The Fated Sky

by Mary Robinette Kowal

  Leonard had oriented his foot restraint so that he was facing the broken shaft the antenna had been bolted on. Rafael, meanwhile, had begun tracing cables from the antenna. Some of them had snapped off cleanly, while others floated several meters out.

  Leonard unspooled a socket wrench from the MWS strapped to his chest and fit it on the bolt. As his stiff gloves slid off the wrench, he swore in a random language. Tethered to the MWS, the wrench didn’t go far, but there’s still that heart-stopping moment when you think you’re about to lose a tool to space.

  I grinned through my helmet at him. “Was that Latin or Greek?”

  “Greek.”

  I helped him steady the antenna stump as he got the wrench back into place. “You’re not going to translate it for me, are you?”

  “‘Go to the crows.’” Leonard placed the wrench again, and resecured his feet. His wrench slipped, but he didn’t lose the tool. “There are a couple of reasons I like this one. First, it’s ironic coming from the mouth of a Black man.”

  I stared at him, trying to put that together. “Because … it’s Greek?”

  He laughed. “You’re adorable sometimes. No. Because of Jim Crow. So ‘Go to the crows’ takes on this modern connotation that it didn’t have in ancient Greece. It sort of becomes a ‘Don’t throw me in the briar patch’ kind of thing.” He lifted the bolt from the base and handed it to me. “Please tell me you get that reference.”

  “Yes, Brer Astronaut.”

  Leonard gave a belly laugh that made his mic distort.

  My skin flushed with relief, because honestly, that joke was probably crossing a line. It’s the sort of thing I could have said to Eugene, but I wasn’t sure that Leonard and I had that sort of trust built up. I slipped the bolt into our garbage bag. “So what was the connotation in ancient Greece?”

  “Burial was very important.” He placed the wrench on the next bolt and took a moment to make sure it was seated. “So saying ‘Go to the crows’ meant that someone was hoping your body would just rot and get picked over by crows.”

  Beside us, Rafael had stopped moving again, a cable partially coiled in his hands.

  “Being unburied messed with their ability to participate in the afterlife and—”

  I put my hand on Leonard’s arm to stop him. Although, in the pressure suit, he saw the movement more than felt it. “Want to hear my favorite Yiddish curse?”

  “Sure.”

  And here, suddenly, I was stumped. There were a lot of wonderful options, all of which revolved around death or burial. Or were too close in other ways, like, Trouble is to man what rust is to iron. Others were concepts that Mama wouldn’t have approved of me knowing. I shifted the garbage bag closer on its tether to mask my dilemma. What was something Aunt Esther would say? And that unlocked a raft of them. “A yid hot akht un tsvantsik protsent pakhed, tsvey protsent tsuker, un zibetsik protsent khutspe.”

  Parker’s voice came into our helmet. “I’ve been trying to keep out of this, but what does that mean?”

  “I thought you wanted me to keep the airwaves clear.”

  Across from us, Rafael’s eyes opened, and he resumed wrapping cable as if he had never stopped.

  Parker snorted. “You are tempting me with language.”

  “It’s something my aunt Ester always said: ‘A Jew is twenty-eight percent fear, two percent sugar, and seventy percent chutzpah.’”

  “This explains everything.”

  “Bless your heart. Bear in mind that I’m a Southern Jew, so the sugar percentage is higher.”

  Leonard handed the next bolt to me for disposal. “You mean the sugar is all on the outside. Ain’t no one going to believe you’re sweetness all the way through.”

  As Leonard’s language dropped into the informal rhythms I heard from Eugene and Myrtle, I grinned with something like triumph. It was the closest I had come to feeling like part of a team in too long. Speaking of team … “Rafael. What’s a good Portuguese curse?”

  He tied off the cable he was handling and moved on to free the next. “In Brazil, we don’t do things ‘to show off,’ we ‘para inglês ver.’”

  Parker whistled. “Ouch.”

  “Which means?”

  “We do it ‘so the English can see.’”

