This Earthly Tent

Remix of photo by Andrea De Santis

This Earthly Tent

by Jamie M. Boyd

After a claustrophobic elevator ride down five stories beneath the rugged surface of Idaho, former teacher Lena Lehrer followed the small group of job candidates into the doomsday bunker.

“Let’s get one thing straight. We don’t sell fear,” said builder Allen Ring.

Lena gaped as they passed the 20-megaton blast doors, squeezed down a narrow hallway and stopped at another hatch. This one was armed with cameras, biometric scanners and an automatic sentry to keep out any “hostiles.” A weapons storage, community lounge and game room lurked beyond.

“What we’re about here is safety, quality, integrity,” said Allen, his words clipped as his military buzz cut. “We don’t sell fear because, frankly, we don’t need to. The world outside those big silver doors has already supplied our clients’ imaginations with a thousand ways it can all go south: nuclear war, plague, terrorist attack, extreme weather, civil unrest. Our job – your job, if you’re hired today – isn’t to fuel that fear, but to show them there’s a solution.” He held out his arms and smirked. “Us.”

It wasn’t a bad spiel. Although the hallway Lena continued down was tight, the series of small apartments branching off it were spacious compared to the cramped bunk rooms she’d imagined. The dining area impressed, more “high-end food court” than “musty high school cafeteria” – and she would know. The flooring was vinyl but did a decent job imitating wood planks. Even the furniture was nicer than the particle board crap she could afford. Exactly how much was Allen charging buyers of this “upscale underground community”? Perhaps the 5-percent commission he’d promised sales team members would be enough to finally pay off all her debt.

“Take your time and look around,” he said. “Let me know if you have any questions. I’ll call you each in for a short interview.”

Lena was the last of the five candidates to be sent back above ground for the interview. While she waited her turn in the lobby of the sales and construction office, she tried to ignore her jitters and scanned the news on her phone.

Interviews always made her nervous. She’d held lots of jobs over the years. She sold used cars one summer. She got her real estate license and hawked time-shares for a lodge near Lake Tahoe, back before the U.S. ski industry collapsed. But those were just part-time gigs, meant to supplement her income as a high school science teacher before she’d quit. So, this one made her extra anxious.

The day’s headlines didn’t help. It was the usual smattering of natural disasters, a feature piece on life in the Arizona refugee camps, and, finally, footage of the Mars Base tragedy. The UN hearings started this week, after investigators uncovered trillions of dollars in overruns, bribes and kickbacks that culminated in the accident that cost 27 astronauts their lives before it was contained.

Lena shook her head. She’d once thought establishing a Mars habitat would usher in a golden era of change and progress across Earth—or at very least inspire her students to pay more attention in freshman Planetary Science class. But history, in the decade since, had proven otherwise.

Finally, Allen waved her into his office.

“So, a teacher,” he said, motioning her to sit down in front of his desk. “What makes you think you’d be a good fit here?”

Lena forced a confident smile. “Well, I’ve spent the past ten years trying to get a bunch of teenagers interested in something other than their phones. Sounds like sales to me.”

He nodded again, then peered at her hard for a moment, as if debating whether to say something. “You may have noticed another way you are a bit of an unusual candidate for us.”

Lena froze. Her mother had always warned it might be hard for her to find a job given her Cuban heritage. Ever since the United States had banned all immigration, discrimination of anyone who seemed “foreign” had only increased.

“I’m sorry?” she asked, wondering what gave her away: she had blue eyes, blonde hair, her father’s Polish last name, and had become very good at blending in; no discernible accent, unless she was sleepy, angry or around family.

Her chest tightened with mixed emotions: Fear that this would mean she wouldn’t get the job. Surprise that Allen would bring it up so quickly. But, most of all, a frustrated sort of exhaustion at having deal with this kind of crap in her own country.

“You’re the only female applicant.”

“Oh,” she breathed, her relief quickly concealed by confusion. “Yes, well … I’m assuming that isn’t a problem?”

“Of course not,” he said, then grinned sheepishly. “At least, not anymore. Now, back when I started this business 30 years ago, I sold mostly to preppers and good ol’ boys. No offense, but most of them wouldn’t take advice from a woman on how to survive the end of the world even if she was holding the last can opener on Earth. That’s why I’ve always hired sales guys who were Marines, like me. They can talk the talk and cock the Glock.”

Ha-ha. Lena kept her face carefully neutral. If she looked annoyed, he’d label her “difficult” and give the job to someone else. Better to show him they weren’t so different.

