by Nick Lake
Grandpa walks into the room.
“tomorrow,” he says. “18 hundred hours. after dinner. be ready.”
“ready for what?”
“to go.”
“go where?” i ask.
“where do u think?” says Grandpa. “come to my room after u’re done in the tub. we can discuss it more.”
he walks out.
“can i say goodbye to the others?” i say to Grandpa, in his room.
he’s talked me thru his plan, the bare bones of it: fly to Kazakhstan; get on a shuttle; fly to the space station.
it sounds so simple, when put like that.
“to Libra & Orion?” he says.
“yes.”
“depends,” he says. “u think they’ll tell anyone?”
i blink. “what? no.”
“ok then. but i want to be there. i need to monitor all angles.”
“right. so…when?”
“no time like the present,” says Grandpa. “tomorrow things are going to move fast. the plan is…changeable. u may not get the chance.”
i’m on my crutches, & we head down the hallway to Orion’s room, where i know Libra will be as well. i feel like i should get used to the crutches. Grandpa said i won’t be able to take my wheelchair.
it hurts my wrist, still, but i’m getting used to it, finding a technique, a way to balance myself & to move without twisting it too much. & then the brace helps, of course.
“5 minutes for goodbyes,” says Grandpa. “then we’re out of here.”
“how are we even leaving?” i say. “we’re on a mountain.”
he taps his nose. “i have a plan. but we don’t have much time.”
i knock on the door, & Libra’s voice answers. “come in.”
when i go in it’s dark in there, tho there’s still a purplish tinge to the sky thru the huge windows. the sun has just set outside & there’s a lamp on by Orion’s bed, which is semi-raised so that he’s sitting up, holding Libra’s hand. music swells, from the speakers in the walls. Rachmaninoff, i think.
Grandpa stays at the doorway & i hobble in, making my way over to the bed. but when i arrive i don’t know what to say.
“Leo?” says Libra.
“huh?” i say.
“u’re looking really strange.”
i am watching them, illuminated by a circle of warm lamplight. they have been a fixture in my life, all my life. not friends, exactly, not family, exactly, but always there. i c the way they’re holding hands & i c the way the light cradles them, & i wish i could be inside it with them, inside that circle, but i have to go.
“i’m…” my voice cracks. i look at Orion’s face, his cheekbones, his mouth. i always thought he would be the first person i would kiss.
that’s not true.
i always hoped.
i never thought.
his eyes are on mine, concerned. “what is it, Leo?” he says.
“i’m leaving,” i say, all on 1 downdraft of breath, the words themselves like an exhalation.
they stare at me. “leaving to go where?” says Libra.
“back up there.” i point at the ceiling. beyond it. at space.
“they’re letting u go back?”
“um, not exactly.”
“u’re breaking out?” says Orion. “but how are u going to fly back up there?”
Libra is looking at the doorway thoughtfully. “ur grandfather,” she says.
“yeah,” i say.
Orion tilts his head. “this is insane,” he says.
“i agree,” i say, sweeping my hand in a gesture that takes in his bed, his gaunt hollow face, his bloodshot eyes. the oxygen mask that he lifts & holds to his mouth & nose again. “or did u mean me going back?”
he removes the mask. “ha-ha, Leo,” he says.
at the door, Grandpa clears his throat.
“listen,” i say. “i’ll vid u, ok? i’ll vid u as soon as i’m home.”
Libra’s eyes fill with tears. “home? u’re serious, aren’t u?”
“yes,” i say.
she wipes her eyes, the arch of her nose, roughly, with the back of her hand. “what if something happens? what if u die?”
“i’m going to die here,” i say. “maybe not soon. but eventually. i can’t do it. i can’t be trapped in this place.”
“u’ll be trapped up there.”
i think of the cupola. i think of the windows. i think of the earth below, its colors, the sphere of it traced with glassy clouds, like a paperweight. “no,” i say. “i’m more at home on Moon 2 than i could ever be here.”
