by Jeff Miller
“And my Chameleon skills got a little rusty over the summer. Shuttle Fury controls took some getting used to.”
“Oh, right,” Neil said, unaware the controls were any different. He leaned in toward Sam. “Jones actually told me it’s impossible. Just something they give people as a joke.”
Sam looked taken aback, her eyes flaring a bit.
“Really?”
“Totally. I don’t even think we need to worry about that game,” Neil reassured. “They obviously wanted us because of our Chameleon skills.”
“Hm, yeah maybe, I guess.”
“Anyways, I heard about a weird space thing today. Made me think of you.”
“Ha, you mean like a NASA commander giving us a whole speech about a shuttle being stolen?”
“Ugh, that’s not what I mean, a different space thing,” Neil playfully shot back. “A crater. I can’t remember that name, though. Like, ‘Chicken Laboos.’ Is the Chicken Laboos crater a thing?”
“Pretty sure that’s a fast-food value meal.” Sam laughed. “But I think I get what you’re saying. That asteroid that hit in Mexico, right?”
“Yeah! Man, you really do know all things space.”
“Some. There’s quite a lot of it to know,” she replied.
“I bet the Question Commander knows most everything, though,” Neil said, referring to their new quirky superior.
“Everything? They don’t even know who took their spaceship.”
Well, good point.
“I mean, yeah,” Neil said. “But Jones had no clue a mad genius video gamer was the reason for our last mission either, right?”
Sam seemed hesitant to agree.
“First, let’s not get carried away calling that Harris kid a genius,” she joked. “And I’ll admit there’s a chance you could be right. Just getting a weird gut feeling, I guess.”
“You know what’s best for weird gut feelings? Freeze-dried ice cream,” said Neil as he pulled open a drawer in the futuristic kitchen area. Inside were silver-packaged bricks of rocky road and Neapolitan stacked in neat rows.
“Think we should wait until after a training simulator named for puke?” Sam debated.
“A little bit won’t hurt.”
Neil tore two open, and the friends took bites into the soft fake ice cream. Crumbles of dehydrated dessert fell onto their uniforms.
“Thanks, Neil,” Sam said, pulling out enough packages for everyone else.
Neil smiled and nervously brushed off his suit.
Moonlight glimmered through waves and small schools of fish, and Neil’s thoughts went up above the surface. He gazed upward through a glass bubble above the kitchen, which magnified the ocean above.
“Apart from skilled, professionally trained astrophysicists and astronauts, there’s nobody else I’d rather venture into space with than Neil Andertol: ice cream taste tester of the future.”
“That’s Astronaut Neil Andertol.”
Sam groaned, her mouth half-full of powdered ice cream.
“One thing at a time, hero. One thing at a time.”
“RECRUITS, IT’S TIME TO SEE HOW YOU HANDLE THE VOMIT Comet,” said Finch to his twelve potential spacewalkers. They were in a staggered crescent, surrounding the NASA commander outside a training tentacle. It was a bulky white structure the size of a tank, with a sturdy metal door. “Any questions before we get started?”
While he wasn’t going to ask, Neil was wondering if vomiting was simply encouraged, or a mandatory requirement.
“Yes, question?” said Finch to Biggs, who had raised his stringy arm in the air.
“Commander! Thanks. First-time caller, longtime listener,” Biggs said. “I do have a pretty serious question for you in regard to this whole space mission.”
“And that is?” said Finch, fidgeting. Neil wondered if Jones had given Finch some kind of advanced warning for life with Biggs. His questions were always . . . interesting.
“Well, sir, exactly how much urine will my space suit hold? Does that type of thing come standard in any and all jumpsuits, or will we have a separate session dealing with each uniform’s urination logistics?” Biggs asked. “I’ve been reading a lot of online literature on the topic lately and could use some answers.”
“I can reassure you all we’ll thoroughly go over the specifics of the suit technology,” replied Finch. He looked to see more hands raised with questions. Yuri and both Jasons’ arms were stretched intently, hoping the tallest hand would have questions answered first.