“Do you want to see my concealed carry permit? Because I have one.”

“I bet you do, working with those damn kids.” He laughed. “But that’s not why I’m hiring you.”

She blinked. He was? He was! “Then why?”

He puffed up. “Our average client isn’t Billie Bob anymore. It’s some Lithium Valley bigshot, some retired Wall Street trader. When he comes for a tour, it’s more of a real estate deal in his mind. And who are the best real estate agents? Beautiful women. You walk him around, answer questions he won’t admit he has, but all the time your beauty is what’s selling the thing. It’s silently telling him he’s special and smarter than the rest of the world for getting in on this deal now, before things all go to hell.”

Lena almost snorted. She knew she should be offended, but Allen’s candor was so without guile that it was oddly mesmerizing. Not to mention, she really needed the money. “So, when do I start?”

“Now. Sandy has a 3 o’clock already lined up. She’ll give you the back-up material to study for a few hours, then you give the client the tour I just walked you through.”

Lena tried to look un-flummoxed. “Who’s the client?”

“This one didn’t give much info, just said his name was John. It’ll be a good test. Let me see how well you can think on your feet.”

Allen went back to staring at his holographic work screen, which Lena took as a dismissal. As she headed out the door, he glanced up and gave her a wink. “Good luck.”

She resisted rolling her eyes. Whether the wink was meant to encourage or demean or a little of both, she didn’t care. She’d keep her mouth shut and do whatever she had to survive.

“Good afternoon,” Lena said as she walked into the lobby and extended her palm. She willed her hand not to shake from nerves and the three cups of awful coffee substitute she’d guzzled while memorizing her sales script.

The potential client was rather young—mid-30s—and handsome. Dark complexion with a strong jaw and thick caterpillar eyebrows. He looked vaguely familiar. The CEO of a biotech startup, maybe.

“I’m Lena,” she said. “John?”

“Juan,” he corrected with a slightly amused smile, as if he was used to the mistake and powerful enough to no longer be annoyed by it. “Juan Alvarez.”

She blushed, kicking herself for the mistake while simultaneously wondering if Allen had mispronounced Juan’s name on purpose. Should she apologize and confide that she was Latinx as well? Or would that be too personal, only emphasizing the awkwardness of her blunder? And then what if that information somehow got back to Allen …

She decided to barrel ahead instead.

Half an hour later, the tour was going well enough, but Lena couldn’t pin down Alvarez’s motivation as a buyer. He asked a lot of questions about waste and water treatment, which confirmed her suspicion he worked in tech or maybe engineering. But his attention wandered when she launched into the specs of the blast door and air filtration system.

“I wouldn’t want to be down here with so many strangers,” he said, frowning as he surveyed the auditorium built to hold 270 residents. His voice was deep and rich with a strong accent he did nothing to hide, an accent she found surprisingly comforting. There weren’t a lot of Spanish speakers living in Idaho these days.

Maybe if she appealed to his science background, she could turn him. “Well, we do sell small shelters for individuals. But for prolonged scenarios, research shows people crave contact with a community. They learned that the hard way with the Mars missions. They kept most of the astronauts’ problems out of the mainstream media, but it’s been well-documented in the journals if you know where to look. I could send you the citations and links.”

He glanced at her sideways, as if she’d finally piqued his interest. “Do most tour guides quote research on the Reves effect?”

She grinned in mock apology. “Science major. Old habits.”

“Me, too. Biology?”

“Geology. Habitat One on Mars had just been completed. I got caught up in Red fever, thought maybe I’d even go up someday.” She shrugged ruefully. The difficulty of colonizing Mars had been grossly underestimated by just about everyone. Most days, she convinced herself that her hopes had been a silly dream.

Alvarez chuckled. “Guess we never know where life’s going to take us, do we?”

Something about the way he said the words—hopeful and excited—made her pause. If things were so great, why was he in the market for a condo that doubled as apocalypse insurance? Rich people were strange.

“What about government intrusion?” he added.

Paranoid, too.

“Well, we’re a private facility,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “That means the government would need a warrant and probable cause to search. And the Third Amendment prohibits quartering of troops in peacetime, so unless—”

Alvarez raised his hand, as if he’d just been testing her. They finished the tour in silence and then boarded an elevator for the surface. God, she hated elevators.

“So, what do you think?” she asked as the doors closed.

He turned to her and tilted his head. “¿Eres cubana?”

