The Fated Sky

by Mary Robinette Kowal

  I typed in “78, 14, 3,” which represented the page, line, and word in a copy of Rudyard Kipling’s Just So Stories. When Nathaniel got the transcription, he’d look up the word in the book, which would then be the “key” for the Caesar. Today’s was “elephant,” which meant that I’d reordered the alphabet to read “ELPHANTBCDFGIJKMOQRSUVWXYZ.” So “Dear Nathaniel” became “Haeq Jesbejcag.”

  I tended to compose the letters before I went up to the comm module, because some parts of them were fine for Mission Control to read. I’d leave all the safe babble in plain text, and go back to add the rest to the beginning and end of the letter before I keyed them in.

  Today’s coded part read:

  C pkimgecjah elkus cs. Huqcjt sba nctbs—ejh C’i jks axepsgy ruqa bkw wa tks sbaqa—ba skgh ia sbes bcr wcna ber mkgck ejh wer cj ej cqkj gujt. C naag durs bkqqclga elkus egg sba sciar sbes C’va sbkutbs rba wer elurah kq sbes ba durs hchj’s peqa ajkutb elkus baq sk lqcjt baq qkujh sk ejy kn sba geujpbar. C’i e gcssga rsettaqah, jkw sbes C’va beh scia sk sbcjf elkus cs, sbes baq pkjhcsckj werj’s sba rkuqpa kn knncpa tkrrcm. Mgaera sagg ia yku hchj’s fjkw.

  Which translated to:

  Parker and I had a knock down drag out fight today. He made a crack about how laundry should be women’s work, and I complained about it. During the fight—and I’m not exactly sure how we got there—he told me that his wife has polio and was in an iron lung. I feel just horrible about all the times that I’ve thought she was abused or that he just didn’t care enough about her to bring her round to any of the launches. I’m a little staggered, now that I’ve had time to think about it, that her condition wasn’t the source of office gossip. Please tell me you didn’t know.

  Dear Nathaniel,

  The voyage continues apace. As you must know, we had quite a bit of excitement here earlier when the Pinta had their little trouble. There was a moment during Mission Control’s transmission when I heard your voice as clear as anything. I hadn’t thought I could miss you any more, but that little bit made the pining start all over again. Still, I don’t want you to worry about me. I soothed myself with a slice of chocolate chess pie.

  It’s not quite the same as a real one, but I’ve learned that I can get fairly tolerable results from dehydrated eggs by whipping them a bit after I reconstitute them. Plus, the chocolate helps cover the slight chalky character.

  You’ll be pleased to know that the positioning lights on the Pinta worked exactly as planned, and I was able to give Parker the distance to their ship without any trouble at all. In fact, the whole mission is going so smoothly that we’re almost bored. Now that Ruby tells us that everyone is okay on the Pinta (aside from the blister on Stewman’s hand from trying to slap the fire out) I can admit that having a bit of excitement relieved some of the tedium.

  Terrazas has suggested doing a radio play for the folks on the other ship, just to have something to break the monotony. Oh dear. I sound like a socialite afflicted with ennui, but, really, darling, it’s just that all your efforts to make sure everything runs smoothly have paid off.

  I love you dearly.

  Elma

  Cj qarmkjra sk ykuq gers gassaq, C ei waeqcjt iy ngctbs rucs lus hk jks beva e lqe kj. Cn yku waqa baqa, C wkugh sefa yku cjsk sba teqhaj ikhuga ejh gaej kvaq sba skiesk lahr rk sbes er yku skkf ia nqki labcjh, iy nepa wkugh la mqarrah cjsk sba nqetqejs tqaaj gaevar wcsb aepb sbqurs.

  (Translated: In response to your last letter, I am wearing my flight suit, but do not have a bra on. If you were here …

  (On second thought, I probably shouldn’t translate this one. Nathaniel knows what I said, and that’s enough.)

  * * *

  Parker avoided me. You would think it would be hard to avoid someone when there are only six other people in your world, but you would be wrong. The Pinta and the Niña were built to hold fourteen crew members, in case we had to evacuate one of the ships, so there were times when you could go from room to room and not find anyone.

