by S. K. Vaughn
Dr. Taylor nearly fainted with excitement. “Are you sure?” she asked.
“Absolutely,” May said.
“I . . . I don’t know what to say. Thank you, Commander Knox. Thank you, May.”
She took a moment to collect herself, then proudly stepped out onto the surface.
“It’s more beautiful than I ever dreamed,” she said.
May and the others followed her onto the surface and admired the view.
“I have one message for the people of Earth,” May said in her most authoritative and history-making voice. “Let’s try not to fuck this one up.”
Everyone busted up laughing.
“We can cut that part out,” she called out jovially.
May paused the video now and drank in the memory. “What a day, Eve. I wish I could remember it just like in the video.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt, May, but we’ve received a video transmission from Mission Control. It’s labeled private, and it’s addressed to you from Dr. Knox.”
May’s heart skipped a beat. It was the response she’d been waiting for.
“Lovely. I’ll watch it in my quarters. In private. Husband-and-wife stuff, you know.”
“Understood.”
When May got to her quarters, she switched off the video camera and intercom so Eve would not be privy to what Stephen had to say. She trembled with anticipation, and dread, but made herself hit play.
“Hello, May,” Stephen greeted her cheerily when the video began.
He smiled, but his eyes didn’t agree, and his shoulders were up in a nervous shrug.
“Robert, our fearless leader, was kind enough to allow me to send you this message, but I was told I have to be brief—which you know isn’t easy for me.”
“Oh, Robert, you’re a professional asshole,” May groaned.
“I wanted to let you know I watched the video you sent. Thank you for that. I’m sure you were hoping for me to reply directly to your thoughts, but I’ve been advised to avoid topics that might be upsetting to you. I’m very sorry about that.”
“Oh shit. No no no,” May said, wanting to strangle Robert to death with one of his horrible red ties.
“I will say this,” Stephen continued. “It’s true we went through some hard times back then, but let’s not dwell on those. I love you, and I’m pulling for you to get back home soon.”
Pulling for you? Stephen never spoke like that. Every hope she’d had for the video message was dashed, and, to add insult to injury, she had to listen to the kiddie-safe, vanilla version of her husband’s feelings.
“They’re allowing me to reminisce a little. Just happy memories, of course. I know, I know: that probably pisses you off. But, hey, maybe it will jog your memory.”
“Oh joy, let’s frolic down memory lane,” May spat.
“I was thinking about our honeymoon in Australia. How fun was that? I dragged you to Murchison to see my favorite meteorite. You weren’t too happy about it, but I promised you an expensive seafood dinner in exchange. But when we got back to Melbourne, you weren’t feeling well. Kind of a bummer. We ordered those enormous crab legs, and you couldn’t stand the smell. You went back to the room to rest. Actually, the way you were feeling then kind of reminded me of how you said you were feeling in your recent video message—tired and a little moody, without much of an appetite. I can’t really remember what was wrong; can you? I think we thought it was jet lag or something.”
“How the hell can you call that night a happy memory?” she said to the screen.
“Oh,” he said, faking a laugh, “and when I got back to the hotel room, you’d locked yourself in the bathroom. It took me forever to get you out. Hey, maybe whatever we ended up doing for you then would help now. Who knows? That was some trip, though, huh?”
“He’s lost his goddamn mind,” she laughed sarcastically.
“I’m going to beam you a bunch of photos and video clips from the honeymoon and other stuff. Might help you remember things. At the very least you can have a good laugh at all my ridiculous clothes and haircuts. It looks like my time’s up. Take good care of yourself, and try not to get too discouraged. You can do this. I believe in you, and I’m a genius.”
The screen went black.
“You might be, but your cheering-up skills leave a lot to be desired,” May said, deflated.
The personal photos and video clips Stephen had promised arrived. There were hundreds of them, and he had faithfully included captions, some of them hilarious. One folder was labeled “Honeymoon” and was highlighted. She opened it and came across a shot of Stephen standing next to the Murchison meteorite, encased in its museum display. Just as she had been back then, she was mesmerized by its deep black surface, glittering with untold secrets. She felt its magnetic pull, slowly drawing out the fragmented details of that day.
35
Murchison, Victoria, Australia
September 8, 2066
“Wow, most people do such conventional things for their honeymoons, like going to Hawaii or the Greek islands,” May said jokingly, “but not my Stephen. He can’t be bothered with those trite old locales.”
With barely a year to launch, finding time for their honeymoon had been a serious undertaking for Stephen and May. They’d booked a two-week trip to Australia, a place both had always wanted to visit. They flew to Melbourne, and after a couple of days’ sightseeing, Stephen had made an awkward attempt to mix romance with science by taking May to the site where the famous Murchison meteorite had struck the Earth in 1969. They walked around a dusty little museum with a ninety-year-old proprietor who fell asleep in the middle of the grand tour. After he went back to the ticket booth to nap, May and Stephen found some remnants of the rock on display in a kitschy story diorama.
“That’s a nice rock,” she said, yawning as loud as possible.
