Jokester, by Everett Maroon
Martin loves to screw around with holograms. He leaves them all over the house, fake baby toys in the corner of the living room, or imposter alarm clocks that look like the ones we have but that never buzz in the morning. One time he faked me out with a virtual toilet paper roll, and I was bent over searching for five minutes, craned from my position on the throne, looking for a real roll in the sink cabinet. Now I touch the tissue paper before I empty my bladder. It’s tough living with a practical joker who also has a ton of ambition.
Next month our village is scheduled for transport to the new colony on the planet the Union says is ready for us. Millions of generations before ours have known when our sun would go supernova, and yet, here we are, hoping to escape in whatever way we can. Although for the past 2,000 years our best thinkers have tried to change the laws of physics by shifting time or travel speed, we’re not capable of it. So we’ve turned to building enormous freighters that will house us for the long trek to Tetra 7, out of the destruction zone.
I’ll spend the rest of my life traveling. I’ll die before we reach the planet. But I’ll do my part for the common good while we push ourselves out past our dying solar system. I’m a good mechanic, and I have a uterus, so I know I’m valuable to my community.
I’m reading my orders from the Union when Martin walks in, a mischievous smile planted on his face. He looks over his shoulder and runs a hand through his dark hair, a nervous tic he doesn’t know he has but that has been my way to beating him in poker nearly every time we play.
“What did you do now,” I ask, putting away my paperwork. I can’t let my little brother see what I’ve been ordered to do.
“Oh, nothing,” he says, waving his arms dismissively. I hear shouting from outside. Our neighbor, Mrs. Peterson. Martin has a standing practical joke with Mrs. Peterson. Only she is not aware of this.
“Martin, can’t you pick a harder target?”
He claps a hand on my shoulder and opens the fridge as if there’s anything decent to eat inside it. When the news of the evacuation came down, folks started hoarding food and supplies. I’ve got just enough flour to scratch biscuits together for us each night. Yesterday we ate meat Jell-o from the scraps of meals we’ve had over the past week. It tastes as disgusting as it sounds.
“She loves my little tricks,” says Martin, clanging a glass bottle against the shelving. He’s found the last of the yogurt. If I had any milk around I could make more, so I’ve been saving these two tablespoons as the next starter. But I see my brother’s bones poking too hard against his skin, so I let him gobble up what remains.
We only have each other.
There’s a knock at the door. Martin dashes up the stairs, leaving me to answer it.
I’m expecting a pissed off Mrs. Peterson holding a fake rat or real life whoopi cushion, but instead it’s one of the Armed Union Guards.
“Melissa Saba,” he asks. He flicks his fingers against his computer and whatever information is in my file vanishes on the screen. Too bad, because I could give reading upside down a chance.
“That’s me.”
“You have not responded to your order papers. The Union requires your response. Orientation begins next week.”
“Yes, I know,” I say, doing my best to sound steady and calm. Inside my heart is beating like hummingbird wings. “I have the orders just inside.”
“You have read and understood them?”
I decide he’s not trying to insult me with his question. He probably has to ask it. He is, however, trying to intimidate me. At well more than 6 feet tall and in the Union’s uniform of black carbon fiber bulletproof armor, he’s doing a great job.
“Yes sir, read and understood.” I resist the urge to salute him.
“Place your hand here,” he says, directing me to his computer. I lay my palm on the device, which confirms I am who I say I am. Then there’s a click and a pinch in the fleshy part of my thumb pad. I pull away and see a small dark oval under my skin.
“What the hell,” I ask. I examine my hand.
“It’s your locator. All Level 2 Union employees have a locator. Orientation is in one week, at the Union District headquarters building, oh-eight hundred hours sharp.”
He turns on his heel and walks back down the sidewalk, presumably to the next unlucky son of a bitch.
I shut the door and soon enough, Martin comes skulking out from the stairwell. Twenty-two years old and he still acts like he hasn’t hit puberty yet.
“That wasn’t Mrs. Peterson,” he says, sounding suspicious.
“Nope.”
“When are you going to stop being all cloak and dagger with me? I want to know what’s going on.”
He’s looking me over, trying to get a read. He sucks at this, another reason I clean him out at cards.
“You know I can’t tell you,” I say, and I point at the listening device we both know is under the living room coffee table. Martin used to joke when he was little that the table wasn’t actually made of coffee. The Union has had us bugged since Martin was kicked out of university for messing with the Chancellor’s sonic razor, something about not contributing to the intellectual context of the institution.
