On my last night on Earth, my parents throw me a farewell party. I'm wishing they hadn't. There will be so many goodbyes. So many questions. I stand outside the door to their apartment and stare at the card in my hand. It's small, triangular, and green. The words "Your service will begin in" are written across the top, and below that, "12:23:03". The timer counts down on the card. The sight of time ticking away makes me smile, even after three months of carrying the card everywhere I go. I applied the day I turned twenty‑five and legally became an adult. I'm free, independent. The law says I can vote, get married, go back to university, raise a family, start my own business, enter politics.
I've only ever wanted one thing. I'll be getting it in twelve hours and twenty‑one minutes.
First, I have to get through this party.
I pull a small box of patches from my pocket and flick through them until I find a Relax. I stick the patch on my neck. It hits me quickly. My breathing slows. My shoulders slump. That's better. I stick another patch of Relax on the inside of my right wrist where it will last longer. I'm almost ready.
The door opens unexpectedly. A hologram of my uncle pokes its head out. Uncle Frank is seventy and overweight in real life. His hologram is thin, tall, magnificent in a black suit.
"What are you doing out here, girl? Late for your own party, huh? That's just like you!"
He waves me inside. We step into the large garden at the center of the apartment. Three floors of rooms look down on us. The apartment is crowded with people, cylindrical waiterbots on wheels, and holograms. Some of the holograms are repeats, echoes, people caught in several different conversations at once. Flittering in and out as interest and opportunity arise. I greet an old teacher. A cousin. A friend from college. An aunt. Her tiny dog. Everyone has come to see me off.
"You can meet my new girlfriend," my uncle says, slurring slightly. "She's … she's here, somewhere. In the garden."
He walks off to look for her. I pretend to help, although we've never met. The garden is beautiful. Fountains line the walls behind neat beds of rose bushes. A dozen small shrubs break up the lawn. Their flowers bloom constantly in the garden's eternal springtime. Each plant has been carefully tended, kept in the space assigned to it. The garden is a soft place, a tame place. It smells like freshly cut grass, like recent rain. Once, when my parents were traveling, I let the garden grow wild and free. The automated gardening drones hadn't like that. Nor had my mother. She still brings it up from time to time.
"See your lady?" I ask my uncle.
"Not yet, not yet."
The only only part of the garden I like is the single oak at its center. The tree is an old friend to me. I used to climb into its branches from my room on the second floor and sit among its leaves to watch the gardening bots work below. The tree was filled with insects to collect, thin branches to test, leaves to gather. There were injuries, too: grazes and scrapes, cuts, splinters. The Bliss never matched the feeling I got while climbing the tree.
The oak's branches were an education in adrenaline and adventure.
I never fell.
Beside the tree tonight is a small platform. It's a temporary affair, set up for my speech. I stare at it. I wish it didn't exist. My heart beats faster. My chest tightens.
"There she is! Let's go say hello!"
My uncle's hologram changes as we approach. Wide silver fish swim across his black suit, darting, chasing each other. His new girlfriend looks my age. She's beautiful. Tall. Her hologram also has the silver fish, but she isn't wearing anything beneath them. I try not to stare.
Eye contact, I remind myself. Eye contact.
I almost succeed.
"Hi there," I say to his girlfriend.
Eye contact.
I shake her hand.
"Darling, this is my niece," my uncle explains to his girlfriend. "She's going to kick those aliens around, make them sorry for the attacking Earth,".
I smile.
"It's not about that," I say. "I'll be protecting the aliens—"
"Protecting?" my uncle splutters, affronted by the thought.
"Yes, protecting them from—"
"From what? I'll tell you what, girl. Protecting them from each other. Why can't they look after themselves? Not brave enough? Too lazy? They're a waste of time. You should let them kill each other out there among the stars. Let them die, and we'll take their worlds afterward. That's interstellar Darwinism. Right?"
He slaps my shoulder, his hologram passing right through me.
I keep smiling, but it's not easy. My uncle's not a bad guy when he's sober. He's kind to people he knows, always willing to help out. Tonight's a party, however, the three Tipsy patches on his neck are doing the talking for him.
