Forty-three days after Hielo launched, we realized our mistake, but it's late and I have little time.
If Hielo had worked, the human race would have had a second chance. Earth couldn't support our weight; we had to take to the stars. Moon colonisation failed. Even if it succeeded, relief would have been temporary. Nicknamed the Ice Cube because of its clear walls and climate control, Hielo could’ve solved everything. Expansion of living space, elimination of national prejudice, impossibility of inter-ship warfare--a heaven above Earth.
But the “Californian” was miscast. His nerves were dry reeds; he fainted during takeoff, and wouldn’t look at the “American.” (We didn’t officially know who was who, as the 2622 treaty demanded, but it was obvious) As the “Finn,” I disliked the “Russian,” thinking of 2590, and questioned the implementation of idealism on such a vital mission. If we succeeded, we secured a future. If we failed we secured perdition as blame and suspicion would rip apart the weak stitches of 2622. One humanity, they said. We were one on the ground. But in the stars, we found it an illusion thinner than the wall of a bubble.
The Russian and I shared a house in the second Quadrant. The first day, at curfew, (we had artificial night) I saw him slither into dusk. He claimed to be an early sleeper and went to bed fifteen minutes before. Tempted though I was to follow, I couldn’t move. I thought he might be sleepwalking, so the next night I left a shoebox out to see if he tripped. He didn’t. I could tell from how his chin dropped that he saw it. When the ship experienced unusual turbulence due to cosmic rays, I spoke to the others. Now, it seems laughable that such trivialities caused alarm, but we knew not to trust Russians, not after 2590. We thought he sabotaged us; we were told that Hielo was immune. We thought our walls had thinned, but we could find no technical failure and when we followed the Russian he led us in sleepless circles, eyes glinting strangely.
On the forty-third day, the Californian didn’t eat breakfast. The night had been rough and the sun glared through Hielo’s walls. As the meal closed, he assailed the Russian, a bread knife at his throat, demanding to know what he did. The Russian refused to answer. The Californian, egged on by the Japanese and an Eastern European, sliced his neck. We were petrified. But he hit wire. The Russian was not Russian - he was a machine, which explained his bizarre behavior--androids are still imperfect. We realized they did not trust us, that they disguised the Hielo server as a human to save it from sabotage. They failed.
The Californian is crying over the Russian's body. We can’t fix it--it fried. Our walls have begun to melt in earnest; globs steam off and evaporate constantly. We’ve calculated that in three hours forty-seven minutes, Hielo, the hope of humanity, will burn.
Copyright 2014 M.Kehl
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