The Fated Sky

by Mary Robinette Kowal

  Kamilah snorted. “Please. She’s telling them that Parker can’t be trusted in the kitchen?”

  Snatching the paper up, Florence read: “I understand your concerns about the duty rosters, but Mission Control has reasons for making the assignments that they do. You don’t realize how bad it is here. I’m glad of that, but we’re sending the rosiest possible news to keep morale up. Trust me when I say—”

  I snatched the papers out of her hands. They rattled as I hugged them to my chest. “That’s private.”

  “What the hell are you actually doing on this mission?” Florence took a step toward me, forcing me back.

  Kamilah let go of my arm, but her hand was still outstretched as if she were holding a ghost. Through the papers, my heart stuttered and thumped against my chest. I shook my head. “It’s just … It’s just so we can … He’s my husband. I miss him. That’s all.”

  “He’s the lead engineer!” Florence buried her fingers in the dirt. “You think you can just tell him about our fights and the way we chafe at orders and that’s not going to get back to someone?”

  “It’s not—” For the first time in my life, I was relieved that someone knew about the anxiety. It gave me an angle from which to explain. “It’s the anxiety. He’s—he’s a safety valve. Nothing else.”

  “Thought you said that wasn’t a problem anymore. Which is it, York? Either you are perfectly healthy and sending coded messages for no reason at all, or you are a neurotic mess clinging to a safety blanket.”

  My knees shook hard enough that I had to grab the edge of a bed to steady myself. I looked to Kamilah, hoping she could help explain, but her brows were drawn down and together. She stared at me as if we’d never met before. I shook my head. “Mission Control didn’t send me—I mean, they did, but I’m not spying. Nathaniel isn’t breaking any confidences.”

  “Oh yeah?” Florence pulled her hand out of the dirt and folded her arms over her chest, leaving a smear of earth against the blue of her flight suit. “Then why are they censoring our news now?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “‘Rosiest possible news’? You haven’t noticed that all the news we’re getting is sunshine and light? You think that’s a coincidence?”

  “I don’t…” I looked down at the papers clutched against my chest. “I don’t know.”

  But I did. Because of course Nathaniel would try to change things. Hadn’t he told me before we left that he would sacrifice everyone on this ship to keep me safe? And hadn’t I said that tempers were high? Hadn’t I said that I almost wished they wouldn’t send us letters from home? He wouldn’t share things told in confidence.

  But he would still try to “help.” The same way I had, and made everything worse.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  April 9, 1963

  Dear Elma,

  I’m sorry that all of this is going to be “in the clear,” as they say. I’ve just had a very interesting meeting with Director Clemons, in which he gently suggested that this would be for the best. There’s not much to say about that, I suppose.

  The apartment is pleasant enough, when I’m there. Nicole is back from the moon for a couple of months, and has come by to help with furnishing it. She and Myrtle seem determined to make certain that it will be cozy for you when you get home. I think they are worried that I will become too set in my bachelor ways. Myrtle chided me—you can imagine this—for the state of the pantry. Honestly, though, you know that dry toast is usually all I eat in the morning.

  Everyone seems very determined to take care of me while you are away. Hershel tried to get me to come out for Passover, but I couldn’t manage it, so he’s coming here, ostensibly to help me prepare for Tommy—Thomas’s visit. I told him that wasn’t necessary, but—family will be family, eh?

  I trust all is going well.

  With all my love,

  Nathaniel

  I had not realized how vital the private messages were until we could no longer send them. Something was not right, and Nathaniel wasn’t saying what it was. He and Hershel got along well, but there was no reason my brother would be coming out now, especially not if it meant being away from his family during Passover.

  Parker cleared his throat. “Do you have a reply you want to send?”

  I did not throw the paper at him. I did not roll my eyes. I did not huff. I set the paper down on the table in the kitchen and tried to deliver one of my mom’s death stares. “Is this really necessary? Mission Control will look over everything I send. If there’s a code, they’ll spot it first.”

