The next pages in my binder covered Earth orbit and transition out of orbit. Those could go too.
The force of pulling them out caused me to drift a little toward Florence, so I put a hand on the ceiling to stop myself. Pushing gently, I eased back over toward the teletype machine. Nathaniel should have my message by now. Unless he was in a meeting. He might be in a meeting …
I used to know his schedule down to the second. Now, all I knew for certain was that he was at work, and even that might not be true. He might be out of town—no. He would have told me that he had a trip planned. Wouldn’t he? Besides, he wouldn’t go anywhere with Tommy in town for the week.
I gnawed on the inside of my lip and turned back to my binder. TransMars injection burn—those I still needed. In another six months, we’d be crossing out of Earth’s sphere of gravitational influence and into the bare edges of Mars’s pull. I closed the metal rings of the binder and flipped to the back so I could insert my loose pages there. Granted, I didn’t need them anymore, but the IAC always wanted them back, complete with my handwritten notes all over them. For posterity.
The teletype rattled to life next to me.
Florence flinched at the sudden noise, spinning upward before she grabbed the desk to steady herself. “Lord. That thing gives me a fright every. Single. Time.”
“I know what you mean.” I wedged my binder between the teletype and the wall.
As the paper scrolled over the carriage, it began to lift up toward the ceiling like a paper beanstalk. Nearly half a page of random characters went past before I saw 30 7 4, which meant that everything after that would be Nathaniel, using the same keyword. Now the machine began to slow because it was responding to human touch.
In films, they sometimes show teletypes as these fast, automated things, but that’s not what they are. Not even at this distance. They instantly transmit the typist’s touch, so each stroke, each pause, each hesitation as you think of what to say next are sent to your correspondent. I put my hand on the side of the machine, which hummed under my touch.
As Nathaniel typed, I relished those tiny impacts against the carriage as echoes of his fingers against mine.
30 7 4—A’g qkppy yku’po srvaje quis r pkues tago kc at. A porn ykup ckpgrf polkpt rjn at qkujnon fado tso hre cujitakjon rq ajtojnon. A joon qkgo sofl ujnopqtrjnaje wsrt nanj’t wkpd rhkut at. Srvo yku joonon tk trdo rjy ktsop Gaftkwj rctop tsrt capqt jaest?
There was a long pause there, long enough that part of me was wondering if the transmission had been interrupted. The rest of me could imagine Nathaniel leaning over the keyboard with his lower lip caught between his teeth and a line drawn between his brows.
Yku djkw A wkppy rhkut yku, hut A’g efrn yku toff go tsajeq fado tsaq.
(Translated: I’m sorry you’re having such a rough time of it. I read your formal report and it sounded like the bag functioned as intended. I need some help understanding what didn’t work about it. Have you needed to take any other Miltown after that first night? [That—that is where he paused.] You know I worry about you, but I’m glad you tell me things like this.)
My dearest Elma,
You and the rest of the crew have my sincere condolences. Everyone here is gutted about Ruby, particularly her colleagues in the flight surgeon’s department, who feel like it is a personal failing of theirs. And of course, they all knew Ruby better than I did and speak of her in the highest possible terms.
It has been a blessing having Tommy here this week. His presence has been a good distraction and is encouraging me to eat meals on a regular basis. I wonder if I consumed the sheer amount of food that he seems to need at each meal when I was his age. Actually, I know I did, because I remember our housekeeper complaining about it. She said she couldn’t keep a gallon of milk in the house, and I know now how she felt. On the plus side, our refrigerator is spotlessly clean.
He’s a good worker. I’m looking forward to having him here for the summer, although I might move into one of the one-bedroom apartments, just for a little privacy. You wouldn’t mind having more room when you come back, would you? We can always move again if you don’t like it.
As always, I adore you.
Nathaniel
Sq jiitmp qj fo qurq yjt fseuq qrdb qj Brfsdru rhjtq wurqovom sp qmjthdsge yjt. S bgjw qurq Krmbom sp gjq r pjtmio jc ijfcjmq, htq Brfsdru rq dorpq jteuq qj ho, qumjteu uom fonsird hribemjtgn. S atpq wjmmy rhjtq yjt doqqsge quo rgxsoqy jvomwuodf yjt rersg.
