It didn’t look like the stars were moving at all. Will knew they were, of course, because the ship was hurtling towards its destination at a speed incomprehensible to the human mind. It was just that there were so many of them, and space was so large, that a casual observer would just assume the ship was stationary, floating aimlessly in space.
The mere fact that it was difficult to spot the movement of the stars didn’t stop him from trying, however. Sometimes, he’d sit for hours, watching for any hint of motion, eyes watering from the effort of keeping them open. Every now and then, he’d suddenly spot the movement he was seeking, see for a moment the subtle shift of the heavens, all of it coming together in the space of a breath, and he would experience the brief and tiny elation that this success brought him.
Then, he would simply pick another spot on the vast canvas of space and start all over again.
If someone asked him what he was doing, he wouldn’t have a ready answer. He had no intentions, no final goal in mind as he sat and stared; he was simply bored, and this was his way of passing the time. It was a strangely contradictory activity in that it was simultaneously low and high effort, because all he had to do was sit and stare, but it required a great deal of patience. But that was something he’d always had: patience. Even before he’d boarded this ship, in the life before the mass evacuation of Earth, he’d been a very patient man. Patience, his father had taught him, was a skill like any other, which meant it could be developed and honed with time and effort.
Will had taken this lesson to heart, and he’d made it the through line of his life. In his old job, back on Earth, he liked to think of himself as a problem solver. People came and dropped their problems on his desk, and it was his job to sort through the tangled mess, finding the spots where he could poke and prod and encourage the thread to untangle. It wasn’t a job where brute force worked; often, that would just make things worse. But there was almost always a solution if one had the patience to wait for it. A lot of the time, the solution would refuse to come to him until he’d sat with the problem first, feeding it phantom crumbs of thought and attention. Only then would the solution slink up to him and sit in his lap, fully formed, staring up at him with innocent eyes.
It was this skill that Will now used as he sat at his desk for hours, his terminal displaying the external ship feed, gazing at the stars. But although a billion tiny dots shone at him through the display, there was no real light in his eyes. His only objective was to pass the time, because there was nothing else he wanted to do. His pointless vigils were a silent murder of minutes, each second that ticked away meant that he was further from the life he had left behind, further from the things he wanted to forget.
A beep from his hand terminal brought him out of his reverie, the sound bouncing around the tiny, cramped space of his personal quarters. His eyes slid from the screen displaying the stars, and moved towards the hand terminal that lay facedown on the desk. He flipped it over, and activated the screen. When he did, the sudden brightness of the display assaulted his eyes, which had become used to the darkness. After they’d adjusted, and the sudden spike of dull pain that the light caused had dissipated, he was able to read the message from his unit captain:
Team, Economical Residency District of Deck 46 is now officially out of emergency status, but movement restrictions are still in place. We’ve been assigned there tomorrow, but Command tells me that they don’t expect much trouble. See you all at 0500.
Going down for the cleanup sweep in that district wasn’t ideal, but Will supposed he was lucky he hadn’t been assigned there during the revolt (or ‘The Incident’, as Command preferred to call it). The response from ship security had been fierce, and the fight had become bloody before long. The general consensus was that the revolutionaries would be cowed for some time. Will would probably be safe there.
Probably.
He looked at the terminal again, checking the time. If he left now, he could make it to the mess hall before the shift changeover flooded it with hungry and noisy grunts. He stood, stretched the kinks out of his back, scooped up his hand terminal, and left his quarters.
The food was rubbery and took a long time to chew, so while he ate in the mess hall, Will passed the time here by doing another kind of watching: people watching.
Tonight, he sat in the far corner, away from the only other people that were there; he wanted to watch, not be watched. Sitting down on the hard metal bench, he pretended to busy himself with the food before him. When he was sure he’d faded into the background, he started surreptitiously looking and listening. Those he watched were people he knew of in passing, but as he didn’t really have any interaction with them on a day-to-day basis, he knew some of their names and not much else. Talking loudest among the small group was a man named Joseph Corrigan, but everyone called him Kid because of how short he was. He had the frantic energy of a child, too, which just made the nickname stick even harder. Joseph was painfully aware of how people viewed him, and was constantly overcompensating for it, raising his voice a few decibels higher than it needed to be, and always telling stories that could easily be disproven. The inconsistencies in his stories wouldn’t be described as mere plot holes, because you could drive a truck through them sideways, and still have room to spare.
