*
“You don’t believe in any of this, do you?”
Seth felt his heart leap in his chest as he looked over at the commissar. They were sitting on two stools at a half-finished bar on the observation deck of the Europa Station. The two men had been there for almost half an hour, sampling the various Earth whiskeys, but they’d been mostly silent. With all the chaos on the station, it had been nice to have a little peace and quiet. Now, out of nowhere, Absalom broke the silence with an accusation that cut to the heart of Seth’s plan.
“Why... Why would you say that?” Seth asked, downing another gulp from his glass. It barely burned in his throat, which made him wonder just how many drinks he’d had. Was he so intoxicated that he might let something slip to the commissar? Would he even know?
Absalom had kept up with him, glass-to-glass, and the effects were clearly showing on his face. His pale cheeks were flush and his eyes wandered to the corners of the room a bit more than usual. Still, he spoke clearly and directly as he explained himself:
“A couple months ago, you risked your freedom to try and convince the people of this Republic that we were doing an evil thing. And now you instigate a grand plan to win their hearts and minds with empty celebration. What do you believe in?”
Seth took a deep breath and considered his answer. “Is it so hard to think that you managed to convince me that you’re right about all of this?” Seth asked, turning the question around on him.
Absalom considered this. “No, I don’t think I convinced you of anything,” he said with a smile. “But you have been a great ally to the Republic, so I want to understand what motivates you. You said that you were writing a book about the Spatial Preservation Act, but I never see you even taking notes.”
“I don’t need to take notes,” Seth answered, though he didn’t elaborate further. He came close to revealing his photographic memory, but he decided that it was best to keep that from the commissar. Even though he’d long abandoned his plot to memorize and reproduce the Heilmann Drive design documents, he still felt it was a valuable tool to keep hidden.
“Interesting,” Absalom replied. He put his glass on the bar and picked up one of the bottles. He awkwardly poured himself another drink. Unlike Seth, who had realized he should start pacing himself, it didn’t appear that the commissar had any intention of slowing down. “I cannot wait to read this book when it comes out. I will be so fascinated to hear what you think of all of this.”
Seth nodded and decided to elaborate on the lie. “I’ll let you read it first, if you like, but don’t think you’ll be able to edit me.” He wasn’t sure if that made it more or less convincing. Absalom didn’t seem to notice either way.
“I don’t care what you write in your damned book,” Absalom said. “What you say about me next year won’t matter.”
“You think history will redeem you?” Seth asked, then quickly corrected himself. “You think it will redeem us?”
Absalom grinned. He liked that Seth was including himself. “No. It doesn’t matter what they say about us in the future, either. There wouldn’t be a future without us. Because of us, these moments will become history instead of the end of everything.”
“You really believe that, don’t you?”
“Of course I do!” Absalom took another drink, then slammed his glass down on the table. “How can you question it? You have seen the pictures. You’ve read the reports.” He leaned back on his seat and laughed. It filled the air, echoing through the empty room, and set Seth ill-at-ease. The commissar’s tone became manic as he continued. “And you didn’t even see all of them. You stopped looking. You stopped reading. I never did. I went through every page, I looked at every picture, and I gazed at the collapse of reality as we know it.” He grabbed Seth’s shoulders. “We are stopping that, Mr. Garland!”
Looking into Absalom’s eyes, Seth almost started to believe him. He remembered the way he felt when he looked over the photographs and journals from the station in the warped space. It made him sick to his stomach and scared. He couldn’t even put into words why it had that effect on him. It was just so mystifying and horrifying that it overwhelmed his common sense and forced those feelings on him.
For just a moment, Seth wondered if he was doing the right thing. Maybe Absalom was right. Maybe the threat from the warped space was enough to justify the end of faster-than-light travel. The thought of spending his entire life on Earth scared Seth, but it was nothing compared to the possibility that the warped space would expand, perhaps engulfing the entire galaxy.
Seth was about to start questioning his plan, and his motivations, but then Absalom kept talking. The commissar would never know the chance he ruined that night, as he continued to opine on his beliefs about the Fall.