  * * *

  Technically speaking, we did not all need to be in or near the Niña’s ComMod when Florence powered up the system two days after we finished the repairs. In fact, everyone except Florence and Rafael could have remained on the Pinta. Instead, the entire crew came over. Ostensibly, this was so we could save on fuel for the BusyBee by making only one trip across.

  The garden module needed tending. Kam wanted to make certain everything in the MedMod was secured. Leonard needed the paper he’d been reading. I had reference books I needed for computation.

  Parker put up with all of those fictions.

  In the spindle, it felt like twilight, with only every third light powered. The original plan had been to finish the ammonia system repair before the radio, but Parker and Benkoski had wanted to confirm that the communication blackout wasn’t just a Pinta problem. And for that, we needed a second working long-range radio system.

  When all the panels were lit with green, Florence spoke into the mic. “Okay, Pinta. Go ahead with the test signal.”

  In the Pinta’s ComMod, Dawn said, “Niña, confirmed. Commencing test signal.”

  I floated just above Leonard’s head so I had a clear line of vision to the dials and gauges jumping in response to invisible waveforms.

  It’s funny how you can have two simultaneous responses to the same stimulus.

  On the one hand, I was relieved, because this meant that our repair had worked.

  On the other, my entire body sank as if despair had become a gravitational force. If the Niña’s signals were good, then that meant the problem was on Earth.

  It had now been a week without contact. An hour, two, maybe even a half day, could have been chalked up to a malfunction. But with all of the IAC’s resources—heck, with the resources of an entire planet—the fact that they were still out of contact left me cold.

  Nathaniel … what is happening at home?

  TWENTY-NINE

  First Mars Expedition Mission Log, Cmdr. Stetson Parker:

  June 10, 1963, 11:13 p.m.—Ammonia system repairs completed on Niña. Communication with IAC still not reestablished after fourteen days.

  One of the ways you can tell that I’m Southern and Jewish is by the strength of my drive to feed people. The Monday morning meetings on the Pinta did not take place over breakfast the way they had back home—back on the Niña, I mean. I’m not sure why they didn’t set out refreshments beyond coffee. Maybe Dawn and Heidi were trying to assert their roles as scientists and avoided homemaking. Maybe no one on their crew liked to cook.

  But it had been two weeks since we had heard from Earth, and I needed to cook.

  There are few things more satisfying than the smell of fresh-baked biscuits. Given the powdered milk, dehydrated eggs, and artificial butter, these were not bad. Mama would have been appalled at their lack of layers and faintly chalky taste, but at a certain point that become normal.

  Parker and Benkoski slid down the ladder and into the kitchen, one after the other, like a carnival ride. Benkoski lifted his head and sniffed. “I dunno, Stetson … I might change my mind about the split.”

  “You can’t have her.” Parker walked over to the whiteboard. “But we’ll send care packages.”

  “Split?” I wiped the mixing bowl out in the recycle sink.

  “We’ll go over it at the meeting.” Parker picked up a rag and tossed it to me. “Wet this for me?”

  It smacked onto my clean counter, leaving a grayish smear on the stainless steel. “Of course.”

  I set aside my mixing bowl and devoted my full attention to the needs of our mission commander, bless his heart. Wringing the water out from the rag, I managed to not say any of that out loud. Though I may have wrung it
a little too hard. “Here you go.”

  Secretly, I will admit to hoping it would hit Parker when I tossed it back, but he snatched the cloth out of the air like an intercept missile. He turned to the board and wiped away the notes scrawled across it. “Benkoski, set up a pilot/NavComp breakout after the all-hands meeting.”

  “I’m your secretary now?”

  “You’re my wingman.”

  “I could make the argument that since you’re on my ship, you’re my wingman.”

  “Second in command? Copilot? Right-hand man? Whatever.” Parker tossed him a pen. “It means you do the paperwork.”

  So that’s why Parker needed a copilot. Shaking my head, I turned back to clearing the dishes. The swish of my rag competed with the squeak of marker on plastic. After setting the bowl in the UV sterilizing rack, I wiped down the counter. Really, it is amazing how much better I feel when the kitchen is clean.

