Santayana Station
by Paul Carlson
Copyright 2012 by Paul Carlson
Published by Paul Carlson at Smashwords
ISBN 9781476150581
Earthlight danced in Anna Dragovic's eyes. Icy white, ocean blue, forest green, even the glow of the aurora borealis. Near enough to touch? Far enough to forsake?
As the station swept along its orbit, Anna watched night fall. Cities sparkled, each light a marker in someone's life. Was she close enough to reach their hearts?
Vanja Bogdany appeared beside her at the window, relaxed in zero-gee. "Your turn comes soon. I will not speak to Sarajevo and Bosnia until tomorrow. Are you prepared?"
"I can see Italy." Absorbed in the view, Anna scarcely drew breath. "Now there is the Illyrian Sea, and the Balkans shrouded in night."
"Can you bring them light?" Vanja's soft voice blended query and confidence. "Dawn and another dawn?"
"I will do my best." Beholding such majesty, the Macedonian girl's own worries seemed petty.
Project Leader Trich Barzon's voice echoed through the orbital hotel's refitted modules. "We'll be over the selected area in twenty minutes. I'm lighting the rings now."
On either side of the station, energy flowed into two superconducting wires, forming rings many kilometers across. They began to glow, white then bluish, held circular by electromagnetic forces. The rings began to move in a regular pattern, slowly cycling back and forth.
Soon the sky would lighten, and the muezzin's call would summon the faithful to dawn prayers at Mustapha Pasha's Mosque. Zoran Dushan knew the sound well; though an Orthodox Christian, he'd been hearing it all his life. Now, in a quirk of thought, he wondered how many worshippers could remember when the Imam personally called out from the ancient mosque's hillside minaret, rather than a recording over loudspeakers.
Tens of thousands of people filled the narrow lanes of Old Town Skopje, and covered the hill behind the ancient Kalé fortress. Some felt the space station would fail, if not in a physical way, then in its ambitious plans. Those who'd registered—the serious participants—clustered around the venerable Ottoman mosque.
Murmurs and raised arms heralded the station's arrival. Three hundred fifty miles above Macedonia, two glowing rings appeared in the northwestern sky. They seemed to link, join as one, then separate on the other side. Between them rode a brilliant spark. These comprised a dynamic symbol of unity; a joining of the sundered. A symbol chosen with the input of a billion people worldwide.
Zoran felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. Berta Kavaja stood beside him in the darkness, gazing skyward.
"Your idea worked," said the Albanian Muslim girl. "It's beautiful."
Berta's tone was respectful, so much so that Zoran gave his lighthearted friend a second look. "I had plenty of help," he responded. "Half the people at Cyril and Methodius must've pitched in. I just coordinated the physics aspect."
She gave him a soft punch on the arm. "Modest, too."
Zoran and Berta were students at Saints Cyril and Methodius University, nearby along the Vardar River. Its faculty and students had spearheaded the controversial peace project, beginning three years earlier.
As the celestial display rose higher, the throng "ooh'ed" and "ahh'ed" as though it were a fireworks show. Most of the younger people carried some type of computer, and in the multitasking ways of their generation, seemed to be watching those and the sky at the same time.
Zoran checked his own palmtop computer. "Great reviews, from Slav and Albanian alike. The usual soreheads are complaining, but nothing drastic. Let's see what people think of Anna."
#
Anna prayed she would not flub her presentation. All too soon, Trich Barzon signaled her to begin.
"Friends below," the young Macedonian Slav said, "this is your effort, your hopes, shown to the world. Serb, Macedonian, Turk, Albanian, Rom, Greek, Bulgar, all of you, heed my words. George Santayana was a great philosopher, and today he is best known for a single line, 'Those who forget the past are condemned to repeat it.'
"In the Balkans, people have Santayana backwards. We do not forget, and we seldom forgive. Family feuds carry on for generations, and nationalist anger burns for centuries. As you well know, in this modern century, those with a grudge have terrible weapons at their disposal. Most of you have lost friends and family members to them.
"Friends, the answer is more simple than you may have imagined. Will it be love or death? I vote for love, for philia and agape. What say you?"