“I want to tell you something I have never told anyone before,” Absalom whispered. “Because I am afraid of what they would say about me. You are right about one thing, Mr. Garland. The Republic is very inflexible about certain beliefs.”
Seth didn’t know how to respond. He didn’t really want the commissar to open up to him. That was only going to make it more difficult to eventually betray him. Still... He was curious. “Sure. We’re off the record now. Nothing you say will show up in my book.”
“The old stories tell us of the first time that man attempted to reach the stars,” Absalom said. “This was long before we even knew what the stars were, let alone how to traverse them. Still, man was prideful, and saw fit to build a tower which would stretch to the heavens. The audacity of this act displeased God, and God punished man. God split the land of the Earth into many continents, scattering man across the globe. And God confounded the language of man, so that he would never be able to unite and work with such purpose again. Why? Because mankind had grasped beyond its reach. Does any of this sound familiar?”
A long silence filled the room as Seth tried to wrap his mind around what he was hearing. “You think that God is doing this to us?” he asked finally.
Absalom sighed. “I only know what our stories tell us, and certain stories tend to repeat themselves throughout history. Think about it, Mr. Garland. We sit here, tonight, on the eve of a new diaspora. The Heilmann Drive was our Tower of Babel. It is about to be struck down from the heavens once again, and we are about to become a nomadic people once more.”
Seth had to restrain the anger inside of him. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He took a deep breath, hoping that he would catch his outrage before it came bursting forth. “But God isn’t the one scattering us among the stars. We are.”
The commissar pursed his lips as he thought about this. “The metaphor is not perfect,” he said. “But the point still stands. Perhaps we have grasped beyond our reach. Our arrogance is destroying the galaxy, and we are about to be punished for it.”
Suddenly, it was like everything made sense to Seth. He understood why Commissar Absalom was so dedicated to the Spatial Preservation Act. This was why he was so zealous. Despite everything that happened on Vangelia, he was still stuck with the teachings of his homeworld.
Absalom’s role with the Republic wasn’t a coincidence. He was handpicked by the High Council to enforce the Spatial Preservation Act. He was given an unprecedented amount of power for someone so young, and especially someone who was not born on Earth. Seth had always wondered how Absalom managed to get such a high profile job. Now he knew. His background gave him some special quality that set him apart from the other commissars and high-ranking officers.
Ever since Seth started working with Absalom, he’d been researching Vangelian religion. He’d never learned about their beliefs during his time at RSIR. The class that covered Vangelia was reserved for upperclassmen so Seth was a few months away from being able to join. These days he took his education into his own hands, scouring the net and old news bulletins for information about Absalom’s home.
O
ne of the core concepts of Homeworld Christianity, which was the basis for Vangelian Theology, was original sin. The concept, as Seth understood it, was that all humanity was stained with the sin of the first man and woman on Earth, who betrayed God by choosing knowledge over faith. Like many religious tenants throughout the galaxy, Seth couldn’t wrap his mind around the idea. Why would anyone see the pursuit of knowledge as a sinful thing? Fortunately, he’d learned long ago that there was no point in questioning the logic of religion.
All of mankind was sinful, and the only way to be absolved of this sin was through accepting the sacrifice of the messiah. Most offshoots of Homeworld Christianity called this man Jesus, or Christ, but over time the Vangelians adopted the name Aesu, because they believed he needed to be differentiated from the meek philosopher of other sects.
Aesu was a violent man who, according to the Vangelians, was torn apart by his enemies on the field of battle when he led a small band of his followers against the mighty Roman Empire thousands of years before the age of space travel. As Seth understood it, this made a mess of both theology and history, but it was the fundamental story of the Vangelian faith. The martyrdom of Aesu allowed future generations to absolve themselves of their original sin. Anyone who lived according to Aesu’s principles and died serving his name would be allowed into heaven despite the sin of a mortal existence.
The brutal structure of Vangelian society was built on the supposed principles of Aesu. Seth knew that these “teachings” were arbitrary and so attenuated from Homeworld Christianity that they had no legitimate philosophical basis. That didn’t matter any more. Vangelian Theology was over a thousand years old, it was now as legitimate as anything in the galaxy that survived for so long.
