Satellite

by Nick Lake

  how my mother is even able to move i don’t know—i feel so weak that i’m not sure if i could unclip my harness.

  she opens the hatch a crack & recoils, immediately—& immediately the capsule is filled with an acrid smell, a smell that hurts my nostrils.

  she closes the hatch quickly.

  “what’s that smell?” i say.

  she glances at me. “smoke. the orbital module didn’t detach. it was on fire & now it seems we’re in a cornfield that’s on fire.”

  i look at the redness out the window & now i understand what it is. it’s flames. we have landed in a field of corn & we have set fire to it.

  fire. that’s what that red is, that pulses & flickers outside the portholes.

  “ ‘all things, oh priests, are on fire,’ ” says Orion.

  “huh?” says mother.

  “Buddha.”

  “what?”

  “he’s talking about desire. this fire is more literal of course.”

  silence.

  “so what do we do?” says Libra. always wanting a plan. always practical.

  my mother shrugs. “i’m going to try to connect us to Nevada with the emergency radio.”

  “but about the fire,” says Orion.

  “wait till it burns itself out, i suppose,” says my mother.

  “& if we can’t get Nevada on the radio?”

  my mother sighs. “we have set fire to a field. i think someone will find us.”

  “10-4,” says Virginia to Nevada over the radio. “c u soon.”

  they’re on their way. they were tracking us over radar, even tho our systems were down because of the burning orbital module that we didn’t know was still stuck to us.

  we’re in a field somewhere, & Nevada is coming by helicopter, & it shouldn’t be long.

  outside the window, there is a world of smoke & black stubbly stuff that i assume is burned-down corn. we have been in here a long time, long enough for the fire to consume all the carbon it can, fueling itself on the oxygen that is everywhere here, all around, & i think how crazy it is that a whole field can burn: in space, if anything catches fire, u just cut off the air to that section of the station & there’s nothing to sustain it.

  here, everything is larger. &, i realize suddenly, in some ways weirdly more dangerous.

  “let’s try to get out of here,” says my mother. she moves forward again & opens the hatch. she tenses, but there is only gray out there. & that stench of burned things.

  “all ok,” she says.

  Libra, Orion, & i unfasten our seat belts. there is something holding me down in my seat & for a moment i think i’m hurt in some terrible way, some broken bone skewering me to the fabric, but then i realize it’s just gravity—it’s being in 1 g; it’s pulling me into the seat.

  weird.

  i push myself forward—i have to crawl, but i c that the other 2 are having to do the same thing. we crawl over & past my mother’s & Virginia’s seats & then thru the hatch.

  & then my head is thru the hatch, & my mother & Virginia are helping me out, helping me to my feet.

  “can u stand?” says Virginia.

  i look down. they are holding me up, their hands on my waist & arms & i look around me & the sky is above me & black field is around me & there are mountains in the distance & my feet are on the ground.

  my feet.

  on the ground.

  i feel the earth, the scorched earth, pushing up against the soles of my feet—it’s the oddest feeling—& at the same time my whole body is being pulled down, all of it down in 1 direction.

  i’m used to living in 3 dimensions: when i’m in the station, up & down are only nominal things & every surface is a surface u can touch, u can use to propel urself…& suddenly now i’m in 2, suddenly there’s only 1 plane that matters & it’s the flat plane of the earth. the sun is coming up on the horizon in front of me, setting fire to the world, like we set fire to this little field.

  i try to use my muscles to stand. feeling me tense, Mother & Virginia let go of me.

  & gravity lays me down like a doll: the ground rushes up & i hit it, hard, & i’m lying crumpled there, on the burned corn stubble, the suit protecting me at least.

  “no,” i say.

  looking up, i c my mother nod.

  she & Virginia reach down & get me propped up against the side of the landing module. then they help Libra & Orion out & do the same with them, so that we’re lying against the capsule like injured civilians after a disaster, which i suppose is what we are.

  but then Virginia staggers & falls—she puts a hand out, plants it on the wall of the capsule. her head hangs down. she’s been in 0 g longer than my mother. weeks. months. my mother helps her down until she’s sitting next to us.

  “huh,” says Virginia. “aren’t we a picture.”

  my mother busies herself with something, walking around the ship, muttering.

  even sitting, like this, the earth has hooks in me & it’s pulling me down. my legs, my back, my head, they’re all being dragged in 1 vector & 1 vector only & nothing about me is floating freely, like before. there is this thing in my nostrils that must be the smell of burning corn, the first thing i have ever smelled outside of the station.

  everything is inflected downward. even the burned stalks of corn, they hang down, toward the earth.

  i can’t understand it.

  i can’t get my head around it.

  but then i hear a clapping rustle & something rises up, a blur of black, vaulted into the sky out of the blackened cornfield on a kind of clattering noise, up into clear air & i c that it’s a bird, not something on a vid but a real bird, & the word for what it is doing is flying, black wings beating as it flies flies flies over red sunrise, something alive that exists in every direction, something whose windows open on every side, letting in the world from every angle, & my breath stops for a moment in my chest. i have never seen anything so beautiful.

  “did u…?” i say to Libra & Orion.

