Whenever it snowed, he thought of that day. He was six years old and the golf course across from their house was bone white. His flying saucer, that year's Christmas present, gleamed like a chrome sun. Neighborhood kids had built a giant ramp of ice the day before but it sat unused. Sean understood their fear; he too felt the dread in his bones. But every time he slid down safely, his gaze returned to the slope jutting into the sky.
One morning, his mother grew complacent chatting with her friends at the bottom. The day wore on and a few snowflakes drifted now and again amidst the whoops and cheers. One by one, the kids ran inside to grab cocoa and eat lunch. Soon, only a handful remained.
The sun crept out shyly; the ramp shone gold. Sean was at the top. It was the last run of the day. He ran and slid belly first onto the saucer.
The memory shook apart here, as the man understood the child less and less. Why did he turn the disc? Was it bravado, or boredom, or the stupid suicidal urge of a second child? Why didn't he slow down? He knew how to do it, how to wave his limbs like oars. Did his brother yell in terror or delight? And did his mother see him fly, see him steal the sun for one glorious instant?
The sound of cracking ice roused Sean from his reverie. He shook like a bear and lumbered over to the console. It was just splitting ice, a glacier shedding some excess. The few cameras that still worked showed him that. The engineers hadn't designed them to last more than a few years; it was a miracle any worked at all. There were lots of things they hadn't planned for.
On his way back to bed, Sean glanced at the exercise bike against the western ice wall. For two years, he had ridden the bike every day during their journey through subspace. It would prepare him for the planet's extra gravity, they said. But it didn't. Nothing had prepared him for Reckoning. Perhaps nothing could have.
Sean sat on the sheets for a moment. They needed washing. The cleaner still worked, a small miracle, so he carefully stripped the bed and tossed the silver fabric into a square device, thought for a second, and then took off his heavy parka and tossed it in too. The machine whirred and hummed quietly; Sean had chosen this particular glacier as his home a couple years ago after the sound of the equipment had attracted an ice wyrm. No chance of that here, at least he didn't think so. There was no use in worrying, not at least until you could feel the vibration of a huge body burrowing toward its next meal. Even then, worrying didn't help; running did.
While he waited, Sean turned up the heat, tore open a pack of oatmeal, and poured in lukewarm water from the drinking bucket. Brown sugar with small raisins. A rare treat but then again, it was his birthday.
He had forgotten but the computer had woken him at dawn with a recording of Marilyn Monroe with his name interpolated in. For some reason, it made him cry. Fewer and fewer things were making him cry but somehow, this touched him. He occasionally thought he was going crazy but shied from the idea. Anyway, with everyone gone, what was crazy anymore? Whatever Sean did was now the standard for the human race.
The cleaner beeped; the sheets and parka had been thoroughly scrubbed by directed sound. Sean didn't move. The standard for getting things from the cleaner, he thought, involved waiting exactly fifteen minutes before extraction. So I, Sean, the King of Reckoning, so declare. And so shall it be.
He told the computer, first in English, then in Mandarin, then in French, to set a timer for fifteen minutes. I'm doing that more and more. Using words aimlessly, like a drunk spilling soggy syllables to anyone around. Does that mean I'm crazy?
Mao had been Sean's first friend on the Cypher. It was one of those rare times when you know a friend at first sight, maybe like how bees communicate through movement and pheromones. It was Mao's slightly rolling gait, or maybe his retro-punk hair. Whatever it was, they were soon laughing over whiskey and clean cigars in the break room while the roil of subspace bathed them in violet light.
"It's not fair that we all have to speak English!" Mao once declared. He raised a shot glass high and slammed it down. Sean was only a beat behind as their glasses clinked. "There are more of us than you pasty Puritanical prudes. Explain that to me, feixingyuan?"
Sean gave Mao the finger. "Because some long-nailed gook built the biggest fleet in the world and then let it rot. Not my fault your ancestors were tea-drinking cowards!" And Mao laughed and laughed and laughed.
The timer beeped that fifteen Earth-minutes had passed. Sean grabbed the sheets and started wrapping the bed. Maybe they were right back then. Maybe some hominid instinct told them, no, this path leads to desolation. This path leads to Reckoning. And it was us, the indomitable Europeans, the white devils, who closed our ears and unlocked the seas and later, the stars.
