face.

  We have plenty of people aboard already. Are you an addition, or —

  I'm here for something else, he had said. I'm looking for someone.

  Who?

  Evelyn Jans.

  Jans.

  Councilman Jans's first heir.

  She tilted her head. And you think she's here?

  I've got reason to believe she is, or was. She came with someone. A woman.

  Who?

  I don't have a name. I have a face, though. Ansel handed his screenview to the woman. He tapped the glass. You know her?

  The operative nodded her head. Yes. I know her well.

  Ansel said, She might be important. Who is she?

  Did you lose your hand in the war? the operative asked.

  Ansel nodded, and continued to eat. The woman, he said.

  Do you remember the spaceport sabotage?

  Olympus, he said. It was the closest the rebellion got to the inner circle. Yes.

  The woman in this photograph is Hatsuye Hayami, the operative had said. She was the rebellion's answer to a deep-cover operative. The spaceport was her.

  Demolitions specialist?

  Hatsuye could blow up a moon with a cup of coffee, the woman said. Specialist would be an understatement.

  Is she here?

  She was. You missed her by a few months, though. And if she was traveling with someone else, I certainly never saw her. I could ask around.

  Do that, Ansel had said.

  One thing you should probably know about Hatsuye, though.

  What's that?

  Rumor is she's wired.

  Wired how?

  The woman said, She has several prosthetics. They're not quite as sophisticated as yours, but they're better than average. Right hand, entire left arm. One of her legs. I forget which. She's practically half-machine at this point. They say her prosthetics are wired, that she's always got her finger on the trigger.

  She's a walking bomb.

  Essentially.

  Lovely.

  TERMINAL

  Seven years, always months behind her.

  And now she was dead.

  He wonders if Hatsuye Hayami met a similar fate. And if so, why hadn't she blown up the entire station?

  Ansel sighs and takes off the skullcap. He winds the cord up, and sets it aside with the screenview.

  Bring honor to the council.

  Kill them, in other words.

  Kill them all.

  He hasn't killed anyone in years. Since before starting this mission, in fact.

  He wonders if he'll remember how.

  It's nearly six a.m. when he drifts to sleep.

  The footsteps wake him up.

  Unlike the ones earlier, these footsteps don't fade away.

  These slow, and stop.

  Ansel can see a disturbance in the thin reed of light below his compartment door.

  He rolls over in bed and searches the bedside shelf in the dark. He finds an earpiece and puts it in.

  Test, he says.

  Quietly, in his ear, he hears a neutral-gender voice respond.

  Test successful.

  There are more shadows in the hallway now.

  More soft steps.

  Ansel prepares himself.

  The door holds when they kick it in, so they kick it more, and harder. It's metal, but flimsy, and there's enough flex for someone to cram a steel bar into the gap. Someone leans into it, and the bar turns, and then the door pops open with a metallic ring.

  Ansel doesn't say a word as the men rush into his room.

  Nobody hits the lights.

  The engineers are backlit by the hallway. They're surprisingly quiet as they grab Ansel and yank him from the bed. The crowd separates as two of the men take him by the arms and drag him roughly down the corridor.

  The silence makes it weird.

  Ansel is used to this sort of thing, but usually the attackers talk shit, or yell.

  This is weird.

  He expects a beating, but that isn't what happens.

  The men pull him down hallway after hallway until they come to an airlock.

  Captain Karkinnen is waiting.

  We'll see how long that reach is now, the captain says.

  Ansel says, I probably can't talk you out of this one, can I.

  The captain shakes his head.

  You're not just a mining station, are you.

  The captain shakes his head again.

  You're rebellion, Ansel says.

  Karkinnen smiles, and one of the men laughs.

  You're a long way from home, Council bitch, says an engineer.

  Ansel doesn't take his eye off of the captain. That's why you killed her, isn't it. You knew who she was all along.

  But the captain doesn't say a word.

  You killed her because she was Council royalty. Did you still rape her first?

  Shut the fuck up, says another man.

  I've already filed my report, Ansel says. The Nebulae is on the Council's radar right now.

  The captain shrugs. That's alright. Every dog has his day.

  Ansel looks around. Nearly every engineer on the ship seems to be here.

  Test, he says.

  What? says the engineer. Ansel recognizes him as Jonah.

  Test successful.

  What now? Ansel asks. You're going to throw me out, just like you did her? Does that make you feel good?

