El Shorouk was typical of climate-ravaged tent cities on the edge of Cairo—squalid accommodations for refugees alongside the walled and weather-proofed enclaves of the wealthy inhabitants of the city. Dustín Angers had seen this before, in Jakarta, Lagos, and Rio de Janeiro. The hot, dry air gusted in from the driver's side window of the truck that Dustín drove, blowing through his dirty, brown hair. His was the first in a convoy of old, sand-blasted box trucks bouncing along the Suez Road into El Shorouk. For miles, on both sides of the road, an uncountable number of mostly dark-skinned, emaciated men, women, and children sought refuge from the sun in overcrowded tents. It was a depressingly familiar sight to Dustín.
He looked in the side-view mirror and grinned at the sight of bare-foot children running behind the truck. Dustín slowed down as a crowd began to gather. Then the truck squealed to a halt, and Dustín hopped out. His boots landed on the hot, sandy pavement. The children crowded around him, jumping and shouting in celebration as he walked to the rear of the truck. He climbed up into the cargo area and began unloading crates into the eager hands of the crowd. They were food crates, stamped with the logo of the Union's military forces. But they didn't come from the Union—at least, not willingly. These were MREs; military rations, looted from a base in Abidjan a week prior. Dustín had purchased them on the black market and arranged transport to Cairo. It was dealings like this that made his organization, CARE International, a criminal enterprise—allegedly.
Dustín had been imprisoned more than once for his activities; it wasn't unusual for him to be in prison one day, at a climate summit in Davos the next, and in the mosquito-plagued favelas of Rio the day after that, distributing stolen malaria vaccines. He had inherited a large fortune and had put his money to good use. But the line between buying food, water, and medical supplies and funding terrorism wasn't always so clear, and Dustín had often run afoul of the law. This job, however, was brazen even for him; the MREs had been stolen directly from the Union military, as he was well aware. If caught, it would be difficult for him to plead ignorance and rouse the sympathy of the international community to get himself out of prison.
But he appeared heedless of this as he emptied his truck of food. The other trucks did the same.
"Cadaan!" shouted a voice from the crowd. Dustín scanned the faces until he found a familiar one grinning at him warmly.
"Abdel!" Dustín hopped off the truck and onto the pavement. Dressed in military-style fatigues, he stood out from the rest of the crowd as he made his way to his old friend, Abdel. They embraced. But Dustín frowned—his friend was much thinner than the last time he'd seen him months ago on the Ethiopia/Sudan border. He was a refugee of the water war, but he didn't appear to be faring well in El Shorouk. But then, no one was.
"Good to see you, my friend," said Abdel, patting Dustín on the back.
"What's happened to you, Abdel?" Dustín asked him, "Where's your daughter?"
"In Cyprus, I hope. I spent everything I had to book her passage. I couldn't afford to go with her, and now I have nothing. Just the skin on my bones, and not much of that, either," he laughed weakly.
Dustín couldn't blame him—El Shorouk was no place for a child. But sending Fikirte away with people-smugglers to a tech republic like Cyprus was an act of desperation. Not every boat even made it to Cyprus, or Crete, or wherever the destination may be. While the rest of world got hotter, the Mediterranean had become a cold, uncaring place. Dustín wasn't fooled by Abdel's weak smile; he was hurting, and not just from hunger. "How can I help you, Abdel?" he asked earnestly.
"You've done enough, Cadaan," Abdel told him, "You've made these people very happy for today. You're doing God's work, but you can't help everyone. We are all in God's hands."
Dustín put his hands on his hips and squinted into the sun. "Yeah, well I'm doing this for you, Abdel. For you and Fikirte. Not for God."
"Gaal cad," Abdel teased him.
They laughed.
Just then, a buzzing noise could be heard in the distance. It sounded like the swarm of locusts Dustín had seen in Delhi. He looked around him and noticed a plume of dust coming out of the palm trees to the West. The buzzing noise became louder. Someone shouted, "Younis!"—ironic Arabic slang for "Uni's," or Union soldiers—and the crowd began to scatter. Moments later, tiny chunks of granite were thrown into the air as the pavement was pockmarked with bullets. Abdel grabbed Dustín and they threw themselves to the ground just as one of the tires of Dustín's truck was blown out and the canvas top torn to shreds. Wooden splinters from the food crates were blasted everywhere. Only then did Dustín see them—drones, much worse than locusts.
They flew in a triangular attack formation, their machine guns making a rapid clicking noise like insects as they buzzed overhead at high speed, leaving choking whirlwinds of sand behind them. Abdel helped Dustín to his feet. "Come!" he shouted and gestured for Dustín to follow him. They ran across the blood-soaked pavement, out of the open and in amongst the tents. Dustín looked over his shoulder in time to see the second strafing run on the convoy—this time, the truck exploded, sending a fiery, mushroom-shaped plume into the sky. Dustín could feel the heat on his back.
He followed Abdel closely as they moved through the maze of tents. Women screamed and children cried as they ran past, as the drones buzzed and clicked overhead. Then Abdel ducked into a sheet metal shack, and Dustín followed him inside, breathing heavily. Once his eyes adjusted to the dim interior, he saw several rough-looking men arming themselves with rifles. One of the men eyed Dustín suspiciously. "Hu sadiq," Abdel said to him. The man nodded and tossed a rifle to Abdel, who handed it to Dustín. He recognized it as an AK-250—produced by Indo-Russia Rifles, it was an iconic weapon of insurgents across Africa. Dustín hesitated for only a moment before he grasped the rifle's grip in one hand and the stock in the other. He'd never fired a gun before, but then, he'd never had a gun fired at him before, either. Today was a day of firsts, he thought grimly.
"Allah maak," the man said to Abdel.