  “Following orders.” Parker held up his hands. “Promise. I can have Grey send it, if you’d prefer.”

  “She hates me.”

  He shrugged. Of course it was no skin off his back. People hating me probably seemed natural to Parker. “Right now, she and I are the only ones authorized to use the teletype. Which of us is going to bug you less?”

  Beneath the table, I had my hands wadded into balls in my lap. My nails bit into my palms. The injustice of this situation left me shaking with the suppressed urge to scream. Being able to express myself freely made me a healthier and more productive team member. That would go for any of us. And they were mad because I was talking with my husband about … what? Sex? Anxiety?

  But none of that would be seen as sufficient justification. I tried to take a deep breath, but my rib cage caught and left me short. Prying my hands open, I pressed them flat on my lap. “I would prefer it if you sent the message.” Parker grunted, brows going up in surprise. That was fair—I was surprised myself. “I trust you not to repeat anything.” That realization made me shift on my seat. Anything that was public knowledge Parker would use against me, but he had never told anyone about my anxiety issues even when he was trying to keep women out of the space program.

  With a nod, he slid his clipboard over to me. “I’ll shred it after I send it. Won’t help with Mission Control knowing, but at least you’ll have some privacy on the ship.”

  “Thank you.” I took the clipboard and picked up the mechanical pencil tethered to it. Rolling the smooth barrel under my fingers, I bent my head to the page.

  Dear Nathaniel,

  I’m sorry to have caused you trouble. I’m glad, though, that Myrtle and Nicole are helping with the apartment, particularly with the pantry. And it’s good that you won’t be alone for Passover. I know you don’t have much of an appetite in the morning, but, to quote every doctor including my mother, it’s the most important meal of the day. I don’t expect I’ll be able to change your habits from here, but it’s still worth a try.

  I hope you didn’t expect me to defend the habit. Mama always said—

  I broke off, pencil stuck on the page. Mama had always said he’d make himself sick that way. And the way he overworked meant he sometimes forgot to eat unless he was reminded. Who would stop him and make him go home? Or eat? Well … I guess Myrtle and Nicole were trying. The fact that Hershel was coming out to visit struck me with a more sinister force, though. I bit my lower lip, trying to figure out how to ask.

  —Mama always said that you would end up with an ulcer if you didn’t take better care of yourself. It would be a shame if Hershel came out to find you suffering from that. I remember how she would make you drink a glass of milk with your toast in the morning. Raise a glass for me? The powdered milk we have on the ship is nothing like fresh. Mr. Yoder, at the Amish Market, has farm-fresh milk that I dream about sometimes.

  Lately, most of my dreams seem to be vivid memories of Earth, but nothing dramatic. Simple things like drinking a glass of milk, or standing on the street corner as the trolley comes down the lane, or the scent of your aftershave.

  I stopped again. If I continued to talk about his aftershave, it would lead me to writing about how his skin was smooth and soft after he shaved and the warm line of his jaw when I nuzzled his neck. None of that was something that I could put into a letter that anyone might read. I dreamt about him in more … carnal ways sometim
es. But this recitation of banal dreams was as close as I could come to reassuring him that I was all right.

  Not perfect. Angry. Frustrated. Embarrassed. Yes, all of that, but I was weathering it better than I thought I would. On the other hand, anger had always given me a route out of the anxiety.

  I’ve discovered that I can make a fairly decent chocolate chess pie, even without real eggs. Lemon meringue is out of the question, though. Maybe on the next mission, they can send along some chickens.

  With love,

  Elma

  I must have sighed when I finished, because Parker looked up from the book he was reading—something in French—and raised an eyebrow. “You all right?”

  I nearly snapped at him. I even inhaled, about to say something about how I was surprised he cared, but I stopped. He hadn’t, in fact, rubbed my nose in this. “Frustrated.”

  “I can imagine.” He closed the book and sat forward, resting his elbows on the table. “For what it’s worth, I think anyone who thought of it would have tried to set up something similar.”