“Everyone, if you have a question related to answering nature’s call in zero gravity, please save it for later.”
All raised hands slowly recoiled, except Sam’s. She had a determined look on her face, and she coolly lowered her hand as Finch nodded to her.
“So is this a ship? Or just a place where new astronauts are made to toss their cookies?” Sam asked bluntly.
“A reduced-gravity simulation,” Finch explained. “Designed to re-create a zero-g environment. The very kind you’ll be encountering on your mission.”
Neil liked how Finch seemed confident in everybody, that sending anyone home didn’t appear to cross his mind.
“We used to simulate weightlessness out in the desert, flying up and down for hours,” Finch said. “Now we have a deep-sea Vomit Comet, where there’s no time limit on weightlessness.”
How can I rent this thing for my birthday party?
It was like an amusement park ride, but better. Plus you didn’t have to wait next to people with small tank tops and large amounts of body hair.
Neil couldn’t wait to get inside, but he wondered if the amount of space ice cream he had eaten would pose a problem. Neil only had a package and a half, but he’d snuck Riley and Jason 2 a few, and they had gone hog wild.
“The clock is ticking, everyone,” Finch said. “Now, after you, my recruits.”
Sam was first to walk through the simulator’s heavy door. Her hair swung back and forth with each step.
The interior was a giant white padded room with all sorts of handles and straps fastened to the walls and ceiling. It looked like a really wide school bus with no seats and a marshmallow interior.
“This will be a simulation of a sixty-parabola flight,” Finch explained.
“Which means what exactly?” asked Waffles, tugging at a rope on a side of the room.
“It means this is gonna be awesome,” said JP excitedly as his brain went through the calculations.
With a thud, the door to the simulation cabin shut, and the ground hummed with a hydraulic roar. Neil studied the walls and floor of the Vomit Comet closer, and saw every inch was speckled with tiny holes.
“When does the no-gravity part happen?” asked an impatient Yuri.
“Trust me. You’ll know. Now hold on, people,” said Finch. A high-pitched whirring began, and cool air rushed through the cabin. Neil felt like he was on a giant air hockey table.
Neil’s body started to lift up from the floor.
“Whoa! This is unreal!” said Neil. It felt like he was rising out of his seat after hitting a huge hill on a roller coaster, only gravity wasn’t pulling him back down.
Corinne was the first person to launch herself off the wall, floating through the cabin like a stuntwoman. Everyone followed her lead, and Neil felt like a superhero as he took a nosedive into a padded wall. He pushed off again, bending his knees to spring out. The whole experience was way more relaxing and comfortable than he’d expected.
“Easy, recruits,” Finch urged.
Neil contorted his body, spinning midair like a figure skater. His stomach flitted a bit, but Neil felt like he could be weightless forever.
“And the simulation will end in ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . ,” Finch said, counting down while looking at his watch. Neil did a quick back somersault and grabbed a strap near to the floor. Gravity took hold again, but Biggs, however, was still upside down.
“Ow,” he grunted as his body crumpled to the floor.
/> “That’s just round one,” Finch said, assessing the condition of his astronaut candidates.
Most of Neil’s friends were doing just fine, smiling as if they were at an amusement park. Jason 2, however, was starting to look unwell. His eyes glassed over as he brought a hand to his stomach. Chocolate space ice cream clung to the corners of his mouth. Next to him, Yuri seemed worse.
“Another three minutes begins now,” Finch said.
“Yuri, my dude, how you hanging in there?” Biggs asked, his hair branching out as gravity disappeared.
Yuri kept his lips pursed tight and made a motion to Biggs with both hands.
“Wait, you need something?” Biggs said, like a person deciphering a dog’s barking. “What is it, boy? What’s wrong? Trouble down at the old coal mine?”
“Here,” said Sam, floating a barf bag to Yuri just before they were all witnesses to a lesson in applied zero-g physics.
“Oh, right,” Biggs acknowledged. “Well, they don’t call it a Vomit Comet for nothing. We’ve got our first member of the Spew Crew: Commander Yuri!”