Abdel gestured for Dustín to follow him once more. "Come!" he said, and ran out of the shack faster than Dustín would have thought him capable in his emaciated state. He followed him closely, weaving through one tent after another, then into a complex of what appeared to be old, abandoned condiminiums. His boots began to splash in plashets of water which became deeper the farther he went into the flooded complex. They ran past a faded old sign that said "Welcome to Future City" in English and Arabic. Dustín wondered where they were going, but he knew not to ask.
Drones criss-crossed directly overhead, the down-draft blasting the dark, brackish water into Dustín's eyes. His legs had begun to burn from running when they finally came upon a small, disused garage, flooded to Dustín's ankles. "In here, Cadaan!" Abdel shouted, and Dustín followed him inside. To his surprise, a fan-powered hovercraft awaited them. It was small—only a two-seater—and it looked fast. "Hurry!" said Abdel as he situated himself in the driver's seat. Dustín climbed aboard, clutching his rifle.
Abdel was Somalian. A machinist, he had traveled to Ethiopia looking for work when the war broke out. He was good at what he did, and he had no problem firing up the hovercraft. "Allahom ehfaznee," Abdel muttered to himself as he throttled the hovercraft forward, out of the garage. They picked up speed quickly, the wind blowing through Dustín's hair as Abdel steered the craft down the flooded thoroughfares of Future City. He steered them West, towards the Nile delta.
Before he could ask Abdel where he was taking him, Dustín heard the fast clicking sound of a drone's machine gun, and looked back to see bullets splashing in the water behind them, far too close for comfort. "Bax!" Abdel grunted, and weaved the hovercraft from side to side. Dustín thought he would be sick.
A pair of drones dropped into pursuit behind them. "Toogan, Cadaan!" Abdel shouted at him over the roar of the hovercraft's fan engine, "Shoot them!" This time, Dustín didn't hesitate; he leaned out of the side of the hovercraft, pointed the rifle behind them, and fired. Bang! He was startled by the loud noise, but the recoil was manageable—the AK-250 was user-friendly, and had a sophisticated recoil reduction system. Even so, he missed. Dustín held the trigger down. Bang!-Bang!-Bang! The rifle fired a quick, three-round burst, but still, he missed.
"Use the laser designator!" Abdel shouted at him, pointing at a small device on top of the gun's handguard, within easy reach of Dustín's thumb. "Point it at the target, then shoot!" Dustín did as he was told. He turned on what appeared to be a laser sight and did his best to hold it steady on the closest drone behind them. He pressed his sweaty finger to the trigger. Bang! Dustín's aim was off again, but this time it didn't matter—to his astonishment, the bullet changed its trajectory in mid-flight, curving toward the drone and striking it head-on. The drone spun wildly out of control and splashed down into the water behind them. One down, one to go.
"Yes!" Dustín felt empowered, but he had no time to celebrate before the second drone opened up on them. Dustín watched, as if in slow-motion, as a straight line of small, deadly splashes in the water approached them from behind. Two bullets pierced the hovercraft's air cushion. Another richocheted off the fan engine with a Clank! Then, to his horror, Dustín saw a bullet hit Abdel in the back. Then another, and another. Deep red blood sprayed onto Dustín's soaked fatigues as Abdel shouted in pain and slumped over the yoke. The hovercraft came to a stop, and the drone over-shot them.
"Abdel!" Dustín yelled. With strength he didn't know he had, Dustín grabbed onto Abdel's shoulder and propped him up in the driver's seat. Abdel's eyes rolled to meet his for a brief, plaintive moment, then went blank. His head drooped forward. He was dead.
Tears of anger formed in Dustín's eyes as he looked up at the remaining drone. It stopped and hovered in place for a moment as it turned 180° to face Dustín, then fast approached him from the hovercraft's bow. He stood and raised the rifle in his unsteady hands. He squinted down the sight as he pointed the laser at the drone, then squeezed the trigger. Bang!-Bang!-Bang! The bullets curved gracefully through the air and struck the drone. It was blasted to pieces, splashing harmlessly into the water below.
And suddenly, everything was quiet. Dustín could feel his heart pounding in his chest, and hear it in his ears. Columns of smoke rose into the deep blue sky from El Shorouk to the East. In the distance, a spaceplane blasted off from Cairo International to the West. The hovercraft floated in what was once a courtyard, now flooded. Dustín was alone.
Lynn Starlight leaned over the sink and inspected her face in the washroom mirror. She frowned as she looked at the creases under her eyes. It was a daily reminder of her fast-encroaching age. Not that she needed a reminder; her agent had already explained to her that there weren't as many roles for a woman of her age. (She hadn't spoken with him since that particular conversation.) Lynn was once a darling of Hollywood, but times had changed. She was still a beautiful, distinguished-looking woman, and a capable actor, but the industry had moved on to younger talent, as it does.
She produced a concealer pen from her purse and went to work on the wrinkles. She pondered the symbolism of it—concealing the truth under a layer of makeup, just as she lived her life under a layer of lies. Her name, for instance—it was Wyckoff, not Starlight, but the former wasn't as memorable of a stage name. She appeared to be in a happy marriage, but this, too, was a lie. In fact, the role of a contented wife was perhaps her finest performance.
Not that she wasn't grateful to Maxwell; he had all the money and charisma in the world, and he provided for her every material desire. But he was emotionally distant. Lynn sometimes thought that he had more in common with the machines that he designed and built than he did with her. Maxwell Ngo was a genius at his work, to be sure, but it came at the cost of his personal life, which was virtually non-existent. He spent nearly all of his time jet-setting around the world on business trips, sometimes with Lynn, but usually without her.
This was one of the rare occasions when they were together, yet they still felt far apart. Lynn could hear Maxwell in the other room, shouting into his earpiece about a launch delay. Would the whole weekend be like this? She hoped not.