“Sí. Por parte de mi madre,” she answered, hiding her surprise. Had she gotten so comfortable with him her accent slipped? “¿Y tú?”

“Mi familia es de Guatemala,” he replied.

Lena nodded but said nothing more, silenced by both shame and habit.

Twenty years ago, the United States had accepted its first and only wave of climate change refugees from Central America, including Guatemala. It was supposed to be a humanitarian gesture, but officials underestimated the number of people who would arrive and the extent of their needs, which came just as the United States was responding to its own worsening floods, droughts and wildfires. The national debt soared as the economy tanked.

The New Nationalist Party rode a wave of anger and resentment all the way to Washington, D.C. All future immigration was outlawed. Although Lena’s mother had come before the ban, she lived in fear of being deported. Discrimination against immigrants wasn’t exactly legal, but it was far from discouraged.

Lena had always wondered if someone like Alvarez, who couldn’t hide his ancestry, resented people like her who passed. Now unmasked, she tensed, anticipating his disapproval.

Instead, he changed the subject—and language—as the elevator doors opened. “So how many units do you have left?”

She stepped off. “We’re 70-percent sold out.”

“I heard there are plans for another facility?”

“Just down the road. Phase II is going to be twice as big and more luxurious. Full hydroponics floor, medical wing, resort pool, skating rink. The works.”

“My route took me by it on the way here. Looks like you’re about to break ground. When will it be ready?”

“Three years,” she bluffed. “Spring 2080. If you’re interested, we’re about to offer the first units for sale.”

He nodded.

Heartbeat rising, she led him to her office, where she handed him her lone brochure. “How big of a unit are you interested in?”

He scanned the pamphlet, then glanced up. “All of them.”

She stared for a hard second. “Excuse me?”

“I’d like to negotiate the reservation of the entire building. And to speed up the build-out.”

“I … I’m sorry you just caught me a little off guard here. Is your interest in Phase II for yourself, or are you acting on behalf of another individual or company?”

He said nothing for a long moment, then offered his business card. “I expect my organization’s information to be kept confidential.”

“Of course.” Lena took the card and glanced down. Printed on thick white stock was a QR code, followed by the words:

Deacon Juan Alvarez

Executive Director

Earthly Tent Ministries

As soon as Alvarez left, Lena swiped his card and ran a search on her computer. Then she headed to Allen’s office, where she hovered nervously in his open doorway, waiting for a good moment to interrupt.

After a few seconds, he looked up. “Problem?”

When she hesitated, he waved her in.

She sat down and smiled tightly. “Is there any chance that my appointment this afternoon was some sort of joke? A first-day hazing, you being a Marine and all?”

He frowned. “Why?”

“The client says he wants to buy the entire Phase II compound. All twelve floors.”

Allen collected his jaw off the ground. “You’re sure?”

“He’s with some group called Earthly Tent Ministries. I thought it might be a church, but nothing came up but an unlisted phone number and post office box.”

“Huh. I doubt a local church could afford something like this.”

“Unless they thought the end of the world was coming and pooled their congregation’s resources to pay for it.”

She’d meant it sarcastically, but Allen gave her a hard look, like she was onto something. “You mean some sort of Doomsday cult?”

“Maybe?”

Allen hesitated, then smirked. “Well, America’s the land of religious freedom. That means if this guy has money to spend, I’m free to take it.”

Lena shook her head and stood to go. Then she stopped. She’d debated saying anything, but it might be more dangerous to stay quiet. “One more thing. He’s Hispanic.”

Allen glanced up sharply. “So?”

“His congregation might be, too. That fine?”

He shifted in his seat. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Lena shrugged, careful to keep her expression unreadable. “I don’t know your clientele yet.” The New Nationalists’ headquarters was in Boise, only a few hours’ drive away. Phase I might be chock-full of party members. “Just wanted to make sure all the neighbors will get along.” She smiled weakly, trying to make it a joke.

He didn’t laugh. “Not an issue,” he said, his tone conveying more than his words: Whatever else Allen was, he wasn’t racist.

“OK, then.” She exhaled. “I’ll get on it.”

She was almost out the door when he called.

“You go to church much, Lena?”

She stiffened. “Not really. Why?”

“I want this sale. Do what you need to do to get it.”

She couldn’t sleep that night, and not just because of the interstate traffic that hummed through her apartment’s thin walls and sent a blue glow shining through her bedroom curtains. Around 2 a.m., she got up and researched Juan Alvarez again.

