Found in translation

We were floating around Sweeps-04, normal-like, when some space storm hit us hard. Our ship got all banged up. (My Section is taught only Reproductive Arts, so don’t ask me for details.) There’s a chance that we’ll go kaboom. They’re picking people to be modified to breathe on Sweeps-04. Lombard, the ship’s AI, says I oughta stand out to get picked.
Lombard used to tell me star stories to help me sleep. But now the ship’s all creaky and mad, and it’s like we’re living in one of those spooky tales Lombard made up just for me.
On the lower decks, we’re bred to work or breed. Me, I’m 13, I wear tank tops like everyone else, and I’m so plain I could cry.
I want to stand out. So they’ll keep me.
Before all this mess, we were putting together a time capsule with bits of what we’re all about. Captain says to keep at it, to distract us from, well, possibly dying. I thought I’d throw in some of my messed-up poetry.
Take the line just above, this paragraph title. It means that, if you’re going to be nixed into a cloud of particles, you should live whatever time is left as well as you can. Yes, you must elevate yourself. Like, mid-calf, if you can’t hoist your life higher. It’s a reasonable goal.
So, I’m thinking, what if I become a poet? That’s gotta count for something, right?
Section 45-Down. It’s where my cubby is. A long, long way down.
On my deck, the walls are grey. Lombard says it’s called Spanish grey from a country on Earth.
This colour’s neither cool nor warm. It’s neutral. Like me.
I’ve spotted a girl from Section 27-Up, a nice deck where I went because the shower cubicles are out of order from 28-Down. This girl has blue skin. And her feet, when she slipped off her socks, were like shiny porcelain. Totally couldn’t look away.
Bright blue and white-footed — that’s very noticeable.

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My poem got me a ticket to Sweeps-04, for a visit of our future home, and guess who was there? Blue-skin girl, or Whitefoot, as I call her in my head.
As we were landing, our shuttle did a number on a big winged animal. The bird-thing squeaked in rage through our sensors. Whitefoot asked everyone to sign a letter to the Captain about protecting local fauna. She didn’t ask me to sign. Maybe I shouldn’t have hidden behind the last row of seats.
My friend Lombard suggested “greater social visibility.”
On our deck, everybody is bred to look the same, but some girls just shine a bit brighter. I can only talk about the girls because I’ve never been on the boys’ decks. I just know about the typical boy they show you in the educational vids.
Lombard thinks I’m chubby, and it suggested wearing a bio-tunic with a fat-melting collar. I told Lombard where it could stash its slenderizing stuff. The AI didn’t take it well.
Young people are being selected for the mods. I heard Whitefoot was good to go down on the planet, and I hope I’ll make it too.
I was looking out the Pavilion Bay (because they let a select group from the lower decks climb up to take a look) when I saw a purple cow! It was a dance of ionized gas wrapped around a large pointy asteroid we call The Nail. Whitefoot was there, too, but didn’t even glance my way.
I was called for the assessment to ride the pods that’ll land on the planet. Maybe I’m standing out from the crowd (I was picked for the shuttle trip, and now for stargazing, right?)
Wouldn’t that be something?
One of my poems has gone into the time capsule!
Happy dance!
Hope is a sneeze in zero gravity.
It’s not looking good for us non-special types. The Captain, all grimy, said we must prepare for the worst.
Lombard’s voice was all reedy and low. I got it all before he could continue. Poets are down-down on the list.
My belly feels like an empty cubby.
The people sent down to the surface will live. The others will not. We’re about to become shards of nothing.
I said hello-goodbye to Whitefoot, and she smiled kindly, but she didn’t recognize me because I’d never talked to her before.
I’ve got nobody to talk to but the girls that didn’t make the cut, and they’re moody.
Music with no words comes out of the walls.
Lombard had one last piece of advice: “Dress up in your finest, smile wide for the cameras of the Social Studies Department — it’s our final scene.” But ‘finest’ isn’t a word for what I’ve got in my wardrobe. The only thing close is a long-long scarf I found in Whitefoot’s cubby.
The air is thin. I’m seeing black dots. My head is light-light.
I clutch Whitefoot’s scarf like it’s my lifeline.
(Whitefoot’s name is Juliette.)
Than it hits me. The scarf in my hands, Juliette’s scarf, isn’t just fabric. It’s proof that Juliette is part of my story now. It makes me feel like I’ve lived more than my years. And maybe, just maybe, it makes it easier, knowing I’ll be remembered for my words long after we’re gone, even if just in a tin can floating among the stars.
scarf-scarf-scarf-scarf-scarf-scarf-scarf-scarf-scarf-scarf-scarf-scarf-scarf
(long)
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