The wedding of the Bollywood actress Petra Jain and the algomusician Bl@ze was the major social event of the year. The couple had reserved the Starliner for what would be the first wedding in space. That's how Lynn and Maxwell had come to be invited; because Maxwell was the designer of the Starliner and served as a technical advisor to the company's board, his presence was expected at such a high-profile event. And Maxwell was a celebrity in his own right, too—he was the CEO of Magellan Spaceworks, the premiere maker of private spaceplanes and spaceplane launch systems, and a contractor for the Union Space Force. He was wealthy beyond measure, worth more than half a trillion ₡oin, and he was known to rub elbows with the rich and powerful. Everyone on Earth knew the name Maxwell Ngo.
Lynn was dressed resplendently in a dark, one shoulder mesh gown by Armani, studded with Swarovski crystals with a matching face mask. Her sable hair fell immaculately upon her shoulders. She stood in the washroom of their suite in the Marriott Marquis Houston, fashionably late for the pre-wedding welcome party downstairs, when she saw in the mirror the door slide open noiselessly and Maxwell step inside. He walked beside Lynn and looked at himself in the mirror as he buttoned up his silver dress shirt with a Mandarin collar. (Only middle-managers wore neckties these days.) A face mask dangled from one ear, a totem of the coronavirus pandemic currently sweeping the Earth, moon, and Mars. He had short, jet black hair, and a strong chin.
"Sorry," he said, curtly.
"I know," said Lynn.
"Are you ready yet?"
Lynn placed the concealer back in her purse. "Yes," she said.
She studied the two of them in the mirror for a moment. Their marriage had made so much sense to her at the time. She had increasingly turned away from acting and become more involved with her humanitarian work. She was an ambassador for the Union's refugee relief program. She had met Maxwell at a donors' conference and been enamored of his generosity and his superficial charm. But he didn't really care about climate refugees; all he cared about was his next project, whether it be the X-wing, the Starliner, or his collection of European sports cars. Charity was an afterthought to him—something he did for appearances only. And maybe that's why he'd married her, she thought.
But now, everything was going to change. She was pregnant. She hadn't told Maxwell yet. She had just found out herself, and was waiting until this weekend to break the news to him. She wasn't sure how he would react; maybe he would surprise her and be happy. But knowing him, he would probably brood over it. Lynn didn't care. This was a way for her to exercise some power in their marriage for a change; for once, it was her decision, not Maxwell's, and she had decided—she wanted a child, before it was too late.
She watched Maxwell smooth the creases out of his shirt. "You know, it's going to be a long weekend if you're on your earpiece the whole time," Lynn said, drily.
"It's going to be a long weekend regardless," Maxwell said, "I hate these things."
"Then why do you go to them?"
"It's expected of me," he said, and leaned in to kiss Lynn on the shoulder. "Of us," he added.
Was that all this weekend was to him? A social obligation? To Lynn, it was a rare opportunity for them to be together. Yet Maxwell seemed intent on having a bad time. Lynn sighed. This wasn't how things had started out with them. In the beginning, they had taken the yacht on long trips to exotic destinations—champagne on Phuket, fireworks on Mallorca, sunbathing on Cozumel. It was a glamorous life. But just as Hollywood had moved on from Lynn, so, it seemed, had Maxwell. These days, she—and the tabloids—could only imagine what he got up to on his "business" trips without her. Even in his free time, he only rarely spent the day with her; more often, he would travel to the Magellan skunkworks near Las Cruces and stay the night there, leaving her alone in Bel Air.
Lynn knew she couldn't complain. From her work with climate refugees, she was perfectly aware of how fortunate she was. But she was lonely. She had few genuine friends—people who weren't simply out for money, favors, or influence with her husband. And Maxwell's friends were insufferable. They treated her as his trophy wife, never taking her humanitarian work seriously. They condescended to her, and Maxwell let them.
But all of that would change now, she reminded herself. Their days as a power couple were coming to an end, and their days as a family would soon begin. Lynn pondered that word—"family." Deep down, she had always longed for one. Her father had been an abusive alcoholic, and her mother was too emotionally fragile to stand up to him. Lynn had run away from home when she was 16 and stayed with an aunt in Pasadena, where she started her acting career.
Now, Lynn was ready for a child of her own. She wanted to be a better mother to her child than her mother was to her, and for Maxwell to be a better father—Lynn had her doubts, though. Maxwell would need to change. He would need to be present in their child's life in a way he wasn't with Lynn.
They would make it work, she thought. Somehow.
"Let's go," she said, and they went arm-in-arm to the party downstairs, the very picture of a 22nd century power couple.
* * *
Ten years ago, Maxwell Ngo had envisaged the Starliner as the height of luxury in zero-gravity. This latter point was important—Magellan Spaceworks wasn't the first company to conceive of luxury space stations. Such ideas had been in development for a century. Generally, these proposed stations were circular in shape and rotated around an axis to generate artificial gravity. But Maxwell had understood space tourism better than his competitors. No one wanted to pay a quarter of a million ₡oin to stay in a glorified hotel, comfortable in 1 g of simulated gravity. No, what they wanted was the experience of weightlessness. They wanted wild, zero-gravity bacchanals they could stream to jealous admirers on social media. And, to be frank, they wanted to fuck in space. Membership in the "250-mile high club" was coveted, even if they soon discovered that sex in microgravity was invariably a clumsy affair.
So the Starliner was less of a space station and more of a cruise ship in space. It was big—about 200 meters long—and sleek. Painted white, it resembled an ocean-going cruise ship, complete with an enclosed observation deck. It had a spacious interior with large, curvaceous windows, well-appointed cabins for guests, and an extravagant dining room for zero gravity meals. It had taken ten years and cost more than 3 trillion ₡oin to build its component parts and transport them to orbit for assembly. Maxwell's passion project had captured the imagination of the Earth, and it had been wildly successful—customers who had purchased a Magellan spaceplane found that they could easily dock with the Starliner for a weekend stay. It became a status symbol for the world's wealthy and powerful, a place where they could look down on the climate-ravaged Earth in luxury.
