Eloa quickly followed her. “Come on. It wasn’t that bad, was it?”

“What did you get?”

“It was a tough one. I only scored a 96.”

“Only,” Yrial said.

“How did you do?”

She marched on a few more steps in silence. When she turned to answer him, he saw the tears in her eyes. “68,” she said. She bit her lip and turned from him.

Eloa didn’t know what to say. All she had worked for, all her preparations, all her dreams, everything gone with a single test. “Maybe everybody else did just as poorly,” he suggested.

“At least one person didn’t,” she said.

“So now it’s my fault?”

She stopped and turned to face him. “I’m not saying that, Eloa, and you know it.” She studied his face. “But we both know what this means. I may as well pack up my things.”

“Don’t be too quick to dismiss yourself. We won’t know the full results until tomorrow. There’s still a chance.”

“You are such a naive optimist. Do you really think that everybody failed the test?”

“You’re being prematurely pessimistic. Wait for the results.”

“I’m not being pessimistic. Realistic. There’s a difference.”

“And I’m being pragmatic. Give it a day.”

“Eloa, I know what you’re trying to do, and I appreciate it. I really do. But there’s no chance for me now. I know it.” She hugged her books to her chest. “Life sure is funny sometimes, isn’t it?”

“Funny?”

“Think of it. All my life I’ve been working toward this. My parents have given everything they’ve had to give me this chance. Doors opened for me when they shouldn’t have. I’ve really beat the odds, in a lot of ways. People much smarter than I were passed over, and somehow I’ve gotten in, time and time again. For the past few years, I even believed I could do it, that maybe somehow I was gifted, maybe even preordained. It’s like I’ve lived a charmed life. And suddenly it’s over. Funny, isn’t it?”

Eloa paused to consider. “I wouldn’t think funny would be term I’d choose,” he said carefully.

“Hilarious. Ironic. Gut-bustingly uproarious. Grab a thesaurus. I don’t care which word you choose; it’s still funny. And you know the best part? You’re going to be the one. You’re going to be chosen. The last person anyone would have thought would make it. You’re going to pass up everyone, get on that ship, and save the world. And everyone else who couldn’t quite keep up, you’ll just have to leave them behind. And in a billion years when you get to your new home, you won’t even remember me. You won’t remember me.”

She wasn’t being fair. He couldn’t blame her, though. She needed a day or two to calm down. And maybe tomorrow the results would be posted and she’d see that everyone had a hard time on this test. She just needed to wait until tomorrow.

Would tomorrow ever come?

That was a billion years ago. He still remembered it like it was yesterday.

It was then that he spoke.  “Mother, have you ever fallen?”

“Yes,” she answered softly, unsure whether he was awake or if he was talking in his sleep.

“Not just fallen down. Fallen a long way.”

She smiled to herself at the question, the care with which he worded it. Would she ever figure this boy out? “Once,” she said, her voice just barely more than a whisper in the night. “I was a little girl, maybe about your age. I had been climbing up a net that was hanging off a wall. It was probably only about three or four meters at the top. Somehow I lost my balance and fell.”

He didn’t answer her for so long that once again she thought he had fallen asleep. “What was it like?” he finally asked.

She rolled over to look at him. His eyes were large and inky in the darkness of the room. He was looking at her intently. “I don’t remember,” she told him. “I hit my head when I landed, and I passed out. It seemed to me that I must have passed out for a long time, but one of my friends later told me that I got up almost immediately. I don’t remember how I lost hold of the net, and I don’t remember anything on the way down, either. I was holding on one minute, and then I was on the ground.”

“I’m afraid to fall,” he whispered.

“Of course you are. You weren’t made for falling. You were made for climbing. Your direction is up. Always up.”

“But what if I have to fall?”

“Why should you ever have to?”

“I had another dream,” he said. She saw his lip start to quiver. He closed his eyes and turned his head into the pillow. She rubbed his back gently as once more the sobs filled his chest.

The facility wasn’t much to look at. It surprised him every time he came out this way. A tiny little building out in the middle of nowhere. Not much more than an office with an unloading dock. It didn’t seem possible that it could be much bigger than about twice the size of his trailer. Well, maybe three times, but certainly no bigger. Some of the other truckers had told him that they thought it must have some pretty decent underground expansions, but Korvin couldn’t imagine it. With all this space available out here, why go underground?

He coaxed his truck to a stop at the security gate, waved to the armed guard, and waited as the gate opened for him. Ten years ago it might have struck him as strange that they had this kind of security out here, but nowadays you just couldn’t be too safe, not even out here in the middle of nowhere with nobody around for kilometers. When the gate was fully open he swung his truck around to the unloading area and backed it up to the dock. He hopped out of the cab and strode toward the office to complete the paperwork while the trailer was being unloaded.

