A Painter's Story, at mga Iba pang Kwentong Siomai.

Red-Eye Trip to Europa

Space travel is incredibly boring.

When I was a kid, my father would tell me stories about the frontier: stories about outlaws raiding the colonies, of how dangerous travelling in space was, and of how harsh living in the colonies was back then. His favorite story was about the time he volunteered to escort the famous outlaw Warren Bentham half-way across Neptune so he could get on the transport to the lunar prison. It was my favorite tale as well. He swears it was true, and he gave me a pistol to show for it. It was from the outlaw himself, he told me.

But that was back then. Space travel is incredibly boring these days. This is where I am right now: in a single-person craft on my way to Europa, with nobody but a mirror so I could talk to a face. I’ve been travelling for what feels like years, but the calendar tells me I’ve only been in flight for two months. Two months is too much for any man to bear being alone. The on-board computer tells me I’ll be landing in a two weeks and two days.

Sometimes I regret my generation. I was born too late to experience the dangerous space frontier, and I was born too early to experience the next step. I was born in a time of great lull. There’s nothing defining my generation; no cosmic war or extra-galactic contact. I live in a time of divine purposelessness, where “sedentary” is the watch-word. But that’s not even my greatest fear. My biggest fear is that I was simply born too late. What if there’s nothing left for us to conquer? My father used to say they called space the final frontier.

What if they’re right?

I’ve been reading on history lately. Back then there was no law in space. It was too vast and they simply couldn’t enforce anything anywhere in the entire system. Instead, law and order was maintained by gangs. My father never joined a gang, but he never allowed himself to get pushed around or anything. He was a fighter, all the way to the last. Life in the colonies was dangerous back then, and I guess, sometimes, it could still be dangerous. I should know.

My father, he settled down early. He got married the moment he met mother. “You only find three special women in your life,” he said to me once, “and you have to make sure you don’t let it slip away. That’s what I read.”

“But dad,” I said, “how do you know if she’s special?”

“You’ll know it when you do,” he said to me, and we left it at that.

Now I’m as old as he was when he got married, and I’m drifting on my space ship on my way to Europa. I feel like I’ve wasted eighty-six years of my life, even though I still have my life ahead of me.

My grandfather fought in the wars. He served under a colonial governor, the great Tiger of the Magellan Cloud himself. His was a time of constant warfare, where colonies fought against each other, and soldiers fought and died in the vast coldness of space. The Tiger of the Magellan Cloud had a rival in another governor they called El Vibora, and my grandfather fought four times against him. In those times, my father told me, the only thing a man could hold onto was his own honor, and his governor's honor. But that was a time long past. Back then strength was what kept the peace, but strength fades eventually, and eventually my grandfather’s time became my father’s time.

His father fought in wars as well, but it was different in those days. Back then the colonies were united and petty governors didn't squabble amongst themselves for parsecs of space. In those times, men fought and died for freedom against the tyranny of the Federation. My grandfather’s father was a revolutionary, in a time where people piloted mechanized suits of armor and grand navies patrolled the stars. His war was a bitter war, and it was an ignoble one, but eventually colonies found their victory. Today I bask in the fruits of their labor.