Satellite

by Nick Lake

  “but—” says Santiago.

  “no, listen,” says Boutros, his hand up, “everyone, we have to—”

  but again we don’t find out what we have to because the screen cuts off & Libra & Orion & Virginia & i are standing there looking at a black sheet of roll-LED on the table.

  “huh,” says Libra. “solar flare?”

  Virginia looks out the porthole & shrugs. all we can c is blackness & stars.

  a minute later the screen flicks on again.

  “sorry for the interruption,” says Boutros. “we’re back.” this seems unnecessary to point out. it’s also not, entirely, true. Santiago isn’t sitting in her seat anymore.

  he sees us looking. “Santiago had to step out,” he says. “shall we continue?”

  “yes,” says my mother. “let’s get back to me & Brown being dead. what about notifications?”

  let’s not, i think. let’s go back to the scandal. let’s go back to the New York Times. because there’s something they’re not telling us. i look at Orion & Libra, & i can c they’re thinking the same thing—but they don’t say a word, & neither do i, & i think i know why. because there’s an atmosphere in the room down there, u can hear it over the speakers in the station. it’s a tension. a vibration, from something being stretched. something we can’t c. it feels muscular. full of energy, of potential. like something that could snap.

  & hurt people.

  an image crosses my mind & i don’t know why: Santiago being dragged down a hallway, a suited security officer on either side. i shake my head. what am i thinking?

  i focus on the screen again. people have been talking but i missed it.

  Flight Officer Brown reaches into his suit pocket & takes out a letter. “i want this delivered to my wife & kids,” he says.

  Boutros nods, leans over, & takes it. a sim is just a sim but it’s also real. it’s prep, for if this really happens. “Freeman? any message for ur family?”

  “my family is there,” she says, pointing to me. “half of it anyway.”

  pause.

  “so? any message for him?”

  she turns her hands over, as if surprised to c them connected to her arms. my mother doesn’t deal well with this kind of thing: she finds it hard to know what is expected of her. i almost feel sorry for her. “as always,” she says. “work hard. focus. that’s all.”

  wow. great, Mother.

  even Boutros looks a bit pale, tho that may be his foundation, i don’t know. Virginia touches my shoulder again, & Libra floats over & squeezes my hand.

  “what about other practicalities. bodies?” says Ravzi. “do we recover them? cremation? burial?”

  now Brown looks pale too. “leave me,” he says. “space is what i wanted since i was a kid. if i’m gonna be dead anywhere, it might as well be up there.”

  my mother purses her lips. “fine. me too.”

  “legal?” says Boutros to someone we can’t c.

  “Leo’s a minor,” says this person, a man, it sounds like. “who would take custody?”

  “my father,” says Mother.

  Flight Officer Brown’s eyes widen. Grandpa is pretty famous. not Armstrong famous but close. the most flights to the ISS of any living astronaut, etc. appearances on The Tonight Show. an autobiography that was on the New York Times bestseller list. a children’s book. “Bob Freeman?” he almost whispers.

  “yes,” says my mother. she nods, matter-of-fact. “everything’s arranged.” in fact this is the first i’ve officially heard about what is going to happen if my mother dies.

  great, i think.

  everything is arranged. even me.

  the next day passes slowly. i’m worried about my mother, not that i would ever tell her that. i doubt she’s nervous, down there. she doesn’t really seem to feel those kinds of emotions.

  nerves.

  fear.

  affection.

  love.

  instead i imagine she’s going thru the manuals, the boldface, before being railed to the rocket on the maglev from base.

  Nevada patches us in via vidlink, so Virginia & i can watch the launch on the screen in the bridge. Libra & Orion are doing their own thing. but i know they didn’t move from in front of the vidlink last time their mother came up.

  i left them alone then, just like they’re leaving me alone now.

  on the screen, Mother & Flight Officer Brown are 2 specks climbing the outside of the rocket, then they disappear inside. i know they’ll be checking all the instruments, making sure their small personal bags are secured. my mother’s is extremely small, i imagine. she doesn’t even wear any jewelry. she doesn’t believe in ornamentation. or sentimental value.

  they’ll be running thru the manual yet again. every possible variation, every possible problem. checking all the formulas & outputs. fuel. barometric pressure. everything.

