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Fiction

Genesis

By Jeon Sam-hye
Translated from Korean by Anton Hur
Jeon Sam-hye’s smitten space trainee moons over her superstar roommate in this Korean short story.

Only a few machines on this moon-base remain working. The satellite camera that always faces Earth, the monitor connected to that camera, the memory device, and the replay device. They run on solar power, so I suppose they’ll stay on as long as the sun exists. They’ll keep their vigil over Earth after I’m gone. The sun won’t last forever, but at least I’ll have disappeared before it goes out.

It’s sad to disappear. I guess it’s like being an old radio that breaks down one day and goes forever silent. So I won’t count the things that will break down. Actually, I’ve been counting every day. Just to know how long I can continue to survive. But you don’t need to know all that.

You don’t have to worry about me. I’m at peace. If you could see me now you’d probably swipe your hair over your ear and make a face. Your nose would get those tiny wrinkles. You’d say, “Lia, how could you . . .” and bow your head, touch your forehead with your fingertips, not finish your sentence, and smile. I can see it before it happens. I’ve spent more time with you than anyone else in my life, roomie. I close my eyes, and imagine you, humming the songs you like. Muttering the lines from your favorite films. I can see the views from your favorite places to sit. I see the color of the peppermint candy tin on your desk in the office. If it has to do with you, I can see it.

I think of you as I watch our no-longer blue Earth.

They say that’s what people said when they left the atmosphere on a spaceship for the first time.

That the world was a blue planet.

They say because the Earth is mostly ocean, the world looks blue from space. Somewhere on that Earth is the Genesis Corporation and the school it established, the Special Training Center for Space and Aeronautics, where we grew up together. But Earth is no longer blue. It’s covered with clouds of ash, impossible to tell whether there’s land or ocean underneath. And I’m on a small satellite orbiting the Earth. The moon.

It’s been six months since I came to the moon. You were so angry when I told you of my assignment. “Why are you the only one being punished?” And of course, being sent to fix the old “Moonwriter” message recorder is in itself a de facto penalty. You sighed as you slowly took in the split lip and bruised limbs I earned from fighting the boys. “Lia, why did you do it? I refuse to believe you would hit someone for no reason.” I didn’t answer and you added, in a small voice, “And during the final evaluations period, too . . .” But don’t worry. Robin’s gang is probably more pissed off than I am. Idiots who thought they could push us around just because they were a couple of years older and almost adults.

When our principal sighed in front of the huge “Special Training Center for Space and Aeronautics” sign at our front gate, I still wasn’t scared of the consequences. “Lia, a little girl like you, how could you think of fighting three older boys?” That’s what he said to me after he had sent the boys back to the dorm after dealing with them. I tried to smile but I couldn’t. My busted lip from that Robin bastard hurt too much. The principal called up my grades and frowned. It was only fair to take off the same number of points as the boys, but I didn’t have enough to take off. I had bad grades and no outstanding accomplishments. Which is why I was always being compared against you, the overachiever. My only real fear might have been expulsion. But you know that never happens at our school. We don’t have anywhere to go. The point of Genesis’s school was to provide opportunities for helpless orphans with potential. So they’re not going to kick out a seventeen-year-old girl for being troublesome. I wasn’t worried. Whatever they did to me, I’d still be with you.

So the principal’s assignment for me came as a shock. It was the first time since I’d met you that we had to be apart for a whole month. Robin’s gang probably got at most ten days suspension and forty hours of community service, but I got solitary assignment for a month. And to go inspect that hunk of junk? The Moonwriter has been around since before I entered school.

I don’t resent Genesis. I’m grateful to them for bringing us together. It would’ve been nice to have entered with you, but it’s you who passed the exam at ten. Despite the exam’s instructions assuring us that no one under twelve could possibly pass.

It’s funny if you think about it.

What idiot, or genius, thought to invent a machine that writes on the moon. To fill in the craters and scratch out human language with its giant arms.

That’s the only thing I know more about than you do: the Moonwriter. You’re in Space Weather Control and I’m in Mechanical Repairs, of course I know more about it. Which is why I kept talking about it all night, under the covers, when I began learning about it. I was glad to have something I knew better, and before you did.

You were my roommate for the five years that passed since I entered school, you were my mother and older sister, and sometimes my cute baby sister. But you were also the school’s greatest hope, the star who passed the Space Weather Controller Level 3 exam in three years while it took others at least five. And you climbed up the ladder to Manager of Space Weather Control Division A. They couldn’t name you chief because you were too young, but everyone knew you were the best officer in the Space Weather Control department after Director Singh. You wore the white blazer and indigo slacks of the school uniform, but were superior to ten adults combined. That was you, Saeun Choi.

We were fifteen when we decided on our careers. We were done with primary school, and we knew the moment our next education track was decided, our jobs would be set in stone. Of course you applied for Space Weather Control, the most competitive track. I didn’t apply to Meteorology or Statistics where I could be close to you, but to Mechanical Repairs where there were lots of dispatch jobs, not to mention its weaker kids being carted off to the infirmary once a week.

I got in by the skin of my teeth, to be honest. It was a miracle I got in the school at all, considering how badly I’ve done since. But there are lots of kids like me. The teachers like to disparage us, saying that after working so hard to get in, now we slack off. But I want to say this: I wasn’t slacking off. I had to do my best to watch over you, and that meant concentrating less on studying. And the reason why I didn’t apply to the same track despite this was . . . I’ll explain that a bit later.

Were you upset that I’d applied for a different track? Or were you too caught up with the joy of having been accepted to your first choice, hugging me and jumping up and down with elation? I remember how the name plaques on our room door were changed. Yours had an insignia for Space Weather Control below your name, “Saeun Choi,” mine one for Mechanical Repairs under “Lia Yu.” And I thought we would live on like that, roommates until we turned twenty, you the star of the school and me the ordinary girl. That we’d fall asleep together, eat together, talk about our day together, and sometimes share secrets together.

I wanted us to live on.

It all seems like a dream now, a time out of reach.

I can’t blame it all on Robin’s gang. Even if he did lie about your passing the Space Weather Controller Level 1 exam, saying it was because you put out for the Director, leading me to strike him.

It wasn’t Robin’s fault that the meteor hit Earth.

I ran my mouth off during that fight, saying things like he wouldn’t come to his senses if a meteor hit him on the head. But that’s . . . that’s not why Earth was destroyed. Like, just because Robin saw you exit Director Singh’s office around 1 a.m. a week before the exam, it doesn’t mean you made some kind of unsavory deal with him to pass.

Sorry, Saeun. If you could hear me now you’d be shocked. I’m glad you can’t hear me.

I knew everything. That a week before the Level 1 written exam it was Director Singh’s birthday. That for a full moon before that you were running to the department store at every break, looking at neckties. That the necktie you wanted was more expensive than the amount you could come up with from our allowances.

That you snuck a flashlight under the covers and wrote letters all night. That you took the present to him after lights out around midnight. I knew everything.

How could I not. With Director Singh’s initials marked on your calendar, the necktie catalog underneath your pillow, the crumpled letters in the wastepaper basket. How could I not notice your tiptoeing to our dorm window and slipping out. What I don’t know is what Director Singh said when he refused you. Because you were back in twenty minutes and crying silently underneath the covers. I only know how you felt. Because what you felt when he turned you down was how I felt whenever I looked at you.

When Robin called you that “W” word that stands for prostitute and lied about you, I wanted to dispute each and every detail: You couldn’t have come out of Singh’s office at 1 a.m. You were in your bed and crying by 12:30. But my fists went flying instead. Because Robin didn’t care about the truth, he just wanted to slander you. He’s like all the other “promising” kids who eventually wash out. The ones whose dirty looks were as sharp as the razor blades inside the anonymous letters we would find in our mailbox.

I wanted to tell him that I knew Saeun Choi better than any friend or family, that if he crossed her I would kill him. That I knew you better than anyone else because I loved you. But I couldn’t say that. Just a word of that would’ve made me burst into tears, and that’s just pathetic. Plus, I hadn’t even told you that I loved you, and I sure wasn’t going to tell Robin first.

I thought about it a lot. Love. Whether this emotion, which I’d never received from anyone, was really love. If it’s not jealousy or yearning that makes kids put razor blades in our mailbox or leave gifts on our doorstep, maybe what I’m feeling shouldn’t be called love, either.

But would these kids who yearn for you also watch over you in your sleep every morning and think of being with you for life? Do they also wish they could cry your tears for you when someone says hurtful things to you? Why would I have thought of the word “love” when I’ve never learned what it is . . .

Don’t worry. I won’t leave these words behind. Not even on the dark side of the moon. I won’t do anything you wouldn’t like. And I’m now the only person in the universe who can operate the Moonwriter. It’s been over five months since Earth was deluged in clouds of ash. This record may be the only record of Earth that will remain. The Moonwriter is running out of battery power. If I knew I’d be marooned here for so long, I would’ve studied harder.

Let me talk about the Moonwriter. But before that, the orphanage I came from. It held religious services every Sunday. While the older kids sang in the choir, I’d be nodding off to sleep. The Sunday school teachers told us all kinds of stories to keep us awake, but I can’t remember any of them. I do remember the first line of the Book of Genesis. Because it was also the first message Genesis wrote on the moon.

“In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth.”

I was nine, and the Moonwriter was a big deal at the time. We all gathered around the small television at the orphanage, watching the Moonwriter write the first sentence on the moon using its giant pen.

Appropriate, really. The name of the Moonwriter’s company being Genesis. The people who accepted the Book of Genesis as literal fact believed the Earth was the center of the universe with the sun and moon in orbit of it, and here comes the Genesis Corporation using the moon as a giant, profit-creating billboard.

Genesis bought out the moon from all the countries of the world, and smoothed out the side facing Earth. People used to say they could see a woman’s face on the moon, or even a rabbit, but it was now just a round, white page. The old videos show scenes of the great big shovels and backhoes of the Moonwriter cultivating the surface. Maybe the memory card has copies. After that was done, the Corporation sent out a live broadcast of the Moonwriter writing its first message. The moment the line from Genesis was written, the moment the Moonwriter’s huge pen nib was lifted from the surface, all of us orphans ran outside and looked up at the moon. Our orphanage didn’t have a good telescope, so we looked up at the sky with our naked eyes. “Do you see it? Do you see it?” We were nine. We were looking up at the sky from our different orphanages.

Before we knew each other.

That was the first time I thought of going to the moon. I always knew I was somehow different from the other kids. But when I came to this school and met you, I forgot it all. The moment I laid eyes on you for the first time, I thanked God. Because God made the moon, and made humanity. And humanity made Genesis, which created the school where I met you.