“The beach is only a couple of hours away, princess. Besides, if it weren’t for this rock, you and I wouldn’t be a thing.”
“Okay, fine,” she conceded. “You’re right. And it is a bit romantic, in a weird way. But I am a princess, as you correctly stated, so I demand that in exchange for this historical sojourn, we dine at the expensive restaurant near the hotel, with an ocean view, of course. Champagne, caviar even though I despise it, and maybe some cracked crab. I’ve never had it, but it sounds very fancy.”
“Done,” Stephen said as he admired the Murchison fragments.
May pretended to do the same, fidgeting and looking at her watch.
“You find this boring?” he asked.
“Of course not. As you can see, I’m breathless with excitement.”
“What could be more exciting than seeing physical evidence of the extraterrestrial origins of humankind?”
“Watching paint dry?”
Stephen frowned. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed his neck. “Stop pouting. I do find it exciting, and entertaining, that we are the aliens we’ve always fantasized about and feared,” May laughed.
“We just happened to land on this rock rather than another,” Stephen said.
She kissed him again, making sure he saw that she had what she called “that wee sparkle” in her eye.
“You can’t be serious,” Stephen said, knowing exactly what that sparkle meant.
“Dead serious, cowboy. This is our honeymoon, after all.”
“But this is a museum, for God’s sake.”
“A godforsaken museum. I haven’t seen one human being in here since we purchased tickets from the zombie manning the booth.”
Stephen looked around. “I have to admit, it is pretty hot, what with the dazzling array of chondrites surrounding us . . .”
May was already tugging at his clothes.
That evening, as they had dinner in Melbourne, May felt irritable and preoccupied, despite the beautiful surroundings and the extravagant meal. In the past, she had battled anxiety, a side effect of having to maintain a relentlessly tough outer appearance. Stephen had sensed it and
was tiptoeing over the eggshells May had scattered, trying to get her to lighten up, but that only made it worse.
“How about some wine?” He reached for the bottle of white in the marble chiller.
“No, thank you. I think the jet lag is getting to me. All of a sudden, I’m exhausted and cranky. I’m sorry.”
“Let’s call it a night,” he said. “Get some rest. We’ve only been here a couple of days, so there’s no reason to push it.”
“I feel terrible. You’ve arranged such a lovely honeymoon, and here I am, whining like a spoiled schoolgirl and ruining everything.”
“You’re not ruining anything. I was biding my time to get you to bed anyway. This whole spread was just a ruse to gain your favor.”
“I’m not sure I’ll be much fun back in the room,” she said, yawning. “God, you should just trade me in for a better model.”
“Don’t sweat it. If you’re tired, I can always drool over my meteorite photos.”
“Ah, yes. Science: the other white meat.”
They had a good laugh, which got better when the king crab legs were delivered in all their embarrassing glory.
“Here we are,” Stephen said. “There’s nothing in the world that crab and copious amounts of butter can’t fix.”
At first May was excited, but when the waiter put the food in front of her, the smell made her instantly nauseated.
“What’s wrong?” Stephen asked, seeing her nose turn up.
“I don’t know,” she said. “It could be I’m coming down with something. I’m suddenly feeling a little woozy.”
“Airplanes. Goddamn things are flying germ factories. Let me walk you back.”
“No, it’s all right. You eat. I’m just going to lie down, maybe take a bath.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. Enjoy your dinner. It looks amazing.”
May didn’t have the heart to tell him she found it repulsive and feared she would throw up if she had to be there a minute longer. Back in their hotel room, the nausea passed, but was replaced by intense anxiety. She tried to relax with a drink, but the alcohol only made it worse and further soured her mood.
A good run is what you need, she thought. Exercise had always helped her combat stress in the past, but she was so tired that she wasn’t sure she could even get out of her chair.
“Get off your ass, princess,” she said to herself, and geared up.
It was a gorgeous night in the city. Near the hotel, she found the Tan running route, a two-and-a-half-mile loop around the Royal Botanic Gardens. The gravel path, lined by stately trees, was picturesque, and May quickly felt more relaxed. But that feeling was short-lived when she went through a crowded part of the path and had to dodge dogs, kids, and couples walking hand in hand. Their erratic movement was annoying. She couldn’t catch a stride and kept nearly tripping over people.
Finally, she gave up and took a break on a welcoming park bench. While the tension started to build again, tightening her chest and making her stomach turn, a young boy, maybe three years old, ran up to her. He was looking around frantically, trying to be brave.
“Hello,” May said kindly. “Everything okay?”
He eyed her suspiciously. A woman’s voice called out. The boy turned quickly, recognizing the sound of his mother. He ran to her as fast as his legs could carry him. As she watched him go, May realized she was feeling just as lost and desperate as he had been.
Oh God, here we go again.
She recalled a time before when she’d felt the same way, with her fear festering under the surface, a rank pustule swelling to the point of bursting. It had happened just before she broke up with her old flame, Ian Albright, when she was an RAF cadet in officer training. Back then, she had realized she’d been ignoring her feelings about him, forcing herself to believe she was the one with the problem. Fortunately for her, his inner bastard had asserted itself enough to make that belief unsustainable, and their relationship blew up in her face.
