Helios 1

On the first morning of its 135^th year, the heart of the Helios skipped.

It was a breath or a hiss in the hull of the ship, barely appreciable, even to most of its systems. Two bodies were up and moving now on the bridge. The night custodian, now relieved, was making his way down to his rack. Alex watched for his dark shape in the small slip of space near the top hinge of the door. As he passed, Alex took a single, deep breath, and exhaled slowly. As he expressed the last cubic unit of oxygen from his lungs, he heard the custodian make his customary, singular rap on the wall.

“Fuck.” Alex’s mother woke to the resounding bang. He shifted his eyes up to her rack before closing them tightly. As far as she knew, the noise—which happened every morning that Harvey was on night watch—was mechanical.

Alex lay quietly in his rack and waited for his mother to come wake him. When she finally did, after shuffling to and fro in the small space that they shared, it was by brushing his shoulder gently. Alex rose up, sliding his sheets down and standing at his bedside. His mother was in her uniform already, neatly pressed and still clinging to its dark blue color in spite of 5 years of duty as her only uniform.

“It’s math today.” She said, addressing Alex’s shadow in the mirror as he dressed himself behind a small privacy screen. Alex nodded his head silently. By the time he had fastened the last snap on his jumpsuit, which had grown too small for him and now crept up around his ankles, she had gone.

Chema poured the flakes into a bowl, dousing it with thin splashes of a milk-like liquid. Angel walked through the door.

“You’re late.” Chema said, pouring another cup of the flakes into the bowl. Angel walked to where Chema stood, taking a large spatula from the wall, and began to churn the mixture. Chema stood back with the pan of liquid, pouring it into the mix in regular intervals.

“He was at it again today.” Angel said, continuing to work the flakes, which had become a paste.

“Who?”

“Harvey. The same place, again this morning.” Chema spilled the last of the liquid into the bowl. “It’s only Atticus and Reder in there right now. The other two racks are empty.”

“I wonder how long Reder will put up with it.” Chema said, taking the sides of the bowl firmly. Angel held the spatula in his fists and cut hard through the mixture. It had become thicker now and harder to move through, and sweat began to shine at his brow.

“He won’t. At least he wouldn’t if he knew it was Harvey. This ship is like a bell. Can you imagine how loud it must be in that room? And near the captain’s quarters, too. Harvey better hope that nobody finds out.”

Chema raised her eyes to Angel with a sharp little smile.

“And you won’t tell?”

“No.” Angel said, drawing the spatula from the mixture. It filled the bowl now, and continued to rise on its own, a small mountain of off-white paste. “He’s in mourning.”

Chema nodded. Harvey had been through enough.