by Nick Lake
“listen, Leo. u were going home anyway. after ur birthday. they always said, Dr. Stearns always said, that ur bodies would be strong enough by the time u were 16. well, we’re just bringing it forward a little. Dr. Stearns was watching ur vitals when u were in the chamber. he thinks u’re definitely robust enough to survive reentry.”
“oh good,” i say. “he thinks we’ll survive.” it comes out sarcastic. but then i meant it pretty sarcastic.
“what about us?” says Orion.
“u’ll be fine,” says my mother.
“how reassuring,” says Orion. but he’s smiling. Orion doesn’t worry about much.
Virginia puts her hands up. “look, we’re going. ok? so let’s make sure we get down safely. which means me & Freeman going over the manuals. i want to make sure i can take over the bus if…if Freeman blacks out or something. u 3: get whatever u need from ur quarters. rendezvous at y arm hatch, portside. 20 minutes. if we’re not there, get into ur suits. we’ll be along shortly.”
well.
i guess that’s it.
Libra, Orion, & i dive thru the hatch & swim together for a time, then split up to head to our respective quarters. i don’t have much i want to take down with me. it’s a space station: there isn’t room for a lot in the way of personal effects. i do a somersault over to my cupboard, which is lined with webbing. i take out a photo of Grandpa—an old 1, on actual photo paper.
my watch is already on my wrist. Grandpa’s old watch. his Speedmaster.
surely i need something else?
i think.
my life can’t be reducible to 2 items.
but it is, i realize.
all my music is online. all my books. all my homework. these are the only possessions that matter to me.
i unroll my screen & press CALL. Grandpa doesn’t answer. i didn’t really expect him to. it is—i glance at my watch—3:00 a.m. in California. LEAVE MESSAGE? reads the screen, so i say:
“listen, Grandpa. we’re coming down. now. i’m going to c u soon. i…um…i can’t wait. that’s…i guess that’s it. i…well. i’ll c u soon.”
i roll up the screen again. i hate leaving messages. i’m bad at it.
what if i die & that’s my last message? my last words?
i unroll the screen & press CALL again.
“i love u, Grandpa,” i say. “i…that’s really it now.”
i roll it up & kick off from my bed, floating thru the hatch & toward the y arm, then when i hit the elbow module i fly straight at the wall, bend my elbows when i hit, use the momentum to barrel-roll myself into the entertainment module & then along thru the garden. Libra is still there, putting a plant into a metal & glass tube.
“u’re bringing a plant?” i say. “they have tons of those on earth.”
she looks at me. “so? it was grown in space. it’s a part of here. to take down there.”
“um. ok.” i don’t get it, not really. i mean: either u’re up here or u’re down there. why would u want to mingle the 2? but she’s Libra, & i love her even if she’s weird.
“what have u got anyway?” she says.
i look at my watch. “nothing much.”
“Orion’s taking his flute,” she says. “says he doesn’t want to change it for a different 1. just wants to hear how it sounds in the air.”
silence.
“taste wild strawberries,” i say. “go down a slide. ride in an elevator.”
she smiles.
“bounce on a trampoline,” she says. “hot tub. graduation: throw my cap in the air.”
“hot tub. nice call.”
“thanks.”
“graduation not so much. geek.”
she punches my arm.
an awkward moment follows.
“well,” she says. she touches my arm more gently now. “time to go, i guess.”
after that everything moves fast. we torpedo to the end hatch, thru several modules. by the hatch, there is a cupboard similar to the 1 at the end where i EVA’d from. there are space suits lined up behind transparent doors. Orion is already climbing into his, into the hard-shell torso.
“hey, guys,” he says. casually. as if we’re not about to descend to the promised land. to gravity.
