Deep Breath Hold Tight: Stories About the End of Everything

by Gurley, Jason

  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.

  I understand your frustration, the administrator is saying.

  It's not easy to hear, but Micah watches anyway. The crowd pushes against him. A woman leans in close and shouts something at the administrator, who takes a step back and speaks into his wrist. Micah sees movement at the periphery of his vision and turns to see several more people in uniforms rushing to the administrator's aid.

  Within moments, the uniformed newcomers have quelled the crowd. The administrator speaks to one man in particular, and that man steps out of line.

  The man is immaculately and expensively dressed. His hair is perfectly coiffed, and he stands straight and tall and confident.

  The man is holding a small gray card.

  Micah puts his own card back into his pocket.

  The administrator takes the man's bag from him and escorts him away from the line. Micah watches as they approach a series of freestanding clear tubes. The administrator stops in front of one of the tubes. The tube stretches upward to the ceiling, which itself seems to be many miles away, its detail hazy and obscured by distance. The bottom of the tube rotates, and Micah can see that there is an outer and an inner layer. These rotate in opposite directions until they align, revealing an opening wide enough for the administrator and his guest to step through.

  The tube's layers rotate again, sealing the two men inside. A moment later, the men are levitated upward.

  Micah and his fellow passengers watch the two men float higher within the tube. Then they disappear through the ceiling, two small packages whisked away to some unknown destination.

  Micah fingers the card inside of his pocket dubiously.

  Lucky bastard, someone says.

  He's not the only one, says another.

  She's correct. Administrators are scuttling up and down the passenger lines like beetles. Here and there they pry a passenger out of line. Each of these selected passengers are well-dressed.

  Each bears a small gray card.

  Would you ever want to live someplace else?

  I don't know. I like it here.

  I know. And it's beautiful. But what about someplace equally beautiful?

  You aren't happy here?

  I am. Of course I am. Micah — I am.

  Is there someplace you want to go? Morocco or someplace?

  Well...

  There is. And it's better than this? Better than the ocean and the orange trees and the rain?

  Micah, this place is lovely. I'm so happy you brought me here.

  But you want to leave.

  I don't know why we can't just have a conversation.

  Alright. Fine. Let's talk about it.

  Not like this. It's not even important. It's not even real. Forget about it.

  I can't forget about it. Clearly this is important to you.

  Micah —

  Well, where is it? France? Australia?

  Micah.

  Belgium? Maybe Portugal is a nicer place than this.

  You're being cruel.

  I'm not. Tell me where.

  It's none of those places. It's not important.

  Italy?

  Micah.

  Is it Italy?

  No, it's not Italy.

  Alright. Which direction from Italy?

  Micah. Jesu
s.

  Which direction?

  Up.

  What? Up?

  Up.

  Okay. Alaska. Greenland.

  Up.

  The Arctic Circle. That's got to be it. You want to live on an icebreaker ship, saving polar bears. That's obviously better than here.

  Up.

  The North Pole.

  More up.

  There's no more up you can go!

  You're not listening to me. You never listen when you get like this.

  Look, the North Pole is the top. There's no more up.

  You weren't listening.

  All I do is listen to you!

  I didn't say north, asshole. I said up.

  Bernard and his granddaughter are somewhere in the middle of the line. The girl is still on his shoulder, but sleeping now.

  Micah falls out of the line and quickly walks to where the old man is standing.

  Hey, someone says.

  Micah turns and, walking backward, says, No, no, I'm not jumping the line. It's okay.

  He reaches Bernard and puts his hand on the old man's shoulder. Bernard, he says.

  Bernard turns. He is sweating profusely.

  Micah, the old man says.

  Are you okay?

  Bernard nods at the girl. She is not a little bird any more. But she is tired, and so for now, I will hold her as long as I can.

  It's a long line, though, Micah says.

  You are an astute observer, Bernard replies, not without some sarcasm.

  I brought you something, Bernard. Here.

  Bernard's eyebrows raise. Oh?

  Here, Micah repeats.

  Bernard looks down and sees Micah's hand holding a gray card. The old man's eyes widen. What are you doing, Micah? he asks. Do you know what that is?

  Sort of, Micah says.

  You don't have to be here, man. Go!

  Bernard turns, looking about for an administrator.

  Micah grabs his shoulder. No, he says. I want you to take it.

  Bernard jostles the woman ahead of him in line. She whirls about.

  I'm sorry, Bernard says. But the woman's irritation is defused by the card she sees in Micah's hand.

  Dear god, she says. You have a card? You have a card!

  No, Micah says. No, it's —

  Who has a card? someone else says.

  This man here has a card, the woman says.

  Micah turns back to Bernard. I want you to have this, he says. Please.

  He tries to push the card into Bernard's hand, but the old man snatches his hand away. What are you doing? Micah!

  Take it, Micah repeats.

  It is too much, Bernard protests. It is too valuable. I can't.

  Give it to me, the woman interrupts, reaching for the card.

  Micah turns away from her. It's not for you, he says.

  If you're giving it away, I want it, someone else says.

  Micah presses the card into Bernard's hand again. Please. It would help you.

  The line begins to come apart around the two men. Strangers surge into the gaps, pushing.

  I'll take it! someone shouts.

  Give it to me!

  I must have it! It would change my baby's life!

  Please!

  Me!

  Give it!

  Micah takes advantage of the commotion to close Bernard's fingers around the card. The old man looks confused to find the card in his hand, and Micah tries to melt away in the mob of passengers.

  What's happening here? a deep voice booms.

