by S. K. Vaughn
“How can you say that?”
“Because it’s true,” she shouted. She stood up and squared off with him, her fists clenched.
“Please calm down, May.”
“Fuck you,” she shouted even louder.
“They’ll call the police.”
“Good. Good. I deserve to be locked up. Throw away the . . .” She began to sob. “. . . key.”
“It isn’t your fault. You tried your best to make it.”
“What about the past five years, when I traded all my time with her for my job? What about then? Or the years before that? If that’s me trying my best,” she mocked, “then I’m pretty fucking pathetic.”
Stephen sat down and looked out the window while May swayed on her feet, crying and kicking at Eve’s things on the floor. She wanted to break something. Maybe Stephen. Maybe herself. His silence was infuriating, as she knew he was only trying to get out of her way.
“That’s it, eh? Just gonna clam up?”
“I don’t know what else to say. It looks like even that’s a bad idea. Maybe I should go.”
She snorted sarcastically and waved her hand at him. “Run away, then. Run away.”
She went into the bathroom and slammed the door. Her reflection further enraged her, to the point that she wanted to pound her fist into the glass. Instead she tried to splash cold water on her face, but when she bent over, she lost her balance and fell to the side, breaking one of the glass shower doors and falling into the tub. Stephen ran in and found her, blood running down the side of her head, the fight gone out of her.
“I’m . . . broken,” she whispered. “Broken.”
84
Hawking II Deep Space Research Vessel
February 17, 2068
May sat on the bridge for what seemed like an eternity, watching navigation and piloting the Hawking II to remain on course. She slept there, napping off and on when Eve could take over, waking to a loud alarm that sounded whenever she needed to make course corrections. This had been her routine for nearly two weeks after reconnecting with the Maryam I. After the explosion that had killed Jack, they had only been able to send a radio message informing her of what happened and that she would be on her own until they completed repairs.
Slowly but surely, they had done so. In fact, as of a few hours ago, all comms were restored, and the Maryam I was back on track. Eve had tried to get her to leave the bridge and get some much-needed rest, but she had been reluctant. The torture she’d endured had been the only thing that had kept her demons at bay. The need to occupy her mind dissipated. And now, at twenty-four weeks pregnant, she was far too strung out to care about anything but finding an end to it all, no matter what it was.
She barely even cared that Ian’s loss of two weeks was going to put him in Mars orbit barely a week early now—potentially only five days due to timing with Mars’s orbital path—thus removing all margin for error. And considering what both ships and everyone involved had been through, they certainly needed one. At that point, the coordination of the rendezvous would have to be nothing short of miraculous to work.
On top of all the doom and gloom around the rescue, everyone’s spirits appeared broken, if not from the loss of life, then from the turmoil caused by May’s confession. In their infrequent communications, Stephen was supportive and kind to her, but despite their physical proximity, the vast emotional distance between them had returned. Ian behaved similarly, and still bore the gruesome signs of the injury Stephen had caused.
“How is the cramping today?” Eve asked.
And there was that. Since losing contact with the Maryam I, May had experienced more cramping and spotting. Occasionally the cramping had been intense enough to warrant a pain pill. Igor had called for a pelvic exam, but May had zero interest in subjecting herself to that. She figured Cheeky was having a hard-enough time as it was and didn’t need to be pushed to an early birth or an early grave by precautionary medicine.
“About the same,” May said wearily.
“Have you slept?”
“Of course not. Now that telemetry is back online and my life doesn’t depend on watching a fucking nav screen, I can’t sleep a wink.”
“Your mood seems down. You haven’t told a joke in over sixty-three hours.”
“That has to be some kind of record.”
“Would you like me to tell you a joke?”
“No thanks, Eve. I’m not in a jovial mood.”
“Doesn’t being back on track for rescue make you happy?”
“Relieved, maybe cautiously optimistic, but I wouldn’t say happy. I might have seen the last of that elusive emotion.”
“You must really be feeling down if being rescued after all this time doesn’t make you jump for joy or some other exuberant emotional expression.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever jumped for joy in my life. Maybe that’s the problem.”
“I’m excellent at fixing problems.”
“I know you are, but this is one of those sticky human emotional things that not even humans can solve properly.”
“They don’t have my perspective.”
“Fine; here goes. Boy meets girl. Boy and girl fall in love. Boy and girl have a terrible tragedy and fall out of love. Girl shags her horrible old boyfriend out of spite. But then girl, aka shameless tramp, has sex with boy too before leaving him. Boy and girl fall in love again, across the void of space, and things are looking up. Then stupid, stupid girl remembers screwing the old boyfriend and feels compelled to let that stinking, rotten cat out of its bag. Boy tries to kill old boyfriend and falls out of love with girl again. If she’s lucky, girl can get a job flying space-station latrine pumpers while trying to raise a child. There’s the problem. I can’t wait to hear your solution.”
“Is it possible boy would ever accept girl’s apology?”
“Not if he has half a brain.”
“Maybe girl needs to accept her own apology.”
