The Journey Home: The Ark (1)
Note to readers:
What follows is the first volume of The Journey Home saga. This is a saga—a single, ongoing story—that spans ten volumes and almost 378,000 words.
This first novel introduces the generation ship The Ark. The next 8 novels are simply titled Part 2, Part 3, etc. through Part 9. The final novel is titled Terra 2 in honor of the travelers’ new home. Enjoy!
The Ark: The Journey Home
“[E]ither a nuclear confrontation or environmental catastrophe will cripple the Earth at some point in the next 1,000 years. However, by then our ingenious race will have found a way to slip the surly bonds of Earth and will therefore survive the disaster.” Stephen Hawking
Chapter 1
When I arrived at my former house at 6:30 in the morning I was carrying two empty duffel bags. I was there to pack them. The van would pick me up in a half-hour.
The two bags were all I was allowed. I’m only 34 years old, so it was weird to think it was possible to get everything I would need for a lifelong trip into two duffels, but those were the rules. I was told to bring two, no more and no less, and to fill them with normal Earth-bound civilian items. That was defined as whatever I felt would tie me to “home,” although I could bring no weapons of any kind. Pocket knives and even ink pens, for example, were taboo. Everything we needed would be provided as necessary.
My bags were milk-chocolate brown corduroy with tan canvas straps. I’d bought them specifically so they would stand out. I wasn’t sure whether I’d be allowed to carry them directly to my quarters aboard the ship or whether they would be mixed, at first, with other bags in a storage area somewhere. In case of the latter, I wanted to be able to identify them quickly.
Louise met me at the door.
She’d gotten a new hairstyle to go along with her new life, a pixie-cut that accentuated her thin face and her trim figure. She was wearing her light blue jeans with the tail of a peasant blouse tied at her flat tummy. On her feet were the white leather thong sandals I’d bought for her last Christmas. Probably only a coincidence it was my favorite outfit.
She stepped aside and welcomed me into the house with a gesture, no words.
I nodded to say hello and moved past her, then started down the hallway to the bedroom.
Divorces come in different styles. Ours was very civil, but stiff. Maybe even stilted. We’d both made life-changing decisions. Hers was that we should divorce. Mine was to leave the earth and everything and everyone on it behind for the rest of my life. So really, there was nothing significant left to say.
As she followed me down the hall, she said, “What do you want me to do with the rest of your stuff?”
I’d moved out of the house at her behest a little over three months ago. I’d been living in an extended-stay hotel, hoping against hope for a reconciliation, and I had taken only the barest necessities with me. But for some reason, her question stung a little. I wanted to stop, turn with my hands on my hips and say, What possible difference does it make? Pile it in the back yard and burn it for all I care.
But I didn’t. We’d been polite bordering on friendly through the entire divorce proceedings, and I wanted to keep it that way. So I kept walking and simply shrugged. “Whatever you want. Sell it. Give it away. Or—” Again, Pile it in the back yard and burn it rose in my throat, but I pushed it back down.
She didn’t respond, but followed me to what had been our bedroom.
She didn’t follow me inside though. She stopped at the door.
I didn’t really care.
I went about my business, retrieving my duffels from the floor of the half-empty closet and plopping them onto the bed where they formed two elongated flat-ended circles. Then I turned back to the closet and began selecting the hanging clothes I would take with me. My remaining small clothing was in the top three drawers of a chest. On top of the chest were a few books. I’d take a few of those along too.
I could feel her watching as I packed. She was behind me, standing in the doorway. After several minutes of silence I’d all but forgotten she was there.
In those silent minutes, I’d filled the first bag, zipped it shut, and hefted it to the center of the bed. That one contained my heavier items: my boots and loafers in the bottom, then my jeans, trousers, and jackets, all neatly folded. My belts, plus a dictionary and a few other books, took up the remaining space.
The second bag took less time to pack. It contained my lightweight items: my extra running shoes wrapped in a plastic bag in the bottom, then a few pullover shirts and t-shirts—again neatly folded—and then my underwear and socks. It was almost filled, still open, and sitting where I’d positioned it the near edge of the bed.
As I added the last few items, Louise said quietly, “Are you sure about this, Mark?”
I didn’t turn around, but her tone of voice told me her arms were probably crossed over her chest. She was probably leaning her right shoulder against the door frame too. I imagined her right foot was crossed over her left at the ankle, her toes pressed into the carpet, her right foot rocking slightly back and forth. That was her favorite pose over the years, though I think she assumed it subconsciously. Favorite or not, it was the pose she most often took when she wanted to convey that she cared but not too much.
