by Nick Lake
she looks sorry too. maybe she’d rather Grandpa & Yuri weren’t around: she’s a very tidy person, very neat, & i can tell Yuri grates on her nerves.
i think of the look on Grandpa’s face whenever he sees his ranch over vid call, the mountains, the fields. i think of Comet, down there with my mother, & how my mother’s meant to be rotating up here soon with another astronaut—the Company is still going ahead with its new program, putting young people in space for 2 years, it seems like they never learn from their mistakes—& how then Comet will need someone else to be with him, to take him out running, to scratch behind his ears.
“no,” says Singh.
“excuse me?” says Sara.
“no, they’re not stuck there. the hatch is not locking again. it is between 2 states, in mechanical terms. it is not open & it is not closed.”
“right…,” says Sara.
“which means that the inner hatch door will not open. it thinks it is in space. so it won’t let them out.”
“oh,” says Sara.
“we didn’t plan for this scenario,” says Singh. “but unfortunately, unless those latches can be manually detached, the module is locked there & the 2 men are locked in it. the EVA is the only solution.”
“i can do it,” i say.
Sara turns to me. “do what?”
“the EVA. i can do it with u.”
she frowns. “u’re a kid.”
“i’ve done it before,” i say. “twice.”
she keeps looking at me.
“ok, once really. but i’m good. don’t worry. & i’ll follow ur commands.”
she sighs.
on the second intercom, Singh’s voice comes thru. “sitrep please,” he says.
“Leo is saying he’ll do it with me,” says Sara.
“i can’t advise that u—”
but then another voice comes across the thousands of miles of air & blankness. it’s Boutros. “in my experience,” he says, “there’s very little u can do to stop him, once he gets an idea in his head.” his voice is weary, but is that a touch of humor too?
“we heard that,” says Grandpa. pause. “listen, Leo, u really think u can do this?”
“yes,” i say. because it’s true.
“well, that’s good enough for me,” says Grandpa.
i love u, Grandpa, i love u.
i think it but i don’t say it.
Sara looks at the ceiling, then down again. “u do everything i say,” she says.
“of course, captain,” i say.
she sighs.
“i must insist, however,” says Singh, “on proper prep this time. 24 hours pure ox & 11 bars pressure. i know Leo decompressed last time & it was ok but we’re not risking both or 1 of u getting the bends.”
“i second that,” says Boutros. “Yuri, Bob, u’re going to have to sit tight for 24 hours.”
“it’s ok,” says Yuri. “we have a deck of cards.”
i don’t know if he’s joking or not.
Sara & i leave the decompression chamber 24 hours later, & Ku is hovering outside, watching us anxiously.
i am feeling pumped, excited. i even managed to sleep a bit in there, mind spinning out into the star-filled sky, from all the oxygen filling my lungs. i don’t think Sara slept. every time i turned to her little bunk, i saw her looking up at the ceiling, hands tapping on the military-grade canvas strap keeping her in the bed.
now she rubs her eyes & yanks in a deep breath while closing her eyes, like after a night in the chamber she’s trying to bring some measure of normality into her body with the air.
of course, this air is artificial too. it’s mixed with nitrogen & we shouldn’t breathe it for long or it will undo our prep.
“come on,” i say. “we need to hurry.”
Sara nods.
“take the bridge,” she says to Ku.
“um…ok,” says Ku, coming over to the consoles. “what do i need to do?”
“nothing,” says Sara. “just keep the radios on.”
we torpedo to the x-axis exit hatch. we’ll have to travel down the truss & then on to the other section of the cross—we can’t exfil from the end where Grandpa & Yuri are, of course, because the landing module is in the way.
i’m quicker at getting into my suit than Sara is—i guess i have had more recent practice. i climb in & then shut the heavy back behind me, the pack with the oxygen tanks & water-cooling engine in it. then i put on the shirt of water pipes, before closing up the whole suit & lowering my helmet into place. i palm the button for the hatch door & float into the air lock, & Sara joins me maybe 3 minutes later.
she closes the door.
“visors,” she says. her voice is short, clipped.
we lower our visors.
“oxygen.”
i activate my supply.
“ox check,” she says.
i look at my heads-up display, the LED readings floating in the air in front of me. “readings ok.”
she hits depressurize.
hiss.
the air lock empties of air & we float over to the exit hatch. i turn to her. “it’s going to be fine,” i say, “it’s easy. i promise.”
she doesn’t say anything. but i think i c her smile, behind her visor.
what i want to say, but it would sound too arrogant—she’s an astronaut with decades of training—is that i will look after her. i mean, this is my home. we’re safe here.
it’s true tho. i will look after her. even if i don’t say it.
“clip on.”
i clip my cable to the rail running along the wall.
“opening exterior hatch,” says Sara. it fish-eyes outward, a clear window now right onto an infinity of mostly nothing. we move toward the opening. Sara hesitates when we get there, holding back.
i don’t. i unclip from the rail, hold on to the side of the hatch, & swing out, into space.
it hits me less hard this time but it’s still monumental: floating out of a white-walled room & into a universe. my breath catches, & i focus on clipping myself quickly to the exterior truss, eyes on the small carabiner-style lock as it snaps onto the tubing of the armature.
i turn:
–earth below me, vast green-blue sea & small surf-ringed islands.
