Event Horizon: a short story by Kody Boye
In which a young woman gives up her body to journey to the stars
“I want to live forever.”
These are the words I say to my parents on the day my life will no longer be the same. Sad and somber, but at the same time, invigorated by the possibilities at hand, I look at my mother and father through the two-way glass, and try my hardest not to falter.
“You know that isn’t possible,” my mother says.
I turn my head to look at my mother, whom I always considered to be my more reasonable parent, and say, “You’re wrong.”
“Things could go wrong,” she says. “The science isn’t at that stage yet.”
“But you’re wrong,” I say. “It is there. You just don’t believe it exists.”
“What you’re proposing—” my mother starts.
But I cut her off before she can finish by saying, “Will send me to Hell. Yes. I know.”
My mother frowns.
My father narrows his eyes. Scowls. Says, “This isn’t right, Amber. You know it isn’t.”
“Just because you don’t believe in it doesn’t mean I can’t,” I reply.
The two of them stare at me—all wide-eyed, their mouths slightly agape. It is not often that my defiance has risen to the surface, especially to them. In many ways, it has always been pushed down. But now that I am twenty-one, and capable of making this decision, I know what I want to do.
I want to live forever.
It is a facet of reality that has only recently come into fruition, which has only just recently taken shape. It was created by the world’s greatest scientists—and damned by religious leaders just the same.
Religious leaders just like my parents.
The fact is: they have never dreamed of reaching the stars—of leaving the planet behind. This is because the Earth, whose atmosphere has been diminishing for the past three decades, is their utopia. It is, as my father had once proclaimed, the Land of God.
“We either live and die here and go to Heaven,” he had once said, “or we leave the planet and go to Hell.”
Hell.
Four letters. One word. A realm of possibilities, both in this life and maybe, possibly, even the next.
The truth of the matter is simple:
By leaving my mortal body behind, I can take to the stars and forever wander the cosmos. I will never have to worry about aging, or dying, or even getting sick. One day, I may even possess a new body, even if it is only part flesh, mostly machine.
But my parents do not believe in this. It is, in many respects, an event horizon—a boundary beyond which they can reach, or even observe.
Their future lies in the destruction of our planet. But mine? Mine rests in the stars.
My mother steps forward. Presses a hand to the glass. Says, “Please, reconsider.”
“I won’t,” I say. “I can’t.”
“You’ll go to Hell,” my father says once more, “if you leave the Earth behind.”
“Stop treating me like a child!” I snap.
The scientists behind me visibly grimace. It is not often that their patients are subject to such personal grievances, especially from people like my parents.
My mother sobs—crocodile tears if ever there were any. My father, meanwhile, balls his hand to a fist, and says, “We’ll disown you.”
“You’re going to disown me anyway,” I reply, “because I’ve already made my decision.”
I turn my head to face the scientists. “I’m ready,” I say. “I’ve said my goodbyes.”
They turn their wary eyes toward my parents. One—a woman, the head of her division—asks, “Are you sure about this?”
“Of course I’m sure,” I say. “I’ve signed the papers, the waivers, the DNRs. I know the risks, just as I know the possibilities.”
I can see the words forming on her lips—the words that say once you start, you cannot turn back. But in knowing what I know, and in understanding what could happen otherwise, I spin to face my parents, and say, “I guess this is goodbye.”
“I suppose it is,” my father says. “Come, Mary. Let us go.”
“No!” my mother sobs. “No! Please, Amber! Don’t do this!”
“I’ve made my decision,” I reply. “I’m going to live forever.”
My mother sobs once more—and for once, maybe twice in her life, I realize that they are true, legitimate tears. They are not made for show, or even shed in praise of god. They are, in all actuality, for me.
Me.
The daughter who is choosing to leave the world they know behind.
Thankfully, security is quick to escort them away. But even as they turn, and as they walk through the doors that lead to the conference room that final time, I can see the venom in my eyes, fresh like that from the snake descending in the garden.
I turn my head to face the scientists once more, and say, “I’m ready.”
They prepare me accordingly—first by laying me flat, then by turning my head to the side. They attach an IV to my wrist, and begin to insert the sedative into my veins. “This may be uncomfortable,” I hear one say.
“I know,” I reply. I can already feel the medicine taking effect.
Thankfully, I have already been outfitted with technology that has allowed me to connect my brain to a computerized database. For almost a year it has been scouring my thoughts, analyzing my whims, determining my desires, all in the effort to create what scientists have deemed a perfect replica.
This will take you, the head of the military once said, to the stars and beyond.
I will be one of many who will journey to the stars—and with the help of advanced robotics, will one day seed a planet with its future population. It is an honor I have come to know and love throughout this tumultuous year, which has been filled with both grief and happiness, pain and suffering all the same.
The scientists draws a port from alongside a miniature computer—much like that of hard drives of the past—and primes it toward my neck. “Tell me when you’re ready,” he says.
All I can say, in response to his words, is: “I’m ready.”
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