by Mirren Hogan
“I’m gonna yell,” a guy in front of him announced, “You gotta get their attention.” He was wearing all yellow with a black band across his eyes. Ray didn’t care much for the banana look but then he hadn’t tried at all.
Some people shrieked when they were flung, others wailed. Ray gasped when it was his turn but made no other sound. He tried to pose his body as if he had some measure of control but crumpled miserably at the yank, like a puppet on strings, limbs flailing. And he was unable to recover his poise before the slam and dump down the slide.
Springing to his feet at the bottom, he grinned and looked around on several sides. Robots stood by, ready to invite applicants for interviews. People continued to come down the slide, and several were called, but Ray was ignored.
“Move along, Contestant,” a voice admonished him. He had no idea what he should have done or not done, or if it even mattered.
“Was there some…?” He left the question unfinished as robotic cilia on the walls coaxed him to the exit.
Ka-ching! A bell sounded as he went out the swinging door.
You have three job offers in the Seattle Port Authority Warehouse division! The words flashed in his carnival contact lenses. They have now been added to your carnival portfolio. Return to the PARTY to celebrate or try for bigger wins!
Consolation jobs for losers. That’s how they could advertise that everyone goes home a winner.
It’s not a big deal, he told himself. Chances are he wouldn’t really like a job that expected you to excel at being flung out and snapped back. What kind of work would even need that? For a moment, speculation along those lines distracted him but a current of partiers—obviously with newly awarded jobs—was sweeping him in the direction of another ride.
“Roll and dive! Climb and fall! Show your expertise in the Spacer!” A larger than life hologram boomed in the distance, probably someone famous that most fans would recognize, but Ray couldn’t quite place him with the flamboyant eye patch.
He found himself picking up speed and clipping around some of the slower walkers, as if getting ahead of them gave him an advantage. It felt good, like cruising in the fast lane past the slower hover cars.
“Only the best can tackle the course and prove themselves worthy!” a beautiful, woman-like robot, glittering in sequins and voluminous folds of velvet, proclaimed in his direction as he pushed through the door. “Are you one of the few?”
“Yes!” he belted out with more confidence than he felt.
She waved an arm draped with fabric and the passageway opened underneath her booted feet. Down he went, into the twinkly sparkle of a starry night, brutally cold, past nebula, burning stars, and light-wreathed black holes, as if floating through space. Soon he was strapping into the spacer car and gripping the wheel.
“Time is of the essence,” a deep voice urged. “Find the way and rescue the crew of the Opal transport from certain death by asphyxiation.” A bonus game challenge. Low, rhythmic music thrummed in the vehicle walls and vibrated through his body.
Foot poised, eyes wide, Ray squeezed the wheel tightly, waiting, holding his breath. This was good. He had clocked a number of runs on this ride. Then the second the doors pinged open, he pounced, foot slammed into the accelerator, leaning into the dashboard as he shot out.
The maze changed every single day and no two paths were alike, but there was a familiarity to it that he had learned through practice. Zooming, turning, rolling to the left, accelerating up and over a planet on the right, dropping down into blackness where he knew an opening had to be. Exhilarating, heady, fun. And near the end, in the final stretch, where he knew there was enough room, he executed a flawless forward roll and braked forcefully to zero just before the crash cushion.
The Opal has been found in time and 85% of the crew will live… streamed marquee-style in his contact lenses and he wondered if the percent mattered.
“Forward,” a robot instructed as he leapt from the spacer, gesturing to a brown door on his left.
Ray burst through the door as if the aura of the spacer had left a residue, adrenaline still pumping, eyes darting around. Yes! He knew his racing put him up there in the rankings. Ha, ha!
Over thirty others were in the room, moving slowly and finding places to sit while the hall filled. This was a bit discouraging.
After ten or fifteen minutes and the arrival of a handful more people, the lights dimmed. Ray found himself noticing the costumes in the room as color faded. Not as many sequins or feathers…or faux fur… people were, as a group, less adorned here.
