A space flight is coming to save the species of humanity, from the doomed planet Earth. Who should go on that flight? The youngest? The smartest? The strongest? The most fertile? You may be surprised by who will go…
“Where will we sleep?”
The intake technician blinks at me, not understanding the question.
I gesture toward my daughter, who gives me such a trusting look, it rips my heart to shreds. “She’s only nine. Way too young to sleep alone.” I swallow. In just a few days, this might not be true. She might be on her own, anyway. Tears prick behind my eyes, and I force them back. Cheyenne can’t see me like this. She can’t know yet.
The technician shrugs. “There aren’t reserved spaces for families. All this was thrown together last minute, you know. You’ll just have to find something.”
I look around. Bodies crowd the intake zone, mostly young adults wearing earbuds, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with others their age. I don’t see any kids Cheyenne’s age, but not many kids have been born on our planet these past twenty years.
“Ma’am.” The intake technician interrupts my thoughts, and I force myself to look at him.
Deep-set brown eyes meet mine, a silver piercing through each eyebrow. “We have others to initiate.” He gestures to the line snaking behind me, at least a hundred-deep. “You can both head in.”
I nod, squeezing Cheyenne’s hand. Nothing I can do about it, anyway. Cheyenne’s not short, but she’s a beanpole. It won’t be too tough if we have to share a cot. I pull her along. Just a couple of nights like this and then—
My throat itches, trying to close.
Well then, she will either be leaving this doomed planet on a spaceship full of twenty-year-olds, or we’ll leave this old hotel together and wait to die. I force my breath steady. We still get a couple of days. A couple of nights curled up on a mattress where I can listen to her breathe, feel her warm exhales on my cheek like I did when she was a baby.
I blink back tears. Stop it. You’ll give it away by crying.
We’ve drifted through the intake zone, pushing past people whose faces haven’t left their screens. I shoulder one girl who won’t get out of the way, and she only briefly looks up at me before her eyes return downward. That’s the one thing I’m good at; getting my way. I was athletic in high school, played rugby in college. Developed muscles that I never lost. I’ve been told I have a presence that is distinctly unfeminine, but in this case, it’s helpful. I’ll bulldoze Cheyenne through every single one of these motherfuckers if I have to.
“Mom?” Cheyenne’s voice sounds matter-of-fact. She isn’t scared—that’s good.
“Yes, honey?” I look down. Sparkling blue eyes meet mine. Those red, full lips. She was born with them, like she’s worn lipstick her whole life.
“Where will we sleep?”
I peer down a darkened hall, where more people are drifting, camping gear strapped to their backs. Damnit. What a good idea. Why didn’t I think of bringing a sleeping bag? I pull her forward. “We’ll just have to go deeper. We’ll find a little bed to share, and it’s only a couple of nights.”
She nods. “A couple of nights for them to decide who gets on the ship. But we will get on.” The certainty in her voice is a tiny knife in my heart.
I force a deep breath. “We will.” A half-truth, half-lie. At forty, I’m way too old to board this ship. Who would want me? The reason it’s all-female must have something to do with the ability to be pregnant, and my window is almost over. That’s why I didn’t see many women my age here. I’m sure they never expected to board.
“And don’t worry, Mom. You look way younger than forty.” As usual, Cheyenne practically reads my thoughts. “You barely look older than these girls who are like half your age.”
Laughter bubbles in my chest, almost spilling over. The sweetest lie I could think of. That’s Cheyenne, though, always thinking about others and how they’ll feel. Who did she get that from, her dad? It sure as hell wasn’t me. I once told my teacher that she looked like Bob Dylan.
“Thanks, Shy.” I squeeze her hand.
We weave past people. The air shimmers in this hall, practically choking me with the distinct, oniony smell of BO. The cooling units must not be working. I peer down another corridor, seeing a sign to the elevator. Not operable, but maybe there are stairs.
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s see if there’s a stairwell. We are both strong and can climb.”
Cheyenne nods in agreement.
