I have to believe I’m not alone. She really was there. We shared something. We shared our lives together. We grew up together.
I gave up on the idea of my mom a long time ago. And, years later, learning that she’d lied to me, I gave her up again.
But I can’t give up on Willow. Even if she is a lie.
Day 5000
I’m almost 21. I’ve built telescopes. I’ve piloted a spaceship faster than any human in history. I’ve lived my entire life as a single, solitary pioneer. I’m a physicist. I’ve learned it all, from general relativity, to quantum mechanics, and even finally figured out how our engines work, how they scoop up energy from the virtual particle background. I’ve even learned how to draw properly, though I’m still but a shadow of an artist compared to Willow.
I’ve come so far. And now I’m sick. Came down with the same space sickness that Willow did. I’m no doctor, I don’t really understand medicine and how the body works—that was my one area of academic deficiency. But something about the constant radiation combined with the lower gravity and the food I’m eating every day. I’m weak, shaky, have bad diarrhea every day, I’m lightheaded, I pass out a lot. The only solution is to go into hibernation early.
I’m still two years out from when I was supposed to enter hibernation for the Big Stop. That period of extreme deceleration is supposed to last two years. But I can’t live like this. Philae says that going into hibernation will cure me.
Before I go, I’m drawing one last piece. I know I’ll never, ever be even a thousandth as good as Willow, but I tried to get it right. I painted a picture of her, and me, holding each other. Just like that one stupid little stick figure drawing I drew all those years ago. But this time it’s a masterpiece. At least, for my skills it is. I’m taping it to the window. If she’s real, if she’s still alive, and if she ever wakes up, and if she survives the Big Stop, then maybe, just maybe, she’ll see it.
And remember me.
Day 6421
I’m awake.
More on this later. Damn, my head hurts.
Day 6422
Yesterday was awful. Today’s still bad—I have to dictate this instead of type. Gertie finally got me the right combo of pills, and now I can actually think. I can move without screaming. Still so tired. I kept asking Philae how much time passed. If we made it. If Willow made it. He wouldn’t say. He said it’s best to discover these things by ourselves. He said something strange—he said the most devastating lies are the ones we tell ourselves, but the most liberating truths are the ones we discover on our own.
Sleep now. Hopefully tomorrow I can get out of bed.
Day 6425
I spent three more days in bed, down with a high fever. Something about the space sickness lingered, and triggered an immune response. But I’m better now. Much better. I’m out of bed, but there’s no way I can climb that ladder. And no windows down here in the equipment room where they kept me near the hibernation chamber, so I hope I have strength to climb tomorrow.
Last Day.
Day 6426
I climbed up the ladder. All the way to the seventh floor, to my observatory. When I looked out the window, I noticed something strange. The stars were there, just as it appeared they always were, but these looked different, somehow. And the observatory was lit with a strange glow. When I looked out the window, I saw the source of the light. It was so bright that it hurt my eyes—I saw a terrible black circle, an afterimage, for ten minutes afterward.
That meant one thing, and only one thing.
The holographic projectors were off. I noticed the edges of the window—the lead shielding had been folded away. I was really looking out the window. At real stars. At a real sun. When I pointed my Newtonian at a particularly bright star, it wasn’t a star.
It was a planet. Finally, after all those years of studying astronomy, building telescopes, trying to find things to point my refractor at, and then my Cassegrain, and then my Newtonian, finally I found something different.
But I’d always had something worth looking at.
I turned my scope down, to where she was. To Hope 92. And there it was—it was so close, closer than it ever had been before, so close that I almost didn’t need my Newtonian to look at it.
But I looked anyway. There was the picture of the valley glowing in the late afternoon sun. Behind it, taped to the wall, was the old stick figure picture I’d drawn. The one that made Willow feel loved. And near that was her refractor, assembled from the plans I’d made her.
She wasn’t there.
But taped next to the valley painting, written in beautiful script, was a note.
Alex. I’ve been waiting for you for so long.
I’m real, I’m alive. And I love you.
You’ll be a farmer. I’ll be a doctor.
You’ll be an astronomer. I’ll be a painter.
You’ll be glad to see me again. And I’ve waited so long to see you.
Welcome home.
A Word from Nick Webb
Hope 91 started with a question: what would happen if Earth was doomed, and figuring out how to get as many young people shipped off to a new Earth-like world as possible was our only hope of survival as a species? This story flowed out of me like no short story has before. This young person’s story unfolded as if I were reading it out of his journal myself and feeling his triumphs and his heartbreaking failures. He grows up on this ship traveling at near light speed to get to a planet thousands of light years away, knowing only his three robots, until finally he meets the girl, whom the robots have shrouded in just enough mystery to make him want her all the more. And, even though they are separated by just a few hundred yards and two impenetrable ship hulls, they grow as close as any two young people could, facing their triumphs and heartbreaks together—until they don’t, and the girl’s absence focuses the boy’s mind. He wants not only to get her back, but to get her back forever, to live with her for the rest of his life on a new world. But before he gets there, he needs to unravel the truth that the robots and the original ship builders have kept hidden from him for almost his entire life.
