Peter Flannery of Little America

Vignette Series

Photo by Taylor Brandon on Unsplash

The space elevator had always called to me. They called it “LASK”, the Indonesians. The space elevator. It was begun a generation before—my grandfather might have watched the project begin, my father spent his whole life watching them build. I remember the final connection. They had built up, as high as something could physically stand on its own; they had built down, spooling the carbon nano-tube cables as big as sky scrapers, from orbit. All that was left was to connect the two pieces.

It was a harrowing event. I remember watching it on TV. There were lots of risks. But it worked. People cheered. I cheered.

The space elevator always called to me. It was like a lamp, and I was a witless moth—all I knew was that I had to go.

My mother didn’t understand when I told her—her eyes wet with tears, as I tried to explain—this was the future. This was where I could support our family, after dad died.

And, rather unceremoniously, I went.

Flying into the airport in Cengkareng, as they wouldn’t let me fly directly into Sunda Kelapa, I watched the elevator for as long as I could. It was a straight line, jutting violently into the stars, into the abyss. Then I was brought back to earth: customs and immigration.

The next hours and days were a whirlwind. My visa had been approved before I arrived, but the scrutiny on arrival was alarming. I found myself doubting whether I really did have my documents in order. They were concerned, alarmed. Suspicious. But they let me through, eventually.

I didn’t know a lick of the Indonesian language, I had not arranged a place to live for myself. I had all my savings with me, and I booked a cheap hotel for a week while I tried to get both a job—any job—and a place to live. I learned two words, quickly:

Sakti—this is what they called the spacers, those proud, magnificent souls who got to traverse the stars. I learned this quickly—it’s all anyone would talk about. “Lu mau jadi Sakti? Gimana? Gak banyak orang jadi Sakti akhir-akhir ini.” One shop keeper scolded me, when I shared my ambition. “Lu pikir lu bisa menangani Aceh Baru? Aceh Tua aja gak bisa!” he laughed.¹

This is where I learned the second word, that would come to be very important.

“You’re just a bule.”

Just a bule.

When I found myself in the Little America district of Jakarta, I learned that we all were just that. Bule.

I’d never loved and hated a word so much in my life. I loved it—because I was here, I was in it, I was learning to live here; I hated it—because it presented the first obstacle to climbing the LASK to get to the stars, and becoming a Sakti myself.

1. “You want to be a Sakti? How? Not many Sakti lately. You think you can handle New Aceh? Even Old Aceh you can’t!”