Watching and waiting, visitors from the Moon orbit the planet. Their mission: Conquer Earth. Of course, that’s the easy part…
There were plenty of older crewmembers aboard Spaceship One. Some quite elderly. Malthusians never retire. No word for it exists in their dictionary. You keep working because you enjoy working. If you don’t you keep your mouth shut.
Possibly the oldest was Staff Officer Paul Hussenian, aged ninety-six. He was quite indistinguishable from his compatriots. He wore the same silver lamé jumpsuit, his step remained vigorous, his eye clear. His job, coordinating work orders between B and C decks, required more activity than most jobs on the ship. But after seventy years he knew what he was doing. Hussenian was the victim of that most enduring of workplace absurdities. Those who work hardest are given with the most work.
He seldom bothered to take breaks. When he did he simply tipped back in a chair and closed his eyes. This is how Amber Stollwell found him, in C deck’s maintenance room. She carried an armful of work orders, and screamed.
He shot to his feet. “Stollwell! What in the world?”
“I… I thought…”
“I don’t care what you thought. Such outbursts are entirely inappropriate.”
“I’m sorry.”
Petty Officer Stollwell was, by nature, excitable. She dropped plates when surprised. Jumped at the bang of a door. Hussenian prayed she would never rise to a position of importance. You didn’t want her anywhere near a launch button.
“Yes. Well, in any case, give me those.”
She handed over files, then scurried away. Hussenian arranged folders by date, then began correcting forms from those who had failed, as usual, to fill them out correctly. Looking out a small viewing bubble, he watched stars wander regally past. His young shipmate had nothing to get excited about. He wasn’t about to die on duty. Dying on duty was bad form.
Surely, however, death was close. It didn’t bother him. For some years the officer had been almost impatient. Why continue? He would never fulfill his destiny, he knew that. Worse, he had no idea what his destiny was.
Paul Hussenian could imagine his memorial upon dying, quite respectfully, in bed. “And now,” the chaplain would intone. “He has gone to the stars.”
Malthusians believed your soul soared away to the cosmos. Then looked down forever and ever in a sort of benevolent reverie.
He threw down his pen. What a crock.
The old officer worked past quitting time, as usual. He had a bowl of lentil soup in the commissary, ate a salad, dry, and went to bed. He seldom slept well. But soon, he thought in the dark, he would sleep very well. There was some consolation in this, and nodded off. At midnight, a ship’s alarm jolted him awake.
Wearing pajamas, he opened his door. Men and women ran past. He hooked a young crew member by the arm, spinning him. “What’s going on?” he demanded.
“I don’t know! It’s the lab!”
Hussenian walked against the tide to the lab entrance. When he looked in, he saw smoke. A Bunsen burner lay on its side, blue flames spreading across a steel table. The garbage container beneath smoked and burned. He grabbed a fire extinguisher.
Thirty seconds later, he hung the extinguisher back up and walked out of the lab. A gaggle of crew mates stood outside. “Get in there and clean that up,” he ordered. “And schedule a mandatory safety meeting tomorrow. At Oh Nine Hundred. Our Code Red response is nothing short of pathetic.”
“Yes, sir.”
Paul Hussenian returned to his quarters, and to bed. He had no idea where your soul went after death. Hopefully not any place with an eternal view of Spaceship One. He didn’t think he could take it.
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com