by Tarah Benner
Our shuttle separates from Elderon, and I feel the propulsion capsule powering our liftoff as we slingshot around the space station.
“We have physical separation,” says Carl in my ears, sounding surprisingly calm for a guy who’s going to take us to Earth in a shuttle the size of a minivan.
“Pocket Rocket, departing Colony One,” says someone in the control room.
“Godspeed,” says a third voice that sounds like Tripp.
Just then, I hear a high-pitched whirring as Carl lights our secondary thrusters. I grit my teeth, preparing for the worst, and suddenly I’m thrown back in my seat.
I squeeze my armrests with all my might as we rocket away from the colony, and I imagine people on Elderon rushing to the windows to see the streak of fire whirling past the space station. The stars become shimmering remnants of light, and soon their streaks blur together into a fine silvery mist.
We did it.
I look over at Jonah, whose eyes are fixed straight ahead. He still looks like someone blazing into battle who knows he’s going to die, but the violent quaking has subsided. We’ve found the trajectory that will take us back to Earth.
“All good,” says Carl’s voice in my ears. “We have a nice weather window. The return flight’s only about three and a half hours. As long as this holds, we should have a fairly smooth landing.”
“A fairly smooth landing?” Jonah repeats.
“That’s the best you can ask for on an emergency trip to Earth, bud. Reentering Earth’s atmosphere ain’t like drivin’ down the freeway. You’re lucky if your shuttle makes it all in one piece.”
Jonah and I exchange a nervous look, but I take a deep breath and try to stay calm. One of us has to keep our shit together.
Now that I’m sitting still, I realize that my body is exhausted. I’ve lost count of the hours I’ve been awake, and my body aches as if I’ve been in a car wreck. This is the first time since the kidnapping that my life hasn’t been in danger, and my body seems to take notice — begging me for rest.
“You can get some sleep,” says Jonah, his voice echoing in my helmet speakers.
I just released an enormous yawn, and my exhaustion must show on my face.
“I’ll wake you up before we land.”
I don’t argue. I just nod. I don’t think I’d be able to stay awake if I tried.
Despite the fact that we’re careening through space in a tiny shuttle the atmosphere could swallow whole, I feel safer than I have in more than twenty-four hours.
I settle back in my seat and lean my helmet against the headrest. Sweet, sweet relief starts in my eyelids and spreads down my neck all the way to my toes. Almost instantly, my exhaustion engulfs me, and I’m lost to a dreamless sleep.
16
Maggie
I wake up to the sound of radio chatter coming from the cockpit. It invades my sleep gradually, growing louder and more urgent until I finally return to the present.
“Mission control. Mission control. Do you copy?”
Carl’s low gravelly voice is only met with static.
I peel my eyes open and reach up to rub them, but my glove just thunks against my helmet.
I blink twice very fast and try to remember why I’m in a shuttle headed for Earth. I’m strapped into a bucket seat, and Jonah is seated beside me. He’s watching the back of Carl’s head as the pilot speaks into his comm system.
“Mission control. Mission control, this is Swift 9. Do you copy?”
“What’s going on?” I ask, sitting up straight and wishing I could wipe the drool from the side of my face.
Jonah turns fast in his seat, surprised to find me awake. “Carl’s been trying to reach the CAPCOM at Vandenberg,” he says. “All we’ve had is radio silence since takeoff.”
I swallow, trying to pull myself out of my fog and reengage with what’s going on in the shuttle.
“You think Buford’s landed?” I ask.
Jonah raises an eyebrow. “He should have.”
I bite down on the inside of my cheek. If Buford’s already on the ground . . .
“The air force has instructions to detain him,” says Jonah, answering my unspoken question. “He’s the prime suspect in multiple deadly attacks. He’s wanted by every government agency. Trust me . . . They won’t let him go without a fight.”
Carl tries again over the comm system, and our conversation is interrupted. “Mission control. Mission control, this is Swift 9. Do you read me?”
