The problem was, eventually they ran out of billionaire daredevils and photogenic rocket scientists. They were all up there in the sky: exploring alien planets and building nebula-cities. Giving birth to beautiful angel-babies in zero gravity and forming colonies of sky-poets.
Earth, well, Earth was just there -- the "Compost Heap," some people called it, few years after the first Rapture of Scientists. Sure, they'd send data back to Earth -- new technologies and letters to their left behind family -- but they never came back. Robots did most of the thinking, building, servicing -- they were also in charge of firing up boatloads of candidates when they made themselves known, fresh thinkers and space-heroes.
The general public, they mostly wandered. Looked up at the sky a lot -- more than they used to, probably, though nobody bothered to do formal studies.
Gerald did that -- he stood out on fire escape, gripped the black iron railing, and looked up. Vanna was inside, dancing around to a Dizzie Gillespie record she found at the pawn shop. It was too loud, hard for Gerald to think out there with Dizzie on one side and the city honking at him on the other. Road rage increased as the number of earthbound scientists decreased. Again, nobody did a study. Gerald rubbed at his forehead and tried to spot Venus in the sky, but he was never very good at telling the planets apart from the stars. He wanted to shout at Vanna to turn down the music but that would start another argument and he didn't really need to deal with that. They fought too often these days, over stupid things, and his hands ached from the constant clenching. Same with his jaw.
A jetcar swept around and into the alleyway alongside their building, screeching forth at a ninety degree angle. "Daredevil behaviour," Gerald mumbled, leaning forward to catch sight of the driver. "They're either going to beat that out of you, kid, or fire you into space." No chance of that happening to Gerald -- he looked both ways before crossing and tossed the milk the night before it expired. Always. To do otherwise carried too many risks, and he expected he'd be eaten by a Martian the second he went up there.
There was a wild screech of metal on brick at the other end of the alley, the whomp of gravity engines cycling, sirens and people shouting. Definitely a space-case.
"Honey," said Vanna as she poked through the window, offering a can of Winged Snake. "Beer?" They could spend three hours every night screaming at each other about the cracked plaster over the sink but she could still sound like that and offer him a beer. He scratched at the back of his neck and just smiled, holding out his hand. "Thought you needed one."
Gerald popped the tab and took a long, rough pull. "Awful thoughtful of you, baby." He could ignore the Dizzie for a little while longer, with her looking like that, pulling herself out the window in a yellow sundress that hugged just so. Just so. Gerald tilted back to take another sip and caught sight of the waning sun. Beer was a little warm but they'd been having troubles with the fridge.
Vanna exhaled loudly and fought with her long brown hair, dragging it back behind her ears. "I'm going to get it cut." She pulled it right back, held the dangling mass out of sight, and then pouted like he was her mirror. "Right off."
"That would be. Different." Gerald took another sip. He liked the long hair but if he said that outright it would be another long fight and they were running out of plates and Vanna had a habit of tossing his underwear and socks off the fire escape into the dumpster below.
"Actually, we need to talk."
"About?"
"I've signed up for a base-jumping class and I'm thinking about skydiving."
He crushed the can right then, the last sip's worth sputtering out to drip from the rails. He tossed it over his shoulder without taking his eyes off her. "You're taking a base-jumping class," he said, drawing out the syllables like he was trying and failing to work through a math problem. The robots, as a rule, filed his taxes for him. "You're. You're taking a base-jumping class?"
Vanna crossed her arms and leaned back against the cracked brick. "Yes. I've been feeling." She put her head back. Staring up. "Stuck. Earthbound. Bored. You know." You know, you know, they'd all seen the psych profile by now. There was a certain type of ennui associated with this condition.
Gerald wanted to say, don't leave me. He wanted to say, I'll change. Instead, he found himself twisting around to stare down at the dumpster and his mouth opening with other words coming out: "Could you turn down the bloody music already? I have a headache."
And somewhere, they fired a rocket from atop the tallest mountain...
© Ben Rawluk, 2008, all rights reserved.