Hugh Howey - Half Way Home

“But how did you tell them and not us?”

“How often do enforcers go on bombfruit duty?” I asked. “My friends started dropping some special deliveries two days ago, bombfruit with messages inside. You know, if you’re gonna rule people with an iron fist, you might wanna control the other little fists that deliver your food and pack your ammo—”

“Porter!”

I turned to find Tarsi running toward me. I stood and caught her as she threw herself into my arms. She pulled back and held my cheeks with both her hands as she studied my face.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yeah. Never lifted a finger.” I looked around and saw dozens of half-familiar faces altered by malnutrition and helplessness. The last of the enforcers were pushed to the dirt and lined up alongside Hickson and Myra. “Anybody hurt?” I asked Tarsi.

“Minor scrapes. Julie is tending to them, but somebody really needs to be tending to Julie. She’s not doing so good.”

“That might fall to me, just from the glimpse I got.”

“Sorry I didn’t come straight away. I had to help in the vats.”

“Don’t worry. I should’ve been the least of everyone’s concerns.”

Kelvin joined us, his eyes glaring daggers down at Hickson. Tarsi freaked out when she saw the blood on his face and set to cleaning him up. She began fussing with him over the fight he must’ve had in the vats.

I stepped away from the two of them, knowing I would be doing a lot of that over the coming days and weeks. I hadn’t had the courage to tell Tarsi during our hike, but I would soon be setting her free and explaining my love for them both.

I turned to the other colonists and saw a circle of sorts had formed, everyone stepping back and watching our little group as if they expected one of us to say something. I looked to Kelvin for support, but he and Tarsi had moved off to the side. The colonists were looking to me .

I felt alone, just as Colony—and my founding country—had programmed me to be. And as an expectant hush fell over the crowd, I realized that I had it backwards. Colony and its engineers didn’t program me to be alone; they simply programmed everyone else to ensure that I would be alone. There wasn’t anything wrong with me; there just weren’t enough of me. Colony hadn’t protected against clinical conflicts of interest by making me gay. It did so by making sure I was the only one of my generation.

I could love—that was something I knew perfectly well. Tarsi, Kelvin, Stevens… even Myra in some ways. I had loved them all and would continue to do so. That was my gift. If anyone was cursed, it was those limited by their programming. Those with hate in their hearts, unwilling to love anyone not like themselves.

As a victorious physical revolution wrapped itself up around me, an emotional one seemed to be taking place within. I realized, right then, that I wasn’t broken. I was okay . At least, I would be.

“What now?” someone shouted.

“We need food!”

I smiled at the crowd and raised my hands. “And food is coming as we speak. Our friends in the canopy, the ones who dropped the messages, should be well on their way. They’re bringing meat and some green chips we’ve found to be edible. Oh, and your favorite—bombfruit!”

There was a smattering of laughter amid a much louder chorus of groans.

“What about them ?” a guy in front yelled, pointing to the enforcers lined up behind me.

“That will be up to all of us,” I said. “We have a lot to figure out, but we will be the ones doing it. As far as I’m concerned, this colony has been aborted, but not us. We will create our own future. We will nurse ourselves back to health. I hope some of those that have hindered this effort will change their minds and assist us. Some will probably not. The first thing we need to do is figure out how to govern ourselves, and then we can decide how best to govern each other.

“It won’t be easy,” I agreed, as grumbles began coursing through my fellow colonists. “Nothing in my profession suggests we should expect it to be. And this planet poses special difficulties, but it’s still our home.”

I stepped forward, my hands spread wide. “We can do this,” I told them. “We have the tools, the land, the resources. If we work together, we can live out our lives here and gain a foothold. But I must warn you that this will not be the end of our struggles.

“This will be the beginning .”

Today is our birthday. Today we are officially one.

For almost a year, the nearly completed rocket stood over us like an unlit candle, a reminder of the day we were born underwater and on fire.

Nearly eleven months have passed since our revolution, and since that time, much has changed, not the least of which has occurred within us.

Our planet does not have much mineral wealth, not until we discover where the great burrowing beasts go to die (if indeed they do). Until we can reclaim some of their valuable hides, we’ve made do with the steel sent from Earth in the original lander. The fence that proved worthless in keeping us safe has offered up most of our refined steel. And the smaller vinnies have proven useful for tilling the soil. They are difficult to harness but keen on moving in straight lines. And their quiet labor doesn’t draw the tremors like the tractors would.

Every day, the prognosis for our little venture is measured by rough calculations of morale. And with every bit of progress, it looks more and more like our colony will prove viable.

The first harvest approaches, and fittingly, the first members of our next generation are almost due. Soon, our numbers and our bellies will be increasing for the first time since our arrival. There is much excitement around our village, and nervous guesses about what the future holds for our youth. It seems strange that their professions are still undecided, and that their education will be in our hands, not yours.

All is not perfect, of course, nor do we expect it to be. We disagree constantly and are learning methods for coping with that. As our numbers grow, we will eventually need to formalize some sort of political structure. But these are problems that mark our more basic victories. We have learned to view these challenges as signs of progress, not dilapidation. We survive in order to struggle. Struggling means we’re winning. Hopefully our children will be up for similar challenges. Hopefully they will learn from your mistakes and our own.

One of our biggest disagreements, not surprisingly, was over this very story. Many were shocked to find I’d begun recording my tale over the past year. Once it began circulating, some were delighted and suggested refinements here and there, giving me perspectives on things I had missed. Still, I tried to keep it my story, lest it become something too large to wield.

The real arguments began when I suggested sending this out to you. To all of you.

It was meant as a joke, at first. The idea seemed crazy: using our cursed rocket to send out the very information we sacrificed so much to protect. We spoke of it as teenagers speak of many things—with a desire to flaunt ourselves, to thumb our noses at authority, to prove we can do anything.

The more we laughed about the idea, the more real it became. “We won’t divulge our location,” someone insisted. “All we’ll send is the story,” Tarsi said. “It’ll be a warning,” said another. “We’ll do it to torment them.” (I confess to the last.)

Each suggestion transmutated our joke into a real possibility, like lead coerced into gold. It became a debate, and every suggestion seemed another vote in its favor. Thus the real revisions to my story began, this time changing names and minor tidbits, anything that could pinpoint our location.