Yet, Maxwell wasn't satisfied. He never was.
He had found last night's party to be tedious, and he'd had too much to drink; now, he had a headache. He was seated in his private X-wing spaceplane, with Lynn beside him, buckled in as the plane's powerful boosters rumbled to life. The noise and the vibration exacerbated his headache, and yet, Maxwell harbored a secret, boyish excitement every time his spaceplane blasted off. It was that undying sense of wonder that had animated his work on the X-wing and, later, the Starliner.
The spaceplane lifted off the launchpad at Houston Spaceport, rising out of an enormous, caustic cloud of smoke into the clear, blue sky, on its way to rendezvous with the Starliner.
Once, the Starliner had existed only in Maxwell's head. Now, he had been aboard it a half-dozen times, had felt its cool, titanium hull in his hands, and breathed its recycled air. No sooner did Maxwell complete one project, then he moved on to another; before the Starliner came the X-wing, the spaceplane that Magellan was best known for. Named for Luke Skywalker's spaceship from Star Wars—of which Maxwell was a fan—the X-wing was the first reasonably affordable commercial spaceplane. It was sleek, stylish, and highly-customizable. Maxwell had pioneered the business model of selling spaceplanes to customers and leasing them the re-usable booster rockets they needed for launch. It made Magellan a fantastic profit.
Maxwell had founded Magellan Spaceworks after the Union had nationalized the SpaceX Conglomeration and folded the company's resources into its own military space program. Magellan had capitalized on the work of its predecessors and quickly filled the hole in the market. Named after the Portuguese explorer whose three-year voyage was the first to circumnavigate the Earth, Magellan built spaceplanes that could duplicate this feat in an hour. Everyone who was anyone owned a Magellan spaceplane, from businessmen and dignitaries to Hollywood celebrities and algomusicians.
But now that the Starliner was complete, and Fortune and other magazines speculated about what his next project might be, Maxwell found himself grasping for inspiration. He spent long, frustrated nights alone at the Magellan skunkworks in New Mexico, brainstorming ideas with a 3D pen. Having pioneered commercial space travel and space tourism, he felt the pressure to come up with the next big idea. But deep down, he feared he didn't have it in him. He was no longer the young man he'd been when he'd conceived of the X-wing, or even the Starliner. Now, he had all the incumbent anxieties of middle-age to distract him from his work.
Maxwell watched the scorched Texas landscape recede from view outside his window. Beside him, Lynn yawned. He placed his hand atop hers, but she pulled it away from him. He sighed. She was angry that he hadn't gone to bed with her last night. But he had been too drunk and tired. In truth, sex had never been much of a priority for him. Lynn had once suggested that he may be asexual, but he had mistaken it for an insult and refused even to consider the possibility. He was just preoccupied with his work, he told himself.
But he knew that things hadn't been good between them for a while. He knew he'd been neglecting their relationship. But he felt that, as her acting prospects had diminished, Lynn had become more and more demanding of his time and attention. He intrinsically recoiled from this. He sometimes felt imposed upon, as if Lynn were just another senator or lobbyist competing for his favor. But he felt bad for feeling this way about her.
They had probably rushed into marriage. He loved her—at least, as much as he'd ever loved anyone—but he'd be lying if he said he hadn't married Lynn partially for the glamor of wedding a Hollywood actress. She had been the garnish on the celebrity image that he had cultivated for himself, to go with the fast cars and dinner parties. But he was older now, and more mature. He tired of that image, and to an extent, he tired of Lynn. He hadn't realized at the time that a relationship was work.
But he understood that now. He wanted to make things work, but he wanted to do so efficiently, like one of his X-wings—with the minimum amount of energy required. The problem was, nothing he did seemed to be enough for Lynn. This weekend was supposed to be his chance to change that, but it was already off to an inauspicious start.
* * *
The wedding was a lavish affair. It was ancient Egypt-themed, with a hologram of the Sphinx in the center of the Starliner's spacious dining room. Petra Jain wore an immaculate white linen gown with an elaborate Usekh collar of gold and turquoise beads (which had to be fastened down, so they wouldn't float away in zero gravity). With her dark skin and cat's eye makeup, she looked just like popular conceptions of Cleopatra. Bl@ze was bare-chested, with a pleated skirt and a crown on their head. They looked like an Egyptian pharaoh. The two of them had exchanged unconventional vows to "build pyramids together," and with the diplomatically-phrased "I now pronounce you spouses" (for Bl@ze was non-binary), the pastor from the Unity Church made it official. They kissed, and the guests clapped. The soundtrack of the evening was algorithmically-generated by Bl@ze, a new surprise album that was ostensibly Egyptian-inspired.
The Starliner's dining room was a luxurious venue for a wedding. The room was upside-down, relative to the Earth; the "ceiling" was a transparent half-dome that offered a breathtaking view of the planet beneath them, and the tables and chairs were bolted to the "floor" above. Real Egyptian tree ferns had been transported to the Starliner and secured on the "floor," their leaves swaying gently in zero gravity. The plates and utensils were magnetized, and the gilded, Egyptian-style goblets the guests drank from were enclosed on the top, with a straw to prevent the liquid inside from drifting away. The menu was decidedly not Egyptian, however; cultured and cruelty-free filet mignon, celeriac in delicate nutmeg puree, and rice pudding with cannabis-infused candied fruit. Prepared by a world-renowned chef, the selection would not be out of place at a five-star restaurant.
