So this post is a short story I wrote for a competition a little while back. Iāve been working on a novel for a long time now and this was a nice little break from it :) Story below the cut!
Worthy
The final official radio message arrived, 'The Earth is dead. God be with you.' It was a staggering revelation. Despite the infamously stringent discipline normal of the command crew of the generation ship Exodus, the news leaked and spread around the vessel like a cold.
Illicit devices stashed behind bulkheads and under bunks continued to monitor frequencies from Earth. Corridors crowded with people weeping as one by one the desperate clamour of voices devolved into static. We stood alone. The most alone anyone had ever been.
Only his unassailable sense of duty drove James Celchu to front up to his classroom that morning. Being an original passenger, one of only a few dozen remaining, meant the unexpected news hit him harder than most. People would have understood his absence.
Earth's complete and utter destruction was not just some distant unsettling event, rather something that shattered the core of his being. James left his daughter and remaining family behind to embark on this one-way journey and though contact had been impossible the last fifteen years, knowing of her now inevitable demise cut him right down to the bone.
This was not a unique experience. Despite the unimaginable loss, he wiped away his tears, washed his face and walked into class. His ten students, ranging in age from eleven to seventeen, were grouped together based on their similar, extraordinary ability across the curriculum. The mood was sombre.
James hoped today of all days they would be empathetic. Class Alpha were a superior group, the sons and daughters of the best and brightest humanity had to offer. This was certainly true now, with Earth being gone.
As James stood before them, they found themselves lost and not knowing what to say, adrift in a sea of sympathy and awkward platitudes. The more astute among them understood what James was going through, having seen the raw pain apparent in the eyes of their parents. They didn't have the direct connection to Earth the original crew and passengers did. They hadn't lived in the open air or experienced the sensation of wind and sun and rain on their faces. Simulations existed, but it could never be quite the same.
"Mr Celchu?" asked one of the children, anxiety written all over her face. James glanced up from his device, where feedback on another's writing occupied his attention. "Does Earth's destruction endanger us?" James put the device down and took a second to think. How much of a filter should I use here?
"No Shannon. Not directly. Exodus is designed to be self-sufficient. Earth was sending us useful data though. Progress updates on the seeding probes that went out ahead of us to the new planet Proxima B for example, data on fluctuations in the solar winds of Proxima Centauri, other similar things."
An older pupil peered up from his work. "Those factors hardly sound important. Besides, it's not an issue any of us will have to worry about, right? We aren't due to arrive for another ninety-seven years!" James shrugged, then squashed down the pain threatening to surface. Hell, we might as well go down this rabbit hole. Consider it an intellectual exercise.
He scanned the classroom, their faces lit up at his expression, the earlier all-pervasive malaise disappeared. He assessed this teachable moment would be worth any potential backlash.
James smiled at the eager young man. "You're not wrong Julian. There are more subtle impacts to think about though. Consider the geriatrics, myself included." He smiled, letting them process before continuing. "Most of us are in positions of actual power." He allowed himself to chuckle self-deprecatingly. "We remember life before Embarkation Day and have a deep emotional attachment to Earth. We all left most, if not all our family behind. All of us knew that was final of course. But we didn't expect the end for at least sixty more years, long enough that by the time it happened there wouldn't be more than a handful of originals around to be affected by it, and those far from any position of authority. This has shaken us deeply, and those in charge of us most deeply."
For a good few seconds, the gentle hum of the air scrubber was the only sound. James waited, an oasis of calm in an awkward storm. He believed in his students and had faith they would make the connection. "So, the originals might not be able to do their jobs?" a nervous voice asked, cutting through the pregnant silence.
"I don't think Mr Celchu is suggesting that. More... they might be emotionally compromised for a while. Their decision making might be a bit off."
James snapped his fingers in triumph. "Aha! You've picked up on it Danica! We need to remember we're all human beings here. People aren't machines, though honestly if you all followed Asimov's laws of robotics maybe I wouldn't be this grey."
The students laughed, the tension if not broken, then at least cracked. "Now, I want you to draw up a list. This event happened much earlier than foreseen. Brainstorm as many potential consequences as you can, and I'll send it through to leadership. Remember, when I've been fed to the recycler you lot will be leading us, perish the thought!" The room swelled with laughter again and James let himself sink into his chair a little, his shoulders slumped as the class set themselves to the task. Enthusiastic discussion filled the class. He stared out the window into space, a vacant smile on his face. It didn't reach his eyes.
Danica glanced up at the teacher she so respected, noticing his detached melancholy. Their eyes met and she flashed him a quick smile. For a moment, things were okay.
Fifteen years passed, and James, now sixty-five, felt all too well the strain in his joints as he helmed the tiny room that was his world aboard the ship. Retirement had crossed his mind, but it wasn't like there was much else that would be a worthwhile use of his time.
Most of the predictions his star cohort made in their report to the captain had in fact come to pass. James remembered the group fondly and invested considerable effort following their career trajectories aboard the Exodus with not unwarranted pride. His latest iteration of Class Alpha, he found difficult to relate to on quite the same level. I suppose it could just be my age though.
As Danica's group eventually concluded, members of the bridge, one by one cracked under the incessant pressure and immense personal loss. This cleared the way for citizens born on the ship to seize control. Contributing further to such unanticipated changes, the younger generation, having been raised without the spectre of Earth hanging over their heads, grew up more confident, brash even.
What hadn't been predicted was the furore over the right to a genetic legacy. It was imperative to the resource security of the voyage that the population was managed and so everyone submitted to compulsory sterilisation.
"Was that how the coup started?" a young girl asked.
