Crimson Dawn

He panted, feeling like he couldn’t go on, but he had to keep running. His heart thundered, his lungs burned. The monstrous, glowing shape floated above him, filling his entire view, blocking out the desert sky. Massive signal lights lined its sides, casting wide shadows over the barren plains. They shone just enough light for him to avoid tripping over the scattered rocks—and missing his one chance to escape.

A long plume of dust spiraled behind him as he ran. He reached for the rope ladder dragging across the desert floor. So close he could almost touch it. He lunged, missed. Summoning every last ounce of strength, he took one final leap, clutching the ladder’s lowest rung mid-air. With both hands clinging tight, the ladder dragged him through the dust. Moments later, the airship soared past the canyon, and the ladder yanked him over the cliff’s edge.

Now, his survival depended entirely on the strength of his hands.

He glanced down into the depths, his legs dangling above the moonlit land, the dry riverbed snaking through the valley hundreds of feet below. With every bit of his strength, he pulled himself up, quickly grasping a higher rung with one hand, then the other. He planted both feet on the ladder’s lowest rung, bracing against the icy wind whipping across his face as he climbed. The whistling, roaring wind was so loud he couldn’t hear the shouts from above, from the open hatch where they called his name.

The next morning, he rose early, eating his meager breakfast while standing. His gaze drifted out the small porthole, chewing as he thought. They had flown over the wasteland that night. Now, as dawn broke, he saw the bombed-out ruins of an unnamed city below. He watched the morning sun rise over the mountains; the valley beneath them was still steeped in cold shadows. He avoided looking at the other refugees, but once, just once, he glanced and saw their sad, frightened faces. None of them knew he was the one responsible for the war. But he did.

He set the greasy paper on a small standing table, licking his fingers, wiping his hands on his pants, then made his way past the other refugees. But it didn’t matter where he hid on the airship until they landed; the suffering he’d caused was everywhere. And no matter where he went next, the weight of his guilt would follow him.

The next day, the airship landed on schedule in a vast field near a desert city, hundreds of miles north of Rykuunh, which had so far escaped the war’s destruction. The boy joined a convoy that set off across the desert. They were a group of over a hundred young men and women, rebels from across the district, crammed into rusty old jeeps, crossing the Ba'kaar Plain, a never-ending stretch of dunes and dust, a desert region where Tau Ceti seemed to gather all its strength to scorch the land and snuff out life. But in reality, the Ba'kaar Plain was just a small part of the Great Desert, and the only one where life could cling on, even if just barely. The plain stretched northward from the equator, spanning thousands of miles across the continent. Past a certain point, the heat was so intense that things simply caught fire. No one had ever set foot in that blazing land, and only blurred satellite images proved that the desertscape was nothing but rock, volcanoes, and red sand.

In the Ba'kaar Plain, the air was heavy as lead. Through the half-open side window drifted the oily smell from the swollen tar roads as they drove through abandoned villages toward Ronkondaar, a coastal city built of stone houses, locked in constant warfare with the World Union due to its proximity to major oil platforms. Once a thriving metropolis of over three million people, Ronkondaar, just like Rykuunh, had been bombed to ruins, with the last people streaming out in droves. Using fake passports that marked them as legitimate citizens, the rebels merged with the fleeing masses, scattering onto a dozen ships, a ragtag fleet of old container vessels and battered fishing boats, loaded with barrels of oil for the long journey across the Great Sea.

*****

Still breathless from the mad dash from the marketplace to the coast, the boy crouched in the shadow of a towering winch at the bow of the cargo ship. A salty sea breeze swept over the deck, and he watched wisps of fluffy cumulus clouds drift across the blue sky. The heat was stifling. The refugees shielded themselves from the sun’s glare by draping towels or sea-soaked rags over their heads. Around him echoed the sounds of children crying, hungry babies wailing, and mothers softly sobbing. He heard friends chatting and laughing, mixed with the nervous excitement of people gathering all around him. The ship’s bow was dotted with countless stories, each one born out of hardship and injustice, now setting off into the unknown. These people had no idea what their destination would bring. They only held onto the hope of safety, freedom, peace. Just like the pioneers on the generation starship, he thought. Or like himself once, back on Limbo.

Sweat dripped from his forehead onto his hands, clasped together as if in prayer. The heat was intense; still breathless, thirsty, he looked down at his dusty, battered sneakers. "Where do you even get a drink of water around here?" he muttered, wiping his sweaty forehead with his arm. He hadn’t expected an answer.

"I’ve got half a liter left," a girl’s voice said.

He raised his head, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand.

She stood beside him, holding a dented water bottle.

"Miri?" he said.

The rebel girl walked past him, threading her way through the crowd. What was she doing here? She stopped by a little boy sitting alone on a stair step, skinny and wrapped in rags, his knees pulled up to his chest as he cried quietly. Mirela sat down next to him and handed him the water. Her gesture wouldn’t erase all the world’s cruelty, Lex thought. But it was a start.