“Read you loud and clear, Swift 9,” says another voice inside my helmet.
I let out an enormous breath of relief, and I see Carl’s shoulders relax.
“Glad to hear it, CAPCOM. Are we clear for landing?”
There’s another loud garble of static, and the CAPCOM’s next words are impossible to make out.
Carl waits a moment and then tries again. “Is Swift 9 cleared for landing?”
There’s another burst of white noise, followed by the man’s distorted voice. “— can’t clear you for landing just yet,” says the CAPCOM. “We have a situation down here. Standby.”
Jonah and I exchange a nervous look. What does he mean we’re not cleared for landing? We’ll be entering Earth’s atmosphere at any moment. Where the hell do they expect us to go?
“What’s happening?” Jonah asks Carl.
“No idea.”
There’s nothing reassuring about Carl’s voice. There’s nothing about Carl himself that instills much confidence.
“Did we file a flight plan?” asks Jonah.
“Whattaya think this is — my first day on the job?” says Carl. “’Course I filed a flight plan. Slid it in under the wire, but they should have received it in time.”
“What happens if they don’t clear us for landing?” I ask.
There’s a long drawn-out pause, and I imagine Carl giving a nonchalant shrug. “Not much we can do about that.”
I glance at Jonah, who’s staring at Carl as if contemplating a hostile takeover. What the hell does he mean “not much we can do”?
But before I can open my mouth, the CAPCOM’s staticky voice is back in my ear. “Swift 9, we have a situation down here. Prepare the cabin for a water landing. Over.”
Then the comms go silent.
“A water landing?” Jonah repeats. “Is that typical?”
“Does it sound typical to you?” asks Carl, clearly annoyed. He pounds a button on the control panel, but he seems unable to reach CAPCOM again. “A shuttle like this one is not designed for water landings, so an unplanned one is not something I recommend.”
“But . . . you’ve done this before,” I say, practically begging for reassurance.
“We’re trained on all emergency landing procedures.”
“You’re trained on all emergency landing procedures, or you’ve performed an actual emergency landing?” Jonah asks.
“Sergeant, I have never compromised a mission,” Carl snaps. “You wanna land this thing? Be my guest. Otherwise, sit tight, shut up, and I’ll get us to the ground.”
Jonah opens his mouth and then closes it again. I can tell it’s killing him not to say anything, but he holds his tongue.
Finally, Carl seems to reach the CAPCOM. “Mission control. Mission control, this is Swift 9. We are preparing to enter Earth’s atmosphere. Over.”
There’s a long stretch of static as we wait for them to reply. I can’t even imagine what’s going on down there. What could possibly be more important than guiding an in-flight spacecraft to Earth?
“Mission control, I am inputting coordinates for my previously assigned runway. Please prepare to welcome Swift 9.”
I look over at Jonah, whose entire jawline is set in a grimace. His body is as stiff as a statue, and he looks as nervous as I’ve ever seen him.
Carl flips a few switches, and the shuttle groans as we adjust our trajectory. I look out the window. All I can see is the dark abyss of space, but if I were in Carl’s seat, I know I’d be staring down the barrel at
Earth.
Suddenly the spacecraft begins to shake, and I feel my harness cutting into my neck.
I swallow down the urge to vomit and press my helmet against the back of my seat.
The shaking becomes more violent, and suddenly I’m blinded by a burst of light as we enter Earth’s atmosphere. Tears trickle from the corners of my eyes, and I squeeze them shut on instinct.
The engines groan, and I clench my teeth together as we hurtle toward Earth through a tunnel of clouds.
I open my eyes. I can’t breathe. I try to swallow, but even the smallest bodily movement takes an extraordinary amount of effort. We are careening toward Earth at a speed I can’t even imagine. There seems to be no stopping us as we plummet toward the ground.
And then, the light is gone.
I blink fast to clear the wetness from my eyes. A blurry haze of white and blue engulfs the shuttle. I hear the groan of the spacecraft as it attempts to stabilize, and I imagine us shooting out of the sky like a javelin.