This hotel once hosted conferences with a thousand people. There had to be at least five times that number now, but fire codes had stopped being enforced long-ago. I shudder. Two days. Just make it for two days. My footsteps come faster when I find a door at the end of a less-crowded hall. I push the panic-bar and peek my head inside. I look up, my head spinning at the flights of stairs that seemingly have no end. How tall was this hotel?
Cheyenne and I climb so many flights, I lose track. She doesn’t complain, though.
“Do you want me to hold your stuff?”
She shakes her head, a look of grim determination on her face. She’s trying to show me how tough she can be. How well she’ll do on a spaceship. This is the kid who’s afraid of moths, though. I shake my head. She’ll be fine. She’ll toughen up when you aren’t around to protect her from everything, anyway.
My throat closes.
We get to the top floor. Nowhere else to go.
Holding my breath, I push my way through. Relief seeps through me. Far fewer people up here.
“Good instincts, Mom.”
“And hopefully, we only need to go down for testing, and then when we get on the ship.” When she gets on the ship.
None of the guestrooms have doors. We find a bed that’s empty, though. A queen mattress, stripped of its sheets, but plenty of space for the two of us. Cheyenne unpacks her things. She’s brought a ceramic unicorn music box—given to me by my grandmother and then gifted to her, and two stuffed animals. She couldn’t pick between them, and I couldn’t make her.
They probably won’t let any of this on the ship. I’ll take care of them, I silently promise her as she carefully places a box of tissue on the nightstand, her water bottle beside it.
“I need to go to the bathroom. Can you—” She looks at the entrance to our room, toward the bathroom, which also lacks a door.
“I’ll stand at the front and make sure nobody comes in.”
I stand by the entrance with my arms folded, making it clear that nobody will be entering. The hall is quickly filling up.
“Mo-om.”
Uh-oh. That voice. Something is wrong. I walk into the bathroom, my shoes squishing through water that now covers the tile, overflowing from the toilet.
Cheyenne’s eyes are wide with panic. She raises her arms, defensive. “It was just number one! I didn’t stop it up. It just flushed and it did this.” She gestures wildly to the toilet, her panic growing.
I suck in a breath, trying to quell my own rising panic. “It’s okay. Go block the entrance to our room so nobody comes in and tries to get the bed.” We slide past each other as I walk to the toilet. I lift the lid off the tank, but can’t see anything wrong. I crouch down, careful not to get my knees wet, feeling the wall for the shut-off valve. I twist it.
At least the water has stopped flowing, and only a small patch of carpet got wet. Cheyenne watches me from the hall as I run my hands under the faucet. I pat her shoulder, shoot a glance out the dirty, curtainless window, and give a quick nod. The sun is almost setting. We can sleep here tonight. She just peed, and I can make it ‘til tomorrow.
Where we’ll sleep tomorrow night, I have no fucking clue. It’s only one night, though. I can prop myself up against a wall and she can lay her head on my lap. You can do anything for one night, can’t you?
We eat some granola bars in bed. They might attract bugs, but who cares?
The room darkens. My eyelids are heavy despite the constant din of people in the hall.
“When do they do the test?”
I open my eyes at the sound of Cheyenne’s voice.
“The physical,” she corrects herself.
I have no idea.
“Probably tomorrow,” is all I answer. I haven’t heard any names called yet, and the intake technician told me they’d announce them on the intercom.
“And it’s just our blood drawn, and we have to walk on a treadmill for ten minutes and wear a mask?”
I turn on my side to face her. I can barely see the glinting of her eyes as they catch the light from the hall. “They want to make sure you’re strong and healthy for the trip.” I squeeze her skinny arm. “But I know you’ll pass with flying colors.”
She squeezes my arm in return. “You’re stronger than me, though, Mom. You’ll probably beat everyone here.” Her voice carries a hint of uncertainty that breaks my heart. She isn’t strong. She’s just a sweet kid who is getting on this ship, no matter what. “What if you make it on and I don’t?” Her voice cracks.
Oh, honey. I’m forty. You’re nine. I don’t say it, though. She might figure it out.
I rub her back with my palm. “You go with me or I don’t get on.” It really was that simple, but that scenario was the least of my worries.
