Lunara Flight II

My feet pulse in pain, crammed into my designer shoes. Even though I'm sitting, the blood struggles to flow into my toes and they're cold and numb. I push my foot against the leg of the table, trying to relieve them, if just for a moment.

"Stop fidgeting," father hisses to me from across the table. I do as he says, scowling.

The dining room of the Lunara II is noisy with voices and the shuffling of plates and silverware. The air is oxygen-rich and slightly sweet-smelling, pumped in from elsewhere on the ship. I don't know how it works, nor do I care. Everything is white and gold, Devereux signature colors.

I'm by far the youngest person in the dining room, and probably on the entire ship. Rich old men and their younger wives sit across from each other, sipping their beverages and talking excitedly. There is a large oval window to my left, displaying the full expanse of the universe. Stars speckle the black blanket of space, and a ball-sized Earth hangs delicately from an invisible thread in the middle.

It was an unbelievable sight the first day aboard. After all, how many people had the privilege of seeing the earth from afar? But today is the second day, and I've already grown bored with the view. Amazing how quickly novelty fades.

Father sits across from me, he has that look in his eye as he sips a flute of champagne. The same look he has at ribbon cutting ceremonies in front of any new Devereaux hotel. Pompous and proud. A man living in his own world.

"Ah, wonderful!" Father spots the waitress coming out of the kitchen with his soup. Some kind of bisque. She smiles at both of us and describes the soup to my father. He slips her a bill at the end and she thanks him profusely. Must be a hundred.

"You going to tip her after every course?" I ask.

"What business is that of yours?" Father tucks a corner of his napkin into his shirt and takes a spoonful of his soup. "You didn't order the bisque."

"No," I say. "I'm not hungry."

"You've barely eaten anything this trip."

"That's alright. I can spare the calories."

The truth is, I'm starving. The soup smells warm and inviting, I can detect hints of nutmeg and acorn squash. But I have a photoshoot when we get home from the lunar base-- a full article in People magazine. Youngest person to set foot on the moon, and all that. I don't want to look fluffy for the photos.

"You know, you should take advantage of this trip," father says. "You haven't taken a single photo for your social media. Didn't Nike want a sponsored post?"

I roll my eyes. "Screw Nike."

Father shrugs. He's used to my attitude. Sometimes I think he even enjoys it. "Screw Nike. Hmph. Listen to this one."

We sit in silence for a while. Father looks out at the view, his eyes glazed over with pride. The first hotel on the moon will be a Devereaux Hotel, and his legacy sealed in stone. After a three day jaunt, we'll arrive at the biodome reserved for the world's rich and powerful. Casinos, spas, hotels, amusement parks-- the media was calling it Lunar Las Vegas. I try to care, to soak it up like father is, but it means nothing to me. Another business deal. Another pissing contest.

Pissing in space, the final frontier.

The waitress brings out the next course-- braised tenderloin with some sort of sauce. I don't listen as she describes it to father. I don't need the temptation. I sip some lemon-infused sparkling water to fool my stomach. He cuts into the meat, and takes a bite, coughing a little.

"Don't choke now," I say dryly. "Don't want to die before you reach the moon."

"No, no," he says. "I'm fine. Went down wrong, that's all." He takes a sip of champagne as if it's medicine. "Why must you be so morbid, Libby, my god."

"Why must you take such large bites?"

"You know," he says, forking more meat into his mouth. "I thought you'd be excited for this trip. Does nothing excite you anymore? Nothing at all? We're in space, Libby. I've worked my ass off for this."

I sigh, bored with the conversation. It was always the same.

"You're exhausting," I say.

"You keep this up and you won't have anything to show for your life. I'll curl up dead before I leave you a cent to blow on bullshit."

The waitress comes back and asks if we need anything. I wave her off, annoyed. Why must they hover?

"You know, I was a waiter once," my father says. His cheeks are red. "Not an easy job. You should show some respect. It's even harder now, without the unions."

"You hate unions," I say.

"Of course I hate unions. I run an empire. Unions make things difficult for me. Nonetheless, this shit isn't easy, but I did it because I had to. What have you done, Libby? Except run up my credit cards and sit around and complain."

My eyes actually hurt from rolling too hard into the back of my head. "I'm done with this conversation." I move to stand but father grabs my wrist and forces me back down. My feet scream from their shoe prison.

"Sit down," he says. "And stop acting like a brat."

I cross my arms over my chest and slump into my chair. "I wish I was a server. I bet they have crazy parties after dinner. I bet they drink til they puke and snort things up their noses."

"Fantastic," father sighs. He's done with me. I'll sit silently for the rest of dinner, then disappear to my room. Nothing to do anyway on this space cruise to nowhere. Maybe I'll sneak a drink from the waitress. Surely she wouldn't deny Albert Devereaux's daughter a glass.

Father coughs again, this time more violently. He empties a glass of water down his throat and some of it he spits back onto the table.

"What the hell is your problem?" I mutter and cover my face, embarrassed. Surely the old farts are staring now. "Stop it!"

Father clutches his throat and turns a violent shade of purple. He's choking. My heart races as I scan the room for the familiar blue tunics of the staff, and pounds harder as I realize there are none.

A man in a blue suit runs to the table and wraps his arms around father's abdomen. He's old but not frail, and I can see the veins in his neck as he squeezes, trying desperately to dislodge the object.

But there is no object.

Father's eyes bulge from his head, red lightning-shaped lines appear on the whites. I begin to scream. It's all too much for me. I stand and my chair falls over backward, everything in my body tells me to back away from father and I do. I can't feel my feet.

