Half Way Home

• 36 • The Payload

Today is our birthday. Today we are officially one.

For almost a year, the nearly completed rocket stood over us like an unlit candle, a reminder of the day we were born underwater and on fire.

Nearly eleven months have passed since our revolution, and since that time, much has changed, not the least of which has occurred within us.

Our planet does not have much mineral wealth, not until we discover where the great burrowing beasts go to die (if indeed they do). Until we can reclaim some of their valuable hides, we’ve made do with the steel sent from Earth in the original lander. The fence that proved worthless in keeping us safe has offered up most of our refined steel. And the smaller vinnies have proven useful for tilling the soil. They are difficult to harness but keen on moving in straight lines. And their quiet labor doesn’t draw the tremors like the tractors would.

Every day, the prognosis for our little venture is measured by rough calculations of morale. And with every bit of progress, it looks more and more like our colony will prove viable.

The first harvest approaches, and fittingly, the first members of our next generation are almost due. Soon, our numbers and our bellies will be increasing for the first time since our arrival. There is much excitement around our village, and nervous guesses about what the future holds for our youth. It seems strange that their professions are still undecided, and that their education will be in our hands, not yours.

All is not perfect, of course, nor do we expect it to be. We disagree constantly and are learning methods for coping with that. As our numbers grow, we will eventually need to formalize some sort of political structure. But these are problems that mark our more basic victories. We have learned to view these challenges as signs of progress, not dilapidation. We survive in order to struggle. Struggling means we’re winning. Hopefully our children will be up for similar challenges. Hopefully they will learn from your mistakes and our own.

One of our biggest disagreements, not surprisingly, was over this very story. Many were shocked to find I’d begun recording my tale over the past year. Once it began circulating, some were delighted and suggested refinements here and there, giving me perspectives on things I had missed. Still, I tried to keep it my story, lest it become something too large to wield.

The real arguments began when I suggested sending this out to you. To all of you.

It was meant as a joke, at first. The idea seemed crazy: using our cursed rocket to send out the very information we sacrificed so much to protect. We spoke of it as teenagers speak of many things—with a desire to flaunt ourselves, to thumb our noses at authority, to prove we can do anything.

The more we laughed about the idea, the more real it became. “We won’t divulge our location,” someone insisted. “All we’ll send is the story,” Tarsi said. “It’ll be a warning,” said another. “We’ll do it to torment them.” (I confess to the last.)

Each suggestion transmutated our joke into a real possibility, like lead coerced into gold. It became a debate, and every suggestion seemed another vote in its favor. Thus the real revisions to my story began, this time changing names and minor tidbits, anything that could pinpoint our location.

The rest of the facts are as honest as we could make them. What’s very real is this: one of your aborted colonies managed to survive, and we are sending you our story. If you are reading this, our rocket went up, so imagine us: standing there below a hole in the canopy, our chins raised and our eyes full of tears as the thing we never wanted to build is sent off—sent away and out of sight, but on our terms.

I hope that’s how it goes. If it does, we will not be sending it to you on a straight shot. It’ll come via a circuitous route. Not just to delay the discovery but to confound your tracking. We sincerely hope you get it, this message from an aborted being that managed to revive and sustain itself, even with so much going against it. We live and we are on the cusp of prospering. Our planet holds secrets that could transform entire worlds into organized, precious metals—a treasure you will never claim.

According to the colony database, there were just over twelve thousand aborted colonies by the time ours landed. Several thousand more were never heard from again, and there is no telling if they made their target landings or chose someplace seemingly more suitable. We will narrow it down for you: we are one of those colonies. Come and find us, if you can. Waste as many resources as possible determining which planet you said wasn’t good enough but now holds the key to your dreams.

For each wrong answer, please note the crater you left behind. Note the pit in the earth where Geiger counters register the death of five hundred potential humans. And know that you killed more than just them in your ruthless calculations. You killed every generation that may have come after, if only you’d given them a chance. You destroyed life in order to protect your patents.

We have done the exact opposite. We destroyed the greatest patent you’ll never know and chose instead to create life. We chose to save the measly fifty-three of us.

Ah, but soon it will be fifty-four.

And counting.