Just a second. I need to lower my oxygen a bit. I’ve no choice if I want to survive for a bit longer. My body is getting used to the lower oxygen density. My movements and my breathing are slowing. I can imagine everyone’s surprise, or the surprise of any survivors from Earth who manage to find me here. My assignment was for a month. The emergency rations and oxygen in the Moonwriter were to last four months, tops. How could I, a seventeen-year-old girl, have managed to stretch that out to six? And have another month of oxygen and rations remaining.

We learned more than just the history and structure of machines in the Mechanical Repairs track. One of our harsher lessons was how to survive in space.

I underwent G-force training every week, as well as survival training every six months, the latter of which meant learning how to live off of minimal rations and oxygen. The kids on our track tended to be thin and were shallow breathers. Simulated launches made me want to vomit, and I’d rant in my sleep on those nights, but now I’m grateful for it all. Even if the only meaning in my life now is thumping on the Moonwriter keyboard, recording into the memory device.

I was shocked at first. It was ten days until my scheduled return to Earth, but the Moonwriter was long fixed. The assignment was really about punishing me rather than the Moonwriter needing repairs. During my free time I was channel surfing through the cameras installed up here, thinking of which messages to keep and which to erase. A matter of profit, completely unrelated to the romantic prospect of writing on the moon.

Genesis’s tagline was, “Your message engraved on the face of eternity.” They meant the message would never wear away, because there was no weathering on the moon. Eternity, of course, in the sense that it would remain as long as the client paid for maintenance. If they didn’t, it would be erased and someone else’s message would take its place. So many plots for rent, filled with writing in different styles, languages. I was looking through all of them, when one monitor went dark.

The one connected to Earth.

I don’t like noise. I rarely even listened to music on the moon. So the speakers were turned off. And all I knew was that the Earth monitor had gone dark. So I don’t know whether the moment it happened was loud or silent. When I turned my head, the monitor was simply black. It wasn’t showing me the night sky, it was as if the camera had come unhitched. All other systems were normal. I just sat there, blinking, at first. I input the other channels into the brightly lit main monitor. They came up fine. I input the channels into the Earth monitor. It wasn’t a monitor malfunction. They came up fine there, too.

I found myself digging my fingernails into my thighs in order to prevent myself from running out of the base. I realized what had happened. Communications with Earth were cut off. Their transmissions no longer reached the moon. I switched the base to movement mode, and drove it to where I could see Earth. The two-legged, one-person moonbase lumbered forward, avoiding the inscribed messages. When I got there and looked out, Earth was already clouding over. Its surface was fading into something resembling fog, the shining blue parts succumbing to haze. I rubbed my eyes but the fog didn’t clear.

I tried to recall the manual on what to do when the network goes down. One, check the connection of the transmitter. Two, send an emergency signal to the unmanned satellite control center in orbit between Earth and the moon. Three, input your ID and password and wait to be reconnected. Nothing worked. The transmitter was connected and I sent the emergency signal. No one on Earth acknowledged my message.

And I couldn’t connect to the emergency channel. The login screen for the Aerospace Network wouldn’t come online. I waited in order to input my ID and the password, an anagram of your name, but the screen never came up.

My breathing quickened. I scrolled through the transmission logs. What was my last communication with Earth? My regular report, given once every three days, was two days ago. And, I talked to you yesterday. That was last night, or twenty hours ago Earth time.

What did you say to me last?

What did we talk about?

I felt my hair turning white. I tried calming down, and brought up our communication recording.

—INCOMING TRANSMISSION FROM MOONWRITER BASE. SPECIAL TRAINING CENTER FOR SPACE AND AERONAUTICS LIA YU. CODE UH-E-20258. PRIVATE CHANNEL REQUESTED. CODE UH-C-C0886 SAEUN CHOI. PLEASE RESPOND.

—CONNECTING. PLEASE HOLD.

Some muffled machine sounds. I heard a cough. It was early evening where you were, but you looked tired and there were bags under your eyes. You rubbed your eyes and gave me a weak smile.

—Hey. How’s the weather up there?

—Rainy. Windy. The base is just about to flip over. You?

Joking, of course, but there was something serious about your expression.

—Nothing much. Some stupid meteor changed course and wants to pay Earth a visit. Hope it’s not expecting a visa from me.

—Meteor? The one you said would miss us?

Taking care of incoming meteors was one of the Space Weather Control department’s chief priorities. At some point, these meteors kept unexpectedly turning toward Earth. Oddly enough, it was when Genesis started using the moon as a billboard, so the corporation found itself with religious groups constantly protesting at its doorstep. We’d visit corporate headquarters for training, and the multilingual prayers, graffiti, and shouting that would greet us would make our heads spin and ears ring. Even if all the messages on the moon were turned into noise it wouldn’t make that racket. They glared at us like we were the devil. They said God was judging us for having our way with the moon, His creation.

As if to mock them, Genesis invested in the development of an expensive anti-meteor device. It shattered smaller meteors and diverted larger ones. It’s true the number of meteors heading for Earth these past few years were more than all the meteors that had ever come its way combined. But you and the Space Weather Control department were effective, declaring emergencies at the right time, using destroyers and diverting satellites to keep meteors out of the atmosphere. People would be scared by hurricanes or tsunamis, but not meteors. So I thought you were joking. You were calculating the path of the meteor even on the night before I left, but your face was as peaceful as if you were solving an easy linear equation.

—It’ll miss. Probably.

I saw Director Singh walk by behind you with a mug in his hand. You were just rubbing your eyes again, unaware. But I saw. Clear as day despite the blurry video feed. Director Singh, whose neckties were always the same patterns, the same colors, was wearing a tie I’d never seen before. The kind of tie a girl our age might pick out. A flashy, cheap tie, light years from your own good taste. You were rubbing your eyes as he said a friendly hello to someone. I was glad you couldn’t see my hardening expression.

—When are you coming back to Earth?

—I’ll shuttle in in ten days. Five days of gravity readjustment therapy after that.

—Come home quickly.

—Why?

You brought your coffee mug to your lips and sipped. Coffee, I knew, with so much sugar and milk, it was probably closer to milk than latte.

—I don’t like sleeping alone in the dorm.

If what you felt for Director Singh was just a playful, light spring breeze kind of thing, I would’ve cracked a joke. Something like, Are you still heartbroken over him? But we were seventeen. We’d never learned how to accept love, much less give it, and love was less a spring breeze and more like a hurricane.

I wanted to run to you right away. I wanted to say, Hey Saeun, after I go back and write up an apology, file my report, and let the principal finish reprimanding me, do you want to go on vacation? Somewhere on the beaches of the Southern Hemisphere? We can build castles in the white sand and drink coconut milk. At night we can sneak into the hotel bar and have cocktails. Like we’re adults. We’ll forget about everything else. I hesitated, and opened my mouth.

“Saeun. You’re being summoned.”

Robin, who still had a bandage on his face, called you from behind. He probably saw me on the monitor. I gracefully stuck up my middle finger and he made a face. You turned to him and spoke to him for a while. Probably something like you were on a call and whether the summons were really that important. Robin must’ve won, because you shrugged and stood up.

—Come home quickly.

With the bags under your eyes, fatigue heavy on your face, with that smile that makes me want to hug your shoulders and pat your back, our communication blacked out.

That was my last recorded connection with Earth.

I’m glad. That the last person I talked to on Earth was you.

That the last person on Earth who reached out to me was you.

What could’ve happened? Within the twenty hours we were out of contact, what went on there? You must’ve done everything you could. You must’ve recalculated the meteor’s path tens of times, trying to save Earth. You wouldn’t have let go for a second to sigh or cry. You were probably at your station to the last second, ignoring the order to evacuate to the bunker. And . . . yes, unlikely as it is . . . you might’ve thought, instead of Director Singh . . . you might’ve thought of me.

I can’t cry.

Crying speeds up breathing. Which uses up oxygen. It’s also dehydrating. I don’t want to forfeit an extra day of survival just because I cried.

When the Earth was covered in ash, I spent several days in numb silence. In the beginning I screamed and threw things, feeling like I was in a nightmare, I cried as I beat against the walls. All useless. I kept the batteries on all day, waiting for word from Earth. But soon I just . . . gave up. Maybe some people got away, to unmanned spaceships or other bases. But you, you wouldn’t have.

We couldn’t escape. Throughout our school years we had no parents to cry to over the phone about our harsh training. We could achieve so much because we found love in school, and we had to fight if we wanted to keep our loves. The fight crept into our bones. So you wouldn’t have left for the bunker, or fled the atmosphere. You wanted to protect Earth for my return. Brave Saeun Choi. Never crying in the halls or in class, or in front of me, but always in your bed. You were seventeen.

I was left at the orphanage at birth, so the words mother and father were as distant as stars. But not you. Your name was different from other words. Here, where everyone obsessed over their work because they were lonely, where we lived in fear of becoming useless and losing our hard-earned places; on a blue planet as cold as its color, you were my warmth. The word on my mind. That word was you.

You were strong and beautiful. You always did your best and produced the best. When you walked down the hall, your determined grace commanded our gaze. Boys loved you, girls, too. But no one dared confess it to you.

No one was deserving of your strength and perfection. No one could be your equal. Only I knew that you sometimes had nightmares that left you in silent, tearful agony, that you grimaced into the mirror every morning as you tried to tame your bedhead, that the drawers of your desk were always a mess. Me, who was always by your side. I didn’t care if the only reason you had me as your roommate for five years was because you knew you could count on me to keep your secrets. If that’s what you wanted, I will do so to the end. Your anxiety, your tears, your love, all of it. Even if there is no one to listen to those secrets anymore.

You were like the moon. The moon would only reveal one side of itself, and until the invention of spaceships, the other side was a mystery. Like you were, to the others around you. The moon showed the same face because its rotation period was the same as its orbiting period. Which is about one month in Earth time. If a rotation is a day and an orbit is a year, a day on the moon is a year, or about a month in Earth time. I’ve been on this moon for six days, on it for six months, or, in other words, six years.

I’ve blabbered on. But I’m not going to write this story on the moon. I’m going to erase it. And I’m going to erase all the old messages written on the moon’s surface, too. By then there ought to be just enough energy left in the Moonwriter to engrave a short fairytale.

Do you think it’s pointless?

I’m having trouble just banging on this keyboard and checking my words on the monitor. My body sleeps for longer hours, and waking up is getting harder. But I want to write just one more story on the surface of the moon before I fall asleep for good.

Your story.