“Swift 9. Swift 9, do you copy?”
“Ten-four. Swift 9 preparing for landing.”
“Negative! You are not clear, Swift 9. I repeat: You are not clear.”
My heart flies into overdrive. I can feel it hammering against my ribcage, and the force of the thumping seems to travel up my eardrums. I can’t think. I can’t breathe.
“Swift 9. Adjust your approach! You are not cleared for landing!”
What follows is an indistinguishable negotiation of coordinates and angles and other things I do not understand.
I am frozen in a fog of panic. Our shuttle is lost to the ether. We’re falling, falling, falling, and time itself seems to stop as we careen toward the ground.
The quaking of the shuttle grows more violent. My helmet bounces off the sides of my seat, and I feel as though my head might detach from my spine. I can sense the shuttle adjusting course — moving off center ever so slightly.
Cities and sunshine blaze by in my periphery. Everything is a blur of gold and green and blue. I imagine that the ocean will be the last thing I see before oblivion. Or maybe it will be the sky. I won’t know the difference.
I can feel the ground approaching fast and squeeze my eyes shut. There’s an enormous jolt as we make contact with the earth, and a horrendous screech shatters my eardrums.
We skid to the side, and my head snaps forward. I watch it all as if I’m stuck inside a car that’s rolling over and over into a ditch.
A wall of black asphalt fills my vision, and my harness is the only thing holding me to the shuttle. Pinpricks of color merge with the asphalt. I see yellow grass, orange cones, and people. We’re finally slowing down.
The pocket rocket comes to a tremendous halt, and I whip forward in my seat before I’m stopped by the harness. The weight of my body crashes back against the seat, and a cloud of black smoke engulfs the shuttle.
For a moment, I think the pocket rocket’s on fire. Curls of smoke are lapping at our windows, but I don’t smell smoke inside the spacecraft.
I lean forward in my seat, searching for the exit, but I’m still strapped in and weighed down by my suit. I can hear the thrusters cooling and the sound of my own frantic breathing, but apart from that, the shuttle is quiet.
“What the hell?” says Jonah.
Relief floods through me. He’s alive.
“We need to clear the area,” says Carl.
I see movement in my periphery, and then Jonah’s on his feet. His face appears in front of mine as he fumbles with my restraints, and I shake myself back to reality. I still don’t know if the shuttle’s on fire, but Jonah’s moving as though it is.
He manages to free me from my harness. I throw it over my head and get to my feet. My body feels heavy — like three hundred pounds — and my feet don’t want to support my weight.
Jonah throws out a hand to steady me, and the cabin is flooded with light.
I release my helmet and immediately realize my mistake. The stench of smoke is overwhelming — a mix of carbon, jet fuel, and burned rubber.
A man in an orange vest appears at the shuttle door, his face hidden by a mask. He’s wearing all black underneath his vest and has a radio clipped to his belt.
“Swift 9?”
“That’s us,” chokes Carl, having released his helmet.
“Let’s go!” says the man. “We need you to evacuate.”
Everything after that is a confused, smoky blur. I cough as the fumes quickly fill the shuttle, and a pair of strange hands reach up to help me.
My feet touch the ground, and my whole body wavers. But I don’t have a chance to steady myself. The man is pointing and shouting directions as people run across the landing strip. I choke and follow Carl away from the plume of smoke, but as we cross the runway, I can’t help looking back.
The smoke is rising from a raging pit of fire not thirty yards from where our shuttle landed. The flames are nearly as tall as a man, lapping at the air with unstoppable strength. Then the wind kicks up and the flames reach higher — releasing thick plumes of noxious smoke.
Men in orange vests, fire fighters, and military are running in every direction, trying desperately to contain the blaze. They’re hauling giant hoses and shouting directions, spraying a thick yellow foam to choke out the fire.
I stop in my tracks and stare out at the wreckage. Where there was once solid ground is a crater the size of an elementary school. I can’t tell where it came from or how deep it goes — only that the flames are surging from the hole.