The problem was his name. Too common. But when Lena switched to searching images, she found him: Juan Alvarez, youngest member of the aerospace firm Nebula3.

The photo was from nine years ago, when at 26, his company was acquired by Blue Boeing, and he’d become a multi-millionaire. His fellow co-founders went on to other projects, but he’d retired, dated various actresses and pop stars, then disappeared.

Another three years later, a reporter tracked him down in Guatemala. Turned out his mother had died and, while attending her funeral, he’d had a come-to-Jesus moment. He started up an orphanage and community center in the largest remaining city near his mother’s hometown. The surrounding countryside and highlands had been wrecked by extreme drought that, paradoxically, left it more vulnerable to landslides during rare-but-torrential storms. Farms withered. Roads crumbled. Ancient Mayan ruins that once attracted tourists and provided important jobs to indigenous residents were destroyed. Those unable to flee were left to starve, plagued by crime and disease.

Two weeks after the story ran, Alvarez was kidnapped by neighborhood thugs who couldn’t resist an easy ransom. Everyone assumed they got it when, about a month later, Alvarez’s publicist announced Alvarez was safe, back in the United States. The statement gave no real details, asking everyone to respect his privacy.

That was four years ago.

Lena stared at his old photo in the darkness of her chilly bedroom and compared it to the man she’d met today. There was a hardness in his expression now that hadn’t been there before.

“What are you up to?” she whispered to the image.

There might be a way to find out.

She opened her email and composed a message to an old friend from college. Matt was an aerospace engineer who’d always had a spooky understanding of how the world worked—not just mechanics, but the money and politics behind it. If there was any gossip to be had about Alvarez’s activities, he’d know.

Lena,

Good to hear from you. I asked around (discreetly, of course) and nobody’s heard anything about this guy lately. Have you tried pulling the group’s 990 form? They should have one if they’re a nonprofit that accepts donations. The IRS would have to give you a copy if you sent a formal request.

Good luck–and don’t go drinking any Kool-Aid.

Matt

Lena’s stomach churned.

It’d been three weeks since she’d heard from Alvarez, even though she’d called, emailed, and texted him multiple times. She’d asked legal to draw up contracts. She’d developed a construction schedule and a long list of deliverables. And now they sat on her desk, taunting her as she returned from showing yet another ambivalent buyer around Phase I.

She’d yet to make a single sale. It turned out Allen’s upscale underground community had competition; two new bunker condos had started construction elsewhere in the state. Which meant buyers wanted price cuts and free upgrades.

Allen refused to negotiate. This, she realized, was why he was desperate enough to hire her. The other sales rep was struggling too, but he brushed her off when she suggested banding together to change Allen’s mind. Perhaps the rep wanted her to fail, or maybe he just knew there was no point, that their boss was too stubborn. When she’d approached Allen alone, he told her to “stop making excuses.”

Allen came by as she packed up for the weekend. Dread shot through her. Didn’t bosses do all their firing on Fridays? She braced herself.

“Here,” he said and tossed her a thick, manila envelope. “Sandy delivered this to me by mistake.”

The package was from the IRS. She hadn’t expected them to respond so quickly to her request. Not that it mattered much anymore. “Thanks,” she said dully.

“Lena.”

“Yes?” She forced herself to meet his eyes.

His mouth twisted. “You have to understand I’m running a business here.”

She swallowed. A man like Allen would rather drown than admit he needed to learn to swim. Still, she had to try, or she’d go down with him. “Yes, I know. But if you’d consider—”

“You’ve got one more week.”

Lena crackled with frustration, so she did what she always did when the world let her down. She went home to her cramped apartment, laced up an old pair of sneakers and went for a long run.

She exited her building and strode along a path toward a well-lit lake downtown. She wasn’t exactly fast, but it didn’t matter. The burning in her lungs, quads and calves blotted out everything else, then morphed into a soothing warmth that drained away the day’s tension.

Back home, sweaty but calmer than she’d felt in a while, she took a shower. She averted her eyes from the broken bathroom tiles her landlord refused to fix, thankful at least for the ample hot water. After dressing, she considered calling her mother but decided against it. She wasn’t sure she could bear another update on her father’s deteriorating health. Nor did she have the energy to answer her mother’s increasingly unsubtle questions about whether she had plans for the weekend (she didn’t) and why she wouldn’t try harder to “make new friends” (she did, but it seemed to get more difficult the further she ventured from her twenties.)

