The Journey Home: Part 5

By Harvey Stanbrough

This is the fifth book in the Future of Humanity (FOH) series. As the crew continues attending to the daily routine, are the repops growing tired of routine? Maybe it's time to organize. Peacefully, of course. Probably. Come along and find out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: StoneThread Publishing
• Release date: Apr 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393430629

Harvey Stanbrough

Harvey Stanbrough is an award winning writer and poet who was born in New Mexico, seasoned in Texas, and baked in Arizona. Twenty-one years after graduating from high school in the metropolis of Tatum New Mexico, he matriculated again, this time from a Civilian-Life Appreciation Course (CLAC) in the US Marine Corps. He follows Heinlein’s Rules avidly and most often may be found Writing Off Into the Dark. Harvey has written and published 36 novels, 7 novellas. almost 200 short stories and the attendant collections. He's also written and published 16 nonfiction how-to books on writing. More than almost anything else, he hopes you will enjoy his stories.

Book preview

The Journey Home: Part 5

Book 5 in the FOH series

It's easy to always be the general or whatever else. What's difficult is letting people know who you really are and still doing your duty. Millie Severin to General Amanda Lowrey in The Journey Home: Part 2

If you cross a line and nothing happens, the line loses meaning.

Lauren Oliver

Chapter 1

When Mark Hanson awoke that morning, he rolled his head to the left and gently kissed Amanda Lowrey on the forehead.

Still asleep, she snuggled slightly deeper into his shoulder and made a quiet, contented woman sound in the back of her throat. It almost sounded as if she was purring.

Mark looked around for a moment in an attempt to remember where he was. The digital readout they’d had mounted on the front of the bathroom door in both their rooms read 0537. So 5:37 a.m. Whichever room they were in, they’d have to hurry if they wanted to hit the Bridge Lounge for breakfast before they went to their respective offices on the bridge.

But she had a uniform in his closet, and he’d emptied two drawers in the chest in the closet so she could keep some workout clothes and other clothing in his room too. Roughly a third of the hanging clothes in the closet were hers too. If this was his room.

If it was her room, he had nothing but a toothbrush and the shorts, athletic shoes and t-shirt he was wearing  when they’d returned from their workout in the gym last night.

It’s your room, Amanda said sleepily.

He looked at her. Her eyes were still closed. How did you know I was wondering?

Mmm. Awake but not moving.

He frowned. And how can you tell it’s my room?

Her eyes still closed, she smiled. Mmm. Smells like you.

He laughed. I hope that isn’t a bad thing.

Her smile broadened into a grin. Not usually.

He jostled her head with his shoulder. C’mon, sleepyhead. Whichever room it is, we have to hurry if we want breakfast.

She opened one strikingly blue eye. Yeah?

He grinned. Yeah.

She snuggled closer again. Maybe we could skip breakfast. Maybe take the day off. She paused. We haven’t had a day off since—ever.

You’re the general, Miss Lowrey. You don’t get a day off. And as your XO, I don’t either. C’mon, get up.

Her voice muffled by the skin of his neck, she said, Ahdowanna.

He laughed. What?

She finally raised her head and pronounced each word precisely. "I. Don’t. Wanna."

He took the opportunity to slip his arm from beneath her and sat up on the edge of the bed, a grin still in his voice. Fine by me. Lie there and be spoiled. I’m going to eat breakfast, and then I’m going to work. I guess I’ll just have to be the acting CO for the day. He stood and did an exaggerated strut toward the bathroom.

She laughed. Showoff. A long moment later, she joined him in the shower. Slide over. I’ll do you and you do me.

He grinned. Happy ending or no?

She laughed. You had your chance, skunk. She took the bar of soap from him. Turn around and I’ll scrub your stinky back.

He turned around.

She quickly soaped-up her hands. As she washed his broad shoulders and his upper arms, he murmured, I’ll give you exactly three hours to stop that.

She laughed again, then slapped him lightly on the right butt cheek. Stop it. She reached around to hand him the soap. Here. Now you do me. And she turned around.

He too soaped up his hands. He washed up and over her neck and shoulders, down over her shoulder blades and lower back, then around her sides and over her hips. He said, Raise your arms a little.

When she did, he slipped his hands around her sides and washed her breasts.

She giggled and moved away, then looked over her left shoulder. All right, you. Get out. You’re done.