  Instantly the crowd begins to dissolve, and Micah sees one of the red-suited administrators stalking towards him. He's carrying a baton in one hand.

  Nothing, someone says.

  Everything's fine!

  I didn't do it!

  It's not mine!

  The administrator spies the card in Bernard's hand. His gaze shifts to Bernard's worried face, then back to the card.

  Sir, the administrator says to Bernard.

  It's not his card, someone snitches.

  The administrator turns toward the passengers behind Bernard, then looks back at Bernard. Is this true? Is this your card?

  Bernard is petrified. His granddaughter starts awake, her face flushed.

  Grandpa? she says, her voice fuzzy with sleep.

  Sir? Is that card yours?

  Bernard holds up the card, unable to find his voice.

  It's mine, Micah says, stepping forward.

  Bernard's entire body relaxes, and the card falls to the floor.

  The administrator puts the toe of his boot on the card. He studies Micah's face carefully, then his attire.

  This card belongs to you? he asks Micah.

  Micah nods. It does.

  This man did not steal it from you? The administrator indicates Bernard with his baton.

  Bernard tenses at the sight of the stick pointed in his direction.

  Micah reaches out and tips the baton toward the floor. The administrator steps back quickly.

  Absolutely he didn't steal it, Micah says. I wanted to give it to him.

  The administrator looks suspicious. You wanted to give him your Onyx card.

  Bernard finds his voice. I didn't try to take it!

  Onyx cards are not transferable, the administrator says sternly.

  I didn't want it! Bernard cries.

  I didn't know that, Micah says.

  I find that difficult to believe, the administrator says. Every Onyx cardholder knows that the card is not transferable.

  I didn't, Micah says. I inherited it from my wife.

  From your wife, the administrator echoes.

  She's gone, Micah says. I wanted to give the card away.

  Bernard looks at Micah. His expression changes. All of his alarm and tension vanishes, and in its place is a look of such pure compassion that Micah has to turn away. He knows that look. He's seen it before, on other faces. On the faces of people who have lost people. On the faces of people who still feel the prick of loss every morning when they turn over in bed.

  It doesn't really work that way, sir, the administrator says.

  I didn't know that.

  It's alright, the administrator says. Then he turns his mouth into his wrist and says something that Micah doesn't quite hear.

  Micah glances at Bernard, who is still looking at him with those terribly sad eyes.

  It's okay, Micah mouths at him.

  Bernard shakes his head sadly and mouths something back that looks like, So young.

  Then an escort in a soft gray uniform arrives, and the administrator says to Micah, Please, allow Mr. Hedderly to take your bag.

  The escort smiles at Micah. His teeth are impossibly white. Every last one of them is perfectly placed and perfectly visible. May I, sir?

  Micah sighs and looks at Bernard, and then at the administrator. Couldn't I just stay in line?

  Behind him, a woman says, He did not just say that.

  I'm afraid not, sir, the administrator says. May I?

  He holds his hand out for the card.

  Micah gives it to him.

  Your thumb, sir.

  The administrator turns the card over to reveal the rectangle printed there.

  Micah sighs again, then presses his thumb down on the rectangle. The card lights up, and Mae's face appears on its surface. Her name, identification code, and physical attributes are drawn in beside it.

  Mae Isabella Atherton-Sparrow

  0522FG010-EPG

  H 5'3" W 112

  Micah stares at the photograph of Mae. He remembers the day that they visited the Settlement Transition Bureau. They had fought that day. He hadn't wanted to go, which was usually enough to deter Mae. That day had been different. She had gone anyway, without telling him, and it wasn't until weeks later that he found the Onyx card in her bag while he was looking for the chocolates she often kept hidden there. He had been angry.

  The photograph was perhaps the most beautiful picture of Mae he had
ever seen. It was low-quality, with artifacts that interrupted the image. Like most global agencies, the STB didn't spend much on equipment. It didn't matter how bad the photograph itself was. The image of Mae that shone through was beautiful because of her expression.

  It was the purest expression of happiness and hope. Her eyes were alive, brighter and larger than life. Her smile stretched wider than he had imagined possible, shoving her round cheeks high. Her skin was flushed, as if she couldn't believe what was happening, couldn't contain her excitement.

  He had never seen her so happy before.

  You don't mean —

  Yes. Up.

  Up.

  Yes.

  I can't.

  You have to admit it would be beautiful.

  But I... I. Up?

  Up, Micah. Up there. It would be beautiful, too. Not like this, but beautiful in other ways. Beautiful because it would mean something... more.

  It's a million miles away.

  Well, no. It's not.

  Fine, okay. Not a million, but it might as well be. Jesus, Mae.

  I didn't know you felt strongly about it.

  I feel strongly about Earth! Under my feet! I like standing here. Do you know who built this pier? No? Well, I do. His name was Marcus Perrine, and he was twenty-eight when he built it with his bare hands as a gift for his bride. It's been here for nearly eighty years. There's history here. I like history.

  There's history there, too. More history, even.

  Don't be ridiculous. It's not the same.

  You really wouldn't? For me?

  I'm not a spaceman, Mae.

  You wouldn't even think about it?

  I'm from Earth. What's up there that isn't here? Don't scientists spend their careers looking for places just like Earth? Why do you think that is? It's because its Earths that matter. They're rare and precious and beautiful and amazing. And I like living here. It smells nice. It makes my heart happy.

  Not even for me?

  Mae.

  Micah.

  You're asking so much.

  It would be the grandest adventure. It would be thrilling every day.

  No, it wouldn't. It would be terribly boring.