Guests on the Starliner would ordinarily wear simple, functional jumpsuits, but this clashed with the glamorous aesthetic that Petra and Bl@ze were going for. A compromise had been devised—Lynn, Maxwell, and the other guests wore typical formal wear, but with transparent plastic jumpsuits over their attire. There were various reasons why this was necessary; it prevented gowns from billowing in the negligible gravity, or expensive suits from being ruined by the occasional errant glob of wine. Maxwell thought it was idiotic, but he didn't say so out loud.
Lynn and Petra were both actors and were familiar with each other's work. Maxwell wasn't well-acquainted with Petra or Bl@ze, but the two couples happened to be seated near to one another and they found themselves making reasonably pleasant conversation. The cannabis had lightened everyone's mood.
"We want the sort of marriage that you have," Petra told them, "You've been together for, what, ten years now?"
"Yes," Maxwell said.
"Eleven, dear," Lynn corrected him.
"I love that you support each other's work," Petra went on.
"We're working together also," Bl@ze said proudly, holding Petra's hand, "I'm writing the soundtrack for her next movie."
"That's something," Maxwell didn't know what else to say. He didn't care for AI-generated 'algomusic.' It was too gimmicky. Converting a person's genetic sequence into music notes and then using an algorithm to re-order those notes into a melody may be an inspired technical feat, but it didn't impress Maxwell. The end result was too ambient and boring for his taste. It put him to sleep, but for whatever reason, Bl@ze's somnolent style was hugely popular among their drugged-up fans.
"Have you thought of having children?" Lynn asked.
"Oh," Petra said, bashfully. She and Bl@ze looked at one another inquisitively, then smiled and shook their heads.
"No," Bl@ze spoke for both of them, "I think we want to live life for us, for now."
"Understandable," Maxwell said.
"What about you two?" Petra asked them, politely.
"Oh, same," Maxwell glanced at Lynn. "We're so busy," he projected, "Who has the time, these days?"
"Exactly," said Bl@ze, "No one has children anymore."
"And with so much hardship in the world," Maxwell shook his head. "Pandemic, climate change, or God forbid—a hadron war. Is this the kind of world we want to bring a child into? And with so many starving down there," he gestured with his goblet toward the Earth outside the window, "should we really create another mouth to feed? It's unethical. Right, Lynn?"
Lynn smiled weakly and took a sip of her wine.
"And I hear the dispensation process is a nightmare," Petra noted.
"Oh?" Lynn asked.
"Well, we can't have just anyone having children," Bl@ze said, "There are twenty eight billion people down there. Imagine if all of them had a child. Or two or three."
"There's already not enough water for everyone," Maxwell agreed, "Wars are fought over it. It would be selfish of us to exacerbate that situation."
"Selfish?" said Lynn, incredulously.
"Of course," Maxwell told her, "To create a whole new person with dietary needs when there are so many people who already exist and don't have enough to eat or drink. And why? Because my child is more important than yours. A child is a vanity project, nothing more."
Petra and Bl@ze, no strangers to vanity, nodded in agreement.
"Surely, you agree?" Maxwell asked Lynn.
She had to be careful what she said. As the ambassador for the Union's refugee relief program, she couldn't be seen speaking out against the Union's strict birth control policy, especially when that policy was central to managing migrant populations. And Maxwell wasn't wrong, exactly—she knew the policy existed for a good reason. She would need to reckon with it eventually, but now wasn't the time.
Lynn unbuckled herself from her chair. "Excuse me," she said politely. Even in zero gravity and clad in her ungainly, plastic jumpsuit, Lynn moved with grace. She used well-placed handrails to navigate her way towards the bathroom, well aware that if she let go, she might drift into the air and make a spectacle of herself.
She didn't need the bathroom—she just wanted to get away from this conversation. It amazed her that Petra and Bl@ze could declare that they wanted to 'live for themselves' one moment, and condemn having children as 'selfish' the next. And it was discouraging to hear Maxwell agree with them, and say such ugly things about having children. 'Unethical,' 'selfish,' 'a vanity project.' Lynn had felt anger welling up inside of her as she'd listened to his blithe remarks. No doubt, he was speaking more freely than usual on account of the cannabis, but it was good to know what he really thought. It told her what she was up against.
"Lynn Starlight?" said a familiar voice.
Lynn looked over her shoulder at a table nearby and saw a man "stand" from his chair—the best one can "stand" in zero gravity—and beckon to her. He was tan, with a shock of wild, sandy brown hair. He was dressed similarly to everyone else—formal wear beneath a plastic jumpsuit.
"Dustín Angers," she greeted him, with a warm smile.
"I haven't seen you since Aspen," Dustín said.
"Aspen, Davos, and now the Starliner. We seem to meet in cold places, Mr. Angers."
"Care to join us?" he asked.
Lynn glanced back at her table and saw Maxwell was still in conversation with Petra and Bl@ze. She considered Dustín's invitation for a moment, then nodded. She took up a seat beside him and smiled at the other guests at the table. They were three hard-looking men and a woman. Lynn sensed from their stiff body language that they were feeling self-conscious, as if she were interrupting something.
"These are my colleagues from CARE," Dustín introduced them, "Bastien, Veryl, Dom, and Philipa."
"I admire your work," Lynn told them, truthfully. CARE International did excellent work on behalf of climate refugees. Even if its methods were sometimes questionable, she was sympathetic to their cause. Lynn regarded Dustín with a raised eyebrow. "I'm a bit surprised to see you at an event like this, however," she said, "Last I heard, you were in prison."
"In an unjust society, the place for a just man is prison," Dustín said with a shrug.
"Thoreau."
"You know your transcendentalists," Dustín said, approvingly. "CARE was able to secure my release," he went on, "It wasn't cheap, though. We're here on business—soliciting donations from the rich and powerful."
"Ah," Lynn said, "Is that why you invited me to your table?"
