The boy sat on the top step of the porch of his house trying to cope with the death of his dog, Ramsey.

He looked at his arms which he held out in front of him and he loved his arms.

He looked at his legs which he stretched out in front of him and he loved them.

He held his arms and legs out in front of him as if they were being held up by strings. 

He was skinny because he was a runner. He was tan because he ran in shorts and no shirt and because he played baseball and he was the best even though he was younger than the boys he played with. And sometimes he didn’t wear shoes. He was taller than other boys his age. He was eleven. His name was Temple Avery. He lived with his aunt because his mother was dead and his father was in space fighting to save the world. He had a bedroom and model airplanes hanging from strings. He had arms and legs that he loved because they carried him across many kilometers. He had green eyes. He had a picture of his father holding him when he was a baby. And he used to have a dog named Ramsey who ran with him to school. Ramsey would walk home, not run, as if the effort it took to run were too much for him but he did it anyway because it made the boy happy. The boy smiled when he ran. The boy smiled when Ramsey ran with him. They boy did not smile when he examined his arms and legs. He did not smile at his model airplanes. He did not smile when he looked at pictures of his father. He did not smile when he played baseball.

He only smiled when he ran. 

A week ago, when Temple was walking home from school, Ramsey watched him from a hiding place in the bushes. The other boys – there were five of them - followed Temple as he walked. They were calling him names like pig head and stupid face and Temple tried to ignore them. He kept his head down. He held his book bag at his side. He was alone and his father was in space saving the world from evil aliens.

It was hard for Temple – for anyone – to not think about the aliens. There were posters everywhere to remind everyone of the great horror they were fighting. Big posters taped haphazardly on buildings and store windows, one after another after another after another – sometimes ten, twenty, fifty posters. Some people had sticker versions on their cars. Some collected posters and displayed them in their homes. There were tee shirts, posters, flags, hats, mugs, magnets, pens and pencils. There had been an alien-themed dance at a high school in the city. The principal was fired. There had been a guy who dressed up as an alien and danced outside a car dealership. It turned out the guy was from a competing dealership and he was trying to drive off customers. He was eventually shooed away. The dealership sold a record number of cars in the following days. Aliens were a big business. 

The aliens always had enormous misshapen heads and many eyes, all staring directly at you, dozens of evil alien eyeballs following you wherever you went making you feel like you were in terrible danger and you had to get away. The aliens had huge teeth and there was sometimes blood dripping down their chins and necks. There were a variety of captions: EVIL IS LURKING. Or, WHAT OUR BOYS ARE UP AGAINST. Or, WE WILL NEVER FORGET. Or, IT’S US OR THEM. Or something like that. 

If it weren’t so real and so horrifying, it would have been funny.

Before the beginning of any movie in the theater or on TV there was always a short clip about the war to make sure no one forgot. The good guys were always so very attractive. Always had blond hair and were cleanly shaved. Always had strong square jaws and striking blue eyes. The aliens were awful to look at, and apparently not at all smart. Their only advantage was in their numbers. The aliens outnumbered the humans at least fifty to one. But the aliens in these made-up clips were so inept, so incredibly and ridiculously stupid, they always ended up dying a brutal and sometimes comical death.

The scene would be something like this: a human is flying through space peacefully and without apparent reason, like he was not at war at all, but home enjoying a Sunday drive. Maybe a familiar song could be heard. Maybe the pilot would take a long drink of some familiar product, like Robobeer, or some such thing that was so familiar, so identifiable to everyone watching. Soon the evil alien ship approaches, and the evil alien laughs a sinister and bumbling laugh, trying to catch the human by surprise. You think the human is done for. The evil alien fires on the unsuspecting human. The human just sits in the cockpit, completely unaware that death is coming. Maybe he looks at a picture of his lovely wife and children. Maybe he reaches out and touches the photograph. And then a close-up on the pilot’s eyes. Oh, you think, I see what you’re doing. You were trying to fool me. By now a good ten seconds has passed since the alien fired on the human, and surely that missile must be approaching. The pilot winks at you. This is no unsuspecting, death-waiting-to-happen scenario. No. This is a trap set up by the far more intelligent, far more attractive human army. The lone, brave pilot is bait. He’s drawn in an armada of evil aliens. Now a close-up of the aliens as they realize their colossal blunder. Multiple disgusting eyes glaring wide. Mouths open, drool spilling from their hideous mouths. Dozens of human fighters are emerging from – where? – nowhere, it seems. But still the humans are outnumbered. And for a moment you think the humans are done for it. But no! The aliens are too stupid, too ugly, too evil. There is no escape for them. One by one, then two by two, ten by ten, a hundred by a hundred, they are blown away. Giant, flashing explosions. Loud, thunderous deaths. And not a single human casualty. Just another day’s work. Just one more day saving the universe from pure evil. Just one more day in space. 

