Hella
Appendix
About the Author
I was in the shower.
I like the shower.
I like the way the water floats down.
Mom says it comes down faster on Earth, but I like it this way.
I close my eyes and feel it running down my skin and for a while I can forget the noise in my head.
It’s not noise, not really. But sometimes it is.
My phone chirped.
It was Mom, so I had to answer.
I went voice-only so she wouldn’t see where I was. She probably knew anyway. She says I spend too much time in the shower. But she doesn’t understand why I need to feel it.
“Come home,” she said.
“Why?”
“Jamie broke his leg playing soccer.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I asked, “Did it hurt?”
Mom said, “It’s only a green-stick fracture. They’re setting it now.”
“So why do I have to come home?” I wanted to finish my shower.
“Because Captain Skyler is here.”
“But why should I come home?”
But she had already rung off.
It didn’t make sense to me. But there’s a lot that people say that doesn’t make sense to me. So I dried off. I don’t like the hot air blasts, but they get me dry. I pulled on a blue longshirt and shorts and headed across the quad. The gym isn’t that far from the summer pods.
Captain Skyler was sitting in the main room with Mom. They both looked serious. I can recognize that expression, even without the noise. They stood up when I came in. I still felt damp. It was the air. Hella’s air is wet.
“Where’s Jamie?” I asked.
“He’s still in med bay. His dad is with him. Stand up straight.” She turned to Skyler. “I told you. He’s too small.”
“Half a size, maybe.”
“He’s three months too young.” Five Earth-months and ten Earth-days. But I didn’t say that out loud.
Captain Skyler ignored her. He studied me. “You passed your field-readiness tests?”
“Yes, sir.” Didn’t he know that? Captain Skyler always knows everything. Sometimes I think he has the noise too. But he says he doesn’t.
“You know how to operate the surveillance gear?”
“I know how to operate everything, sir.” He should have known that too. So why was he asking me?
“Ride-along leaves 0700 tomorrow. Mission briefing is 0630. You’ll be in tractor two with me.”
I stared at him.
“Did you understand what I said?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mom didn’t look very happy about it. She must have been arguing with Captain Skyler before I came in. I think she must have lost the argument.
I should explain that. There’s this rule on Hella. The way it works, everybody works. Even me.
Especially me.
Because I have the noise.
It’s not noise, but I call it that. Because sometimes it feels like that.
Back on Earth, the way Mom tells it—I don’t know this from my own experience, I was born on the twelfth voyage—but back on Earth there are too many people and not enough jobs. So every job has lots of people fighting for it.
But here on Hella, there are too many jobs and not enough people. So the rule is that as soon as you’re old enough to hold a hammer, you’re a carpenter. I don’t know what a hammer is or what a carpenter does, but that’s the rule. Jamie was eighteen Hella-months older than me, and he’d already done sixteen ride-alongs, four times as a driver.
What the rule means is that everybody has to learn as many different jobs as they can. I’m certified for Class-3 Child Care, Class-2 Farming, Class-2 Emotional Maturity (that’s since the noise was installed), Class-3 Food Service, Class-3 History and Civics, Class-3 Data Management (that’s the noise, of course), and Class-3 Health Maintenance.
That last one is mostly about keeping things clean, but it’s the most important certification of all. You aren’t allowed to advance in any other category beyond your current Health Maintenance Certification, so you always have to upgrade that one first. The rule is that if you don’t take care of the colony, you can’t expect the colony to take care of you.
There’s a whole list of Certifications, nearly a hundred. Nobody has ever been certified in more than thirty items. I used to say that I was going to be the first, but Jamie says that the older you are the harder it gets.
Mom wasn’t through arguing. “He doesn’t have outer gear,” she said.
“I can wear Jamie’s,” I said.
“It doesn’t fit you.”
“Yes, it does. I tried it on.”
“When?”
“When Jamie ordered new. His old gear is too tight for him now. But it fits me.”
“You’re too small.”
“No, I’m not.”
“It’ll be too loose. And the backpack will be too heavy.”
“I’ll be in the tractor. I’ll be sitting. And if I’m in the tractor, I won’t need the gear, will I?”
Hella is only a little dangerous. On a scale of one to ten, with ten being instantly fatal—like the surface of Luna, where I’ve never been, but I’ve read about it—Hella is only a three, which is equal to some parts of Earth. It’s safe to go outside without protective gear if you stay out of the sun, if you keep your breathing steady and shallow, and if you don’t drink any water you didn’t bring with you.
That sounds scary, but it’s a precaution. Humans haven’t been on Hella long enough. We can vaccinate ourselves against all the things we know are out there and all the things we think are out there, but we can’t protect ourselves against all the things that might be out there that we don’t know. And there aren’t a lot of volunteers to beta test new infections. So we have rules. Don’t sniff the flowers. Don’t eat anything. Don’t let a bug fly into your mouth. Don’t get scratched or bitten.
“There’s only one way to settle this,” said Captain Skyler. “Go try it on. Let’s see if it fits.”
Jamie’s gear mostly fit me okay, except it was loose in the shoulders and baggy in the crotch, but Captain Skyler said if we tightened a couple straps it would be okay. The helmet needed a little adjustment too. And I had to wear the suit for fifteen minutes so it could calibrate all its bio sensors, because you have to establish a primary baseline for optimal survival, but the Captain was satisfied with the fit and that was the important thing.