2142- In Orbit Around Pluto
“My finest memory? Running. Definitely running.”
Green trees, a nice field. Those were the defining aspects of the orphanage that Albert Morrison grew up in. The facility, built at the top of a hill, carved ever slightly from a new-growth forest, was home to many children whose parents had died at the hands of the Omegans. While many children still living in the private sector were blessed with technological toys that allowed them to use virtuality to travel the world and participate in games of sport and leisure, the orphans had no such tools. Living as though they were born a century and a half prior, they had only the hill, the trees, and the field.
He loved it.
Afternoons, once schooling was completed, he and the other boys would strip off their shirts and race outside, stopping only to grab a soccer ball or baseball equipment. Simple relics of eras gone by, they didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was enjoying the sunshine and freedom from their domineering teachers. Sides would be chosen, and Morrison counted himself lucky enough that he had enough basic skill in either sport to not be chosen last. That honor always fell upon Griffin… was that his first or last name, Albert wondered. He was a scrawny kid, angry and withdrawn, talentless in any athletic endeavor. Yet if he had stayed inside, he would have been forced to engage in physical activity in the gym, under the watchful eye of Instructor Roberts.
Instructor Roberts. A name that became a synonym for sadism. Grizzled war veteran, loser of a leg and an arm, yet he still plugged away every day, working on his body and building his strength. There was no excuse acceptable to Roberts. He would rub his hand across his bald head for a few seconds before beginning his tirade about how useless you were, about how the enemy would have killed and eaten you because of your weakness, and about how he had not sacrificed his body so that you could wander aimlessly through life, growing fat and happy, doing nothing.
Griffin may have been a terrible athlete, it was true. But he wasn’t dumb, either. Better to suck at sports in front of his classmates, suffer their wrath and scorn, than to listen to Roberts’ reign of terror in the gym.
And yet, Albert thought, it was Roberts’ sacrifice, and seeing his prosthetic leg, that made the sporting so enjoyable. Morrison knew that the old man was, in his own way, right. He had the luxury of being able to run, to jump, to kick, to play. The kids doing it all virtually? The young Morrison pitied them, almost mercilessly. Yes, he had lost his parents, and their absence left a hole in his spirit that he would never be able to fill. But what he had now was an appreciation for life and a feeling like he would have purpose, things that he had to acknowledge might have never occurred had he grown up “normal”.
“I wonder why I’m thinking about this now?” he suddenly wondered, and struggled to open his eyes. As they cracked slightly open, he saw the form of Jack Keys towering over him, energy pistol in hand.
Keys knelt down next to him, a look of pained sorrow on his face. “I’m truly sorry, Captain. I wish it hadn’t come to this,” he said.
The crew of the War Angel watched as Morrison, whether by design or by muscular twitch, suddenly gave a contented smile and his eyes took on a bright, dreamlike quality. He remained that way for a minute or so, and then that inner light began to dim. As his eyes turned to glass, Keys brushed his palm across the older officer’s face and closed them for good. Albert Morrison was gone from the world, one he had never quite made, but one in which he was always almost good enough.
No comments:
Post a Comment