“Hey, Temple,” one of the boys shouted, bringing Temple out of his thoughts. “Why you the stupidest person on the whole entire planet? Why you so ugly? How come you’re too dumb to count to five? And why, why, you so skinny?” His name was Michael. He had a large head and thick, curly red hair. He was a foot shorter than Temple. 

“Hey, Temple, why you so freakishly tall?”

“’Cause he’s an alien!” one of the boys said. Temple thought it might have been Carlos.

“Yeah, he’s an alien. Kill him!”

This started the chant, “Kill him! Kill him!” Michael, Carlos, Stephen, Alex, and Gregory: “Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!”

Alex pulled Temple’s head back by the hair. Temple twisted around and tried not to fall, but it was too late. One of the other boys kicked him in the side. But Temple didn’t make a sound and he didn’t try to defend himself. He fell down and immediately scrambled back to his feet. He felt slaps and punches to his face. 

“Kill him! Kill him!”

“Let’s have a sacrifice!” Carlos shouted.

“No,” said Michael, “let’s have an alien barbecue.” 

“Let’s burn him!”

“Burn the alien! Burn the pig!”

The boys cried out other things, like, “Stinking monster,” and “Death to the alien!” Temple felt blood on his face, which he wiped off with his hand. “You’re the aliens,” he said, too quietly to be heard. 

A boy grabbed Temple’s book bag and threw it up into a tree. 

“Hey, Temple, where’s your dad now?”

 “I’m talking to you!”

“I bet the aliens caught him and did experiments on him!”

“I bet he turned alien. Now he’s fighting for their side.”

“I bet he’s dead!”

Gregory, a boy who played baseball every day at lunch and always picked Temple because Temple was the best player at the school, pulled a baseball out of his bag and threw it at Temple. It hit him in the face. Flesh tore open and blood dripped down his cheek. 

“You should have got him in the nose,” Michael said. “Busted his nose. The alien freak.”

Michael picked up the baseball and was about to throw it at Temple when Ramsey emerged from his hiding place and charged him. 

Ramsey was a black and white dog, medium size, with large ears that flopped ridiculously when he ran. Sometimes they spun in circles, which is why Temple sometimes called Ramsey his helicopter dog. 

Temple never knew what kind of dog Ramsey was, other than a helicopter dog. No one ever told him. He never thought to ask. Ramsey also had a small patch of gray around his nose, which is why Temple sometimes called him his old man dog. But usually it was just dog, and sometimes it was helicopter dog, and even more rarely it was old man dog. 

Temple loved his helicopter dog, but not at first, when he was afraid of him. All the boys were. He was not usually intimidating, but in defense of the boy, Ramsey put on his formidable self and barked and snarled and chomped his teeth and did all the other things he had seen fierce dogs do. It was a quality imitation; the boys scattered. Even Temple, who was bigger and faster than the other boys, tried to get away. But something about the way Ramsey held himself, the way Ramsey stood with his back to the boy while directing his imitation ferocity at all the other boys said to Temple that he was not really in danger. 

Temple didn’t like dogs. This may seem odd to you. You may think all boys love dogs. But not Temple. He thought they were dirty, they smelled, and they made messes and didn’t have the sense to clean up after themselves. Temple was notoriously clean. Dogs, on the other hand, were not. 

Ramsey looked at Temple expecting some form of congratulations for driving the bullies away. He did not get it. Temple retrieved his book bag from the tree. He looked closely at the dog for a moment. The dog looked back. And Temple turned and walked toward home.

The dog followed. 

Temple didn’t care. He knew that eventually the dog would tire of him and go his own way. Eventually. Temple was good at ignoring people and things. 

For example, Temple had once ignored his teacher for an entire week. His teacher, Mrs. Lydia Gooden, had asked the class to name the capitol of some place or other. No one knew what she was talking about. She may as well have been speaking a foreign language. 