The child who entered the most exclusive school on Earth at ten, and became its star. The child who was strong and wise and kind to everyone. In my story, you won’t be the far side of the moon, afraid of being found out, but the sun. You won’t be known for living happily ever after with some prince, but for being the bravest princess who ever was. And when I’ve finished writing it, I’ll go searching for you. To a place that’s farther than the moon or Earth.

I’ll be leaving to meet you, my world.

They say God created the world in six days and rested on the seventh. Whereas I will have rested for six days before creating my fictional world. But in it, I will make you into the world’s happiest, most brilliant person. So good-bye. I will delete everything I’ve written thus far. And a new story will begin.

You were my world, and so I give you, too, a world.


© Jeon Sam-hye. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2016 by Anton Hur. All rights reserved.

English Korean (Original)

Only a few machines on this moon-base remain working. The satellite camera that always faces Earth, the monitor connected to that camera, the memory device, and the replay device. They run on solar power, so I suppose they’ll stay on as long as the sun exists. They’ll keep their vigil over Earth after I’m gone. The sun won’t last forever, but at least I’ll have disappeared before it goes out.

It’s sad to disappear. I guess it’s like being an old radio that breaks down one day and goes forever silent. So I won’t count the things that will break down. Actually, I’ve been counting every day. Just to know how long I can continue to survive. But you don’t need to know all that.

You don’t have to worry about me. I’m at peace. If you could see me now you’d probably swipe your hair over your ear and make a face. Your nose would get those tiny wrinkles. You’d say, “Lia, how could you . . .” and bow your head, touch your forehead with your fingertips, not finish your sentence, and smile. I can see it before it happens. I’ve spent more time with you than anyone else in my life, roomie. I close my eyes, and imagine you, humming the songs you like. Muttering the lines from your favorite films. I can see the views from your favorite places to sit. I see the color of the peppermint candy tin on your desk in the office. If it has to do with you, I can see it.

I think of you as I watch our no-longer blue Earth.

They say that’s what people said when they left the atmosphere on a spaceship for the first time.

That the world was a blue planet.

They say because the Earth is mostly ocean, the world looks blue from space. Somewhere on that Earth is the Genesis Corporation and the school it established, the Special Training Center for Space and Aeronautics, where we grew up together. But Earth is no longer blue. It’s covered with clouds of ash, impossible to tell whether there’s land or ocean underneath. And I’m on a small satellite orbiting the Earth. The moon.

It’s been six months since I came to the moon. You were so angry when I told you of my assignment. “Why are you the only one being punished?” And of course, being sent to fix the old “Moonwriter” message recorder is in itself a de facto penalty. You sighed as you slowly took in the split lip and bruised limbs I earned from fighting the boys. “Lia, why did you do it? I refuse to believe you would hit someone for no reason.” I didn’t answer and you added, in a small voice, “And during the final evaluations period, too . . .” But don’t worry. Robin’s gang is probably more pissed off than I am. Idiots who thought they could push us around just because they were a couple of years older and almost adults.

When our principal sighed in front of the huge “Special Training Center for Space and Aeronautics” sign at our front gate, I still wasn’t scared of the consequences. “Lia, a little girl like you, how could you think of fighting three older boys?” That’s what he said to me after he had sent the boys back to the dorm after dealing with them. I tried to smile but I couldn’t. My busted lip from that Robin bastard hurt too much. The principal called up my grades and frowned. It was only fair to take off the same number of points as the boys, but I didn’t have enough to take off. I had bad grades and no outstanding accomplishments. Which is why I was always being compared against you, the overachiever. My only real fear might have been expulsion. But you know that never happens at our school. We don’t have anywhere to go. The point of Genesis’s school was to provide opportunities for helpless orphans with potential. So they’re not going to kick out a seventeen-year-old girl for being troublesome. I wasn’t worried. Whatever they did to me, I’d still be with you.

So the principal’s assignment for me came as a shock. It was the first time since I’d met you that we had to be apart for a whole month. Robin’s gang probably got at most ten days suspension and forty hours of community service, but I got solitary assignment for a month. And to go inspect that hunk of junk? The Moonwriter has been around since before I entered school.

I don’t resent Genesis. I’m grateful to them for bringing us together. It would’ve been nice to have entered with you, but it’s you who passed the exam at ten. Despite the exam’s instructions assuring us that no one under twelve could possibly pass.

It’s funny if you think about it.

What idiot, or genius, thought to invent a machine that writes on the moon. To fill in the craters and scratch out human language with its giant arms.

That’s the only thing I know more about than you do: the Moonwriter. You’re in Space Weather Control and I’m in Mechanical Repairs, of course I know more about it. Which is why I kept talking about it all night, under the covers, when I began learning about it. I was glad to have something I knew better, and before you did.

You were my roommate for the five years that passed since I entered school, you were my mother and older sister, and sometimes my cute baby sister. But you were also the school’s greatest hope, the star who passed the Space Weather Controller Level 3 exam in three years while it took others at least five. And you climbed up the ladder to Manager of Space Weather Control Division A. They couldn’t name you chief because you were too young, but everyone knew you were the best officer in the Space Weather Control department after Director Singh. You wore the white blazer and indigo slacks of the school uniform, but were superior to ten adults combined. That was you, Saeun Choi.

We were fifteen when we decided on our careers. We were done with primary school, and we knew the moment our next education track was decided, our jobs would be set in stone. Of course you applied for Space Weather Control, the most competitive track. I didn’t apply to Meteorology or Statistics where I could be close to you, but to Mechanical Repairs where there were lots of dispatch jobs, not to mention its weaker kids being carted off to the infirmary once a week.

I got in by the skin of my teeth, to be honest. It was a miracle I got in the school at all, considering how badly I’ve done since. But there are lots of kids like me. The teachers like to disparage us, saying that after working so hard to get in, now we slack off. But I want to say this: I wasn’t slacking off. I had to do my best to watch over you, and that meant concentrating less on studying. And the reason why I didn’t apply to the same track despite this was . . . I’ll explain that a bit later.

Were you upset that I’d applied for a different track? Or were you too caught up with the joy of having been accepted to your first choice, hugging me and jumping up and down with elation? I remember how the name plaques on our room door were changed. Yours had an insignia for Space Weather Control below your name, “Saeun Choi,” mine one for Mechanical Repairs under “Lia Yu.” And I thought we would live on like that, roommates until we turned twenty, you the star of the school and me the ordinary girl. That we’d fall asleep together, eat together, talk about our day together, and sometimes share secrets together.

I wanted us to live on.

It all seems like a dream now, a time out of reach.

I can’t blame it all on Robin’s gang. Even if he did lie about your passing the Space Weather Controller Level 1 exam, saying it was because you put out for the Director, leading me to strike him.

It wasn’t Robin’s fault that the meteor hit Earth.

I ran my mouth off during that fight, saying things like he wouldn’t come to his senses if a meteor hit him on the head. But that’s . . . that’s not why Earth was destroyed. Like, just because Robin saw you exit Director Singh’s office around 1 a.m. a week before the exam, it doesn’t mean you made some kind of unsavory deal with him to pass.

Sorry, Saeun. If you could hear me now you’d be shocked. I’m glad you can’t hear me.

I knew everything. That a week before the Level 1 written exam it was Director Singh’s birthday. That for a full moon before that you were running to the department store at every break, looking at neckties. That the necktie you wanted was more expensive than the amount you could come up with from our allowances.

That you snuck a flashlight under the covers and wrote letters all night. That you took the present to him after lights out around midnight. I knew everything.

How could I not. With Director Singh’s initials marked on your calendar, the necktie catalog underneath your pillow, the crumpled letters in the wastepaper basket. How could I not notice your tiptoeing to our dorm window and slipping out. What I don’t know is what Director Singh said when he refused you. Because you were back in twenty minutes and crying silently underneath the covers. I only know how you felt. Because what you felt when he turned you down was how I felt whenever I looked at you.

When Robin called you that “W” word that stands for prostitute and lied about you, I wanted to dispute each and every detail: You couldn’t have come out of Singh’s office at 1 a.m. You were in your bed and crying by 12:30. But my fists went flying instead. Because Robin didn’t care about the truth, he just wanted to slander you. He’s like all the other “promising” kids who eventually wash out. The ones whose dirty looks were as sharp as the razor blades inside the anonymous letters we would find in our mailbox.

I wanted to tell him that I knew Saeun Choi better than any friend or family, that if he crossed her I would kill him. That I knew you better than anyone else because I loved you. But I couldn’t say that. Just a word of that would’ve made me burst into tears, and that’s just pathetic. Plus, I hadn’t even told you that I loved you, and I sure wasn’t going to tell Robin first.

I thought about it a lot. Love. Whether this emotion, which I’d never received from anyone, was really love. If it’s not jealousy or yearning that makes kids put razor blades in our mailbox or leave gifts on our doorstep, maybe what I’m feeling shouldn’t be called love, either.

But would these kids who yearn for you also watch over you in your sleep every morning and think of being with you for life? Do they also wish they could cry your tears for you when someone says hurtful things to you? Why would I have thought of the word “love” when I’ve never learned what it is . . .

Don’t worry. I won’t leave these words behind. Not even on the dark side of the moon. I won’t do anything you wouldn’t like. And I’m now the only person in the universe who can operate the Moonwriter. It’s been over five months since Earth was deluged in clouds of ash. This record may be the only record of Earth that will remain. The Moonwriter is running out of battery power. If I knew I’d be marooned here for so long, I would’ve studied harder.

Let me talk about the Moonwriter. But before that, the orphanage I came from. It held religious services every Sunday. While the older kids sang in the choir, I’d be nodding off to sleep. The Sunday school teachers told us all kinds of stories to keep us awake, but I can’t remember any of them. I do remember the first line of the Book of Genesis. Because it was also the first message Genesis wrote on the moon.

“In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth.”

I was nine, and the Moonwriter was a big deal at the time. We all gathered around the small television at the orphanage, watching the Moonwriter write the first sentence on the moon using its giant pen.

Appropriate, really. The name of the Moonwriter’s company being Genesis. The people who accepted the Book of Genesis as literal fact believed the Earth was the center of the universe with the sun and moon in orbit of it, and here comes the Genesis Corporation using the moon as a giant, profit-creating billboard.