This is a story that I hope one day to turn into a full-length novel. But until then, you’ll have to enjoy my other novels, which have more of a space opera-ey flair, complete with starships, aliens, politics, and heroes staving off total disaster. To find them, look for me at my website, www.nickwebbwrites.com, or Facebook at Facebook.com/endiwebb.
Sequester
by Ann Christy
“NO.”
The word rang like a bell in the vast space between worlds. They were both now inhabited worlds... but very differently inhabited. On one world, the silence that followed was brought on by disbelief. On the other, the silence was simply what it was, an absence of sound.
Mark Myerson’s finger hovered over the talk button on his console. Like most of the other buttons on the console, this one was worn nearly smooth. The ridges that were once so perfectly formed during manufacturing were now gone, smoothed by years of fingertip touches. His finger dipped toward the button’s weak glow, then raised again. His uncertainty was showing.
He started as a hand landed on his shoulder, the person behind him not satisfied to wait.
“What does she mean by no? No what? No to deploying the mining vehicle or what?”
Mark shook his head a little, not quite sure himself. All he knew is that the word itself was sufficient to alarm him. No—as in the denial of an order—wasn’t a word she should have been able to say. This would have to be handled delicately. They were all very aware of what happened when such things were dealt with poorly.
“Mark, what does she mean?”
Turning away from the console and the utterly still face still filling his screen, he looked at his shift partner. Bill’s eyes were too round, his face too nakedly fearful. Bill knew what it meant. He just didn’t want to believe it. The hand at Mark’s shoulder fell away to clutch tightly
at the other in his lap. Yes, he knew.
“She means no,” Mark said quietly.
Bill leaned back in his chair so heavily that the wheels squeaked and the chair scooted back a few inches. That was good, really. Mark felt the need for some space in which to think. Having a frightened and slightly sweaty co-worker hovering at his back wasn’t conducive to quick or rational thought.
“We’re screwed,” Bill said, almost to himself.
Mark’s nod was almost absentminded, but also not very firm. About this he was also unsure... the being screwed part. The word “no” had many facets and nuances. Perhaps they could finesse the no into a sort of yes, enough of a yes anyway. But not right now. First, Mark had to report and then they all needed to think. Everyone would need to talk about the problem, then figure out the best possible solution.
They needed to get their act together.
Turning back to the console, Mark tapped the comms button and said, “Mars Base, I have received your transmission. We will resume this report during the next scheduled communications window. Earth Base, out.”
It would take time for his words to travel the distance, and even more time for any response to return, so niceties weren’t protocol. His “out” meant that no further reply was required. Had he sounded calm enough? Unbothered? Mark sincerely hoped so.
There was no need to stay in the control room. Their round the clock presence there was more habit than necessity. That was one benefit of their situation. It was also one that had helped sell this program to those who funded expensive space-related endeavors. The first Mars mission had failed, each human astronaut meeting their fate until there was only one left. And that one had died too in the end, but by his own hand. Loneliness and grief. And all of it rolled past the eyes of the world, a round the clock view that at first bred excitement, then dread as the deaths began. And finally, there was nothing left save a program-ending level of anger. Never again, was the cry of those who funded the programs.
But then... well... what about PePrs, those human-shaped robots that served humanity in so many other ways? They couldn’t die. Sure, they could malfunction or become non-functional, but they didn’t die. They didn’t leave weeping children and spouses, or explode into sprays of flash-frozen red on live television. And they were stronger, more focused, less prone to mishap. Mars was too fine a prize to deny and the funding rolled in, though it was a much smaller pie to be divided up. PePrs would go first, build and secure a base. They would do the dangerous stuff.
And only then would humans send fragile flesh and blood creatures to tame Mars once more.
It wasn’t until long after launch that Earth realized their dreadful mistake. Long after the landing on Mars and those first months of exploration. And now the mistake they had hoped would never have consequences was showing its face. Its inhuman face. Its robotic face, one covered by vaguely bluish synth-skin and eyes that seemed far too flat to be real. But humanity couldn’t have known, couldn’t have guessed that sixty-three years of service would collapse just as the Mars Mission finished repairing the defunct base left behind by those dead astronauts.
Mark levered his tired body up from the deep chair. A slight ripping sound accompanied the movement and he reached back to peel the piece of duct tape from his behind, sighing as he looked at it. There was no more duct tape to repair the chair cushion. Bill made a noise that conveyed how useless Mark’s action was when he tried to stick the tape back in place.
The control room door was propped open to facilitate some airflow into the formerly sealed space. The fancy electronic locks and scanners were all so much useless plastic and metal now. They husbanded their supplies of power with great care and no one here needed to be locked out of anything.
