Righting the Ship

It had been an hour. No, two. No…twenty minutes. Time had lost all meaning. Arla tossed and turned next to her, a slight groan escaping from under his beard somewhere. His snoring began again. Rhosa tried to let the steady rhythm of his ragged breaths soothe her back to sleep. Utter failure.

Slipping quietly out of the bedroom, she barefooted it down the short hall to what could loosely be called a kitchen, fumbling through a dented metal lockbox for what was surely, finally, their last cigarette. What miracle was this? There were three left in the sole remaining pack. She looked at the poorly-drawn dromedary on the crumpled box. He stared back, mocking her for her surprise.

-Smoking may cause serious harm to you or others around you-

“Huh,” she mumbled, not realizing she’d spoken her thoughts, “All we’ve been through, and this is the only thing I’ve seen honest enough to tell me it’ll kill me.” Striking a match, she savored the smell of sulfur and took a drag of the stale tobacco. The smoke rolled around her mouth, and she puffed a few sad rings out into the darkness. She tapped the ashes into the sink and finished the cig without any more fucking around. She wasn’t one for fucking around, anyway. She needed sleep before the lights came on.

*******

“Rhosa? Babe, c’mon, gotta wake up.” Arla’s baritone was too calming to stir her, and even he knew he wasn’t really trying. How many times had she laid her head on his chest and let that low rumble be her lullaby? How many times had he held her shaking shoulders and dried her infuriated tears, letting his voice be her lifeline? Too many, she thought. I’d better get moving.

The lights came on at 0730. They went off at 2330. Every day. No control. Arla and Rhosa dressed quickly and quietly, in their standard-issue blue. Pants- blue. Shirts- blue; button-down for him, V-neck t-shirt for her. Something akin to sneakers on their feet- they were blue, too. How strange that a world so drab insisted on color-coding its inhabitants. Blue was for humans.

“You want breakfast,” she said, “before we head down?”

‘Down’ was probably inaccurate. Through the mazes of corridors outside their living compartment, it was hard to tell what direction one was going. Repetition had given them a false sense of confidence, but in truth, they could only find their way to a handful of places, but they were the places they needed to go.

“Nah,” he grunted, “Later.”

*******

Two years before, they hadn’t worn blue, unless they wanted to. They never went to bed at 11:30, and they turned on their lights when they damn well pleased. Two years, four months, six days ago, but Rhosa wasn’t counting.

It was 2 a.m. when they came, in a tsunami of noise and destruction. It would take an extra lifetime for her to forget- the exploded splinters of their front door, the smoke of the flash grenade. Shouting. Weapons waving.

“WHERE IS SHE?”

Stammering, quick thinking, lying. No one bought it.

“WHERE IS SHE?”

The commanding officer shoved the barrel of his handgun under her chin.

“Please…I’m begging you,” she’d sobbed, “She’s my baby.”

Arla had tried. Six of them? One of him? Odds be damned.

Pistol-whipped, bloodied, broken, he’d still managed to chase them halfway down the block.

Anya’s screams…Goddammit, the screams…

“Mooooommmmmmyyyyyy! Daaaaaaaadddddddyyyy!”

Tattooed in their brains.

*******

0800.

Time to face the labyrinth. Rhosa and Arla made their way out of the compartment, hands entwined, silent strength. At the end of their corridor, he leaned in for a peck and a “see ya later”, then veered right. He’d spend eight hours in the workshop, melting down and remanufacturing the parts that would keep them, all of them, alive.

Rhosa kept straight, then left, left, right, down a flight, right, straight, right. Deep breath, she was in front of the correct door. Every morning for two years, she’d made this walk. She feared that if she made a wrong turn or missed a day, her progress would be halted. There was no chance of that. Each step of each walk was one closer to Anya.

*******

It had taken them a few days. Sometimes the brain and the body just need to heal. Sometimes a broken spirit needs time to grieve for itself.

On the fourth day, Arlo cleaned up the debris. Rhosa limped out to find them some food. They slept, the monitor still tuned to their child’s empty bedroom.

On the sixth day, they got angry. They got angry, and they got determined; they got drunk, and they got vengeful.