Blue light spilled through the walls. Once upon a time, Sean wished he had blue eyes like his father. But he looked more like his mother, with chestnut hair and chocolate eyes, medium height, medium build. His wife Andrea had always said the only thing that stood out about Sean was his uncanny ability to always know where he was going. Fucking useless now, he thought, now that there's nowhere to go.
It was summer and night never fell. There was only the waxing and waning of brightness to mark the passage of time. That and the slowly dwindling supply of food packages. Was it only eight years ago that they had seemed endless?
Sean sat down at the console and laid a briefly bare hand on the scanner. His fingertips were still whole; lord knows what would happen if he lost a finger from frostbite. He didn't think about it. There were lots of things he didn't think about.
The screen lit up and he paused. It was the same struggle, always the same struggle, and the result never varied.
"Play video."
"Which one?"
"You know which one."
It was dark in New York City except for an orange glow on the horizon and swift pinpricks of anti-missile batteries along the river. A red-haired woman, face wide with terror, clutched a crying child with both hands.
"The sirens went off a few minutes ago!" Andrea wailed. A sun-bright flash in the background. "Los Angeles and Seattle are gone! I don't know how long we have..." The building shook. A wail like a thousand banshees tore through the speakers and the image burst into static that stayed frozen on the screen. End of File.
Marie had argued that the Chinese had fired first. She and Mao had argued about Earth politics for a year by then. He wasn't a fan of the new Chinese government, not after they tossed him aside in the Great Purge, but her paranoia pissed him off. So in the aftermath of The End (as the Cypher crew dubbed the last World War), he lost it. He stayed in the brig for a week but Marie's black eye lasted for a month.
Sean didn't care to speculate about who had fired first or what the causes were. What did it matter? The End was The End of everything. Of reasons. Of blame. Of history. Of his wife and daughter, transformed into fractured snow as he sailed through the cocoon of subspace.
Old arguments about two dead worlds. Sean didn't want to remember anymore. He didn't want to know anymore. So he slept, but even in his dreams, he could not escape.
One morning, his mother grew complacent chatting with her friends at the bottom. The day wore on and a few snowflakes drifted now and again amidst the whoops and cheers. One by one, the kids ran inside to grab cocoa and eat lunch. Soon, only a handful remained.
The sun crept out shyly; the ramp shone gold. Sean was at the top. It was the last run of the day. He ran and slid belly first onto the saucer.
The memory shook apart here, as the man understood the child less and less. Why did he turn the disc? Was it bravado, or boredom, or the stupid suicidal urge of a second child? Why didn't he slow down? He knew how to do it, how to wave his limbs like oars. Did his brother yell in terror or delight? And did his mother see him fly, see him steal the sun for one glorious instant?
The sound of cracking ice roused Sean from his reverie. He shook like a bear and lumbered over to the console. It was just splitting ice, a glacier shedding some excess. The few cameras that still worked showed him that. The engineers hadn't designed them to last more than a few years; it was a miracle any worked at all. There were lots of things they hadn't planned for.
On his way back to bed, Sean glanced at the exercise bike against the western ice wall. For two years, he had ridden the bike every day during their journey through subspace. It would prepare him for the planet's extra gravity, they said. But it didn't. Nothing had prepared him for Reckoning. Perhaps nothing could have.
Sean sat on the sheets for a moment. They needed washing. The cleaner still worked, a small miracle, so he carefully stripped the bed and tossed the silver fabric into a square device, thought for a second, and then took off his heavy parka and tossed it in too. The machine whirred and hummed quietly; Sean had chosen this particular glacier as his home a couple years ago after the sound of the equipment had attracted an ice wyrm. No chance of that here, at least he didn't think so. There was no use in worrying, not at least until you could feel the vibration of a huge body burrowing toward its next meal. Even then, worrying didn't help; running did.
While he waited, Sean turned up the heat, tore open a pack of oatmeal, and poured in lukewarm water from the drinking bucket. Brown sugar with small raisins. A rare treat but then again, it was his birthday.
He had forgotten but the computer had woken him at dawn with a recording of Marilyn Monroe with his name interpolated in. For some reason, it made him cry. Fewer and fewer things were making him cry but somehow, this touched him. He occasionally thought he was going crazy but shied from the idea. Anyway, with everyone gone, what was crazy anymore? Whatever Sean did was now the standard for the human race.