“What is the capitol of …” such and such? she asked.

No one knew.

It was clear that Mrs. Gooden was irritated. She would slap her palm with a ruler when she was irritated. Louder and louder. Harder and harder. Faster and faster. 

“Nobody knows the capitol of …” such and such? she asked. “No one?”

It was as if she were asking people to remember their own names and they just couldn’t do it.

Her eyes scanned the twenty-five members of the class and settled on Temple.

“Temple Avery, do you know the capitol of …” such and such?

Temple didn’t know. No one knew. Mrs. Lydia Gooden had never discussed this. It wasn’t like she was asking five plus five, or the name of the President. She did what all teachers did: asked a question that in adult world is common knowledge and assumed it must be common knowledge to everyone and then got mad because she was wrong. Temple wanted to ask Mrs. Gooden how to play Sketchum, or Catch Me in a Minute, or some other game the kids were always making up at recess. 

Mrs. Gooden was so bothered by Temple and the rest of her ignorant class that every day for a week she would ask, “What is the capitol of …” such and such? thinking that surely someone had had the wherewithal to find the answer on his or her own sometime during the previous twenty-four hours. Every day the routine repeated, and every day Mrs. Gooden’s eyes would rest on Temple, and she would ask the same question, and Temple would say nothing. 

Ramsey kept his distance following Temple home that first day. When they arrived, Temple took the steps up to the porch in one leap and when he got to the front door he looked behind him to see what Ramsey would do.

Ramsey sat down. He was standing in the middle of the road, tongue hanging out, a line of drool reaching to the ground. His ears flapped like flags in a breeze. 

Temple turned, opened the door, and went inside. Ramsey approached the porch, took the steps in one leap, and laid himself down in the shade. He rested his head on his paws and stared out toward the street. Once in a while there would be a noise and he would raise his head. But mostly he just lay there comfortably and waited.

It was not a large house. It had only two bedrooms, a small kitchen, and two bathrooms. It was white with green trim that may at one time have been blue. It was surrounded by jasmine and bougainvillea. There were trees – two in the front and one in the back – that needed trimming. The branches drooped. 

Inside was a woman in her late twenties. Her name was Katrina, but everybody called her Katie. She had brown hair and round, green eyes. Temple had been told that Katie was his father’s sister, and that made sense considering their distinctive eyes, but sometimes he doubted that, so he grew up with a vague uncertainly about exactly who she was.  

Katie was in high school when Temple was born, so for his first few years it was as if he was her much younger brother. She took care of him. She changed his diapers and fed him and when he got older she took him to the park or the beach. Then she married and moved away and probably thought she would have kids of her own and live happily ever after playing with her own children. But then the horrors happened, her husband was killed, Temple was told, and none of what she thought was going to happen happened. 

Temple was too young to remember. He had vague memories of his dead mother and absent father, but most of his memories probably came from pictures Katie had around the house. Sometimes Temple would say, “I think I remember that,” and Katie would say, “No. You were too young for that.” 

When Katie went to the school to meet with Temple’s teachers, or to pick him up because the weather was bad and she didn’t want him walking home, the other students would notice her, because she was so pretty. This was a source of more cruelty, since so many of the other kids’ mothers were much older, fatter, louder, or dead, and when one day Temple asked her not to come to his school anymore, even if it were snowing, she was disappointed. He didn’t tell her why and she didn’t ask. It was just one more thing that made her sad.

Not long after his mother and uncle were killed, Temple was told, his father was drafted. Not long after that – like so many others – he disappeared. From the stories Katie liked to tell, their lives had been a bright and brilliant stage play, filled with loud voices, laughter, bright greens and yellows, and then one miserable day all the actors and all the scenery was replaced by other actors who hung about the now drab scenery like wet laundry hanging from some poisonous vine. This is how Katie would tell the stories.

Memories come to us like falling leaves, she would say – random, messy, uncontrolled, and beautiful. They don’t come in a chronology like a book or a movie. They come in pieces, sections, truth by truth, or lie by lie. The leaves fall from the tree, scatter, the wind blows, and just for a moment form an image we recognize – a father, a dead mother, a grieving aunt, a lonely boy. Even though he was eleven years old, Temple knew there was something true in there. 