“Maggie!” Jonah shouts.
He and Carl are several yards ahead. The man in orange is shouting at me to move. I force myself to run toward the familiar gray building, my body protesting as my feet slap the asphalt.
As we cross the wide expanse of runway and grass, a dozen or so men and women run past in the opposite direction. They’re wearing heavy suits and clear masks with hoses attached to oxygen tanks. We pass three or four medics and several airmen as sirens wail in the distance.
“What happened?” I gasp, struggling to keep up. I still haven’t regained full control of my limbs, and my body is protesting after the transition from microgravity.
“The shuttle that came in before yours didn’t make it,” says the man. “It crash-landed over there.”
My body goes numb as that information sinks in. There was only one shuttle that could have come down — the shuttle that Buford was flying.
“Any survivors?” asks Jonah.
“You saw the crash site,” the man grumbles. “You think anyone could have survived that?”
I let out an enormous breath, clutching the stitch in my side. If Buford crashed . . . If he’s dead . . .
“That shuttle never filed a flight plan,” the man adds. “We don’t know how many might have been on board.”
“There was only one passenger,” says Jonah grimly. “Lieutenant Scott Buford, Space Force.”
At the sound of Buford’s name, my entire body clenches. I realize I never knew Buford’s first name, and hearing Jonah say it makes him more real somehow.
“Buford?” repeats the man. “One of yours?”
Jonah doesn’t answer. I don’t blame him. Buford may have been a killer, but he was still a lieutenant in the Space Force. He had a history of military service, and I can tell that discrepancy bothers Jonah.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “Buford was being held as a suspect in the bot attacks. He killed four people and stole that shuttle.”
“That was him?”
“Yes, sir,” says Jonah.
Our guide looks stunned, and for a second I’m not sure he believes it.
“We’re here in pursuit of Buford’s accomplice — the other man responsible for the bot attacks,” says Jonah. “We need to speak to whoever’s in charge around here.”
“That would be the wing commander, Colonel Sipps. She’s got her plate full right now, but —”
“It’s important,” Jonah cuts in. “We might have informati
on that could help her with the investigation.”
The man hesitates and then seems to decide that he doesn’t want to be the one accused of withholding information. He leads us over to a beige-and-black Humvee, and we all climb inside.
As we speed toward the center of the base, I take a moment to drink in our surroundings. The sun is rising over the sweeping green mountain. It’s just after six California time.
Once we clear the crash site, the sharp stench of smoke and burned plastic is replaced by the scent of sea salt and sunshine. Living on Earth, I never noticed that sunshine had a smell, but it smells like warm beach towels and a lazy summer breeze. I drink it in as we drive along, stunned by how foreign Earth seems.
After several minutes, we reach a squat brick building that looks nearly identical to all the others around the base. Our guide parks the vehicle, gets out, and leads us through the doors to the administrative offices.
The inside of the building is plain and sterile. The place smells like floor cleaner, old coffee, and copier toner. The yellowish interior lighting seems dim and depressing after our drive — even dimmer than Elderon with its fresh paint and bright lights.
Our guide leads us down a long hallway and knocks on a door. I hear a voice on the other side, and he opens it on command.
Inside is a conference room not unlike the war room on Elderon. There’s a fake mahogany table in the center with high-backed leather chairs all around. They’re filled with at least a dozen men and women in uniform, who I assume are air force officers.
“Sergeant Jonah Wyatt to see you, Colonel. He’s from Colony One — just landed. He says he has information about the crash of the first shuttle.”
“Come in,” says the woman who must be Colonel Sipps. Her voice is clipped and strained.
We pour into the room — me, Jonah, and Carl — and Colonel Sipps takes a moment to scrutinize us. She has a penetrating stare that reminds me of Alex, but I hold hard to her gaze to show I’m not intimidated.
Colonel Sipps is a tall woman with dark-brown hair pulled into a bun and the straight-backed presence of someone who’s spent a lifetime in the armed forces.