Lena had to admit that she might have gotten too good at hiding certain aspects of herself, to the point where it sometimes felt easier to simply disappear. But she couldn’t say that out loud, certainly not to her mother. So instead, she opened a bottle of cheap wine and curled up on her living room’s ugly green couch. She’d bought the sofa cheap when she’d moved in, telling herself she’d redecorate with something nicer when she could afford it, but it’d been several years. A neighboring bookcase featured a collection of rocks, crystals, and geodes, a Lego model of the old Mars rover Curiosity, and a few framed photographs of her family and favorite former students. But other than that, her apartment remained neglected, like a part of her hadn’t quite accepted that any of this was her life, all her lofty ambitions come to nothing.

One glass in, she opened the package from the IRS.

At first the paperwork from Earthly Tent Ministries didn’t look particularly illuminating, just a bunch of numbers totaling contributions, and no details about donors or what the money was spent on. Then, at the top of page seven, something new. Another named officer: Father John Mackey of St. Frances Cabrini Catholic Church.

Lena ran a quick search and pulled up his photo, including details about his parish, Idaho’s last remaining Catholic church, only thirty minutes away. Perhaps he’d talk to her, especially if she made her pitch in person.

She scrolled past the Sunday mass schedule—she wasn’t so desperate as to show up then, at least not yet—and found a notice for a charity dinner. That could be the perfect opportunity to corner him.

Then she noticed the event date. It was tonight. Actually, it started an hour ago. And when she clicked to buy a general admission ticket, it was sold out.

She frowned. Hardly ideal circumstances. Still, crashing a party couldn’t be any more difficult than what she’d already put up with this workweek. In fact, maybe she’d been looking at this whole situation the wrong way. Maybe she shouldn’t be dreading the worst and trying to fade into the background.

Maybe it was time to stand out.

About an hour later, Lena exited an autocab and rushed out of the rain into the large banquet hall. She wore a cobalt blue silk dress she’d bought months ago on super clearance in a brief-but-expensive moment of weakness. She’d never had anywhere fancy enough to wear it before and smoothed it nervously.

“Ticket?” the bored hostess asked from behind a stand.

“Just a second.” Lena pulled out her phone. She made her voice sticky sweet as she pretended to make a call. “Honey, it’s me. Pick up! I’m here and you still haven’t emailed me my ticket. I’ll be waiting.”

She flashed the young woman an apologetic smile, but the hostess could’ve cared less. She’d gone back to staring at her own screen and tugging absently on one of her piercings. A few minutes later, she was called away from her post by a furious-looking waitress.

As easy as that, with a little bit of patience and glamor, Lena snuck in.

On her way to the bar at the back of the ballroom, she waded past white linen-clothed tables filled with what was clearly a big donor crowd—over-Botoxed women swathed in chiffon and dripping with jewelry, balding men nursing hard liquor. They were still picking at the main course, chicken and mashed potatoes drowned in an herb butter sauce. As waiters refilled waters and cleared plates, she couldn’t help noticing the staff were various shades of black, brown, and cream, while the guests were mostly white.

Telling herself she belonged here just as much as anyone, ticket or no ticket, Lena ordered a red wine and scanned the crowd for Father Mackey. She found him holding court only a few tables away, deep in conversation. Better to hold off approaching him until he got up to mingle.

While she nursed her glass, she eavesdropped on a couple’s conversation, some rumor about the Mars Base:

“…the United States wants to back out.”

“No. That doesn’t—”

“Just too expensive. The ‘Earth First’ movement has real teeth.”

“Sell our shares of AresTech, then?”

“… says not yet. It might even be a good thing. The company could move onto the asteroid belt. That’s where the money is–in mining, not science. Getting to Mars was just good PR.”

She was about to run out of patience when a new voice came from her right:

“Lena, this is a surprise.”

She turned and stared into the brown eyes of Juan Alvarez. He smiled warmly. “I didn’t know you attended St. Frances.”

“I—I don’t,” she blurted, then recovered lamely, “but I couldn’t resist a good cause.”

“Well, that’s two of us.”

Lena hesitated, noting how at ease he looked, despite how much he stood out in this crowd. His dark skin, his immaculate tux, his confident body language. Strangers’ eyes lingered on it all, but then moved on, like water currents around a mountain.