  The topic froze my tongue. Was it all right for me to respond to that? I wet my lips and picked the safest part of it to answer. “Maybe we should suggest that Mission Control give married couples a sanctioned encryption system on long trips.”

  Parker pursed his lips and nodded. “I’ll suggest that in my next report.”

  “Then why won’t you let me write to Nathaniel directly? Mission Control will still get to read it before he does.”

  “Because, believe it or not, I follow orders. Even when I don’t agree with them. It’s my job.”

  “You broke the rules to let Kamilah and me go over to the Pinta.”

  “That was—” Parker ran his hands through his thinning hair. “Look … chances are this is going to blow over pretty fast. Just keep your head down for a couple of weeks and I bet they’ll relax the teletype rules.”

  “The same way they relaxed the laundry rules?” I slid the clipboard over to him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just that they’re still only assigning laundry to the women.”

  He rolled his eyes. “York, that’s just about utilizing an area of expertise. Most men haven’t done laundry at all, much less as often as women.”

  “Are you saying that people who can operate a state-of-the-art aircraft can’t be trained to empty a dryer filter?” I rubbed my face. It seemed like I managed to wind up in a fight with Parker no matter what the topic was. “Sorry. I’m just a little wrung out.”

  He studied me for a moment, blue eyes moving as if he were doing a preflight check. Finally, he leaned forward and took the clipboard back. “I’ll make a note about laundry rotation in my report.”

  The bitterness in my voice was practically a real taste. “Thanks.”

  “Well, on that topic, at least, you aren’t the only one complaining.” Parker pushed back his chair and stood. “I’ll get this sent. You can use the time to catch up on your duties.”

  “Yessir.” What I really wanted to do was to crawl into my sleeping bag in crew quarters and not climb out again until we reached Mars.

  But besides that, I was fine.

  “York…” Parker stood at the bottom of the ladder, staring at the letter I had written. I wanted to rip it out of his hands. “I’m going to rotate you onto kitchen duty tonight. For next week, too.”

  “Pardon?” It was a Tuesday. Duty rosters changed on Mondays, and I had been on cleaning and sanitation this week.

  “Areas of expertise.” He tapped the clipboard. “Who else on the crew can prepare a Seder?”

  I was so shocked that I couldn’t form a sentence before Parker vanished up the ladder. The man baffled me.

  Why is this night different from all other nights? Just this once, I wouldn’t question.

  * * *

  About two weeks after Passover, I secured the hatch to the BusyBee for Kamilah’s biweekly trip over to the Pinta, the door cutting off the constant hum of the Niña. I kicked off and floated up to the pilot’s chair. The raw metal of the Niña’s sides filled the viewport. The angle of the ship since our last burn let sunlight sneak around the edges of the BusyBee to polish the raw metal into sterling.

  “Buckled in?” I swung into the pilot’s seat and grabbed my straps.

  “Ready.” Kamilah nodded and then cleared her throat. “So … How are you?”

  “Fine, thanks. And you?” Her inflection had meant it to be a larger question, but I kept it to the safest corridor. “Niña, BusyBee. Am I clear for release?”

  Terrazas answered me. “Confirmed, BusyBee. Nothing is blocking your path.”

  “Releasing grapple.” I flipped the switch that withdrew the grapple from the airlock of the Niña. With a low chunk, we drifted away from the larger ship. I let us get about two meters out before I fired the retro-rockets to push farther back. As soon as I had enough distance, I’d turn the BusyBee and fly her over to the Pinta.

  “Safe travels, BusyBee. Niña out.” With a click, the buzz of Terrazas’s mic went quiet.

  Kamilah cleared her throat again. “Since you won’t come visit me in the medical module, I have to ask here. And don’t give me more social noise. How are you?”

  With the early moon missions, we’d had flight surgeons on Earth who we talked to about health matters. They were a lot easier to dodge than a doctor who was on the ship with us.