Genesis bought out the moon from all the countries of the world, and smoothed out the side facing Earth. People used to say they could see a woman’s face on the moon, or even a rabbit, but it was now just a round, white page. The old videos show scenes of the great big shovels and backhoes of the Moonwriter cultivating the surface. Maybe the memory card has copies. After that was done, the Corporation sent out a live broadcast of the Moonwriter writing its first message. The moment the line from Genesis was written, the moment the Moonwriter’s huge pen nib was lifted from the surface, all of us orphans ran outside and looked up at the moon. Our orphanage didn’t have a good telescope, so we looked up at the sky with our naked eyes. “Do you see it? Do you see it?” We were nine. We were looking up at the sky from our different orphanages.

Before we knew each other.

That was the first time I thought of going to the moon. I always knew I was somehow different from the other kids. But when I came to this school and met you, I forgot it all. The moment I laid eyes on you for the first time, I thanked God. Because God made the moon, and made humanity. And humanity made Genesis, which created the school where I met you.

Just a second. I need to lower my oxygen a bit. I’ve no choice if I want to survive for a bit longer. My body is getting used to the lower oxygen density. My movements and my breathing are slowing. I can imagine everyone’s surprise, or the surprise of any survivors from Earth who manage to find me here. My assignment was for a month. The emergency rations and oxygen in the Moonwriter were to last four months, tops. How could I, a seventeen-year-old girl, have managed to stretch that out to six? And have another month of oxygen and rations remaining.

We learned more than just the history and structure of machines in the Mechanical Repairs track. One of our harsher lessons was how to survive in space.

I underwent G-force training every week, as well as survival training every six months, the latter of which meant learning how to live off of minimal rations and oxygen. The kids on our track tended to be thin and were shallow breathers. Simulated launches made me want to vomit, and I’d rant in my sleep on those nights, but now I’m grateful for it all. Even if the only meaning in my life now is thumping on the Moonwriter keyboard, recording into the memory device.

I was shocked at first. It was ten days until my scheduled return to Earth, but the Moonwriter was long fixed. The assignment was really about punishing me rather than the Moonwriter needing repairs. During my free time I was channel surfing through the cameras installed up here, thinking of which messages to keep and which to erase. A matter of profit, completely unrelated to the romantic prospect of writing on the moon.

Genesis’s tagline was, “Your message engraved on the face of eternity.” They meant the message would never wear away, because there was no weathering on the moon. Eternity, of course, in the sense that it would remain as long as the client paid for maintenance. If they didn’t, it would be erased and someone else’s message would take its place. So many plots for rent, filled with writing in different styles, languages. I was looking through all of them, when one monitor went dark.

The one connected to Earth.

I don’t like noise. I rarely even listened to music on the moon. So the speakers were turned off. And all I knew was that the Earth monitor had gone dark. So I don’t know whether the moment it happened was loud or silent. When I turned my head, the monitor was simply black. It wasn’t showing me the night sky, it was as if the camera had come unhitched. All other systems were normal. I just sat there, blinking, at first. I input the other channels into the brightly lit main monitor. They came up fine. I input the channels into the Earth monitor. It wasn’t a monitor malfunction. They came up fine there, too.

I found myself digging my fingernails into my thighs in order to prevent myself from running out of the base. I realized what had happened. Communications with Earth were cut off. Their transmissions no longer reached the moon. I switched the base to movement mode, and drove it to where I could see Earth. The two-legged, one-person moonbase lumbered forward, avoiding the inscribed messages. When I got there and looked out, Earth was already clouding over. Its surface was fading into something resembling fog, the shining blue parts succumbing to haze. I rubbed my eyes but the fog didn’t clear.

I tried to recall the manual on what to do when the network goes down. One, check the connection of the transmitter. Two, send an emergency signal to the unmanned satellite control center in orbit between Earth and the moon. Three, input your ID and password and wait to be reconnected. Nothing worked. The transmitter was connected and I sent the emergency signal. No one on Earth acknowledged my message.

And I couldn’t connect to the emergency channel. The login screen for the Aerospace Network wouldn’t come online. I waited in order to input my ID and the password, an anagram of your name, but the screen never came up.

My breathing quickened. I scrolled through the transmission logs. What was my last communication with Earth? My regular report, given once every three days, was two days ago. And, I talked to you yesterday. That was last night, or twenty hours ago Earth time.

What did you say to me last?

What did we talk about?

I felt my hair turning white. I tried calming down, and brought up our communication recording.

—INCOMING TRANSMISSION FROM MOONWRITER BASE. SPECIAL TRAINING CENTER FOR SPACE AND AERONAUTICS LIA YU. CODE UH-E-20258. PRIVATE CHANNEL REQUESTED. CODE UH-C-C0886 SAEUN CHOI. PLEASE RESPOND.

—CONNECTING. PLEASE HOLD.

Some muffled machine sounds. I heard a cough. It was early evening where you were, but you looked tired and there were bags under your eyes. You rubbed your eyes and gave me a weak smile.

—Hey. How’s the weather up there?

—Rainy. Windy. The base is just about to flip over. You?

Joking, of course, but there was something serious about your expression.

—Nothing much. Some stupid meteor changed course and wants to pay Earth a visit. Hope it’s not expecting a visa from me.

—Meteor? The one you said would miss us?

Taking care of incoming meteors was one of the Space Weather Control department’s chief priorities. At some point, these meteors kept unexpectedly turning toward Earth. Oddly enough, it was when Genesis started using the moon as a billboard, so the corporation found itself with religious groups constantly protesting at its doorstep. We’d visit corporate headquarters for training, and the multilingual prayers, graffiti, and shouting that would greet us would make our heads spin and ears ring. Even if all the messages on the moon were turned into noise it wouldn’t make that racket. They glared at us like we were the devil. They said God was judging us for having our way with the moon, His creation.

As if to mock them, Genesis invested in the development of an expensive anti-meteor device. It shattered smaller meteors and diverted larger ones. It’s true the number of meteors heading for Earth these past few years were more than all the meteors that had ever come its way combined. But you and the Space Weather Control department were effective, declaring emergencies at the right time, using destroyers and diverting satellites to keep meteors out of the atmosphere. People would be scared by hurricanes or tsunamis, but not meteors. So I thought you were joking. You were calculating the path of the meteor even on the night before I left, but your face was as peaceful as if you were solving an easy linear equation.

—It’ll miss. Probably.

I saw Director Singh walk by behind you with a mug in his hand. You were just rubbing your eyes again, unaware. But I saw. Clear as day despite the blurry video feed. Director Singh, whose neckties were always the same patterns, the same colors, was wearing a tie I’d never seen before. The kind of tie a girl our age might pick out. A flashy, cheap tie, light years from your own good taste. You were rubbing your eyes as he said a friendly hello to someone. I was glad you couldn’t see my hardening expression.

—When are you coming back to Earth?

—I’ll shuttle in in ten days. Five days of gravity readjustment therapy after that.

—Come home quickly.

—Why?

You brought your coffee mug to your lips and sipped. Coffee, I knew, with so much sugar and milk, it was probably closer to milk than latte.

—I don’t like sleeping alone in the dorm.

If what you felt for Director Singh was just a playful, light spring breeze kind of thing, I would’ve cracked a joke. Something like, Are you still heartbroken over him? But we were seventeen. We’d never learned how to accept love, much less give it, and love was less a spring breeze and more like a hurricane.

I wanted to run to you right away. I wanted to say, Hey Saeun, after I go back and write up an apology, file my report, and let the principal finish reprimanding me, do you want to go on vacation? Somewhere on the beaches of the Southern Hemisphere? We can build castles in the white sand and drink coconut milk. At night we can sneak into the hotel bar and have cocktails. Like we’re adults. We’ll forget about everything else. I hesitated, and opened my mouth.

“Saeun. You’re being summoned.”

Robin, who still had a bandage on his face, called you from behind. He probably saw me on the monitor. I gracefully stuck up my middle finger and he made a face. You turned to him and spoke to him for a while. Probably something like you were on a call and whether the summons were really that important. Robin must’ve won, because you shrugged and stood up.

—Come home quickly.

With the bags under your eyes, fatigue heavy on your face, with that smile that makes me want to hug your shoulders and pat your back, our communication blacked out.

That was my last recorded connection with Earth.

I’m glad. That the last person I talked to on Earth was you.

That the last person on Earth who reached out to me was you.

What could’ve happened? Within the twenty hours we were out of contact, what went on there? You must’ve done everything you could. You must’ve recalculated the meteor’s path tens of times, trying to save Earth. You wouldn’t have let go for a second to sigh or cry. You were probably at your station to the last second, ignoring the order to evacuate to the bunker. And . . . yes, unlikely as it is . . . you might’ve thought, instead of Director Singh . . . you might’ve thought of me.

I can’t cry.

Crying speeds up breathing. Which uses up oxygen. It’s also dehydrating. I don’t want to forfeit an extra day of survival just because I cried.

When the Earth was covered in ash, I spent several days in numb silence. In the beginning I screamed and threw things, feeling like I was in a nightmare, I cried as I beat against the walls. All useless. I kept the batteries on all day, waiting for word from Earth. But soon I just . . . gave up. Maybe some people got away, to unmanned spaceships or other bases. But you, you wouldn’t have.

We couldn’t escape. Throughout our school years we had no parents to cry to over the phone about our harsh training. We could achieve so much because we found love in school, and we had to fight if we wanted to keep our loves. The fight crept into our bones. So you wouldn’t have left for the bunker, or fled the atmosphere. You wanted to protect Earth for my return. Brave Saeun Choi. Never crying in the halls or in class, or in front of me, but always in your bed. You were seventeen.

I was left at the orphanage at birth, so the words mother and father were as distant as stars. But not you. Your name was different from other words. Here, where everyone obsessed over their work because they were lonely, where we lived in fear of becoming useless and losing our hard-earned places; on a blue planet as cold as its color, you were my warmth. The word on my mind. That word was you.

You were strong and beautiful. You always did your best and produced the best. When you walked down the hall, your determined grace commanded our gaze. Boys loved you, girls, too. But no one dared confess it to you.

No one was deserving of your strength and perfection. No one could be your equal. Only I knew that you sometimes had nightmares that left you in silent, tearful agony, that you grimaced into the mirror every morning as you tried to tame your bedhead, that the drawers of your desk were always a mess. Me, who was always by your side. I didn’t care if the only reason you had me as your roommate for five years was because you knew you could count on me to keep your secrets. If that’s what you wanted, I will do so to the end. Your anxiety, your tears, your love, all of it. Even if there is no one to listen to those secrets anymore.

You were like the moon. The moon would only reveal one side of itself, and until the invention of spaceships, the other side was a mystery. Like you were, to the others around you. The moon showed the same face because its rotation period was the same as its orbiting period. Which is about one month in Earth time. If a rotation is a day and an orbit is a year, a day on the moon is a year, or about a month in Earth time. I’ve been on this moon for six days, on it for six months, or, in other words, six years.