“Congratulations!” A voice broadcast cheerily. “You are in the upper third of the Spacer runners this evening and have been inducted into the minor league pool of potential spaceflight pilot candidates! Well done! These credentials have been added to your portfolio and will open many doors for you!”
Ray’s mouth dropped open and a wave of disappointment surged through him. A number of voices around him echoed his sentiment, some cursing, some moaning, some resigned.
The doors that opened today led back to the carnival. A scrolling list of inferior, earthside job openings flitted in the column of his contacts. There was a sour, metallic taste in his mouth.
“I should’ve had a chance,” a voice nearby complained. “I was good.”
Others were better.
The Drowners’ Trap proved to be a frustrating and nerve-wracking ordeal. If wallowing in black water, in a vast tank devoid of light, in a crushingly claustrophobic steel helmet, fumbling with a maze of connectors and tubes, assembling a functioning system, that you have to guess at, working with strangers around you that you can’t hear or understand—if that’s what he had to do to get a job off-world—then he wouldn’t.
The exit to that one had a number of vexed faces and murmuring malcontents. No sequins at all. Ray assumed the optimistically decorated folk were too smart to waste their time here.
But the failure galled him. He hated not being able to stand out and it was beginning to feel like his fate this night, wrapping him with seaweed and dragging him down into his own Drowners’ Trap.
“I hate it,” he mumbled bitterly as underwater construction job ads were inserted like junk mail into his portfolio.
Stopping by several minor stalls, he made his way around the park, not quite gaining the prize in shooting, or snagging the holographic ring toss, or nailing the speed racing on scooter skates—what jobs would those get you?—and found himself sinking into a spot on a bench with a tofu dog and chips.
Keep at it or give up and go home? He wondered as he chewed in time to the nearest band playing the latest version of “On Broadway”.
“Well, if nothing else,” he reminded himself, “Persistence pays off in any field.” Somehow, somewhere, there must be a door, or a window.
Not the slammer balls, though… people encased in rubber balls, rolling around bumping into everyone else. The place was filled with aggressive punks and chaos and was just plain stupid.
In the next ten minutes, he was sucked into a ‘Bunny Hop’ line that pulled him off track a few meters, accosted by two overly friendly androids he was able to escape without offense, presented with offers of wine tasting and fire-walking which he declined, and found himself back on the path to off-world job opportunities again.
By the time he got to the Mystery Mansion he was out of sorts. The carnival wasn’t fun anymore.
He was soon standing in the Mystery Mansion game hall with about twenty others of all sizes, shapes, and colors, muttering to himself.
“What’s the point?” he complained to no one in particular.
“You’re not having a good time?” a guy nearby, looking out of place in jeans and a flannel shirt, quirked a corner of his mouth.
“Am I supposed to be?”
“I don’t know. A lot of people are.”
A jester nearby laughed suddenly as if to punctuate the fact.
“I don’t think they’re actually here for the jobs. Maybe they alrea
dy have jobs they like and are competing for fun. And if they get a good offer, they might take it…” Ray couldn’t keep the frustration out of his voice.
The guy in jeans looked at him with a hint of sympathy. “What have you tried for?”
“Spacer, Flinger, a few others.” He dropped his chin, staring down at the floor as the lights began flashing around them.
“Looking for off-world jobs?” The guy, lean, hands shoved in his front pockets, seemed well-balanced, as if he wouldn’t tip over in a storm.
“Yeah,” Ray shrugged and tried to smile. He didn’t really care, and it didn’t matter. “My earth job just doesn’t… whatever… It’s fine. I have a paycheck. They like me. I exist and get by.” It came out more bitterly than he’d intended, and the strobing red and green flashes made him feel he was being jostled.
“Yeah?” the guy responded, un-jostled. “What would you do if you could?”