  “yes,” they say together, which is something they do sometimes. i c that there are tears running down Orion’s cheeks.

  down.

  everything down.

  apart from that bird tho. apart from that bird.

  there’s almost so much to feel that i can’t feel anything—it’s so overwhelming. then i force myself to focus, to isolate the sensations, to really appreciate them.

  at first, it’s all just the force yanking down on my body, sticking me to the earth below me. but then i start to separate the others.

  i feel the breeze on my skin. on my face.

  the wind carries with it a scent—by definition i don’t know what it is because there is little to smell on Moon 2—it’s under the smell of burned corn. i think it might be grass?

  whatever it is, it is cool & clear & an unspeakable wonder.

  & the sound. there is a kind of silence that i have never heard before. the space station is clicking & whirring & turning all the time. & now that it’s gone, there’s a kind of weird void in its place, a limbo—but no, because as i concentrate, i begin to hear the air around me, the wind itself, & something else. a bird calling? music?

  unspeakable wonder.

  i press my fingers into the ground. the pads of my fingers sink thru, yielding particulate soil. the feeling is indescribable: it is softness & granularity & separation & surrounding & letting go, & my god if this is what the soil of a burned field in the middle of nowhere feels like, then how will i cope with swimming? how will Orion cope with hearing his flute, echoing around the concert hall?

  then, only then, do i look. really look.

  the sun is almost risen now, above the mountains in front of us. the mountains are gray & blue & every color in between, rigged to catch clouds as they pass; they are laden with them now, ragged with them. there is an impression of green trees. in between, the field, & i think more fields, stretching a distance that in space would seem tiny but here seems vast; fences & electricity poles ris
ing up.

  & the sky.

  the sky.

  the sky.

  skeins of cloud are stretched across the sky; in places fish scales; in places silk. they are pink, & under them, between them & the horizon, is a layer of pale blue—no, not pale, it’s the opposite of pale, it’s electrified this blue, switched on, lit from within, a couple of stars still hanging on, piercing the blue with sparkling light.

  & powering it all is the great ball of the sun, burning, glowing, taking leave now of the mountains & surging into the air above them, burning their tattered clouds to nothing, red-hot flames on the edge of the world, firing the clouds, sending voltage thru that blue.

  i watch it & i can’t close my mouth.

  then more.

  more sensation.

  i feel something wet on my face. i lift my fingers from the dirt & touch them to my jaw, to my chin, feel moisture there.

  my eyes. my eyes are stinging.

  it is tears.

  tears, pouring down.

  always down.

  everything in 1 axis, everything following 1 vector.

  apart from that bird.

  apart from the sun, which is rising.

  apart from my heart, which is higher than the stars.

  wonder.

  wonder.

  wonder.

  “well, isn’t this a shit show,” says Boutros.

  he covers his head as he walks away from the downdraft of a helicopter. it has landed just next to the capsule, flattening the stalks of corn with the force of the wind created by its rotors.

  i am almost incapable of speech, i am all sensorium, a mind full of wonder just feeling wind, wind, wind, hearing the roar of engines, smelling burned corn & earth & green.

  “paramedics,” he says. “get them onto the gurneys.” he gestures to me & Libra & Orion & Virginia. “take their vitals. prep the IVs too.” i have never seen him in real life before. he is smaller than i expected, from the vid screens.

  other people are spilling out of another helicopter behind him, & there is no transition between them being on the helicopter & them working. they are so fast, so efficient.

  some of them have brought folding chairs; they have done this before, i realize, with astronauts like Virginia, who have been up there a long time, but maybe not with anyone as bad as us. Virginia is sitting up. me & Libra & Orion are pretty slumped at this point.

  we’re pretty out of it too. Orion is just saying birdsong over & over again to himself, & Libra has her hands planted in the ground as if they will grow into something, & isn’t even saying anything. is just humming, tunelessly.

  i can’t claim to be much better. i am watching the sun rising in the sky, with my mouth open. it looks so different down here, smaller & yet bigger, bleeding light into the ground.

  i feel strong hands under my arms, &—

  time skips—

  &—

  i’m lifted into 1 of the folding chairs. more sensation. a kind of densely woven fabric against my skin—at some point someone has pulled me out of my space suit, & i’m just in a t-shirt & thin space pants. my mother is 1 of the people who helped me into the chair, i realize.

  “u ok?” she says.

  i stare at her. “i don’t know.”

  she purses her lips. “i…” she closes her mouth. “i…” she closes her mouth again. then she shakes her head, & walks away. starts talking to 1 of the men in suits—engineers, i guess—pointing to the ship, then making shapes with her hands as she demonstrates something. 1 of them is noting something down on a screen.

  there are others walking around the landing module & the orbital module too, which is still attached to it, since my mother has already established that this was the problem that caused us to crash-land miles from where we were supposed to come down. the explosive bolts fired, but it stayed attached, giving us an added downward momentum that my mother described to Virginia as “ballistic.”

  as in: like a bullet.

  we came thru the atmosphere like a bullet, & only the chutes saved us, deploying automatically when the gamma ray altimeter registered 300 ft. from the earth’s surface.

  even so, we are fortunate to be alive. according to my mother.

  i feel…

  …cold, i realize, as the wind passes over me.

  yes. this is cold. this is what it feels like. i look down, curiously, c goose bumps on my skin. the temperature on Moon 2 was a constantly regulated 67 degrees.

  i shiver.

  wonder.

  unspeakable wonder.

  then a sharp pain in my arm. i twist my head. someone in a green jumpsuit is hooking up a bag of fluid to a tube that snakes into 1 of my veins.