Not anymore.
Before their current situation, there had been bunkrooms for scientists who felt the need to stay overnight during important phases of various launches or landings. Now, those temporary bunkrooms were permanent living spaces and the pair in the control room headed that way. The once pristine walls and floors had gone gray and dingy, months of close living doing little to keep things tidy. Mark tried not to look at his surroundings too objectively. When he did, he sank into depression and there were no meds for that.
As they passed a closed metal door hung with chains and a lock, Bill asked, “Do you think it’s happened up there too?” His nod toward the doors made it clear what he meant.
Mark didn’t even glance toward the sealed space. He didn’t even like to think about what lay beyond. He only shook his head and replied, “We can’t know for sure. Not yet.”
The smell of unwashed bodies and sour clothing billowed out like a cloud when they pushed into the bunkroom. Their de-facto leader, Dr. Goring, tossed aside the book he was reading and practically leapt from his bottom bunk at the sight of them. There were still hours left on their watch, so he knew without asking that something had gone dreadfully wrong.
“What happened?” he demanded as he approached them. His voice was loud enough to wake the person sleeping in the bunk above him. All the others in the room not sleeping looked their way.
“Mars Base said no.” There was no point in dragging it out. It was best to get the last part out, because they would rehash everything that happened before. This way he would only have to go through the lead up to that word once.
The sound of so many indrawn breaths in one space almost sounded like the now-defunct ventilation systems kicking on again. It was strange the things one missed once they were gone. Ventilation was one of those things for Mark. This was especially true when it was his turn to sit on the bike for his two hour shift, providing the power for their breathable air. The rear wheel to a bike taken from the NASA gym had been rigged to the largest ventilation fan on the roof, and it required four shifts a day to keep the air inside livable.
As always, Dr. Goring took control of the situation quickly, gathering the remaining staff in the cafeteria before allowing any further discussion or questions. There was no point talking about the situation until then. Every brain in the building had to be brought to bear on any problem. There were so few human minds left that even Mark, who had no experience or skill at space related issues, was counted among those necessary minds.
Two years ago, Mark had been a new hire, fresh from school and eager to learn. His job here at NASA had only the most peripheral relationship to space. He was a Tuner, a specialist assigned by Perfect Partners, Incorporated to government agencies that purchased “special purpose” PePrs—Perfect Partners. Technically, the PePrs assigned here were nothing like those companionship models the company took its name from. Most PePrs weren’t like that now, though. Instead, they were everything from pharmacist to nanny, from genetic engineer to clothing designer, from farmer to animal control worker. They did everything, so that humans could enjoy life free from drudgery. That drudgery included working many positions at NASA. While NASA had a far higher percentage of human workers than most agencies, they still used PePrs for maintenance and routine work. And Mark had been sent to maintain them, load new skills into them, and essentially, act as a PePr wrangler.
Though no one liked to discuss it, PePrs did most jobs better than humans. No distractions, no family issues, no requirements for a personal life. Even NASA had been expanding the duties of their PePrs, hence Mark’s assignment here. And Mark had been very busy.
At least for a while. At least while the world was still normal.
Cups of slightly off-color water in front of them—their rations had been restricted again, but these meetings always included a cup of water—Dr. Goring motioned for Mark to rise and said, “Please tell us exactly what happened. Be precise.”
He wasn’t being rude. Brevity in speech was simply Dr. Goring’s way. He had been slated for retirement, but held off for the Mars Mission as a favor to the head of NASA. Mark often wondered if he regretted that decision. After all, he’d made his home in Maryland and would likely never know
what happened to his wife, his children... his grandchildren.
Shaking his head a little to clear his thoughts, Mark stood and tried not to be unnerved by the twenty-three pairs of eyes on him. The only people missing were those on security watch around the complex and the ventilation biker. “Mars Base initiated an unscheduled communication today. Their last communication was completely normal... compliant with all directives. No warning signs at all were evident during our communication window this morning.” He paused there and looked around the cluster of tables pushed together. It was important they know this was entirely out of the blue.
Raising his hand tentatively to get Mark’s attention, Terrence—one of the remaining engineers—said, “Last night’s window was completely normal too. They were getting the deep drill in place.”
Mark and a few others nodded their understanding. Moving the deep drill was really the final step in a long string of precursor activities. It was the easy part, but even something “easy” took a great deal of time on Mars. Absolutely everything except dying took longer on Mars.
Finding the right spot to employ the drill had been the hard part, and also the part that took the longest. In this case, one hundred and thirty-four days of ceaseless search and analysis. Yet it was worth all that and more. It was worth everything, in truth. They hadn’t just found a place to drill a hole. They had found a place to drill a hole that would be plugged by a factory capable of sending pure water down a series of pipes into a habitat suitable for humans.
Best of Beyond the Stars Page 12