The Servant’s Hour (Novel Sample)

The book of Lamentations proclaims God’s mercies new every morning, but today as I glide toward the Rec Hall’s main entry doors, I breathe deeply, unsure there will be any grace waiting for me on the other side. No matter how brilliant a technology might’ve been in its day, no miracle can help escape its inevitable obsolescence. Post-modernity has offered few hard truths, but I’ve known this one well, and the antiquated Centrifugal Gravity Simulator aboard the ISS Beulah 12 hasn’t proved an exception.

After settling the twitching in my right hand, I reach up to grab the simulator’s cold metal handle in the dull-colored transition room. Applying more torque than is typically necessary, the lever finally slams down with a thunderous clang.

“Gravity simulator engaged.” The programmed female voice says through the station’s intercom. Noise from the Sim’s many mechanisms powering on soon follows. The groan of gears and the aching of circuits send reverberations through the modules throughout the station. They echo like a choir of ghosts singing faint hymns from humanity’s past. This old tank takes a few minutes to engage and, on occasion, multiple tries.

“Ellos dependen de ti para encontrar un camino de regreso a casa,” [They’re depending on you to find a way back home] that old, croaky voice long intertwined with my conscience gasps again. Like the Beulah, I’ve hosted a ghost of my own in a way. Navigating my personal worries has proven a hefty task in itself, but managing these haunting whims might be the additional stress that resurrected my old tremors. Oh God, what would Val and Emil think if they knew how unstable I’ve been?

Still waiting, I again calculate the prospects of a trip home, considering the risks and survival rates for each possible course, interchanging variables for ISPF off-world security rounds, atmospheric entry points, the viewing angles of government space monitoring satellites, the weather back on earth, military resources versus current international events...

Lost in a daze, I catch a glimpse of myself in the simulator’s opened lock-and-key enclosure. The transparent polymer reflects my bronze complexion, warm as ever. My hair neatly coiffed despite the tiny beads of perspiration now forming on my brow. My dark beard, trimmed as always, sits just above a sizable scar peeking over my neckline— one of several I now wear, thanks to those who tried to obstruct our escape from earth.

Lord, you know I’ll never forgive them for turning these little ones into killers. I may not be able to forgive myself. Their caretaker never should’ve modeled such deception, worse yet…violence. Restore in us clean hearts, O God…

Through the glass of the viewing portal, the Recreation Hall module now unlatches to begin its rotation. This signals that phase one of the gravity Sim’s processes is underway, sending us upward and around, mimicking the movement of an old amusement park carousel. The sight reminds me daily of the carnival theme from the birthday party I planned for the boys all those years ago—probably the last time they participated in such age-appropriate fun. I feel that twitch come back to my cheek again.

Perhaps another recitation could reduce my pulse, “O Lord, thou hast searched me and known me…”

With the initial push from the boosters finished, the thick glass doors to the transition area open slowly, letting out the sound of those iconic laser blasts reminiscent of the boys’ childhood. Val’s got the volume too loud again. In the distance, the cued spaceship explosions that typically serve as their accompaniment begin cutting through the dissipating noise from the simulator. Not the most calming soundtrack to start the day.

Another deep breath, and I finally turn to face them…there they are…Valentino and Emiliano Velasco, the identical twin brothers I’ve loved and raised as my own. Young men now, waiting for me to finish some routine maintenance around the station—the filling of our drinking water bags, the daily diagnostic checks, the vacuuming of dust, flakes of dead skin clogging up the various filters throughout the vessel. Over the years, I’ve learned to find purpose in the mundane routines of life.

Predictably, Emil is already floating in position by the exercise machines, ready for our morning prayer and meditation session. Looking over, my eyes connect with his brilliant blues. With a scar of his own just above his left eye, he wears a frayed lace wig from our time on the run. It’s recently been making its way into his attire more frequently—a bold fashion choice. I’ve resolved to stop asking about it, as I’ll likely never get a satisfactory answer. He might not even know precisely why he’s drawn to it. In some way, I’m sure it’s endured as a token of his trauma—something he’s still holding on to.

Emil nods, attempting to communicate courtesy and reverence, but there’s also an air of differentiation. His Velasco family medallion hangs from his neck, shining in the fluorescents as he protrudes his chest proudly. Val, on the other hand, is anything but ready for the morning.

Upside down, playing the latest installment of “Astra, Space Wizard,” Val floats in near zero gravity. Muscular legs kicking, his feet flailing near the ceiling in the lounge. Fixated on the space battle before him, he twists and contorts, trying to get a better shot. Both are starting to exhibit that elite athletic profile their parents bestowed them.