(Translated: It occurs to me that you might talk to Kamilah about whatever is troubling you. I know that Parker is not a source of comfort, but Kamilah at least ought to be, through her medical background. I just worry about you letting the anxiety overwhelm you again.)
There is a substantial difference between being upset about having to pulverize a colleague and anxiety. I put my fingers on the keyboard to tell him so, then jerked them away again. I couldn’t write that in plain text—I’d have to put it into our code first.
I took a slow breath and rearranged the letters of the alphabet in my mind. To be on the safe side, I wrote it out on the back of the old launch worksheet, driving my pencil into the paper so hard that it left an indentation. Then I propped it open and let it float next to the teletype as I copied out the text.
Jrtsrjaof. Tsaq aq jkt rjxaoty. A rg jkt rjxakuq rhkut rjytsaje. A rg, skwovop, vaqioprffy naqtuphon hy tso lpkioqq kc lufvopazaje Puhy Nkjrfnqkj. Yku rqdon wsrt “nanj’t wkpd rhkut at.” Tso hre cujitakjq rq noqaejon rjn rffkwq tso lufvopazrtakj kc rjytsaje cpoozo npaon. Hut nupaje tso lpkioqq, at aq lkqqahfo tk qoo poikejazrhfo laoioq kc tso noiorqon qtpadaje tso hre. Yku irj rfqk coof oris qtpado tspkues tso srjnfoq.
(Translated: Nathaniel. This is not anxiety. I am not anxious about anything. I am, however, viscerally disturbed by the process of pulverizing Ruby Donaldson. You asked what “didn’t work about it.” The bag functions as designed and allows the pulverization of anything freeze dried. But during the process, it is possible to see recognizable pieces of the deceased striking the bag. You can also feel each strike through the handles.)
Belatedly, I realized that I couldn’t just send the coded message or it would look like garbage going through without anything attached to it. What had we been talking about “in the clear,” as it were? Oh. A new apartment.
Dear Nathaniel,
I think you should make yourself as comfortable as you can while I’m gone. It’s a little ironic that you need more space without me than with me, but it makes sense to want a place to retreat from Tommy. Besides, then you won’t have to deal with the Murphy bed every day, which will be nice, I think. I know I don’t miss putting it up and down.
It’ll be another two and a half years before I can see the place. All I ask is that there is at least a view of some trees. I find that the garden module is one of my favorite spots on the ship. I think the aroma of earth and vegetation gives me comfort. I loved our tiny little “Central Park” on the moon for much the same reason. You don’t realize how amazing the color green is until you live without it for so long.
Love,
Elma
Poerpnaje tso hre: Lforqo agreajo ac at wopo go, rjn yku qrw gy crio lpoqqon rerajqt tso ajtopakp kc tso hre. Lforqo agreajo coofaje laoioq kc gy hkny sattaje tso hre rjn tso qtpadoq vahprtaje tspkues tso qtprl aj ykup srjnq, ovoj wats efkvoq kj. Lforqo agreajo coofaje tskqo laoioq eot qgrffop rjn qgrffop ujtaf yku coft kjfy tso saqqaje kc qrjn rerajqt tso ajqano rjn yku djow tsrt at srn kjio hooj go.
(Translated: Regarding the bag: Please imagine if it were me, and you saw my face pressed against the interior of the bag. Please imagine feeling pieces of my body hitting the bag and the strikes vibrating through the strap in your hands, even with gloves on. Please imagine feeling those pieces get smaller and smaller until you felt only the hissing of sand against the inside and you knew that it had once been me.)
I took my hands off the keyboard and floated back, fingers still vibrating from the machine, as if I had shaken Ruby’s remains all over again.<
br />
“You going to keep fighting with him?” Florence had looked up from her book with her head cocked to the side.
“Why—why do you think we’re fighting?” I plucked my notebook out of the air and shut it.
“As hard as you were hitting those keys?” She snorted and closed her book. “What’d he do?”
“Weren’t you reading?”