Grandpa clears his throat again.
i put my hands on Libra’s shoulders. “u could come,” i say suddenly.
she shakes her head. “no. i…” a pause. “i like it here, Leo. i know u don’t understand it. but i have my garden. u know?”
i nod. “i know. but, Libra, what about other people? what about the world? u can’t engage with anyone here, with anything.”
she sucks in air. “our mother called,” she says. “she said…she said she was sorry. she’s arranged things, with Boutros. she’s going to come & live here, with us, 6 months of the year. we’re going to be together.”
“ah,” i say.
silence.
“don’t go, Leo,” she says.
Orion just looks at me, with those sunken eyes.
“i need to,” i say. “u have ur garden. ur mother.”
“ur mother is down here on earth too.”
“it’s not the same & u know it,” i say.
“does she even know what u’re planning? ur mother? doesn’t she deserve to?”
i blink. it hasn’t crossed my mind. i glance at Grandpa. he shakes his head. “um, i don’t think so. & no.”
no, she doesn’t deserve to.
Libra looks up at the ceiling. “this is crazy.”
“no,” i say. “this is what i have to do. this is what i always had to do.” & it’s true. i fell, but i didn’t fall from Eden, i fell to Eden, & now i need to be back in the heavens.
pause.
“i know,” she says at last.
then she pulls me into a fierce hug, squeezes me tight, i’m almost worried another of my bones might break.
after an eternity i pull away. “goodbye,” i say.
“goodbye, Leo,” she says.
nothing else needs to be said.
i love her. i love Grandpa, & Libra, & even my mother. i love them all. i love, like the moon loves the earth.
& i need to be up there, like the moon too.
i step back & then look at Orion. “bye,” i say.
“no,” says Orion, thru his mask.
“what?”
he takes the mask off. “no, u can’t leave.”
i stare at him. “i’m sorry, Orion, i have to—”
“i don’t mean that. i mean u can’t leave yet.”
he takes a deep breath of his oxygen, then lowers the mask again. “i haven’t seen a concert,” he says. “u think Boutros is going to take me? no. it has to be u. u & ur grandfather.”
“a…concert?”
he taps his screen & the Rachmaninoff stops. he swipes up the net & types something, then turns the screen so i can c. “tomorrow night,” he says. “Deer Lake Park in Vancouver. it’s free. the Northern Symphony Orchestra. they’re playing Mozart’s Symphony Number 39.”
Libra is staring at him too. “u want us to take u to Vancouver? tomorrow?”
but he doesn’t smile, or otherwise show that he’s joking. “it is 1 of the greatest pieces of music ever composed. i’m dying, Leo. & Vancouver is nearby, i think.”
“we’re in Alaska,” i say. “Vancouver is not nearby.”
“it’s all relative,” he says.
he puts his mask back in place, lets his head sink into the pillow. breathes deeply. the constant hiss of the oxygen tank.
i turn to Libra. “what…i mean…”
she shakes her head. “this is crazy.”<
br />
Orion lifts his mask. “please,” he says. & then he replaces it. hiss. hiss.
please.
the same thing i said to Grandpa.
“what do u think?” i say to Libra.
she closes her eyes & takes a long, slow breath. “i think he’s dying,” she says. “& i think if he’s going anywhere, i’m going too. so i guess…i think…we’re coming with u.”
“but…,” i say, “how would we…i mean, he can’t even walk.”
“he has a wheelchair,” says Libra.
“& what about getting back here?” i say. “i presume u are planning on coming back here? i mean, Grandpa & i, we’re going to Kazakhstan. u can’t be thinking of coming with us.”
Orion shakes his head. “after the concert, u just leave us with a screen. we wait till u’re safely clear. then we call Boutros. there’ll be a helicopter touching down within half an hour, guaranteed.”
“hmm,” i say.
i think of Grandpa telling me not to bring mine. i don’t even know if we can get to Vancouver, or how we’re getting out of this place in the first instance.
“wait here,” i say to Libra.
i walk over to the door.