But baby—

But nothing. Get dry and put on a uniform. I’ll finish up in here myself, and I’ll bet I’m still ready before you are.

He grinned. But I’m ready right now.

She glanced down and blushed slightly, then pointed at the shower door. Outside with that, mister. 

He stepped out and onto the drying mat. It felt like fake grass beneath his bare feet. With the shower still running, he couldn’t quite hear the whispery sound it made as it simultaneously emitted warm, dry air straight up along his body and absorbed and sucked away any moisture that fell on it.

As Amanda turned the shower off and opened the door, he stepped off the mat, then padded out of the bathroom and into the closet to get dressed.

When Amanda was dried and walked out of the bathroom, he was sitting on the edge of the bed again, fully dressed except for his boots. He was pulling the left one over his socked foot.

He looked up, grinned and spread his arms. Tada!

She laughed as she walked into the closet to retrieve clothes for the day.

Mark said, Come out here to get dressed, Amanda. Be a pal.

From the closet, a smile in her voice, she said, Huh uh.

C’mon, give me one more glimpse before you get all generaled-up again.

Nope, she said, and stepped out of the closet a moment later, fully clothed. She grinned. See? I told you I’d be dressed before you were.

It wasn’t a fair contest. You weren’t as distracted as I was.

As he bent to tug on his right boot, she said, "Well, that’s true. You really aren’t all that, you know."

Both boots laced up, he stood and spread his arms again. Come here a minute and I’ll show you what I am.

She shook her head and laughed, her eyes glistening. Not until you move away from the bed there, Superman.

All right, he said, hanging his head in false shame. I guess I’ll take my second favorite thing: food.

She laughed again, and arm in arm, they left the room and headed for the Bridge Lounge. 

*

As they entered the lounge, the senior bartender came out from behind the bar and met them at the door, as was his habit. Good morning, Miss General, Mr. XO. Will you have your usual fare this morning?

Colonel Hanson smiled. Morning, Joe. No reason to change what isn’t broken.

The general said, I think just oatmeal and toast this morning, Joe. Her brow furrowed slightly. But you aren’t on duty yet. She glanced past him. Is Millie here?

I am always on duty for my favorite couple, Miss General. But yes, she’s here. We were up a little early, so— He shrugged.

She looked at him again. Good! Why don’t the two of you join us for breakfast this morning?

He put his palms together just below his chin. Thank you, Miss General, but we ate a little while ago. Rain check?

The XO smiled. You bet. Any time.

Joe indicated the direction of their table at the center of the view window. Right this way, please.

The general said, We’ll eat at the command table this morning, Joe. But thanks. And she and the XO turned away.

The command table, in the left corner of the room from the entrance, was actually the only corner booth in the place. The table was as wide as the other booth tables but the outer edge was also rounded. The booth seated six, or eight if they chose to squeeze in, and ten or eleven if two or three more officers dragged up chairs.

When Amanda had first taken command of The Ark, she’d eaten there, most often alone, against the eventuality that she and her senior staff officers might dine there together and discuss business as they ate. But in light of the ease of interpersonal communication, it was a habit they’d never established. Still, she liked to sit there now and then, especially at breakfast, to signal to her officers they could stop and chat if they wanted to.

The Ark had endured unexpected problems during  the first couple of months after it embarked on its mission from lunar orbit. As a result of those problems and her increasing awareness that she was no longer accountable to anyone on the ground, she had introduced a few initiatives in an effort to get to know her crew better.  Some of those were informal, like invitations for other couples to dine with her and the XO or to go dancing with them down in the FOH lounges. Others were more formal.

The most recent formal initiative was a monthly face-to-face gathering with all senior staff officers around the conference table in her office. The first of those meetings was scheduled for today at 2 p.m., and she was more than a little nervous about it.

As they ate breakfast, Mark noticed she was getting more and more jumpy. He leaned slightly forward over the table. Quietly, he said, Hey, are you all right?

She smiled up at him shyly and shrugged. Just a little nervous about the meeting, I guess. What if we have nothing to talk about?

He held up his fork. You only ever have to remember two things, Amanda.

She frowned. And what are those?

One, you literally own the room. And two, it’s your party. It doesn’t start until you bring it.

She looked at him for a moment, then leaned across the table, squeezed his hand and smiled up at him. Thanks, baby.

He grinned. "You’re a remarkable woman, General, and it’s your ship. You’ll knock ‘em dead. No sweat."