Before he could reach the door, it swung open, and a young man he hadn’t seen before stepped out. He handed Korvin a piece of paper and said, “No need to wait for unloading today. You can just drop the trailer and head out.”

That was not the usual routine for this leg. Korvin studied the paper. Sure enough, the instructions were clear. He was to proceed back without the trailer. “Suits me just fine,” he said. “I’d just as soon be headed back.” He went to work unhitching the trailer. He wouldn’t make it back to town tonight, of course. But the more kilometers he could put between himself and this miserable place, the easier the return drive would be the next day.

After the trailer was free, he climbed back into his cab and pulled slowly away, watching carefully to ensure that he was fully clear. He couldn’t believe his luck. Normally he’d be sitting there for over three hours while the trailer was unloaded. Odd that they didn’t want the trailer returned like normal. He glanced at the paperwork again. That was when he noticed that it hadn’t been signed. He stepped on the brake. This wouldn’t do. He couldn’t believe how close he had come to leaving without getting his deliver signed. He jumped out of the cab and hurried back to the office.

When Korvin entered the small room, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. The office was empty. The young man who had given him the papers was nowhere to be seen. He was probably back unloading the trailer. Korvin headed toward the doorway marked Employees Only. The unloading area had to be right beyond there.

He pushed through the door and stopped in his tracks. The young man was on a forklift, driving into the back of the trailer. Korvin stared for a few moments as the forks lowered and the forklift nudged a pallet up. He couldn’t believe his eyes. If he had known what was in his trailer, he never would have delivered it. But he didn’t have time to consider that. The forklift began backing up, and Korvin ducked back through the door he had come in. His heart was pounding in his chest and his mouth was suddenly dry. Had he been seen? What could he do?

He hurried back to the office entrance. Should he stand at the door and pretend he hadn’t seen anything? Should he run back to his truck and take off for home? He stood in front of the door, his hand outstretched, just centimeters from the handle. But he was frozen in place. He had no idea what to do. The door in front of him suddenly swung open, and the security guard appeared, his rifle clutched at his side.

“Sir, you need to leave,” the guard told him bruskly.

“Sorry,” he said. His eyes must be wild. The guard had to know, just by looking at him, that he knew what was in the trailer. He thrust the paper out to the guard. “Sorry, I need this signed before I go.”

The guard took the paper, looked at it for a moment, and then studied Korvin’s face again. Time seemed to stand still. Finally he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pen. He signed the paper, and handed it back to Korvin, who took it, stammered, “Thanks,” and pushed past the guard out the door. He practically ran to his truck, climbed in, and started it up.

He drove for an hour before his heart rate returned to normal.

“Not at all?” he asked her.

“I remember that we would go visit them, but I don’t really remember what they looked like. I have a vague recollection of them sitting in a chair, but that’s it.”

“How old were you?”

She closed her eyes and turned her face fully into the sun, inhaling the warmth. “I don’t know. Not very old. Four. Maybe five.”

“I can remember tons of things when I was four.”

“I can, too. I’m not saying I have no memories. Just that I don’t remember my grandparents,” she said. “It’s funny. There are a lot of things I can remember about their house. I remember looking inside their refrigerator and thinking how strange it was that they always had a pitcher of water in there. I remember the musky smell of my grandmother’s wardrobe. Most of all, though, I remember the drive as we approached their house, the excitement I felt, and I remember thinking how odd it was to drive over gravel the last half mile or so to their house. I’d never been on gravel before. You know, I don’t think I’ve been on it since, either.”

She opened her eyes then and looked up at him, catching him smiling at her. “What do you think?” she asked. “I had a chance to get to know my grandparents before they died, and all I could do was think of how strange the road was.”

Eloa sighed and studied the clouds. “That’s the way of things, isn’t it? Nobody will ever hear their story. Not theirs and not billions of others. It’s unbearable.”

Yrial reached over and put her hand on his knee. “What about our story?”

He laughed. “Our story? There’s not much to our story. Ours is the commonest story of them all, shared by everybody alive today. Ours is the story of death, of misery, of despair. No, we don’t need to tell our story. We need the stories of those who truly lived. Your grandparents. What did they know? What did they feel? What did they experience? How did the fabric of their lives flow? That’s the story that should be told, and that’s the story that never will be.”

“I had another dream last night,” he said quietly to her as he slid into his seat.

