Earthrise by Li Huijia

A short science-fiction piece that touches on ageing and losing a loved one.

First published in this is how you walk on the moon (Ethos Books) in 2016. Content warning: suicide.

​From the author:

Three of my grandparents lived past 90, so the topic of ageing is very close to my heart. Witnessing the mental and physical deterioration of my loved ones made me wonder if there were other ways to deal with inevitable decline, especially if burdened with a condition that had a poor prognosis. What would someone, who had spent a lifetime being a caregiver to others, choose as an extravagant and satisfying ending for her own story?

At the time of writing, I was also inspired by the idea of the ‘Grand Tour’ — a tour through Europe that was a customary rite of passage for wealthy Europeans in the 17th to early 19th century. What would such a tour look like, if taken to extremes? What if mobility was an issue for those who wanted to participate?

‘Earthrise’ was my answer to this thought experiment.

Listen to the author read her work:

Music Credits:

Ambient Space 3.wav by DylanTheFish -- https://freesound.org/s/442180/ -- License: Creative Commons 0

THE REAL VIRUS 05 - OUTER SPACE FREQUENCY SWEEP - G#4.flac by Jovica -- https://freesound.org/s/118546/ -- License: Attribution 4.0

prologue 0W19m by Setuniman -- https://freesound.org/s/169965/ -- License: Attribution NonCommercial 4.0

LAYERS 004 - 2 Phase Space Explorer F#3.flac by Jovica -- https://freesound.org/s/74605/ -- License: Attribution 4.0

LAYERS 021 - 2 Phase Space Explorer F#3.flac by Jovica -- https://freesound.org/s/110723/ -- License: Attribution 4.0

Day One

We float in our pods along invisible tracks, spiralling slowly into the atmosphere. Right now, we’re still pretty low. I can see the tops of the rainforests, pick out the different shades of green in the lush growth. I can even spot the rippling of the rivers, bolts of blue-green ribbons undulating in the landscape. It’s nice, watching the world pass this way.

I know you were angry when I first told you I was leaving. Yes, I could have left you with way more money had I decided to stay. But you’re a capable girl, and Dave’s job pays well, too. You can take care of yourself. It is my money and my life, after all. If I want to blow all my savings for a trip to the moon, it is my choice. You understand, don’t you?

Day Ten

I’m above Mongolia right now. We’ve risen a little higher, but I can still see the plains stretching out all the way into the horizon, dotted with little brown specks — cattle, perhaps. It’s going to take three months to reach our destination, rising ever so slowly until we’re one hundred kilometres above land to exit Earth’s atmosphere. It feels like a cruise, except that we’re all confined to our individual pods, like closed carriages on a train track, with no access to the other spaces. My pod is fairly spacious, with a settee that converts into a bed, and a screen for net access. There is no kitchen, but I can request for food from the screen menu, mainly freeze-dried rations that I rehydrate and reheat. It’s not fine dining, but I didn’t sign up for the food. Yes, I could have taken the cheaper option and booked the strap-in pod — space enough for a comfortable seat and sustenance delivered via IV, but I’m still mobile. Mobile enough to not want to spend my last days on Earth in a glorified car seat. If I could afford to book the year-long slow cruise option, I would.

Leave the money for the living, you said. Well, I’m still living now. And I choose to leave in style.

Day Twenty

Are you still angry at me? Sometimes I close my eyes and picture you the day we parted, you quietly strapping me into my chair, giving my hands a squeeze before leaning in for a last embrace. I remember the smell of your hair, the sweet-sour smell of apple laced with sweat. I tasted salt when I kissed your cheek. Your hands were warm. The warmth lingered on my fingertips, as the travelator jerked to life, pulling me away from you, into the clinical whiteness of the departure lounge. I stared at you, gazing darkly at me through the glass, one hand raised in farewell. I didn’t blink once. Not until the doors closed, shutting out the world.

It’s only been twenty days, but it feels longer. Some days, I dim the windows so no light passes through except for a small square pane where I look through to see the outside world. Today, it’s mostly ocean. Who knew the earth possessed so much water? It feels like I’m cruising over a never-ending procession of tears.

