To Canaan Land
On my waaaaaaaaaay
To Canaan Land
On my way
Glory Hallelujah
On my way.”
I raise the energy level. I sing my heart out.
“I’ve had a mighty hard time
But I’m on my way
Had a mighty hard time
Yeah yeah yeah
Mighty hard time
On my way.
On my way
Glory Hallelujah
On my way!”
I have had my vocal chords modified to help me reach the rich throaty pitch of gospel songs like this. I feel as if my skin is being ripped off and my soul itself is reaching out and touching all my comrades, those before me in the assembly room, and those in their own ships.
I think of Alliea. I have seen video footage of her lonely death in space; her choice. Her end. Her glory.
“I’ve had a mighty hard time
But I’m on my way
Had a mighty hard time
Yeah yeah yeah
Mighty hard time
O-on my way.”
I think of the many who died. Hera, Grendel, most of the Children Ships. All my own children too, forty-eight of them, died in the heat of battle. I wanted to save at least some of them, my favourite children, by keeping them in my command vessel. And I issued orders to that effect on my Captain’s email; then deleted them. And issued them again; and deleted them again. For how could I chose my favourites, among that wonderful, rebellious rabble of kids? I loved them all, equally. And how could I save my own, while sending the children of others to certain death? No! No exceptions could be made. All had to die. Their sacrifice was needed, and their sacrifice was taken.
“Yes I’m on my way
To Canaan land
Yes, I’m on my way
To Canaan Land
On my waaaaaaaaaay
To Canaan Land
On my way
Glory Hallelujah
On my way!”
I think of life and death. So much death. Rob, Alliea, my children from the ship, my wife on Pixar, our children. My crewmates. My friends. My lovers. My victims. All the countless millions who die, every year, as the casual side effect of the Cheo’s reign. And here I am, still alive. Heart still pounding. Mind still racing.
And my only consolation is the certainty that I, too, will die soon. Because with all that faces us – how could it be otherwise?
I reach the last chorus, I keep the honky-tonk piano settings, and I segue into another gospel song.
Alby
I have caught up with the shipssss. I float outside their hullsss, flickering like the ssssun on water. Through my intercom, I can hear Flanagan’sss sssssong. And I can imagine the men and women in their cabinsss and assssssembly roomssss, lisssstening, clapping, ssssinging along.
And assss I float past them in deepesssst spacccce, a flame among the starssss, I, too, hear the new ssssong he ssssings. It isss fasssst, urgent, with a ssssurging piano accompaniment; and it is a ssssong of hope, with a catchy melody that makesss the heart ssssoar:
“Oh Lord!”
Flanagan sssings, and I long for fingersss to click along to the beat. He continues:
“Oh Lord
Keep your hand on the plow
Hold on.
Oh Lord
Oh yeah
Oh Lord
Oh yeah
Keep your hand on the plough
Hold on.
Mary had three lengths of chain
And every length was in Jesus’ name.
Keep the hand on the plough
Hold on.
When I get to heaven gonna sing and shout
Be no body there gonna put me out.
Keep your hand on the plough
Hold on.
Oh Lord
Oh Lord
Oh yeah.
Keep your hand on the plough
Oh Lord
Oh yeah
Oh Lord
Oh yeah
Keep your hand on the plough
And hooooooooooooooooooooold on.”
Lena
“What’s wrong?” I ask him gently.
The wake is over. All are sober. I am in the bar with a deeply melancholic Captain Flanagan. My previous mood of perverse elation has melted away. I am now bathed in Flanagan’s despair.
“So many have died,” he says softly.
“You knew that would happen.”
“For no reason.” He looks at me blankly. “We can’t succeed.”
“We’ve destroyed a Beacon before.”
“And now they know our methods. They’ll be prepared. It’s a suicide mission.”
“Then so be it.”
“You’re prepared to die?”
