“A.M. Shift” by Holden Williams

“Could we have two chocolate donuts, please?”

“Of course.”

“And one decaf. Black. Thank you. Where’s Sean?”

“Here any second. Make sure to take the donuts with you, though. Yesterday, you forgot them on the table, and I had to throw them out.”

“Oh God, I’m so sorry, Mark! I was called to the bridge and I had to find someone to watch Sara really quickly.”

“Of course, of course. It’s just that we’re running out. I’ll put them in a bag today. Here, the last two.”

“Thank you.”

“I tried one with the freeze-dried chocolate.”

“Gross?”

“Super gross. Really chalky. Here you go, Sara, and don’t let your mom eat both of them.”

“Sara, say thank you.”

“I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Mark.”

“Was that the Admiral?”

“Yes, and you’re late, Sean.”

“My bad. I’m still getting used to the time.”

“Alright. Grab some stuff to fill the display.”

“Do we even have anything left?”

“Check under the cabinet.”

“Not much there. Danishes’re all gone. A bunch of fake egg sandwiches, that’s all.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. We’re running out of all the good stuff.”

“This is rough. I thought the space boots were going to be the worst part. I had a walk-in closet full of Jordans and now, I have to stomp around in space in these pieces of shit. This whole outfit. All white, how original.”

“It’s not that bad. The sandwiches’ll have to do.”

“That’s cause you have no style. How many?”

“As many as you can fit. Relax, Sean. It’s only been three days. Do you remember what it was like? Yeah, this’s a shit job at the bottom, but damn man, it’s better than being on the top…down there.”

“Not sure. I could have sparked a revolution.”

“Yeah, hot as fuck, knee deep in a ten-foot mound of trash with your Jordans on. I’m sure the people would’ve stopped to listen. Look everyone, it’s J–Guevera!”

“How’s this look?”

“Great. Let’s see how long it lasts?”

“Not long. Not the way they eat.”

“Eat? They don’t eat. Look. That table…that table…that one too. We have to throw all that stuff out.”

“They just waste all their ration tickets on stuff they don’t eat?”

“Yup. Grab the Ethiopian Yirgacheffe from the cabinet on your right.”

“Got you.”

“I’ll boil the water. They really don’t get it, man. They act the same as they did back home.”

“Who’s this for?”

“Me. I haven’t had a coffee since we left.”

“Me neither. I’ve skipped breakfast every day so I can afford a decent lunch and dinner.”

“You keep showing up late, you’re gonna have to start skipping lunch too. I got you this time. This one’s on me.”

“You got enough tickets?”

“I got enough, and we’ll get more at the end of the week.”

“Not as much as them.”

“Well, they built the ship.”

“And we just serve the coffee.”

“All these rich people escaping from a problem they made. It’s crazy.”

“Yup. Thankfully, they’ll never be able to live without grunts. And they can’t live without a fresh cup every morning.”

“Nope, and baby Bezos isn’t going to make it himself.”

“He’s on another ship. Gina Rinehart’s kid is here, though. I served her yesterday. It’s crazy who they let on.”

From behind the refrigerated glass display, the boys stand ahead of a broad open rotunda. Under the domed ceiling, across the sprawling dining space, lustrous café tables and chairs are bolted into the gleaming white ceramic composite. Passengers of the Hejira 895 sip creamer-less coffees and chew on dehydrated blueberry muffins, the crumbs of which are escorted away on wisps of manufactured oxygen, accompanied by the breaths and voices of the world’s elite. Or very rich.

At the edge of the room, rising five stories high, as wide as it is tall, is the ship’s main observation window, triple paned, composed of silica-coated optical glass. The eye into the sky frames the abyss of deep space and insulates the ship’s inhabitants against minus 451-degree temperatures. The backdrop is magnificent: absolute black with swirling pools of spinning stars that dance in groups or break off by themselves, treading delicately and conjuring light across the infinite sea of darkness. In the distance, the devolving planet the group left behind looms over them. Its history stolen. The years of bright ceruleans and aquas and greens threaded with pristine clouds are gone. What remains is a globe of sluggish grays and browns, haunted by charcoal ghosts, streaked with sulfurous wildfires, burning yellow and suffocating.

As if being dangled on a string, the moon hangs between them and the distant planet like a polished dime suspended ahead of an oxidized penny. It rings with blinding silver light that thrums in waves through the hull of the ship. This ten-minute window, as they pass it, will be its last calling hours. A wake for Mother Earth.

Mark and Sean soar away in the last transport ship to leave the planet, with no predetermined destination, terminally constructed from its final resources, leaving it barren, sacrificed for their survival. Humanity’s mistress discarded once her desirability was exhausted. Printed across Mark’s forearm, deposited into the epidermal layer of his skin, authored in a solution of distilled water and charcoal, in boldface type font, is his berth number: one-zero-zero-zero-zero. The ultimate human to board.

(SOURCE: Williams, Holden. "A.M. Shift." Flash Fiction Magazine, 19 July 2023, Flash Fiction Magazine.)