I’ve blabbered on. But I’m not going to write this story on the moon. I’m going to erase it. And I’m going to erase all the old messages written on the moon’s surface, too. By then there ought to be just enough energy left in the Moonwriter to engrave a short fairytale.

Do you think it’s pointless?

I’m having trouble just banging on this keyboard and checking my words on the monitor. My body sleeps for longer hours, and waking up is getting harder. But I want to write just one more story on the surface of the moon before I fall asleep for good.

Your story.

The child who entered the most exclusive school on Earth at ten, and became its star. The child who was strong and wise and kind to everyone. In my story, you won’t be the far side of the moon, afraid of being found out, but the sun. You won’t be known for living happily ever after with some prince, but for being the bravest princess who ever was. And when I’ve finished writing it, I’ll go searching for you. To a place that’s farther than the moon or Earth.

I’ll be leaving to meet you, my world.

They say God created the world in six days and rested on the seventh. Whereas I will have rested for six days before creating my fictional world. But in it, I will make you into the world’s happiest, most brilliant person. So good-bye. I will delete everything I’ve written thus far. And a new story will begin.

You were my world, and so I give you, too, a world.


© Jeon Sam-hye. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2016 by Anton Hur. All rights reserved.

창세기

이제 이 우주기지 안에서 작동하는 것은 몇 개 남지 않았어. 지구를 향해 늘 켜져 있는 인공위성 카메라, 카메라와 연결된 모니터, 기록저장 장치, 재생 장치. 이것들은 태양열을 받아서 움직이는 것들이니 아마 태양이 살아있는 한 꺼지지 않겠지. 내가 사라진 다음에도 달 위에서 지구를 지켜보고 있을 거야. 태양도 영원하진 않겠지만 태양보다 내가 먼저 사라질 테니.

사라진다는 건 슬픈 말이야. 어느 날 꺼져서 다시는 나오지 않게 된 낡은 라디오처럼 말이지. 그러니 곧 꺼질 것들이 무엇인지는 세지 않도록 할게. 사실 매일매일 나는 세고 있어. 이곳에서 얼마나 더 버틸 수 있는지 알아야 하니까. 그렇지만 일일이 너에게까지 전할 필요는 없을 것 같아.

걱정하지 않아도 좋아. 나는 꽤 태평하게 지내고 있어. 네가 내 꼴을 봤으면 너는 옆머리를 귀 뒤로 넘기며 얼굴을 찡그리겠지. 콧등에는 작게 주름이 잡힐 거야. ‘리아, 너는 어쩌면…….’ 이라고 하다가 고개를 숙이고 이마를 짚고, 말문을 잇지 못하다가 피식 웃겠지. 보이지 않아도 상상할 수 있는 네 모습들. 태어나 가장 긴 시간을 함께한, 나의 룸메이트. 나는 네 모습을 떠올리며 눈을 감고 흥얼거려. 네가 좋아하던 노래. 좋아하던 영화 대사. 좋아하던 자리에서 보이던 풍경들. 네 사무실 책상에 늘 놓여 있던 페퍼민트 캔디 통의 색깔까지. 나는 너에 관해서라면 무엇이든 떠올릴 수 있어.

푸르지 않은 지구를 보며 나는 너를 생각해.

 

아주 옛날에 처음으로 우주선을 타고 대기권 밖으로 나간 사람들이 그렇게 말했다지.

지구는 푸른 별입니다.

바다가 지구의 대부분을 차지하고 있기 때문에 우주에서 지구는 푸르게 보인다고 했어. 지구 어딘가에 제네시스와 제네시스가 세운 학교, 우주항공특별교육센터가 있고 너와 내가 그곳에서 함께 자랐지. 그러나 이제 더 이상 지구는 푸르지 않지. 회색 구름으로 뒤덮여 어디가 바다이고 어디가 육지인지도 모르게 되어버린 별. 그리고 이곳은 푸르지 않은 지구 주위를 맴도는 작은 위성. 달.

 

달에 온 지 벌써 여섯 달이 되었어. 내가 달에 가야 한다고 말했을 때 너는 화를 냈지. ‘왜 너만 벌을 받아야 하는데?’ 거대한 구식 메시지 기록계 ‘문라이터’를 보수하러 가는 달 출장은 사실상 근신 처분이었어. 남자애들과 싸우다가 찢어진 내 입가와 멍든 내 팔다리를 눈으로 찬찬히 쓸어보며 너는 한숨을 쉬었지. 왜 싸웠냐고도 물었어. ‘리아, 왜 그랬어? 네가 이유도 없이 다른 애들을 때릴 리가 없잖아.’ 나는 대답하지 않았고 너는 작게 덧붙였어. ‘하필이면 기말평가 기간에…….’ 하지만 걱정하지 마. 아마 같은 더 약 오르는 쪽은 나보다 로빈 패거리일걸. 우리보다 고작 한두 살 많은 주제에 곧 성인이 된답시고 우습지도 않게 거들먹거리는 바보들.

‘우주항공국 특별고등교육센터’라는 거창한 현판 앞에서 교장이 한숨을 푹 쉬었을 때도 나는 별로 무서운 게 없었어. ‘리아, 너는 어떻게 여자애가, 너보다 나이도 많은 남자애들 세 명을 상대로 싸울 생각을 하니?’ 먼저 처분을 받은 남자애들은 모두 기숙사로 돌아가고 나와 교장만이 교장실에 남았을 때 교장은 그렇게 물었어. 나는 웃으려고 했지만 웃을 수 없었어. 로빈, 걔가 때렸을 때 찢어진 입가가 너무너무 아팠거든. 교장은 내 성적표를 보며 이맛살을 찌푸렸어. 맞붙어 싸운 학생들에게 똑같이 점수를 깎는 게 당연하지만, 나에게는 그만큼 깎일 점수가 없었어. 성적이 좋은 것도 아니고 뛰어난 실적을 올린 것도 아니었지. 아마 그래서 늘 우등생인 너와 비교가 되었겠지만 말야. 두려운 건 퇴교 처분 정도? 하지만 퇴교라는 건 우리 학교에 없잖아. 우리는 모두들 돌아갈 집이 없는 아이들이니까. 애초에 제네시스가 문라이터 사업으로 돈을 벌어서 학교를 만든 게 보호자 없는 아이들, 그중 가능성이 있는 아이들에게 특별한 기회를 주기 위해서였는걸. 그러니 사고 좀 쳤다고 해서 열일곱 여자애를 길거리로 내몰 수야 없지. 그렇기 때문에 나는 안심했어. 어떤 벌이 주어지더라도 나는 최소한 너와 같은 공간 안에 있을 것 같았거든.

뭐, 그러다 보니 결과적으로는 교장이 내린 출장 명령에 충격을 받긴 했지. 너랑 만난 이후 한 달이나 떨어져 있어야 하는 건 처음이었으니ᄁᆞ. 로빈이든 누구든 겨우 열흘 근신에 봉사활동 40시간 정도의 처벌을 받았을 텐데, 나에게는 한 달간 단독 출장이라니. 그것도 무지막지하게 구시대 기계를 점검하러 가라고? 문라이터는 내가 이 학교에 들어오기도 전에 만들어진 기계잖아.

제네시스를 미워하는 건 아냐. 너랑 나를 만나게 해 준 유일한 통로에 나는 오히려 감사하고 있어. 물론 너와 같이 입학할 수 있었으면 더 좋지 않았을까 하는 생각도 하지만, 그건 네가 지나치게 머리가 좋아서 열 살에 시험을 통과해 버린 탓이잖아. 그 시험은 최소한 열두 살은 되어야 통과할 수 있는 시험이라고 시험 안내서에도 명시되어 있다고.

생각해보면 좀 웃기지.

어느 바보가. 혹은 어느 천재가 달에 메시지를 새기는 기계를 만들어 냈을까. 달의 크레이터를 메우고, 거대한 팔로 달의 땅을 긁어 인간의 언어를 남기겠다고 생각했을까.

 

이 학교에서 내가 너보다 더 잘 알고 있는 분야를 말하자면 그건 아마 문라이터에 대해서일거야. 우주기상통제국에 있는 너보다야 항공기계정비반에 있는 내가 문라이터에 더 빠삭하지 않겠어? 처음으로 문라이터에 대해 배운 날 내가 밤늦게까지 잠도 안 자고 이불 속에서 떠들어댔던 건 그 이유도 있었어. 내가 처음으로 너보다 먼저, 너보다 잘 알게 된 무언가가 있다는 게 정말로 많이 기뻤거든.

너는 내 입학 때부터 같이 살아온 룸메이트였고, 나의 엄마이자 언니이고 때로는 귀여운 여동생 같은 사람이었지. 그러나 동시에 너는 이 학교 최고의 수재였고 입학한 지 삼 년만에 남들은 오 년 넘게 걸린다는 우주기상제어관 3급 시험에 합격한 촉망받는 유망주였어. 그리고 차곡차곡 엘리트 계단을 밟아 지금은 우주기상통제국 A팀장 자리까지. 표면상으로는 아직 네가 미성년자라서 정식 부국장 자리를 줄 수 없다고 하지만, 네가 우주기상통제국에서 싱 국장 다음으로 뛰어난 사람인 건 모두가 잘 알잖아. 흰색 블레이저와 남색 바지로 이루어진 학생 제복을 입고 있지만 열 명의 어른보다 뛰어난 아이. 그게 너, 최세은.

열다섯 살, 우리가 처음으로 진로를 결정할 때였지. 중등교육을 마치고 어느 기관에서 고등교육을 받을지를 결정하는 순간 그게 우리의 직업이 될 거라는 걸 모두 알고 있었어. 너는 당당하게 커트라인이 가장 높다는 우주기상통제국에 지원서를 썼고, 나는 네 바로 곁에 있을 수 있는 기상관측국이나 통계국이 아니라, 출장이 잦고 체력이 약한 애들은 일주일에 한 번씩 보건실로 실려간다는 항공기계정비반에 원서를 넣었지.

사실 항공기계정비반에도 간신히 합격했어. 솔직히 이 학교에 들어왔다는 게 기적일 정도로 내 석차는 매년 하락하고 있었잖아. 물론 나 같은 아이들은 많지. 들어올 때는 어떻게든 필사적으로 살아보겠다고 시험을 쳐 합격했지만 점점 나태해지는 아이들이라고 교사들은 우리를 비웃어. 하지만 이것 하나만은 말해두고 싶어. 나는 나태한 적 없어. 네 곁에서 너를 지키려면 늘 최선을 다해야 했고, 그래서 공부를 조금 소홀히 했던 것뿐이야. 그런 내가 너와 같은 부서에 지원서를 쓰지 않은 이유는…… 조금만 있다가 말할게.