  Virginia holds my hands when the countdown begins. 10, 9, 8, etc.

  then the rocket blasts off. we c the flames & the smoke, smoke like clouds, like the rocket is making its own weather, but the vidlink filters out the shaking of the earth that i know is happening—every action has an equal & opposite reaction—the roar even, it’s all muted from up here, & then the rocket is an arrow loosed into the sky, accelerating all the time, full burn, pulling away from gravity’s clinging love, into blueness.

  we c the back section of the rocket fall to earth, when the fuel is burned out, & i know my mother is feeling maybe 4 g’s of force as the secondary rockets kick in &—zip—the tiny pencil end of the rocket is gone, into the atmosphere.

  “they made it,” says Virginia.

  “of course,” i say. systems do what they’re designed to do. it’s people who are more complicated.

  she smiles. “yes. of course. u want me to sync their updates to ur personal screen?”

  “yes please,” i say.

  i take my screen everywhere with me for the rest of the day. launch out of the atmosphere is only the first stage, since we don’t have shuttles anymore. the rocket module has to get into low earth orbit, then fire small nuanced burns, bit by bit, to rise up to meet the space station—all the time very complex calculations being made, so that the 2 ships will meet, so that they will be angled correctly to each other when they do.

  i carry the screen into the relaxation module, where Libra & Orion are watching Wile E. Coyote cartoons. well, Libra is watching them. Orion is playing something on his flute, softly, a little refrain over & over. he has a screen propped on his knees—he almost always has, with a book on it, or his flute, or both, like now. i glance at it. the screen, i mean. James Bond. Orion likes old stuff.

  Libra too, if by old stuff u mean Wile E. Coyote, which is this show from—i don’t know—before the dawn of time. every TV show & movie ever made available to us on the cloud & this is the only thing she watches. she says it’s because of the rules. she told me once how Chuck Jones, who made the cartoon, supposedly had some list of rules for the writers to follow, like:

  –the Road Runner can only ever say beep beep.

  –the Road Runner can’t ever hurt the coyote.

  –the coyote can hurt only himself, as a result of his plans to catch the Road Runner, which must always go wrong.

  –the coyote must only use items from Acme Corporation to further his plans & these items must always backfire on him.

  etc.

  Libra said, i like that because it’s like being up here. which is kind of true. i mean, our whole life is a list of rules. we’re even discouraged from crying, to prevent rogue balls of moisture, same as with the sweat. of course, it’s also just because she likes rules. Libra legit looks forward to going to real high school & having a locker & color-coded folders & prom, with all its codes of dress & behavior. i know because she is always telling us.

  Orion: well, if they get him to enter the school premises, that would be an achievement.

  i hover next to them.

  “again?” i say to Libra, indicating the
screen.

  “always,” says Libra. she laughs as the coyote takes out a dehydrated boulder (Acme Corporation) & it immediately rehydrates into an enormous boulder & crushes him.

  “ur mom’s launch ok?” says Orion without looking up.

  “yeah,” i say.

  from my screen, my mother’s voice: “orbital pattern 1 achieved. programming booster sequence for next shell.”

  “cool,” says Orion. “u’ll c her in the morning.”

  “i will.”

  he nods. i wonder if he’s thinking about his mother. about seeing her. different for him, of course, because his mother hugs him, used to read him stories, that sort of thing.

  Libra is still laughing.

  “i don’t get it,” i say. “i mean, i know the rules & all that. but u’ve seen all the episodes before.”

  she gestures to the screen. the coyote is running after the Road Runner & then the Road Runner stops & the coyote goes over a cliff. he keeps running for a while, grinning. then he slows, stops. frowns. he is floating in nothing. he looks down, realizes he’s in thin air.

  then he falls—whoosh.

