A Ship Called Destiny: a short story by Kody Boye
In which a girl and her best friend leave the planet behind
I want to believe that we will be all right.
But, like all things, there is no guarantee.
We sit in the hanger like lost children as we prepare for the ship to ascend. Cold in this place, alone in this space, and anticipating desolation for our race, we keep our heads low and our eyes down. The people within are undoubtedly scared. Me included.
But it has become apparent that we can no longer escape from our problems.
It is time to leave.
Our planet is dying. Little life remains. Worst yet: an asteroid will soon collide with the Earth, rendering everything we have known and loved extinct.
But, like all great people, we have a plan.
The ship we ride on is the first of its kind. Called Destiny, it is equipped with faster-than-light technology that will take us to the next habitable planet in a system far away. It is the only thing separating our species from expansion, or, even worse: eradication.
There are approximately ninety-eight people on this ship. I am one of them.
To think that I could have been so blessed is remarkable. But, like all blessings, they come with a curse.
The people outside are angry. They claim that it is not fair, that it is not right, that we, the Ninety-Eight, should not be allowed to leave. To them, we are little more than children.
They always claimed the children would be the future.
Now, they say we will be our destruction.
“Carrie,” the young man who has become my best friend says. “Are you all right?”
“I’m not sure how I’m supposed to be,” I reply, turning my head to face Roman. “We’re about to leave everything we know and love behind.”
“But do we really love it?” he asks. “Or do we just think we do?”
I am unsure how to reply. Because of that, I sigh, and lower my eyes back to the floor.
“Look at this,” Roman says.
He nudges my arm with his shoulder just hard enough to draw my attention, revealing the cellular device in his hand.
“We aren’t supposed to—” I start.
But Roman silences me, and instead says, “Look.”
It is just as I feared. All around the spaceport there are people—hundreds, thousands, maybe more. Most have flocked here to see the exodus of the human race. Some wish us well, others ill. Banners and flags and religious iconography from across all cultures and religions have been raised in either support or defiance.
We are separated by little more than a reinforced fence.
To know that we are in such a precarious situation is beyond terrifying,
“Turn it off,” I say.
“Why?” Roman replies.
“I don’t want to see it.”
“It’s the last we’ll ever see of Earth,” he replies. “Don’t you want to remember?”
Remember what, though? Our pain? Our suffering? Our lack of food, of clean water and air? Most of us have struggled throughout our lives, either with the pain of knowledge or the grief due to lack of it. It was only when we took those DNA tests all those years ago—only when our genetics were examined to ensure a proper genetic diversity—that we were promised a future.
I still remember the letter that came in clear as day. Sealed by the government, and addressed only to me, I’d held it in my hands as if it was a promise offered only to me.
My mother had cried. My father, on oxygen at the time, barely survived.
It’s been days since I packed up my belongings and said goodbye.
Now, I wonder if I even want to leave.
Of course you do, a part of me says. This is your future. Why wouldn’t you want to leave?
I know that the planet is dying. That the world will be rendered inhospitable. Yet, I feel that abandoning all I know—all I love—is wrong.
The night before I was meant to leave, my mother made me make a promise.
Be happy, she’d said, and know that, wherever you go, wherever you are, that I’ll be with you.
My father was not a religious man. He believed this to be the end—and given his stage-four cancer diagnosis, I didn’t blame him. Once we winked out of existence, that was it: we were gone forever. But my mother—she believed in something more, something beyond the scope of knowledge.
She’d given me her silver cross that night, and promised me to hold onto it until the day I die.
I made sure to make that promise.
The artificial intelligence that will ferry the Ninety-Eight to the distant exo-planet clicks to life, and says, “Launch to commence in… one… minute.”
“Are you ready for this?” Roman asks, turning his head up to face me.
I lower my eyes to the cellular device in his hand—to look at the people outside, their lost eyes and unsure expressions—then nod and say, “Yeah. I… I am.”
He flips his hand. Displays his palm.
I settle my hand atop his, then lace our fingers together.
A minute can last a lifetime. I’d learned this when staring at that letter that I, at the time, had thought had been my rejection. But opening it, and seeing the ominous red lettering upon its surface, had proven that a minute is, without a doubt, the longest time imaginable.
Congratulations, that letter had said. You have been selected as part of Project Hope.
Hope, I think, lifting my eyes as the ship begins to rumble, as the thrusters move into formation.
I tighten my hold on Roman’s hand and try desperately to ignore the feeling of guilt that plagues my mind.
Promise me, my mother had said, that you’ll remember.
“I promise,” I whisper.
Roman says nothing. Lost in his own prayers, he keeps his eyes shut, and whispers something beneath his breath.
In moments, everything grows still—just as the men and women of the Expansion Project said it would.
Then, in less than a second, we are taking off.
The sudden movement is jarring—our ascent even more so. The sensation of falling overwhelms me, and for a second, I feel as though I will fall. But Roman’s hand is on mine, and we hold tight for dear life as the ship begins to rise from the Planet Earth.
All around us there are quiet words. Muffled sobs. Silent prayers.
This is it, I think. This is finally it.
The time we say goodbye.
I turn my head to acknowledge Roman—who looks at me, and me at him—and lean forward to press my temple against his.
“Promise me something,” I whisper over the colossal groaning, the incessant shaking. “Promise me you won’t ever forget.”
“I won’t,” he whispers back.
I don’t know for how long we rise, how long the turbulence lasts. Lost in my own thoughts of my family, my fear, and my purpose, I continue to hold Roman tight.
It is over almost as soon as it begun.
At our sides, the hanger windows open to reveal an awe-inspiring sight.
Though devastated by storms and drought and famine, the planet Earth is beautiful as ever.
To think, I muse, that this is the last time you will ever see it.
All around the people unbuckle their seat belts. Rise. Flock to the expansive window to get a better view.
With our fingers still laced, me and Roman move to join them.
“Carrie,” Roman says after several moments of silence.
“Yeah?” I reply.
“Do you think we’ll be okay?”
And though lost for words, I somehow manage to nod.
In truth, I don’t think we’ll just survive. I don’t think we’ll just barely manage to make it. I think that, come time we land, we’ll do more than just that.
I think that, come time we land, we’ll make our new world. A better world.
A world just for us.
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