“hey.”
i put my suit on quicker than Libra. but then i have just practiced yesterday. water-cooling suit. torso. close backpack behind me. i leave the visor up, as do Libra & Orion. we’re not in the air lock yet.
we tread water there. we don’t talk. there doesn’t seem to be anything to say. i look out the window. it seems important that i do so. i try to soak in the infinity of blackness, sparkling with stars, to take it into myself. i try to imprint the glowing orb of the earth onto my mind, to never forget it. the gray moon, half in shadow.
space.
my home.
no, i remind myself.
no, i’m going home.
yes.
about 5 minutes later, my mother & Virginia come breaststroking down the tunnel. mother looks us up & down. “ok,” she says.
that’s it.
then she puts on her suit, & so does Virginia. i feel like there should be some kind of ceremony, some kind of ritual, like we should be breaking a champagne bottle or something. but there isn’t. anyway, u can’t break champagne bottles in space. the liquid & glass would be a nightmare in the closed-air system.
Orion pats my shoulder. i try to smile at him.
my mother opens the air lock & we go thru, & then the 5 of us are floating in the big chamber.
“close visors. check for leaks,” she says.
we close our visors. we check for leaks. everything is fine.
oxygen. heads-up display.
“depressurizing,” says my mother. she hits the manual switch beside the door & the room sighs & deflates. i feel the air moving around me.
then we’re in space, or as good as, & Mother opens the door to the landing module, the bus. Libra, Orion, & i go first, heads forward, rolling when we get in, to squeeze into the seats at the back. we strap ourselves in. it’s a tight fit. Orion & i are next to the side windows; Libra’s in the middle.
then my mother & Virginia enter too, & close the hatch opening behind them. they climb into the 2 pilots’ seats & commence their checks.
“boosters.”
“ok.”
“displays.”
“ok.”
“computers.”
“ok.”
“comms.”
“Nevada?”
“hearing u loud & clear, Navette 3.”
“ok.”
“temperature.”
“still settling. t minus 5 minutes.”
“pressure.”
“ok.”
etc.
etc.
etc.
finally, after what seems like hours, my mother nods to herself. “ok. Nevada, i’m decoupling,” she says.
“go ahead,” says a voice. it sounds like Singh.
my mother flicks a switch & heavy clunks sound, as the hooks attaching us to the androgynous peripheral assembly open. then there is a kind of pinging, as the springs fire, pushing us gently away from the station.
my mother taps buttons, relays information to Nevada.
minutes pass.
then:
“we’re safely away,” she says. on a screen in front of her i c Moon 2 come into view—we’re already 150 ft. away, maybe more. i have never seen it like this, from far away. it’s weird. it’s like my whole childhood suddenly shrinks, somehow. like u could fit it in a pocket. i feel my eyelashes fluttering, a sense that something is wrong, that i shouldn’t be leaving that small place that seemed so big; but i still my eyes & get ahold of my breathing.
the space station gets smaller. the moon too, behind it. u could reach out & pluck it from the sky. u could spin it on ur knuckles, like a coin, if u had gravity.
gravity.
soon i will be in gravity.
i wonder what it’s like
. it’s impossible to imagine. when u have only known the absence of a thing, how do u construct its feeling in ur mind? i don’t know what a kiss will feel like, tho sometimes lately i have looked at Orion, & i have wondered.
i don’t know what gravity will feel like either.
“firing engines,” says my mother. “10 seconds of thrust.”
she flicks another switch. my back presses into the seat as we are ushered suddenly thru space, smooth & silent. “engage orbital dynamics,” says my mother, & Virginia taps some buttons.
“wait 2 hours,” says Singh—i think it is definitely Singh, from down in Nevada. “fire ur main boosters now & u’ll roast Moon 2’s solar panels.”
“not my first rodeo,” says my mother.
“yes. of course.”
2 hours pass.
like my time in the compression chamber, it is dull.
Moon 2 gradually shrinks, in the window beside me now, as we orbit away from it, our trajectory calculated to take us ever downward, closer to earth, so that we don’t hit it when we come back around.
