A Dubious Hope

The air carried the clattering, sizzing, slapping sounds of food preparation, and mouth-watering smells; spice-coated fried ’hoppers, simmering congee, frying tortillas, sautéed mushrooms, and piles of berries. A generous meal to break the fast of the First Month’s final weekend.

In the insulating spaces of the hull, something flexed its tendrils and fed.

In the large meeting room, six-year-old Lethabo fought to keep his empty stomach quiet during the closing ceremony for First Month’s final weekend. He and others have spent the weekend fasting while learning about, remembering, and grieving lives lost to ethnic genocides. A thoughtful child, Lethabo was more somber than usual. This weekend he learned why so many New Hopians participate in this tear-filled memorial. Roughly three hundred ship years prior, New Hope’s mission had nearly been destroyed by racist ideology pushed by a charismatic sociopath. It took them two generations to recover. New Hopians, descended from every member country of the United Nations of Earth, cannot afford to forget what happens when community is ruptured for personal gain, exceptionalism, hubris, or religion.

Last night, young Lethabo had decided to honor the suffering of his ancestors by skipping the evening snack allowed the elderly and the young. He did not quite regret that decision, but he was now motivated to ensure no one else endured this horrible sensation.

The event concluded with the reciting of the whole of the Community Accord. Lethabo added the words he knew into the flow, “...all are of equal value. ... differences ... exist, but we honor and support ... We find roles of service for all. ... We value the gift of every individual ...”

The audio of the ceremony was broadcast across the ship. Back in the kitchen, a tinny communicator shared the closing ceremony’s audio. Clanking spoons and conversation stilled so all could hear, and join in the final words of the Accord:

“Given our ancestors’ harrowing experiences, we disavow the label ‘human.’ We are Spacers. We live and die together.”

When it is over, crickets chirped a raucous symphony in the protein ranch, Harriet’s regular work station, while her colleagues walked among their plexiglass containment areas, checking larvae for diseases.

Volunteers and agriculturists in the neighboring vegetable fields gave an impromptu concert in the row crops, singing the working call and response, “ Ivinda ya Mbua,” as they harvested the lunch and dinner greens: purslane, collards, mâche and others.

Near the center of New Hope, a sweating mentor answered questions posed by Marfa, an energetic seven-year-old on a neighboring treadmill. Marfa wanted to learn about the ship’s recycling process and the problems contamination could pose. The mentor took the opportunity to reinforce a lesson the child’s fathers had requested, “That’s why we wash our cutlery before we melt it to be re-used.”  She rocked her fist forward to show she had heard, though her wrinkled nose made it clear what she thought of that chore.

In the Quartier Vivant, neighbors greeted each other with, “The hull is secure!” or, “May you never thirst!” in at least a dozen languages, sharing tea and other drinks at tables lining the wide hallway. A vivid, multicolor mural on the table side of the wall included the words, “Hydration is love.” Gossip, snatches of song, and laughter filled the air.

Behind one of the still-closed doors in the neighborhood, two women discussed their coming day, their calligraphy projects, and the challenges faced by their new mentee.

In a Quiet Quarter hallway three floors below, a teenager in a leg brace quietly sketched next to an open door while a friend plaited his hair. They listened to the teen’s parents singing songs of passage in the crowded apartment inside, where the family sat in vigil for an elderly uncle. The uncle had declared his regrets and made his fond goodbyes the day before. Now his thoughts slipped into dreams of his deceased wife, meaty mushrooms and immortality. His breath rattled to a stop.

The tendrils stopped feeding and flailed, overcome to their basal filaments by grief.