  We thought about keeping you, the captain says. Start a line for you, just like we did for her.

  You're not attracted to me, Ansel says. Shame.

  The captain's smile turns malicious. He steps back and says, Suit him up.

  Captain Karkinnen taps the faceplate.

  You hear me? he asks.

  Inside the space suit, Ansel nods.

  We had a spare suit lying around, Grant says. Used to be hers, actually. Don't need it anymore. Thought it might be nice to let you think about things while you're out there. Try to imagine what she thought, out there alive for all of two seconds. Imagine that fear. Then hang onto it awhile. Choke on it awhile.

  Ansel smiles. Pretty interesting plan, he says.

  We like it, says Jonah.

  The captain scratches his red beard. We're gonna leave you to it now. You can hang onto something if you want, but I hear the depressurization packs a wallop. Might pull your arms right off. You don't want a hole in your suit.

  No, I guess I wouldn't, Ansel says.

  He's curiously unafraid. Every operative prepares for this moment from their first day of training. Ansel never really thought that it would come, but now that it's here, he's calm.

  You've got four hours of oxygen on your back, Grant says. That ought to be plenty of time to
make your peace.

  Peace with whom?

  Oh, you know. God, or whatever you believe in.

  What do you believe in, Captain?

  The captain leans in close. His breath fogs up the faceplate.

  I believe we're done, he says.

  Ansel stands alone in the center of the airlock.

  Pressed against the inner windows are the faces of the engineers. They're wild faces, wearing the expressions of animals.

  So this is the rebellion, Ansel thinks. A pack of angry dogs.

  Then someone pushes the button, and the outer doors open.

  The force causes him to black out for a moment.

  When Ansel wakes up, he panics.

  Not because he's in the black now, just one more body caught in orbit.

  Because he might be too far away from the ship. It hovers above him like a soaring scarab, receding quickly. Lights wink on and off around the airlock door as it closes. The crew has moved to the viewport in the mess hall, gathered around the captain, a small red figure standing in Ansel's favorite spot.

  Ansel takes a deep breath.

  Detonate, he says.

  For the longest moment of his life, nothing happens.

  The Nebulae was a familiar station to Ansel when he had boarded. Satellite-class, mining specialty. The station looked like a large beetle, with wide, insectile arms that sprouted from its sides.

  Onyx operatives were well-versed in common ship models.

  Learn your environments well, Mirs Korski had taught his men. You will spend the rest of your life in the black, on freighters, on private ships, on space stations, on colony stations. When you board, know your exits. Know the weaknesses. Know the blind corners and dead alleys. Never be caught unawares.

  Always be prepared.

  Ansel's specialty was demolitions, too.

  When he boarded a ship this far from Council space, at his first opportunity, he installed voice-activated charges.

  A ship like this had all sorts of fragmentation points.

  Ansel had chosen the one in the bunk rooms.

  It was easy when the ship was empty.

  Come on, come on, he thinks.

  He opens his mouth to give the command again, certain he's too far out of range.

  And with a tiny burst of light, the ship comes apart.

  The men in the window are thrown to the floor.

  One figure remains, and Ansel imagines that it is the captain.

  He watches as the ship unfolds like origami.

  Hatsuye Hayami could not have done a better job, he thinks.

  All it ever takes is a small charge.

  You just light the fuse, and sometimes the rest takes care of itself.

  The ship pulls apart like a puzzle.

  Ansel watches as the men spill into the black.

  Just like Evelyn.

  Hours pass.

  The ship is in torn and scattered pieces high above him. There are sparks. Lights flicker and go dark. Fires start and are snuffed out by the vacuum of space. He has drifted far enough now that he cannot pick the shapes of the men out of the wreckage.

  Everything looks so small now. He's tired of looking at the ruins.

  He tries to roll himself over without starting a spin he can't stop.

  A slow turn, some counter-motion, and then he's looking down at Triton. It's a pitted, cold rock. It looks like an unsplit melon.

  If you've seen one moon, you've seen them all.

  But beyond it, the great blue planet rises. Its surface is an oil painting, deeply saturated, rich with swirling cloud rivers and bottomless gaseous canyons. He imagines trailing his fingers in it like a man in a sailboat. What a nice sensation that must have been once. Ansel has never seen an ocean, has never been in a boat.

  It's a beautiful view. A man could die happy after such a sight.

  Ansel does.

  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 everyone 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.
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  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.