“And possible second resident of the Yak Shack!” said Corinne as she watched Jason 2 reach for a barf bag. While he didn’t puke, his body was turning all shades of green.
“Hey, Commander Vomit Comet? Update from the Spew Crew. I think we’ve got a Category Four, maybe Five with this one,” said Biggs. He was looking at Yuri, whose body was a pale-yellow hue. In his stringy hands was a conspicuously lumpy waste receptacle.
Finch ended the simulation early, shutting off the high-powered vents on the simulator’s control panel. Neil and the others slowly returned to the floor.
“Well, the good news is I think you’re almost all cut out for our mission,” Finch murmured, but nodded sadly at Yuri. “Unfortunately, we can’t take him.”
The crew was now down to eleven.
Finch opened the door and walked to the side of the Vomit Comet. He untied a stretcher and wheeled it to the doorway. There would be no extra lives or games to restart for Yuri, only a nightmarish lesson in human regurgitation.
“OKAY, ANDERTOL,” SAID FINCH, “THIS IS A PTT TO RUN through an EVA.”
“Um, what?” replied Neil, standing alongside Biggs at the edge of a pool. Or at least what looked like a pool. It was a rectangle of open ocean water, all swishing around a submerged Whiptail. The bubble of the training tentacle must’ve been pressurized, or else the whole ocean would have been rushing inside.
“Sorry. We can get heavy on the abbreviations,” Finch answered. “This is a part-task trainer, running a simulated extravehicular activity. Space walks. Or anytime you’re outside of a craft in space. You should’ve seen something similar in Shuttle Fury.”
“Oh. Yes, exactly,” Neil fibbed. “More like Shuttle Furious, right?”
Biggs looked at Neil with a bit of joke déjà vu.
“That’s a good one. I’ll have to remember that.” Finch chuckled. “But let’s get moving. The rest of the group is with Dallas, running through other simulations. I’ll be facilitating you all here in training tentacle three.”
“Oh nice, that’s always been my good-luck tentacle,” Biggs said. The two gamers wore official space suits, complete with clear helmets that snapped into place. Finch communicated via a headset.
“I’m not sure what’s about to happen, sir, but I just want to say I love it,” said Biggs before cannonballing into the cool water.
Finch took a seat in a thin metal chair and planted both hands on a laptop computer. He began tapping keys as Neil splashed a toe through the water below.
“Hop on in, Andertol. The water’s fine,” said Biggs with a giddy excitement. Neil put his arms straight out to his sides and leaned forward with a belly flop.
“Now in this simulation, you’ll both start at the starboard side of the ship,” Finch said. Neil and Biggs swam over to the right side of the ship.
“The mission is to traverse the shuttle, close a leaking valve, and return to the airlock, sealing it without consequence. It’s important to remain with your ship. Any second without contact could mean drifting out into space,” Finch said over his headset. “You have eleven minutes of oxygen . . . starting now.”
“Like, now or once we take a breath?” asked underwater Biggs.
“Ten fifty-five . . . ,” replied Finch.
Neil turned to his shaggy-headed friend.
“Time to move, dude!”
The two began swinging around the waterlogged spaceship, making their way to its front. Neil propelled himself along the side of the ship, grabbing metal poles as if they were jungle vines.
This isn’t so bad. Just keep your momentum going.
He guided himself to the nose of the ship and shinnied around the windows of the cockpit.
Just then, Finch’s voice crackled over Neil’s and Biggs’s headsets.
“A patch of space junk has been detected in your orbit. You now have nine minutes to complete your mission,” said Finch, relishing the drama of the simulation.
“Okay, let’s motor,” said Neil. Biggs agreed, and they pressed onward. Neil heard a broadcast in his ear.
“Specialist Andertol, you are the only one receiving this transmission. Your space suit is malfunctioning. Your helmet is slowly filling up with water from a clogged air filter.”
Neil paused, wondering if he should return to the surface.
This is the whole challenge; you’ve got to keep going!