But everyone put up with Kid and his stories because beneath the bluster he was a pretty decent person, and loyal to his team. Plus, his stories took everyone’s minds off the less pleasant stuff that was part and parcel of a security officer’s life aboard this ship. He was currently in the middle of a story he’d forgotten he’d told before, and had changed a few of the details in the retelling. Instead of him shooting a bear through the eye at an impossible distance while hunting with his father back on Earth, this time he’d killed it with just a blunt knife and a lot of screaming and yelling. Bears were more afraid of humans than we are of them, you see. His voice was getting progressively louder as he reached the climax of his story, and the rest of the group watched him with bemused expressions on their faces. He apparently saw these faces as evidence of admiration, because he was getting more and more boisterous in his storytelling.
Will watched all this with amusement, and so didn’t notice at first when a new group came into the hall. They had already sat down with their trays of food when he finally realised they were there. It was a group of three, a family, he thought. A woman with brunette hair sat with her back to Will, and across from her was a man with a solid build and a buzz cut, tall even when sitting down. He couldn’t see the third of their number too clearly, because the woman was obscuring his view. Then she shifted, and Will went cold.
He was staring at his son.
Time slowed, stretched long like how they used to make taffy, sticking it on a hook on the wall and pulling it long and thin to aerate it before chopping it up and packing it in pretty little colours. He kept staring, slowly becoming aware that his breath had caught in his chest, and he let it out slowly, never taking his eyes from the boy with the thick mop of dark brown hair, the bushy eyebrows, and the grey-blue eyes. But, as he breathed out the air he’d been holding in, Will started to become less convinced that the boy, who was now eating peas one by one with his fork, was his son. While the colour of the hair and eyes was eerily similar, the face was entirely different, the boy across from him having a much more scrunched-looking face, but there were other, more fundamental features that didn’t match up.
Still, he couldn’t stop himself from staring. Will hadn’t seen his son in years, even before humanity had fled its dying home, so the unexpected appearance of a child who, at first glance, looked so similar left him defenceless against a sudden uprush of memory. He stared, but his mind was already starting to drift on the currents, and it was only because the man and the woman began staring back, noticing a strange man looking at their son, that he was able to bring himself back to the present. The woman had even turned around on the metal bench to make her point: Stop staring at my son.
Will had to leave before he lost it. The world had become blurry and distorted through the tears that now appeared in his eyes. He grabbed his tray with trembling hands, the half-eaten meal on it shaking in the process. A few peas rolled around jerkily on the plate. He walked, perhaps too quickly, down the pathway, past the family and towards the dish return area, placing his tray on the beige countertop, hearing the cutlery jangle from being dropped too heavily. Blood was pounding in his ears now, and the tears had begun falling freely down his face. Will wanted to be as far away from everyone as he could, but he dared a final glance behind him, wanting to see that mop of brown hair one last time. He knew it would hurt him, but he did it anyway. From behind, the boy resembled Will’s son perfectly. He could have been easily convinced that his son was sitting there, still picking at his peas one by one. But he knew better, knew that was impossible.
Because his son was dead.
That night, he dreamt of home.
It was the first time he’d been back there in his dreams since he left Earth. He was sitting in the big blue chair in the room with all the books, stacked from floor to ceiling in custom-made shelves. They’d always referred to it as the library, but whenever they said it out loud, it was almost as though they were saying it with quotes around the words: “The Library”. They said it sarcastically, because while the shelves dominated the room, all packed to the brim, they never actually read those books, or used the room as a place to read. They’d both been far too busy for that. They’d inherited the lot when Will’s father had died; he hadn’t wanted to see his father’s pride and joy hung, drawn, and quartered at a garage sale, hadn’t wanted to see it dismantled, piece by piece, by bargain hunters. So, he and Lyra had taken the lot, and renovated the spare room they’d been using as a dumping ground for their miscellaneous junk.
They’d been proud of this space, from the dark wood shelves to the thick carpet that swallowed up the sound, which made it as silent as a real library. But it had never been properly used. It wasn’t a living space, more like a relic, a shrine to Will’s father. He’d occasionally wander in there, slowly walking and touching the books, maybe taking one down and flipping through it, the words on the page always seeming to cry out to be read, to let the worlds contained inside them live once more in the mind of a reader. Life, however, would always intrude, and there was always something else to be done.
