The Eternity Prize - Chapter 5
The Eternity Prize - Chapter 5
Her favorite immortals
ADA
Earth date: April 20, 2080
Little Beirut, Colony 5, Mars
Ada said her morning prayers in a loud, proud voice. Nothing bothered the Great Atheist Astronaut more. But Papa didn't even respond to 'Notre Pere', the one he hated most. He just lay flat on his back.
She stopped speaking and sat beside him, listening closely. His breathing was regular, his breath warm. His skin was ruddy, but it had a waxy sheen. And someone had put a silk pillow under his head. The total effect was ugly, funereal. She pulled the offending pillow away and tucked a folded, flowery blanket under his heavy head. There.
Leaning towards him, she whispered, "Good morning, Papa. We did what you asked. The body will never be found.”
One of his eyelids quivered.
"Even if it is, no one will talk. If there's anything we Lebanese know, it's how to keep a secret."
Her words hung in the air, suspended in silence. There was no sign he heard her, none at all. Tears welled in her eyes. She wiped them away and plumped some more pillows. "I texted Grace Park. She said your plan to speed holographic rendering is brilliant. Of course, it was my idea. When I pretend to be you, everyone tells me how brilliant I am."
Self-depreciating sarcasm had always made him smile. But now there was no smile.
She straightened his covers. "I sent her your Very Important Message. But -- why did you use that obscure encryption? She doesn't know PaleZen. Her bots might understand it, but it was for her eyes only." There was a quiver around Papa's brows. "Are you trying to hide something from me?"
Was that a frown? Breathlessly, she continued. "I sent it to Ed Reidel, Freddie Davies and Joe Roth. Everyone on your list. I hope the Musknet is still secure. Earth has promised not to monitor Galactic transmissions, but you know what their promises are worth."
He gave no response. She sighed and lay her head on his chest, the way she did when she was a child. His heartbeat was still so strong – so reassuring. She wanted to close her eyes and rest there, all day, but there was work to be done. Reluctantly, she raised her head. "I must go, Papa. My daily routine." Was that a frown? "Yes, you told me never to swim when I'm hung over. But if I don't swim with a hangover, I'll never swim at all."
She paused, as if listening to his oft-repeated advice. The Borealis' currents could be very strong this time of year, she must always check the water visually. Never rely on the app.
She got up and walked to the big, green bay window. Wrapped in the warmth of her sweatpants and hoodie, she tried to see through the thick, green glass.
Everyone said General Khoury's windows were a miracle of engineering – grey water piped between thick panes of concave glass amplified the sunlight, warmed the house, purified the water, and kept radiation out. His windows made interplanetary flights and life on Mars possible. But you couldn't see through them.
If she constantly wiped the condensation away and didn't breathe, she could vaguely make out shadows of waves, blobs of dark purple tinged with black. Fortunately, the water was illuminated by the omnipresent, floating Temple Insurance Ad. Freddie Davies' awful holographic eyes shone over waves that were choppy, but not dangerous.
She pulled her artificial gills from their container and crept down the stairs. Treading softly across the mycelium-carpeted floor, she reached the bar. It smelled of cigarettes and spilled beer. She took a deep breath. It was such a homey place -- the family pictures, the family wines, remnants of Papa's glory days, surrounded her. Papa shaking hands with the Lebanese president. Mike's confirmation, Monsignor blessing his gang in the old church. Zeph, Bobo and Tony. The Sons of Mary.
The photo of their last Christmas on Earth, in Beirut. Inflatable plastic Santas lined the streets. Christian Amal guys sat at the cafe, wearing orange Santa hats, making deals with Hezbollah. They may be hanging out with Shi'ites, but their hats kept it real.
Leaning closer, she caught sight of a stranger, a thin woman with short-cropped hair. She gasped, reached for the dive knife velcroed around her ankle, moved towards the light – and laughed. False alarm, she was looking at her own reflection. Those were her own brown eyes.
But – how did that terrible hair happen? She tried to remember, but last night was a blurred series of disjointed images – herself singing "Ch... ch... ch… changes." as she chopped away. Strands of red hair fluttering in the sink. This wasn't the first time she cut her hair after a few drinks (ok, a lot of drinks.)
She tugged at the chopped strands, as if that would make them grow. That started her headache up again. Time for Papa's favorite cure. She walked along the edges of the bar, glanced from side to side to be sure Aunt Carole wasn't around, poured a shot of grappa and toasted her new look.
The back door was blocked by morning snow. She leaned her whole body against it, shoved hard and stumbled into the garden. Icy air smacked her face.