She wracked her brain for small talk. After a few moments, she gave up. “You know, you haven’t returned my phone calls. They start pouring the foundation next week. If you’d like to walk it in person before …”

His face fell and his body tensed, as if she’d failed some test by bringing up business. “No, that won’t be necessary. I’ve already decided not to go ahead.”

“Well. That’s too bad. We were looking forward to working with your organization.”

“Were you?” He scanned the room as if looking for someone to help him escape the conversation. “Well, life’s full of little disappointments.”

Little disappointments? The rich jerk. She was good as fired. She’d default on her student loans. She should’ve never taken the tag off this dress. “Look, how can I fix this? Why are you backing out of the deal?”

His expression hardened. “There was no deal. Only a promise, that you would keep my information confidential. A promise you immediately broke.”

Shit. Her email to Matt. His “discrete” inquiries. Her request to the IRS. Alvarez must’ve found out about one of them—or all. She paled. “How?”

“Is that why you came here tonight?”

“No.” Yes.

He frowned. “You should leave. I’ll have my driver take you home.” He waved over a large man in a dark suit who looked more bodyguard than chauffeur. He led her by the arm.

Lena twisted away. “I was just doing my job. I wanted to make sure you weren’t in some weird cult that was going to hurt people. I—” She faltered. Said out in the open, her worries sounded stupid.

But Alvarez paused. “You weren’t going to the media?”

“Of course not.”

His face softened for a moment, then his jaw set again. “Still. You should go.”

Face burning, she did.

The email from Alvarez’s lawyer waited for her when she got to work Monday:

 

Sales contract approved with stipulations:

• Confidentiality clause to be signed by all parties immediately;
• Completion date: two-year timetable, not three;
• Clarification of use: owner has right to occupy facility at any time. Use is not contingent on crisis/emergency; and
• Maintenance staff to be employed directly by owner.

Suggested closing April 16.

Lena read it three times just to make sure. Then she whooped in delight.

Allen instructed her to continue as Alvarez’s account liaison after the sale, to oversee fit and finish during construction. The number of zeros on her commission made her head swim.

Lena celebrated the closing by giving her landlord notice. Within a week, she paid off most of her debts and sent her parents money to cover her father’s medical bills. Within a month, she put a down payment on a two-bedroom bungalow in town, one by the lake that she’d made the center of her long runs.

Once construction began in earnest on Phase II, Lena spoke to Alvarez almost daily. Today, they toured the shell of the medical wing together, but she couldn’t focus. She’d spent the morning glued to reports about riots following a viral outbreak amongst the tent cities along the Arizona-Mexico border. Nearly 1,200 dead. They were burning bodies.

“Something wrong?” Alvarez asked when she didn’t respond for the third time to his question about the rock-climbing wall planned for the eighth floor.

They weren’t friends by any means, but over the past few months, a certain easiness had developed. Because Alvarez never talked about himself, Lena filled the void—telling him more than she normally would about her father’s battle with MS, about her favorite niece, who was staying with her this summer, about the stray cat who adopted her since her move to the lake. Alvarez listened as if he really cared. On a number of occasions, she’d had the uneasy thought that he would make either a great priest or a great boyfriend.

“It’s nothing,” she replied, massaging her brow.

“Did you see the riots?” He grimaced. “It’s a shame.”

“A shame, yes,” she replied, a tad too sharply. When their eyes met, she was unable to take the accusation out of them. His eyebrows lifted in surprise.

She glanced away. “It’s just … this place.” They walked quietly, surveying the vast, poured concrete floors and walls of what would be a mini-hospital. “These bunker condos are popping up all over the country.”

“I’d think you’d be happy. Business is good, isn’t it?”

She sighed. It was. Although she hadn’t wanted to admit it at first, Allen had been right when he refused to negotiate on price. One of the two bunkers they’d been competing against stopped construction after some sort of major permit snafu. Then the other developer was sued for cutting corners and cheap craftmanship on a previous project. Rather than get in a race toward bottom, Allen’s company had stayed above it all. Sales were steady.

And yet …

Lena said, “I just can’t help thinking that if everyone spent more of their money trying to fix things, instead of giving up and hunkering down, we’d all be better off.”

“Ah.”

She blushed. “I know I’m a hypocrite, selling them. It’s just—”

“You’re not wrong. But it’s more complicated than that. I must focus on the few I can help.”

“So that’s what all this is? Preparation for … end times?”

He eyed her. “Anyone else could say the same thing, and people think they’re just being overly cautious, a little eccentric. But when religion gets involved, it sounds crazy, no?”