In the dream, the room was lit by the orange glow of the wall lamps, and the crackling fire in the hearth, spreading waves of warmth into the cosy room. The chair on which he sat was big enough for two people, and he relaxed, sinking deep into it, closing his eyes and letting his mind wander.
He heard a noise upstairs. It was the boy, he knew in the way that dreamers know something instinctively, needing no explanation for how they know. He called out for him, and heard a muffled laugh in response. He looked to the door, waiting for that mop of brown hair to spring into view, waiting to hear the laughter that would surely follow. He might have to chase him, intentionally slowing down to make sure the boy felt like he was escaping, and then at the very end would scoop him up and descend on him, ready to tickle, hearing the delighted squeals and infectious laughter. Then he would settle them down in the squashy chair, letting themselves fall asleep in the warmth radiating from the fire.
He waited.
There was no more sound, no more giggles. He opened his mouth to call again, but was suddenly aware that the room around him was no longer warm, no longer lit in soft orange hues, but was cold and grey and
(dead)
dark. The fire was long extinguished, just a cold pile of ashes, and no lights shone from the wall lamps anymore. The only light came from a pale moon in the sky outside, and it fell on wispy cobwebs and illuminated dust that hung thickly in the air.
He felt a slight movement on the chair. Something had crept up next to him and was pressing its dead weight into his side. He didn’t want to look down, didn’t want to see what was there. Something moaned in his mind don’t look don’t look please don’t look. But it was beyond his control now, the dream had a life of its own and his head turned slowly, his neck creaking as he strained desperately to not look.
Resting on his arm was the skeleton of a small child. The skull had fallen back at an angle that would have meant a broken neck if there had still been flesh on those bones. In the empty socket, which had once been filled with intense grey-blue eyes, a large black spider, bloated and scabrous, had made a grisly home. Hundreds of tiny eggs spread across the bone, some of them shaking, ready to release their skittering inhabitants.
Will tried to hold back the scream that began to force its way into his throat, tried to calm himself because he knew if he screamed he’d never stop. He might even have been successful at stopping it if the skeleton hadn’t moved. It rose it arm, brilliantly white in the dead light of the moon, and slowly brought it to rest on Will’s leg, caressing it in an almost loving gesture.
Then he screamed.
In the morning, Will’s mouth was terribly thin and the heaviness under his eyes hinted at a restless night, but he did not remember the dream at all.
‘It’s clear,’ said Haldeman over the radio. Anders and Pierce moved out from behind Will and entered the unit, preparing their scanners as they went. Will kept a lookout in the hallway with Jones, who towered over Will (and everyone else for that matter). The hallway was brightly lit, which served only to show the grease and grime and dirt that covered everything down here. It was empty except for the two of them, and a large scattering of refuse, the inevitable leavings of thousands of humans forcibly relocated from their homes.
A sudden movement caught Will’s eye, and he instinctively raised his rifle, finger poised over the trigger in a violation of the training they’d all received.
‘Put your fucking rifle down. It’s just a kid,’ said Jones.
So it was, he realised. A kid, probably around fifteen from the look of him, had peeked around the corner, eyes widening in fright at having a powerful weapon aimed directly at his face. Will breathed out heavily, and lowered his rifle. In a flash, the kid was off running down the hallway, in search of safer havens to scavenge.
Will tried to give Jones a grin that suggested he hadn’t really been ready to open fire on a kid, hadn’t almost blown his head off.
‘Right. Sorry. A little twitchy today, I guess,’ Will said.
‘Mmm.’
Haldeman came out sighing heavily. He took his helmet off and ran a hand over his short red hair. If he saw the nervous energy in Will’s eye, he didn’t give anything away.
‘All good in there, Captain?’
‘Yeah, just like the other units we’ve done today,’ Haldeman said. ‘We’re gonna split the unit from here on out. I want to get out of this shithole as soon as possible. Jones, you come with Anders, Crowe, and me. Martin,’ he said, turning to look at Will. ‘You go with Pierce, Dithers, and Weiss.’