Pushing off in Val’s direction now, the subtle pull of the Grav. Sim. begins taking effect—a weight that carries memories. This game Val’s playing on the far side of the module is one the boys have loved since the earliest days of my tenure. The gameplay, characters, and soundbites must still remind them of home. Of course, back then, Astra was commonly played in 2-player mode. Recently, it’s been more of a solo activity.

Firing away, projected 3D holograms race around Val’s user-controlled vessel, now highlighted in a vivid blinking red. His light blonde hair whips across his face as he continually shifts positions to get a better look at the incoming enemy ships. Suddenly though, his whole body seizes. Jolting upward, gritting his teeth, his ship takes on fire and, in a flash, explodes.

“Fuck! …” He yells. “…Goddamn it! I died again…Shit!”

I drag my feet against the floor to stop myself as he throws his controller down into the divan below him with force.

“Thanks for distracting me. Damn, Giorgio.”

The controller starts making its way back up at a slower speed after being absorbed by the furniture’s cushion.

“You know you’re not supposed to talk like that.”

“What’s it matter? Huh? No one can hear us up here anyway.” He says as he catches the controller bouncing back up without even a glance. Quite impressive.

“Well, you should still maintain some decorum around us. Don’t you think? We’re still family, after all.” I say, feeling my pulse quicken again, garnering only a blank stare. “…Regardless, you need to be finished. It’s time to start.”

Turning his back, he waves, signaling the proper hand motion for the sensors to shut off his gaming system. He then retorts with a snark before turning back, “Yeah. Sure. Don’t kill the bad guys, right? Let’s pray for them instead. That’s our modus operandi. We’ll hide until it all goes away.”

In times like these, I wish I could remove their vocal cords and go back to using sign language. As children, they were far easier to manage.

Seeing Val lunge now from the back of the divan, I resolve to let him off with a sinister stare and head toward the meditation mats myself. Exercising patience, I hold off in giving another full-blown rebuke, and Val’s 15-year-old angst goes unchecked yet again.

Meanwhile, the Recreation Hall module boosters engage once more, commencing phase two of the Grav. Sim.’s operation. As the speed increases, the large window stretching across the face of the hall is set to shutter as ultra-thin panel screens come down to obscure the lookout. A still image from a live camera feed outside is now shown in place of the actual view, thus tricking the mind into seeing a more easily stomached reality.

When the twins and I first came aboard this relic from before the Third Great War, it was our sanctuary, and we marveled at a view few ever see. But now, 2,559 days in, it serves only as a minimalist backdrop for what I’m sure, by now, the boys perceive as a dull routine.

We’d love to move on from this drifting sarcophagus. No matter how many times I run the numbers, our chances seem less favorable than the last…

Floating to our mats now, the small boosters fire off outside. When the optimal RPM is met, the effect will be that everything carries an earth-like weight—a sensation I know the boys look forward to. Though clunky, this design feature’s been a godsend for growth and development. Without it, there’s no way we could’ve stayed up here this long. Loss of bone density and muscle mass would’ve forced us out within the first year. The Gravity Sim, as well as these prayer sessions, have sustained us. One gives orientation to the body and the other to the mind.

“Are we ready to begin?” I ask as I look up, finding my place, hovering over my mat as I watch Val still approaching from the module's far end.

“Yes, sir.” The boys say simultaneously, but with varied tones and demeanors. Their exchanged looks of disgust over the brief synchronization are undoubtedly representative of the heightened strain around here. Sensing the rising tension, I quickly jump in to de-escalate the conflict, speaking with a cheerful lilt, “Well, that was…charming! You know, I still find it fascinating when you two link up like that.”

Still not quite to his mat, Val stops himself mid-flight, “Yeah, so ‘charming.’ We’re quite a pair, aren’t we? ...” Now, grabbing a barstool near the kitchen, he’s somehow able to turn in dramatic fashion, making sure I see him glare at my workbench before delivering his next slight. “… Hey, speaking of pairs. How close are you to finishing that abomination? Huh? Will you be working on that thing again, or is today more of a...do what a normal person might do sort of day?”

At this, Emil puffs up, “Come on, Val. Show s-some respect! Giorgio’s done so much for us. He d-d-doesn’t deserve that.”