“i gather we have a bit of a problem,” says Grandpa.
the next day is as long as a life.
i walk the hallways.
i eat in the cafeteria.
Grandpa makes calls in his room, hustles. adjusting plans to have Libra & Orion there too. to stop off in Vancouver. which means putting off our departure by a day. it’s crazy, the whole thing, but we seem to be doing it. he can’t argue with the logic either: if they make some kind of distress call from there, then for sure the Company will turn up. they won’t want the twins being taken by what Boutros calls the nutjobs.
there is 1 thing i need to do, but i keep putting it off. then, the following day, i just do it, without thinking. i open my screen & punch in my mother’s number & when she answers it’s sunny in California, & she’s on the porch, holding wires. it looks like she’s installing some kind of alarm. extra security?
“hey,” i say.
“hello, Leo,” she says. & nothing else. some things never change.
“can i c Comet?” i say.
she seems distracted. “um. yes. hang on.” she puts down the wires next to some pliers—i get a brief angled view of a tool box—& then she is walking in thru the door & she flips the screen so i c Comet curled up on the sofa, in the place i always sat.
i wonder if he chooses that place because of my smell. i feel my eyes well up.
“hi, Comet!” i say. he pricks up his ears, then sits up. Mother brings the screen closer to him & he comes in close, eyes & nose filling the camera. he yaps at me.
yap, yap.
“hello, hello,” i say. “i’m so glad to c u.”
yap, yap.
his nose snuffles the screen; he tries to lick me.
“ugh,” says Mother, pulling the screen away. “anything in particular u wanted to say to him?” she says.
goodbye, Comet. i love u. i wish i could be with u, but i need to go far away. to somewhere u wouldn’t be able to live. so that i can live.
“no,” i say.
“ok, well, i’d better get back to this wiring.”
“yes. yes, sure, Mother. speak to u soon.”
“yes. goodbye, Leo.”
goodbye, Mother.
END CALL.
we cross the lobby, the enormous doors in front of us.
Libra is using her walker. i am on my crutches. Grandpa has a couple of bags slung over his shoulder. he is also pushing Orion’s wheelchair, the oxygen tank strapped to the side of it. & sliding along, the IV pole that holds Orion’s drip. none of us knew exactly what was in it, so we figured we should bring it.
the thing that is not being said is that we might not need it for long. Orion’s skin is almost a gray color, a concrete color, a color leached of life.
Grandpa said, when we huddled at the door, whispering, that i should prepare myself for the worst. & i can c from Libra’s expression that she is steeling herself too.
but how do u prepare urself for something like that? how do u possibly?
right now tho, there are bigger things on my mind. like: the doors. the fact that we’re at a secret Company training facility on a snowy mountain in Alaska, in the tallest mountain range in North America. the seeming impossibility of escape. Grandpa joked that he had been thinking of stopping in Vancouver anyway, at an airfield some friend of his owns, to switch to a jet to take us to Kazakhstan. i don’t know if that’s true, but i am going with it.
i mean, i don’t know if the Vancouver part is true, tho actually i don’t really know if any of it is true.
Grandpa keeps on heading toward the glass wall, however. a bag is slung over his shoulder, which i guess holds clothes, supplies, his passport maybe? i don’t have a passport, for obvious reasons.
there’s no one in reception & no one seems to have noticed or paid any attention to our movements so far. i know Boutros is still here somewhere, & a few doctors & scientists, but there aren’t actually that many staff. i get the sense this place had lain fallow for years, like 1 of Grandpa’s fields, that most of the activity was at the base in Nevada.
Grandpa doesn’t head for the big doors. he turns & pushes the wheelchair toward a service door that i wouldn’t have spotted otherwise. he waves his card at the scanner next to it & the door opens with a soft click.
he goes thru first & i follow. the cold hits me immediately, the icy air in my nose, my lungs. snow has been cleared from the tarmac outside the door & my crutches don’t seem to slip, tho i plant them cautiously as i follow Grandpa, testing their hold. there’s a sooosh sound as Libra lets the door shut behind her, & i turn & glance at her as she slowly walks behind me.