“Can I help you with anything?” Temple asked his aunt. He set his backpack on the sofa. 

“You can help me with dinner.”

“It’s three o’clock.”

“Oh. I thought it was later. How was school?”

Temple knew there was blood on his face, but Katie didn’t notice. Maybe it was too dark in the house to see. Temple thought about how the bullying had started that day. They had been sitting in class. Mrs. Lydia Gooden had been talking for quite some time about geography, or math, or maybe it was grammar. No one was listening. Then, as if from nowhere, she asked, “Does anybody know what tomorrow is?” and Carlos had said, “It’s Saturday. Duh!” 

“Does anybody know what tomorrow is besides Saturday?” she asked.

No one raised a hand.

“Nobody knows?”

Temple raised his hand. He said, “It’s the anniversary of the day we first made

contact.”

Mrs. Gooden said, “That’s right.” She was surprised because it was something that generally wasn’t discussed. 

“How did you even know that, you stupid freak?” Carlos had asked later. 

And that’s how it started. 

But it doesn’t matter how it started. Because every day it was something different. Another day it might be Temple’s clothes. Another day it might be the way he writes his name. Another day it might be the color of his eyes, or the way he says the word mathematics. It never started the same way, but it usually ended with broken skin and blood and not a soul in the world caring.

“How was your day?” Katie asked again.

“Fine,” Temple said.

“What did you study?”

“Just normal stuff.”

“What did you learn?”

“In science, Mr. Kelsey talked about how the light bulb works. He brought in one of those electric ball things. He said that when you plug it in and put your hands on it, it makes your hair stand up. We were all excited about it. It didn’t work, though.” Mr. Kelsey was the only teacher who ever asked Temple about the cuts and bruises on his face. 

“Hmm,” Katie said. She was walking around the room readjusting pictures on the wall. She looked out the window. 

“In history we talked about Hancock’s Gabbleville Address. Mrs. Gooden said he wrote it in twenty minutes on the way to Gabbleville.”

“How are your friends?”

Temple was picking dried blood out of his right ear. “Fine,” he said. “Carlos got a citizenship award. They’re putting his picture up in the office. They invited his parents to come. He got to lead the school in the pledge. I think he was embarrassed, though. Michael said it’s because he’s from another country and both his parents are dead. He was trying to be funny.”

Katie wasn’t listening. She was looking out the window. She said, “There’s a dog on the porch.” 

“He followed me home,” Temple said. He sat down on the couch and picked up a magazine from the coffee table. He tried to read it, but the room was too dark, so he set it back down. It was a church magazine. Katie kept it there because every few weeks someone from the church came by to visit, and she wanted to leave the impression she was still somewhat involved. Maybe she was. Temple wasn’t sure. 

“I wonder who he belongs to. Look at those enormous ears.”

Temple worried she was going to make him find the dog’s owner. He didn’t care about the dog. The dog would go home on his own eventually. 

Katie remained by the window and stared. 

“So what’s for dinner?” Temple asked.

“I was thinking spaghetti.”

“Didn’t we have that last night?” 

“I don’t …” But that’s all she was able to say. She was still looking outside at the dog. She started to cry. 

Temple got up and put one arm around his aunt. “Don’t worry. Don’t worry about it.”

When she collected herself, she said, “I didn’t tell you. We have … we have …” She was struggling to find the right word. “Someone’s stopped by.” 

“Who?”

Katie led Temple into the kitchen. There was a man in a wheelchair whose name was Sergeant Cahill, from the Children’s Military Academy. He was one of Temple’s instructors. Cahill had gray hair and thick glasses. He had dark rings around hooded eyes and wrinkles that looked as if they were full of ash. He wasn’t even thirty. “Hey, Temple,” he said. When he spoke, his words came out in forced bursts.

Temple nodded and looked at Katie, who smiled weakly. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said.

“It’s all right,” he said.

“We were talking about his day.”

“Ah, well,” he said. He turned to Temple and said, “Your aunt invited me over today to - ” 

“I’m pretty sure that didn’t happen,” Temple said. It was an odd thing to say, but then again, Cahill was an odd man who made most people uncomfortable. 

“But that doesn’t matter.” He didn’t take his eyes off Katie. When she walked by, he leaned toward her as if trying to smell her.  

“It doesn’t matter,” Katie said.