She looked over at him, her eyes alive. “What was it?”

“I was playing marbles,” he began. “I know. It’s weird. But I was playing marbles, and the game was just about over. All I had to do was nail one more marble, and I’d win. I was a bit nervous, but I knew I could do it. I took a bit longer than normal to line up the shot, to make sure that I wouldn’t make a mistake. Then I flicked my marble in, and it was perfect. Right on course.” He lowered his head and paused for a moment.

“So you got it?” she asked.

“No. Another marble, one with a fiery red center, started rolling, and it intercepted my marble. It made me miss the one I was aiming for.”

“Okay,” she said, grinning, “so what under the three heavens of Ashtar does that mean?”

“I’m not sure, but I think maybe it’s a warning. I need to watch out for somebody. Somebody is going to try to take me out, and I have to be ready.”

Her eyes flew instinctively to Lewserf, eating with his group of friends across the room. “Fiery red, huh?”

“Yeah,” Eloa said. “Fiery red and determined to stop me.”

They ate their lunch in silence. As Eloa was about to get up, Yrial caught his hand. “Eloa,” she said. Her voice wavered.

“What is it?” Eloa asked.

“Do you think, maybe,” she said. “Maybe could you try to have a dream for me?”

“I’m not making you nervous, am I?” Thrrivel asked. He was getting to this boy. That was a good sign.

“These aren’t the sort of questions I was expecting,” he said, looking up to meet Thrrivel’s eyes. Thrrivel stared coolly back.

“What were you expecting?”

“I don’t know. Something about our studies, I guess.”

“Have you been cheating on your exams?” Thrrivel asked. Keep him off balance. Keep him reaching.

Eloa sat straight up. “What? No! Of course not.”

“Then why would I ask about your studies? The tests show you’re clearly qualified. They didn’t send me here to find out what you know. I came to find out who you are.”

“But you already know that.”

“I know your name. Your history. But I don’t know you. What makes you tick, Eloa?”

“Same thing as everybody else, I would think.”

“You know that’s not true. Are you going to tell me about the dreams?” Thrrivel was doing all he could to keep from smiling. He hadn’t had this much fun in a long time.

Eloa fidgeted again. He looked up in a corner of the room, and his face visibly relaxed. Thrrivel waited. He could be patient if that was the game Eloa wanted to play.

Eloa finally spoke. “They’re just dreams. Just like anybody else has,” he began. “Only–”

“Only you see the future,” Thrrivel interrupted.

“No, not really the future. Not usually. I don’t think I can really explain it. I get a message, or a clue, or a symbol.”

“And the message tells you what to do?”

“Not directly. I usually have to figure it out.”

“You were the only student to earn a perfect score on last year’s finals,” Thrrivel said. Play the cheating card again. That seemed to get a response last time.

“That was one of the clearer dreams,” Eloa said, scooting his feet under his chair. “They’re not usually that clear.”

“But you get a direction from these dreams? A sense of what you have to do?”

“Yes.”

“And what if you get an incompatible message?”

“What?” Eloa looked truly puzzled.

“What if you have a dream that tells you to take a certain action, but everyone else says to take a different action?”

“I’d discuss it with them, of course.”

“And what if they say you’re crazy. You’re wrong. But you know deep in your heart that they just can’t see it? What if you’re on this ship, and you’re faced with two choices. One looks obvious to everyone, but you have a dream that tells you what will happen, and you know it means death?”

“I’d tell them. We’d figure it out,” Eloa said. “I know how to get along with people.”

Thrrivel wasn’t going to let him off that easily. “What if they didn’t go along with you? What if they said they were convinced that your dream was nothing more than a dream? That the direction you wanted to go was too dangerous, and they had to take the other choice?”

Eloa stared at him, saying nothing, his face expressionless. “I don’t see how it could come to that.”

“It comes to that all the time, Eloa. That’s the difference between real life and dreams. Real life has conflicts of opinion, difficult choices, unknowns, and plenty of surprises. Real life has risk. And the risks that you’re asking to take on, Eloa, the risks that you want the whole world to feel comfortable assigning to you, those risks can’t be brushed away with a flick of the hand and an idealistic hope that it won’t come to that.” He stopped himself then, realizing that his face had reddened and that he had leaned almost out of his chair.

Eloa had retreated into the back of his chair during the outburst. “We’d talk it over,” he started, slowly. “We’d make a decision as a group. Like we’re supposed to.”

Thrrivel pulled himself back into his seat. “So you’d sacrifice your life,” he said quietly, “and the lives of everyone who is dependent upon you, just so you could say you’re playing by the book?”

