The first harvest approaches, and fittingly, the first members of our next generation are almost due. Soon, our numbers and our bellies will be increasing for the first time since our arrival. There is much excitement around our village, and nervous guesses about what the future holds for our youth. It seems strange that their professions are still undecided, and that their education will be in our hands, not yours.
All is not perfect, of course, nor do we expect it to be. We disagree constantly and are learning methods for coping with that. As our numbers grow, we will eventually need to formalize some sort of political structure. But these are problems that mark our more basic victories. We have learned to view these challenges as signs of progress, not dilapidation. We survive in order to struggle. Struggling means we’re winning. Hopefully our children will be up for similar challenges. Hopefully they will learn from your mistakes and our own.
One of our biggest disagreements, not surprisingly, was over this very story. Many were shocked to find I’d begun recording my tale over the past year. Once it began circulating, some were delighted and suggested refinements here and there, giving me perspectives on things I had missed. Still, I tried to keep it my story, lest it become something too large to wield.
The real arguments began when I suggested sending this out to you. To
It was meant as a joke, at first. The idea seemed crazy: using our cursed rocket to send out the very information we sacrificed so much to protect. We spoke of it as teenagers speak of many things—with a desire to flaunt ourselves, to thumb our noses at authority, to prove we can do anything.
The more we laughed about the idea, the more real it became. “We won’t divulge our location,” someone insisted. “All we’ll send is the story,” Tarsi said. “It’ll be a warning,” said another. “We’ll do it to torment them.” (I confess to the last.)
Each suggestion transmutated our joke into a real possibility, like lead coerced into gold. It became a debate, and every suggestion seemed another vote in its favor. Thus the real revisions to my story began, this time changing names and minor tidbits, anything that could pinpoint our location.
The rest of the facts are as honest as we could make them. What’s very real is this: one of your aborted colonies managed to survive, and we are sending you our story. If you are reading this, our rocket went up, so imagine us: standing there below a hole in the canopy, our chins raised and our eyes full of tears as the thing we never wanted to build is sent off—sent away and out of sight, but on
I hope that’s how it goes. If it does, we will not be sending it to you on a straight shot. It’ll come via a circuitous route. Not just to delay the discovery but to confound your tracking. We sincerely hope you get it, this message from an aborted being that managed to revive and sustain itself, even with so much going against it. We live and we are on the cusp of prospering. Our planet holds secrets that could transform entire worlds into organized, precious metals—a treasure you will never claim.
According to the colony database, there were just over twelve thousand aborted colonies by the time ours landed. Several thousand more were never heard from again, and there is no telling if they made their target landings or chose someplace seemingly more suitable. We will narrow it down for you: we are one of those colonies. Come and find us, if you can. Waste as many resources as possible determining which planet you said wasn’t good enough but now holds the key to your dreams.
For each wrong answer, please note the crater you left behind. Note the pit in the earth where Geiger counters register the death of five hundred potential humans. And know that you killed more than just
We have done the exact opposite. We destroyed the greatest patent you’ll never know and chose instead to create life. We chose to save the measly fifty-three of us.
Ah, but soon it will be fifty-four.
And counting.
Acknowledgments
This book was conceived during a hike through the Virginia hills with my wife, Amber. We walked and talked and I told her the story you now hold in your hands. I did the physical writing during November of 2009 as part of National Novel Writing Month. I owe much to her as a sounding board and to NaNoWriMo as a motivating force.
As always, I have my glorious editor, Lisa Kelly-Wilson to thank for fumigating my book and ridding it of so many pesky errors and typos. I think she even added a hyphen somewhere. I’ll never forget that. Those weird commas you see? All mine.
Thanks go to everyone who had input on the cover of this book. Yes, it’s a dark cover. For me, this book represents issues that deserve it. I owe a huge thanks to Nadia Huggins for the haunting photograph. For more of her work, please check out her profile page at: www.flickr.com/photos/nsh. She is a rare talent.
For their design guidance, thanks go to Dakota, Chris Helm, Shelly Gibbens, Jill Martin Clements, Andy Hilton, Jodie Wise Hayes, Tee Branson, Jon Hayes, Daunell Brook, Mark Lemmond, Shogun, Mr. MacGillivray, Ricery, SiFreak, James R, GeoffP, FunkStar, John99, Omega133, and all those others I missed or forgot.
Finally, I’d like to acknowledge all my gay friends, whether you’re out or not. I thought often of my late Uncle Carr while writing this story. He was tragically disowned by the grandfather after whom I was named, and that legacy hangs over me like a great, sad canopy.
There is good news, however. Our ancestors created us in their subconscious attempt at immortality, but their ideas have not been as accurately transcribed as their genes. We can choose to think and believe for ourselves. I believe we do them the ultimate justice by being better to one another than they were.
Soon, future generations will continue our collective climb through this great moral canopy. Hopefully, as they attain ethical heights we can only dream of today, they will look down upon us as kindly as we should look to those who struggled before us.