“It’s only two, and one’s a little girl.” A voice carrying from behind shoots me to my feet. My heavy flashlight is in my hands, six D batteries in a long-ass stem. I couldn’t believe security let me through with this, but I wasn’t complaining.
I hold it up. “Move along.” My voice booms from my chest, and I look at them with a feral look in my eye.
The two women watch me, expressions calculating, but I can sense some trepidation. I grow closer. I want them to see my grin, the slightly crazy look in my eye. Don’t fuck with me. “My kid is sleeping in this bed tonight, regardless, so if you end up staying here, it’s going to be on the floor because you’re both fucking dead.”
Cheyenne sucks in a sharp breath behind me. I tilt my head. “Y’all wanna do this?”
“Not worth it,” the larger one says. Both women turn and leave.
I return to the bed, and Cheyenne tucks herself beside me.
“Would you really kill them over a bed, Mom?”
“No.” I’m not sure whether it’s the truth, though. The sheer number of people and the lack of space have unlocked something in me. By the end of this, I might knock someone’s teeth out. I clutch my flashlight to my chest. Cheyenne just has to board that ship. That’s my only job. I can make a million enemies along the way.
Cheyenne’s asleep as soon as it’s fully dark. I listen to her breathe, stroking her cheek. I won’t sleep tonight. Not after that encounter.
#
“Mom, I need to go to the bathroom.”
My eyes open to pure blackness. Damnit, I fell asleep. I look at my watch: 4:30 a.m. I yawn and stretch in bed. “You can pee in the sink.” I might have to do the same. My bladder is burning.
“No, it’s number two.”
Shit. I sit up. “Why the hell do you have to poop at four in the morning?”
Cheyenne shrugs. “Maybe it was the beans and rice from yesterday. I need to go real bad, though.” She’s wiggling like a worm, trying to hold it in.
“Okay,” I say. “Okay. We’ll go to the lobby. There are bathrooms down there.” How the hell she’d hold it so many flights, I don’t know. We had to try to make it, though.
“And lose our bed?” she asks.
“Our medical tests are today,” I remind her, giving her a little poke. “We were going to have to leave.”
She shoves all her stuff into her backpack as I do the same. Really, it’s only my water bottle and flashlight. A shadow darts past in the hall. I decide to keep the flashlight out. It might do me some good to carry it around. Make me look even crazier.
Cheyenne groans and moans our entire way down. The stairs are littered with people that we have to pick through. We step over their legs, arms. My annoyance grows, not with them, but at the event’s organizers. Why did they let this many people in?
“How are you feeling?” I ask her every few flights. I can tell she’s really trying to contain herself. “Just a few more minutes, sweetie.”
The line to the bathroom is insane, winding around the corner, at least two dozen women-thick. The stalled bathrooms are out of order, so it’s just the family one available. I suppress a groan as we queue up.
“You have a change of clothes,” I say. “Worst-case scenario, you’ll just clean up and wear them.”
She nods. “I think I’m better, actually. I still need to go, but not as bad.”
We wait what feels like an hour before it’s her turn. She goes in without me, and I stand by the door like a guard dog. When Cheyenne leaves, the girl behind me tries to push past, but I grab her collar.
“Wait your turn,” I bark.
She looks up, startled. She hadn’t even noticed me after being so absorbed in her phone. “Yes, ma’am.”
I almost cringe at the formality. I really shouldn’t be this mean. They’re barely older than Cheyenne. I shut the door before she can see my embarrassment.
The bathroom is disgusting. Shit smeared on the walls. Toilet paper everywhere. Calm down, I tell myself, hovering over the toilet. You can do this one more day without snapping at people.
My throat aches. One more day together.
#
“Cheyenne and Sandra Hall.”
They announce our names over the loudspeakers, and we make our way to the examination rooms, pushing past people who don’t want to move. A girl moves suddenly, almost tripping Cheyenne.
I grab her arm, catching her off guard. “This place is too crowded for you to be this careless.” My voice carries a hint of warning. I know it was an accident, but she really needs to get off her phone. “Keep your earbuds out and pay attention. They could call your name, and you wouldn’t know.”