  I walked the full circuit of the ring, partly because I needed the exercise, but also hoping I’d catch him alone. I crossed from the long curved hallway into the garden module and just the smell of damp soil and greenery made my shoulders drop. I took in a deep breath, letting the knot in the pit of my stomach unclench a little.

  Terrazas looked up from the tomato plants and held up one of the red orbs. He, at least, was always happy to see me. “I can’t stop thinking about how different this is from our moon trip.”

  I snorted and made my way through the shelves and racks of plants. “I think you could fit two of our tin cans in the BusyBee.”

  “Oh, hey. I have an idea I want to run past you.” He placed the tomato in the basket with some others. “What do you think about a Flash Gordon for our radio play?”

  “Flash Gordon?” I’d been expecting something about using the BusyBee for some auxiliary purpose, or something at least related to work. “Isn’t that a little … on the nose?”

  “Maybe.” He set the basket down and leaned against the hydroponic bed. “But here we are in actual outer space, the way I dreamed when I was a little kid listening to Flash Gordon with the radio.”

  “They had Flash Gordon in Spain?”

  His teeth flashed in a blinding smile. “It’s how I first learned English. Anyway. I was thinking that we could use the intership broadcast system to do a radio show for the Pinta. A soap opera, since they have to do their laundry by hand. It would be fun.”

  “York.” Parker’s voice made me jump. “I didn’t think distracting people was on your duty roster.”

  “I’m on my exercise break.” Please note that I was very good, and did not rise to the bait. “And I was hoping to run into you.”

  Behind me, Terrazas picked up the basket of tomatoes. “I’m going to take these up to the kitchen.”

  “York can do that for you. She’s got free time.” Parker stepped around me and took the basket of tomatoes from Terrazas. He thrust it at me. “Hop to it.”

  “If I can just talk to you for a moment?” My hands closed on the basket, and I clutched it to my chest as if it were a form of armor.

  “Wish I had time. Sorry.” He turned his back on me and used his shoulders to block my view of Terrazas. Just in case that signal wasn’t clear enough, he switched to Spanish and rattled off something too fast to hear even the separation between words.

  I stood there for a moment, feeling uncannily like I was back in college at the age of fourteen. I felt simultaneously outside events and ignored, but also at the center of attention because Parker was pretending so hard that I wasn’t there. Nice leadership style he had. The longer I stayed, the more awkward it got, but I kept hoping he’d relent.

  He produced some papers from an interior pocket on his jumpsuit and spread them out on the hydroponic table. Past him, Terrazas shot me a pained look and shrugged, as if to say that there wasn’t anything he could do.

  I hugged the basket of tomatoes and walked off to complete my circuit of the ring. Parker was the commander of the mission, after all.

  SEVENTEEN

  ANNOUNCER: The American Broadcasting Company presents Headline Edition with Taylor Grant. November 23rd, 1962.

  GRANT: A massive hurricane has swept across Haiti without losing any of its force and continues across the ocean toward Florida. Thanks to early warning from the Lunetta orbiting station, the island nation was able to prepare for the devastating storm and evacuated the coasts before the storm struck. The government reports that while the property damage is severe, the loss of life is not as great as it might have been. Still, this is the earliest hurricane on record, and marks a continuing change in weather patterns in the region.

  Florence snapped a pillowcase like a whip. “This is not why I got two doctorates.”

  “If the IAC had sent us with starch, I’d starch Parker’s underwear.” I pulled a load out from the strange front-loading washing machine, which had been invented for the moon colony—although, if the magazines were t
o be believed, a number of housewives on Earth were installing the Space-O-Matic cleaner in their own homes. “I can’t believe that Mission Control fell for the whole ‘women’s work’ argument.”

  “Cultivated incompetence.” Florence snorted and grabbed another pillowcase. “Men are good at it.”

  “I’ll admit to doing that sometimes myself.” I put my hand to my chest and fluttered my eyelids. “Oh, could you help little ol’ me? You’re so big and strong.”

  She rewarded me with a laugh. “Well, if men are going to be all up in my face about how they’re ‘protecting’ me, then there’s not a thing wrong with taking advantage of them. It’s not my fault they’re too stupid to live.”

  “Not all of them are so bad.” I dumped a stack of wet laundry into the dryer—after cleaning the lint trap, thank you very much. “Rafael’s pretty good with the laundry.”

  “That’s a pretty small sample size.”

