I want to believe that we will be all right.
But, like all things, there is no
guarantee.
We sit in the hanger like lost
children as we prepare for the ship to ascend. Cold in this place, alone in
this space, and anticipating desolation for our race, we keep our heads low and
our eyes down. The people within are undoubtedly scared. Me included.
But it has become apparent that
we can no longer escape from our problems.
It is time to leave.
Our planet is dying. Little life
remains. Worst yet: an asteroid will soon collide with the Earth, rendering
everything we have known and loved extinct.
But, like all great people, we
have a plan.
The ship we ride on is the first
of its kind. Called Destiny, it is
equipped with faster-than-light technology that will take us to the next
habitable planet in a system far away. It is the only thing separating our
species from expansion, or, even worse: eradication.
There are approximately
ninety-eight people on this ship. I am one of them.
To think that I could have been
so blessed is remarkable. But, like all blessings, they come with a curse.
The people outside are angry.
They claim that it is not fair, that it
is not right, that we, the Ninety-Eight, should not be allowed to leave. To
them, we are little more than children.
They always claimed the children
would be the future.
Now, they say we will be our
destruction.
“Carrie,” the young man who has
become my best friend says. “Are you all right?”
“I’m not sure how I’m supposed to
be,” I reply, turning my head to face Roman. “We’re about to leave everything
we know and love behind.”
“But do we really love it?” he
asks. “Or do we just think we do?”
I am unsure how to reply. Because
of that, I sigh, and lower my eyes back to the floor.
“Look at this,” Roman says.
He nudges my arm with his
shoulder just hard enough to draw my attention, revealing the cellular device
in his hand.
“We aren’t supposed to—” I start.
But Roman silences me, and
instead says, “Look.”
It is just as I feared. All
around the spaceport there are people—hundreds, thousands, maybe more. Most
have flocked here to see the exodus of the human race. Some wish us well,
others ill. Banners and flags and religious iconography from across all cultures
and religions have been raised in either support or defiance.
We are separated by little more
than a reinforced fence.
To know that we are in such a
precarious situation is beyond terrifying,
“Turn it off,” I say.
“Why?” Roman replies.
“I don’t want to see it.”
“It’s the last we’ll ever see of
Earth,” he replies. “Don’t you want to remember?”
Remember what, though? Our pain? Our suffering? Our lack of food, of clean
water and air? Most of us have struggled throughout our lives, either with the
pain of knowledge or the grief due to lack of it. It was only when we took
those DNA tests all those years ago—only when our genetics were examined to
ensure a proper genetic diversity—that we were promised a future.
I still remember the letter that
came in clear as day. Sealed by the government, and addressed only to me, I’d
held it in my hands as if it was a promise offered only to me.
My mother had cried. My father,
on oxygen at the time, barely survived.
It’s been days since I packed up
my belongings and said goodbye.
Now, I wonder if I even want to
leave.
Of course you do, a part of me says. This is your future. Why wouldn’t you want to leave?
I know that the planet is dying.
That the world will be rendered inhospitable. Yet, I feel that abandoning all I
know—all I love—is wrong.
The night before I was meant to
leave, my mother made me make a promise.
Be happy, she’d said, and
know that, wherever you go, wherever you are, that I’ll be with you.
My father was not a religious
man. He believed this to be the end—and given his stage-four cancer diagnosis,
I didn’t blame him. Once we winked out of existence, that was it: we were gone
forever. But my mother—she believed in something more, something beyond the
scope of knowledge.
She’d given me her silver cross
that night, and promised me to hold onto it until the day I die.
I made sure to make that promise.
The artificial intelligence that
will ferry the Ninety-Eight to the distant exo-planet clicks to life, and says,
“Launch to commence in… one… minute.”
“Are you ready for this?” Roman
asks, turning his head up to face me.
I lower my eyes to the cellular
device in his hand—to look at the people outside, their lost eyes and unsure
expressions—then nod and say, “Yeah. I… I am.”
He flips his hand. Displays his
palm.
I settle my hand atop his, then
lace our fingers together.
A minute can last a lifetime. I’d
learned this when staring at that letter that I, at the time, had thought had
been my rejection. But opening it,
and seeing the ominous red lettering upon
its surface, had proven that a minute is, without a doubt, the longest time
imaginable.
Congratulations, that letter had said. You have been selected as part of Project Hope.
Hope, I think, lifting my eyes as the ship begins to rumble, as the
thrusters move into formation.
I tighten my hold on Roman’s hand
and try desperately to ignore the feeling of guilt that plagues my mind.
Promise me, my mother had said, that
you’ll remember.
“I promise,” I whisper.
Roman says nothing. Lost in his
own prayers, he keeps his eyes shut, and whispers something beneath his breath.
In moments, everything grows
still—just as the men and women of the Expansion Project said it would.
Then, in less than a second, we
are taking off.
The sudden movement is
jarring—our ascent even more so. The sensation of falling overwhelms me, and
for a second, I feel as though I will fall. But Roman’s hand is on mine, and we
hold tight for dear life as the ship begins to rise from the Planet Earth.
All around us there are quiet
words. Muffled sobs. Silent prayers.
This is it, I think. This is
finally it.
The time we say goodbye.
I turn my head to acknowledge
Roman—who looks at me, and me at him—and lean forward to press my temple
against his.
“Promise me something,” I whisper
over the colossal groaning, the incessant shaking. “Promise me you won’t ever
forget.”
“I won’t,” he whispers back.
I don’t know for how long we
rise, how long the turbulence lasts. Lost in my own thoughts of my family, my
fear, and my purpose, I continue to hold Roman tight.
It is over almost as soon as it
begun.
At our sides, the hanger windows
open to reveal an awe-inspiring sight.
Though devastated by storms and
drought and famine, the planet Earth is beautiful as ever.
To think, I muse, that this
is the last time you will ever see it.
All around the people unbuckle
their seat belts. Rise. Flock to the expansive window to get a better view.
With our fingers still laced, me
and Roman move to join them.
“Carrie,” Roman says after
several moments of silence.
“Yeah?” I reply.
“Do you think we’ll be okay?”
And though lost for words, I
somehow manage to nod.
In truth, I don’t think we’ll just survive. I don’t think we’ll just barely manage to make it. I think
that, come time we land, we’ll do more than just that.
I think that, come time we land,
we’ll make our new world. A better world.
A world just for us.