The cleaner beeped; the sheets and parka had been thoroughly scrubbed by directed sound. Sean didn't move. The standard for getting things from the cleaner, he thought, involved waiting exactly fifteen minutes before extraction. So I, Sean, the King of Reckoning, so declare. And so shall it be.
He told the computer, first in English, then in Mandarin, then in French, to set a timer for fifteen minutes. I'm doing that more and more. Using words aimlessly, like a drunk spilling soggy syllables to anyone around. Does that mean I'm crazy?
Mao had been Sean's first friend on the Cypher. It was one of those rare times when you know a friend at first sight, maybe like how bees communicate through movement and pheromones. It was Mao's slightly rolling gait, or maybe his retro-punk hair. Whatever it was, they were soon laughing over whiskey and clean cigars in the break room while the roil of subspace bathed them in violet light.
"It's not fair that we all have to speak English!" Mao once declared. He raised a shot glass high and slammed it down. Sean was only a beat behind as their glasses clinked. "There are more of us than you pasty Puritanical prudes. Explain that to me, feixingyuan?"
Sean gave Mao the finger. "Because some long-nailed gook built the biggest fleet in the world and then let it rot. Not my fault your ancestors were tea-drinking cowards!" And Mao laughed and laughed and laughed.
The timer beeped that fifteen Earth-minutes had passed. Sean grabbed the sheets and started wrapping the bed. Maybe they were right back then. Maybe some hominid instinct told them, no, this path leads to desolation. This path leads to Reckoning. And it was us, the indomitable Europeans, the white devils, who closed our ears and unlocked the seas and later, the stars.
Blue light spilled through the walls. Once upon a time, Sean wished he had blue eyes like his father. But he looked more like his mother, with chestnut hair and chocolate eyes, medium height, medium build. His wife Andrea had always said the only thing that stood out about Sean was his uncanny ability to always know where he was going. Fucking useless now, he thought, now that there's nowhere to go.
It was summer and night never fell. There was only the waxing and waning of brightness to mark the passage of time. That and the slowly dwindling supply of food packages. Was it only eight years ago that they had seemed endless?
Sean sat down at the console and laid a briefly bare hand on the scanner. His fingertips were still whole; lord knows what would happen if he lost a finger from frostbite. He didn't think about it. There were lots of things he didn't think about.
The screen lit up and he paused. It was the same struggle, always the same struggle, and the result never varied.
"Play video."
"Which one?"
"You know which one."
It was dark in New York City except for an orange glow on the horizon and swift pinpricks of anti-missile batteries along the river. A red-haired woman, face wide with terror, clutched a crying child with both hands.
"The sirens went off a few minutes ago!" Andrea wailed. A sun-bright flash in the background. "Los Angeles and Seattle are gone! I don't know how long we have..." The building shook. A wail like a thousand banshees tore through the speakers and the image burst into static that stayed frozen on the screen. End of File.
Marie had argued that the Chinese had fired first. She and Mao had argued about Earth politics for a year by then. He wasn't a fan of the new Chinese government, not after they tossed him aside in the Great Purge, but her paranoia pissed him off. So in the aftermath of The End (as the Cypher crew dubbed the last World War), he lost it. He stayed in the brig for a week but Marie's black eye lasted for a month.
Sean didn't care to speculate about who had fired first or what the causes were. What did it matter? The End was The End of everything. Of reasons. Of blame. Of history. Of his wife and daughter, transformed into fractured snow as he sailed through the cocoon of subspace.
Old arguments about two dead worlds. Sean didn't want to remember anymore. He didn't want to know anymore. So he slept, but even in his dreams, he could not escape.
__________________________
The loudspeaker let out a low whistle. "Crew meeting in five minutes. All hands attend. Mess hall." Sean hated the computer's voice. Mao said that psychiatrists back on Earth had tested thousands of voices to find the most soothing one possible. It belonged to a B-class holo actress who spent a year recording every known word in the English language in dulcet tones. Sean was sure they sounded fine said alone but, pasted together by algorithms, there was something wrong about the rhythm. Something artificial and mildly unsettling. But they didn't have time to fix that, he guessed. Time was already running out. Had run out.
