Walter Greatshell - Apocalypse blues

"There," I said. "A light. It keeps going on and off."

"I should hope so," he said gruffly. "It's the Beavertail Light. You should be able to see that without the damn binoculars. On a clear day you'd see the cliffs at Newport. If you look about twenty degrees to the left, you can probably find the automated light at Point Judith, too. It's operational."

I had been to the Point Judith Light. It was only a couple of miles from Jerusalem. Living there felt like a long, long time ago. That we could still be so close made my stomach muscles clench up. "I see it," I said.

"Now look forward again a little more carefully. See the compass? We're heading due east, following the mainland toward the Cape. Track ahead along the coast."

"But I can't even see the coast."

"Doesn't matter-the SVS-1200 says it's there, see?"

He showed me a map displayed on a small glowing screen, and I nodded as if I could read it. I returned to scanning, trying to keep my balance in the swinging loft. "Wait-there it is. That one?"

"Sakonnet Point. Congratulations." He turned robotically and shook my hand.

"Thanks," I said, sheepishly handing back the binoculars.

"I'm not congratulating you for seeing the lighthouse. I'm congratulating you for being selected as the boat's official Youth Liaison Officer."

"Oh… The what, sir?"

"You'll be responsible for making sure all command directives are understood and followed to the letter by the other minors on board. You will also be the spokesperson for said minors, addressing their questions and concerns in whatever way you see fit, so long as it doesn't interfere with the official duties of the crew or the rules and regulations of this vessel. Finally, you will be my eyes and ears in the missile bay and will be expected to furnish a daily report describing any problems you may be having with civilian order or morale. Anyone gives you trouble, report them to me. Think you can handle the job?"

"I'm not sure, sir. I've never-"

"Am I to understand that you are the young woman who came up with the carbon-monoxide solution to the Xombies?"

"I guess so, yes, but-"

"Well, I'm sure that if you bring as much initiative to your duties as Youth Liaison Officer as you did to the Maenad problem, you'll have them eating out of your hand. The youths, that is. Now, these duties are not to be taken lightly. All it takes is one bad apple to spoil the whole bunch, girl-our lives and the success of our objective could once again come down to your powers of observation. We've already compromised far too much of this mission… we have to salvage what we can. May I count on you."

It was not a question. "Yes, sir," I said dismally.

"Good. Mr. Monte will get you started on one of the UNIX workstations. He'll also arrange for you to have a private snack in the wardroom every day-but I advise you to keep that to yourself. Welcome to the team. That's all."

"Mr. Coombs, sir?"

"You should call me Commander or Captain. Skipper is all right, too."

"Yes, sir. Uh, Captain? Where can I find Mr. Cowper, sir?"

He turned heavily away. "You wouldn't want to do that."

"Why not?"

"Fred Cowper is under arrest, pending charges of conspiracy, mutiny, sedition, and theft and destruction of classified government property. That's just the beginning. I don't know what your relationship to him is, but I do know that his personnel file specifies that he is widowed with no dependents. All the times I've worked with him over the years, he never mentioned you. Don't you think it's about time you returned the favor?"

I shook my head no, tears blowing away.

"Lulu, Uncle Sam is your daddy now. He won't let you down."

Ice-cold, I descended.

I was used to being shunned-kids had been shunning me all my life, as they will anyone who dares to use reason and four-syllable words-but under these circumstances it was bothersome beyond belief. As Youth Liaison Officer I was given scheduled times when I could roam beyond the missile compartment, and these outings became more and more necessary as my tolerance for being sniped at decreased-the decks were gauntlets of whispered asides, to which I responded in kind: "Bitch." "Jerk." "Bitch." "Creep." "Skank." "Pig." "Bitch." "Trash." No one cared that I had neither asked for nor desired my new title; any fledgling public sympathy just evaporated overnight. Word had gotten out about Cowper's arrest and confinement, and a lot of guys acted like he had been asking for it all along. "Oh yeah," they murmured together. "What did he expect?" I couldn't believe it. He and I were even made the subject of outrageous graffiti-cartoons that portrayed me as a Nazi Kewpie doll putting a noose around the old man's neck.

All my fears about sharing a cave with these troglodytes seemed to be coming true. I took to carrying my possessions everywhere I went for fear of vandalism. The boys blamed me for everything. When I had to announce that the laptops were being confiscated, they blamed me. When I couldn't increase the measly ration, or couldn't answer questions about our destination, they blamed me. For anything they could think up I was blamed, so that I began to feel like a sacrificial effigy: Coombs's stand-in. Fortunately, there were no more psychos among them, or if there were, they knew better than to act on it. But when animals are crowded together in unhealthy conditions, they eventually start killing one another, and I think Coombs knew exactly what he was doing, letting me take the heat. I was expendable.

Rather than murdering me, however, the boys vented their testosterone on one another, fighting over any slight-I mean real fistfights-and forming belligerent gangs. I tried to channel these passions in a positive direction, enlisting Shawn to help me organize a makeshift poetry slam, and even contributed a short piece in the style of my idol, Emily Dickinson: "Trapped in this armpit omnibus / The river feeds its source / We've traded in our Pegasus / And bought a rocking horse." But in spite of the captive audience, the reading was a bust, at best an unruly class assembly.

"Cut them some slack," Shawn said afterward, unfazed. "It's too soon. They'll rhyme when they're ready to rhyme. Right now it ain't real to them-everybody needs to feel safe first." He shrugged, not looking at me. "You just don't inspire that much confidence, Lulu. It's not your fault."

The ship's crew didn't like me any better than the passengers did, resenting my presence in "officer country" and taking full advantage of their option to bounce me out of any area deemed too sensitive. This was completely at their discretion and depended on the whim or temperament of the individual officer. Robles and Noteiro were liberal; Kranuski and Webb not so nice. But at least I wasn't the only one receiving this treatment: there were over a hundred of our people-men and proficient older boys (Julian among them)-who had been engaged to assist and relieve the burned-out crew. What made my position unique was that I only answered to the captain and didn't have to take on any old job that came up.

I should say here I did have my supporters, however reluctant. Hector, Julian, Jake, Tyrell, and a handful of others never treated me like a stooge. In fact, they sheltered me as best they could from the bullying, though they were obviously terrified of being isolated themselves. It was due to their civility and encouragement that I was able to fulfill any part of my duties, not to mention sleep in peace. I really depended on them.

"You okay?"

It was late in the night, and the weight of woe had driven me to tears. I tried to be quiet about it, huddled in my corner, but Julian overheard me and crawled over. Back turned, I nodded, tried to hold it in, then blurted, "I'm sick of everybody hating me. I can't stand this anymore. I didn't do anything!"