Meghan <><
The Delacey Project
Liftoff in t minus ten minutes, and
counting.
I grit
my teeth as the computer voice over the loudspeaker counts down the minutes to
the end of my life.
“Don’t
worry,” a voice to my left tells me. “They’ve done this hundreds of times.”
I don’t
know this man. It’s obvious he has no idea who I am either. I ignore his
attempts to put me at ease and instead ask the shuttle attendant for some
water.
“No food
or drink for twenty-four hours prior to launch,” he intones. He sounds like
those old school robotic voices from back before Integrated Human Speech was
invented for computers. I imagine myself in a classic sixties sci-fi movie
where everybody except two minor characters is either blown up or eaten by
rabid aliens. The leading roles become beloved martyrs, but it’s the survivors
who get to go home and live out their lives in peace.
Liftoff in t minus eight minutes, and
counting.
My hands
clench. Do they have to keep reminding me?
The man
to my left speaks up again. “This shuttle has been tested hundreds of times. It
wouldn’t have passed inspection if the DSAS weren’t one-hundred percent
positive it could hold up under even the worst of conditions.”
None of
this is new to me. All relevant information is in the packet they gave me when
I was informed by com-link that I was selected for Project Delacey. In general,
only two types of people are selected; those who pay the big bucks and those
who were drawn from the lottery. Both groups of people are given the same
information packet. Shows how much they really care about people like the man
spewing miscellaneous factoids next to me, who probably spent billions of
dollars for “the opportunity of a lifetime”.
He is
still talking, reciting the information we’ve both received. We’re perfectly
safe. In a few weeks we’ll arrive at our destination and it will all be worth
it, even the day without food or water. We’ll be the leaders of a whole new
world, the pioneers of the future.
I don’t
tell him I ate a salad for dinner last night and a muffin and orange juice for
breakfast this morning.
Liftoff in t minus seven minutes, and
counting.
It isn’t
the flight that makes me nervous, despite the man’s belief. I’ve flown on
airplanes dozens of times, and even once a space shuttle that was going to the
moon for a field trip in high school. I still remember the excitement I had
felt, and the awe when we’d left Earth’s atmosphere for the day. It had been
one of the best trips of my life.
Another
girl is strapped in across from me. Her eyes are bloodshot and she is sniffing.
The man next to me finally tires of my silence and switches his attention to
her, repeating the same things he told me. Other passengers give him annoyed
stares.
Now that
he is no longer speaking to me, I glance at him. He is wearing a fancy business
suit—impractical for this kind of trip—and has a leather briefcase in the
carry-lock by his feet. I wonder at his reasons for coming, but decide they’re
probably the same as all the other high-class citizens who are paying for a new
start.
I guess
the crying girl is one of the randomly-selected participants. They’ve been drawing
names out of a lottery for this project for years, ever since Project Delacey
began. They aren’t forced to go—no one is ever forced—but the decision is probably an easy one to make. With a
choice between being taxed until you have nothing left and earning enough money
for your family to live on comfortably for the rest of their lives, who
wouldn’t choose to go?
“Please
be sure you are buckled securely and comfortably into your seats.” Another
shuttle attendant walks down the aisle in front of us, assisting the people who
haven’t already followed all the steps in the safety manual and repeating the
same instructions over and over. Her face and voice are more animated than the
man’s, but her words come out like a computer program. “Press the green indicator
button next to your chair once you are ready. The DSAS-approved secure
containment system will engage once everyone has indicated that they are prepared.
Please be sure you are bucked securely and comfortably into your seats. Press
the green indicator…”
The man
next to me attempts to call her over, but as soon as she realizes he doesn’t
need help, she continues down the length of the shuttle, mechanically repeating
directions. The other shuttle attendant approaches us with the same bored
expression as before. I wonder if he, too, was chosen as a random participant.
“You may
not know this,” the man next to me says in a confidential tone, though his
voice is loud enough for the entire shuttle to hear what he is saying. “I am a
very important man. I have dedicated much of my life to making sure this
project succeeds. Do you suppose there are any amenities for one such as
myself? A small glass of wine, or a snack?”
Liftoff in t minus five minutes, and
counting.
The
shuttle attendant blinks at the man. “No food or drink for twenty-four hours
prior to launch,” he says, as if this is the only thing he is programmed to
say.
“Yes,
yes,” the man says, waving his hand about in a grandeur manner. “But suppose I
slipped you a little something under the table. Perhaps an exception?”
“No food
or drink for twenty-four hours prior to launch, no exceptions,” the shuttle attendant says, and steps away.
The man
to my left is angry. I can feel it radiating off of him in waves. Trying not to
catch his attention, I push the green button on my right armrest. It’s next to
the blue one that will put me to sleep once we’ve launched. It doesn’t matter.
He begins speaking to me again anyway.
“It’s
quite a genius program, really,” he says conversationally, as though he hadn’t
been angry with the shuttle attendant moments before. “Headed by a team of
experts in all fields—psychology and sustainability and aeronautics, of course,
but also engineering and physics and education. Dan Delacey’s an associate of
mine, you see. Went to school together, college buddies and all that. He asked
for me personally. Says he couldn’t recommend a better doctor to help settle
the colonials. I got the com-link a few weeks ago, said he could get me on the
next launch. And I thought, why the hell not? My wife’s divorced me, my kids
moved in with her, and all my friends are here! Seemed a good time to pick up
and relocate.”
While he
talks, the IHS voice on the loudspeaker continues to count down. T minus four
minutes. T minus three minutes. T minus two minutes.
“I
suppose you don’t feel quite the same though, do you?” he asks me. It’s the
first direct question he’s asked me and I feel obligated to give some kind of
response. I shake my head slightly, but this only encourages him. “You have a
life you’re leaving, I’m sure. It’s difficult to leave family and friends for
research. I can’t imagine how you feel, but it probably isn’t positive toward
the Project. You were a student? They seem to be selecting a lot of those,
though I’m not sure why. Probably a specific sample to do a statistical
analysis on.”
I know
the answer. This man thinks we are traveling to Project Delacey for research
purposes, but they haven’t been doing research in over a year. Now they are
trying to colonize, to populate a planet. In the event of an Earthly disaster,
humans will continue to exist. I remember suddenly a story we were read in
school about a man named Noah. His project manager ordered him to build a
shuttle large enough to hold two of every species of animal, because he was the
most trustworthy of employees. So Noah did, and he launched his shuttle called
Ark, carrying with him all of the animals that would fit to Jupiter. It isn’t a
true story, because Jupiter can’t be colonized, but I can’t help but feel like
the animals on Noah’s shuttle. Sent to a new planet to carry on the species.
But I
don’t say any of this as he continues to happily blather on about the goodness
of research, and how my sacrifice will benefit billions.
Liftoff in t minus one minute, and counting.
A low
hum vibrates through our buckles. The containment system is engaging. I
remember this from my previous trip in a shuttle. It’s meant to prevent our
straps from coming undone no matter what. I can’t help but feel like it’s
sealing my fate.
“This is
it!” the man says excitedly, suddenly changing his demeanor to that of a
youthful boy. He sees some people getting ready to push the blue buttons on
their armrests. “I can’t believe anyone would want to sleep through this. An
incredible experience! I’ve never been on a shuttle before!”
Liftoff in t minus ten seconds. Nine. Eight.
Seven.
“I’m
sorry,” he say suddenly. “I never actually got your name. My name is Ray.”
Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Prepare for
launch.
I glance
at him as the ever-present rumble suddenly roared. “Lena Delacey,” I say,
barely loud enough to be heard over the engine. The man’s eyes go as wide as
his mouth.
I hit the blue button.
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