"No," Dustín smiled and shook his head, "I enjoy your company, Lynn." The casual way he'd used her first name was a hint of something more between them. No sooner had he said it then he looked down at his drink, embarrassed. And it hadn't gone unnoticed by the others; they looked from Dustín to Lynn in conspicuous silence.
Lynn had been about to say something when, at a nearby table, Bl@ze's manager, Anton, stood and held his goblet up in the air. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "I'd like to purpose a toast." It was obvious from the way he'd mispronounced 'propose' that Anton had had too much to drink. "These are tough times for a lot of people," he went on, "But I think it's great that we were able to put this event together, during a pandemic, no less—"
"If they cared about the pandemic, they wouldn't have had this event in the first place," Dustín grumbled to Lynn. She looked around the room and noticed there wasn't a mask in sight. Dustín was right; no precautions had been taken against the coronavirus.
"—it really shows what's great about the Union, that, despite the adversity, we were able to come together here tonight."
"Quel faux cul!" muttered Veryl, one of Dustín's compatriots, under his breath.
"Vraiment," Dustín agreed, quietly.
Lynn didn't speak French, but she didn't need to; the disdain in Veryl's voice would be evident in any language.
"To the Union!" Anton said triumphantly.
No one at Dustín's table raised a glass.
"Dustín," said Philipa, impatiently, "Allons-y."
Dustín glanced at his watch. "Toi d'abord," he said, "on se voit plus tard."
Altogether, Dustín's compatriots stood and excused themselves from the table.
"Is this a bad time?" Lynn asked.
"My colleagues and I have some business to attend to," Dustín explained, "But it's fine. I'll join them shortly." Curiously, none of said colleagues had touched their drinks. Dustín retrieved one of the goblets and handed it to Lynn. "We can think of something better to toast to," he said, raising his own glass to hers.
Lynn thought about it for a moment. "To old acquaintenances?"
A sad look descended upon Dustín's handsome features. "Is that all we are?" he asked, somberly.
Lynn blushed.
"To old friends?" Dustín said, hopefully.
"To old friends," Lynn clinked her goblet to his, and they drank from their respective straws.
Lynn set her goblet down. "So, I gather your friends don't feel the Union is a force for good in the world," she observed.
"Do you?"
"I have to believe that," Lynn said, defensively, "The Union isn't perfect, but it takes care of refugees. I've seen for myself the good work that it does."
"You've seen what they want you to see," Dustín retorted, "I've seen the tent cities where refugees are kept out of sight and out of mind, without adequate food or medical care. Not to mention, the Union made them refugees in the first place. It destroyed the ecosystems they depended upon and doomed them to poverty. It hoarded the water and left them to fight each other for the few drops that remained. It spent 5 trillion ₡oin on its 'Space Superiority Platform,' enough to feed every mouth on Earth if it actually wanted to. And then there's your husband—"
"What about my husband?"
"His spaceplanes put more carbon into the atmosphere every year than the entire developing world combined. And he has the nerve to show up at donor conferences talking about the plight of climate refugees! I bet he sleeps well at night, too. Doesn't he, Lynn?"
"I wouldn't know," Lynn said, taking a sip of her wine.
"I'm sorry," said Dustín, embarrassed, "I've spoken out of turn."
"Are you in legal trouble, Dustín?" Lynn changed the subject.
"Oh," he demurred, "Yes, I suppose so. I'm always in legal trouble."
"I've read about you in the news," Lynn told him.
He shrugged. "Then you know I provided 'material support for a terrorist organization,'" he said, "Of course, one man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter. But I doubt the court will see it that way."
"You don't seem worried."
"I'm not," he said, looking earnestly into her eyes, "I regret nothing."
There was an odd sense of finality to his words, Lynn thought. She looked into his blue eyes, trying to read him. But he was inscrutable, and she found his inscrutability strangely alluring.
Just then, two hands came to rest on Lynn's shoulders from behind her. She started.
"I'm sorry," said Maxwell, surprised, "Did I startle you? Oh—" he glanced at Dustín, "—you're..."
"Dustín Angers," Lynn introduced him.
"That's right," Maxwell said, warily, "You're the man from CARE, aren't you? The one who sabotaged my foundry in Lagos."
"Allegedly," Dustín smiled.
"Well, no hard feelings," Maxwell shrugged.
It was definitely the cannabis talking, Lynn thought to herself drily.
"Dear," Maxwell said to Lynn, "the Captain has invited us and the newlyweds to the bridge. Come with us, would you? You can bring Mr. Angers. I wouldn't want to leave the poor fellow alone."
"That's—" Dustín hesitated for a moment, then appeared to change his mind. "That would be delightful," he said.
"I thought your friends were waiting for you?" said Lynn.
"I'll meet up with them later."
"Good," said Maxwell. He offered his arm to Lynn. "Shall we?"
* * *
"The Starliner looks like a flying cruise ship, but it's actually in a steady, circular orbit around the Earth, just like a satellite or a space station. Called a 'prograde' orbit, it means we travel in the same direction as the Earth's rotation, which makes it easier for spaceplanes and shuttles to catch up to us. We cover the entire surface of the Earth about every six weeks, so we have a variety of views to offer our passengers. Currently, if you direct your attention to the monitor, you'll see the Gulf of Oman below us."
The Captain was used to giving these VIP tours of the Starliner's bridge. In fact, despite his decade of experience in astrogation, his role on the ship was largely ceremonial. The Starliner was piloted by an AI which received its directions from ground control in Darmstadt. While the Captain could take control of the ship, there was no reason to. So, he primarily served as a glorified master of ceremonies, presiding over dinners and giving exclusive, behind-the-scenes tours like this one to influential passengers.