너는 그때 내가 너와 다른 부서를 썼다는 일 때문에 서운해했었나? 아니면 네가 가장 원하던 곳에 합격했다는 기쁨에 들떠서 나를 껴안고 팔짝팔짝 뛰느라 그럴 정신도 없었나? 다음 날 우리 둘의 방문 앞에 붙은 명패가 새로운 디자인으로 바뀌던 건 기억해. 최세은이라는 네 이름 아래 ‘우주기상통제국’이라는 마크가 붙고, 유리아라는 내 이름 아래에는 ‘항공기계정비반’이라는 마크가 붙었지. 전교 최고의 수재와 평범한 나는 그렇게 스무 살까지 그 방에서 함께 살아갈 줄 알았지. 같이 잠이 들고, 같이 밥을 먹고, 하루 일과가 끝나면 시시한 수다를 떨며. 때로는 비밀스러운 이야기를 주고받으며.

살아가기를 바랐지.

 

그 모든 게 꿈이 되어버린 것 같은 지금. 손에 닿지 않는 지금.

 

이 모든 걸 로빈 패거리 탓으로 돌릴 수는 없어. 네가 통제국장에게 꼬리를 쳐서 열일곱 살 주제에 기상제어관 1급 시험에 합격했다는 헛소리를 한 건 로빈이었고 그래서 내가 로빈을 때렸지만.

 

그렇다고 로빈 때문에 지구와 혜성이 충돌한 건 아니잖아.

 

물론 맞고 때리면서 악을 썼어. 너 같은 쓰레기는 혜성에 머리를 맞아도 정신을 차리지 못할 거라고. 하지만 그게 지금…… 지구를 이렇게 만든 원인은 아니지. 로빈이 시험 일주일 전 새벽 1시에 싱 국장의 연구실에서 나오는 너를 보았다고 해서, 네가 싱 국장에게 떳떳하지 못한 거래를 하고 1급 기상제어관 시험문제를 빼낸 게 아니듯이.

 

미안. 세은, 내 이야기를 들었다면 너는 좀 놀랐겠네. 듣지 못해서 다행이야.

나는 다 알고 있었어. 기상제어관 필기시험 일주일 전이 싱 국장의 생일이었다는 사실도. 그 보름 전부터 네가 쉬는 시간마다 가장 가까운 백화점에 달려가 남성용 넥타이를 흘긋거렸다는 것도. 네가 마음에 들어 한 넥타이는 우리에게 지급되는 용돈을 모아서는 살 수 없는 비싼 제품이었다는 것도 알아.

네가 손전등 하나만 켜놓고 밤새워 편지를 쓰던 것도. 그리고 기숙사 소등시간인 11시 반을 넘겨 12시에 그 선물을 들고 싱 국장의 연구실로 갔던 것도. 다 알고 있었어.

어떻게 모를 수 있겠어. 네 캘린더에 표시된 싱 국장의 이니셜, 네 베개 밑에 있던 넥타이 카달로그, 그리고 휴지통에 가득한 구겨진 편지지까지. 싱 국장님께, 그 말만 쓰고 지우고 구겨버린 편지지를 보며 내가 어떻게 모를 수 있겠어. 네가 까치발을 들고 기숙사 창문을 넘어 밖으로 나가는 걸 어떻게 내가 모를 수 있겠어. 다만 내가 모르는 것은 네가 그날 싱 국장에게 어떤 거절의 말을 들었는지야. 나간 지 이십 분 만에 들어온 너는 이불 속으로 들어가 숨죽여 울었으니까. 단지 그 마음은 알고 있지. 네가 싱 교수에게 거절당하며 느꼈던 마음을 나는 매 순간 너를 보며 느끼고 있었으니.

로빈이 너를 창녀를 뜻하는 ‘W’라고 부르며 내 앞에서 그 날의 일을 다 아는 듯 떠벌릴 때 사실 나는 따박따박 반박하고 싶었지. 네가 1시에 싱 국장의 연구실에서 나왔을 리가 없다고. 네가 침대에 들어가 소리 죽여 흐느끼던 시간이 12시 30분이었다고. 그러나 나는 참지 못하고 주먹을 날렸어. 사실이 뭐가 중요하겠어. 로빈은 단지 너를 비난하고 싶었을 뿐이야. ‘천재’로 들어와 ‘천재성’을 유지하지 못한 모든 아이들이 그렇듯이. 우리 우편함에 종종 들어 있던, 네 앞으로 온 익명의 편지 속 면도날처럼 날을 세운 아이들의 시선.

세상 누구보다 너, 최세은을 잘 아는 사람은 부모도 형제도 아닌 바로 나니까 함부로 떠들면 가만 두지 않겠다고 이야기하고 싶었어. 그리고 내가 세상 누구보다 널 잘 아는 이유는 세상 누구보다 널 사랑하기 때문이라는 것도. 하지만 말하지 못했어. 한 마디라도 꺼냈다간 로빈 앞에서 울어 버릴 것 같았으니까. 그런 건 너무 꼴사납잖아. 그리고 아직 너에게 고백도 못 했는데, 내가 너를 사랑한다고 로빈 같은 멍청이에게 먼저 말해줄 수는 없잖아?

사실 많이 고민했어. 사랑이라. 한 번도 누군가에게 온전히 사랑받아본 적이 없는 내가 지금 느끼는 감정이 정말 사랑일까. 우리 우편함에 면도날을 넣거나 방문 앞에 선물을 놓아두는 아이들의 감정을 질투나 동경이라고 섣불리 부를 수 없다면, 내 감정에도 사랑이 아닌 다른 이름이 붙어야 하는 게 아닐까.

그러나 너에게 관심을 보이는 아이들이 매일 아침 아직 잠든 네 모습을 보며 평생 네 곁에 있고 싶다는 생각을 할까? 네가 다른 사람의 말에 상처받아 울 때 대신 울어주고 싶다는 생각을 할까? 사랑을 배운 적도 없는데 왜 사랑이라는 말이 떠올랐는지, 나도 잘 모르겠어.

……걱정하지 마. 이건 기록하지 않을 테니까. 지구에서 볼 수 없는 달의 뒷면에도 남기지않을 거야. 나는 네가 싫어할 일은 하지 않아. 지금 나는 온 우주에서 유일하게 문라이터를 다룰 수 있는 사람인걸. 재와 구름이 지구를 가린지 벌써 다섯 달이 넘게 지났어. 지금 내가 남기는 기록이 지구의 유일한 기록이 될지도 모르지. 문라이터의 배터리도 이제 얼마 남지 않았어. 이렇게 오래 내가 달에 남게 될 줄 알았으면 좀 더 많이 공부해 두는 건데.

 

문라이터 얘기나 조금 더 할까. 그 전에 내가 자란 고아원 이야기도 좀 하고. 내가 자란 고아원은 매주 일요일마다 예배를 드리는 곳이었어. 나이가 든 아이들로 이루어진 성가대가 화음을 맞춰 성가를 부르는 동안 나는 꾸벅꾸벅 졸곤 했어. 주일학교 교사들은 우리를 깨우기 위해 온갖 재미있는 이야기를 들려 주었지만 내가 기억하는 건 별로 없어. 그래도 천지창조에 관한 건 잘 기억하고 있어. 그건…… 문라이터를 만든 회사 사장이 달에 처음 새긴 메시지이기도 하니까.

‘태초에 하나님이 천지를 창조하시니라.’

내 나이 아홉 살, 문라이터의 출현은 지구인 모두에게 큰 화젯거리였지. 고아원의 작은 티브이 앞에 모든 아이들이 모여 문라이터가 거대한 펜으로 달에 첫 문장을 새기는 광경을 지켜봤어.

어떻게 보면 참 이상한 일이야. 문라이터를 만든 회사의 이름이 제네시스, 창세기가 진리로 받아들여진 때의 사람들은 지구가 우주의 중심이고 해와 달은 그저 지구의 들러리에 불과하다고 여겼을 텐데. 현대의 제네시스는 지구 주위를 도는 달을 거대한 이윤을 창출하는 광고판으로 삼았잖아.

지구상의 모든 나라에서 달의 영토를 사들인 제네시스는 지구에서 볼 수 있는 달의 앞면과 지구에선 보이지 않는 달의 바다를 거대한 크레인으로 갈아엎었어. 달에서 보인다던 여인의 얼굴, 혹은 토끼가 사라지고 판판하고 빛나는 도화지가 되도록. 둥근 구형의 도화지가 되어버린 달. 아직도 옛날 다큐멘터리를 잘 찾아보면 문라이터의 삽과 괭이 들이, 엄청나게 큰 농기구 같은 그것들이 밭을 갈듯이 달 표면을 갈아버리는 장면들이 남아 있겠지. 어쩌면 이 우주기지에 있는 메모리 카드 안에도 남아 있겠구나. 그리고 회사는 그 모든 작업이 끝난 후, 문라이터가 달에 메시지를 새기는 장면을 생중계로 내보냈지. 창세기의 첫 글귀가 달에 새겨지던 순간, 그리고 문라이터가 거대한 펜촉을 달에서 떼며 제네시스의 광고가 끝난 순간, 고아원의 아이들은 너 나 할 것 없이 밖으로 뛰어나가 달을 올려다봤어. 내가 살던 고아원에는 성능 좋은 천체망원경 같은 건 없어서 우리는 맨눈으로 하늘을 올려다봤지. 달을 보며 ‘보여? 보여?’ 떠들어대던 게 아홉 살 때의 일이야. 우리 둘은 서로 다른 고아원에서 하늘을 보고 있었을 거야.

우리가 서로 모르던 때.

나는 그 때 처음으로 달에 가고 싶다는 생각을 했어. 내가 다른 아이들과 조금 다르다는 건 알고 있었어. 그러나 이 학교에 들어와서 너를 보고, 너를 좋아하게 되면서 모두 잊어버렸지. 너를 본 순간 나는 처음으로 신에게 감사했어. 신은 달을 만들었고, 인간을 만들었어. 인간은 제네시스를 만들었고 제네시스는 우리가 만난 학교를 만들었지.