All these people are on their phones, not listening for the names being called in rapid-fire. I wonder if it’s a test. Do the ship’s designers want to filter those out who don’t even listen? Odds are better for Cheyenne if so.
The girl doesn’t argue with me, just nods. God. These kids are so clueless.
We keep going.
“Will you be in the room with me?” Cheyenne’s voice catches in her throat, bruising my heart.
I squeeze her hand. “I will if they let me.”
“And all I have to do is walk?” She looks up at me with doe-eyes.
“Uphill, but yes. You just climbed fifteen stories. You’ll have no problem.” The packet I’d read said to run if you could, but walking was fine, too. At Cheyenne’s age, they couldn’t expect her to run for ten minutes straight.
“Cheyenne is first.” The nurse’s voice is cold, and she regards Cheyenne with such contempt, it makes my teeth clench. She could at least pretend to not be such a bitch.
I kneel, placing my hands on my daughter’s shoulders. “Looks like you’re going alone, kid. You’re gonna do great.”
Cheyenne’s eyes are wide at first, but she narrows them, giving me a quick nod. She follows the nurse into a room. The door shuts behind them.
I pace the hall, letting off energy like a caged animal. They’re only gone about ten minutes before the door opens.
I give Cheyenne a thumb’s up and a grin, which she returns.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell her.
Cheyenne settles herself into a chair in the waiting room, her little feet tucked underneath. I sigh, following the nurse. This is pointless, but I might as well pretend they’re interested.
The room we enter is bare and white with a treadmill in its center. A one-way window spans the wall across from me, looking like a mirror. Beside it is a door. It’s just a quick prick to get my blood, and then the nurse directs me to the treadmill.
I run the entire ten minutes because I can. The stress, coiled in my belly like a snake, releases from the exercise. I pump the speed up for my last two minutes. My breath comes fast, my legs burning. Between the stairs and this, I’ll be sore tomorrow.
A man enters the room when I’m done, holding a clipboard. “Ms. Hall, you’re one of twelve who’s been selected. If you’ll come with me, we can get you fitted for your suit and situated on the ship.”
I’ve been doubled-over to collect my breath, clutching my knees. My head whips up at this news, though. “What?” My lungs are so short of air, I can barely get the word out.
The nurse grabs my arm, pulling me toward the door. “There is a different exit for the selections to use. You don’t go the way you came.”
“But my daughter—”
“Your daughter, unfortunately, wasn’t selected,” the man interrupts, wearing a frown.
The room spins. I blink at him. This is impossible. “But I’m forty. She’s nine. She’ll be able to have far more children than me.”
He shakes his head. “We don’t need children.”
“But you wanted all women—” I begin, but he cuts me off again.
“We wanted women, Ms. Hall, because they’re suited for space travel. You require fewer calories and oxygen, and your bodies will recover faster. And once you arrive at the planet we’ve selected, you women will be better nurturers for the children yet to be born.”
Children yet to be born? What the fuck was he on about? The nurse grabs me, yanking me toward him.
“Bitch, get your fucking hands off me.” The nurse is sprawled on the floor, and I barely remember putting her there. I’ll lose my spot on the ship, but without Cheyenne, I don’t want it.
She stands, brushing herself off, glaring daggers at me. “Surely, Dr. Malone, this woman has proven she deserves no position on board. The journey to Everest is a privilege.”
The man, apparently named Dr. Malone, grins at me like a shark, though. His head shakes just a little. “No. We selected her specifically because of this behavior.”
I feel like I am in an insane asylum. They selected me because why? I carry a flashlight like it’s a weapon and have a hair-trigger temper? How would that be helpful? Cheyenne is sweet, young and pliable. Even if they weren’t looking for fertility, surely they’d want someone who could get along with everyone? Not someone practically itching for a fight.
Suspicion flushes across my skin—how did they even know about my behavior in the first place? “Have you been watching me?”
Dr. Malone’s eyes sparkle as he gives me a quick nod. “We put you all in a stressful situation to observe your reactions. We are searching for certain personalities that can withstand stress.”
“But the physical,” I say, my voice weak.
Dr. Malone shrugs. “The physical is a simple formality. We have to make sure you’re healthy, is all.” He looks down at his chart. “We selected based on behavior.”