Chapter 2

Down on FOH Deck 1 at 9 a.m., Peter Lessing had just returned from the detox chamber where he sobered up after tying one on down in Wiley’s Pub. At 5’9" and maybe 140 pounds with a narrow, prominent beak of a nose and a few tufts of brown hair that refused to lay flat on top, he looked a little like a scarecrow minus the straw hat. Or maybe a large but malnourished bird.

He stopped just inside the door, squeezed his sides just above his hips with bony fingers, and scowled as he looked around.

Not quite a year into the journey, the quarters seemed considerably more cramped than they had been when he and his wife moved in as substitute repopulation passengers. And it wasn’t only because Delores had given birth to a healthy, grouchy baby boy a little over a month ago. That happy event occurred 10 months into the trip and a scant year after they’d come aboard. The cramped feeling was more because there was so little they could do with the place to make it their own. Well, that and it was so stinking tiny in the first place.

It hadn’t seemed so small when they were invited into the program just two months before The Ark was scheduled to break lunar orbit and begin its mission. Two of the original repop couples had been discharged from the program and unceremoniously returned to Earth. That had given Peter and Delores Lessing the chance they’d been hoping for. Now he wished they hadn’t hoped quite so stringently. Or that the couple they’d replaced hadn’t screwed up in the first place.

Back on Earth he’d been a freelance architect—a trade he hoped to teach his son when the boy was old enough to learn—but up here he was just another repop. Just another bit of baggage being transported into someone else’s bleak future.

The apartment, or the quarters as it was officially called, was smaller than anything even he was used to living in even before he’d met and married Delores. Not that they’d noticed when they first arrived and her eyes were still filled with stars.

Their house on Earth was modest, but it was still almost 1300 square feet. This place was much smaller at around 25 by 30. Despite the furnishings, which were a warm brown and some of which were made of actual wood, most of the place—the walls, floor, ceiling and built-ins—were a bland off-white. And they were made of some kind of plastic! And the whole place smelled of—nothing. And the temperature was always just right.

How could a place be so sterile? That wasn’t life. It was existence. How could one experience anything when there was nothing to experience? At least down in the lounge one might get a whiff of body odor, the hot sting of whiskey on the tongue, the sounds of loud conversation.

To make the place seem a bit larger and a little more like a home, the designers had at least divided it into four rooms. But it was still only 750 square feet. It was still a bland, lifeless cubicle.

The living room part of the place contained a soft brown-leather couch, two matching recliners and a few stained-brown wooden occasional tables. On the wall in front of those was a large flat view screen, and beneath that, a broad, fake fireplace that had the appearance of black wrought-iron. He hadn’t bothered touching it to check for the ancient-cold feel of iron or the tepid cold of plastic, but neither had he ever risked turning it on. He was certain it was made of the same fake-plastic stuff as the rest of the built-ins.

Beyond all of that was the transition area, a quasi-dining room. That consisted of a corner filled with a brown wooden dining room table and four chairs. Which led to the kitchen area,  which wasn’t really a proper kitchen at all. It didn’t have a stove or oven, for example, and there were zero cabinets on the wall.

There was only the one low counter. It held a few drawers and the recycling unit. What he called a middle-grade replicator sat on top on the left side near the table. Well, that and there was an actual working sink. Glory be praised! And then a small refrigerator past the far end of the counter, as if to harken nostalgically back to days when there were no replicators. If the refrigerator would fit in the recycling unit, he would get rid of that abomination.

He called the replicator middle-grade because it was a step better than the regular food replicators the crewpeople were rumored to have in their rooms. This one could replicate any food they wanted but also other small items they might need or want from time to time. For example, the four silly sets of curtains Delores had replicated to hang here and there on the walls to create the illusion of windows.

She’d hung one set to the right of the view screen, another above the kitchen sink, and another in the master bedroom. She’d hung the last set above the bed in the second, much smaller bedroom.  

But he shouldn’t have called the curtains silly. That wasn’t fair. He fully understood her longing for Earth. In fact, for her next birthday, he hoped to find a way to beg, borrow, steal or replicate at least one small, flat view screen, one that would display an outdoor Earth scene. Or better yet, a whole series of changing Earth scenes with different lighting, at sunrise or sunset or high noon, for example. Maybe even scenes of different Earth climate zones: deserts, jungles, grasslands and everything in between.

He would hang that view screen behind one of her