2419 A.D., 49 years since Parallax

“One day, this chalk outline will circle this city.”
– Cedric Bixler-Zavala

۩

I was walking past the main gate of the Crafter’s District when her silken, metallic voice came over the intercom.

“Attention citizens: curfew begins in one hour. Please make your way to your residences. Any citizens found outside during curfew are in direct violation of the City’s laws. Thank you for your cooperation.”

I fucking hate her voice. The Recons are dead serious about enforcing the curfew, so, adjusting the bag I carried on my back, I picked up my pace.

The gray sky bore down on me, more than it usually did. Perhaps the Field Marshall’s reminiscence about the sun affected me more than I thought. I’ve never seen the sun, but old-timers like the Field Marshall grew up in an era before the City. What a different time that must’ve been, before the City, before the Rings, before this shit-storm of a life…

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Published 2389

We called It the Zenith, and we believed It to be godsend. No one was sure from where or when that monumental black obelisk came, but this much could be agreed upon: It was not of this Earth. It was our first confirmation, after a history spanning the course of thousands of years, of the existence of an alien species who had, at one point, traveled to our blue planet and left their impression on its surface. Much like these Visitors, I leave this account so our progeny may understand the mistakes we have made. In this way, perhaps you will become the redemption our species now seeks.

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“And change your shirt. You look like such a goy.”

“What?”

“We’re just having Shabbat at bubbie and zaide’s. You don’t need to dress like you’re going to church or something.”

“I like this shirt,” Danny said, dejectedly tugging at the tails of his collared shirt, “And besides, I wanted to look nice. This is the first time they’re meeting Claire.”

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The metal catwalk shook violently under John’s feet. Any misstep would send him cascading into a city of generators below, which lined the bottom of the Shepherd-class freighter’s engineering deck. He could hear the distant sound of crackling from the machines beneath him, transmitting energy and information via bolts of light. But he didn’t dare look, for fear of losing his footing. John kept his eyes focused on the large, round metal door at the end of his path. He took a few uneasy steps towards the airlock, his pathway continuing to convulse with every step. Just then, a monotone electronic voice beeped through his helmet. “Warning: oxygen levels critical. Oxygen at ten percent.”

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Why the fuck are you doing this? You splash your face with the cool water halfway filling the sink, letting the droplets run down your weary face. You stand there for a while, your hands gripping the sides of the porcelain bowl, staring at your reflection in the water’s surface. You’ve been standing there for quite a while. Just standing. Standing and staring. Staring and standing. Don’t you have better things to do? Shouldn’t you be getting your work done, or going out to meet that woman, Mrs. Right-but-oh-so-wrong? Isn’t there anything else you’re going to do apart from standing at that sink, wasting your goddamn time staring at the water? But you already know the answer. You know you’d rather stand there, stay in that moment, be enraptured in your own purgatorial state rather than thrust yourself out into the world. You want time to stand still, to be lost in the moment now, to fall into your reflection on the surface of the water, rippling out of focus when the droplets strike it. Drip. Drip. Drip.

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