So the test was happening the entire time we were here, and I had no clue. God damn it. I could have prepped Cheyenne better had I known. I close my eyes. I’m such a fucking idiot. I brought her here to save her, and walked us into a trap.
“If you come with me, we will make sure your daughter is comfortable for—”
Comfortable for what? This planet’s inevitable death? I open my eyes. The doctor is beside me, wearing an expression of feigned concern.
I shake my head. “No.” My voice comes out like a squeak, so I swallow. “I won’t leave my daughter. I don’t care.”
“That’s too bad, Ms. Hall,” he says.
The nurse fishes a syringe from her pocket. My breath hitches at the realization—they’re going to drug me and put me on the ship, anyway. Panic swells in my chest, making the room spin again. I force my breaths deeper. Don’t act rash. Use your head. You can’t win against both.
“She’s small,” I croak. “She won’t take up too much space.”
The doctor holds his hand up at the nurse, delaying my injection. “No, Ms. Hall. We were searching for specific personalities and you filled the role of ship-Mom perfectly.”
“Ship-Mom? And you picked me?” My voice betrays my shock. I could practically laugh. I’m the least motherly person in the room. “I’m sharp around the edges, though. Rough. Pick someone else.”
The doctor shakes his head. “Not a soft mother. A hard-ass. One who will keep these women in line, and there will be plenty of need for that. And regardless of what you believe, you are motherly. You were a fantastic caretaker of your daughter.”
Were. Past tense. My throat closes. Cheyenne won’t have anyone. I knew our time would run out, but it wasn’t supposed to be yet. And it should have been the other way around.
The lines around his mouth deepen as he watches me. “And your age is a bonus. Once the boys mature, you’ll be too old to impregnate naturally. The fetuses will be ready to plant in artificial wombs upon arrival, you see, both male and female. We’ve selected them for genetic traits suitable to the planet we chose—it’s high altitude, you know. Since we only want them breeding, all the younger women must be sterilized, first, but we don’t have to do anything with you.” His voice almost sounds prideful.
These people are insane. “Pick someone else.” I close my eyes, a tear sliding across my cheek. “There has to be someone else.”
I open them. By his expression, I can tell he disagrees. “You’re the best one for the job, unfortunately, so you’re coming.”
The nurse closes in on me, but I sure as hell am not going down without a fight. I’m at least going to knock this bitch out first.
My fists curl, but I try one more tactic. “You said I was motherly around Cheyenne. You want that behavior from me, but without her, you won’t get it. I’m just not a mother without my daughter.” The words tumble from me. “That isn’t a threat. It’s just the truth. I was never motherly before her, and I won’t be without her. I’m going to be a pure, rage-filled bitch to these girls if Cheyenne doesn’t come.”
The nurse has paused, and the doctor eyes me, wary.
“Won’t it give me legitimacy if I’m an actual Mom, not just a ship-Mom? I’ll be looked at like I’m a mother. It will affect the girls’ perception of me.” Cheyenne would help his cause. I just had to convince him. “I can be tough, but mothers should be soft, too. Mothers should care about those around them. Cheyenne brings that out in me.”
He seems to consider my words. “You might be right—”
“Dr. Malone,” the nurse begins, but the doctor cuts her off by holding up his hand.
“There is some truth to it. She acts more protective with her daughter around.” He drops his hand, seeming resigned. “Okay fine, Ms. Hall. You’ve convinced me.” His eyes roll back in his head, calculating. “It will take about a five percent reduction in rations from the rest of the women, but you can all manage, and that will be our little secret, won’t it?”
The relief that swells in my chest is short-lived.
“We will have to give Cheyenne an implant to sterilize her.” His voice carries a hint of warning. “It could impact puberty. It could impact growth. We don’t know what it will do. You must sign a form consenting to this.”
I swallow. “Done.” What choice did I even have?
He sticks out a hand, his grin spreading. “Welcome on board, Ms. Hall. I hope you and your daughter have a wonderful journey and a long life on Everest.”
I reach out my hand to take his. There’s a sharp jab in my deltoid before the world goes black.
#
END