An hour later, Will’s team had just cleared out yet another unit. They still hadn’t found anything dangerous. At least the clean-up crews that were to come after them would be safe. The scanner in his hand cast a vivid blue light over the beds as it passed over them. He looked around at the detritus of life scattered around the housing unit: clothes, terminals, shoes, and odd little trinkets. Next to him, Pierce bent over and scooped up one of the shinier objects that was hanging off a bed and pocketed it. Will looked at him.
‘What’re you doing?’ Will asked.
‘Everyone who lived here is either dead or has been moved to a different section,’ Pierce replied with a shrug. ‘They ain’t ever getting their stuff back, so why let it go to waste?’
Will was unsurprised at this cavalier response to such an upending of human life, but he moved away from Pierce all the same. When he was far enough away, Will began scanning again. He was ready to settle into his default monotony when the scanner’s screen blipped for the tiniest moment. Will stopped moving. He scanned the area again. Nothing. Whatever it was, the scanner didn’t think it was dangerous, so he holstered it and began to look around manually. Searching where the scanner had momentarily registered something, Will at first found nothing. But then he lifted the pillow and saw something he hadn’t seen at all during his time on this ship.
A book.
Will stared. To see a book here, of all places, was just so unexpected. It wasn’t as though such items were prohibited, but the severe restrictions on the amount of personal effects that anyone could bring aboard with them made them thoroughly impractical objects. The richer folk had been able to bring a little more, but the people of Deck 46 had been allowed only the clothes on their backs. No one could afford to bring a book on board, and the one in front of him was a particularly big one. It showed signs of having been read a lot: the cover was grimy and damaged, the deep red only peeking through in certain places, and the pages bulged from regular handling. Because of this, when he leant over and picked it up, he did so with great care. He wanted to avoid damaging it any further.
Suddenly, Pierce yelled that the team was moving out. Will felt he didn’t want anyone, especially Pierce, to know about what he’d found. So he shrugged off his personal pack and carefully put the book inside. By the time Pierce’s head appeared at the door, Will had shouldered his pack, his secret safe.
He was finally back in his quarters after what seemed like one of the longest days of his life. It wasn’t the boredom and monotony of the job, because he’d been dealing with that for years. What had changed was that he had something to do at the end of his shift, something to look forward to and get excited about. The team completed the sweep of their area after a few more hours, then trooped back to sector HQ for the debriefing. After his shift had finished, Will had intended to grab a quick dinner at the mess and go straight home, but Pierce and Crowe had persuaded him to stay for a post-dinner drink. By the time he made it back to his quarters, it was late.
The small LED that sat over the bed was the only active light in the cabin. Underneath this warm illumination was the book, its scarlet cover looking more striking than it had looked under the harsh lights of Deck 46. In his haste to hide the book from the others, Will hadn’t even read the title, which was in gold lettering on the spine. He held the book and gently turned it so he could read.
The Lord of the Rings
J.R.R. Tolkien
Within the space of a breath, Will’s mind was cast into an abyss of thought and memory. A boy—his boy, the one with the brown hair, the one he rarely let himself think of these days—bringing him a book to read. But Will had ignored him, busy with work, busy with life, busy with all the shit that didn’t matter to him now. The book his boy had wanted him to read had a different cover to this one, but it was the same story. He always thought the book was too complex for him, that he wouldn’t understand it. Will had read it himself, many years before, when he’d been a fresher at university. But now, his son was gone, and all he had left was the book in his hands. He tried to get rid of the lump that had formed in his throat but failed, and he soon began to cry. There was no grace or beauty to be found in those loud, sobbing gasps as they wrenched free from him, spilling into the cold, dark cabin. Will felt as though something was leaving him through his tears, but could not say what this was, or whether he wanted it to go. He felt unmanned, unmoored, and more alone than he had ever felt in his entire life. He clutched the book to his chest and let himself be overwhelmed.
A gauntness had settled over Will’s face, but the torrent of tears had slowed, and his breathing had returned to normal. He sat in his bed, legs crossed, the book in his lap. The terminal on his desk had automatically switched on when he entered, displaying the usual view of the stars, but Will wasn’t looking. He had begun to read, and in that tiny cabin aboard the vast migratory ship that was hurtling away from the ruins of Earth, a hobbit once more began preparations for a long-expected party.
davidhinder.com 