  “Nathaniel makes a mean cocktail. And he does dishes.”

  She just gave me this vaguely disappointed look, as if she had glasses to peer over. Shaking her head, Florence grabbed a shirt to fold and gave an expressive sigh. “How’s he coping with you being gone?”

  Now it was my turn to sigh. I shut the dryer with my knee and slapped the button to turn it on. “Okay.” The dryer started to rattle and thump as the clothes spun in their own tiny orbit, and I wandered over to help her fold. “My nephew is going to come stay with him and intern at IAC. Nathaniel’s got a regular card game he goes to. And work. He works all the time, even when I’m home.”

  “How long you two been married?”

  “Thirteen years.” I smoothed one of Terrazas’s T-shirts on the table. The soft cotton bunched under my hand. “How about you? Anyone special?”

  “Nope. Had a fellow who proposed, but he wanted me to stop working. ‘It’s the job or me.’ Well … that was an easy choice. Since then…” Florence has this little shrug where she cocks her head to the side. She gave one of those and set the shirt she was folding on the stack of clothes. “You know how it is. Men get intimidated when you’re smart.”

  This was the most intimate conversation we’d had. I’m not sure what changed to get her to open up, even that much. Maybe it was just the shared task and indignity of folding laundry together. Whatever it was, I wasn’t going to question it. “Yeah, well, the guys we’re working with don’t seem particularly intimidated.”

  “Please.” She snorted and rolled her eyes. “Why do you think they have us doing laundry? It ain’t because they’re incompetent or lazy.”

  The shipwide speaker crackled and Parker’s voice intruded into the laundry room. “Grey. Parker. I need you in comms.”

  “Well, well … I actually get to do my job.” She stood up and walked over to the speaker to press the reply button. “Parker. Grey. Copy. On my way to comms.”

  I saluted her with a shirt. “Enjoy using your doctorate.”

  * * *

  I didn’t find out what Parker had needed Florence for until I got to dinner that night. I walked around the ring to the kitchen module, following the scent of something made with all the garlic in the universe. Even if I hadn’t seen the duty roster, it would have been clear that Terrazas was cooking.

  When I walked in, he was stirring something on the stove. “… have to do something.”

  From where she sat at the table, Florence spread her hands. “Mission Control says no.”

  “Well, there’s not really anything we can do that they can’t do for themselves.” Kamilah was slicing fresh tomatoes at the counter. “And the chances of bringing the infection back here is pretty high.”

  “Infection?” The old specter of space germs came and danced in front of me like a latex-rubber monster suit in a drive-in movie. As far out as we were from Earth, who knew what could happen? “What’s going on?”

  Kamilah slid the tomatoes onto a plate. “There’s an E. coli infection on the Pinta, which Ruby thinks started with a Bacillus cereus infection from the rice.”

  Florence looked up at me. “See? I told you they were too stupid to live.”

  “Wait—what rice? Is that something we have to worry about on the Niña? And how sick? And—I should stop asking questions and let you answer them.” I knit my hands in front of me and tried to wait.

  “I’ll back up and start at the beginning. Parker called me up to comms because the Pinta’s antenna was out of alignment, so I had to massage the receiver to get a clear-enough signal. According to Ruby, when they had the fire, they left the dinner out and afterward went back to it. She thinks the rice got infected with … what was it, Kam?”

  “Bacillus cereus. It’s a very common agent and shows up frequently in rice. That struck Stewman and Sabados, and unfortunately the symptoms hit while they were in zero-g. At which point, one of them became a vector to infect everyone else with E. coli. It is not pretty over there.”

  I winced. Diarrhea in zero-g gets in everything. Urine is unpleasant, but diarrhea was a million times worse—and that’s a hard statistic. “Are we going to do something?”

  Terrazas pointed his spoon at me. “That’s what I asked.”

  “No.” Parker landed at the bottom of the ladder. “Mission Control and all of the flight surgeons there have confirmed that we are not to do anything. Ruby, who is actually there to assess the situation, has also said that we are not to come over.”

  “But—” I’m not sure what I was even objecting to. It was a sound decision, and not far off from some of the sims we’d done. This was the reason we had two ships, so each one was redundant. But it was hard not to want to help, which I guess was the difference between the anonymity of the suffering masses and the immediacy of people you know. “There are things we could do that don’t involve coming into contact with them.”