This was where Commissar Absalom was raised. Even though he escaped, and even though he had every reason to hate his former world, he could not strip its influence from him. He still believed in original sin. He still believed that there was something fundamentally wrong with humanity, and that it was within God’s power to punish the entire galaxy for it.
Seth wanted to be angry with the commissar. He wanted to throw his glass against the wall and scream at him. It was all so ridiculous to think that disruption of space-time was some divine punishment rather than a quirk of physics or an easily fixable flaw in an otherwise incredible human invention. But Seth couldn’t be angry. He knew that none of this was Absalom’s fault. He’d done as much as anyone to rise above the repressive culture he was born into.
Besides, the High Council was using Absalom, just like they used everyone.
“You know I can’t believe what you believe,” Seth said. “And if you’re making any decision about the Spatial Preservation Act because of your religion--”
Suddenly, Absalom looked up at Seth and fixed him with a furious stare. “It is not my religion,” he insisted. “And you are being foolish if you discount everything I say. Think about it, Mr. Garland. Why is it that we cannot leap outside of the galaxy? Why does every ship that attempts it disappear? Perhaps we there are places we are simply not meant to go.”
Seth stood up. He was done drinking and talking with the commissar. He put his glass on the bar and leaned over to stare into his eyes. “If God constrains us, then he should not be worshipped. If God punishes us for building a better galaxy, then God is our enemy.”
Absalom stared at Seth, stunned. “How prideful can you be?” he shouted. “It was one thing when you were judging the Republic. Now you dare judge even God?” Seth realized as he heard the passion in the commissar’s voice that he’d crossed a line.
Under different conditions, he might have jeopardized the relationship he built with the commissar. But Absalom was so drunk that he probably wouldn’t remember much of anything in the morning.
“I think we’ve both had enough,” Seth said. “We should get some sleep.”
Absalom laughed. “You are right, Mr. Garland. Tomorrow is a big day. Tomorrow we will save humanity from itself. Together, we will usher in a new era of sacrifice. Maybe we will be remembered as heroes. Maybe not. What is important is that there will be people to remember us.”
Seth felt his heart leap in his chest. He’d forgotten how close they were. The remodeling of the station would be done in the afternoon. The party would begin in the evening. And at midnight, the Republic would decommission the last starship in the galaxy.
8.
There were hundreds of official and unofficial events planned for the first Forbearance Day in 4192. Some of them were somber ceremonies, held in quite remembrance of the end of an era. Others were raucous parties, full of drinks and drugs. All of them had one thing in common: they were all tuned in to the live feed from Europa.
The Republic was storing the final three starships in the galaxy at the observation station on Europa. It was also the site of the biggest party of them all. Politicians, viewscreen stars, and high ranking military personnel were invited to celebrate on the station. Naturally, everyone else in the Republic wanted to see what was happening on the Europa station, so cameras were deployed at all of the critical spots.
There was a main video feed from the dance hall on Europa, but that was only the beginning of the production. There were cameras everywhere. Some were in orbit above Europa, to give everyone back on Earth a sense of perspective. Others were planted at the bars, so that observers could find out what drinks their favorite celebrity or politician ordered at such a monumental event. But the most important cameras were set up inside the repair bays.
At midnight, the workers aboard the Europa Station would remove the critical components from the last Heilmann Drive in the galaxy. When they did this, it would end faster-than-light travel forever. Everyone wanted to see this. They wanted to know when to cheer...or when to riot.
Everything was going as planned, until the final hour of the night. Then the video feeds began to cut out. It started with the main dance hall. In one minute, music and images were streaming from the cameras. In the next, everything went black. Then, one by one, the other video feeds disappeared. The last one to cut out was the camera inside the main repair bay. That was where the final ceremony was to take place. That was where the last Heilmann Drive was to be removed from the last starship in the galaxy.
The Republic announced that everything went as planned, and that interference from the atmosphere of Jupiter was to blame for the loss of video from the station. People who were there told a different story—one of chaos and panic—but no one was willing to say what really happened aboard the station that night.