He got to the mess hall with a couple minutes to spare but was one of the last people to arrive. No one knew what was wrong, just that something was wrong, so they clung together like monkeys huddled against the rain.
Captain Marshall entered the room only after everyone had arrived. He knew the power of a good entrance; his experience aboard sub-light ships had taught him that. The screen behind him closed off the chaotic glow of subspace; normal lights clicked on. He stood for a moment, hands behind his straight back, and addressed the crew in somber tones.
"As you know, all contact with Earth ceased last night. Despite the best efforts of the communications team, we have been unable to make contact with UN High Command. This suggests that ansible communications are, for the moment, impossible. We do not know the reason for the silence. It may be a mechanical problem or, as some have suggested, a terrorist attack. However, we will not cease our attempts to contact Earth until we can dispel rumor and confirm events for ourselves."
The crew was silent, their agitation ebbing away. Captain Marshall was good at this, at focusing his crew on the problems at hand and offering hope without blindness. Sean wished he could be moved by these reasoned tones, but it was as if the words fell into a pit. Words could stir nothing because there was nothing to stir.
"We have a mission: arrive at Planet R-Epsilon, scan it for precious materials, harvest those materials, and return to Earth. We will complete this mission and deal with circumstances as we confirm them. We cannot give in to panic. We cannot give in to fear and despair. We cannot allow rumor to run rampant while the truth is still unknown. We have a job to do. Let's do it!"
The crew nodded. There was no clapping but the room felt lighter somehow. People walked back to their posts, heads high. Except for Sean.
He waited until the room emptied and then approached the Captain. There was something in Captain Marshall's eyes that told Sean that he already knew. He had already seen the truth, just as Sean had when he woke to find his monitor ablaze with the sight of a dying world.
They stood in silence for a moment. Sean did not know whether to laugh, or cry, or crumple onto the floor like a broken marionette. All he could do was stand there as his mouth shaped words that would not come.
"I saw the transmission from your family, Sean." The Captain's voice was steady but kind. "I received a similar message from my family in Los Angeles a few minutes earlier. They were the only ones who managed to contact us before..." he paused. "Before the end."
Sean swallowed. "The others..."
"They don't know. And I won't tell them but I won't tell you what to do. But as your friend, my suggestion is to let them hope for a while longer. Let them deal with the tragedy when they can actually take meaningful action."
The captain was right. Sean knew it. He nodded and said he'd keep his mouth shut, he'd keep working on the course calculations so they could get home as soon as possible.
That night, Sean told Mao everything.
"Are you fucking serious?" Mao whispered. They were in Sean's quarters, drinking whiskey as usual. They usually met in Mao's quarters with its opulent wood furniture and subspace view windows but somehow, spare mass-produced Swedish crap seemed more appropriate. Mao stood up then abruptly fell back into his chair. He rubbed a hand through his spiky hair. Sean wished he could record their faces so he could capture how human's react when they find out about the end of the world.
"I'm serious. They're gone. They're all gone. My family is..." The pit filled up and tears burst out of his chocolate eyes. Mao wrapped him in a hug but couldn't bring himself to utter the normal platitudes. Everything was not all right. Things were not going to be ok. So they cried, together.
Sean showed Mao the recording. After it ended, Mao took a shot of whiskey, downed it, and poured another.
"Does anyone else know?" he asked. Sean shook his head, then amended. "The captain."
"Only the captain?" Sean nodded. "Jesus fucking christ. How the hell are we going to tell people about...about..."
"About The End?"
"Yeah."
"Well, I'm not."
"Why not? Don't they deserve to know?"
"To know that the world is over? That everyone and everything they know is ashes? No, they deserve not to know."
"So you're going to protect them with lies?"
"Not lies. Silence."
"Bullshit! Lying by omission is...still...LYING!" Mao screamed, his face purple with rage.
"Fuck you, Mao. Do you think I wanted to see that message? I'd rather be blissfully ignorant; at least I could have a few extra days of happiness. So you can take your righteous indignation and shove it up your chinky ass!"
Mao stalked off. Sean finished the bottle.
The next morning, Sean woke to the sound of screaming and crying. New message, the console read. He turned on white noise and went back to sleep.