Ironically, the module in which Anna hovered weightless still held the ornate trappings of a honeymoon suite. The station had once been an orbital hotel, catering to wealthy space tourists. An economic downturn had enabled the student's project to lease it for a pittance.
Trich Barzon loved classic rock and roll, and owned a huge collection of concert videos and documentaries. She wasn't addressed as Captain, and everyone regarded her as 'not in charge,' yet her idea had caught on just the same.
Down below, tens of thousands of people held up matches, or lighters, or flashlights. A soft radiance suffused Old Town Skopje and, all across the Balkans, many similar gatherings.
In another station module, Vanja Bogdany adjusted a wide-angle telescope and pointed it downward. Her larger purpose was clear, yet like the space tourists who'd come before her, the Catholic Bosnian girl much enjoyed gazing at the panoply below.
Under Vanja's skillful guidance, its camera broadcast a live image to countless screens, both home and portable. Skopje was alight, and not with the sort of fire that conquerors and earthquakes had thrown against it too many times before.
Then Vanja brought a sensitive antenna to bear. Anna called for a poll, and those on the ground responded electronically. Trich overlaid the responses on a map of the Balkans. Green for full support of the peace project and its goals, amber for a desire for peace, if by different means, and red for sincere opposition.
Most of the red 'negative' responses were anonymous, and no one was surprised at where they clustered.
#
The Earth turned, the station swept onward, and the moment passed. Its rings met the rosy glow of dawn, while in Old Town Skopje the muezzin's call rang out.
Berta sighed, and reached for Zoran's hand. "Wonderful. Anna spoke well."
Struck from behind, Berta fell to her hands and knees. Her palmtop computer skittered across the cobblestones. With a cry of alarm she reached for it, but a booted foot gave it a vicious kick.
"Hey!" Zoran found himself surrounded by four young toughs. "I know you guys. Get packing or I'll report you."
"Try it and see what happens," said one of the punks. "Forget your fancy peace marriages. We'll show this deluded girl what real husbands are like."
Then all four punks disappeared into the milling crowd.
Berta got up, shocked if not surprised by the assault. "Ow, my hands." Both were skinned, and bleeding a little.
A helpful passerby retrieved her palmtop, then scurried off before Berta could thank him. Centuries of oppression, by whatever name, had ingrained the Balkan's population with a wary mindset.
A murmur of disapproval drew the two friend's attention. An old man, his white qeleshe cap distinct in the dawn's light, stood glaring at them. Zoran recognized his downstairs neighbor Envar, a Kosovar Albanian who lived on the 25th floor of their apartment building. Their paths seldom crossed, but it was Envar's grandson and his cohorts who'd just shoved Berta.
"Merdita, neighbor," Zoran told him. "Good morning to you."
Envar's eyes opened wide, so surprised was he that a Slav would know an Albanian greeting, much less deign to use it. Even so, his expression did not soften.
"You consort with these people," Envar accused Berta. "You dishonor our traditions." He hawked a glob of spittle at their feet. "How dare you mix our blessed Shqiperise blood."
The angry old man turned and shuffled away, toward the mosque and his morning prayers.
Zoran held his girlfriend tightly. "Berta, I'm so sorry. I'll bet he can't stand it, that his own Imam supports our project. You remember what that American lecturer told us last year? In History 202?"
"I do. 'To unshackle the Balkans from its tragic past, you'd have to kill all the grandparents.' He meant bitter men like Envar." Despite the glorious sunrise she shivered. "Mixed blood? I haven't even mixed anything—yet. The station is a catalyst, and peace marriages are what's really going to count. Guess the idea is drawing out the worst in some people."
Zoran held up his palmtop, with the latest news and blogs and polls streaming across its display. "We have a lot left to do."
Betra washed the blood off her hands at a public water fountain. "Envar's heart wasn't in it. I've been accosted by people ten times that angry. I know! Let's call the orbiter Santayana Station."
"It already has a name, but . . . " Zoran used his palmtop to email Trich Barzon, who posted the suggestion on the station's web site.
