Deep Breath Hold Tight: Stories About the End of Everything

by Gurley, Jason

  Fleet council, Micah says.

  That's correct. The fleet council is comprised of five representatives from each of the twelve stations.

  What about Machine-class citizens?

  What about them? Bob asks.

  What about their rights to reproduce? This is insane. I can't believe I have to ask this question.

  Your questions are within the boundaries of our topic, Bob says.

  That's not what I mean. I should have fucking taken that class. I shouldn't be here.

  To answer your previous question, Machine-class citizens are permitted to reproduce when and if they successfully win the annual lottery, Bob says.

  Micah whirls away from the window. There's a goddamn lottery?

  Two hundred Machine-class citizens are permitted to reproduce annually, Bob says. The lottery is run by the station government of each individual station. Each citizen is permitted a single ticket, delivered physically to them on the first day of each year.

  When do they decide who gets to have babies? Micah demands. On the last day of the year?

  Indeed, Bob says.

  So basically every one of these hard-working stiffs has an entire year to misplace, lose or destroy their ticket. How many people actually claim their winnings?

  This lottery season, one hundred thirteen citizens claimed their reproductive authorizations, Bob says.

  So eighty-seven people, probably through pure, dumb luck, don't get to start a family this year, Micah says.

  Your math is correct, sir.

  And how many Onyx babies were born last year?

  One hundred eleven thousand four hundred seventy one, Bob answers.

  Micah turns back to the window. He pinches the bridge of his nose, thinking hard. How many Onyx citizens are there right now? he asks.

  Bob says, One million two hundred eighty four thousand six hundred nine.

  And how many Machine-class citizens?

  Six million three hundred forty seven —

  Stop, stop. I get it. You're telling me that the Onyx class is outnumbered by six to one —

  That's not entirely accurate —

  But it's close enough. They're outnumbered six to one, so they're having as many babies as they can, while the working class advances at a microscopic pace. So in, what — fifteen years? — the Onyx class outnumbers the working class altogether?

  That's not entirely accurate, either.

  But is that the goal? Of course my math isn't right. This is bullshit.

  That is not a stated goal of the program, sir.

  Onyx isn't trying to quickly grow so it can't be easily overthrown by a blue-collar riot?

  No, sir.

  Micah paces around the room. The sun is beginning to rise over the city again.

  So what's the goal of this reproductive Nazism?

  I don't believe that's an accurate term for it either, sir. But the goal is quite simple. Humanity is attempting to create successive generations of smarter, more creative and more forward-thinking people. After all, did you believe that mankind would simply relocate from Earth to Earth orbit and be satisfied with its future?

  Micah stops. What are you saying?

  The fleet of stations is just the first step in a very long-term plan, Bob says, to find a new home for humanity. Several, if possible.

  But to manipulate the race as you go, right? Like you're breeding show dogs or racehorses.

  I'm not responsible, sir. I'm simply an artificial intelligence, a companion designated to serve you.

  Serve? Or observe and report?

  Sir, your activities in your apartment are only recorded so that I may provide more nuanced service as I grow more informed about your preferences and requirements, Bob says.

  This is bullshit, Micah says again. Bullshit.

  I believe that you will find the Onyx-class life a pleasant one, sir. Onyx-class citizens are not required to hold regular positions of employment, but are provided with ample time to spend on whatever personal projects, hobbies or leisures they wish, Bob says. Onyx-class citizens have large amounts of time, and with it, they produce novels, fine artwork, political position papers, beautiful music, complex theorems and more.

  But if I wanted to just sleep all day and all night, every day and night? I could do that, couldn't I.

  You may spend your time however you wish, Bob says.

  What if I wish to spend my time with the Machine class? What if I want to take a job, or visit a friend?

  Visitations are permitted and in fact encouraged, Bob says.

  But?

  But Machine-class employment for Onyx-class citizens is prohibited.

  Micah paces again. Mae would never have gone for this.

  It is possible that is true, Bob says.

  What do you mean?

  Mae Atherton-Sparrow, your deceased wife from whom you inherited your Onyx-class status, did not complete the twelve-week course. She successfully completed just under two weeks of the course.

  Micah presses his palms against his eyes. And what is the curriculum for those first two weeks?

  In order, Bob says, the first two weeks prepare future settlers for low-gravity transport, set packing guidelines, discuss medical waivers, allow selection of living quarters, and teach settlers about the changed day and night patterns.

  When are the details of Onyx- and Machine-class policies taught? Micah asks.

  On week nine, Bob says.

  Week nine, Micah repeats. Mae didn't know about any of this.

  It's unlikely, sir.

  You know, Micah says, I didn't want to live in space. Mae did. When she died — when she died, I was miserable for seven long, stupid years. And then one day I woke up and realized I'd let nearly a decade pass without doing anything positive. I slept all the time. I worked a shit job, and I considered becoming a drunk. But after those seven years, I suddenly wanted to do something for Mae. It took me seven years, but I wanted to honor her. So I applied for settlement. Imagine my surprise when I was not only accepted, but granted elite status.