“I wanted to talk to Katie about your performance at the academy, Temple. Is that okay? Can we do that?”

“Oh.” 

“I’m worried.”

“He thinks you’re - ”

“You’re not applying yourself, Temple. I’m being perfectly honest about this.”

“I’m not applying myself?”

“There’s no questioning your athletic ability. In your age group you’re clearly the strongest.”

“Sergeant Cahill is worried you’re not pushing yourself.”

“I’d like to see what you’re truly capable of.”

“What I’m capable of?”

“Yes. Do you know what you’re capable of?”

Katie poured Cahill a drink and handed it to him. Temple noticed that Katie never looked at Cahill. 

“Sunday,” Cahill said, “at training. I want to see an extra effort from you, that’s all. I want to see what you’ve really got. Maybe I should come back tomorrow.”

“No,” Katie said. She was walking out of the room. “It’s all right.”

When she was gone, Cahill looked Temple. He licked his lips. His lips were purple. “Do you want to know something, Avery?” 

Temple said nothing. There was a change in the room, as if Katie had taken the air with her. He knew Cahill as going to say something strange, something Temple wouldn’t know how to respond to. It seemed to Temple that Cahill was trying to be a character in a movie, where every word is scripted. It might sound okay on the screen, but in real life it just sounded forced and unnatural. 

“I hate this chair,” he said. “My bones hate it. I can’t tell you how much I’d like to get out of this chair and burn it. You know why?”

“Because you hate it?” Temple said. 

“This chair is everything that I’m not.” Temple could see he was angry. “There was a time when a woman like her would not have treated me like she does. Beautiful women paid attention to me.”

“Maybe if you didn’t act like you do,” Temple said. 

“Act like I do?”

“The way you stare.”

Cahill moved close to Temple. “Let me tell you something,” he said. 

“I didn’t mean …”

“Let me tell you something, you little creep. I was a warrior. A warrior! I fought for this planet until an explosion blew my back into pieces. I fought and sacrificed so little creeps like you can go around acting superior, acting like the world owes you something it clearly does not. Show some respect.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

That was when Katie returned.

Cahill sat back in his chair. He took her in from head to foot. “I would very much like to return.”

“Of course. Of course.”

“I would very much like to see you again.”

Katie took two quick breaths. “No, no. I’m not …”

Katie’s head was down. Cahill stared at her, his heavy breathing the only sound. Temple wasn’t sure what to do. Finally, Katie turned around and went to her room without saying anything. It was how she was, moving from room to room hoping that some purpose, some meaning would appear. Temple looked at Cahill, who was still watching the empty space Katie had just vacated. “You’re a rotten kid,” he said. “You’re the weirdest kid I know. You should know that. Somebody should tell you that. Because I think you really should know that everybody talks about what a weird kid you are. If aliens took you, no one would care. You wouldn’t be missed. Every once in a while someone would say, ‘Whatever happened to that Avery kid? Whatever happened to the weird kid?’”

​

Temple went outside and sat in a plastic chair on the porch. Ramsey lifted his head for a moment, then put it back down. Except for the breeze blowing through the trees and an occasional car, it was quiet. 

He looked at Ramsey.

Ramsey looked back at Temple.

“I don’t like dogs,” Temple said.

Ramsey titled his head, as if to say, “It doesn’t really matter.”

“Katie hates dogs,” Temple said.

Ramsey sneezed. Temple thought this was funny. He laughed. Ramsey tilted his head again.

“My dad likes dogs, though. I think. I don’t remember him much.”

Ramsey got up, moved closer to Temple, laid down and rested his head on Temple’s foot. Temple didn’t move. Then he leaned over and gently put the tips of his fingers on Ramsey’s head. Ramsey let out what can only be described as a sigh of pleasure. “I don’t like dogs,” Temple said again. “You guys smell bad. You chew things that don’t belong to you. You pee on  things. Nobody likes that. It’s something you should think about.” He was petting the dog now, and before long, Temple was out of his seat, down on the porch with Ramsey, petting and scratching him. Ramsey rolled onto his back and wagged his tail so violently Temple thought he might put a hole in the porch – thump! Thump! Thump! Thumpthumpthumpthump! 

Katie came out with two glasses of lemonade. She sat down and handed a glass to Temple. Temple got up, sat down next to his aunt, and took several small sips from the glass. “That’s a very strange and sad man who was just here at our house.”