The Captain, a stout trans man dressed in a handsome uniform, "stood" by an impressively large bank of computers that barely fit inside the surprisingly small, windowless bridge of the Starliner. It didn't look anything like the bridge of an ocean-going ship; it was more like an office, with touchscreen monitors and holographic displays everywhere. With the Captain, Maxwell, Lynn, and Dustín, as well as Petra and Bl@ze on the bridge, the room felt hot and crowded.
Maxwell's mood had just begun to sour. He was coming down from his earlier high, and he could smell the alcohol on Bl@ze and Petra's breath. Moreover, the Captain wasn't telling him anything about the Starliner that he didn't already know, or hadn't seen before—every inch of the ship had existed in his mind before it was ever built.
"There's so much... stuff up here," said Petra, looking at a holographic map of Earth's orbital space, "Is there a danger of crashing into things?"
"No," the Captain reassured her, "We travel in our own 'lane,' so to speak, with no other satellites or space stations in our path."
"What's that one?" Bl@ze pointed at the largest of the specks on the map.
"The Union Space Superiority Platform," the Captain said, "That's restricted orbital space—we won't be going anywhere near it."
"The Union shoots down anything that gets too close to it," Dustín said, with obvious disapprobation in his voice, "They shoot first and don't ask questions later."
"Oh yes," said Maxwell, "Your satellite, wasn't it?"
Dustín nodded. "CARE used it to document human rights abuses," he explained, "The Union shot it down."
"Shouldn't have been taking pictures in restricted space," said Maxwell, unsympathetically.
"We were within our rights," Dustín protested, "The Union can only restrict orbital space for navigational purposes—not to keep prying eyes away from its 'Death Star.'" He looked at Lynn. "They think if we don't see it, we'll forget it's there. Just like refugees."
"Um," the Captain seemed uncomfortable with Dustín's remarks, and quickly changed the subject. "Over here is our security system," he said, gesturing to a series of monitors that showed high-resolution video of various rooms on the ship. Maxwell glanced at it and yawned. "The Starliner has a top-of-the-line security suite," the Captain went on, "The AI uses pattern recognition to alert me to suspicious behavior."
"What sort of 'suspicious behavior'?" Lynn asked.
"Oh, usually just a passenger who's had too much to drink and floated off someplace they shouldn't be."
"Are there security guards on the ship?" Dustín asked, "I haven't seen any."
"Our passengers pay a quarter of a million ₡oin for a ticket on the Starliner," the Captain said, "These aren't exactly troublemakers. Even so, I carry a stun gun." He patted the holster on his belt. "I've never had to use it, though."
Maxwell looked disinterestedly at the security monitor, taking in the dining room, the kitchen—
"Why is this one blank?" Maxwell asked, pointing to one of the monitors.
"I'm not sure, Mr. Ngo," the Captain said, "Must be a malfunction."
"What room is that?"
"The storeroom."
"What's in there?" Bl@ze asked.
"Food, water, tools, a 3D printer," the Captain explained, "Also our large selection of wine from Baden that you've been enjoying this evening. Other than that, nothing too exciting, I'm afraid."
Dustín stole a glance at his watch, and to his surprise, Lynn placed her arm in his. As Maxwell was preoccupied with the monitor, she and Dustín ambled over to the screen showing the Earth's surface beneath them. The deep blue of the Arabian Sea cast a soft, blue glow on their features. "Are you having a good time?" Lynn asked him.
"I told you, I didn't come here to have a good time," Dustín said, "I came here on business."
"Ah yes, this mysterious 'business' of yours. Aren't your friends waiting for you?"
"No—they're not," Dustín said, looking at his watch again.
Lynn sighed. "I'm worried about you, Dustín," she said to him.
"Don't be."
"Why don't you let me help you?"
"You mean let Maxwell help me? No, thanks."
"You don't have to look at it that way."
"How else can I look at it?" Dustín said, glancing at Lynn, "I don't want the help of your fascist collaborator husband. I don't need it, either—I'm not going to prison again."
"How can you be so sure?"
He looked away from her, at the screen. "I'm sure," he said, grimly.
"Dustín," Lynn said with some trepidation, "There's something I should tell you—"
Maxwell looked over his shoulder for Lynn, and saw her arm-in-arm with Angers. Maxwell didn't care for that man. It wasn't only that he disagreed with the man's politics, nor that Angers had led a protest of a Magellan foundry in Lagos which had predictably turned violent; the man was also far too comfortable with his wife. Yes, he was jealous. He knew that Lynn had needs, and that he hadn't been there for her lately. He trusted her, but not Angers; he was exactly the sort of man who wouldn't hesitate to take advantage of the situation.
Maxwell broke free from the tour and floated over to them.
"Enjoying the view?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.
"It's stunning," Lynn said. She released Dustín's arm and put her hand around Maxwell's waist instead. "I'm glad we came here," she said to her husband.
Maxwell leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. "Me too, actually," he said, warmly.
"Look at them, Petra," said Bl@ze, "Ten years together, and they're still in love."
"That will be us in ten years," Petra said, glowingly.
"What about you, Mr. Angers? Any romance in your life?" asked Bl@ze.
"Yeah, Robin Hood," said Maxwell, patronizingly, "Who is your Maid Marian?"
Dustín smiled and shook his head. "I've known many women, but none as warm and charming as Lynn. You may be many things, Mr. Ngo, but you're certainly a lucky man."
"I'll take that as a compliment, I think," Maxwell said.
Bang! A muffled gunshot sounded from somewhere in the ship.
"What was that?" Bl@ze asked.
Bang! Another shot, louder this time.
Maxwell had the wherewithal to squint at the security monitor. He had just enough time to spy a commotion in the dining room before Dustín sprang into action.
