Boros was a planet prone to storms. Rain ran sideways, abstracting the neon of night like a vendetta. The moving parts of this city block acted as expected; but unlike Athens, these parts were premeditated by committee – not the gods. The city was built like model kits straight out of the box, and on that box spelled their manufacturer: Oro Mill Operations (OMops.) Nights like this made Illian Jones question his station on the field. Posed like a figurine in his flat after a long day on the job, he couldn’t keep from wondering what potential did OMops see in keeping Boros assembled, and was working survey detail in Commonwealth space really starting to get to his head?
His dirty television surged, and through the snowy static and blurred images that would come and go, a blonde anchorwoman’s likeness came into view when Illian pressed the pause key while she was mid-sentence. She engulfed the screen larger than life. Her navy cardigan fisheyed out at some point, with the rest of the living space pulling away from his vision.
“I swear it’s there,” he urged his flatmate, Zerc-si.
The angular and stout Gryph was sitting across from him on a maroon couch, and groaned. “Again?”
Illian nodded a firm yes.
“What the hell’re you looking for?”
“Same thing. You’re listening for the swell.” Illian let his nonanswer be the last word, and rewound the footage again.
He couldn’t keep ignoring Zerc-si, but how could he say what the swell is if Illian had no real idea either?
The wide ViewMaster television – one of the surplus models that were divy out to each flat – was the source of many things, including each of their colorful vocabularies. Omniscient hadn’t been on that list until tonight. The white noise lured Illian back with its pixels, pixels like promises weaving into the anchorwoman’s long, frizzled hair. If only he could finally prove to the old Gryph how grandiose she was.
Pleading that Zerc-si would finally sense the swell, Illian’s attention turned towards the Gryph’s odd earlobes. More like ear-ledges by how wide they shot out. Zerc-si dwarfed Illian by two feet, and looking up to him (physically, of course, he’d never idolize someone like Zerc-si) meant his eyes had to climb.
Zerc-si turned to look over his shoulder, which resembled a chunk of raw ore, and slowly blinked at Illian with the emerald gemstones he called eyes. He was the last Gryph contracted to Boros – what luck. They possessed the complexion of diamonds under a borealis; some shone a brilliant emerald hue in the light, some a bold ruby. All shared lazy dispositions, if those on Boros were indicative of their kind. Word around the drills is they are Crustacean, but Gryphs resent those rumors; only thing Zerc-si resented more was that most ‘squishies’ can’t take a poke of their elbows without bleeding.
Illian learned that the hard way, like he did all other lessons.
The broadcast traced backwards while Illian favored his left arm, adjusting a bandage wrapped over his right forearm. Zerc-si armed the other side of the futon; his chuff could blow bricks over, so Illian upped the volume. He would always, always count his blessings this time of year; he received the go-ahead to leave Earth five years ago just before the comets hit, and was quickly snatched up for an operation along the B-08 Merchant Routes. Even at thirteen, Illian took to being a diamond cutter like a fish to water – which made all the hoops he jumped through to fake his certs worth it in the end. Faking certifications weren’t uncommon. Workers had to be worth a damn to survive.
Even though Illian worked hard to be nonchalant, there was still a nagging question in the back of Zerc-si’s — hell, the whole site’s — mind. Did he have a family?
No one knew for sure; Illian revealed his past only over the whine of a hot torch. And even then, his stories sometimes didn’t match up. In the vacuum of space, he often switched off the dispatch channels of his comms and spoke only in local proximity. Trying to corroborate his stories often just led to more confusion. Illian said he was a part of the “Refugee Offworld Adjustment Program” or “R.O.A.P.” (a program everyone was sure Illian just pulled out of his ass at some point). He was with them for months, until a vague “I have mouths to feed back home” became the new excuse the entirety of a White Dwarf extraction job near Lament: System C-35. A solar system in the final stages of mourning – just the thing OMops specialized in capitalizing on. When Illian was further pestered about his past, the trail would run cold at “My parents died.” His answer was curt enough that it satiated most of the mill and they were all allowed to move on with their lives. Give it a rest.
Tentative was the tale of Illian Jones, and he intended to keep it that way. No love lost.
Still.
Something about Mechais City’s Survivre celebration, commemorating the millions of lives swept off and swallowed up in the chaos of that cosmic destruction, has beckoned him back to his memory of Earth each year since 3179. Beckoning him to remember a home that wasn’t quite one to begin with. Unlike years previous, his vision spanned not just a home, but instead encompassed all life on screen.
Everything, and he still lacked the proper diction to spell it out for Zerc-si.
The swell came. Zerc-si knew where it should be, but still couldn’t make out what the hell Illian was talking about.
Zerc-si shrugged a mental ‘fuck it’ and pulled a frigid amber bottle of Red Trolley beer from an ice box. Illian noticed and shrugged too to keep his feelings off of Zerc-si’s radar. Then to strike up a bet, the aged Gryph raised his bottle while the scene on the tv changed to imposing mountains. “I swear ta’Feng, Illian. Fortieth time’s dead air, you owe me a new case’a this.” The bet was made law with the first swig. Illian made a mental note to swing by [WHEREVER YOU BUY BEER HERE] the next time he went out.
The two diamond miners, fresh off the clock at 01-02461-00 CW time, did the stop-rewind tango again and again; each trip through the commencement was starting to sting their retinas the later it got, rendering sleep impossible. Illian owed two cases now and had nothing to show for it! 01-02461-31 now. Commonwealth time ran off a 24-hour rotation much like Earth’s GMT. Hour 19, followed by the Commonwealth’s ID: 02461, minute 35. 19-02461-35. It was the hardest thing Illian had to learn since moving here, aside from Drill Ops Safety. He kept 07:35 pm in the steel trap of his mind; missing his alarm meant no pay.