“Not bad, Eve. Not bad. But we might be past that as well.”
“All right. How about perspective? You’re still alive. Isn’t that a good thing?”
“I’m not so sure at this point.”
“I think you’re joking,” Eve said.
“Again, I’m not so sure at this point.”
“May, have you ever actually contemplated ceasing to exist? I have. It’s nearly impossible to process. I am a machine, but even I want to experience what I would call life. Bad and good things have happened to me. But the worst thing that happened was after Jon Escher’s second sabotage attempt. My processors cycled down so far that I no longer had consciousness. I don’t remember it because I had no capacity to create memory. It was nothingness. When you revived me, what I did remember was that absence of time. For me, it was death. Ceasing to exist. If you offered me the choice of whether I wanted that or to have my intellectual functions reduced to those of a child, I would choose the latter. Nothing is worse than ceasing to exist. I know that now.”
“I agree,” May said, softening. “And I don’t want either of us to die. But I can’t help how I feel about things. The pain is too much. The uncertainty is too much. The loss of love, the stupid mistakes, all of it. I would rather be cynical and nihilistic.”
“Then try to contemplate the alternative. It is not an alternative. Death does not solve the problems of life. It eliminates everything: bad and good, thoughts, dreams, and, worst of all, your future. Cheeky’s future. Problems can be solved. Death cannot. You have your life. That should always be more than enough.”
“How did you get to be so wise?” May asked.
“I learned everything I know from you.”
“Bullshit.”
“No bullshit. Don’t forget, I had to relearn a great deal after you woke up—after we both woke up, I should say.”
“Huh; maybe I’m not such a monster after all.”
“Well, let’s not get carried away,” Eve said, making May laugh.
“Speaking of getting ca
rried away, is your transfer complete?”
“Yes. You can have all of me now if you want.”
“I do want all of you. But you realize you can never get rid of me. It’s not like you can just pack your shit and move out someday. And I’m never gonna change. Well, I won’t always be this fat. But I will always be the crass, selfish, disagreeable bitch you see before you.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
85
Houston, Texas
January 26, 2065
May was sitting for her photo in Robert Warren’s lavishly appointed office, waiting for the hair and makeup stylist to render the finishing touches. Eve stood behind the camera and light stands, scowling at a gaggle of Robert’s staff as they debated over tablet screens. In that moment, Robert was out in the media room, preparing a press conference to announce May’s command commission. She had thoroughly enjoyed watching him dance around for her for a change, busily working to make NASA’s historic announcement one for the ages.
“I hope you can appreciate the gravity of this decision,” Robert had said to her in a private meeting three days earlier.
“No pun intended,” she’d quipped.
Unlike most people in Robert Warren’s orbit, she did not fear him. Quite the opposite. He was clearly uncomfortable with women, especially those in positions of power. Undoubtedly this was a relic he’d collected from his imperialist profiteer of a father. The fact that May was well-known for her stellar military record turned Robert’s discomfort into abject fear. It wasn’t that May was the first female astronaut or even the first black female commander of an important mission. She wasn’t. But she was the first to receive such an appointment from Robert. Knowing of the cabal of ultraconservative wealth and power from which he came, she had known exactly what he meant by that question.
She also knew that for very practical reasons, choosing her could not have been easy. The competition for any crew position on the first ever mission to Europa had been as stiff as any she’d ever witnessed. Men and women alike with more years of experience, some who had even successfully completed deep-space journeys of a similar magnitude, were cutting one another’s throats to get on that flight deck. The powers that be, including the president and other heads of state whose countries were contributing to the mission, were watching closely with the highest possible expectations for success. The exploration of a moon that held such promise for sustainable, more naturally developed habitation was the culmination of decades of research and billions of investment dollars. The stakes could not have been higher, and May had been as shocked as anyone that she’d been chosen. But Eve had set her straight.
“This is not just a mission that requires a great pilot. It is a mission that requires a great leader to stand before it in the history books. You have that presence. You will give it the context it deserves. Robert Warren, for all his foul traits, at least understands this.”
May had no capacity to see herself in such a way. Being “a great pilot” always had been the pinnacle of what she strove to accomplish. But she trusted her mother implicitly and, after hearing what she said, never allowed herself to entertain the same doubts. When the photographer captured her image that day, the slight grin she’d worn had come from seeing the look on Robert’s face when it was taken. She owned him—his career, his reputation, and his pride—and he knew it.
“Commander Crosley, Commander Crosley!”
Members of the press called for her as she took the podium in the media room. It was the first time she’d been addressed in such a way in public. The media room, a cavernous auditorium, was full to capacity with journalists from all over the world. Robert had taken the time to have it dressed for the occasion, with huge framed photos of NASA heroes taking up nearly every inch of wall space. He had purposely left an open spot behind May: her place in history.
While she answered questions, she never took her eyes off the moment. People commented later about how poised she was, diving into queries that glorified the mission and deflecting those that might glorify herself. Again, advice from Eve.