On the seventh day, they struck.

*******

“Rhosa Carlyle, sir, ” Rhosa said, “Permission to enter?”

A muffled “granted” echoed from behind the door. Walking into the office, Rhosa was irritated to find it empty.

“Sir? Where are you?”

“Here, Carlyle…look up!”

I don’t have time for this bullshit, she thought.

“Give me a minute, sir. I’ll get a ladder.”

*******

They’d waited until the dead of night and snuck down to the river’s edge. The murky current was all that was keeping them from their little girl, and they weren’t afraid to get a little wet.

He made her look him in the eye. “We good?”

“Babe, I made a list,” she’d tried to joke, “Yeah, we good.”

He hoisted her onto his shoulders and waded out. Halfway across, he asked again.

“We good?” He feinted as though he were going to toss her into the chilly stream.

“I fucking hate you.”

*******

“Sir,” she said, firmly anchoring Commander Flinson back to his desk, “What scared you this time?”

Leave it to me, she thought, to get the only boss on a thousand-person interspace transport who floated when he was startled. He wore red, a native of the Vega System. Looking past his propensity for defying gravity, he was a capable, highly-respected officer.

“Nothing, Carlyle, case of the hiccups. Lost my grip. Nothing to worry about.”

“Sir! Then,” she paused, “today, can we discuss my daughter?”

She asked every day. Never pushy, never bitchy. Matter of fact. She knew, and he knew, and her husband knew, and everyone else knew that the child convicts were on this ship, too. She just wanted to see her, to hold her, to tell her that it would be okay. But to do that, she’d need to keep Commander Floaty-ass firmly on the ground.

*******

They’d been too late. The plotting, the planning, the frigid wade across the river- it had all been for nothing. That was the only time Rhosa had seen Arla cry, ragged sobs escaping from him as they stood, shivering and shell-shocked between the empty cement buildings of the makeshift children’s prison.

“I don’t understand,” he shouted, his pain echoing off the silent walls. “They were here yesterday!”

Rhosa had been unable to comfort him. They’d splashed their way back, and driven home in silence.

*******

Their break had come not two days later, a cryptic message telling them to get to the teleport by noon, or risk never seeing Anya again. Rhosa would never be sure who sent the missive, but it hadn’t steered them wrong. They’d packed some clothes and that carton of smokes and headed downtown.

As they signed away their lives in service of the ship, their hope was reassured when they saw the children being boarded in the distance. Thus began the last two years spent as cogs in the wheel of progress, headed to a colony some three systems away. At first, it’d been rough, but they’d fallen into the daily rhythm of people resigned to their lot.

“Any luck today?” Arla asked, back in their compartment for dinner.

“No,” Rhosa sighed, “Had to get the commander down again, though.”

Arla couldn’t help but laugh at her tone, and she let the momentary joy seep into her tired brain.

“Maybe tomorrow,” she said. She said that every night.

*******

“Babe! Babe, wake up!”

Rhosa tried to rouse herself. The lights were still out, what time was it?

Fumbling in the darkness, she tried to adjust her eyes to see Arla crouched at the corner of the sleeping platform, his head against the bulkhead.

“Babe, something’s wrong with the ship.” His eyes were wide, but not panicked. He was thinking, Rhosa could tell.

“What? How do you know? What do we do?”

“The noise- do you hear it? It’s not right,” he said, “I can’t explain…it’s not humming the way it should.”

As if to emphasize his words, a low rumble seemed to work its way through the entire framework of the spacecraft.

“Commander Flinson!”

“This is no time to think about your frigging boss, babe.” Arla looked offended.

“No! We need to get to him! He can help us find Anya- we need to get our baby!”

“Jesus Christ, babe, why didn’t you just say that? Find your shoes.”

*******

They weren’t the first to crowd the corridors. Hundreds of panicked voices filled the darkened space, fear and profanity poured forth in the languages of a dozen species. They made their way, slowly, along the wall, Rhosa relying on muscle memory to get to Flinson’s chambers.

The ship shuddered again as she banged on the antechamber door.

“Sir, sir! It’s Carlyle! Permission to enter!”