"What's wrong with him!" I say to the man. But he doesn't answer. He's gone limp against father, his own face a deathly shade of blue. White strands of hair cling to his eyebrows and his mouth begins to foam.

Now people are screaming and coughing all around me. My vision narrows and my heart thumps in my ears to cover the noise. My only instinct is to scream and scan the room for any sign of staff. Surely someone is on the way. Surely an alarm will sound--

Alarm.

My wits find me again and I make my way to the fire alarm on the far wall by the dining room entrance. It takes me a moment to figure out, I've never pulled a fire alarm in my life, but I discover the lever and feel a click.

The sight before me worsens. An older woman clutches her throat as she stares in horror at her husband, face down in his soup, hands hanging at his sides. She coughs a stream of blood onto the table and doubles over, falling out of her chair onto the floor. She writhes for a moment and I shift my gaze to the floor, desperate not to see the end.

I smell death. It is something I have never encountered in my sixteen years, and yet I know it. I know it in the depths of my senses, in my DNA. The smell of mildew and mushrooms, of maggots and decay. My body reacts in horror, threatening to vomit if I do not get away. I cannot feel my legs but they move anyway, my feet squishing further into the shoes as I try to run.

I'm falling. My ankles bend to either side and I struggle to right myself. I take two steps but my ankles refuse to straighten. I fly forward, my hands outstretched to prevent my face from hitting the floor. My knees strike it instead and then my hands.

I crawl like a baby out of the room, away from the smell of death. I feel myself dissociate, the lines of the corridor are now hazy and pixelated. Nothing seems solid. My mind halfway convinces me I'm dreaming.

"Help!" I call down the corridor as I continue to crawl. Standing means trusting my ankles. I trust my knees more. "Please someone! Help!"

I see no one. The sounds of coughing and plates crashing to the floor continue from the dining room but I refuse to acknowledge them as reality. Tears are wetting my cheeks now, I didn't realize I was crying. Nothing makes sense. I scream again for help and the sound echos through the empty hall.

Reason kicks in again and I change course. I crawl towards where I know the Communication Bay is. Father had shown it to me when we'd first come aboard. As disinterested as I'd been, I remember where it is. There are radios there, or something like that. Some way I can call out for help.

My knees begin to burn and I shriek at myself in a rage. "Goddamn these shoes!" I rip them off, not bothering to undo the straps. One breaks against my ankle, the buckle making a tink as it hits the wall and skips across the floor.

With my new freedom, I leap to my feet and rush down the corridor, reading the doors as I go.

Communication Bay.

I push the button and try and slide the door open, but it doesn’t budge. I cry out to no one and slide against the door with all my strength. Searing pain runs up my shoulder and for a moment I see stars, but the door remains closed.

There is an electronic card reader to my right, the light flashes red. I remember father sliding his key card into it. The key card... in his jacket pocket.

My hands go to my head as my breath quickens. My chest hurts from the constant pounding of my heart and I'm starting to feel nauseous. I've never had a panic attack, but holy shit this feels like one. My vision begins to blur but I slap my own face, hard.

It works. Things come back into focus.

The thought of running back to the dining room for the key card invites the nausea back into my stomach. Death was there. The smell.

Not an option.

My mind races and I close my eyes to think, and breathe. Where else had father taken me? The Communications Bay. Our quarters. The dining room. The escape pods....

The escape pods.

There had been a mandatory safety debriefing when we'd boarded the Lunara. In case of emergency, there were escape pods, pre-programmed to head back to Earth. Fully equipped with communication equipment and first aid. I can get help. More importantly, I can get out.

My bare feet do not fail me. I take off down the corridor, take a left after the dining room, covering my nose as I rush past. I can't risk the panic.

I take a right at the medical bay, noticing the desk is empty. In fact, I realize I haven't encountered a single staff member. Not a waitress, not a busboy, no one. The notion that it may be a dream enters my mind again, and the walls go wavy for a moment before I re-gain control.

The escape pods are close now, a gold plated sign comes into view. There is no sliding door, no access point to hinder me. I enter the bay and push the green button that reads "Deploy." I remember this. I remember the green button and the hefty pod that came down the track and into the bay. I remember father opening the hatch and showing me the controls. The controls…

I don't remember the controls.

A woman's automated voice sounds through a speaker on the ceiling. "No escape pods to deploy."

I slam my fist on the button a second time.

"No escape pods to deploy."

I remember the pods. I saw them with my own eyes. They were orange and white, with horrendous yellow seats and suction cups that went over your mouth to provide you with oxygen as you hurtled through space. I remember it all so clearly, it was only yesterday.

"What do you mean no escape pods!" I scream. I slam the button again and again. I slam the other buttons too. No pod slides into place. The voice repeats its basic statement. She might as well be saying fuck off.

As my hope dissipates, my mind starts to shut down. Flashes of the dining room, the man face-down in his soup bowl, the purple hue of father's face, barrage my thoughts. I cannot focus on the moment. I cannot formulate a plan. My vision starts to go white and my knees buckle. I struggle to focus on the reality around me, everything is moving as I slide to the floor.

My eyes gain clarity for a split second and I notice a piece of paper taped to the wall just inside the escape pod bay. The letters are large, hand-written in black marker, easy-to-read even from the floor.

EAT THE RICH.

I rub my bare feet in a daze. There are wet blisters on the edges of my toes, side-effects of designer shoes. The smell of death lingers in my nose. I hang my head.

And lose consciousness.