That was hard, but the hardest part was taking off her warm clothes. She took a few steady, even breaths, forced her reluctant self out of the sweatpants and hoodie, shivered as snow grazed her skin. At this point, it was imperative that her socks stay on.
She opened the storage trunk and pulled out her neoprene suit, so thoroughly worn it was beginning to get crumbly. She squeezed into it and, for a minute or so, enjoyed the rubbery warmth. With the addition of her old, crumbling dive gloves, she was ready to face the worst. She quickly took off her socks, felt the stone’s icy grip, then crammed her feet into her dive booties. Standing straight, she wrapped the feathery gills like a scarf around her neck and took some deep, self-affirming breaths. With that, she had the courage necessary to put a foot in the water.
Cold sliced through her bootie defenses, a thousand icy needles pricked her feet. "Merde!" she gasped. But once the process started, it must not stop. "Transitions are the hardest part." Papa always said. Icy water gripped her stomach, chilled her breasts, her entire body cried 'stop!' but she defied reason and went all the way in.
Papa was also right about adaptation – it was the stuff of life. At first, it was like sinking into a gale, but once she was fully immersed, her body stopped rebelling and adapted as best it could. When the horrible but successful transition between worlds was done, she was aware of the beauty around her; black shadows of towering kelp, silvery fish, starry white bubbles. Like Papa in space, she was untethered, floating free.
She swam to a small sliver of sunshine. It offered no warmth, just a milky-white glow. Kelp and sunlight wavered from side to side as schools of fish darted through them. Despite the quirks in Mars' magnetism, the Borealis had the same forms of life as Earth's oceans. A fossil of a chambered nautilus was proof that there was once life on Mars, long ago. It also marked the point where she should swim to the left. She switched her Gizmo flashlight on to find familiar friends – a colony of fuzzy yellow anemones and the sour-faced eel who lived beside them.
Anemones were a shelter to any species who could survive their poison. Those species tended to be very hardy. She gently brushed the yellow tendrils with her gloves to find a small, translucent red blob, surrounded by tiny tentacles. Turritopsis dohrnii. Her favorite immortal.
Mars had imported other immortals from Earth; planarian worms that reproduced asexually, cloning themselves ad infinitum; an octopus that could live for hundreds of years if he never tried to reproduce (and when he did, his mate would eat him). But Turritopsis dohrnii had the best plan – they led the most hedonistic jellyfish lives, partying and fucking like crazy. Then, after they reproduced, they'd set the kids free to find their own way and were reborn as children themselves. Parenthood and the decay of old age were neatly avoided, forever.
Papa had tried to use these jellies in his experiments. They didn't pan out, but others were willing to try. Biblis Patera Hospital was offering 10,000 coin for each pair.
She reached towards them. They quivered with fear. If they were very frightened, they would go into rebirth mode, rendering all experiments useless, so she gently held out a welcoming finger. Let them come to her. Drawn by the warmth of her hand, they gathered on her glove and wrapped themselves around her fingers. Ignoring the ice in her stiffening gills, the tightness in her throat, she gave them a little smile as she cupped one hand over the other to hold them. Then she nodded a goodbye to the grouchy eel and swam to the surface.
Breaking through to the surface, she had to deal with another hard transition -- returning to the ordinary. Shouts from the cliffside roads rang in her water-logged ears. People were angry to be up so early, angry to be going to work. Rovers and drones rumbled, heading for the long, deep tunnels that made up the Inter-Colony Souk. Their engine noise was drowned out by roaring yaks waiting to be sold at auction. Their funk was over-stunk by the odor of human sweat, leather, and spices.
The Muslim call to prayer blasted through a megaphone, battling the blaring, recorded peals of Church bells. The Muslims and the Christians were fighting, what else was new. Meanwhile, the Jews davened, trying to ignore the cacophony.
The cross around her neck had slipped behind her neck as she swam. She pulled it forward, clutched it in her thick gloves and said a prayer to see the jellies safe to shore.
Papa thought the power of science would make religion obsolete, but he was wrong. On Earth, men had civilization to make them feel all-powerful, the internet to make them feel all-knowing. But when they left their secure little blue dot, they realized how vulnerable they were. Space held so many unexpected dangers – you needed someone or something in your corner.
As she rose from the water and slid out of her suit, the wind finished the job the water had started, freezing her nearly to death. She slid the jellyfish into the jar she kept by the door, then rushed for her warm hoodie and pants, trying to stay balanced on the slippery stone.
Inside, she was enveloped in warmth. The house that had seemed so suffocating before was now deliciously comfy. And Mike was cooking steak and eggs. The 'steak' was probably yak, or worse, donkey, but the water's chill made her insane with hunger. She'd eat anything.