He sighs and flops down on the worn orange couch. Our father was color blind and insisted the thing was burgundy. We can’t seem to get around to buying a new one, but what’s the point anyway? We won’t be bringing furniture with us.
“I just wish we could stay,” he says.
“I know, kiddo. Me too.”
* * *
The walls of the spaceship are light blue and light yellow, as if we will all pretend it’s happy and fun running away to a solar system that isn’t about to explode. In the motor repair bay, the ship designers have given up on such illusions; in here it’s gray and white and greasy. The only light flickers over our heads from bulbs that ironically are as close to sunlight as possible. Sunlight. That’s a hoot.
I’m working to free up a seized rotor when my arm band buzzes. Time for my break. Schedules on ship are regimented, just like communication between staff is hierarchical, just like food service is calculated, and so on. To keep us from stabbing our eyes out or each other we have generous time off from our jobs—four hours on, two hours off, until our arm bands relieve us for the evening.
I reach the break room and find Martin on an old orange couch, feet up on our family coffee table. I blink to make sure I’m seeing him right.
“Nice job, huh,” he asks.
“Very nice. How did you do it?” I reach out and feel the thin corduroy under my fingers.
“Let’s just say I’ve been working on my programming skills these past four months.”
“Who knew you were so industrious?”
He narrows his eyes at me, his lids cutting into the space where his dark brown irises live. “Melly, just because I’m a total loser doesn’t mean I don’t have any ambition.”
“Who said you were a loser?” My heart aches for him. He hasn’t made any friends on ship, other than the cafeteria lady who works at breakfast.
“Nobody, nobody. But look, I have something to tell you.” Now Martin is whispering.
I lean in. “What is it?”
Two inches from my ear, he tells me that our ship is bombing our former planet with nuclear explosives. I’m astounded he’s figured this out. It certainly isn’t a common rumor on board. In my mechanical wing, we have a higher clearance and are perfectly aware that the Union is killing the old and infirm who remain in the sun’s death zone. And if we don’t make the bombs we’re told to make, the Union will kill our loved ones.
I suppose I’m a bad person for holding my love of my brother in higher regard than that of millions of people on Earth. But I do think that dying slowly as the oceans boil away and the atmosphere vaporizes is a worse fate for them.
“Martin, they’re just throwing away garbage,” I whisper to him. I really hope he believes me.
Next month our village is scheduled for transport to the new colony on the planet the Union says is ready for us. Millions of generations before ours have known when our sun would go supernova, and yet, here we are, hoping to escape in whatever way we can. Although for the past 2,000 years our best thinkers have tried to change the laws of physics by shifting time or travel speed, we’re not capable of it. So we’ve turned to building enormous freighters that will house us for the long trek to Tetra 7, out of the destruction zone.
I’ll spend the rest of my life traveling. I’ll die before we reach the planet. But I’ll do my part for the common good while we push ourselves out past our dying solar system. I’m a good mechanic, and I have a uterus, so I know I’m valuable to my community.
I’m reading my orders from the Union when Martin walks in, a mischievous smile planted on his face. He looks over his shoulder and runs a hand through his dark hair, a nervous tic he doesn’t know he has but that has been my way to beating him in poker nearly every time we play.
“What did you do now,” I ask, putting away my paperwork. I can’t let my little brother see what I’ve been ordered to do.
“Oh, nothing,” he says, waving his arms dismissively. I hear shouting from outside. Our neighbor, Mrs. Peterson. Martin has a standing practical joke with Mrs. Peterson. Only she is not aware of this.
“Martin, can’t you pick a harder target?”
He claps a hand on my shoulder and opens the fridge as if there’s anything decent to eat inside it. When the news of the evacuation came down, folks started hoarding food and supplies. I’ve got just enough flour to scratch biscuits together for us each night. Yesterday we ate meat Jell-o from the scraps of meals we’ve had over the past week. It tastes as disgusting as it sounds.
“She loves my little tricks,” says Martin, clanging a glass bottle against the shelving. He’s found the last of the yogurt. If I had any milk around I could make more, so I’ve been saving these two tablespoons as the next starter. But I see my brother’s bones poking too hard against his skin, so I let him gobble up what remains.
We only have each other.
There’s a knock at the door. Martin dashes up the stairs, leaving me to answer it.