Virginia takes down notes with pencil & paper, both of them anchored with bungee cords. Nevada is constantly running calculations, figuring out the deorbit burn time, based on the data from our current trajectory. they call out numbers to Virginia to write.
dull.
dull.
& i’m amazed that i can be bored when i’m leaving the space station i have always lived on, to go down to earth, where there are sunsets & smells & animals just walking around, eating grass.
but still dull.
“ok, t minus 1 minute,” says Singh eventually.
a pause, as someone coughs down there.
“good luck, all of u,” says Boutros, over the radio.
“thank u, sir,” says my mother.
Singh comes back on. “deorbit burn 3 minutes 40 seconds,” he says.
“10-4,” says my mother. “firing main boosters.”
she flicks.
& we are flicked, like flies, by a giant hand—a roar, & the spinning plus sign of Moon 2 contracts, quick as a pupil reacting to bright light, like when the sun suddenly rises thru the cupola, as we are thrown toward the earth, & that’s really what it feels like: like someone has seized us & is flinging us down.
then we do what thrown things do.
we fall.
heat:
that’s the first thing u feel when the bus’s orbit flattens from circular to elliptical & u hit the low part of the oval, the ship beginning to drag against the envelope of the atmosphere.
i glance over at Libra, next to me, who is sweating too, eyes closed. we can feel & hear the slowing effect of the dense air we’re entering, & thru the window i c sparks lighting the darkness; the outside of the landing module on fire.
then the capsule starts to roll, buffeted by the atmosphere. i cling to my straps as we are twisted in every direction, shaken, as if there’s still a giant hand outside manipulating us.
“fire explosive bolts,” says my mother.
“10-4,” says Virginia, & she leans down to jettison the orbital & propulsion modules.
there’s a series of bangs & i c something whip past the window as we speed into sunrise, coming down on the curve of the earth, blade-edge planet illuminated against black.
& we keep tumbling. simultaneously the force on us increases—i am being squashed hard into my seat now, my eyeballs feel as tho they’re being dragged thru my head, & my whole body is fighting this violent pull from outside.
“3 g’s,” says Virginia. “4 g’s. 5. still climbing.”
“hmm,” says my mother.
i don’t like the sound of that hmm. a hmm from my mother is like an oh fucking shit from anyone else.
the temperature keeps going up.
my t-shirt is soaked with sweat now, sticking to my skin. it’s a sensation i’m not used to—in the station the climate was regulated, all the time; it was never allowed to get this hot. i feel like my body is melting.
something drips onto my lap. i look up, & c moisture gathering on the ceiling of the capsule. “um, Moth— officers, the capsule is leaking, or something.”
my mother turns back. “what?”
“something dripped on me.”
“water or metal?”
metal? i think. if liquid metal is dripping on me, then we are in serious trouble. i move my hand to touch the liquid above me, then lift my fingers to look at them. just raising my arm takes serious effort, as if it’s strapped to the walking machine we use in the station. “water, i think.”
“good.” my mother turns back to Virginia. “ablative shield holding?”
“yes,” she says. “but g’s are still climbing. 6…7.”
i don’t need her to tell us this. i can feel it, & i can c from the look in Libra’s eyes, which are now open, that she feels it too—there is nothing to compare it to because i have never lived anything like it before; i’ve always been on Moon 2, in 0 g. now suddenly there is a pressure on my chest that feels like it will cave it in.
“shit,” says my mother.
“what’s happening?” says Virginia.
“i don’t know. i think 1 of the modules might not have detached.”
“Nevada?” says Virginia. “come in, Nevada.”
no answer.
out the window, the backlit horizon is spinning giddily.
i can feel the skin on my face, i’ve never felt the skin on my face before, it’s being smushed back, my whole face is being pushed back over my ears, like the capsule thinks it’s a mask & is trying to remove it; & i think, don’t remove my face, don’t take it off—
i can’t breathe, i can’t breathe, the hands are pressing on my chest too, pressing—
i try to lift my arm to push them away, to stop them crushing me, these people, but i can’t—
“9 g’s,” says Virginia.
all sense is gone from my head; the only word i know is help, help, help.