  Inheritors are truly fortunate people, Bob agrees.

  No, Micah says. No. We might just be the only ones who are thinking clearly.

  Micah steps out of the shower.

  Bob, he says.

  Yes, sir.

  How exactly does a person dry off around here?

  If you'll re-enter the shower, sir, I'll happily demonstrate, Bob says.

  Micah opens the shower door and steps back inside.

  Bob says, Any time you'd like to dry yourself, simply say the word 'dry'.

  Okay, Micah says. Dry.

  The shower doors hiss. Previously unseen seals tighten and pop into place. The shower becomes an isolation chamber. Micah thinks nervously about what might happen if the shower activated now. Would the chamber fill with water? Could he drown in an upright shower chamber?

  Around him, dozens of tiny specks become visible in the walls. The specks form a grid pattern. Micah is reaching out to touch them when they activate. Each speck is a tiny jet. His skin ripples and rearranges itself in the blast from the miniature blasts. He feels his hair flipping about, and looks up.

  Mistake. The jets in the ceiling pound his eyes, which moisten immediately.

  Try not to look at the jets, sir, Bob says.

  Don't watch me in the shower, Bob, Micah says.

  Three tones sound as Bob processes this. Micah imagines Bob as a tiny spook with a notepad.

  Does not like it when you watch him in shower. Check.

  Hello?

  Mae.

  I thought we agreed not to —

  I'm sorry. I miss you. And it's ridiculous, not talking.

  It's not ridiculous. Micah, we have a real problem.

  Your boss called.

  Oh.

  He said that a package had arrived for you marked time-sensitive. He wanted to know if he should have somebody messenger it over while you were on sabbatical.

  What did you say?
>
  I said that's what he should do.

  Good.

  Sabbatical?

  Look, I don't want to talk about it.

  Are you actually in Tokyo, or did you lie about everything?

  I'm in Tokyo.

  Good. Okay. Why?

  I told you, we're not talking right now.

  I'm talking. You're not talking.

  Micah, I don't need this.

  This? I'm just a 'this' to you?

  You know you're not.

  I have tried being understanding.

  You've done a bang-up job at it.

  Hey. I have tried.

  Micah, tell me one thing.

  What?

  Tell me what your single biggest dream is.

  I don't know.

  You know you have one. What is it?

  Maybe to live in the house. And I'm doing it, so mission accomplished.

  Alright. So what if I had stayed in California?

  When?

  Instead of moving in with you at the house. What if I had put my foot down? What if I had said you have to move to California with me, or we're through?

  I — you wouldn't have.

  No, but if I had. Do you know what would have happened? I know you do. We would have broken up, Micah. Because the house is important to you. Because it holds almost an entire lifetime of meaning, and you'll never be shaken free from that. You would never want to. And I understood that, and I would never have tried to change that.

  But that's exactly what you want to do now. You want to shake me free of that and take me to Pluto.

  Yes, well. I do. But now it's very personal.

  Why?

  Because now I know that there are limits to how far you'll go to see me happy, Micah. Once you know that, you can't really go back on it.

  That's such a harsh way to put it.

  But it's true, Micah. It isn't a lie. It might suck to hear, but it's the truth.

  Why are you in Tokyo?

  It's alright. You can change the subject.

  Thanks. Why are you in Tokyo?

  I just am.

  With somebody?

  Of course not.

  Because I kind of get the feeling that when you come back, everything ends. And if I have that feeling, maybe you already have that feeling, too. And maybe you figure there's no reason not to act on that feeling.

  Do you realize how much we fight now? Do you think I want to come back to that?

  Are you seeing somebody?

  Oh, fuck you, Micah. Go back to bed.

  Bob, where do I go if I want to work?

  You are not required to work, sir.

  Yes, I know that. But surely there are Onyx-class people who do.

  Onyx-class citizens create their own jobs.

  What if the job I want is not predicting social change, or writing a novel? What if I just want to push a button two thousand times a day? Or carry food to people? What if I want to run a machine press?

  Bob says, You will not be permitted to have any of those jobs. Those jobs are reserved for Machine-class citizens.

  Okay, what if I want to be a Machine-class citizen? Micah asks.

  You can't switch your class, unfortunately, Bob answers.

  No? What about Machine-class people? Can they ever become Onyx-class citizens?

  Bob pauses. There are certain exceptions to the standard rule that allow for that possibility.

  Oh? And what are these exceptions?

  If you were to wed a Machine-class citizen, they would inherit your status as your partner, and retain your status after your death, Bob says.

  That's interesting. I'm surprised that would be allowed.

  Marriage of a Machine-class citizen is only permitted if the Machine-class citizen is female and expecting the child of an Onyx-class citizen, Bob clarifies.

  Micah shrugs into his jacket. That's perverse, he says.

  Intimate relationships between Onyx-class and Machine-class citizens require approval from Station Administration.

  Micah gapes. The government permits or denies — what the —

  As I mentioned before, sir, Bob says, the Onyx program is a social experiment.

  Are all twelve stations structured this way?

