Away: A Futuristic Short Story

            But this morning is different.  It’s the update.  It’s not that there’s a slight chance of rain or that the countdown’s gone down by another 5 just this morning.  It’s what she says next.

            We’re not moving fast enough.  Only a hundred and fifty thousand people have died in hospitals and that simply won’t cut it.  “We’re running out of resources,” a guest government official admits, and the reporter nods.  She tells us that all people with a genetic disease must be turned in.  In order to eliminate weakness in our race, they would be sent Away.  I don’t know where Away is, but I know there isn’t food or water in Away.  If you were sent Away, you were as good as dead.  I shudder, and pick at my fingernails.  I shut out the woman on the television from my head.  There’s nothing else I can do.

*

The evening update says a riot broke out in support of family members and friends with genetic diseases.  Rioters were blatantly ignored, and after smashing the Governor’s window, larger measurements were taken.  Every rioter was sent Away.  “You’re making this easy,” a burley guard in navy blue chuckled to a squirming rioter, and the news reporter blurted her opinions as the clip went on.  “This is our only choice! You have to go with it.  If you fight it, you’re just another obvious target.”

            I hated how they were using this issue to control people.  They were the ones who ignored this and covered it up for centuries, and now they were acting as though it was our fault.  They were punishing us for existing. 

            The tall man and the health-freak woman are taken from my cubicle that night.  I wonder who will replace them.  There are always hundreds on the waiting list.

            I fall asleep quickly, before I have time to think.

*

Sometime in the dead of night, I’m awoken by a small sound.  It’s a small squeak, as our cubicle door opens, and four people shuffle in.  I squint, but I can’t see their faces in the dark light.  I can see that two are taller and fatter than two.  The other two are skinny and frail, and the shorter one is clinging to the medium-sized one with obvious fear.              “Goodnight,” says one of the (what I can assume to be) patrol officers, in a gruff growl.

            “Goodnight,” whispers the shortest inhabitant back, and her voice shakes.  The men leave, and, closing the door behind them, the room goes black.

            I turn around to find sleep again.  I don’t like being disturbed, but my gripping curiosity gets the best of me sometimes.  Knowing I’ve already messed up my sleep pattern enough, still somehow I can’t get the new additions off my mind.  It bothers me.  Was this their choice? Did their job also go under? Where’s the rest of the family? Where did they live before?

            Outside the tiny window, something catches my eye.  I love this window; we’re one of the few lucky cubicles to be on the outside of the building.  But there’s something weird, now, something bright and painful on my sore eyes.  It’s moving, and shining, and I struggle to see it.  It looks vaguely familiar.

            Inching closer, I can finally make out the shape.  It’s a star.  I struggle to hide my gasp—I’m flooded at once with five thousand thoughts.

            It just seems to hit me; this tiny thing.  I used to sing songs about it with my parents, when I was five.  I used to make wishes when I was twenty.  Not one of those wishes is possible now, and my only wish is that we can somehow build a big rocket and take over the star instead.  But what hits me most of all is that I’ve been sleeping through the night, every night—sleeping to get up the next day, to stay healthy and rested, to avoid sickness, to avoid death—and I haven’t seen one of these in, what? Three years? Four? But it was right there in front of me all this time.