  “just sugar,” says Boutros, walking past. “for strength.”

  “wait,” i say.

  he stops.

  “did u c that sunrise?”

  he shakes his head. “closed my eyes in the chopper. hate heights. ironic, isn’t it?”

  pause.

  “u liked it?” he says. “the sunrise?” there’s a strange expression on his face. guilt? maybe. i don’t know why.

  “it was the most wonderful thing i have ever seen,” i say.

  he smiles. a real smile. “oh u just wait,” he says. “u’re home now. the world is ur oyster.”

  “my oyster?”

  “it’s just something people say. means u have a lot to discover.”

  i nod, feeling the way my head hinges on my neck, the weight as my chin goes down to my chest, which i have to pull up, cantilever back to orthogonal with muscles i have never really used, at least not in this way, where everything is pulling down all the time. “i am realizing that,” i say.

  he steps away.

  just then a vehicle pulls up. it’s white, or it was once. now it’s mostly dried mud, gray & streaked with waves & whorls. a pickup truck. a man steps out, wearing jeans & an old t-shirt with holes in it. he has brown boots on his feet & a hat on his head. he steps over to Boutros.

  “this ur doin’?” he says, looking over the burned cornfield.

  “i’m afraid so,” says Boutros. “we will of course compensate you for the damage.”

  the man considers this for a moment. his face is weathered, literally i suppose, lined with cracks like…well…like the dry dirt below me.

  i can do informed analogies now—now that i’m on earth.

  “u meant to land here?” he says, eventually, with a frown.

  “not in the least,” says Boutros. “nor did we intend for the orbital module to stay attached. c it?” he points to the blackened, thick tubular module that is still stuck to our gracefully fluted landing capsule.

  “uh-huh,” says the farmer, at least that’s who i guess it is.

  “meant to detach once thru the atmosphere. we estimate the landing capsule reached 12 g’s because of the additional momentum. disaster. they should have died, really.” now he does an expansive gesture that takes in me, Libra, Orion, Virginia.

  “sorry to disappoint u,” says Orion.

  the farmer chuckles.

  Boutros frowns.

  then it’s as if he realized he’s supposed to laugh at jokes, that it’s in the rules, in the boldface. he cracks a smile.

  “anyway,” he says, “landing module has an ablative shield, stops it catching fire with the friction from the atmosphere.” he is babbling slightly. i think he’s embarrassed, about the field. “the other module doesn’t. that’s why…ahem…that’s why it set ur…ahem…field on fire. i’m really very sorry. it was a technical error. a misfiring explosive bolt.”

  the farmer shrugs. “done me a favor, t’be frank. couldn’t afford to keep irrigating it anyway.”

  Boutros blinks. “oh. yes. of course.”

  the drought. people on news vids are always talking about the water shortage.

  “well,” says the farmer, turning to the 4 of us in our folding chairs. “welcome back to terra firma. u were lucky, i guess.”

  he’s
wrong about that.

  he’s wrong about us being back, because we’ve never been here before, apart from Virginia of course.

  but wrong about us being lucky too.

  very wrong about that.

  strong men & women carry us to the helicopters & load us into 1 of them, strap us into seats that are like those in the module, except now there is an open panel door with air coming in.

  they fit headphones over our ears, with mics in them.

  the helicopter lifts into the air, & my stomach drops.

  i look out & down at the field. the smashed-up module & the parachute lying behind it, half-burned, jellyfish-like, laid flat. the metal of the tube is dented & scorched. it seems amazing that we survived.

  the farmer stands by his white pickup, getting smaller.

  then a couple of black jeeps pull up. windows tinted. men in black suits get out & walk over to the farmer. they seem to talk.

  we power forward, the scene dwindling behind us.

  the men lead the farmer toward the cars.

  we’re drawing away now, air is rushing in, astonishing air, so the scene is small now but i c them touch his arm, direct him, toward—

  then someone closes the door, the air stops rushing, & the helicopter speeds even more, & even with the headphones on i can hear nothing but shhhhhhh & c nothing but blurred blue out of the window.

  going home.

  it’s earth, but not earth.

  the helicopter carried us here, ground rolling below like a satellite image feed, like a dream, fields & houses & roads conveyor-belting below us, fever-fast.

  & now we’re in quarantine. they’re worried about us getting sick: all the viruses we’ve never been exposed to. it turns out Libra’s arm wasn’t broken, which is 1 good thing. just sprained.

  outside the windows, Nevada scrubland stretches to where the sky & the world meet. just like in the space station, we could c the earth, but we were floating separate from it, always on the other side of glass. it’s as if we never left. the view is zoomed in closer, but that’s it.