Temple nodded.

“He thinks he’s in love with me.”

Temple petted Ramsey.

“It’s good to be loved. Even if by someone as strange as him.”

“I don’t like him.”

“No. I don’t either.”

“He shouldn’t be allowed to come to our house.”

“What am I supposed to do? This town isn’t like it used to be. It’s so quiet. There’s no one here. When people show up at your house – poof – they’re just there. There’s nothing we can do about it. You can’t tell people to not appear out of nowhere.”

Temple shook his head.

“He likes me. I don’t know why. That’s something that should be respected. Even if it’s him.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I know. But you will.” Then she looked at Ramsey. “You can’t keep him you know?”

“I know.”

“He belongs to someone else.”

“I know.”

“Whoever owns him will want him back.”

“Yeah.”

She put an arm around the boy. “He can stay with us tonight. But tomorrow we’re finding where he belongs.”

“Okay.”

Katie said, “Do you think he likes baseball?” At that, Ramsey sat up and wagged his tail. “I think that means yes.”

Temple went inside and retrieved his bat and ball. At the sight of the ball, Ramsey became excited and his ears started flapping around. Temple and Katie laughed. Temple held the ball in front of Ramsey, withdrew it, and tossed it across the yard. Ramsey darted after it, and in less than thirty seconds was back again with the ball in his mouth. 

“Wow,” Katie said.

Temple picked up the ball, tossed it in the air, and hit a short fly ball across the yard into a thicket of trees. Ramsey ran after it, and though it took a bit longer to find the ball, was back again in less than a minute. This was repeated again and again. Each time, Temple hit the ball farther and farther away, and each time Ramsey retrieved the ball and returned it to Temple’s feet. 

After a long while of this, Temple hit a deep fly across the yard, across the street, and into a small patch of woods. Ramsey, as usual, darted after it with great enthusiasm, ears flapping, tongue hanging from his mouth and tailing a line of drool. Katie put a hand on Temple’s shoulder and said, “You hit it pretty far that time. I don’t know if he’ll find it.”

It was meant to be a challenge, so that when Ramsey returned with the ball, they could cheer the dog’s triumph. But after a minute Ramsey did not return. Two minutes passed. Three. Five. After ten minutes Temple told Katie he was going to go look for the dog, but Katie said no, it was getting dark. The dog would find his way. But in her voice was the familiar tone of defeat. She didn’t really believe the dog would return. It was the old story. Things did not return once they went away.

Katie went back into the house and made spaghetti she knew would not get eaten. When she was finished making it, she let it sit for a few minutes, put it in a plastic container, and placed it in the refrigerator with several other containers of food. There was also an almost-empty container of milk and half a cube of butter and a bottle of wine Katie had paid three dollars for at the grocery store. The rest of the refrigerator was empty. 

Meanwhile, Temple remained outside. It was getting dark and cold. He thought he should put on a jacket, but he didn’t. He still hadn’t cleaned the blood from his face and neck. It had dried there, and now it looked like a grotesque hand at his throat holding up his head. He stared off into the night. He looked up at the stars that were beginning to emerge. He looked at the trees where he had hit the ball. “I don’t like dogs,” he said. “You smell bad. You chew things that don’t belong to you. You run away and you don’t even say goodbye.”

​

The Jupiter orbiter was almost a hundred years old. It had been built in the days of the Old Wars and was at the time the most advanced ship in the fleet. It was capable of transporting twenty thousand soldiers at just under light speed almost anywhere in the charted universe, then dock itself just a few kilometers outside a planet’s atmosphere. It would orbit at forty-thousand kilometers per hour depending on the size of the planet for years using what was then a revolutionary fission energy generated from almost any form of matter nearby – air, water, steel, rock, anything. It was, in essence, the mirror image of a nuclear bomb, taking energy out of space and refining it for, say, a light bulb or a computer or a communicator. There was also a solar component, wherein light billions of kilometers away could be taken from the emptiness to power a television or clear out a septic system. The Jupiter had brought countless victories, primarily because of its size and speed. Nothing else in the universe could match it. It was thought that it would bring a thousand years of victories, but as these things go, others were able to copy and improve it and after ten years it was a bit of a relic, useful primarily in times of peace. Ships ten times the size of the Jupiter with ten times the power were built and caused countless more victories and countless more deaths. 