The door slid open with an angry clang.

“Carlyle! UP HERE!”

“Sir, are you hurt?” The Commander was firmly lodged against the ceiling of his office.

“No- GET ME DOWN! I need to get to the bridge.”

The ship’s shudders had begun to turn into groans.

“One condition, sir! My daughter, sir!”

Rhosa and Arla stood, afraid to breathe, as the commander’s eyes darted- looking to see if he could get himself out of this trouble. Another tremor sent him banging uncomfortably against a light fixture.

“Level 2. Blue Wing, Cell 14. The code is in Alpha Centaurian, you’ll just have to smash the lock. Now, get me down or we all die.”

Arla looked as if he was going to run, but Rhosa stopped him.

“No, we go together,” she said, “Get me the ladder.”

*******

With Flinson weighted down and heading for the bridge, Arla and Rhosa stumbled through the passages, fighting through the frightened masses, desperately spiraling downward in the failing craft.

“Does that sign say 2? I think it says 2,” Rhosa said, squinting to make out any symbol that would show them they were nearing their target.

“Yeah, babe, Let’s go.” The ship was groaning again, and the engines had long since given up the fight. They were dead, in space, in the dark, and they needed to find their daughter. In Rhosa’s pocket was a glass tube, with a chip inside. The commander had said to put it into a comm unit when they’d retrieved Anya.

There was a great hissing noise, now, every few seconds.

“The escape pods- that’s the latches releasing.” Arla had been working in the shops, he would know.

“What if we don’t get one? What if we don’t get to her? What if we go down with this stupid fucking ship and all of this was for fucking nothing?”

“Babe.” Arla stopped in his tracks. “We will get her. We will get a pod. We are going to get off this ship.”

They’d made it to the blue wing. Terrified screams poured from the cells.

“Cell 14. This one, babe, hurry up, smash this keypad!” Rhosa’s voice was harsh in her impatience.

With all he could muster, Arla drove his elbow into the keypad, just as the ship shivered again. Another try, and he could just pry open the cell door. Rhosa threw herself into to the room.

“ANYA! Anya, baby, where are you?!?!?!”

*******
Rhosa was crying so hard, she could barely breathe.

“Mommy. Mommy, it’s okay. I’m okay.”

Words of comfort from a six-year-old, locked away two years in a cell away from home. Rhosa couldn’t stop touching her hair, looking at her little face, matured so much from the last time she’d held her. The hissing of the pods, the death throes of the ship, the cries of the children in the other cells; she heard none of it. She held Anya close to her, Arla’s arms wrapped around them both.

“Babe! The comm chip!” Arla’s words startled her.

“Shit. Right here.” She popped it into a panel on the stark metal wall.

A screen buzzed, then lit up, then came into focus on a familiar face.

“Commander?”

“Carlyle! Got the girl?”

“Yes, sir. But I don’t understand.”

“Stay put. Don’t get in a pod. Try to calm down the other children.”

Rhosa looked at Arla, holding Anya with an iron grip. He nodded at her over their daughter’s blond head.

“Sir?”

“Trust me, Carlyle. Flinson out.” The screen went blank.

*******

Rhosa and Flinson sat in his office, going over the last of the casualty reports. Most people had jumped ship, including the prison guards, leaving the children and any crew who’d been loyal to the commander.

Rhosa couldn’t hold her tongue any longer. “Sir, why? How?”

“This craft was bound to have issues, I knew that from the time she was built.” Flinson paused, debating on how many secrets to tell. “But I knew that if I waited it out, I could right the ship when the time came.”

“Sorry to have kept you from your child so long, Carlyle,” he continued, “Necessary evil, I’m afraid. Damn shame she was ever arrested to begin with. Locking up children…Not where we’re going, not on my watch. If we keep up this pace, we can be there in a few months. It’ll be a fresh start for us all.”

It was the most Rhosa had ever heard the commander speak at one time. She had many more questions, but knew she’d be rebuked. She figured gratitude was the best way to go, for now.

“Sir, I still don’t even know how to...”

Cutting her off, the commander was already back to business.

“The reports, Carlyle.”