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The last stroke was always the hardest.
He applied paint by feeling as much as by forethought. The world shrank; all he could see was his father dying in his bed, surrounded by people without humanity.
It, of course, would not sell; such paintings never did anymore. But Roger felt better by sharing it, even if only with a canvas.
When it was done, he looked up and saw his apartment again. Not that there was much to see, just a small room with a bed and a dresser. A large rack with paintings took up most of the space.
He carefully wrapped up his new painting and put it in his cart, along with most of the ones from the rack. Weeks of work, and what most of his money went into. It was time to sell them, hopefully for enough to not have to get a printed meal for dinner.
He stepped outside his apartment and breathed the clean air. Looking, he saw nothing but the tops of fifty-story buildings, all striking into the sky, identical blocks of silver and gray. He could hear the howl of the wind as it rushed between them and feel the sting of it on his face. Looking down, he could see the orange light of the noonday sun and the algae on the ground. It almost looked like the pictures of grass he had seen.
The algae moved in waves, in complex and beautiful elegant circles, made no less beautiful by the fact that he sometimes thought he was the only one who saw the beauty in it.
There was a flash above his head, from the halo. From the east where It looked like it met the ground, although it did not any more than a rainbow did.
He could even see a few of the wires that led to the orbital halo.
He sighed and gestured with the remote. His cart lifted itself ten centimeters off the ground. He kept gesturing with it behind him, but the automatic was broken.
He started walking to the elevator. For the first time in more than a week, he had somewhere to be.
---
Exiting the elevator, he tried to get away from the apartment complex quickly, but too late he saw a short, fat man rushing at him.
Of course, how does he always know when I leave?
Moving far faster than should be possible for a man his size, he caught up to Roger and put a large hand on Roger's shoulder, squeezing hard enough to stop him from going anywhere.
"I want my money. You're a month late...again."
"I'll get the money; I'm going to sell the paintings now."
"Paintings?" he laughed, "let me set you up with a surgeon I know. Before you know it, you'll be raking in the money."
Roger's cheek's flushed as he took off toward the beltway, his landlord's words echoing in his mind.
---
The belts to either side of Roger were empty. The ones to his left ran slower than his, the ones to the right ran faster.
He moved five belts to the left with five hops, to the slowest one that was next to the exit. After getting off, he saw that his cart was turning in circles behind him; its controller was acting up again. He had to rush while dragging it behind him to not miss the exit.
After stopping to make sure the blanket that was wrapped around the paintings was secure and that the cart was listening to the controller he stopped and looked up. He made sure he was in the right place and slowly walked toward the ramp, with his cart following him.
He could hardly see where he was going; the lighting was so dim. He had been lucky to catch the exit on the first pass.
When he started walking up the ramp, he saw a dozen people standing near the wall staring off into nothing. They had fine clothing but smelled like they hadn't washed in a week. The soft glow on the back of their necks illuminated their unkempt hair. One of them turned to Roger and yelled.
"What time is it?"
Damn dozer.
"It's ten o'clock," Roger said quickly and left to go up the ramp.
Behind him, he heard one of the dozers say, "That is so cool," slowly to himself, and he went back to staring at the wall, smiling at nothing. Selling himself, getting more money a day than Roger had ever made in a week.
Roger tried to shake off the thoughts when he emerged at the top of the ramp. The buildings loomed all around him.
He slowed when he got to the gallery and saw the display's were missing.
Roger sped up to a trot and burst into the building. It was in shambles, two walls were being torn down, and all the windows were being removed.
The work was being done by dozers, of course. It looked like they were exhausted but did not care.
He tried not to look at them as he rushed to the back.
A man with a bright orange hat walked up and somehow managed to both scream and sneer at the same time simultaneously. "You, out-you'll have to waste your time online like everyone else."
At this, an older woman appeared from behind a corner and said, "George, stop being an asshole."
After sighing, she said, "Roger, we need to talk," and motioned to her office in the back.
Her office was the only normal thing left; it still had her name on the door, "Evelyn Wright, Owner." Everything else was being repainted, torn down, or worse.
Roger sat down and ordered his cart to stay in the hallway. It sank down to the floor with a dull thud.
Evelyn slowly walked to her chair and fell into it. She looked Roger in the eyes and said, "I'm so sorry, but it's over. We can't keep limping along anymore." She shrank into herself, suddenly seeming less the strong woman Roger had known for so long.
"What? You've had bad spots before. Why can't you keep going?"
"Someone got to our donor and client lists and tried to blackmail them. They got spooked and pulled out."
My god, no.
Evelyn pulled out a bottle of bourbon and poured a shot glass for herself and Roger. She said, "To art," and drank it. She looked sadder than she had ever looked in Roger's memory.
"I might be able to unload clothing or anything 'Practical' through the online store, but I just can't sell paintings anymore."
At this, Roger drank half of his shot. The burning almost felt cathartic.
She just stared at him. He finished his shot.
"I was checking as you walked in. The other galleries are being shut down too. After what happened, no one wants to risk supporting impractical art, let alone paintings."
"What?"
"Most of those who supported us were professionals, people who have 'real' jobs and could lose everything if their standing suffers. They would have to go on maintenance if they couldn't afford a ticket off-world. Nothing but a small room, crappy food, and boredom for the rest of their lives. I tried to talk them into trying to fight the blackmail, but it didn't work."