 

잠깐만 기다려 줄래? 산소농도를 조금 더 낮춰야 할 시간이야. 한 순간이라도 더 견디려면 그렇게 하는 것 외에는 방법이 없어. 내 몸은 점점 낮아지는 산소 농도에 익숙해지고 있어. 그만큼 내 움직임은 느려지고, 나는 느리게 숨 쉬는 사람이 되어가. 모두들 놀라겠지. 그것도 지구에서 살아남은 누군가 닿에 와 나를 발겼했을 때의 이야기겠지만. 일 개월로 예정된 출장 기간. 문라이터 안에 있는 비상용 식량과 산소를 모두 끌어모아도 겨우 네 달을 넘길 수 있을지조차 불투명하던 상황. 거기서 아무리 특별교육센터의 아이라 해도 어떻게 열일곱 살의 여자아이가 여섯 달이나 살아남았는지. 그리고 앞으로도 한 달을 더 살아갈 산소와 식량을 남겨 두었는지.

항공기계정비반에 처음 들어갔을 때 내가 배운 건 우리가 다뤄야 할 기계의 역사와 구조 말고도 몇 가지가 더 있었지. 그 중 가장 혹독했던 건 우주에서 살아남는 법이었어.

대기권을 벗어나 우주로 갈 때를 대비한 발사체 충격 훈련을 매주 한 번씩 견뎠고 인간이 숨 쉴 수 있는 가장 낮은 산소 농도와 최소한의 식량으로 가장 긴 기간을 생존하는 테스트를 육 개월에 한 번씩 거쳤어. 그래서 우리 반 아이들은 다른 반 아이들보다 유난히 말랐고 느리게 숨 쉬었지. 대기권 돌파 가상현실 테스트마다 나는 늘 토하고 싶어 이를 악물었고 그날 밤은 헛소리를 하며 앓았지만 지금은 그 모든 훈련에 감사하고 있어. 비록 내게 남은 삶의 의미라는 것이 고작 이렇게 문라이터 기록장치에 대고 키보드를 두드리는 것이라고 해도.

 

처음엔 많이 놀랐어. 지구로 돌아가기까지 열하루가 남아 있었지만 문라이터의 점검은 일찌감치 끝나 있었어. 이건 정비가 필요해서 나를 보내는 거라기보단 달에서의 근신 같은 거였으니까. 한가해진 나는 달의 각 구역마다 설치된 카메라를 돌려보며 지워야 할 메시지와 남겨야 할 메시지, 새로 새겨야 할 메시지를 검토하고 있었어. 달에 글자를 새긴다는 낭만적인 행동과는 전혀 어울리지 않는 이해타산 문제.

제네시스가 내세운 사업 아이템은 ‘당신이 원하는 메시지를 영원의 장소, 달에 새겨드립니다’였지. 공기가 없어 풍화침식도 없는 곳이니 한 번 새겨진 글자들은 영원히 지워지지 않는 게 맞아. 메시지를 요청한 사람이 꼬박꼬박 관리비와 유지보수비용을 내기만 한다면 말야. 돈을 내지 않으면 메시지는 지워지고 그 구역을 산 다른 사람의 메시지가 그 공간을 채우게 되지. 온갖 서체로 새겨진 세계 여러 나라의 언어가 달을 가득 메우고 있었어. 그 구역을 하나하나 둘러보는데, 갑자기 어느 모니터 하나가 어두워졌어.

 

지구와 연결된 모니터였지.

 

나는 시끄러운 걸 좋아하지 않아. 특별한 때가 아니면 이 기지 안에서 음악을 듣는 일도 없었고, 모니터에 연결된 스피커도 켜 놓지 않았어. 그래서 내가 느낀 것은 단지 지구를 비추던 모니터가 갑자기 어두워졌다는 사실이었지. 그 순간 어떠한 폭음이라도 들렸는지, 혹은 고요했는지는 알 수 없어. 내가 고개를 돌렸을 때 이미 모니터는 어두워져 있었어. 밤하늘을 비추는 게 아니라, 완전히 카메라와 단절되어 버린 것처럼. 지구를 비추는 모니터 외에는 모든 것이 정상적으로 돌아가고 있었어. 나는 무슨 일이 일어난 건지 몰라 눈만 깜박거렸어. 그리고 아직 밝게 켜져 있는 모니터 하나하나에 다른 채널을 입력해 보였지. 다른 채널은 모두 정상적으로 돌아갔어. 나는 어두워진 모니터에 다른 채널을 입력해 보기도 했어. 다른 채널들은 모두 정상적으로 돌아갔어. 나는 어두워진 모니터에 다른 채널을 입력해 보기도 했어. 모니터 고장이 아니었어. 그 모니터에서도 다른 채널은 멀쩡하게 나오고 있었으니까.

무작정 기지 밖으로 뛰쳐나가려는 다리를 손톱 자국이 나도록 왼손을 내리누르며 나는 깨달았지. 지구와의 통신이 끊어졌다는 것을. 지구에서 내보내는 전파가 더 이상 달에 닿지 못한다는 것을. 나는 우주기지를 이동 모드로 바꾸어서 지구가 보이는 곳까지 운전해 갔어. 거대한 다리가 달린 1인용 우주 기지는 어기적거리며, 바닥 가득 새겨진 메시지를 피해 가며 움직였지. 내가 그 곳에 도착해 바깥을 보았을 때, 지구는 이미 흐릿해지고 있었어. 뿌연 안개에 휩싸이는 것처럼 푸르게 빛나던 부분들이 흐려지고 있었지. 눈을 아무리 비벼도 시야가 맑아지지 않았어.

나는 그 상황에서도 그 동안 배운 매뉴얼을 떠올리려고 애썼어. 네트워크에 문제가 생겼을 떄의 대처방법. 하나, 통신기의 연결상태를 확인한다. 둘, 지구와 달 중간기지에 있는 무인 인공위성 관제 센터에 비상 신호를 보낸다. 셋, 아이디와 패스워드를 입력하고 재연결을 기다린다. 그런데 소용이 없었어. 통신기는 연결되어 있었고, 무인 인공위성 관제 센터를 통해 비상 신호도 보냈어. 하지만 지구에 있는 누구도 내 메시지를 받아주지 않았어.

비상 채널로라도 연결이 되었다면 재연결 허가가 내려졌겠지. 재연결 허가를 하기 전 절차로 우주항공 네트워크에 아이디와 패스워드 입력 절차가 떠야 하잖아. 그러면 나는 내 아이디를 입력하고, 네 이름의 철자를 뒤섞어 만든 패스워드를 입력해야 하는데, 아무리 기다려도 아이디와 패스워드를 입력하라는 창이 뜨지 않았어.

숨이 가빠왔어. 나는 통신 기록을 뒤졌어. 마지막으로 지구와 통신한 게 언제지? 3일에 한 번씩 있는 정기 보고가 그저께였어. 그리고 너와 주고받은 대화가 어제였어. 어젯밤. 그러니까 지구 시간으로 스무 시간 전.

마지막으로 네가 나에게 대체 뭐라고 했지?

우리가 무슨 이야기를 나누었지?

새하얘지는 머리를 간신히 가누며 나는 우리의 통신 기록을 불러왔어.

 

-문라이터 달 기지에서 통신 요청합니다. 우주항공국 특별고등교육센터 항공기계정비반 유리아. 코드 UH-E-20258입니다. 프라이빗 통신 요청. 코드 UH-C-C0886 최세은 응답 바랍니다.

-연결합니다. 잠시만 기다려 주십시오.

 

건조한 기계음이 흘러나오고 잠시 뒤 기침 소리가 들렸어. 지구 시간으로 이른 저녁이었는데도 네 얼굴은 까칠해 보였고 눈밑이 검었어. 너는 눈을 비비며 나에게 힘없이 웃어 보였어.

 

-안녕, 달 날씨는 어때?

-비바람이 몰아쳐서 우주 기지가 날아갈 지경이야. 거긴 어때?

 

달에 비바람은 무슨. 농담으로 인사를 대신하며 나도 웃었어. 그렇지만 너는 어쩐지 심각해 보였어.

 

-음, 별 이상은 없어. 정신 나간 운석 하나가 갑자기 궤도를 바꿔서 지구를 방문하겠다고 하는 걸 빼면. 방문 비자 내줄 생각은 없는데.

-운석? 그거 비껴간다고 하지 않았어?

 

지구로 날아오는 운석들을 처리하는 게 우주기상통제국의 중요한 업무 중 하나였지. 언젠가부터 운석 덩어리들은 자꾸만 방향을 틀어 지구로 날아왔어. 묘하게도 그 시기는 제네시스가 달에 진출해 달을 거대한 광고판으로 쓰기 시작한 직후였고, 그래서 제네시스 본사 앞은 늘 종교 단체들의 집회로 법석이었어. 교육을 받으러 본사에 방문할 때마다 온갖 언어로 된 기도문에, 낙서에, 고함 소리에 귀가 먹먹하고 어지러울 정도였지. 달에 있는 메시지들이 모두 다 소리로 변해도 그렇게 시끄럽지는 않을걸. 그 사람들은 우리를 악마 보듯이 쏘아보며 소리 질렀지. 운석이 지구를 파괴하는 건 신의 심판이라고. 신의 피조물인 달을 인간 마음대로 다루려고 하기 때문에 신이 지구를 심판하려 한다고 말이야.

그 말을 비웃기라도 하듯 제네시스에서는 어마어마한 돈을 투자해 운석 궤도를 바꾸는 장치들을 만들어냈지. 제네시스가 만든 장치들은 작은 운석들은 파괴하고 큰 운석들은 방향을 돌려놓았어. 지난 몇 년 동안 지구로 향해 오던 운석의 수가 과거에 지구를 향했던 모든 운석들의 수와 맞먹는 건 사실이야. 그러나 너는, 네가 속해 있는 우주기상통제국은 그 때마다 훌륭하게 임무를 수행했지. 적절한 시기에 대피령을 내리고, 운석 파괴 장치와 궤도변환 위성들을 이용해서 대기권 안쪽에 피해가 미치지 않도록 했어. 사람들은 태풍과 쓰나미를 두려워할지언정 운석과 지구의 충돌을 두려워하진 않았지. 그래서 나는 너의 말이 그저 늘 하던 농담이라고 생각했어, 내가 떠나기 전날 밤에도 너는 운석 궤도 계산을 하고 있었지만 네 표정은 일차방정식을 풀듯 편안해 보였기에.

 

-비껴가겠지. 아마도.