Day Thirty-Five

I’ve made the entire pod clear. Windows, even the floors, have been switched to transparent. Below, a sea of white. We’re at the North Pole. I’ve seen the snow-capped mountains of the Himalayas, watched the sun rise over those tall, cruel peaks, but this is entirely different. At night, the skies are aglow, painted with streaks of green and white swirls rising slowly, veined sometimes with red, a visual symphony of energy.

You asked if I would be lonely, being in a pod all by myself. I’m not. Yes, I do miss you, and Karen, and even Dave, even though he’s just your husband and not really any of my business. But I like being by myself, staring out the window, watching the world go by. Sometimes I read, or watch stuff on the screen. But mostly I just sit and take in the view. It relaxes me.

When your dad was around, I hardly had a moment alone. We did everything together. Sometimes it got tiring. I’d never admit that when he was alive, but when he got sick, it was painful for both of us. Were you aware anyway? I tried to keep it from you as much as I could, but at the end, I wished so often for him to just let go. He could have departed six months earlier, and kept more of his dignity than the way he eventually stumbled into death. He should have opted to pull the plug.

Day Fifty

We started ascending more rapidly today, the pods bobbing up and up, until we’re above the clouds. Without the view of the earth, this feels like a plane ride. I spend most of my days reading. The ascent and descent were always my favourite parts of journeying by air. The middle parts, stuck in the cabin, that was just dead time.

In a few days, we’ll start rising even faster and higher, the ion engines will kickstart, and we’ll ascend finally, out of this world, into the bigger one that surrounds us. I’m looking forward to it.

Day Sixty-Five

I’m in space. The earth is a blue marble. Just like a NASA snap in real time. It’s amazing. The stars are out there. All around me. I feel absolutely tiny.

Day Seventy

The moon looms ahead, awaiting our pods strung along like pearls on a necklace. We undulate through space, winding slowly to our destination. We’re slated to land in ten more days. But first, we’ll insert ourselves into lunar orbit, circle round the moon for the final leg of this grand tour.

It’s a much shorter line than when we first started, because some pods have ejected along the way. Those passengers ran out of funds to fuel their journey. They extinguished themselves, casting off their pods from the line to float away slowly, caught in the eternity of space. One of them bobbed right by my window, an old man with snowy hair in a strap-in pod. He doffed an imaginary hat at me, as our eyes met for a moment before his pod pulled away in a final blast of air. I blew him a kiss.

Day Eighty

We’re in.

The moon’s terrain lies beneath us, an endless expanse of dimpled barrenness. I spotted a few pods abandoned near the Compton crater, crusted with moon dust. Looks like I’m not the only person to choose this exit.

We hung out in the air today, floating ten feet above land, watching the earthrise. It takes hours, a test of patience. I took a nap and when I woke up, Earth was only barely clearing the horizon. Not a problem, there’s really nothing to do here, except take in the view. But oh, what a view. Our blue planet, so vividly alive, such a contrast to space’s tranquil chaos. Not everyone gets off at this station; those with more funds and energy will continue on in their tour — onwards to Mars and beyond. Not for me. This is my final stop. I’m happy with my choice.

Day Ninety

Today my pod leaves the line. Like I’ve been briefed a hundred times before, I’ll need to wait until I descend fully before pressing the exit button. The door will open, cutting off my oxygen supply. I should have enough time to step out, put my foot on the ground, before I expire. That appeals to me, to be able to literally put life onto the moon, if only for an instant. Some might choose to wait it out in their pods, till fuel runs out, or their oxygen depletes fully. Others might choose to pipe in a carefully measured supply of carbon monoxide, slowly closing their eyes for that final sleep.

But I’m going to step outside. There should be some flair, even when you’re exiting life. I touch my pod’s glass, feeling the lunar air calling to me, cold and clinical. I rest my fingers on the bright red exit button. I think of you. And your father.

There. I’ve pushed the button. The screen buzzes, then comes alive, a countdown beeping in rhythm to my heart.

Li Huijia is a Chinese Singaporean who enjoys myth, history, classical Chinese poetry and pottering about in the kitchen. Her work has appeared in DUEL: A Myriad Zine by Hexagon, as well as a few other small press anthologies. You can find her online at jia-writes.com.

Twitter/X: @jiawrites

Instagram: @jiawrites

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