The Settlers (18 page)

Thank you, the old man says.
 

The girl stares obliquely into the distance as the old man gently sways.
 

The younger man returns his gaze to the window.
The slow acceleration towards the docking bays has halted.
Another much smaller shuttle drifts into view, adjusting tiny attitude jets to propel it gently into a lower bay.
He watches it settle into place and sink on its broad duck feet.
 

The old man says, I didn't mean to offend you before.
 

The younger man turns.
No offense.
Really.

How impolite of me, the old man says.
I should remember that not everybody cares what I think.

Not at all, says the younger man.
Truly.

The old man regards him carefully, then adjusts his granddaughter in his arms and extends one hand.
I'm Bernard, he says.
 

Micah, says the younger man.

Micah, the old man repeats.

Bernard nods in Micah's direction as the shuttle empties.
Micah waits at the window a little longer, until the stream of passengers spills across the deck below like a box of brightly-colored candies.
He is not entirely sure what he had expected from the journey, but so far it reminds him of little so much as a cattle car.

When he steps onto the landing platform, he pauses to collect himself.
His fellow passengers, most of them, have swarmed to the processing checkpoints, where attendees in glass cubicles study and stamp paperwork and wave people on to their new homes.
But a few mill about, perhaps waiting for the dishearteningly long processing lines to dwindle.
Micah looks for a familiar face and sees none, though there is a middle-aged man standing next to a baggage trolley, alone.
 

Micah adjusts his satchel and starts to walk towards the stranger.
He doesn't really want to talk to the man, but he also feels uncomfortable here, disconnected from other people among a crowd of partners and posses.
 

An electronic squeal bursts from the shuttle, and the passengers jump and stare up at the shuttle in alarm.

A voice says, NO DALLYING, PLEASE.

Micah cringes.
It's louder than any voice he's ever heard, and he remembers what rock concerts were like, once.
He casts about, looking for the owner of the voice, and spies him, a tiny, rotund man in an administrator's uniform and white cap.
 

The little man speaks into his hand again.
PLEASE CONTINUE TO THE ARRIVALS PROCESSING CHECKPOINT IMMEDIATELY.

As his fellow passengers grumble and fall into line, Micah catches the administrator's eye.
 

He offers a small wave and a smile.

The administrator cocks his head, then, quite slowly, raises one small, gloved hand.

Micah stands at the end of the line, alone.
Ahead of him, the trail of passengers winds forward like a knot of licorice, uneven and clumped in places.
He reaches into his pocket and plucks out a small gray card.
It glimmers slightly.
Its corners are rounded beads of fine glass.
The card is blank save for a tiny engraved rectangle on the back.
 

He doesn't want it.
 

The line moves at a glacial pace.
Micah takes advantage of this to look around.
There's nothing particularly remarkable about this, his first close look at the interior of a space station.
The landing deck is vast, and his shuttle is not the only one that has landed here to deposit its human payload.
Micah squints and counts three more shuttles.
The space between each is easily a quarter mile.
He thinks about how many shuttle bays he saw during the approach -- there were probably fifty or more.
 

He approximates the math.
If each shuttle bay is a mile wide and half as deep, and there are fifty bays...
 

He blinks.
The station is even larger than he had imagined.
 

Ahead, there is a disturbance in the line.
He can hear scuffling and raised voices.
He takes a step to his left to get a better view, and sees an administrator in a red uniform and white gloves.
The administrator is waving his hands at the people in line, several of whom look like they might revolt.
 

I understand your frustration, the administrator is saying.
 

It's not easy to hear, but Micah watches anyway.
The crowd pushes against him.
A woman leans in close and shouts something at the administrator, who takes a step back and speaks into his wrist.
Micah sees movement at the periphery of his vision and turns to see several more people in uniforms rushing to the administrator's aid.

Within moments, the uniformed newcomers have quelled the crowd.
The administrator speaks to one man in particular, and that man steps out of line.

The man is immaculately and expensively dressed.
His hair is perfectly coiffed, and he stands straight and tall and confident.
 

The man is holding a small gray card.

Micah puts his own card back into his pocket.
 

The administrator takes the man's bag from him and escorts him away from the line.
Micah watches as they approach a series of freestanding clear tubes.
The administrator stops in front of one of the tubes.
The tube stretches upward to the ceiling, which itself seems to be many miles away, its detail hazy and obscured by distance.
The bottom of the tube rotates, and Micah can see that there is an outer and an inner layer.
These rotate in opposite directions until they align, revealing an opening wide enough for the administrator and his guest to step through.
 

The tube's layers rotate again, sealing the two men inside.
A moment later, the men are levitated upward.

Micah and his fellow passengers watch the two men float higher within the tube.
Then they disappear through the ceiling, two small packages whisked away to some unknown destination.
 

Micah fingers the card inside of his pocket dubiously.
 

Lucky bastard, someone says.
 

He's not the only one, says another.

She's correct.
Administrators are scuttling up and down the passenger lines like beetles.
Here and there they pry a passenger out of line.
Each of these selected passengers are well-dressed.
 

Each bears a small gray card.

Would you ever want to live someplace else?
 

I don't know.
I like it here.
 

I know.
And it's beautiful.
But what about someplace equally beautiful?
 

You aren't happy here?
 

I am.
Of course I am.
Micah -- I am.
 

Is there someplace you want to go?
Morocco or someplace?

Well...

There is.
And it's better than this?
Better than the ocean and the orange trees and the rain?

Micah, this place is lovely.
I'm so happy you brought me here.
 

But you want to leave.
 

I don't know why we can't just have a conversation.
 

Alright.
Fine.
Let's talk about it.

Not like this.
It's not even important.
It's not even real.
Forget about it.

I can't forget about it.
Clearly this is important to you.
 

Micah --

Well, where is it?
France?
Australia?

Micah.

Belgium?
Maybe Portugal is a nicer place than this.
 

You're being cruel.
 

I'm not.
Tell me where.
 

It's none of those places.
It's not important.
 

Italy?

Micah.
 

Is it Italy?
 

No, it's not Italy.
 

Alright.
Which direction from Italy?
 

Micah.
Jesus.
 

Which direction?
 

Up.
 

What?
Up?
 

Up.
 

Okay.
Alaska.
Greenland.

Up.
 

The Arctic Circle.
That's got to be it.
You want to live on an icebreaker ship, saving polar bears.
That's obviously better than here.
 

Up.

The North Pole.