“fire drogue chute, right now,” says my mother.
“trying to,” says Virginia.
& then everything goes black.
rolling.
spinning.
a dream of rolling & spinning,
upside is downside & downside is upside &
nothing is still,
a nightmare more than a dream,
the universe uncoupled from its axes, rotating wildly, tumbling thru whatever was there before space exploded outward,
head battered in every direction, straining on seat belts, 1 moment falling out the next moment
PUSHED
into the seat, a seat,
a seat,
yes i’m in a seat i’m in the landing capsule & i open my eyes. outside the window there is just black sky & then
flick
brown earth & then
flick
black sky, red at the side with rising sun & then
flick
brown earth again &
someone is screaming i think it might be me but also maybe Libra, i would turn to her but i can’t; i can’t turn my head at all; i can’t move anything. what if i’m paralyzed? my lungs are empty my lungs are empty i try,
i try to breathe & i get 1 small wisp of air into me & i try for another,
& another,
& another,
&
“gamma ray altimeter?” says my mother’s voice from somewhere in the maelstrom of movement, she is no longer in front of us because in front has no meaning, she is around me, her voice is in me.
Virginia doesn’t reply. blacked out like i did? i don’t know. i force my eyeballs to turn in their sockets & c my mother frantically pushing buttons, flicking switches, making lights go on & off. i assume she’s trying to fire the parachutes, trying to slow our descent, because otherwise we’re going to hit the ground & we’re going to be annihilated, just so much mangled metal & wetness spread over a mountain or a city street.
then—
sn
ap—
& we’re slowing, the crazy gyrations of the capsule beginning to even out, my face starts to creep back onto the front of my head & i can lift my hand, just, to grab Libra’s & she squeezes mine back.
“g-force descending,” my mother mutters.
we slow even more. stabilize. i look out the window & gasp—farmland is rising quickly straight at us, like a view from 1 of Grandpa’s drone cameras, sectioned by fences—there are cows & there’s a car on a road &—
“impact in 10 seconds,” says my mother, to us maybe, or maybe just to herself.
“brace urselves.”
the seconds tick down; it’s what they do—u can’t ever stop them. no one is calling them out, this isn’t a launch, it’s the opposite, but i c them in my head:
5
4
3
2
1
bang.
we hit the ground so hard that for a second i black out again, a screech of rending metal, & next thing i know my chin is on my chest & there is something dripping on my hands, something red now, & i realize it’s blood, my own blood, from my nose.
for a moment, everything is still.
huh, i think. so that’s what liquid looks like on earth. that’s how liquid falls, in 1 g.
tap. tap. tap.
from my nose. down to my hands.
down.
what a weird idea down is. i look out the window. i c only red. i don’t know what it is, i don’t know how to read it, to parse it. flickering, creeping red, cycling thru shades.
i turn slowly to Libra. “u ok?” i say.
“no,” she says. she is cradling 1 arm. i wonder if it’s broken.
“Orion?”
“no. i am not ok either.”
well, good. they’re both alive.
my mother turns to us. “good, u’re alive,” she says.
then she shakes Virginia. “Duncan. Duncan.”
my heart stops in my chest. Virginia can’t be dead. not Virginia. Virginia can’t be dead she can’t be—
Virginia coughs & twists her head wildly. “what’s happening—are we in trouble— what’s—”
“shh,” says my mother, almost tenderly. “we’ve landed.”
“Jesus,” says Virginia. “what happened?”
“i don’t know,” says my mother.
then i c her moving, unclasping herself from her seat & climbing forward to the hatch, & i realize we have landed on our side, which is not usual. the chutes are meant to bring us down gently on the lower end of the capsule so that we’re facing up.