Florence wedged her book into a small net bag on the wall next to the radio. She crossed her arms, lips pursed. “If you stop fighting, maybe I will, but the racket you were making? Uh-uh. What’s wrong?”
If I hadn’t been trying so hard to build some sort of rapport with Florence, I might have continued to dodge this question. As it was, I felt like I needed to respond to any interest in my personal life. I sighed, and spun in the air to face her fully. “The bags. I want the IAC to scrap them and come up with a different plan.”
She shuddered. “Yeah. Kamilah told me about that. Jesus.”
A bitter volt of jealousy coursed through my body. But why? What right did I have to be jealous that Kamilah confided in Florence? They’d worked together longer than with me, and had a right to a friendship outside of work. But—
It’s funny, what can snap something into focus for you. I had colleagues on the ship, but I had not become friends with anyone. Kamilah and Florence spent leisure time together. So did Rafael and Terrazas. Parker and Terrazas. Leonard and Florence. Kamilah and Rafael … There were pair bonds and friendships stretching throughout the crew, but I didn’t have any of my own. Not truly. I’m not sure if it was because they still resented me for taking Helen’s place, or because I was married to the lead engineer, or just because …
I swallowed the bitterness. “Nathaniel thinks it sounds like the bag worked within expected parameters and doesn’t see what the problem is.”
“Why are men such idiots?”
“It boggles the mind. It really does.” I rattled the page he’d sent. “And Nathaniel is one of the good ones. I mean, he cooks, he’s hosting my nephew, he’s … he’s amazing in all other ways. It’s only when he gets his engineer hat on that he sometimes can’t see past the design parameters to the people. ‘The bag functioned as intended.’ Ugh.”
“Well, you tell him where he can store that bag. And if I pass, you can just jettison me. I’d rather spend eternity floating in space than as a bunch of sand.”
Not that I’d be aware either way, but the thought made me shudder. “Same. Though…” I scanned the module looking for something wood and settled for knocking on the paper in my binder. “Let’s hope there’s no need to worry about that for anyone.”
“Oh, I dunno. There’s some folks…” She shrugged, cocking her head to the side. “I’d be tempted to just shove ’em out an airlock at the first opportunity.”
“Maybe I should just ‘accidentally’ lose our store of the bag.”
“Yeah. Be a damn shame if anything happened to those.” She grinned slowly. “Kam and Terrazas would help.”
That would be a pleasant letter to type and send home. Dear Nathaniel: I’m ever so sorry, but we somehow accidentally jettisoned all the bags on both ships. I don’t know how we managed to get rid of such a barbaric piece of equipment. I do hope—
The teletype rattled to life. Both of us jumped at the abrupt noise, and then laughed.
“Every. Single. Time.” Florence had a hand on her chest, still laughing. “Every time.”
The laughter helped propel me over to the machine. As the actual garbage rolled into the “garbage,” I leaned over the machine, decrypting in my head.
(Translated: I’m sorry. You are absolutely right that none of us thought about the effect on the crew. I am so sorry. May I please ask you to send a follow-up report with the details so that I can share it in the next meeting? We will find another solution, although I hope to God there will never be a need for it.)
I had been so prepared to have to fight to get him to understand that I was left with a ball of anger that had no target. It was mingled with relief and gratitude that I was lucky enough to be married to a man who understood—and also shame, because I should have known he would understand. Nathaniel was the best of men.
Dear Elma,
I will absolutely look for an apartment with a view of trees. And thank you for reminding me that I take the greenery on Earth for granted. I think we all do, when surrounded by so much life all the time. It’s hard to remember what an exception our planet is in the solar system, without a reminder of how fragile life is.
You have all my love,
Nathaniel
And then there was a single string of “garbage”:
Every day I think of you and all the ways in which you might die in space. Please don’t.
This time, I didn’t wait, and I didn’t bother encoding anything, because my response to both parts was the same.
Thank you. I love you.
I pushed back from the teletype to find Florence looking at me over her book. She cocked her head to the side. “And?”
“He just apologized and asked me to do an update to my report, with details about the effect on the crew.” I folded the pages he’d sent, running my fingers over the crease as if it were the back of his hand. “He’ll present it in the next meeting.”