With his words still hanging in the air, I catch Emil glancing over, checking to see if I approve of him sticking up for me. Even with my unparalleled expertise in childhood psychology, I find it hard to predict what may trigger their increasingly flammable perturbation. I abhor the fact that these episodes have become more frequent, but I’m also skeptical that any further tweaks to their routine could be optimized to yield a more favorable result.

Val, now leaping from the bar in the kitchen, grabs hold of a pipe in the ceiling halting his momentum, and with a quick head-over-heels flip, he steadies himself over his mat. He’s also somehow able to roll his eyes at Emil while crossing his legs in midair so that by the time he’s over his mat, he’s already in lotus. Turning his nose up and putting his pointer fingers and thumbs together, he mocks me again, along with all the ancients who observed the discipline going back thousands of years.

Maneuvering in weightlessness took some getting used to. Over time, the boys have become reasonably adept, however. Just like they’ve gotten better at manipulating their caretaker…

“And what’s our lesson today? More on the forefathers? Will we discuss what it’s called when people have ‘security without liberty’?” Val asks.

Enough is enough. I know exactly what he’s inferred, and though I’m thankful he’s remembered something from our study of the American Enlightenment, I can’t mince words. “Young man, I assure you, you are no prisoner here! …And, since you asked about my little project, I’ll tell you I planned to start putting the finishing touches on the logic and emotive calibrations as early as this afternoon. She’s starting to act more like herself, but admittedly, the coding isn’t quite there. That is unless you wanted to spend some quality time together instead. I’d put it aside today if maybe you wanted to…”

“No. That’s all right! …” Val interrupts with a quick retort. “…I’ll probably play more games or sketch or…something else, anything else. Go ahead and work on it. You know, ’Do what thou wilt,’ I guess.”

Two quotations from problematic historical figures in this close succession are a bit excessive even for him—the latter likely the result of some questionable late-night reading. Val’s characteristic blank stare and odd grin show he’s once again undaunted by my attempts at fathering him. I can’t help but think there’s something else troubling him, though—something he’s not telling me.

Sinking downward, the old, slow, and steady simulator has almost finished its final phase. Over the years, I’ve seen this sinking sensation be soothing for Valentino, calming his various anxieties. Then again, this strange practice always seemed to have an almost supernatural ability to usher a sort of peace over us all its own. Even when they were young, as soon as I’d begin with a proper liturgy, they seemed to bask in the stillness. It was as if this was where they felt most comfortable.

We’d begin each session the same, centering ourselves in the eternal. Following the adapted monastic model of prayer handed down in the Velasco family for generations, we’d close our eyes and heed the moment. “Let us bow our heads…”

Though for Val, it's somewhat begrudgingly today, he still seems committed to going through the motions with us. Seeing his hands find their way to his knees; his breathing becomes steadier, “…Dear Lord, our lives are not our own. This narrative is yours. You’ve guided our paths, and we have many blessings to be thankful for…” I then allow space for each to lift their inner thoughts of gratitude, and their continued silence lets me know they’re engaging.

Our prayers have always been directed at the Abrahamic Triune God. This also came at the wishes of the boys’ father, Dr. Enrico Velasco, himself, the Founder and Chief Executive Officer of the Velasco Corp Tech Empire—who, despite his blatant moral failings, granted us a great providence, our faith, not withholding, which all played an undeniable role in our survival.

“It’s important we do not lose our faith as a family” was a sentiment Enrico would frequently repeat before his mind was taken from him. He likely heard this saying from his own father, Father Pedro Velasco, the renowned priest, who died long before Val and Emil were born. I suppose there comes a time in every young man’s life when they must assess these inherited mantras and decide what’s helpful and what’s not. I, myself, had to decide who I would be.

After another moment of silence without interruption, I continue leading again, “…Now, as a general intercession, we remember our friends and family both near and far. We also remember all those who came before us, all those who sacrificed for our freedom.”

Just broaching the subject brings up a heartache lingering just under the surface. Opening my eyes ever so slightly, I sneakily channel my focus across the room. On my workbench, all the parts I’d been soldering the day before still sit just as I left them—zip-tied to the pegboard desk. Everything is in order, those dainty feet, delicate hands, long slender legs, a standalone torso, the CPU housing all the code I could muster. For now, she rests peacefully. I will finish this. I’ll bring her back to…

Suddenly, my train of thought is derailed by a loud tone followed by that female voice over the intercom again, “Simulator’s running status achieved. You should now be experiencing Earth’s level of gravitation.” The boys, eyes wide, are jostled by the sound and their bottoms touching down. Trained to ignore the minor distraction, they again close their eyes, returning to meditation. For now, the tension between us seems to have subsided.