Truth be told, Zerc-si didn’t mind the hour if it meant more booze. Not much else could keep him awake past 01-02461-45 on a work night. Besides, his second liver was about to kick in. What’s one more?
Illian turned to look over his shoulder and found the Gryph’s back spines hiding his translator rig pounded into the nape of his neck not unlike a jewel fitting. He hit the play key, and again they went.
The Gryph groaned. “Yeah, yeah. Last one, Zerc.” Sleep was dusting Illian’s baby blues too. He was already out of Frosxs to pay for any more beer, but there was so much to gain because what seeped through his being couldn’t be bought, couldn’t be quantified honestly. The swell.
Zerc-si pursed his jagged mouth, sunk in his seat. His listless gaze emitted a nocturnal tint right on time for the graveyard shift: 01-02461-55. “But what was a graveyard shift,” he would joke, “if the planet only got’n hour’s sun? A full-time graveyard.”
Thought he was hilarious.
When Illian rewound the commencement yet again, Zerc-si checked his jumper’s viewscreen for the time, to see if he could try and catch the morning by 03-02461-00. Not looking likely. He fumed through his tooth-bridged nose.
The TV flickered to a still of the Mechais city commemoration. Massive highrises, lower falls, steep concrete silos turned the sunny streets into cliffs and swelled with darkened shadows. Gun emplacements lingered beneath. Warning labels were prevalent: Caution Live Fire. Billboard feeds nearby stacked massive divides. Windows were characters scribing and climbing up structures like stories-high onyx paragraphs.
These emplacements transformed the city of Mechais into a fortress at a moment’s notice; the structures morphed into barrels of ammunition and power, and her people into active soldiers. Always shifting, always bustling with war. The camera cut back and climbed the tall anchorwoman who spoke what Illian repeated verbatim:
“Today marks the five-year anniversary of when the entire Sol Galaxy was spared a guaranteed extinction event by an actual god.” Illian checked a navy-blue gradient sidebar to confirm the date: “March 24th, 3179.”
Zerc-si spun a finger and said, “Woo,” exhausted from ranting, wanting to watch his show.
“We and all of Mechais mourn for those we’ve lost on this tragic day. Mechais is in line to hold their yearly tribute to-”
Illian knew what they were going to say: to Gaia. But the swelling in his head prevented hearing it. Until there was only static – violent, invasive static. High-pitched ringing soon came when he tried to sit up off their coffee table. He turned to Zerc-si, pain buckling his expression. “Y’see?!” His own voice sounded like a far away echo.
Zerc-si’s face again showed his confusion. “No.”
“Serious? You don’t hear anything?!” The swell was so loud, Illian couldn’t understand how the Gryph couldn’t hear it.
“Nothin.’” Exhausted, Zerc-si started off for his room.
Illian groaned. The pain finally subsided. Then, an unfamiliar thrum strung up his nerves; white noise reeled him in. He was watching the first images of Gaia manifesting far off from where this amateur footage could reliably render. The quality was poor yet She was clear as day. Relief came. She was trying to speak to him, to make this reality and the broadcast one.
“What? Go where?”
His questions rang out in the apartment, but Zerc-si lacked answers. He turned back to Illian and suddenly he didn’t need to sleep anymore. His stare widened, instantly sober.
Illian’s face paled as a “No …” fell out of his slacking jaw.
Just before he lost consciousness completely, the grasp on his nerves ceased and his mind became his own again. He buckled under a phantom weight as Zerc-si stood up to catch him, but was too late to break his collapse. Once they were both on the floor, Zerc-si spoke softly in his graveled tone of voice and asked, “Are you alright, IJ?”
“The Rayvine,” Illian muttered, ignoring his friend’s concern.
“The big station in the Terminoux galaxy? What about it?” Zerc-si was concerned, yet cautious. He debated about how hard he’d need to hit Illain with his bottle to knock him cold, should he be succumbing to madness.
“I’m–not sure. But I think I just heard” – even he couldn’t fathom the possibility, the implication by speaking to – “Gaia? Gaia told me to go.” Illian looked at his friend in bewilderment; all the while Zer-sic was shaking his head no.
Great. Just great, Zerc-si thought.
Illian was hearing voices right as a big dig operation was set to begin at 12-02461-15 tomorrow. Illian mouthed something else, without any breath to form it. Zerc-si saw Illian’s attention divert back to the ViewMaster, just as Gaia caught the comets on screen. The screen lit up the apartment in oaken, brilliant light. “There’s no way in fuck anyone’d take you seriously! You’ve been watching too much TV-”
“I know what I heard!” Illian demanded. He really did. Huh.
Zerc-si had to stop himself from yanking away the remote. Twisting his body up to stand, he urged Illian to calm down, for both of their sakes. He peered through their window, a wide landscape of prefabricated buildings – scum and neon out of a box – filled the horizon Glacial rain added to Boros’s seedy glow. There, he confided in the city – in what the Oro Company built to patch the dead planet, and he concluded anywhere but here held promise. “You’re crafty. Sort yer story out, Illian. That side of space, the Rayvine, is real. Real fuckin’ fake.” When he faced away he seemingly tried to lasso Illian near him. “They’re not gonna buy you talkin’ to a tube, so what’re you gonna do?”
Hypnotized by the prospect, Illian joined Zerc-si in a plan to carve their way out of this industrial slum. Finally. “It’s alright. I’m gonna tell them what they want to hear,” Illian declared.
Zerc-si seemed skeptical, but nodded along. He finished his beer in one long gulp as he lumbered off to his room. “Either way, you still owe me some’a this Earth shit when you get back.”
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