As I carefully positioned twelve pairs of socks, four of the lighter dress socks variety and eight heavier and warmer, I said, “Sure I’m sure. Why wouldn’t I be? It’s a great opportunity.” Unable to stop myself but still without looking around, I added, “And you have to admit the timing is pretty much perfect.” Then I silently huffed, threw in a handful of underwear without bothering to fold it, zipped the bag shut a little too hard and turned around. “The divorce is final in what, three days?”
I was pleased to see I was right about her stance. It was exactly as I’d pictured it. But that’s how well you know someone after eleven years of wedded bliss.
She only looked at me, then shrugged, her right shoulder still pressed against the door frame. Quietly, she said, “I guess so. I mean, I think it’s three days.”
I wanted to say, You guess? As if you don’t know? As if you haven’t been counting the hours?
But I didn’t. Instead I smiled. “That’s what I meant about the timing. I think that’s the same day we lift off.”
The need to take a breath overcame me and I paused, then shook my head slightly. “It’ll be fine, Louise.” I gestured around me. “You have the house and your car and your job and your friends, and I get to go exploring. What could be better?” I shrugged. “It’s the perfect solution for both of us.” After a second, I said, “As for my stuff, you should probably sell my pickup for sure. You never liked it, and it’s a good truck. It should bring at least twenty thousand.”
Both our names were on the title of both our vehicles, with or between the names.
“But,” she said, then bit her bottom lip to bite off whatever thought had tried to escape. “I mean, you’ll never be back? Ever?”
I wanted to say, snarkily, that was one thing she would never have to worry about. But I knew that wasn’t what she meant. Louise wasn’t that way. She was a very sweet woman. She just wanted what she wanted. So instead I shook my head as I turned away. “No reason for me to come back.” I picked up the more distant bag first, then the closer one, and turned to face her again. I felt my own eyebrows arch slightly despite my desire to appear neutral and nonchalant. “Is there?”
“Mark, please, we’ve been over—”
“I know, I know. Sorry. And it really is fine. Really.” I smiled again. “Hey, consider it a rhetorical question.”
But really it wasn’t a question at all. It was a transition. It was a way to let her know I was ready to move on if that’s what she wanted. It was a signal to her that if this is what she really wanted, she should straighten in the doorway and step aside so I could pass out of her life. Well, and maybe it was to offer her one final opportunity to change her mind.
She didn’t move, and maybe worse, she didn’t say anything.
I raised my arms slightly, held the bags a little away from my sides. “I guess I’m ready.” Another transition.
She huffed a little, pushed her shoulder away from the door frame and straightened. But her arms remained crossed over her chest, and she only turned a little and leaned her back against the door frame. When she spoke again, her voice was a little less calm and she almost huffed again. Maybe the edge of a little frustration bleeding through. “I was just saying, you don’t have to leave the planet, for Christ’s sake.” Then she shook her head, turned away and started down the hall toward the living room.
And just like that, the doorway to our bedroom was empty. For a long moment, I just stared at the void she’d left. Somehow it had become a portal, and it dawned on me I was about to walk through it for the final time.
I could have said, maybe even wanted to say, Hell, I know that. Don’t you think I know that? and let it follow her down the hall, but like I said earlier, civility rules. Besides, I really did have to leave the planet. It was as if my place on The Ark had been preordained.
I was one of literally thousands who had applied for a position on the crew. Originally I was going to apply for both of us to go as two of the repopulation passengers. But Louise hadn’t wanted any part of that crazy idea, and she had nixed the idea immediately.
Her hands on her hips, a look of disbelief on her face, and practically screeching, she’d said, “Leave Earth? Never see my friends again? Or my family? That’s not going to happen, Mark!”
So in the absence of her agreement to go as repopulation passengers, I’d applied to go as part of the crew. That was while we were going through a rough patch a little over a year ago. Then things had improved, and when I received the notification that I’d been invited back for a second interview, I ignored it.
But when the worm turned again and Louise told me she’d filed for divorce, I pulled the notification out of my papers and re-read it. Ah! I could respond anytime up to one month before The Ark departed. That was followed with a terse warning that the better assignments probably would go quickly.
When I re-read that invitation, I saw that The Ark was scheduled for departure in exactly 35 days. I donned my jacket and drove to the recruitment center.
Sounds like a fun one!