Still, the Jupiter was a massive ship. It was over a kilometer long and about half as wide. At its thickest, near the front, it was a hundred meters. It tapered toward the back, at first gradually, and then abruptly, since the main engines were the only thing occupying space at the tail. Still, the engines were huge – they had to be – and glowed a constant blue-green even when in orbit and using very little energy. 

The captain of the ship was a man in his seventies who rarely left his room. He didn’t have to. The ship was almost entirely automated. Plus, he had a competent XO, half his age, who did the work for him. His name was Rick Mead, and though he resented the captain’s absence, he did his best not to show it, and when any of the crew expressed their displeasure with the captain, Mead was quick to put a stop to it. It was only in his communications home to his wife that he expressed openly any misgivings about the captain’s ability. 

None of this really matters, though, because the story – at least this one – is not about Mead or the captain. It’s about the lone man who was being held in the brig near the bottom floor of the Jupiter, a section of the ship that was separated from the engine rooms by a metal wall a meter thick. The history of the prison cell is not important, but I might mention that it was much smaller when the Jupiter was built. At that time, because its purpose was transport, the prison cell was capable of holding no more than fifty or sixty prisoners. But as the function of the ship evolved, and the wars it fought were of such vastly different natures, the prison cells were expanded. Walls were removed and bars added. Cells were divided into two and threes. A large kitchen used to feed the prisoners was appropriated, making room for fifty more cells, these ones separated by Plexiglas walls instead of bars, which seemed archaic. Soldiers’ barracks were soon encroached upon and at its peak, the prison cells occupied a rectangular, two-story block that filled half the bottom two floors of the Jupiter, where once it occupied a space about the size of a large living room. At one point, the crowding got so bad, soldiers began to shoot prisoners. This lessened the prison population by half before the murders were stopped. But this was all so many years ago that no one remembered it. Sure, it was in the archives that contained the history of the ship, but no one ever read it, except maybe the captain. All anyone really knew was that the prison cells occupied an oddly large portion of the ship, and everyone assumed it had been built that way, had always been that way, and hence there was no reason to change it.

No one thought to change it, even though it was occupied by a single prisoner. He was prisoner number one, because, of course, there was no prisoner number two, or three, or four, or a hundred and sixty four. It was just prisoner number one. He was thin and athletic. He had blue eyes. And he sat on a metal chair in the center of his room. He sat in the same chair most of the time. Even sometimes when he slept he was in that chair. It was not a particularly comfortable chair, but then again it was the only piece of furniture in the cell, which was one of the larger cells, about four by five meters. Outside the cell there was a walkway with a door at each end. The prisoner would often watch the doors waiting for someone to walk through. Sometimes he was given books to read. 

The prisoner wore black socks, no shoes, and a dark green jumper that had replaced the blue one they had given him when he was taken prisoner. He was allowed a shower once a day. He was allowed to brush his teeth, under strict supervision, and he was given two meals a day, in the morning and evening. He slept six to seven hours at a stretch. It was difficult keeping track of time. There was always a dull gray light in the room. It never went away. It never changed. The prisoner wasn’t even sure where it came from.

He would sit in his chair for hours, his back straight, his hands resting in his lap. He moved very little, except when he was watching the doors. He rarely blinked, or licked his lips. Sometimes he would rub his chin with his right hand for no apparent reason. 

There was a woman who came with his food. It was not always the same woman, but it usually was. She had short blond hair. She was small, but looked strong. She was perhaps thirty years old. She wore army fatigues or a gray uniform. Her gestures were precise angles – the way she moved her hands, the way she walked, everything. Even the lines and shape of her face were sharp and proportionate. She spoke clearly and briefly. Her eyes were on the man the moment she entered the room with his tray of food, and they never left him. 

She noticed that he pushed his hair back when she came in the room. Not just this time, but every time. 

“Good morning,” she said. 

“Good morning.” 

She set the food on a counter, took a key from her pocket, and opened a small door that allowed her to push the tray and the food from one side the Plexiglas wall to the other. She looked up at the camera in the back corner and wondered who was in the control room watching them from the other end of the ship. 

“Any news?” the man asked. He had not moved from his chair. He was waiting for her to lock the small door again.

“I’m trying.”