Biggs kept shuffling along the port side of the ship, and Neil slowly followed. He could see bubbles spraying out from the leaky valve they needed to reach.
“Specialist Andertol, your communication radio has been compromised by water damage.”
So now I’m stuck out here without oxygen, and I can’t talk?
Neil tugged hard at a metal pole bolted to the ship. He flew toward Biggs, snagging a corner of his oxygen pack.
“Specialist Andertol, your helmet is now half-filled with water. You’ve only got two minutes, maximum, of oxygen in reserve.”
Neil turned to his friend and tried to communicate that his radio was broken. He kept pointing at his ears, making a slashing motion and an X with both forearms, but Biggs just didn’t seem to get it.
Use The Universal Biggs Language!
What is The Universal Biggs Language?
Neil tried to imagine what would qualify as speech in his weird friend’s head. He decided to make a gasping motion with his mouth, like a catfish. He flicked his tongue a lot, just to be dramatic.
“You okay, Neil?” said Biggs, gliding toward the problematic valve they were sent to fix.
Neil met eyes with Biggs, and his friend could instantly tell something was wrong.
“What’s up, man? You okay?” Biggs asked.
Neil tried yelling, but Finch had disconnected his radio, just like what would happen in space. He knew he had to get himself out of the situation. There wasn’t enough oxygen left for Neil to stay underwater while Biggs finished the mission, but he didn’t know that. Neil had to let him know they needed to get back in the air lock immediately.
“Andertol, your suit is now rapidly filling up with water from your cooling unit,” Finch said over a speaker near Neil’s head. “Your suit will be filled in less than forty-five seconds. What do you do?”
Neil threw caution to the wind and began trying to make hand movements that looked like horses or centaurs, or some other kind of mythical four-legged animal.
“Whoa! You in trouble, Neil?” Biggs yelled. He turned his attention from the bubbling valve outside of the fake Whiptail to his friend.
Neil made his mouth open wide, like a puffer fish suffocating onshore.
“You have a leak in your suit? Well, let’s get back inside!” yelled Biggs, realizing the safety of his partner was more valuable than ship repairs. They floated back around the ship. Biggs ushered Neil into the ship’s air lock, and Finch announced that the training was over.
Yellow-fin-wearing SCUBA di
vers, who had been overseeing the safety of the procedure, escorted Neil and Biggs to the water’s surface.
“Well done, you two,” the commander said. He typed a few more keystrokes into his laptop computer and stood up as Neil and Biggs were helped out from the pool.
“A huge key to being an astronaut is always thinking. Always being ready,” Finch instructed, tapping a few buttons on his laptop. “And to—”
“Always ask questions,” Neil and Biggs said in unison.
“We know,” added Neil.
“Nicely done, Andertol,” said Finch, preparing the simulation for the next pair of gamers. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen an EVA quite like that, but the point is you passed. With flying colors, might I add.”
Neil blushed. He felt ready. For what, he wasn’t sure, but ready nonetheless.
“Dallas is still running simulations, so now’s a good time for a nap. Go get some rest; we’ve got a planet to save.”
“See you up in the main SQUID, Neil. I’m beat.” Biggs walked off ahead, hoping to add the new gestures to The Universal Biggs Language before collapsing onto his bunk.
Neil nodded and confidently walked up to the central hub of the SQUID. But as he headed for the guys’ bunks, he repeated what Finch just said.
What does he mean, “a planet to save”? Aren’t we looking for a ship?
“EVERYONE UP! THIS IS NOT A DRILL!” CAME AN EXPLOSIVE voice that echoed through every tentacle of the SQUID. It belonged to Dallas Bowdin, and it was interrupting some fantastic deep-sea shut-eye. Neil tried to wake up, but his eyes were stuck shut, refusing to open. Between eyelashes, he spied flashing blue emergency lights dotting the ceiling of the interior of the NASA complex. They pulsed on and off, twirling like tiny police sirens.
“What’s going on?” asked a confused and groggy Biggs. “Aliens? Is it aliens?”