I’m expecting a pissed off Mrs. Peterson holding a fake rat or real life whoopi cushion, but instead it’s one of the Armed Union Guards.
“Melissa Saba,” he asks. He flicks his fingers against his computer and whatever information is in my file vanishes on the screen. Too bad, because I could give reading upside down a chance.
“That’s me.”
“You have not responded to your order papers. The Union requires your response. Orientation begins next week.”
“Yes, I know,” I say, doing my best to sound steady and calm. Inside my heart is beating like hummingbird wings. “I have the orders just inside.”
“You have read and understood them?”
I decide he’s not trying to insult me with his question. He probably has to ask it. He is, however, trying to intimidate me. At well more than 6 feet tall and in the Union’s uniform of black carbon fiber bulletproof armor, he’s doing a great job.
“Yes sir, read and understood.” I resist the urge to salute him.
“Place your hand here,” he says, directing me to his computer. I lay my palm on the device, which confirms I am who I say I am. Then there’s a click and a pinch in the fleshy part of my thumb pad. I pull away and see a small dark oval under my skin.
“What the hell,” I ask. I examine my hand.
“It’s your locator. All Level 2 Union employees have a locator. Orientation is in one week, at the Union District headquarters building, oh-eight hundred hours sharp.”
He turns on his heel and walks back down the sidewalk, presumably to the next unlucky son of a bitch.
I shut the door and soon enough, Martin comes skulking out from the stairwell. Twenty-two years old and he still acts like he hasn’t hit puberty yet.
“That wasn’t Mrs. Peterson,” he says, sounding suspicious.
“Nope.”
“When are you going to stop being all cloak and dagger with me? I want to know what’s going on.”
He’s looking me over, trying to get a read. He sucks at this, another reason I clean him out at cards.
“You know I can’t tell you,” I say, and I point at the listening device we both know is under the living room coffee table. Martin used to joke when he was little that the table wasn’t actually made of coffee. The Union has had us bugged since Martin was kicked out of university for messing with the Chancellor’s sonic razor, something about not contributing to the intellectual context of the institution.
He sighs and flops down on the worn orange couch. Our father was color blind and insisted the thing was burgundy. We can’t seem to get around to buying a new one, but what’s the point anyway? We won’t be bringing furniture with us.
“I just wish we could stay,” he says.
“I know, kiddo. Me too.”
* * *
The walls of the spaceship are light blue and light yellow, as if we will all pretend it’s happy and fun running away to a solar system that isn’t about to explode. In the motor repair bay, the ship designers have given up on such illusions; in here it’s gray and white and greasy. The only light flickers over our heads from bulbs that ironically are as close to sunlight as possible. Sunlight. That’s a hoot.
I’m working to free up a seized rotor when my arm band buzzes. Time for my break. Schedules on ship are regimented, just like communication between staff is hierarchical, just like food service is calculated, and so on. To keep us from stabbing our eyes out or each other we have generous time off from our jobs—four hours on, two hours off, until our arm bands relieve us for the evening.
I reach the break room and find Martin on an old orange couch, feet up on our family coffee table. I blink to make sure I’m seeing him right.
“Nice job, huh,” he asks.
“Very nice. How did you do it?” I reach out and feel the thin corduroy under my fingers.
“Let’s just say I’ve been working on my programming skills these past four months.”
“Who knew you were so industrious?”
He narrows his eyes at me, his lids cutting into the space where his dark brown irises live. “Melly, just because I’m a total loser doesn’t mean I don’t have any ambition.”
“Who said you were a loser?” My heart aches for him. He hasn’t made any friends on ship, other than the cafeteria lady who works at breakfast.
“Nobody, nobody. But look, I have something to tell you.” Now Martin is whispering.
I lean in. “What is it?”
Two inches from my ear, he tells me that our ship is bombing our former planet with nuclear explosives. I’m astounded he’s figured this out. It certainly isn’t a common rumor on board. In my mechanical wing, we have a higher clearance and are perfectly aware that the Union is killing the old and infirm who remain in the sun’s death zone. And if we don’t make the bombs we’re told to make, the Union will kill our loved ones.
I suppose I’m a bad person for holding my love of my brother in higher regard than that of millions of people on Earth. But I do think that dying slowly as the oceans boil away and the atmosphere vaporizes is a worse fate for them.
“Martin, they’re just throwing away garbage,” I whisper to him. I really hope he believes me.