"It was the straw that broke the camel's back. Like today, we had to apply through official channels to have a child. The key difference was only in very particular circumstances were the applicants allowed to pass on their own genes rather than use stored genetic material."
"They were trying to minimise the chances of inbreeding," one of the more direct boys interjected and the original questioner's hand flew to her mouth as her face blushed bright red at the implication.
It was a hot topic of conversation at the time, even years later it came up. James struggled to walk the line, with this and other issues, realising his position and influence over his classes and not wanting to unduly influence them. I want to teach them how to think, not what to think. It was a phrase which sustained him throughout his career, back on Earth and on the Exodus.
"Why didn't you ever apply to have children?" The question came from the back of the classroom, a sneer painted on the face of the youth. He knew full well what day it was. James prided himself on maintaining a culture where students felt comfortable engaging in spirited debate. Only sometimes did it backfire in such a fashion.
James allowed himself a second to process the question and suppress his sudden irritation, then answered, maintaining a neutral expression and tone. "What makes you think I didn't?"
The boy shrugged. "People talk. You didn't show your face at the protests, you're single and an old man."
"Sounds like you answered your own question." James replied dryly. Everyone burst into laughter and the young man blushed, humbled.
That night James found himself at the one bar on Exodus. This was a rare occurrence, and he was respected enough to be given some space, despite how precious a commodity it was. The significance of Embarkation Day to the Earth-born was well known. His thoughts lingered on his daughter as he sipped dispassionately at his drink. She would have been forty-seven today.
Decades earlier, while still on Earth, Jamesā long held optimism for the future drained away. Heād mourned as countless disasters mounted. An all pervasive sense of helplessness reigned supreme as a doomed planet came to terms with its inevitable end.
His daughter, Inyri, was just seventeen when the pair were selected for the voyage. James had been ecstatic! This represented a chance to escape, to begin anew. The earlier death of his partner had done little to keep him anchored to the world.
His daughter hadn't been as enthusiastic, initially seeming reserved about the idea before raging about James giving up on his family and his world.
She refused to go.
Surprised, James offered to stay behind, and this only made her more furious. In the end she did come to say goodbye, but the last-minute decision left them both with hurt feelings and little closure.
A group of young men and women in uniform strolled into the bar and took up position at a table well away from the sullen old man. One of the officers spotted him. "Mr Celchu!" the woman called out and weaved through the crowd with a smile that lit up the room.
He glanced up from his drink and returned the smile weakly. "It's been a long time since you were my student, Danica. Please, call me James."
"Do you mind if I sit with you James?"
He examined the table of excited young officers. They had already started on a round of drinks and were chatting animatedly. "I'm happy for you to, but wouldn't you rather be with your friends?"
She shook her head and sat next to him. He studied her for the first time since her approach, noticing shiny new rank insignia stitched to her uniform. "Another promotion? Before too long you'll be in charge of this bucket."
She laughed politely but it was clear he wasn't really joking. Through her outstanding performance she stood out as one of those rare, astonishingly competent people who also possessed extraordinary social acuity. She connected the dots with James' unusual appearance at the bar and reacted in the only way that made sense to her in the moment.
"To Inyri!" she toasted, holding up her glass.
"To Inyri." James echoed and they clinked glasses in their own little private world in the corner.
The two sat in companionable silence for a few seconds before James spoke again with uncharacteristic openness. "I think the part that bothers me most is having no idea what happened to her. She was still a kid when I left, only seventeen and angrier than I'd ever seen anyone in my life. I'll never know whether she made it to Earth's end, whether she was happy, whether she ever forgave me..."
Hot tears flowed down his face, but he sat frozen, too numb to wipe them away. The other patrons coincidentally found a million other interesting places to give their attention. Danica put her hand on his and the two spoke long into the night, reminiscing about his good times on Earth as well as the exciting trajectory of Danica's career. James would never forget her act of simple kindness.
A decade later James Celchu lay in his hospital bed, riddled with cancer. Cruel and unrelenting, the pain intensified as the end drew near. A chime sounded and he reached to tap a button next to his withered hand.
The door slid open and the now Captain Danica entered and sat in the lone chair positioned next to James' bed. As she walked in, she'd tried valiantly to keep the dismay off her face but from his expression it was clear she hadn't quite managed. She cleared her throat. "So, today's the day." she said, her tone filled with weary resignation.
He nodded, the strength present in the gesture so rare these days, and the look in his eye brooked no further argument on the topic. As captain she'd called in numerous favours to make his last days a little bit more comfortable, all in the attempt to talk him out of this decision, or at least delay it. Her efforts proved unsuccessful. He was determined.
She took in his sunken face. The strong, consistent presence which had been such an important part of her life had deteriorated and the sad fact of the matter was that for a long time she had been the closest thing James had to family. He spoke to her in a creaky voice that didn't sound at all like the one she remembered from her days in their classroom. "I can't help but feel like I haven't done enough. I've been on this ship a long time and I don't think I gave everyone... was capable of giving, my best self. I had this fantastic chance to make a huge difference for all humanity and I threw it away mourning a daughter that part of me feels like I never should have left. Teaching you, watching you grow into the remarkable person you are today; it's been the greatest honour of my life."
The statement hung in the air; tears slid down both their cheeks as they sat with it. Danica turned on the wall length screen, revealing a mass of people forming an orderly line. They crowded the corridor, snaking around the corner out of sight. She took his hand and scrutinised him. "We are your legacy. Every one of these people is here to thank you for the impact you had on their lives. You may not have felt your best, that might even be true. It doesn't matter though; you were exactly what we needed."
Jamesā breath caught in his chest as the words washed over him, their weight sinking deep into his soul.
"Thank you."
In that moment, on his last day, to feel worthy was precisely what he needed.