A start to show the world there was still hope.

Slender columns of smoke rose straight up over the buildings into the windless sky. The bombed-out city of Ronkondaar faded in the distance until its crumbling ruins blended into a single, hazy silhouette, a solemn monument under the summer sky to all the things humans could do, both terrible and enduring. Lex had searched for Mirela until dusk. She stood near the railing on the upper deck at the back of the freighter, where the propellers churned the sea and left a long trail of white foam in their wake. The fiery red sun of Tau Ceti touched the horizon, its reflection glittering on the waves.

"Miri?" he called. "Miri, you came with us?"

"Papa used to say that one day I’d reach a point where everything would make sense," she replied. "He was right. Now I understand why he wanted me to learn the global language. It was meant for me to leave home one day and explore the other continent."

He hesitated.

"This ship, Lex... it’s going to be our whole world for a while. Will you help me make it right?"

He looked at her. "Make it right? What do you mean by that?"

In the weeks that followed, a fellowship of uninjured survivors from the war formed, all committed to helping those in need on the ship, whether by sharing food, blankets, shelter, or simply offering comfort through words or presence. Mirela Ma'vena led this alliance of kindness, though she was convinced that a group standing for humanity didn’t need hierarchy, much less a leader.

The helpers believed that their strength lay in unity, that with weeks of effort and sacrifice, they could free the ship from despair and suffering. But the wounds of the people ran deeper, and the sorrow was greater than they had first realized. So, their mission lasted as long as the ocean crossing itself, a hundred and six days...

The ships had taken long detours across the sea to avoid the patrol boats of the World Union. One evening on deck, where their sleeping mats were spread out, an elderly woman told the girl that the government had sworn, under pressure from massive protests by the citizens of Vega Prime, never to sink another refugee ship. But reality, as it so often did, looked different. As long as the people of Vega Prime didn’t know about it, the government could do whatever it wanted out on the ocean. Corporations wielded their power under the World Union’s name; the government was merely their mouthpiece, and Blake Powers their puppet. Mirela translated the woman’s words for the boy, but he only replied that she didn’t need to tell him things he already knew.

Mirela wanted to fight against the suffering, and for a moment, he believed he wanted to stand by her side. But it was mostly in the quiet of the evenings, wrapped in his sleeping bag on the lower deck, that he remembered he had fled only for Veela from Rykuunh, for a girl he’d spent just a few days with and hadn’t seen in years. A girl who had sent him away and lied to him. In his mind, parts of her face had already started to fade, just as many moments they’d shared were slipping away, and the feelings attached to those memories dimmed. Still, he believed his purpose could only be fulfilled with her.

*****

One evening, they sat alone on one of the lifeboats hanging off the side railing, as far away from the other refugees as possible in such a tight space. Behind them, the stairs led down to the mess hall, which, back when the freighter still sailed for the long-bankrupt WorldPort Corporation, had served a handful of sailors for entertainment and meals.

"In three days, we’ll reach Vega Prime."

The boy nodded, looking up. Cold sea air, a salty breeze, new moon. The darkest night of all. Where were the stars in the open sky?

"I still can’t believe I’m almost home." He didn’t say it lightly; his time in Luvanda had felt like an unending nightmare, and he had come to believe the only way out was death, which had felt like a daily possibility in the jungle.

"Will we stick together?"

"We will."

Their clothes were rough and smelled of stale sweat, of many different people’s lives. But it didn’t bother them. They were used to it. The girl from Luvanda lay in his arms, though he wasn’t sure how that had happened. Her hand rested on his stomach, and even under the thick wool blanket, she was still cold. His head was full of thoughts, so much he wished he could ignore right now. From far off, the salty wind carried the sound of waves breaking at the bow. On the upper deck, voices murmured, unable to find sleep.

"I like you a lot," she said.

"I like you too, Miri."

"Have you ever felt this way for anyone else?"

He hesitated, mouth opening, the first word catching in his throat. Finally, he started again and said, "I think I know where this is going."

"I want to ask you something."

"Or something like that."

"Should I?"

"I'm not sure."

"We’ve known each other for two years. I need to know where I stand."

"I'm a good friend," he said, "like a brother."

"I already have siblings. I want someone by my side who..."

"I don’t know how to say it, Miri, but…"

She tightened her grip on his coarse sweater as if she wanted to hold onto him forever. Then she let go and sat up. He looked at her. The dim light above the hatch was their only nearby source of light. In that semi-darkness, he could just make out the shape of her high cheekbones, the light leaving a silken glow on her skin. Her large, honest brown eyes. What he thought and nearly said was true: she was beautiful.

"She lives in Vega Prime," he said. "She’s the reason I want to go back."

It took him a while to look back into Mirela’s eyes, and when he did, he noticed something had changed in the way she looked at him. And he knew in that instant that whatever had faded from her gaze wouldn’t return.

"Destiny," she whispered so softly that he could hardly hear her words over the icy wind. "I thought it was you."