  “c?” says Libra. “it’s a cartoon but it’s got, like, the whole meaning of life in it. i mean, what does it tell u? it tells u that ur body can be broken but it will mend. it tells u that if u do bad things they will rebound on u. it tells u that death is the end. it tells u that u can walk on air, as long as u don’t realize u’re doing it.”

  “profound,” says Orion, playing a sad mournful tune on his flute. “or it tells u that there’s no point chasing road runners.”

  “like i said,” says Libra, “meaning of life, right there.”

  from my screen: “shell 2 achieved. recalibrating. t minus 14 hours to docking.”

  “14 hours,” says Orion. no inflection. there’s something unspoken in the module & it’s my mom & what she means. what she means to me.

  “i’m going to my quarters,” i say.

  “sure,” says Orion. his eyes are dark as deep space, flecked with stars too. “u know where we are.”

  “that’s kind of the whole problem,” i say with a smile.

  “yeah, well, a few more days & then we’re earthside,” says Libra. “i’m going to drink a milk shake. then watch the sunset. then ride a bike.”

  this is an old game.

  “i’m going to swim in the ocean,” i say. “then…light a bonfire on the beach. then i’m going to sleep on a real mattress with springs in it & that i don’t need to be strapped into.”

  “i’m going to run in the rain,” says Orion. “then watch birds, flying. any birds. then i’m going to go to a concert hall & listen to Jason Mukherjee playing Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier.”

  this is what he always says, & it’s always the end of the game.

  “good times,” i say.

  “good times,” they both echo. sometimes it’s spooky, the twin thing.

  then there’s a flicker from the porthole, & i turn. the twins turn too. green fire, over the ocean.

  “aurora!” says Libra. she pushes up, floats over, & we join her. there must be a solar storm, a coronal mass ejection, big enough for particles emitted by the sun to make it to these lower latitudes, somewhere over the equator.

  to blast atoms of air into light.

  i’m going to go ahead & guess the Pacific, from the big blue expanse below us, because that’s where we normally are. above it, the aurora neons the atmosphere, making swirling patterns of vivid green, pulsing, thinning, & then expanding, flickering, as if the earth is surrounded by its own ghost. on fire with it. every time i c it, i am amazed that it’s only visible to a few people down there, the ones near the poles who c it at night. from here, it’s the most obvious thing: a crown of ghost-fire, rippling, holy wind.

  Orion takes my hand. he’s always been like that, a big hugger & hand-holder, maybe less so now but especially when we were kids. & Libra takes his. except now it’s like a circuit being closed, his hand on mine. buzzing. suddenly my body is only my hand; the aurora electrics thru me, illuminates me from within. i twist inward, a Möbius strip of self-consciousness.

  “prom, Paris, seeing a redwood tree,” says Libra. 3 things she’s looking forward to.

  “a Michelin-starred meal,” says Orion. “Michelangelo’s ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Jason Mukherjee playing—”

  “Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier,” i finish for him.

  i let go of Orion’s hand.

  “u?” says Libra.

  i shrug. “everything.”

  “cheating,” says Orion.

  “please,” i say. “u cheated every game of Monopoly we ever played.”

  he waves a hand loftily. “artists are above commerce.”

  “u’re not an artist,” i say.

  “not yet,” says Orion, with a smile.

  i smile back. Libra smiles too. we’re not kids anymore, it’s true. but we’re going home.

  nothing will ever be the same—but 1 of the ways it won’t be the same is that there’ll be ice cream. i smile harder.

  i torpedo to my quarters, & when i get there, a mountain range is below my window. the Himalayas, i think. or the Karakoram. 1 of those. green-brown valleys lead to glaciers. thin ribbons of river curve, sinuous, down into the lowlands, shining silver in the light.

  i vidlink Grandpa. to my surprise, he answers—usually at this time of day he’s out on the ranch somewhere, unless we’ve scheduled a call. calves are always being born; fences always need mending. & always, always, water needs to be found. to be raised, to be given to the grass, to the herd.

