Novels

Hannah Klein licked her lips. She rarely did anymore; constant chapped lips provided her solid motivation for breaking the habit, but when she was nervous, the old behavior resurfaced.

It bothered her that she was nervous. Not just because it brought back her lip-licking, but because there was no good reason for it. Her entire career had been full of presentations to URC panels. It was part of the job. After weeks of study, she knew the proposal backwards and forwards, and any question the committee thought up that she didn’t immediately know the answer too would likely come from the team of aides seated behind her.

She’d even argued this exact proposal before. Granted, it was more than two decades ago, when she had just been appointed as an EU Liaison, and a lot had changed since then; but now she was an established figure at the URC. They knew her, and she knew her trade.

So why was she so nervous?

The Kolonie-Arche Projekt was what had first brought Michael and Antje together. Two decades prior, at a fancy EU party, the then-newly appointed EUSAA director had pinned a freshly elected German minister to the wall when she had inadvertently expressed an interest in space-exploration.

“It’s a common mistake,” Michael explained. “Everyone still assumes we’re planning on colonizing the solar system.” There were countless papers and projects to that effect. Deep in the EUSAA’s files, Mars, Venus, and even the moon were officially slated for colonization. Scientists had been talking about it for decades, and the programs and designs for doing so were dime a dozen.

“No?” Antje took a sip of her wine. “I am still new to the Bundestag; I am always learning about new projects. I assumed the EUSAA would have been working on something like colonization.”

“We are,” Michael licked his lips. “Or rather, I am; but not for our solar-system. Colonizing outside the solar system is the only project that makes any sense.”

A little less than an hour later, Michael Donnahill stepped off the mag-train at the New Bath Airport, carrying a single briefcase and dressed in his lightest clothing. He had been cursing himself the entire trip, thinking about the lonely umbrella that sat next to the door in his apartment.

He had always traveled light. He had to; a government salary didn’t give him the resources to bring extra shoes or changes of clothing. Travel was expensive, and every pound counted. When it was possible, he didn’t even bother to bring his briefcase, opting instead to slip his computer in his pocket and be done with it. Packing, for Michael, could take hours as he inspected each shirt, sock, and toiletry to decide if he really needed to bring it.

This trip, however, had inhabited that rare paradox of being impossible to pack for and therefore easy to pack for. Michael knew nothing about what Antje wanted, except it was for more than just a drink. Free from the knowledge of what to expect, he was able to forego agonizing what to bring. Instead, Michael threw on the lightest clothing he had and stuffed an old jacket and tie in a side-bag. He could remote-terminal into his office if he needed to access information back at the EUSAA.

Sometimes, it’s the little things.

For example: when Michael Donnahill was seven, he saw the 2090 eclipse as it blacked out the sky over the English Isles of the EU, what was once called Great Britain before the food riots. He sat on a grassy hill on what his grandfather still called the Isle of Wight, surrounded by thousands of onlookers as they all stared up into the sky, wearing their thin black glasses.

It was moderately cloudy that day, but everyone could still see the dim burning disk as it was eaten away, sliver by sliver, behind the thick fog of clouds. Michael watched as the world grew darker and darker still, his heart racing as night fell faster and faster, until 4:56 on the twenty-third of September was as dark as midnight in winter.

And that is how my poem ends. A satisfying ending for myself, and certainly for my companions, though I am sure it hasn’t entirely ended for all of them. Mx. Image and Mr. Porist, of course, left for the Tides of Three Shades, though Mr. Porist seemed far more insistent than Image. The poor Marq turned an eye towards me with a mild click of bemusement before they both left. I think our chitinous friend had already attained more than xer goal could provide.

Now I suppose you desire an explanation for what happened once we had finished our dance. Alas, this is a poem, and poetry provides truths not through narrative, but through thought, heart, and soul. The Great Construction was completed, but so far I think never used. The engineers and scientists went home, happy with their efforts and with the simple assumption that someone somewhere might finish it someday. A commonplace occurrence for those who are only responsible for the middle of a project.

The door was large and steel. The room was cold and dark. My Archonarchian friend ushered me inside, and closed the door behind me. The light came from high above, creating a cold silver circle for me to stand in. I certainly felt at the time that the dark emptiness was a refreshing change from the chaotic outside. The noise had given an ache to my head, and now I found myself at rest.

In the centuries before recorded time, before the Myriad Worlds were set in their spiraling dance, the great giant Yurghyn stood tall on the land of Ut-cart. Ut-cart was, among the known world, the most verdant and beloved of lands, with people who cared well for each other and the balance-of-things. Yurghyn, however, did not care for the balance-of-things, for the evil that he saw in the wasp sting and the viper’s tooth repulsed him.

I am not ashamed to admit, I was crying when we left Lady Song. I did not look to see if my companions too had been affected by her words; more fool me, I thought it polite. Of course, had I been born of another time and perhaps another place, I would likely have found it the height of callousness to allow them their thoughts alone. Of course, that lovely part of me that embraces my Sensate nature was already crafting a poem — but now I found myself in conflict twice over.

And there we were, in the darkness. Surrounded. Alone. The five of us together. No hopes, no dreams, nothing but the uncertain truth of our situation. There was a pool of light we could not see. A howling scream we could not hear. Children, children everywhere, grabbing and laughing and crying. Thousands dead, thousands more alive. A singular moment stretched on into infinity. We were now, and then, and to become.