“this way,” says Grandpa. he points toward the runway just below, where we landed when we came here. it’s maybe 150 ft. away, not far. tho far enough with crutches or a walker.
“there’s no plane,” i say.
he turns & keeps going. “there will be,” he says.
just then a dark silhouette unpeels itself from the night & steps out in front of us, an assault rifle in his hand. a guard. “excuse me,” he says. “where are u going?”
Grandpa stops.
i stop.
Libra stops.
mountain breeze sighs around us, sharp & shiny with snow. u could imagine that if it stopped blowing, if the air stopped moving, all the ice in it would fall to the ground, sparkling, like tiny crushed jewels, tinkling.
my breath is loud & hot, steaming into the night. my eyelashes stick when i blink, the moisture on the outside of my eyes freezing.
Grandpa shrugs the bags aside & reaches into his inside coat pocket & takes out a wallet & flips it open. hooking the wheelchair with the crook of his elbow he slides out a card & shows it to the man. “Dr. Mahoney,” he says. “the kid’s taken a turn for the worse. i’m medevacing him to Vancouver Coastal hospital.” he lets impatience creep into his voice. “every second counts here.”
the guard peers down at the card. Grandpa goes just fractionally stiff.
oh no, i think.
then Orion starts coughing & doesn’t stop—kind of slumps forward in his wheelchair, & when the guard looks over to him Grandpa palms the card & rushes to Orion’s side. he lifts Orion’s chin, says something low & urgent to him, then looks up & back at us.
“we have to go right now,” he says. “the kid is critical.” he puts the card back in the wallet, which he returns to his pocket.
the guard steps back. “of course. good…good luck.”
Grandpa nods curtly & keeps moving, pushing Orion. Libra & i follow.
“where’s…where’s ur aircraft?” the guard calls after us.
“on its way,” Grandpa shouts back.
Orion removes his mask & winks. “my heart could do without that kind of thing,” he says. then he reconnects his oxygen.
/>
when we’re a few ft. from the runway, there’s a buzz from Grandpa’s pocket & he takes out his screen & unrolls it with a flick of his wrist. “coming in,” says a voice. “little light would be appreciated.”
“roger,” says Grandpa.
he stops the wheelchair & puts on the brake. drops a bag from his shoulder to the ground & unzips it. inside are clothes, as i expected. then he moves the clothes & takes something heavy & pistol-like from where it was hidden between them. he aims it up, toward the far end of the airstrip, & fires, & a red star goes streaking up into the sky, arcing, glowing bright, trailing sparks as it goes. it lands somewhere in the snow on the other side of the runway & keeps burning, a hot crater surrounded by whiteness.
Grandpa stoops, picks up a cylinder, which he racks into the barrel before firing again, this time illuminating the near end of the runway.
“where the hell did u get a flare gun?” i say.
“let’s just say i did a bit of breaking & entering,” says Grandpa.
“seriously?”
he smiles. “i’m trying to make it sound more dramatic than it is,” he says. “i trained here, remember? i’ve even flown in & out. there’s a supply hut down at the far end of the landing strip. simple padlock. i broke in yesterday.”
from behind us, a voice—shouting, but still a good distance back. “hey! u can’t just use the lights?”
“sorry!” Grandpa calls. “emergency!”
at the same time, there’s a whine of engines from above & i look up to c the outline of a twin-prop plane, coming down fast. the mountains form a black triangle, rising above us; there’s only a thin crescent moon & the dark is deep.
“here we go,” says Grandpa.
“who is that?” i say.
“Rick,” he replies. “sprays my crops every year. i give him some of my water too. figure he owes me a favor.”
“pretty big favor,” i say. “he must have been flying all day.”
“oh easily,” says Grandpa. “with refueling stops. but he’s ex-military. this is an adventure for him.”
the plane banks, adjusts, starts descending to the runway, coming in on the side farthest from us. the hum of the propellers runs thru me.
“how long till the guard realizes something is wrong?” says Libra.