  Parker raised his eyebrows, but that was all the response I got from him. He walked across the kitchen. “Smells good, Terrazas.”

  Terrazas smacked his spoon against the side of the pot, shaking off whatever delicious thing he was making. “York is right. We could leave something in the airlock. Or go into the ship in our spacesuits to help with cleanup. Or put the crew in a BusyBee and use it as—”

  “That.” Parker pointed a finger at him. “That right there is why we aren’t. Because, in just three sentences you edged them closer to us. Now, E. coli is highly contagious, is that right, Shamoun?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mission Control has more brains focused on the problem than we could muster up even if both ships were healthy. We are holding course.” Parker clapped his hands together. “What’s for dinner?”

  Terrazas wiped his hands on his apron. “Mock paella. It’s … it’s a rice dish.”

  * * *

  Two things to know about Terrazas: He is a ham with a deep and abiding love for theater. And, of course, he’s an astronaut, which means that once he sees a problem, he needs to work it until he has a solution. Those two things combined with his desire to help the Pinta, and somehow I found myself holding a pair of shoes and crowded into comms with Leonard, Terrazas, Florence, and Rafael.

  We were far enough out that radio shows from Earth were getting fuzzy and hard to make out without nursing the radio equipment a lot. Florence had explained it, but while I understood waves and the theories of bandwidth, she eventually lapsed into jargon that left me smiling and nodding.

  The short form was the crew of the Pinta was too ill to play nursemaid to the radio.

  The slightly longer form was that we were doing a radio serial to entertain them while they were ill. Apparently having a microphone is the space version of “My uncle has a barn.”

  Terrazas leaned into the microphone and, with appropriate dash and vigor, narrated the thrilling scene: “Racing high above the Earth, comfortably seated in a giant airliner, Flash Gordon, internationally famous athlete, looks admiringly across the aisle at Dale Arden, the lovely young companion of his air voyage. Suddenly, there’s a violent jar
.”

  As he paused, Florence shook a balloon—I say balloon, but it was a condom, blown up and filled with grains of dry rice. When she shook it next to the microphone, it sounded for all the world like an explosion.

  Terrazas’s voice grew more intense. “The plane lurches into a spinning nosedive. Flash Gordon’s trained muscles carry him across the aisle to the frightened girl, to gather her in his arms and then leap free of the falling plane. And pulling the ripcord of his parachute, glides to Earth.”

  Leonard took his place at the mic, floating upside down over it. Terrazas was not our only ham. “Don’t be frightened, Dale. The plane has crashed, we’re safe.”

  That was my cue. I tried to simper accordingly. “Yes, thanks to you. Oh, look, Flash! There’s a large steel door. It’s closing!”

  “Why, that’s the laboratory of the great scientist Dr. Hans Zarkov. He’s coming this way! I hope you’ll pardon us for breaking in on you so unceremoniously, Doctor, but you see, we had to bail out.”

  I covered my mouth, because I knew what was coming next: Rafael. Rafael, who was 5'9" and loved to dance, could do the most ridiculous German accent I have ever heard. If you’ve seen Charlie Chaplin’s The Great Dictator, Rafael would have made a great Adenoid Hynkel.

  Rafael waggled his finger at the ceiling, even though no one on the Pinta could see him. “I see you for vhat you are—SPIES! Come to steal my SECRRRRRETS! But I haf zhe answer for dat. Come vit me!”

  I bit my tongue and tried to hold my breath. He was just so funny.

  How Leonard managed to get his next line out, I don’t know. “Put that gun away, Professor Zarkov.” Leonard got closer to the microphone and whispered. “The man is mad, Dale. We’ll have to humor him.”

  “All right, Professor, all right.” Hopefully I sounded breathless, rather than like I was fighting laughter. “We’ll come with you.”

  “Get down dis ladder, into dis tower. Down, I tell you!” As Rafael pointed at the ceiling, Florence and I each clapped pairs of shoes together to make a sort of walking sound. Sort of. I am many things, but a sound effects artist is not one of them. Rafael shook his finger. “There now. Ve are in my rocket ship, and in ten seconds ve vill be on our vay to the new planet. Ve will all DIE—die for SCIENCE!”