You
are free to choose your actions. You are not free choose the consequence.
Deacon
slipped the welding shield over his face and lifted his torch, just enough that
the guards would believe he was working on the vessel that would shortly make
the trip to earth.
His
grandma was born on the moon. His dad was born on the moon. He was born in Luna
Maleau, Hyperion district. He lived in earth simulated gravity as a harvester,
“farmer” by old earthen terms, until he convinced Rian to trade places.
Deacon
didn’t know a thing about welding, but he wasn’t about to say that out loud.
Piston flames burned around him, melting the
broken panels into place, but he climbed the ladder into the metal beast’s
nose. The fare to earth cost more than all his lunar possessions along with
those belonging to his parents and grandparents. Only one family in their
colony could afford the trip, and they would be taking the flight in the
morning. That’s how he’d made it to the port, crouched down in the back of
their Mercedes hover. His back ached from being curled over in the space under
the luggage compartment, but he’d made it. That was further than Rian said he’d
get.
His
boots echoed hollowly in the maintenance hallway, and he glanced over his
shoulder. If he got caught, he’d be tossed in the prison for life, but it was
worth the risk.
Earth
was the place of opportunity. There you could walk through fields of wild grass
or misty woods. You could breathe without regulators or fear of filter
contamination. You could sleep under the stars and meet wild animals—things
that thrived outside of ranches. But the reason he wanted to go there was
tucked safely in his back pocket.
Grandpa’s
coin collection: Worthless on the moon. A fortune on earth—especially since no
one used coins anymore.
They
promised his great grandparents their hydroponic research would be invaluable
on the moon. They promised his family would be well taken care of. They
promised a lot of things. What his family got was a farm comprised of moondust
to somehow turn fertile. Every experiment failed, and thus they’d built
dirtless farms, but the farms required excessive amounts of water, the next
most valuable resource in lunar bargaining. The cost negated any profit that
might have been made, and his family had survived by tradingoff harvested
plants, barely keeping enough to fill their bellies. He remembered his last
birthday when he got a whole melon to himself. It was so sweet, so juicy, but
he could only eat a fourth of it. The rest he sliced and dried for this trip.
On
earth they never went hungry. On earth they had real opportunities. They could
ride a gas-guzzler and pollute the air all they wanted. They could go ten
minutes without worrying their harvest would shrivel if not sprayed. They could
walk an entire continent rather than the length of their district.
Earth
meant freedom.
From
the surface he’d transfer funds to his parent’s account to pay for extra water
rations. Perhaps he’d even earn enough to fly them down. One day.
The
apex panel blinked like a crimson beacon—a flashing red gateway to freedom.
Deacon pried the barrier free and ogled the empty space behind. This was it,
his cabin for the next three days.
An
echo down the hallway…
He
slid into the hideaway and pulled the panel back in place.
Footsteps
neared.
Keep moving. Keep moving!
They
halted in front of his hiding place. His heart dropped. What had he done wrong?
Closed a piece of clothing in the gap? Left his torch out in the open? Nope.
The torch dangled from his hip and his jumpsuit didn’t pull tight when he
shifted backward. Deacon held his breath.
The
footsteps resumed. He let out a breath and leaned carefully back into the
hovel. It scraped his shoulders, just wide enough to take in a deep breath of
air. This was going to be a long trip.
***
The
flight engineer handed in his specs, clearing the shuttle for takeoff.
Passengers boarded. The preflight checklist was completed. Ten seconds to
take-off. Nine. Eight. Seven…
***
Deacon
closed his eyes, ignoring the shaking pipes against his back. Soon now. He
could almost smell the earthen air or feel a breeze laden with pollens. It was
going to be amazing!
***
Three.
Two. One.
G-force
knocked out half the people in the cabin. The pilot scanned his instruments,
checking passenger’s vitals and watching the gauges for the right vector of
exit. That couldn’t be right. He
tapped the display, asked it to refresh, scrolled through the different values.
They were veering slightly to the starboard. Was it a trick of the mind?
The
readout hadn’t changed. They weren’t going to make their destination with this
takeoff. Someone must have left a power tool or supplies on board that hadn’t
been calculated into the flight weight.
He
swallowed and checked his gauges, running quick calculations on fuel usage with
the anomaly. He hoped this would work. With a subtle course correction, he
manually overrode the expected course by .0012 of a degree.
He
ran all the calculations again. And again. And again—getting a different result
every time. He blinked, eyes bleary from advanced mathematics. It had to be
right. Or (in his oxygen-deprived state of mind) close enough. That should
work.
The
G-force finally took him.
***
Deacon
slipped the last dried piece of melon into his mouth and attempted to ignore
the pipes bruising his back. The readout on his wrist said they’d been flying
for seventy-three hours. He had woken twenty-four hours after takeoff, his neck
stiff, his legs shaky. Since then he had dozed in and out, attempting to ignore
the growing aches and stiffness. Not long now.
Force
buffeted the hull, like slamming into a water tower. Pipes rattled. The shaking
intensified. The ship was trying to vibrate his teeth loose! Hissing burst
somewhere over his head. More hissing.
Their
farm’s pressurized water tank exploded when he was thirteen and shook the
entire homestead like the moon was going to collapse in on itself. This was
like that.
Creaks.
A crack. Beeping.
Deacon
gripped the pipes for life, his head whipping from side to side. Darkness,
heat, bile…
Light!
Burning
light!
He
was free.
***
People
on the ground marveled at the flaming masses pouring from the sky. Two
teenagers making out on Overlook Hill were thrown apart as a chunk of metal
slammed into the dirt at their feet, spraying them. The girl wiped dust out of
her face as the boy leaned over and exclaimed, “Cool!”
The
hollowed out nose of a space shuttle rested in front of them, like a giant
cracked egg. In the center sat an open tin, scorched coins spilling out.
 |
| Source |
That evening, news reports speculated why the moon cruiser failed its return flight. The captain had an outstanding record. The ship model had been the latest and greatest—all green energy and fit to the stripped-down requirements of the government. They chalked it up to mechanical failure, and the religious fanatics called it an act of God.
But it wasn’t an act of God. It was an act of choice.
Check out more of her midnight meanderings HERE.