 

네 뒤로 커피잔을 들고 걸어가는 싱 국장의 모습이 잠시 보였어. 너는 아무것도 눈치채지 못한 듯 눈만 비비고 있었지. 그런데 나는 보았어. 흐릿한 통신 카메라 영상으로도 잘 보이더라. 늘 비슷한 패턴, 비슷한 색의 넥타이만 매던 싱 교수가 처음 보는 넥타이를 매고 있었지. 그래, 꼭 우리 또래의 여자애가 골랐다고 하면 믿기 쉬울 것 같았어. 네 취향과는 백만 광년쯤 동떨어진, 유치찬란하다고 보아도 좋을 정도로 화려한 넥타이였지. 싱 교수가 누군가에게 친근하게 인사를 건네는 동안에도 너는 눈을 비비고 있었어. 네가 굳어가는 내 표정을 눈치채지 못해서 다행이었어.

 

-지구로 언제 돌아와?

-열하루 더 있으면 귀환 셔틀 타고, 중력적응훈련까지 마치려면 보름쯤 걸리겠지 뭐.

-빨리 와.

-왜?

 

너는 옆에 놓인 커피 잔을 입에 대고 홀짝였어. 네 취향대로, 설탕과 우유를 잔뜩 넣어서 카페라떼라기보다는 커피우유에 가까울 커피를.

 

-기숙사에서 혼자 자는 거 싫어.

 

만약 네가 싱 국장을 좋아하는 마음이 그저 장난 같이, 봄날의 바람 같이 지나가는 거였다면 나는 그 때 농담을 했을 거야. 아직 실연의 상처가 덜 지워져서 그러냐고. 하지만 우리는 열일곱. 그리고 싱 국장은 너에겐 첫사랑. 사랑을 받지 못해 주는 방법도 느리게 배우던 우리에게 첫사랑은 봄바람이라기보단 태풍 같았지.

그때 나는 당장 너의 곁으로 돌아가고 싶었어. 세은, 귀환하면 교장에게 잔소리를 마저 듣고, 반성문과 보고서를 제출하고 난 다음에는 휴가라도 갈까? 저기 남반구 해변 어딘가쯤으로? 따뜻한 모래톱에서 모래성도 쌓아보고 코코넛 주스를 마시면서 놀자. 밤이 되면 몰래 호텔 칵테일 바에 들어가 칵테일도 한잔씩 하는 거야. 어른이 된 것처럼. 그렇게 하면 다 잊어버릴 수 있을 거야. 그렇게 말할까 고민하던 차였어.

“세은. 호출.”

여전히 뺨에 반창고를 붙이고 있는 로빈이 네 뒤에서 너를 불렀지. 로빈도 모니터에 비친 나를 보았을 거야. 나는 슬쩍 가운뎃손가락을 들어 보였고 로빈은 인상을 썼지. 너는 고개를 돌려 로빈과 잠시 이야기했어. 아마도 통신 중이라는 이야기와 통신이 중요하냐 호출이 중요하냐 뭐 그런 이야기였겠지. 로빈이 이겼는지 너는 어깨를 으쓱해 보이고 자리에서 일어나며 나에게 말했어.

 

-빨리 돌아와.

 

눈밑이 검게 가라앉은 채로, 피곤이 가득한 표정으로. 보는 사람이 네 어깨를 안고 도닥이게 만들고 싶어지는 미소를 지으며.

너와의 통신은 그렇게 종료되었어.

그리고 그게 지구와 나와 연결된 마지막 기록이었지.

다행이야. 내가 마지막으로 지구에서 대화한 사람이 너라서.

지구에서 마지막으로 나에게 말을 건네준 사람이 너라서.

 

무슨 일이 일어났던 걸까. 너와 내가 연락하지 못한 스무 시간 동안 네가 있는 곳에서는 무슨 이야기가 오갔을까? 분명히 너는 네가 할 수 있는 모든 노력을 다 했을 거야. 몇십 번이고 궤도를 수정하며 지구를 구하려고 애를 썼을 거야. 한순간도 손을 놓고 한숨을 쉬거나 눈물을 흘리진 않았을 거야. 지구와 운석이 충돌하는 마지막 순간까지 어쩌면 너는 대피소로 들어가라는 명령을 무시하고 키보드를 두드렸을 거야. 그리고 더 희박한 확률로…… 어쩌면, 그래, 어쩌면…… 싱 국장이 아니라…… 나를 생각했을 거야.

 

울면 안 되는데.

울면 숨이 가빠져. 그러면 산소를 많이 소비하게 되고, 울고 나면 탈수증이 오기 때문에 물도 더 섭취해야 돼. 고작 울었다는 이유로 살아갈 날을 또 하루 잃고 싶지는 않아.

지구가 뿌연 구름과 먼지로 뒤덮인 후 나는 여러 날을 망연자실하며 보냈어. 처음에는 좁은 기지 안에서 고함을 지르며 난동을 부렸어. 이게 모두 꿈일 거라고 팔다리를 벽에 마구 부딪히며 울었어. 하지만 소용이 없었지. 하루 종일 배터리를 켜 놓고 지구에서 오는 통신을 기다리기도 했어. 하지만 며칠 후부터 그냥 다…… 내려놓았어. 어떤 사람들은 지구가 망가지기 전 미리 우주로 피했겠지. 무인 우주왕복선이나 우주 곳곳의 기지로. 하지만 너는, 너는 그러지 않았을 것 같아.

우리는 어디로도 달아날 수 없었지. 아무리 고된 훈련을 시켜도 울면서 전화를 걸 엄마나 아빠가 없었어. 그래서 우리는 나이에 비해 턱없이 높은 성과를 이루어낼 수 있었지. 우리는 사랑해야 할 상대를 대부분 학교 안에서 찾아냈고 함께 있으려면 떨어지지 않기 위해 끝없이 노력해야 했으니까. 그게 몸에 배어버렸잖아. 그러니까 너는 아마도 대피소로도, 대기권 밖으로도 가지 않고 마지막까지 우주기상통제국에 있었을 거야. 내가 돌아올 지구를 지켜 주려고. 용감한 최세은. 복도에서도 교실에서도, 내 앞에서도 울지 않고 늘 침대 안에서만 울었던 열일곱 살.

 

 

태어나자마자 고아원에 맡겨진 내게 엄마나 아빠라는 단어는 아득한 별처럼 개념으로만 존재했지. 하지만 너는 달랐어. 네 이름은 다른 단어와 달랐어. 모두가 자기 일에 열중하는 이유가 사실은 외로워서인 이곳에서, 쓸모없는 사람이 되면 간신히 찾아낸 자기 자리마저 빼앗길까 두려워서인 이곳에서, 푸르지만 그만큼 차가운 별 지구에서 나에게 온기가 되어준 사람. 내가 가장 많이 생각한 단어. 그건 너의 이름이야.

너는 강하고 예뻤어. 언제나 최선을 다했고 최고의 성과를 냈어. 네가 복도를 걸으면 꼿꼿한 네 등에 모두의 시선이 한 번씩 향했지. 너를 좋아하는 남자애들은 셀 수 없었고 너를 흠모하는 여자아이들 역시 적지 않았지. 그러나 정작 너에게 다가가서 너를 좋아한다고 고백하는 아이들은 없었어.

너는 지나치게 강하고 완벽해서 누구도 너의 곁에서 당당해질 수 없었을 거야. 감히 동등한 연인으로 설 생각도 못 했겠지. 네가 때때로 악몽을 꾸고 소리죽여 운다는 걸, 아침마다 뻗친 머리를 잠재우려 얼굴을 찡그리고 거울을 노려본다는 걸, 책상 서랍 속이 늘 엉망진창이라는 걸 아는 사람은 오직 나뿐이었을 거야. 늘 너의 곁에 있는 사람. 어쩌면 네가 칠 년 동안 룸메이트를 바꾸지 않은 것이 단지 내 입이 다른 사람들에게 너의 사생활을 떠들어대지 않을 만큼 무거워서라고 해도 나는 상관없어. 네가 원한다면 나는 끝까지 지킬 거야. 너의 초조함, 너의 눈물, 너의 짝사랑을 포함한 모든 비밀. 이제는 비밀을 들어줄 사람이 아무도 없다고 해도.

너는 달 같았지. 달은 언제나 지구에게 같은 모습을 보여주지. 그래서 우주선이 생기기 전 사람들은 달의 뒷면을 보지 못했어. 너를 둘러싼 아이들이 그러하듯이. 달이 늘 지구에게 한결같은 모습을 보여줄 수 있는 건 달의 자전 주기와 공전 주기가 같기 떄문이야. 지구 시간으로 약 한 달. 자전을 하루로 삼고 공전을 일 년으로 삼는다면 달에서는 하루가 일 년이고 그 시간은 지구 시간으로 약 한 달. 나는 이 달에서 엿새 동안 있었고, 여섯 달 동안 있었으며, 육 년 동안 머무른 셈이야.

 

참 길게도 써 놓았지. 하지만 이 이야기들을 달에 새기지는 않을 거야. 나는 이 이야기들을 전부 지울 거야. 그리고 한 가지 더, 달에 지금까지 사람들이 새긴 메시지도 전부 지울 거야. 그러고 나면 문라이터에 남은 배터리로는 기껏해야 짧은 동화책 한 권 정도의 분량이나 새길 수 있겠지.

쓸데없는 짓일까?

하지만 나는 이제 키보드를 두드리고 모니터로 내용을 확인하는 것도 점점 힘들어. 내 몸은 점점 오래 잠들고 깨어나지 않으려고 해. 그러니까 나는 완전히 잠들어버리기 전에 달에 어떤 이야기를 새기려고 해.

너의 이야기.

열 살의 어린 나이로 지구 최고의 교육기관에 들어가 열일곱 살에는 학교 최고의 별이 되었던 아이. 누구에게나 강하고 현명하며 다정했던 아이. 내 이야기 안에서 너는 남에게 뒷모습을 들킬까 두려워하는 달이 아니라 태양이 될 거야. 왕자님과 오래오래 행복하게 살지는 못하더라도 지구에서 가장 용감했던 공주님으로 기록될 거야. 그걸 다 쓰고 나면 나도 아마 너를 만나러 가겠지. 달도 지구도 아닌 멀고 먼 곳으로.

나의 세계인 너를 만나러 갈 거야.

신은 엿새 동안 세상을 만들고 하루를 쉬었다지. 나는 엿새를 쉰 후에야 겨우 하나의 거짓된 세계를 만들어. 그러나 이 이야기 안에서 나는 너를 세상에서 제일 행복하고 빛나는 사람으로 만들 거야. 안녕. 지워질 이야기는 여기까지만 할게. 그리고 이제 새로운 이야기가 시작될 거야.

너는 나의 세계였으니, 나도 너에게 세계를 줄 거야.

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