Half Way Home

It isn’t often one experiences true speechlessness. Not wordlessness, the inability to come up with the right thing to say, but a moment of absolute muteness. Throat constricting, lungs inoperable, mouth dry, jaw unhinged. Truly unable to speak, even knowing what I wanted to say. Or shout.

Myra seemed to hear it all. She shrugged. “He makes me feel safe,” she said. “And it meant not having to learn to sleep somewhere else. Anyway, I’m starting to see those first few days as a training program. My final one. That was the life—minus the grief and the shock—that I’m supposed to work toward. To eventually live. So that’s what I’m doing. I’m trying to feel like that again.”

“Were—you and Stevens, you were together those first days?”

Myra nodded and wiped at her eyes. “It was just training,” she whispered.

I grabbed her shoulders and pulled her close to me, wrapping my arms around her. But I could feel her own arms between us, the hard bone from elbow to wrist lined up vertically in front of her chest like bars in a protective fence. Or perhaps a restrictive cage. I held her and tried to comfort her but just ended up disgusting myself. If an embrace could feel like molestation, that one certainly did. I was wrapping up a thing that didn’t want to  be touched, so I let her go.

“I need to speak with Colony,” I said. I stepped past her and into the command module, shaking my head with the shame of the encounter.

Behind me, her voice cracked as she tried to argue—to say I wasn’t allowed—but I heard her resistance crumble before she could even erect it, the squeak of her voice like the last wail of something dying within her.

And in those uncomfortable, tragic moments, Myra had perfectly demonstrated why I had come to speak with Colony. She was moving through a deteriorating progression, the will to live leaching out through her pores. She had arrived at the last stages of some disassembly line, one we all were traveling down and couldn’t seem to get off.

••••

I sat in the center seat, directly in front of the main monitor. It reminded me of Stevens, and I had a brief terror of sullying the spot, until I remembered who probably spent a good bit of his time in it now. Again, I thought of Myra and felt the imaginary belt beneath us move several feet, taking me further down that line.

“Colony?”

“Hello, Porter,” the computer said. It was the same calm and collected voice of my training, of my simulated childhood—the same voice that had soothed me that first night in the command module. Now the calm in its voice just made me angry. The lack of urgency seemed like an absence of feeling, rather than the possession of some inner strength.

I gripped the edge of the table, trying to maintain my balance, to remember why I had come. “Colony, we have some problems around base.”

“I am well aware of that, Porter, and I am working hard to correct them. We should be able to resume production at the tank facility this afternoon. A revised timetable will be posted by your group coordinator.”

“I’m sure it will, Colony, but I wanted to talk to you about why those production revisions need to be drawn up every day. And it isn’t this planet’s limited ore supply.”

“If you have a theory, I would be more than happy to entertain it.”

“Of course, that’s why I came to you. I think it—we think, some colonists and I—that the more we focus on the construction of the rocket and the less we concentrate on basic needs, the more we’re getting behind on both.”

“You believe this is a question of morale,” Colony said.

“I—well, yes! I think you nailed it completely. I have several psychological arguments planned, if you’d like to hear them.”

“Porter.” Colony paused, leaving my name hanging in the air. “Who taught you what you know of psychology?”

I sat, dumbfounded for a moment, before dropping my head and peering down at the keyboard in front of me. Lines of fire retardant were still stuck between each key, and dirty smudges could be seen on the desk where someone’s palms had been resting.

“You did,” I whispered, feeling like a complete fool.

“I sense humiliation, which was not my intent. I had merely hoped to save you the time in arguing, time that could be better spent in production.”

I nodded. I understood the logic but still felt miserable inside. I actually could feel my energy to work being sapped away as a depression grew, fueled by a sense of worthlessness.

“I appreciate you coming by, Porter. You are a valuable member of this colony.”

“Thanks,” I said, about as lifeless and sincere as the computer’s voice.

I stood up and began to walk away, when the computer said: “Porter.”

“Yeah?” I asked, turning.

“I will make some changes. Starting today.”

“Thanks,” I said, feeling grateful.

Albeit, prematurely.

••••

I made my way back through the tight passage between the servers and into the wide space full of bedrolls. Someone stomped up the ramp outside and I tried to think of what I wanted to say to Myra—when Hickson burst through the door and nearly ran me over.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” he asked.

“I came to speak with Colony,” I said, looking back over my shoulder for emphasis. Before I could turn back, Hickson had both hands on my shoulders. He pushed me across someone’s bedroll and against the wall.

“Nobody speaks to Colony but me, do you understand?”

I tried to focus on his face, but it was too close to my own. It was a wall of angered red flesh filling my vision. I nodded slightly, worried our noses might collide. “I was just trying to—”

“I don’t care,” Hickson said, letting go of me and stepping back. He positioned himself between me and the servers. “Get out,” he said.

Gladly, I thought, moving to the door. When I got there, I saw Myra sitting at the end of the ramp, her chin in her hands. It reminded me of something. Stepping back through the door, I called after Hickson, who had already started back through the servers.

“Hey, did you want to see me about something?”

Hickson turned halfway around. He rested a hand on the server in front of him and leaned his forehead against the back of his hand. He stood like that for a minute, and I started to ask him again, when he spoke.

“No,” he said. “It’s nothing. Forget about it.”

Not likely, I thought to myself. I stepped around Myra and out into the clearing thinking about how I was going to always remember that exchange.

Of course, at the time, I had no idea what was about to happen next.

• 8 • Tremors

I left the command module and headed toward the mess tent, where I hoped to find anything other than fruit paste for breakfast. That was when the first tremors began. At first, I thought the rumbling was emanating from my stomach. Usually, the growling turned into a hollow ache, a silent sort of cramping, like my intestines were tying themselves in knots. But this time, it kept growing louder. Then the ground moved beneath my feet and a nauseating sensation overtook me as my inner ear and my legs disagreed on how to remain upright.

I threw my arms out and fell into a low, wide stance, as several other colonists on their way to breakfast did the same. In the part of my brain that knew vocabulary words with no real context, I realized we were experiencing an earthquake. I knew it like I knew what air was, what trees were, with no deeper understanding beyond the mere