Ray stared at him for a moment, searching for the right words. Anything, was what he wanted to say, but it wasn’t true. He wanted to do something important, find adventure, be involved in something great. And he wanted to have fun while doing it.
The strobing lights swirled faster and the wall in front of them melted away. The mystery had begun and there were puzzles to solve, mazes to negotiate, and spies to identify.
Ray hesitated.
The guy waited, gazing into his eyes knowingly and finally nodded. “I get it,” he said. “It’s hard to put into words. We should get going, though. Some of these are timed.”
“Yeah, I enjoy timed tests...” he replied as they shot forward, the guy inches ahead of him.
It was more fun having an acquaintance to compete with, and he made excellent time through the various challenges, even the untimed ones. Never quite putting much distance between the guy and himself in either direction, ahead or behind. The one chance he had, he wasted, when an overly zealous contestant blasted through, knocking them both aside, and the guy in jeans went flat on his back. Ray decided to help him up. It was instinct. Later the hit-and-run character was kicked out for some reason and Ray couldn’t resist a moment of gloating. That was also instinct.
They ended up scoring among the top third. Decent… again. Achievements would be noted in their portfolios and many doors would open for them… again.
But no one invited them to an interview.
The Gravity Hall of Mirrors awaited, like a beacon of solemnity anchored at the edge of the park. The final challenge, the last opportunity, the true test of mettle. And there were sixty-four prime space positions to fill. Ray felt his heart soaring unreasonably at the sight of it.
He had a chance in that one.
Looking around casually, he realized he’d gotten separated from the guy in jeans and for a moment regretted not asking his name. Maybe if he hadn’t started jogging.
“You got this, Ray,” he muttered to himself, clenching and unclenching his fists, loosening his shoulders as he loped along.
Entrance to the ride was restricted and whole mobs were being turned away for intoxicants in their bloodstream. Ray experienced a moment of smug delight at the carnival revelry.
Gravity.
Anyone with off-world experience would already have space-legs, keeping their head straight, no matter how the sense of up and down changed. For them, the only challenge would be the mirrors. But this was a night for amateurs.
“Do you agree to absolve the Seattle Center, the Planetary Solar Flare Human Assets organization, and the individuals running this event from all liability for any and all…”
Blah. Blah. Blah. Yes! Yes! Get on with it! He agreed as soon as the Legal-gram gave him a chance and stepped through the scanner.
He was alone at one end of a hallway, and the place where he stood grew dark while the opposite end glowed like a setting sun, smooth, flowing waves of color wafting toward him… then it began. The first shift pulled him forward gently and grew in strength as the air sped up and what had been a breeze became a torrent. He was ready when the full drop engaged and landed on his feet at the sunny end of the hall, on what had been a side wall.
Mirrors unfolded around him and he saw multiple, moving images of himself, bathed in orange and red sunlight. He made a few advances before finding an opening and stepped into the next chamber. It began rotating, or maybe it was just the gravity field shifting, and he started to slide. Thousands of reflecting images of his own body, framed in Greek columns, fanned around him. He knew they were optical illusions but somewhere a clue would lead him.
Down was easiest, but not the best way to go. He clawed at the columns and found a real one he could grasp after a few tries. It bore his weight as the chamber continued to roll and left him swinging. He swung back and forth, looking around and decided to fling caution to the wind—pun intended, he narrated to himself—and vault himself as high as he could toward some of the mirrors and columns.
Gravity rewarded him with a strong tug just as his feet arched up, before he began to fall, and he found himself in a new chamber with a completely different world.
“Aahh!” he uttered, stunned by the joy and beauty of it all. So much light and structure and sound! Music and ocean waves, the murmuring of voices. He stood and gazed around in amazement as people milled around him. Were they real? Were there thousands or only a few caught in a mirrored chamber that seemed to have no end?
There was a fountain in the middle of the chamber. Ray sat down on the wide edge designed for that and just stared around, fascinated by the canopy overhead of mirrored stars and planets, intersected with clouds and dark blue sky, as if the sun were setting on Earth and the galaxy was spreading across in its place. That one room painted the picture for him. The dream. All fractured in hexagonal reflections on all sides.