He got to the mess hall with a couple minutes to spare but was one of the last people to arrive. No one knew what was wrong, just that something was wrong, so they clung together like monkeys huddled against the rain.
Captain Marshall entered the room only after everyone had arrived. He knew the power of a good entrance; his experience aboard sub-light ships had taught him that. The screen behind him closed off the chaotic glow of subspace; normal lights clicked on. He stood for a moment, hands behind his straight back, and addressed the crew in somber tones.
"As you know, all contact with Earth ceased last night. Despite the best efforts of the communications team, we have been unable to make contact with UN High Command. This suggests that ansible communications are, for the moment, impossible. We do not know the reason for the silence. It may be a mechanical problem or, as some have suggested, a terrorist attack. However, we will not cease our attempts to contact Earth until we can dispel rumor and confirm events for ourselves."
The crew was silent, their agitation ebbing away. Captain Marshall was good at this, at focusing his crew on the problems at hand and offering hope without blindness. Sean wished he could be moved by these reasoned tones, but it was as if the words fell into a pit. Words could stir nothing because there was nothing to stir.
"We have a mission: arrive at Planet R-Epsilon, scan it for precious materials, harvest those materials, and return to Earth. We will complete this mission and deal with circumstances as we confirm them. We cannot give in to panic. We cannot give in to fear and despair. We cannot allow rumor to run rampant while the truth is still unknown. We have a job to do. Let's do it!"
The crew nodded. There was no clapping but the room felt lighter somehow. People walked back to their posts, heads high. Except for Sean.
He waited until the room emptied and then approached the Captain. There was something in Captain Marshall's eyes that told Sean that he already knew. He had already seen the truth, just as Sean had when he woke to find his monitor ablaze with the sight of a dying world.
They stood in silence for a moment. Sean did not know whether to laugh, or cry, or crumple onto the floor like a broken marionette. All he could do was stand there as his mouth shaped words that would not come.
"I saw the transmission from your family, Sean." The Captain's voice was steady but kind. "I received a similar message from my family in Los Angeles a few minutes earlier. They were the only ones who managed to contact us before..." he paused. "Before the end."
Sean swallowed. "The others..."
"They don't know. And I won't tell them but I won't tell you what to do. But as your friend, my suggestion is to let them hope for a while longer. Let them deal with the tragedy when they can actually take meaningful action."
The captain was right. Sean knew it. He nodded and said he'd keep his mouth shut, he'd keep working on the course calculations so they could get home as soon as possible.
That night, Sean told Mao everything.
__________________________
"Are you fucking serious?" Mao whispered. They were in Sean's quarters, drinking whiskey as usual. They usually met in Mao's quarters with its opulent wood furniture and subspace view windows but somehow, spare mass-produced Swedish crap seemed more appropriate. Mao stood up then abruptly fell back into his chair. He rubbed a hand through his spiky hair. Sean wished he could record their faces so he could capture how human's react when they find out about the end of the world.
"I'm serious. They're gone. They're all gone. My family is..." The pit filled up and tears burst out of his chocolate eyes. Mao wrapped him in a hug but couldn't bring himself to utter the normal platitudes. Everything was not all right. Things were not going to be ok. So they cried, together.
Sean showed Mao the recording. After it ended, Mao took a shot of whiskey, downed it, and poured another.
"Does anyone else know?" he asked. Sean shook his head, then amended. "The captain."
"Only the captain?" Sean nodded. "Jesus fucking christ. How the hell are we going to tell people about...about..."
"About The End?"
"Yeah."
"Well, I'm not."
"Why not? Don't they deserve to know?"
"To know that the world is over? That everyone and everything they know is ashes? No, they deserve not to know."
"So you're going to protect them with lies?"
"Not lies. Silence."
"Bullshit! Lying by omission is...still...LYING!" Mao screamed, his face purple with rage.
"Fuck you, Mao. Do you think I wanted to see that message? I'd rather be blissfully ignorant; at least I could have a few extra days of happiness. So you can take your righteous indignation and shove it up your chinky ass!"
Mao stalked off. Sean finished the bottle.
The next morning, Sean woke to the sound of screaming and crying. New message, the console read. He turned on white noise and went back to sleep.
