Page 6 of The Lottery

I remain silent.

As the doctor examines her, checking her head, her ankle, her shoulder, her burned hands… I try not to stare.

Not at her pale skin that’s nearly luminescent in the light.

Not at her dark hair that cascades down her shoulders in gentle waves.

Not at her piercing blue eyes that broadcast every emotion she has.

Not at her enticing curves, accented nicely by form-fitting blue jeans and a white V-neck shirt.

Nonetheless, I do not need to see her to feel her, pulsing with the heat of the sun, blinding and mesmerizing all at once.

My body seems aligned to hers, magnets being forced apart, the resistance painful.

I have never been one to wax poetic or take a sentimental view of relationships. It is a math problem like everything in life: one with a clear solution if you know where to look.

Feeling and intuition have their place, but logic and reason will keep us alive. Ones and zeros will make this ship fly; fundamentals of science allowed me to transform the face of our new red planet; calculated details fixed an algorithm that has paired us all—or most of us—with the best possible mate for the future. They call it a Lottery, but by the time their names were drawn, nothing was left to chance.

Except now, as I watch Azalea limp out of my bedroom with a freshly bandaged ankle and hands, gingerly cradling her wounded arm that now rests in a sling, gratefully accepting the support from her paired partner, I feel an emptiness that no amount of brilliant coding will fix.

As fast as the feeling comes, I try to dismiss it.

I have too much to do to worry about that which is beyond my control. We have run out of time and this was humanity’s best chance of survival. For better or worse, we are in this.

I move behind my sleek metal desk which takes up most of the room. For the other passengers, especially those who took part in funding the voyage, the design of their quarters caters more toward comfort: couches, recliners, loveseats, sometimes even hammocks, and, of course, elegant king-size beds. In my chambers, all I require are a firm mattress and a desk with a myriad of touch screens for quick access to whatever schematics I need.

Though I was talked into including a small sitting space by the captain, who insisted I would appreciate the extra room a few weeks into our journey.

I acquiesced.

It is hard to imagine I’ll use the bed at all. Sleep will come if and when we get to Mars.

“Is everyone stationed for launch?” I ask to the now-empty room.

“Scanning,” replies the voice of the ship’s AI. While everyone has access to the artificial intelligence, I’m the only one with an existing relationship. I have been around since the inception of our Memetics Enhanced Technological Interface System—neatly shortened to Metis—when colleagues at university began to develop an adaptable, evolving computer. I cannot claim to have created Metis, but I witnessed every step of the process and wasted no time commandeering this technology when my ship was ready.

“Crew is fully assembled and in position,” Metis announces once her scan is complete. “Of the passengers, 98% are situated in their rooms.”

Robert and Azalea will account for a fraction of that missing 2% once they pass through their doors—

“Update: 99% of passengers settled into their rooms.”

I smile, enjoying the rare moment where my foresight trumps that of the AI. The smile fades in an instant as I think who might not be in their assigned quarters this close to launch. I do not have time to hunt down an aimless wanderer.

“Which room is missing a passenger?” I ask.

“Custom Suite Number 7,” Metis answers. “Buddy Fischer is not in position, though his companion, Nicolette Hines, is.”

“Blyat.” The swear word slips my lips before I take a deep breath, hoping it will help me stay calm. I am trying to save everyone on this ship, not to mention the whole of humanity, and an American playboy named Buddy is going to waste seconds I do not have wandering around the corridors when we are supposed to be launching into the stratosphere in minutes.

“Where is he?” I ask, failing to hide my annoyance.

“Captain’s deck,” Metis quickly replies.

“How?” I ask, my hands now balled into fists as my temper threatens to get the better of me. “Who gave him access?”

“He traveled alongside a crew member, according to my readings.”

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