“Huh.” Shaking her head, Florence opened her novel again. “Wonders never cease. A man with some sense.”
And it would be two years, five months, three weeks, and four days before I saw him again. Not that I was counting.
TWENTY-ONE
CYGNUS SIX TRIAL CONTINUES
By ROBERT ALDEN
Special to The National Times
KANSAS CITY, KS, Dec. 14, 1962—The trial of six men accused of hijacking an International Aerospace Coalition rocket last year continued today. The United States government asked that the trial be moved to Kansas City due to security concerns.
Thirty-two armed guards, including six soldiers armed with submachine guns, crowded into the small courtroom. Heavy cordons of United Nations troops ringed the courthouse, and persons entering were searched before they were admitted.
The man accused of being the leader of the group is a handsome 34-year-old Negro insurance agent. He is considered by the police a key man in the plot and a key man in many terrorist activities.
In a corner of the observation dome—which, despite the name, is not actually a dome—Rafael played his guitar. The facets of the dodecahedron shaped the sound and bounced it around us. Aside from Parker and Kamilah, we had all gravitated toward the dome for our off-duty time. I was drifting near the apex with a copy of The Gods of Mars from the ship library. For reasons that remain unclear to me, we did not have the first book in the series, but the Pinta did.
Sometimes, the decisions that Mission Control made were opaque. Fortunately, you didn’t really need to have read A Princess of Mars to follow what was going on in the sequel. It was harder, however, to ignore the weird popping sound that Terrazas kept making with his lips.
Somehow, I hadn’t noticed it on our trip to the moon, but—dear God—it was constant when he was thinking.
I glanced over the edge of my book, where he floated with a clipboard—making notes, no doubt, on his next radio script. “You aren’t even eating anything.”
“What?” He lifted his head.
“That noise is just … Could you stop? Please?”
“What noise?” Terrazas scratched his nose with his pencil.
Rafael saved me by popping his lips like a slow-motion fart. “Love ya, but it’s obnoxious.”
Terrazas laughed, shaking his head. “I do not—do I?”
“Oh, hell. Elma—” Leonard snapped his mouth shut so hard his teeth clacked audibly. He held the “newspaper” so tightly that the teletype pages crinkled beneath his fists.
I lowered my book. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He gave a smile that I didn’t believe for a second and straightened the sheet. The movement set him drifting i
n a loose circle.
Florence glanced over from the needlepoint she was working on. “The article about the march, or the one about the trial?”
“It’s nothing. I—I, um, I just remembered that I needed to ask Elma to help me in the lab, but it can wait.”
Well, that was obviously bullshit. I shut my book, and Rafael stopped playing the guitar. Pushing off, I floated a little closer to Leonard. “What trial?”
“For the Cygnus Six. Old news.” He grimaced and turned the page. “Hey, Florence. Looks like you’ve got a fan on Earth. Gene Roddenberry is saying you inspired a character on his new TV show.”
“What are you leaving out?” I tucked my book into one of the pockets on my flight suit.
Leonard leaned his head back to stare at the stars. Florence stopped with her needle poised over the fabric. “May as well tell her. You know she’s not one to leave well enough alone.”
He sighed and lowered his head, turning back to the page that evidently held the story about the trial. “‘… Among the questions raised was the possible involvement of IAC employees in the crash of the Cygnus 14 rocket. While the so-called Lady Astronaut has been acclaimed as a heroine for her efforts, recent investigations by this paper have uncovered that she has a history of mental illness.’”
A wave of cold revulsion swept through me. I wanted to have misheard him, but I knew Earth well enough to know that I’d heard him with perfect, dreadful clarity. I did what I always do when I’m trying to mask my anxiety. I made a joke. “Given our choice of careers … they could say that about all of us.”
“So it’s true.” Florence stabbed the cloth with a vengeance.
“Hey.” Terrazas let go of his clipboard and set it spinning in front of him.
“That’s—” I swallowed and crossed my arms across my torso. God. I wanted to lie to them, and I’m so proud of myself that I didn’t. “I had problems with anxiety.”
“Had.” Florence snorted.
She wasn’t wrong, but I still bristled. “It’s not a problem.”
The Fated Sky Page 20