  “hey,” i say.

  “hey,” he says.

  then: weird acoustic effect. thru my screen, which is set to push notifications, & thru the speakers from his end, the same voice. maybe half a second slower on my end.

  “Nevada, we’re in shell 3. all functions normal. all instruments reading a-ok. t minus 13 hours to docking.” my mother’s voice.

  “they patched u in too, huh?” i say.

  “i always listen,” she says. “i’m always there.”

  the unspoken words cross the hundreds of miles between us, cross the atmospheric barrier, into the vacuum, fly thru it. i’m always there for her. if she needs me. which she never does.

  “me too,” i say.

  Grandpa & i lock eyes. precision engineering. human comms. a moment of eternity.

  “well,” he says, “looks like everything is working.”

  “yeah.”

  “i got a new drone,” he says. “s’why i’m in here, not outside.”

  Grandpa uses drones to keep an eye on his property. it’s a big ranch. plus, i think he just likes flying them. once a pilot always a pilot.

  “u want to c?” he says.

  “u need to ask?” i say.

  he grins. he looks young when he grins. i mean, not young—his face is still all lined. but younger. full of fire. my grandpa is a sun & my mother is a moon. he reaches down & keys something into another screen, then he makes a swiping gesture, & suddenly i’m looking down, thru my screen, onto brown grass.

  “hang on. i’ll take u out.”

  the grass begins to shrink, to grow smaller, more granular, & then a line of fence comes into view & then we’re high up, above the broad flat valley, & the drone has a wide-viewing angle, so i can c the mountains in the distance, dark blue against light blue sky, cloud-crowned, topped with snow. & below, groups of cows, dark patches against the grass, moving, & the robot sprinklers that rotate like giant free-rolling wheels across parts of the grassland, watering.

  the drone remains entirely still. defying gravity.

  “wow,” i say. it’s an understatement. i want to be standing in that valley, to feel all that space around me. i mean, i’m surrounded by space now, but i’m referring to landscape, real air, moving in currents, birds borne aloft on it, the wide bowl of the valley holding me, holding me up with its firm earth, & the mountains beyond, ringing my existence
, circumscribing my world.

  for a second i glance out the window & c just blackness, forever, & i feel a familiar constriction on my chest & i start breathing harder & harder & my skin goes tight & i feel sweat starting to break out on my forehead &—

  “snap out of it, son,” says Grandpa. “look.”

  i look. he brings the drone down, swoops almost, a looping maneuver & then we’re above a small stream, & next to it, a mother cow standing with a calf—it must be no more than a day old. it stands on rickety legs, drinking milk from her.

  “huh,” i say, a kind of spoken sigh. this huh contains the words: marvel, envy, delicacy, strength.

  “beautiful, isn’t he?” he says. “i’m calling him Pepper, on account of his markings.”

  there are indeed little black patches sprinkled on the calf, all over, on the paleness of his coat.

  “u’ll meet him. just a matter of weeks now, & u’ll c ur mother tomorrow,” says Grandpa. “focus on that. u’ve got so much to look forward to.”

  he’s wrong. i know it then. i know it even more later.

  i set an alarm on my screen but i wake up at 06:30 anyway, my body’s circadian rhythms in co-orbital harmony with my mother’s arrival. i un-mute the screen. for a while i lie there strapped into my bunk but then i hear:

  “t minus 10 minutes, Moon 2. activating automatic velocity management.” my mother’s voice.

  “10-4,” says Virginia. “i have u on my systems.”

  i hit the button that rolls the coverings up on my windows. we’re over, i don’t know, Europe maybe? above the pole, the corona wreathes the earth with green flames, but just the ordinary 1, the aurora borealis.

  i reach out for a handrail & use it to pull myself thru the hatch out of my quarters, then torpedo thru the station. i pause, floating. i kick over to the nearest intercom terminal.

  “Virginia?” i say into it, pushing the button to talk.

  “Leo?”

  “yeah. which arm?”

  “ur mother’s hatch?”