Orbiters

The Finger

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“So this is it, he thought”

Staff Officer Paul Hussenian, aged ninety-five, delivered a set of maintenance orders for outdoor work to C Deck. These were highly technical, involving hundreds of tools and precise measurements. Schematics had been attached, with coordinates entered and cross-checked. No minor point. The orders involved hatch doors. Needless to say, outer space and inner space don’t mix.

He dropped the files onto a young engineer’s desk. These were accepted with a nod. The officer never questioned his aged superior. He knew what they all knew. Hussenian didn’t make mistakes.

On the way out Hussenian paused. He felt dizzy, and placed his hand on a desk. The junior officer noticed. “Everything okay, Paul?”

“Yes. Absolutely.” The room stopped spinning. He waited another ten seconds. Then turned. “There’s a knock in the overhead vent. You might want to check the fan.”

“Got it.”

Hussenian walked out. Still light-headed, he headed for the gym. A run would make him feel better. But on the second lap he stopped. Placing hands on knees, he waited. The track circled faster than he could keep up. He stepped off, caught his breath, and walked to his quarters. If he was going to die, it must be alone. This is very Malthusian. First and foremost, one never inconvenienced others.

In his room Hussenian turned off lights and lay down. He felt a weakness in his arms. Something fluttered in his chest, like an escaping bird. So this is it, he thought. Death.

Well, it wasn’t so bad. His only concern was Spaceship One. It had taken him thirty years to really learn his job. So let’s see, he thought. It would be 2055 before his replacement was fully onboard. No, even longer. There were two years of night classes in engine propulsion. Then one served an apprenticeship of up to five years. It was all too wearying. He faded to a troubled sleep.

The old officer woke in darkness. Where was he? Had he gone to the stars?

Malthusians don’t believe in God. Based on science, rigorously practical, religion plays no role in their society. Yet, why are they here? Such a question can’t be ignored. If there’s one thing a Malthusian can’t stand, it’s an unanswered question, big or small. And that was one very big unanswered question.

It vexed the ancients. Then the answer came to everyone, all at once. The nature of the creator would never be known. Why? Because it was unknowable.

Thus, the Unknowable. Which they worshipped. Sort of.

The Unknowable was responsible for their lives, and whatever happened after death. When one died, according to lore, the Unknowable placed a finger on you. Then it was off to the stars.

Hussenian waited for the stars. Minutes ticked by. He saw none. It’s damn dark, he thought. If I went to the stars at least I want to see a few. He switched on a light. To his chagrin he found himself still in his room. The Unknowable hadn’t placed a finger on him after all.

Hussenian was an engineer, and judged ability on exacting standards. When one started a project, one finished it. On time and under budget. The fact he was still alive needed to be accounted for. Someone, or something had messed up, and he intended to get to the bottom of it. He found he was hungry. Still irritated, he tied shoes and marched out.

The Unknowable hadn’t put his finger on Paul Hussenian. Not yet. And if anyone was giving anyone the finger, at least tonight, it was Paul Hussenian.