And Stephen? What lies are you telling yourself about him?
Anxiety started to turn to panic as she thought she might be doing the same thing with him. But why? Stephen loved and cared for her deeply and, unlike Ian, he wasn’t threatened by her career. On the contrary, he was nothing but supportive, and even celebrated her success. But their personalities and where they came from were almost polar opposites. Had she forced a connection with Stephen because he was a safer option?
Maybe he’s just too normal, and you’re just too fucked-up.
May was distraught as she walked back to the hotel. Stephen was going to know she’d gone from bad to worse. Then the questions she didn’t want to answer would come.
When you get back to the hotel, just throw out your usual excuse: you’ve just gotten your period. That one always shuts them up.
She stopped walking. My period. She checked the date on her cell phone. With all the trip preparations and the long journey, May had lost track of time with her cycle, which, with her birth control pills, normally ran like a Swiss watch.
“For fuck’s sake,” she whispered, barely audible.
She was nearly a week late.
36
May sat on her bed, knees pulled tightly to her chest, ruminating on Stephen’s bizarre message. As he had mentioned more than once, he was very limited in what he could say. Then there was the whole cheery “walk down memory lane” thing, which was anything but. The burning question was: Why would he squander an opportunity to say something meaningful or even quasi-encouraging?
Because he wanted you to remember.
Why the hell would he want that? He’d referred to her description of how she felt in her last communication, comparing it to that night. Why did that matter?
He wouldn’t have mentioned it if it didn’t.
She watched it again, with a clearer head, and saw how carefully he chose his words. The way he looked into the lens—there was something about his eyes. It was as if he wanted to tell her something, and what he was saying was falling well short. There was a pointed quality to the look. The laughter was false. The smile was wooden.
He wanted you to remember. The whole thing was a cue. He’d been told not to broach anything that could be emotionally charged. Instead, he tiptoed around one of the most emotionally charged moments in their relationship.
“You’d locked yourself in the bathroom,” he said. “It took me forever to get you out. Hey, maybe whatever we ended up doing for you then would help now. Who knows?”
The bathroom. The memory came like a bullet to the head.
That night in Melbourne, standing in front of the mirror in their hotel bathroom, the door closed and locked. Tears wound their way down through a look of utter despair. Outside, darkness and the dry crack of rainless thunder. The sound of the hotel room door opening, Stephen’s footfalls.
“Hello? Anyone home?”
She pretended not to hear. What was she going to do? There were no answers in the mirror, and she was so very tired.
“Hey, everything okay?”
“Yeah,” she said weakly.
“How was your run?”
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t stand the sound of her own voice. Instead she ran a bath. He got the hint and let her be. An hour later, May sat on the toilet, her head in her hands, oblivious to the water running across the floor, breaking through the space under the door, soaking the carpet. Stephen knocked, this time with fearful insistence.
“May? Are you all right? Answer me,” he yelled, pounding the wood.
Moments later, the sound of metal tools, voices. The lock punched through the door and landed on the wet bathroom floor. Stephen rushed in, a maintenance man lingering behind, saying something on his radio. Stephen was saying something too, turning off the tub faucet. He crouched in front of her, looking for answers. She had none.
Then he saw it, sitting on the bathroom counter. A pregnancy test. A blue plus sign on the screen. Behind it, a crude animation of a baby dancing
a merry jig.
“May, are you all right?” Eve called out over the ship’s PA.
It was an hour later. May was sitting on the toilet seat in the infirmary bathroom, thinking about that question, the absurdity of it. She looked at the counter next to the sink. That same dancing baby mocked her from there, wielding its blue plus sign like a weapon. Remember me?
“I’m feeling a little ill. Must be something I ate,” she answered, completely absent.
“Okay. Please let me know if you need anything,” Eve said.
“Thank you.”
Pregnant. That was certain. Alone, and hundreds of millions of miles from home. Just as on her honeymoon, May’s mind was having a hard time grasping it. It was so incredibly insane. It felt as though she were thinking about someone else, some other poor cow sitting on the toilet, looking down the barrel of a future she had never seen coming. She was freezing cold, but her heart raced and her cheeks felt flushed and burning. Emotional paralysis had metastasized to her physical body, and she feared she would never be able to move from that spot.
Again. It’s happening again. Only no one was there to comfort her, to rub her back and tell her they would work it out together, that everything was going to be all right, to lessen the blow—even if she didn’t believe any of that for one minute. Outside, the screaming, frozen silence of the void pressed in, and May thought she could see the walls of the ship buckling, ready to collapse and crush her to atoms at any second. Wishful thinking?
She was feeling ill. The trauma of this revelation had sucked the moisture right out of her mouth, drying her lips to cracking. Crashing after the initial rush wore off, she felt as if she’d been turned inside out, an empty bag with its contents strewn all over the floor. When she felt close to losing consciousness and her bottom was so numb that she nearly lost the use of her legs, she staggered out and hooked herself back up to the IV line. The saline brought blood back to her cheeks, and the sugar sharpened her dulled wits.