  “How am I? I’m flying a ship in outer space.” I tapped the retro-rockets, and the tiny amount of thrust shoved us into our shoulder harnesses. This was not a conversation I wanted to have at any time, but while in flight was perhaps the least desirable. No. That wasn’t true. At dinner would be the worst. But Kamilah was just trying to do her job. “I’m upset and frustrated, but not fragile.”

  “That’s good.” Kamilah shifted in her seat to face me. “What does it look like when you’re … fragile?”

  My teeth ground together, almost of their own will. “Difficulty sleeping. Nausea. Sweats.”

  The gap between the BusyBee and the Niña grew until long shadows and harsh white light bathed the side of the larger ship. The trip over to the Pinta took about twenty minutes when all was said and done. It was going to be a long twenty minutes.

  “When was the last time you had those symptoms?”

  If I were being completely honest, I was having trouble sleeping now, but only on some nights. And I wasn’t having nightmares, just trouble securing the engine of my brain. It rattled around in my head with random thoughts pulling it one way and then another. “It’s been a while.”

  “Does that mean before or after we left Earth?”

  “After. But only once.” I considered the fact that I was answering her questions to be a victory of sorts. Did I resent them? Yes, very much, but I wasn’t foolish enough to think that she would believe me if I lied. Once, I would have, but we lived in quarters too close for little changes of behavior to be ignored. Heck, even my dense, old-fashioned self was pretty sure that Terrazas and Rafael were … involved. “Honestly, Kamilah. I’m all right. Not wonderful, but it’s manageable.”

  “Tell you what. I’ll believe you, if you promise to come by the MedMod so I can do some simple stress tests.” She cocked her head to the side. “Parker is worried about you.”

  My laugh bounced off the viewport like a rock. “Oh. Well. If Parker is worried.” On the other hand, he’d arranged it so I could host a Seder, so maybe he was. “The Seder helped.”

  “Good. Good … I’m glad to hear it.”

  Belatedly, I realized that I had no idea what holy days Kamilah was missing up here. “What about you? What would help you? Any … observances?”

  She shook her head. “Wait. Actually, yes. Would you call me Kam, instead of Kamilah?”

  “Kam. Confirmed. Is there anything—”

  “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you changed the topic.”

  I sat forward, my attention caught by a spray of white down near the fuel cells. �
�What is that?”

  “Elma—” Kam followed my gaze and gave a sharp intake of breath. Something was venting from the side of the Niña in a wide cone of mist. It froze in the vacuum of space and drifted back toward us like snowfall.

  I slapped the mic on the BusyBee’s comm. “Niña, BusyBee. Something is venting from the port side by the fuel cells. I’m swinging over for a closer look.”

  “BusyBee, Niña. What sort of venting?” I guarantee that Terrazas had just swung into high alert, but his voice remained steady.

  “A white plume, from what looks like a single source. Give me a second to get closer.” I nudged the BusyBee forward with a gentle tap of the thrusters. When I got to the fuel cells, I kept well back from the mist as I swung the ship so the viewport pointed straight at the venting column.

  Kam leaned against her shoulder straps, trying to see better, as did I. It took a little attention to hold us steady in relation to the Niña, but not so much that I couldn’t report. “Niña, BusyBee. Looks like it’s originating from a small puncture. Small enough that I can’t actually see the hole from here.”

  “Copy that, BusyBee,” Parker answered. Terrazas must have called him the moment we registered the problem. “I’ve got Avelino headed down to look at the gauges and see what we’re losing.”

  I shifted our orientation to the ship so that I was looking transversely across it from the front, hoping that it would give me a view of what was venting. We could be looking at water from the fuel cells, oxygen from that module, or coolant. None of those were good options. A crosshatch of tubes wrapped the fuel cells to keep them cool when they were being hit by direct sunlight. The venting plume began as a whisker of white in the joint of one of the tubes, which I followed back to its source system. Oh, hell and damnation.

  “It’s the coolant system. We’ve got an ammonia leak.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  HURRICANE TIME STIRS FLORIDIANS

  Weather Bureau Preparing with Help of Lunetta

  By R. HART PHILLIPS