  Opening the oven door, I checked on the biscuits. Despite theoretically being identical, in practice, at home the Niña’s oven tended to run a little hotter, and I was still getting the hang of cooking with this one. A waft of steam rolled out into the room, carrying the scent of browning dough and buttery deliciousness. The tops were beautifully golden brown. So noted. A slower, cooler oven seemed to do nice things for my biscuit concoction.

  I grabbed a pot holder and pulled the baking tray out of the oven. Whether out of generosity or the desire for praise, I turned with the biscuits to offer one to Parker and Benkoski.

  On the board, Parker had written a staffing list. In the way that happens, I spotted my name first. Next to it were the words “NavComp/Copilot.”

  Somehow, I did not drop the biscuits. I did squeak, though.

  Benkoski looked around. “Oh, man … you are an angel.”

  “Um. Thank you.” I carried the biscuits closer, still staring at the board. They’d split the crews again, and it looked like we were going back to our own ship. “Careful. The pan is hot.”

  Parker tucked his clipboard under one arm and grabbed a biscuit. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Ma’am? Since when do I rate a ma’am?”

  “Only when you’re baking.” He waggled the biscuit at me, and then passed it under his nose, inhaling with gusto. “Woman’s place, and all that.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Of course. I walked right into that one.”

  “Well, the rest of the time, you’re a computer.”

  I gestured to the board with my chin. “Or a copilot…?”

  Benkoski clapped me on the shoulder with one hand and grabbed a biscuit with the other. “Congratulations on your promotion.”

  “Wait … that’s permanent?”

  Parker shrugged as if this was no big deal. “You want the duty roster where we shift crews around and put DeBeer on the same ship as Flannery and Grey?”

  He couldn’t be serious about wanting me as his copilot. Women still weren’t getting staffed on piloting the big rockets down from Lunetta, not even as copilots. “What about Avelino?”

  Watching me, Parker took a bite of the biscuit and chewed slowly. Swallowing, he wiped a lingering crumb away from his lips with a thumb. “I am writing nothing in the log but praise for him. Do you think that’s accurate at this time?”

  When we’d finished the antenna repair and gotten out of the suits, one of Rafael’s eyes had been obscured by tears. He hadn’t mentioned it. Aside from his quiet, and the occasional freeze, you wouldn’t have known that anything was bothering him. But a copilot couldn’t afford to freeze, not even for a moment.

  And what about my anxiety? I walked over to the counter to set the biscuits down. The other crew members would be arriving any minute now. “May I speak with you for a moment?”

  Parker sighed and handed the clipboard to Benkoski. “Write up the rest of this.”

  “Not a secretary.”

  “Don’t make me pull rank, wingman.” He walked over to me and leaned against the counter, taking another bite of biscuit. Around the mouthful, Parker said, “Well?”

  “I understand your concerns about Rafael, but … you know my history.”

  “You think there’s anyone on either ship who isn’t feeling anxious right now? It’s been two weeks since we’ve had contact with Earth.”

  I squared the baking sheet with the edge of the counter so I wouldn’t have to watch him. “I only mean that if you can trust me, surely you can trust him.”

  “What’s this? What happened to ‘women are just as capable as men’ and ‘my anxiety isn’t a problem’ and ‘rockets are safe enough, even for ladies’? Are you telling me you were wrong? Are you saying you aren’t capable of more than baking and laundry?”

  “No.” God, he was such an asshole, throwing my words back at me like this. “I’m just questioning why you’re picking me over Rafael.”

  “So you’re questioning my judgment. That shouldn’t surprise me.”

  “See!” I pivoted on my heel to face him. “We fight all the time. Why do you want me as your copilot?”

  He leaned forward. “Because you don’t take my shit. Because I’ve seen you in a crisis, and you are disciplined as hell. Because you are a damn good pilot. Because I’m the mission commander, and I said so. Now, do you have any more goddamn questions?”

  My entire body thrummed as if my pulse were an unbalanced engine. I don’t know how, but I managed to lift my chin. “Yes. Were those compliments?”