Lena thought of her birthplace, Miami, already swallowed by the sea. Of the latest bombings in London. The increasing likelihood that India would join the already powerful Chinese-Russian alliance.

She frowned. Not as crazy as she wished it did.

Eighteen more months passed, and they put the final touches on Phase II. After Lena transferred the keycodes to Alvarez, she expected things to quiet down. Instead, trucks came and went at all hours as she passed on the road to and from work.

She wondered about it but knew better than to ask.

Not that she was rewarded for her discretion. She got her pink slip on a Friday. She’d seen it coming for a while; with both Phase I and II complete, Allen had no more need for a sales staff.

“I hate to do this to you,” Allen said. “I really do. If I’d decided to build a Phase III, you’d be my No. 1. But I’m 64, and it’s time to slow down. We’ve had a good run, haven’t we, honey?”

“We sure have, doll.” She drew out the last word, still unsure how it was possible that she both liked Allen and was constantly infuriated by him.

“Ha,” he said sheepishly. “Sorry.”

She sighed. Back to instant ramen dinners and egg salad sandwiches for lunch. She’d saved up enough to be alright for a while, but then what?

Maybe it had been a mistake to leave teaching. It didn’t pay much, but it was stable. Even more, she missed being part of a community—one driven not by profit but trying to make a better future. Even if that meant feeling like a failure much of the time.

She got the call on her drive home.

“My condolences,” Alvarez said as his face appeared on the windshield.

“Good news travels fast.”

“I wanted to get to you before anyone else. I have a job offer.”

She shot him a look that said she didn’t want his pity. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll find something. Believe it or not, I’m thinking of going back to teaching.”

He smiled in surprise. “Why’s that?”

“I miss it. I think maybe I gave up too easy. Maybe I can find a position that isn’t all test prep and paperwork. I could still do some good.”

Alvarez beamed. “You know, I may be able to help you with that.”

They met outside the compound.

“Now what’s this all about?” Lena huffed, her breath making clouds in the cold mountain air.

“Patience.”

Alvarez led her past the gates. The place was deserted, silent as they entered the main building. Anxiety flashed through her as they approached the elevators. Going up wasn’t always so bad; sometimes she’d imagine she was an astronaut launching into space. But going down? She felt like she was trapped in a coffin, being lowered into her final resting place.

The doors opened on floor nine. Lena stepped off and was blinded by the sudden bright light and rush of voices. At least 80 children sat in a cafeteria eating lunch, their boisterous conversation almost entirely in Spanish. She stared, too stunned to speak.

Alvarez led on. Beyond the cafeteria, a hallway branched into various rooms. Inside, teachers stood at digiboards teaching math to teens, gathered on colorful carpets reading alongside little ones. Alvarez showed her the science lab, the computer lab, then stopped inside the empty gymnasium, their footsteps echoing.

“Juan, what is all this? Why don’t these kids go to a regular school, above ground?”

“They can’t. They don’t just go to school here, they live here, along with their parents, on the residential floors above us.”

“Why?” she asked, horrified.

“You said you knew my story, about my mother’s hometown.”

“What does that have to do with this?”

“This is her hometown. At least, what’s left of it. They knew the United States would never allow them to enter legally, so …”

“You smuggled them in? Juan, this is crazy.”

“So was allowing them to stay and die. The border agents, with all the budget cuts, are more easily bribed than they used to be. Here there are no gangs or floods. They can just live.”

“But for how long? This isn’t healthy.” She opened her mouth. Closed it. “I don’t know what else to say.”

“Say you’ll help.”

Nervous laughter bubbled up. “No, I can’t. Eventually these people will need to leave, and they’ll be traced back to you.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. When they’re ready to leave, they’ll be going to a better place.”

“A better place?” A tiny tendril of fear flared in her chest. She took a step back, suddenly reminded of the fact she was several stories beneath the earth, standing next to a man who had never once told her anything personal about himself.

She forced a laugh. “I swear, if you say you’re all moving to a higher plane of consciousness or heaven or whatever …”

Alvarez chuckled. “Well, we’re headed for the heavens, but not in the way you mean. We’re going to Mars.”

“What?”

“Mars,” he repeated, a huge grin spreading across his face. “This isn’t just a hiding place. It’s a training ground. The children are our future explorers. The adults are experts at farming in tough conditions, and others will be taught how to keep the Martian habitat functioning.”

“But … how is that possible?”

He threw back his shoulders. “Follow me.”