  The Onyx program is still in its pilot phase, Bob says. Station Argus is its proving ground.

  So if there were, say, a Machine-class riot that overthrew the Onyx-class rule, this insane system wouldn't be adopted for the other eleven stations?

  I suppose that's accurate, Bob says.

  Huh, Micah says.

  Bob says, There are protections in place to prevent such an uprising.

  I'm sure. Bob, Micah says, tell me where I can get some food.

  Micah leaves the apartment and rides the lift tube to the top of the petal, four hundred fifteen floors above his own. The tube is transparent and runs along a central rail of the inner petal, providing a breathtaking view of Station Argus, fully unfolded. He is transfixed by the city below, more vast than any he has ever seen. Its towers and curving transport lines turn golden in the sun's glare. From so high, the travel pods look like dewdrops on the tendril of a plant.

  Micah had watched an animation on Earth that demonstrated the station's flower-like properties. The station had no stem, but its central city was flanked by ten massive petals shaped like sails. The city itself was constructed on an immense retractable platform. On days of particularly disruptive or dangerous solar flares, or if a stray asteroid ventured too close, the giant city would retract deep into the belly of the station, and the ten petals would turn and fold inward, locking together to transform Station Argus into a floating canister. Completely sealed, the station was as impenetrable as an oyster.

  He shakes his head. If he'd known about the class system —

  Would he still have come?

  How else would he have honored Mae's memory?

  Maybe another station.

  But he knows that Argus is the only station currently accepting new settlers. It is the newest of the fleet, and has not yet reached its population control level.

  All he had wanted was to carve out a small life, one as small as his had been on Earth, and to wake up each morning to watch the sunrise, and to have a cup of coffee and remember his wife. This new reality seems contrary to his simple goal. After just one brief conversation with Bob, Micah feels like a conspirator on the wrong side of a great and inhumane battle.

  The lift carries him to the top of the petal — at least as high as residents are permitted to visit. The observation deck — and to his horror, restaurant and nightclub — are still several hundred feet from the top of the tower.

  A woman in a crisp dark suit meets him as he exits the lift.

  Good day, sir, she says.

  Hi, he says.

  Seating for one? she asks.

  Um, Micah says. Actually, I was just hoping to take a look from the top. If I can do that.

  Of course, the woman says. You're free to move about as you choose, of course.

  He nods at her as he passes, wondering if she's Machine-class. He can't imagine that the station permits Onyx-class citizens to work in the food service industry, so she must be. Is she married? Is she hoping this year for a child? What sort of work does her husband do?

  Is she happy?

  Micah glances back at her. She has moved back to a small, transparent podium, and is standing quite still, watching the lift indicators closely.

  He feels for her. What a life.

  Get it together, he thinks. You're projecting your own feelings onto her right now. She's probably perfectly happy. She gets to live in space! No glow-in-the-dark stars pasted to the ceiling of her bedroom at night — she gets the real thing! Where do you get off?

  The hostess turns then and smiles at him.

  Get moving, Micah.

  He does.

  The observation platform is glorious, and terrifying. Micah is not the only person here. Several other people have already bra
ved their fears and were floating above the city. Some are nearby, ready to return to the tower quickly if needed. Others, perhaps more daring, are quite distant and small.

  Behind him is an alcove in the outer wall of the tower. This closet is filled with personal body jets, and Micah watches as a young man helps another into the suit. In fact, suit is the last word for the body jets. Rather, the attire is a simple exoskeleton that the wearer fits over his arms, legs, shoulders and spine. At pivot points, tiny attitude jets jut from the frame.

  Excuse me, says the young man.

  Micah steps back and watches as the man and his friend venture to the red line. An imprint on the floor reads:

  PERSONAL GRAVITY DISABLED PAST THIS POINT

  DO NOT PROCEED WITHOUT BODY JET OR TETHER

  The two men walk to the red line.

  Ready? the first man says.

  The second man looks dubious, but he nods.

  It's easy, says the first, stepping over the line.

  As soon as he crosses the line, his body stops being defined by his feet. He becomes lighter, and drifts very slowly upward, following the momentum of his final footsteps. He moves his hands a bit, and Micah sees the tiny jets fire imperceptibly from his shoulders, bringing him to an almost certain halt.

  The second man joins him, and after a few moments of reorienting himself, the two fire their bodyjets and sail out over the city. Micah watches them with a sense of wonder. From there, they must be able to see everything. Argus City's tallest spires are not so far below. Maybe they can even see people in the buildings.

  It occurs to him then to wonder about the buildings themselves. If the million or so Onyx-class citizens don't commute to jobs there, then do only Machine-class people work there? Why would Onyx citizens need to visit the city at all? What purpose does it serve?

  Again, he feels suffused with a sense of imbalance. He looks out over the station. Pale and hazy in the distance, he can see the farthest of the Onyx petals. He sees the station differently now, as though the Onyx-class citizens are on a shining hillside, looking down upon the peasants in the village.

  He watches the floating people in bodyjets. They're pointing and looking below.