  Parker laughed, and, damn it, he had a good laugh, with his head thrown back and dimples. It cut off abruptly and he straightened. “No. Those were critical assessments.” He held up the remnant of the biscuit. “This is a compliment: damn good biscuits.”

  Tossing the last piece into his mouth, he walked back to the whiteboard as if he’d said nothing at all.

  Before I had a chance for the shock to run through my system, DeBeer and Heidi walked into the kitchen from the garden module. I shook my head to clear it and opened a drawer to grab a spatula—except it was the towel drawer. Why would anyone keep their kitchen towels next to the stove? Since I had it open, I grabbed one to toss into a bowl for serving the biscuits. Behind me, other crew members entered the room for the meeting. Snippets of conversation floated through the room. “… Rossini’s best opera…” “… and then halfway through the book, the main character dies…” “… I think the gin might be ready…”

  “Gin? I volunteer as t—” I looked over my shoulder and spotted Kam talking with Leonard. “You cut your hair.”

  Stupid, I know. But she had cropped the long dark hair that had waved down to the middle of her back into a military buzz cut, and at first, all I could see was that.

  She blushed and ran a hand over the dark velvet at the side of her head. Without the abundance of hair, her eyes seemed huge. “I just got tired of fighting with it in zero-g.”

  “Maybe I should think about it.” Although I didn’t think Nathaniel would like it much. My gut twisted a little at that. Everything, even small things, reminded me that we had no idea what was happening on Earth. There weren’t enough biscuits in the universe. Opening the random drawer where they kept cooking utensils, I pulled out a spatula and began transferring the biscuits to the bowl.

  By the time I finished, everyone had arrived and was in various stages of settling for the Monday meeting. Scents of coffee and biscuits made the room seem almost like home. I settled next to Leonard, who grinned as he reached for a biscuit.

  DeBeer had been moving toward the bowl, but stopped, the corners of his mouth turned down. He sat next to Heidi with only a cup of coffee. His loss.

  “All right, people.” Parker tapped the board. “You’ll notice that we’re splitting the crews back to their original formation, with a couple of adjustments. York is going to pick up copilot duties on the Niña, and over here, Voegeli will train with Shamoun to brush up on medical skills. Shamoun will still make house calls if there’s anything serious, but hopefully this will cut down on the number of BusyBee trips.”
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  Graeham raised his hand.

  Parker gestured with his chin. “Go ahead.”

  “I am only wondering, if the goal is to reduce the number of BusyBee trips, why we are splitting the crews again? Would it not make more sense for you to all stay here? Especially given the circumstances.”

  “The goal is to get us all safely to Mars and back to Earth.” Parker tapped the board. “Before we lost contact, Mission Control wanted the Niña operational and staffed again, so that’s what we’re going to do.”

  DeBeer shifted in his seat, but Dawn touched his knee before raising her hand. She didn’t wait for Parker to call on her, though. “That’s not the way Mission Control was going to staff us. DeBeer was supposed to move over to the Niña and join the Mars landing party.”

  Ah. That was what this was about, then. A cold tremor seized the back of my neck. Once again, I was taking someone else’s spot, and DeBeer didn’t have any reason to back down.

  Benkoski stepped forward with a downward slash of his palm. “At this point, Mission Control is not in full possession of the facts, so this is the staffing.”

  “Right.” Parker’s shark smile came out and he turned it on DeBeer. “We’re doing a pilot/NavComp breakout after this to talk about the course correction that’s coming up. DeBeer—I want you taking notes on that. Now that I know how good your lettering is.”

  * * *

  I kicked up the spindle toward the bridge of the Niña, hauling a baggie with a piece of chess pie. As the ComMod came up, I grabbed the rail and used the momentum to swing through the door. Florence floated in her sleeping bag, which she’d moved into the mod just in case there was a peep from Earth. Which there hadn’t been for three weeks and one day.

  She had her needlepoint out, and it was far enough along now that you could recognize Orion in the star field. Florence tucked the needle into a corner. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”