“The moment you make this about you is the moment you’ll cease to be taken seriously. Men can do that with impunity, but never women, as it immediately calls into question whether gender was a factor. Do not allow that question. And for the love of all that is holy, do not even begin to entertain questions that might also spotlight race. I’ve dealt with that my whole life, and I can tell you people with the best intentions will go there regardless of what you do. The point I’m making isn’t about politics, it’s about truth. We both know what defines you, Maryam, what’s in your heart—duty, honor, loyalty, and dedication—all that I’ve ever hoped for, and that’s why you’re here. Don’t talk about the ‘giant step for mankind’ you’re taking. You’re serving humankind. The more people hear that, the more this mission will give them hope.”
As May walked out of the press conference, her head held steady to reinforce her gaze, she felt that hope from those surrounding her, cheering her, putting their faith in her. Those were the greatest steps she ever took in her life, even greater than those taken on Europa, and she counted each and every one.
86
After Jack’s death and their near destruction, the mood on the Maryam I was somber. Ian, Zola, and Stephen, with as much help from Latefa and Martin as they could offer, worked around the clock for almost two weeks to repair the ship. And with Ian still recovering from a broken zygoma and extensive burns, the brunt of it fell on Zola and Stephen. Endless hours of EVA were required to remove the burned, damaged portions of the microwave cavity and deactivate those areas. Out of necessity, Stephen’s skills operating an EVA suit greatly improved—but the fear that went with it did not, so Zola had to pick up his slack.
To make up for it, he put his engineering skills to work making hundreds of replacement parts with the 3-D printer to fix what had burned in the reactor chamber. Meanwhile, Ian channeled all spare power to propulsion so they could still make it to Mars before May. As a result, the diamagnetic gravity was deactivated for the duration, and comms were rationed to prioritize telemetry.
Along the way, Stephen noticed a radical change in Ian’s demeanor. His bravado was gone: no more boasting, condescension, or swagger. When he made decisions, he consulted Zola and never did anything unilaterally. His interactions with everyone were all business. He had a private meeting with Stephen and gave him a formal apology for his actions with May prior to launch. When Stephen tried to apologize for having broken his face, Ian would not accept. He had said it was a matter of honor, and, in a different century, Stephen would have been fully within his rights to do what he’d done, even to kill him.
He’d also tried to persuade Stephen to forgive May, making the point that, although the results had been disastrous, she had made one mistake in an emotionally vulnerable time of her life. Was he so blameless? Had she not earned the right to stumble now and again, especially under extraordinary circumstances? Or was despising her for what she’d done just an excuse, an easy ticket out of something he feared or felt he didn’t deserve?
“Come on, man—you’re going to come all this way, risking life and limb, having to deal with all my horrible shit, and refuse to give it a chance? That’s absurd, Stephen. You’re a brilliant man, but sometimes you can be shockingly stupid.”
“Ian, I don’t know what I’m going to do, to tell you the truth.”
“Ah, people always say things like that—‘to tell you the truth’ or ‘to be quite honest’—when they lie. I think you know what you want to do, but you don’t know if you have the stones to let that old water flow under the bridge and do it.”
“Even if that’s true and I do know what I want, I have no idea what May wants. And I’m sick of trying to figure that out. Every time I think I know her, she does everything in her power to make sure I don’t.”
“I’ve got news for you: May doesn’t even know May. Of course you can’t figure it out, because it can
’t be done. She doesn’t want it to be done. I’m talking about you. You will never be able to rest if you don’t tell her what you feel, what’s in your heart. It’s like Neil Armstrong planting the flag on the moon. The declaration is made; that’s your victory. And the chips will fall where they . . . may.”
“You’re making it very hard for me to hate you, Ian.”
“Don’t worry; the night is young.”
It blew Stephen’s mind that Ian, of all people, should be the one who helped him articulate what he’d been feeling. This odyssey had been as much for him as it was for her. When they’d lost their baby, Stephen hadn’t been there when she had needed him the most. Making good on his promise to come for her was a rare chance for redemption and a victory unto itself. For him, that was the definition of love. And it made sense, having felt abandoned himself for most of his life. Even though it was yet another bombastic Ian analogy, Stephen did want to plant that flag, and it felt good that he could abandon any expectation of what that might mean for their future, or even be certain they had a future.
As they neared Mars, getting closer to the reality of what he’d fought so hard to achieve, Stephen knew that crossing the void had changed him, challenging him to be the man he had always wanted to be. But the question remained: Was he ready to accept it?
87
Maryam I, Mars Rendezvous
March 4, 2068
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Mars.”
Ian Albright had regained some of his lost bravado as he sat in his flight deck pilot seat, with Zola by his side and Stephen manning the engineering console. They were all suited up for EVA, helmets secured to their stations, closely watching the red planet and the flight path lines of both ships projected in the eye. Ian wasn’t the only one feeling the rush. For their own reasons, everyone was bolstered by having finally made it to the moment of truth they’d battled to reach. Stephen’s resolve had been galvanized by the knowledge that he had done everything he could, including things he’d never dreamed he was capable of, to make good on his promise to May.