The Horton Dilemma [ONC 2022]

NUTRIENT-FORTIFIED CHAMPAGNE CELEBRATION

The success of my TEDTalk calls for a celebration, and I can't imagine celebrating with anyone other than my childhood best friend, Nakomi. Nakomi has made us reservations at one of the most popular restaurants in Portland, Oregon, called simply The Coast. The two of us plan to get a few tapas and some nutrient-fortified champagne. The restaurant charges over double for a nutrient-fortified champagne compared to a regular champagne, but they know that people like Nakomi and I order the drinks in lieu of main courses.

When I get to the restaurant, Nakomi's already sitting at a table for two by the window. The window reveals a gorgeous view of the coastline merging with the starry night sky. Only, it isn't actually a window, and it isn't actually the coast (Portland isn't even on the coast)—it's a screen portraying images of a beautiful coastline and a beautiful sky, an image that might not even belong to Oregon. Heck, it might not even be real, but rather an artist's rendition. Oregon's true coast, like California's coast, is becoming increasingly polluted. Black tar dots the beaches, toxic algae blooms color the seas, and noxious materials that have been secretly dumped into the oceans over time continue to seep into the sands with each wave. No one goes swimming or surfing anymore, and those who do are just begging for an illness, or worse, a terminal disease, and, unfortunately, we still haven't come up with a cure for cancer. As my legs bring me closer to our table for two, I gaze out at the fake scenery longingly, wondering if my colony on Mars will have fake, immersive scenes like this to help me remember and cherish the beauties of Earth's past. Maybe they won't. Maybe I'll be stuck looking at the red expanse or at the inside of the colony, neither of which sounds very aesthetically pleasing. Maybe I should have thought about this more before I signed on for Goby's trip.

Nakomi jumps up to embrace me as I approach my chair, squeezing me extra hard for several moments before releasing me. I notice she has already ordered each of us a flute of nutrient-fortified champagne; hers sits half-empty on the table.

"You couldn't wait for me, huh?"

"Of course I couldn't wait! I'm frazzled and depressed. Izzy, do you realize you're leaving me in 86 days? Off to the final frontier. Boldly going where no man has gone before and all that jazz."

The two of us sit, as I arrange my cloth napkin on my lap."Nakomi, I'm going to Mars, not to a new galaxy. 147 people already live there, including men. Many men have gone there before."

"I know. I just...I'm gonna miss you." Nakomi pouts like I'm betraying her, but I won't give in to guilt. She must know that, because her pout turns into a smile. "How was your TEDTalk?" she asks, daintily sipping her champagne.

"So great. I didn't screw up once. And to think I thought public speaking was not my forte."

"I've put together a bucket list for us."

The sudden change of subject means that Nakomi doesn't really care all that much about my talk (she's already had her own TEDTalk, which I didn't attend in person and which we also celebrated once she'd flown home). With the introduction of the new subject, instant reluctance sets into my stomach. "A bucket list?"

"A list of things the two of us need to do together before you leave!"

Nakomi and I used to be "attached at the hip," as my mother would say. Then, our careers got in the way, and like most adults, we grew apart. Well, not exactly. We stayed close, but we just didn't spend nearly as much time together as we would have liked.

Now, the two of us are still as busy as ever, but we have more flexibility. We aren't answering to other people. We are answering to ourselves.

Which means I have no excuse to decline her request to complete a bucket list.