“Hey!” the guy in jeans showed up, pausing next to him. “How’d you get here ahead of me?”
“What?” Ray asked, eyes focusing, recognizing him. “Am I?”
“I thought I made good timing.”
“Oh,” he shrugged, wondering how long he had sat there. “I don’t know. I was a little disappointed with the last one, so I got here faster, I guess.”
“And sat down for a rest?” the guy grinned, shaking his head a little. “So, you’re not trying for the timed thing then?”
“This one isn’t timed,” Ray smiled back. “I just wanted to relax a minute and get some perspective. It was good.”
“Yeah, but you never know what may give you an edge.” He sat down as though he agreed, as if he wanted a break, too; as if he wanted to savor the place a little before moving on.
Ray stood up, rocked on his toes, and decided to get moving again.
“Good luck,” the guy in jeans said.
“Wait,” Ray stopped in mid-turn and looked back. “What’s your name?”
“Stan,” he answered, stretching out a hand for a firm shake. Solid. Steady.
“Ray,” he replied, “I hope you make it out there, Stan.”
“You, too.”
The rest of the challenge was tough, stretching him, accelerating his heart, revving up his focus, using all his skills and talent. He told himself as he dove over the final bar, pulled his body into a fetal curl, gees shifting, and stretched out to plant his feet and land in a crouch on solid ground—he told himself the experience alone was worth it. He would remember it forever. Dream about it. And he almost believed himself.
But when he walked out into the room and saw the “Top Third” award flashing in his face, it was almost more than he could bear. The most crushing moment of his life.
Good at everything. Top third, in fact, but just not quite good enough to matter.
Exiting the final challenge of the carnival, he almost ran into a bundle of shrieking partiers, all dressed alike in pink, who went running by chattering noisily about their big break into holographic vaudeville.
Ray watched them for a moment. Vaudeville would never be something he cared about, and he couldn’t be jealous
of their opportunity. But he did envy the thrill of the win. Bitterly.
The door swung open behind him and the guy in jeans came out, eyes on the ground, hands in pockets, not celebrating. He stopped when he noticed Ray’s feet and looked up, recognition flashing in his eyes with a hint of surprise.
“No?” he questioned.
Ray shook his head.
“How about a beer?” Stan suggested. “Somewhere else.”
“Yeah,” Ray nodded. “I know a place,” and led him out the nearest exit.
Outside the walls a chilly wind blew, and dead leaves tossed across the streets and sidewalks. A rat scurried by on the street with something in its teeth and distant hover cars hummed overhead. Their footsteps sounded crisply on the pavement as they made their way to the tavern.
“You didn’t make it either,” Stan commiserated, once they were settled at the bar, tipping his beer, taking a swallow.
“No.” One word, loaded with meaning. Turns in the path of life can be abrupt.
“There’s always next year.” Stan leaned back. Not turning.
“I’m never trying again,” Ray said, scraping carelessly at a spot on his glass. Sometimes the soul makes vows deep in the gut and barely a ripple shows through on the surface.
“You don’t mean that.” He tested him with those words.
“I always thought…” Ray drew shapes with his finger on the counter. “… the day would come. That I was supposed to be out there. That I couldn’t go through my whole life without ever making it into space.” Time to cut off the dream. Live here, with the known, and the tavern, and the bar stool.
Stan stared at him, one of those rare looks where the listener knows what you mean even if you say it badly.
“You thought it was destiny, but now…” As though he’d been there.
“I know. It’s stupid.” Ray held his glass, almost empty.
“Is life here that bad?” Stan waved a hand toward the world outside the bar.
Ray shook his head. “It’s fine.” He struggled to find the right words. “I just longed for something more… I don’t know why it had to be out there.” He had been ready. For years. But not any longer.