Eloa raised his eyebrows. “It’s my understanding that the rules are in place for a reason. So that no single person, on a whim, or a misunderstanding, or a wild hunch, can jeopardize the mission.”

“Let’s not talk about wild hunches. Let’s talk about your dreams. You get a vision, like for the test last year, and you just know it’s right. But everyone else disagrees. They’re wrong; you know it.”

Eloa glanced at his hands. “What can I do? If after we discuss it together, and I alone disagree, then I’m at the mercy of the others, just like anyone else would be.”

Thrrivel smiled. “You need more imagination.”

“It sure is pretty today,” he announced.

“You don’t like your sandwich,” his mother said. It wasn’t a question.

“My sandwich is great. I’m just not feeling all that hungry today.”

“Are you giving me another moon story? I thought we already talked about that.”

Eloa sighed. “Actually, I was hoping we could go feed the ducks again today.” Would she buy that?

Mirena smiled at him. “You’re incorrigible, you know that?” She reached over and tousled his hair.

“Does that mean yes?”

“Why not?”

As they walked along the river’s edge, Eloa tore up the rest of his sandwich and tossed it, one small piece at a time, into the murky water.

“It’s really sad,” his mother said, her eyes probing the river. She said this almost every time they took this path home. “This river used to be so beautiful.” Eloa had never seen the river before the pollution, but through his mother’s eyes he could imagine it a deep blue color, spots of white accenting it as it gurgled down its path.

“The ducks don’t seem to mind,” he said to her this time.

“The ducks don’t know any better. We do.”

“They’ll all be dead anyway.”

Mirena stopped and knelt down beside Eloa. She took both his hands in hers and stared into his eyes. “Don’t say that, Eloa. Life, however short, however desperate, is precious. All life. You’re right that nothing we can do can save these ducks. But that doesn’t give us the right to mistreat them while they’re here. They’re still precious while they’re here.”

Eloa looked out at the ducks once more. He regretted making them eat his olive loaf sandwich.

“Thanks for walking me home,” she said to him. “I can find my way from here.”

“What are you afraid of?” he asked her.

“I’m not afraid.”

“Then why don’t you let me come up with you?”

Her face clouded and she looked at the ground. “I’m glad you like me, Eloa. I’m glad that you’d like to see my place, meet my family.” She looked into his eyes and placed her hand on his shoulder. “There will come a time, but it’s not now.”

“What? You think I’ll judge you because of where you live? I already know this isn’t the best part of town. You think I’ll stop liking you because you’re poor?”

Emotions played out across her face, but she did not answer.

“Me and my mom, we’re not rich, either. We even had to move out of our apartment building and into a smaller place. We’re not too proud. Besides,” he added, looking away, “being rich doesn’t get you anywhere anymore.”

“Eloa,” she said finally, her eyes studying his face, “we’re not poor.” She started to say something else, but stopped herself, refusing to meet his gaze. When she spoke next, it was in a whisper, and Eloa strained to hear it. “We’re beyond poor,” she said. “We’re living in poverty. Everything that my mother and father make, they put it toward my schooling.”

She raised her eyebrows then, and cautiously brought her eyes up to seek any reaction on his face. Her mouth was drawn, and she looked like a cat surprised in an alley, watching closely for signs of hostility, ready to dart away at the slightest movement.

“Oh.” That was all he could think to say. Then, “I’m sorry, Yrial. I didn’t know.”

You think you understand great distances. You think you understand the physics of travel. You think you understand, when you first retreat from the sun, that you won’t see another bright light for millions of years. And you’re right. You do understand it. But you still don’t know it. You can’t feel it properly until you’re out there, surrounded by nothing but blackness, hungering for some spark of light like you’ve never hungered for food. You’re starving for it, and you know you’ll never taste it again, never feel its warmth on your cheek, never be able to look down and see your shadow on the ground.

The blackness envelopes you. It breathes you in, and when it finally exhales you, you’re dirty. You’re black. You have become the night. You’ll always feel it, deep in your bones, the black places of your body. You’re a shadow, even when you return, you’re nothing more than a shadow.

Yet what could he do? If he approached Fergus now and gave him a clear picture of the state of the lab, there was no way that he’d be able to keep his job. He’d be replaced immediately. And who could possibly do a better job than him? The work would really stop if that were to happen. No, the only thing that made sense was to keep plugging away, find a way to inspire his crew, work harder. And pray for a miracle.

Briggin didn’t believe in miracles, of course, but that’s exactly what he needed. And that was exactly what was sitting in his files right then, unread and unacknowledged.