Alvarez strode back through the school to the main elevator shaft. They ascended six floors, then through another labyrinth of hallways. The whole way, she battled herself. She should leave. But she burned with curiosity—and something else she was afraid to even put a name to, something she’d repressed for a long, long time.

Finally, they arrived at a pair of double doors, which Alvarez opened with a flourish. She inhaled a strong scent, unexpected yet utterly familiar: Rain.

She stepped inside and felt the familiar tingle on her skin, the memory of so many humid, Florida summers. In the dim lighting, she squinted at the room stretching before her, long as a football field. On one side, row after row of plants. On the other, vats of some strange-smelling ooze.

Dozens of adults moved quietly about. A few wore white lab coats, but most sported ordinary street clothes as they checked the plants and misting system. A few took samples from the large vats and adjusted LED lamps.

“It hasn’t been announced yet,” Alvarez said, “but the United States and other contributor countries are pulling out of Mars. We’re taking their place.”

Lena shot Alvarez a skeptical look. “I know you’re rich, but how in God’s name could you afford to maintain a habitat that’s too expensive even for the UN?”

“Funny you should use that phrase. Do you know how much the Catholic Church is worth?”

She blinked. “The Catholic Church is buying the Mars Base?”

“Leasing it, technically, for the next 100 years. There are going to be a lot of bitter, unemployed scientists and engineers soon, and the church will be happy to hire them. We’re going to build down into the planet’s lava tubes. The habitats won’t be too different from this bunker, so living here is good practice. The first section should be ready in five years.”

She shook her head. “Why would the church go to such an expense?”

He glanced at her reproachfully, as if this answer were the most obvious of all. “We’re doing God’s work.”

“Riiiight.”

He sighed. “Lena, most of our followers across the globe are either homeless or suffering from climate change. If we could give people hope—”

“You aren’t doing people any favors by selling them Mars as some Promised Land. It’s going to be harsher than any place on Earth. Twenty-seven astronauts already lost their lives.” She leaned closer and hissed. “And your church doesn’t exactly have a track record that fills me with trust for how it protects its most vulnerable members.”

Alvarez stiffened, then cleared his throat. “We’ve learned from our mistakes. We had to.”

“Maybe. But do these people really understand what they’re in for?”

“Did you?” he shot back. “You once dreamed of going to Mars. Did that make you foolish—or brave?”

She looked away, doubt etching across her features. “I don’t know,” she finally muttered. “Maybe both.”

Alvarez softened. “Look, why don’t you ask them yourself? Speak to anyone here.” He held out his hands.

Lena glanced around. Her gaze caught on an old woman wearing a long skirt who examined a sickly set of plants. She approached and started to introduce herself in Spanish, but the woman just shook her head, like she didn’t comprehend.

“Lena, this is my godmother, Chimalmat,” Alvarez said, coming up behind them. “She lived her whole life a mile from my mother’s house. I’ll have to translate for you. She speaks the Mayan language K’iche’.”

Lena stared at the tiny woman in awe. She looked at least 90. “Godmother, why do you want to go to Mars?”

The woman laughed after Alvarez translated. “She says you’re either incredibly polite or incredibly naive,” he said with a sad smile. “She expects she will die here on Earth. However, she has bigger hopes for her grandchildren.”

Chimalmat stepped forward and grabbed onto Lena’s wrist with a bony, leathery hand. Her grip was iron, her eyes black moons.

“She says the Maya irrigated fields, charted the stars and planets, erected vast monuments back when half the world was still living in mud hovels. She says they’ve survived genocide, disease, civil war and the destruction of their land. They know suffering, have endured it for thousands of years. She says if any people are strong enough to tame Mars, hers are.”

The first day of school always made Lena nervous. But as the students took their seats, they didn’t look bored or tired or distracted. A few flashed shy smiles or whispered between the aisles; most just waited for her to speak.

Perhaps where they came from made them grateful just to be there. Or perhaps where they were going made them thirsty for every drop of knowledge.

Or maybe she was the one who was different. She’d promised Alvarez she’d teach until the first lava tube habitat could be built. After that, she might even ask to go with them. Faith, she’d never had much supply of. But hope? She could allow herself that again.

Lena smiled to the class and took a deep breath: “Buenos días, jóvenes. Me llamo Señorita Lehrer. Hoy aprenderemos geología. Marte es un planeta compuesto totalmente de rocas y …”

END

Spanish language translation courtesy of Carolina Cardona