Within fifteen minutes, as the two friends sipped Turkish coffee at an outdoor café, Berta saw that 70% of the respondents thought it would make a great nickname.
Around them earnest discussions bubbled, like an intellectual stewpot. Zoran knew their concerns well. 'Is our project too simplistic?' 'Will the Imams allow such assertive girls to marry into local households? Much less, allow any girl to marry outside of their faith?'
Berta recognized a conversion that raged, with muted passion, at the next table over. She'd held many like it, at college dorms, on past the midnight hour. In cool psychological terms: 'Can the Balkan peoples recategorize themselves?' In plain speech: 'Can a bunch of two-legged jackasses see beyond their own clan's accepted domain, and truly identify with the larger world?'
Berta's answer was always 'yes,' and she could point to dozens of brave girls who'd already pioneered the way, in Kosovo and elsewhere. There had been two horrible deaths, 'honor killings' at the hands of enraged men, but many more heartfelt reconciliations.
The Imam of the Mustapha Pasha Mosque traveled with bodyguards now, and all he'd done was allow the project to utilize his prestigious gathering place. Berta knew his support ran deeper, but until public opinion swung around, he dared not voice his thoughts.
And it will swing around, Berta prayed.
#
Twenty-two hours later, it was Vanja Bogdany's turn in the station's speakers module.
The Bosnian Catholic girl bounced from wall to wall, as close to nervous pacing as she could manage in weightlessness. "I don't know, Anna. Should I?"
"Wear the rosary beads," urged her friend. "I know they're awkward in zero-gee, and some would say an antagonistic symbol, but it would be much comfort to the older folks."
"Very well."
Bosnia wheeled toward them, with Sarajevo nestled in its ancient valley, and dawn not far behind. Then Vanja spoke, while Anna operated the telescope and antenna.
Her talk went well, and hundreds of young men decided to forsake their radical factions.
As the station passed above the historic city, dozens of gatherings gave Anna special hope. Still, her telescopic gaze drifted south toward Skopje. The station, in its high orbit, was also visible there. Only a thousand people had gathered there, for an unofficial followup.
A sudden flash made her blink, then an ominous plume of black smoke rose above Skopje. Shock and despair tore at her nerves, but Anna refused to panic. Instead, she flicked on the station intercom. "What just happened? Something went boom, down in Skopje."
From the central module, Trich replied. "Anna, Vanja, you girls hang in there. I'll check."
Vanja reactivated her microphone. "Be calm, my friends on Earth," she appended. "In Sarajevo and in Skopje. Break the cycle of violence now, while anyone remains alive to care. I truly believe we can."
Moments later, Trich had an answer. With the skill of long experience in space, she floated into the telescope module and gave the news to Anna in person. "Fifteen minutes ago, when most of the participants in Skopje were assembled, a radical faction attempted to truck bomb the gathering. Someone found out, and took direct action."
"What action?" Anna couldn't imagine.
"American activists call it a flash mob. Hundreds of people surrounded the radical's lair, a small warehouse, and they brought rocks and poles and all sorts of junk. Piled it so high, and so fast, the radicals couldn't get out. Tried to use their truck as a battering ram, and blew themselves up instead. Only two people outside were killed, and the gathering continued."
"Only two?" Three thousand years of historical anguish filled Anna's voice. "Dear father Abraham, how can you look upon us?"
Trich said, "Would've been dozens killed without that brave action. You should be proud."
A minute later, when the ceremonies on the ground in Sarajevo were completed, Trich and Anna joined Vanja the speaker's module.
"I bet Martin Luther King would've made good use of all this technology," said Trich. "Hate to say it, but it's got a bad side, too." She gave Anna a printed sheet. "From a blogger in Kosovo. The guy posted it a few minutes ago. This is not a good time, but it's better if I tell you than a stranger."
"Eh?" Anna read the ominous words. "Zoran's father served with Arkan?" Her arms tensed, as though to strike out, clear across the gulf of space. "Is it true?" Arkan was the most notorious war criminal to haunt the Balkans in the latter half of the twentieth century.
"Ask him yourself." Trich brought Anna into the command module, used a console to open a connection with Zoran, then with a respectful nod she withdrew.