The door was locked. The prisoner got up and collected his food. She watched him closely. He moved slowly. His body was strong beneath his jumpsuit. He was a handsome man, maybe five years older than she. His facial features were rounder than hers. When he moved it was with much less care.

“Hey,” she said. 

“Yeah?”

She cleared her throat. “Say my name,” she said.

The prisoner looked up at the camera.

“No one cares if you say my name.”

“I agreed to this,” he said, then took a bite of his food. He wiped his mouth with his right hand, turned, and casually put his hand in his pocket, but just for a moment. He turned back to the woman. “Are they going to kill me, Olivia?”

“You keep asking that.”

“It’d be nice to know.” He stepped closer to her. Except for a slight shimmer of light reflected off the fake glass it would have appeared they were in the same room. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I still have friends who listen to me. It’s not like that.”

“They aren’t exactly going out of their way to keep prisoners here.” He took another bite of food.

“We’re not animals.”

The prisoner looked at her. They stared at each other. There was the hum of the engines. There was the wall between them. There was the camera. “Not all of you,” he said. He took the last few bites of his meal and set it down next to the door.

“Will you please sit down while I take the tray?”

He didn’t move. He just stared.

“Please?”

“What do they think I’m going to do if I don’t sit down while you take the tray?”

“Please? They’ll think I’m sneaking something in and the won’t let me come anymore.”

He hesitated, but finally did as she requested. The prisoner watched Olivia as she opened the door, removed the tray, and locked the door again. 

“If they don’t kill me …” he said as she was walking away.

“What? If they don’t kill you, what?”

“Then I’m going to kill them,” he said.

She turned, looked at him, and said, “No you won’t.”

“I can’t do this, Olivia. When are they going to talk to us?”

“They’re not.”

“Then what are they doing? I don’t understand. What’s going on?”

“Because you’re not … you’re not …”

“What?”

“I’m doing my best. Sometimes I feel like I’m the sole voice of reason. And then they take my job away. They put me here, which is fine. They think …” She looked at the camera. “I’m working on it. I promise.”

“We came here to talk reason to them.”

“People aren’t always reasonable. You know that. You get to a certain point and sometimes the most unreasonable action seems like the most sensible one. I’m doing my best, but I’m only one person.” She looked at the camera again. A fork fell off the tray she was holding and she knelt to pick it up. She said, “They can’t let you go. And to be honest, I’m as much a prisoner as you. It’s not like they’re letting me go anywhere either. I’m confined to my barracks, my duties, and here. People come visit me like I’m visiting you. But beyond that, we’re both stuck here. The only reason they let me here is because … it’s not because there’s no one else who could do it, and it’s certainly not because they’re so kind.”

“They’re trying to humiliate you.”

She nodded.

“Is it? Humiliating?”

“Of course not. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

“Nowhere?” he asked. “You can be the voice of reason all you want. I just want my family. Someone else can be the voice of reason.”

“Then it’s me.”

His eyes narrowed. He said said, “Then it’s you.”

She was holding the tray awkwardly against her body. The prisoner thought she was going to drop it. “I’m sorry,” she said, as the plastic cup the prisoner had been drinking out of fell to the ground. “Some things are more important.”

“You say that to me?” he said. 

“I say that to you,” she said, picking up the cup. As she did so, everything on the tray began to slip, but she righted herself before anything else could fall. She said, “It breaks my heart. I can’t go back until this is all over.”

His face was red. “I think there’s a very large difference between you and me,” he said. “I wish I had known that before.”

Olivia was shaking. She set the tray on the ground fearing she was going to drop everything. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” she said. She put her hand to the glass. He stepped forward, close. He was angry, but he couldn’t help it. There she was. Only a glass partition separated them. His heart raced when she was near. He opened his mouth to say something that would fix everything. He didn’t know what it was, but he believed something would come, some string of words that would turn time back and make the world good again. But she interrupted him. Which was fine, because words can’t magically turn time back and make the world good again. He knew this. But maybe, maybe. She whispered, “Tomorrow I’m going to help you get out of here. Okay?”

He looked at her, trying to decide if she was telling the truth. He waited a long time before he said, “Okay.” 

“Okay.”​

This is the end of the free sample of Sons of Jupiter, written by Scott Michael Brady, published by Whiskey Creek Press, and distributed by Simon & Schuster. To read the book in its entirety, please click the link below:

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