Admittedly, I was skeptical of the practice, the whole notion of religion, but I was very committed to appeasing my employer. When I started, with Val and Emil being so young, I knew their Mid-Prefrontal Cortices lacked the development to perceive a divine consciousness. Still, after years of keeping the practice a bulwark in our schedule, I’ve been forced to acknowledge some of the benefits.

With adequate time now passed, I initiate our last movement of the morning. “…Gentleman, with our remaining time together, we…” I stop, hesitating mid-sentence, opening my eyes again briefly, taking note of the clock on the wall. It’s 2083:07:12:07:38:54 PST. Continuing my thought, I say, “…We have about 22 minutes before breakfast. Let’s now participate in a time of elongated silence to reflect on our lives—our hopes, our dreams, and even our doubts. Let’s take it all before the Lord, asking for his blessing while also confessing where we’ve gone astray. Let’s reflect on how he’s led us through our darkest days and continues to lead us even…”

Even as I speak, I suddenly sense a change in Emil’s mannerisms. My heart rate quickens. I look back and forth quickly to each brother. I’ve seen this sort of micro-expression enough to know something’s coming, and in an instant, Emil’s nostrils flare, his face goes flush…and sure enough, Val breaks rank again.

“Well, I, for one, am asking God to bless us by supernaturally multiplying the pisses I have to take…” He says, busting out in laughter.

We exchange awkward glances as I attempt to adapt.

“…So we can have more recycled water!... You know…’cause we need some more showers up in here! We stink like straight onions!”

Interpreting the obvious joke as yet another subversion of my leadership, Emil sits up on his knees unnecessarily, “I’m sorry, Giorgio, but y-you may have to take a punitive measure this time! It’s s-s-sacrilege to interrupt our session like this! Val’s in one of his m-moods again! He’s all over the place, and I’m n-not sure anything will settle him d-d-down. He’s not even trying anymore…”

It’s common for Emil to revert to a stutter when stress emerges. This time, it’s more pronounced, however. Val looks on in disbelief without uttering a word in rebuttal. Though I understand his frustration, the level of anger Emil’s exhibiting doesn’t seem to match the crime.

“…I want him f-fucking g-g-gone! I want him to leave! You said it yourself…he’s not treating us like f-f-family, so maybe he should go f-find another one!” Emil continues to shout now, with tears welling in his eyes.

The Recreation Hall is quiet in the aftermath of the tirade. Neither Val nor I have a clue how to respond. Slouched over, Emil begins to rock back and forth on his mat, muttering under his breath. Bending his fingers back to crack his knuckles, his eyes dart around the room under the dark strands of his wig. He went too far, and he knows it.

Val chews at the side of his mouth, looking away. He must be stewing in his realization of how wide the chasm between him and his own blood has become. He doesn’t seem angered at Emil’s words. If anything, he’s crushed.

I hate seeing them fight like this. Lord, help us…Bring about your reconciliation. Please help us find our path forward…

Finally, I sit up to assert myself, “NO!… We’re finishing this session together. We’re going to bow our heads and try again. You’re almost men now. With all, we’ve been through. We can’t give up on each other…”

When I’ve said my piece, I extend my hands, begging for a simple gesture, and with some reluctance, they oblige. First, Emil reaches out, then Val. Despite the small act of cessation, there’s a sense in the room that we’re still floating out into space despite the artificial gravity. We all feel it. The old station was holding up fine, but we were on the verge of spinning out of control.

God, help me. Let something from my teaching leave a mark of lasting worth. Please help me be a sustaining force for these precious sons. The very future of the world may hang in balance. With all the gifts and talents bestowed, only you fully know what good they could bring to humanity…

My stress level’s out of control. My hand shakes again. I should retrace my steps just as I’ve asked the boys to do. It’s been imperative that I, too, pray through our story not just as an example to Val and Emil but because it reduces my apprehensions. Going back to those memories reminds me of how we made it this far, all that we survived, the decisions, the mistakes, the miracles, the blessings that endure. Engaging with our pasts has also been known to help conscious minds to heal, restoring proper perspective—de-fragmentation of the soul.

Who knows? Maybe I’ll think of something to help us make it back this time. Perhaps we could build a new life and restore some normalcy if it could still be had. We could still play a part in saving humankind from itself. Still, be a family.

Yes, I, too, need to pray. I, too, need to meditate. Oh Lord, search me again. Speak to this humble heart, this semblance of spirit…