Zoran looked crestfallen. "Anna, I'm sorry. My father never spoke of Arkan before he died. I found out from an uncle, only last year. I was afraid to tell anyone." He began to tremble. "I must be an awful hypocrite, daring to get involved with this project. With special women like you."
"Afraid?" said Anna. "Like those people who just got blown up, stopping those terrorists, were afraid?"
"I heard the blast." Zoran pointed his handcomp's camera at the horizon, where black smoke hovered like a ravenous vulture. "I think they were planning to destroy the project offices. I would've helped stop them, but it's way across . . . "
"Too far away!" Anna seethed. "For a stumbling desk jockey like you. Berta and I love to hike up the Vodno mountain, but you, you're always too busy. Maybe trying to cover up for your war criminal of a father, eh?"
"I will not hear of this!" Zoran broke the connection.
Anna drew back, weeping. Her tears, unable to fall, gathered until she could no longer see. She sniffled, bobbing her head, and a tear floated away.
#
On the ground, Zoran blinked hard, shedding tears of his own.
At his side, Berta refused to weep. "You should have trusted us. Trusted Anna with the truth. Evasion is no way to build a bridge between people! Can't do that in the here and now, and you'll never put history where is belongs. Lessons of the past indeed. Now you see how strongly the past can reach out and grab you!"
#
Wrenched from her emotional moorings, Anna watched her ragged breath impart motion to the floating teardrop. At that moment a small window came into sunlight, and the glittering droplet became the focus of a tiny rainbow.
It grew in her mind's eye to become a whole world of diamond-pure hope. Anna clapped her hands with relief. She would not be dragged down! She went back to the speaker's module, composing her thoughts along the way. She would not cower, but share this experience with the world.
She thought of Costas, her fiancé in Athens, who had dared so much to reach beyond his own proud ethnic heritage.
Most especially, Anna thought of three young ladies she'd been chatting with: a orphan in Rwanda, a Palestinian housewife, and a student in Sri Lanka. The African woman had suffered ten times the losses of the Balkan peoples, and even so, she hoped to participate in a future station crew.
How, Anna asked herself, could I give up now?
#
"What is the opposite of killing all the grandparents?" Zoran stood at a lectern in the Mustapha Pasha Mosque. "To bring them together, across every barrier, with something held in common: many thousands of beloved grandchildren."
Sitting cross-legged in the front row, Anna and Costas watched. In an envelope-pushing move they'd taken a center spot, with Anna on the women's side of the floor, if by centimeters only.
Joining Zoran in front of the gathering, Berta stood by her intended. "Consider a typical Balkan landscape," she said. "Two ancient houses face each other across a valley. The inhabitants are of different clans, different religions, different languages. They have feuded for centuries, trading blood for blood.
"And then, because of our project, and the help of everyone here, two young women arrive. Wife to a son of those houses, each is full of love, and in a purposeful way not often seen before. They make friends across that valley, and soon their children are playing together.
"The grandparents, those reservoirs of bitter memory, are drawn closer by the children's love. When that new generation grows to adulthood, every poisoned well of hatred and revenge will fade into the mists of time."
Zoran and Berta stood proudly before the diverse gathering. Fads, trends, and new paradigms intersected in that place, bearing the fragile seeds of a new world.
"Zoran and I will do our part," said Berta, "and bridge one gap between our peoples. Each of you may find a partner, or ask the assembled elders to choose a worthy soulmate. In one month's time, all of us will gather back here, and in a thousand other venues, to pledge ourselves in marriage. Peace marriages."
Zoran added, "Last week, with two sunrises, we beheld a miracle. A wonder of technology, but more so, of freedom and cooperation. Let's bring this miracle into our personal lives, and with a greater purpose in mind."
To thunderous applause the couple found their way past hundreds of well-wishers. Outside the massive doors, as they stopped to put on their shoes, old Envar stepped forward.
"Masha'Allah." Stone faced, the man uttered the formal Arabic blessing. Then, with a tentative smile he added, "God has willed it."
Zoran and Berta's hands formed their own symbol of unity as they walked down the hill.
END