She poured both a new shot. They downed them in silence.
"You could leave Roger," she said quietly.
"And go where?" It was not like he could afford a seat on the ship; he could barely afford a ride to the Halo.
"There's a way. You could doze for five years. If you talk to a lawyer, you can make sure you will have the money when you're up-jacked to normal."
Roger grew red in the face, and not just from the bourbon.
"Your father wanted you to have a future. It doesn't change who you are, not permanently. Most people get a buzz off it. Nothing is being removed, just used for something else for a while."
After a notable pause, he stared at her with more anger than he had felt in a long time. "The Combine would lawyer up and do what they always do, keep using my brain until I kill someone, or my life is gone."
"I would rather die," he stood and slowly walked out, trying to hide his tears.
---
He got out his last canvas and paints and starting painting.
After an hour spent painting a small bush, he got up and started to pace.
What the hell.
He unsnapped his wristcomp, and hit the release, and pulled it to its maximum size. The screen asked him what he wanted. He said, "Search Job listings, all locations, Keyword: artistic painter." He then pushed it against the wall and slid it down a few millimeters, the fibers on the back were pulled out, and its own weight held it to the wall.
After five minutes, the soft blue glow that meant it was working stopped, and to Roger's surprise, there was a result.
"Read result."
"Painter wanted; landscapes preferred. Must be willing to leave system for approximately seven years local time."
What the hell?
"We are asking you to join the Leif Erikson, on a trip to Iota Pegasi, a system never visited by humanity before. You will be painting the corridors and will be free to take commissions if you wish. You will be paid forty thousand ship coins per year, which are currently valued at one point one Earth dollars. That does not include housing, food, and medical which are provided free of charge. Details on the Erikson are enclosed."
Roger slumped in his chair and stared blankly into space, thinking.
He knew what the Erikson was, of course.
He wondered if it were a prank or something. That would just be his luck. So he did a news search.
The kind of money the Erikson was offering could do wonders. He could move anywhere he wanted. Even to the other side of the grid, to Hope, where he could make a real living. Where they appreciated art, where there were no mega corps and no dozers.
"Comp full playback."
An older woman appeared on the screen. She looked to be in zero-G.
"The Erikson is the one and only builder class starship. To this day, we build string stations, orbital rings, scientific outposts, and large fusion reactors on and off the grid. The Erikson built all the current string stations were built by the Erikson, in fact. Our next build is to put a string station around Iota Pegasi for the peoples of New Europe and at the behest and payment of your government. I am told doing this will help your people's economy by opening up dozens of stars for exploration and colonization. It is important not just for your people but for all of us.
"The Erikson is approximately one and a half kilometer's long and is propelled by a torch drive to an incredible ten percent the speed of light in real space. Then we start displacing. At point one C, a displacement that would take a normal standard ship only fifteen light hours takes us a hundred and five easily. We are the fastest crewed ship ever built.
"Two rotating rings provide up to one G of gravity, ensuring the health and well-being of our citizens and passengers."
The view changed to show a diagram of the grid. "This is the grid. Every star you see here is connected by a station to at least one other. Along each string, a ship can pull power from the stations at either end. This means that ships take weeks or at most a few months to make it to a nearby star.
"Without these stations, trade would be impossible. A ship would take years at best, decades in most cases, to reach even a nearby star. The Erikson is what makes the grid possible. We have made a vast difference in the history of the human race, and will do so in the future," she said with obvious pride.
"We are a constitutional democracy recognized as an independent state by all major powers.
"More than that, we are a society that prides itself on our work ethic and on being builders and creators. The grid and all of humanity are better because of us.
"If you join the Erikson, and we hope you do, you will see a system no naked eye has ever seen before. Over the course of years, we will build a string station." It switched to an animation of the Erikson entering the orbit of a gas giant then sending smaller ships out. A large string station was quickly built before his eyes. Afterward the Erikson started up again and left the system along the newly created string.
"Part of your compensation will be accommodations." It switched to show a set of rooms that looked the size of a two-bedroom apartment. "These are the basic quarters, but upgrades can be paid for."
She stopped for a second, then looked directly at the camera and said, "Life is about growing and expanding. You won't find a better place to do that than the Erikson nor a better group of people to do it with. I look forward to hearing from you and welcoming you on board."
He found it hard to imagine that the ad was still valid. Artists may not be common, but he was far from the best New Europe had to offer.
At that point, any chance was better than none, so he went into his closet, and got out his best shirt and jacket, cleaned his face, then and put the clothes on. He went back into his living room and said, "Show current video input." It showed him from the knees up, a twenty-five-year-old man. His pants looked to have more paint than cloth, and his jacket looked like it had never been worn. He altered the camera's focus and cropped it to only show him from the waist up, making sure his head was not clipping the top of the frame, and said, "Begin recording in five seconds."
He used the time to gather up his courage.
"Hello, my name is Roger Wright Powell. I am a painter and would like to apply for the position."
He sighed, looked around, and said, "Honestly, I don't have much to say except that I am willing to go with you. I am sending some of my recent work along with this message."
Roger sent the recording and images of his best work to the Erikson.
He then returned to his painting, waiting for a message he was sure in his heart would never come.
ns 15.158.61.54da2