"I'll be hunting for the Ouranos and other Genocide Seeds," I say. "That's important work. It's necessary."
"The what? The Ouranos? That bastard thing! We've learned our lesson. It won't be allowed to come back. We're safe, now."
He can't be sure. No one can. That's the point.
"It's terrible," his girlfriend says. "Earth shouldn't be sending soldiers out to the stars. We should be making peace, not war. Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent."
I shake my head. If that were true, then the universe is filled with competent corpses. No. Nature is violent, cruel. Competitive. Predators rule. We forget that sometimes. Or we never learn it, in our comfortable lives.
"And the Avari are the worst," my uncle's girlfriend continues. "Traveling the universe, claiming to be police but acting like thugs. So violent. We should be using diplomacy, not guns!"
I need an excuse to get out of this conversation. I don't want to spend my whole evening arguing with someone who won't change their mind. And yet‑
"Diplomacy would be lovely if it worked," I say. "But it's a universal law that life leads to conflict."
"I don't believe that. I think—"
"Don't think, not at a party! Patches are far better," a loud voice interrupts.
It's Sam, my best friend, charging to the rescue. He's dressed in colorful rags, each one tied to his body in a knot. A bright pink top hat hovers over his head. It's horrible. He always wears it.
"I need to borrow the woman of the hour," he says.
We escape with a speed that borders on undignified. I wave farewell to my uncle and his girlfriend. They're arguing as we leave.
"Thanks," I say.
Sam looks surprised. My rescue was unintentional.
"Any time! Come on, I've got big news! I found your dad's stash of Brightly. You're going to love it."
I'm glad to see Sam in person. It's probably the first time he's left his apartment in months. He could have stayed home tonight and sent a hologram instead. That's what most of the people at the party are doing. They'll be in their own Bliss pods or using datapads from their beds. Eating their favorite foods prepared by their own kitchens. Using their own patches. Never having to dress up. Using hologram avatars that are taller, thinner, better dressed. That's how they go out. How they work. Date. Travel. Shop. Everything. That's life.
It's a good life, too. I enjoy it. It's what I'm joining the infantry to defend.
We walk past my friends and family as they mix, trading old jokes and new gossip. It's a familiar sight. Parties are my parents' hobby. Everyone here knows each other. All around me is laughter and smiles. This makes me happy. I love these people. I want them to spent their lives living happily with each other. I want them to be safe. I'm willing to die to make sure they are.
Sam leads me to my father's study. The door is open. Sam walks to the desk and slides open a draw. Dad has a dozen Brightly patches hidden there. They're expensive. We've never tried them before. I put one on my arm. Sam does the same. The Brightly kicks in. Everything is light, easy. Happiness surges through me.
"I'll miss this," Sam says. "Hanging out. Stealing your dad's patches."
It's been our tradition since we were teenagers.
"I'll only be gone for four years," I say.
"That's forever."
"You could join me."
Sam shakes his head. We've been through this before. I know what he's going to say. Sam's no killer.
"I'm no killer," he says.
Neither am I.
"Neither are you. Sorry," Sam says.
I'm not sure if he's apologizing for not being a killer, or for implying I am, or for saying I'm not. Or its none of these, and he's apologizing for not coming with me. I smile at him. It's okay. Humanity would be extinct if none of us became soldiers, but boring if we all did.
"Don't be sorry," I say. "Be Brightly with me instead."
Sam smiles. We patch again. Bright clouds of color drift across our vision, merging, splitting. They're beautiful. Eventually they fade as the patch absorbs into my skin. We sit in silence.
"I should go find my parents," I say after a while.
"And I'll go see if your uncle's girlfriend is ready to trade him in for a younger model," Sam says with a wicked smile.
"I could come help, or—"
"I need to learn to fly solo. Besides, you're hopeless at this stuff."
True.
Sam slaps a patch of Confidence on his neck. He walks off among the holograms. I smile and wipe a tear from my eye. Sam and I have been friends since forever.
I catch sight of him in the crowd. He turns, waves, disappears again.
Sam will be fine without me.
I go looking for my father.