The Captain didn't know what to do. A man of science, not of action, he stood petrified at the sound of gunfire on his ship. The Starliner's onboard AI—affectionately named "Starla"—belatedly notified him of "suspicious behavior" in his earpiece, but it was far too late. On the security monitor, guests in the dining room could be seen fumbling for cover beneath tables as multiple assailants fired guns into the air—pistols, by the look of them. How was that possible? The Captain wondered. Any firearms would have been detected prior to boarding, or should have been.
The Captain raised his hand to his earpiece and tapped it with his finger. "Starla," he said, "Lock the bridge door."
But before he could issue any further commands, Dustín was upon him, wresting his holster from his belt. "Sir, please—" the Captain instinctively tried to resist, but a moment later he found himself looking down the wrong side of his stun gun. He lifted his hands into the air helplessly as the others stepped back. Maxwell stood in front of Lynn to protect her.
"Dustín!" Lynn cried, "What are you—?"
"Open the door!" Dustín ordered the Captain.
"But they'll get in here!" the Captain protested.
"He's one of them," Maxwell said.
"One of who?" Bl@ze asked, terrified.
There was a sudden, violent pounding on the bridge door.
"Them."
"Open the fucking door!" Dustín told the Captain a second time.
"No, I won't!"
"We have hostages," Dustín nodded toward the security monitor, "See for yourself."
"I—" the Captain hesitated. He looked at Maxwell.
"Do as he says," Maxwell said.
Reluctantly, the Captain tapped his earpiece again. "Starla," he said, "Open the bridge door."
Suddenly, the door slid open, and a man and a woman rushed into the room with pistols in hand. Lynn recognized them as Veryl and Philipa, from Dustín's table earlier that evening—if those were their real names. "Mets-toi dos au mur!" Veryl shouted, waving his gun at Maxwell, Lynn, Bl@ze, and Petra.
"Against the wall!" Dustín translated.
They did as they were told. Bl@ze held Petra in their arms as she cried softly, her cat's eye makeup running down her face. Lynn's mouth was open in shock. Maxwell stared at the hostage-takers with steel in his eyes, especially Dustín. "Have you lost your mind, Angers?" Maxwell said.
Dustín ignored him, keeping the stun gun pointed at the Captain. With his free hand, he unzipped his plastic jumpsuit and reached into the pocket of his dinner jacket. He produced a small data chip and held it up for the Captain to see. "Redirect the ship to these coordinates—now!" he commanded.
Again, the Captain hesitated.
"Le faire maintenant!" Philipa yelled at him.
The Captain shook his head.
Dustín pulled the trigger, and a low-pitched buzz! issued forth from the stun gun. The Captain was struck with an invisible, directed-energy beam. He crumpled to the floor, unconscious.
Petra screamed.
Dustín pointed the gun at Maxwell. "You do it," he said, holding up the data card, "Or we'll start killing hostages."
"No, you won't," Maxwell said, defiantly.
"Ne me provoque pas!" shouted Veryl.
Maxwell crossed his arms over his chest.
Dustín glared at Maxwell as he tapped his earpiece. "Bastien..." he said to his colleague in the dining room. The bridge was crowded and the air was hot now, and heavy with tension. A bead of sweat formed on Dustín's forehead. Maxwell appeared unperturbed. A long, tense moment elapsed.
"Merde!" Dustín finally swore under his breath, then turned to Veryl. "Donne-moi l'arme," he said, and Dustín traded his stun gun for Veryl's pistol. Up close, Maxwell could see that it was a plastic, 3D printed gun. It must have been made onboard, probably using the printer in the storeroom. They must have disabled the camera so they couldn't be seen. Looks like they'd planned for almost everything, Maxwell thought—everything but his own intransigence.
Dustín swallowed hard, then side-stepped Maxwell and pointed the gun directly at Lynn's forehead. She looked back at him in disbelief, but Dustín avoided her gaze. "Enter the coordinates," he said to Maxwell, holding the data chip before him in the palm of his hand.
"Put the gun down," Maxwell said, "Let's talk."
"Change course," Dustín commanded him again, "Then we'll talk. Do it now, or Lynn dies."
"You wouldn't."
"Maybe I wouldn't, maybe I would. I don't want to find out, do you?"
"Dustín, no..." Lynn said, forlornly.
Dustín blinked back tears. "Enter the coordinates!" he shouted, furiously.
"Do it," Lynn pleaded.
Maxwell looked at her over his shoulder and gazed into her green eyes. Just then, he remembered how she'd looked at him on their own wedding day, all those years ago. Her eyes had been full of hope then. Now, they were full of sadness and grief. He didn't want things to end this way. He looked back to Dustín. "Tell me you won't harm her," he said.
"Enter the coordinates, and I won't."
Without another word, Maxwell took the data chip from him and plugged it into the navigations console. He went to work on the touchscreen.
"Et n'essaye plus de t'amuser," Philipa said, "ou on t'enferme en bas avec le capitaine!"
"Don't try anything funny," Dustín translated.
Maxwell worked in tense silence for several moments. He uploaded Dustín's coordinates to the navigations system and instructed Starla to fire the Starliner's directional jets and alter its course. On the holographic map of Earth's orbital space, the new course was revealed—
—directly into the Union's Space Superiority Platform.
"You're kidding," Maxwell said with dismay as he stepped back from the computer.
"Is—is that a collision course?" asked Lynn.
"Yes and no," Maxwell shook his head gravely, "The Union won't let that happen. They'll shoot us down first." He looked accusingly at Dustín, "That's exactly what you want, isn't it, Angers?"
"We're not murderers," Dustín insisted, as he lowered the gun and wiped the bead of sweat from his forehead, "The Union are murderers, and the whole world is going to see that live-streamed to Bl@ze's fans."
"You bastard," Maxwell's hands clenched into fists, "You said you wouldn't harm her!"
"I won't," Dustín said. "But, in—" he looked at the navigations console "—two hours, we'll find out what the Union decides to do to us."
* * *
(To be continued)