–moon beyond it, half-obscured, pale purple & huge.
–velvet black space all around, jeweled with stars.
–& just slowly coming out of the space station & clipping on next to me, Sara, her eyes wide inside her helmet.
“it’s kind of overwhelming,” i say.
“it’s in-fricking-sane,” she says.
i smile. she is a somewhat surprising person, Sara. she’s in a band, she told me, when we were locked into the decompression chamber. a hardcore metal band. she does downhill mountain biking in her spare time.
it’s just as well she’s fun: i’m going to be up here with her for a while. she was due for a 4-month rotation, & she’s only been here a month.
the quickest thing is to take the RCV, so we head a little down the y-axis section, sliding our clips along as we go. when we reach the small cart on wheels we hold on with 1 hand & transfer our cables to it with the other so that we’re secured to the truss translation unit.
Ku could control the RCV from inside, but Ku isn’t an astronaut, so instead i pull myself over to the other side of the flat vehicle & take the simple BACK FORWARD lever that drives it. i crank off the hand brake & put a thumb up to Sara with my head cocked to 1 side.
ok?
her thumb goes up too.
ok.
i slowly engage the motor—the speed is limited anyway but i don’t want Sara to freak out. even now she keeps turning, looking out at the incomprehensible depth of the galaxy, the sheer mind-spinning scale of it.
my breathing is loud inside my helmet. i keep an eye on the LED readouts: pressure, oxygen, temperature. at the same time i’m scanning the sky, for little meteoroids that could strike us as we work, or satellites, or anythi
ng—i have learned from an early age that everything outside this space ship wants to kill me, & that the outside of this space ship can very quickly become the inside, if the systems fail or are damaged, or the hull is compromised.
so i am watching for danger at all times.
we grind along the horizontal bars of the truss, the tiny clamped-on wheels of the RCV turning slowly.
the space station maintains its attitude.
the earth spins below.
the moon grows larger, rising up from the earth’s curve & into space.
i am hot, sweating inside my space suit, but i am also free. my leg & my wrist are dragged by nothing here, subject to no authority of weight & direction.
when we reach the x-axis we have to unclip again in order to clip onto the next RCV—they only go up & down each crossing arm of the station, they are simple back-forward machines & can’t handle the 90-degree turn.
just as we detach, there’s a shudder from the station—atmosphere drag? i don’t know & probably never will. some combination of boosters & gyros kicks in to kill the external torque, & the station twists—not dramatically but enough to make Sara let go.
she floats away, out into the blank blackness between the arms of the station.
that’s not right. that’s not meant to happen. she must not have fastened on properly, or she accidentally undid her clip.
“Leo!” she says over the radio. “Leo!”
her arms & legs flap, uselessly, against nothing. the gap widens.
widens some more.
the space station has imparted its momentum to her, its velocity, but now that she’s not on it she’s losing that speed quickly, is separating moment by moment from Moon 2.
“get this under control, Aziz,” says Boutros’s voice over the radio. “use ur training.”
but Sara doesn’t respond.
“activate ur booster,” i say. there are small engines in the pack at the back of the suit—enough to power an astronaut back to the station. i hold up my left arm, where the little keypad is built into the suit. i wave it.
but Sara is still making uncoordinated movements, panicking. “oh my god,” she says. “oh my god.”
i think of Brown, his body preserved forever, orbiting the earth.
“i’m coming for u,” i say. i undo my clip & take a deep breath. i look down at the earth, then at the moon. then i pat the sleek outside of the ship with my gloved hand. i take another breath, & kick off. immediately i am adrift, my anchor gone, nothing to propel me or hold me in place.
“Leo, what the hell are u doing?” says Boutros.
i, too, don’t respond.
i flip open the cover on the keypad & press the red switch that fires the boosters, then use the directional buttons to steer. there are 2 boosters—1 at the top of the pack & 1 at the bottom, each with 90 degrees of vertical movement & nearly 180 degrees horizontal. depending on their orientation i can move up, down, & sideways.
i move up, toward Sara. i can hear her still in my helmet saying oh my god oh my god like all other words have been wiped from her mind. Boutros is also there, a disembodied voice, shouting things to me that i am ignoring.
i’ve never used the space suit’s boosters before—but i know the theory.
the theory.
my fingers are clumsy in the enormous gloves & it’s hard to properly feel the resistance of the buttons. i poke them too hard at first, find myself shooting upward, pointlessly, away from the earth & from Sara, who is close to the Soyuz now, threatening to crash into it, in fact.
i fire the opposite booster to slow my ascent, then some more, then adjust the steering as i finally get my vertical direction roughly right. it is, very literally, like being strapped to a small rocket. i feel the thrust thrumming thru my chest & back.
closer.
closer.
she is pinwheeling now, end over end—i can only assume she tried to fire something but has just sent herself into a flat spin. 20 ft. from the Soyuz. 15 ft.
i hammer down on the power, sliding both buttons so that the rockets are firing their soft sparks of fuel & exhaust directly behind me. the inside of my visor is steaming up with the panting of my breath. i make a final horizontal adjustment & then stretch out my hands—
&—
collide with Sara, wrapping my right arm around her neck, which is not very dignified, but allows me to reach the panel on my left wrist & turn us around before firing both boosters on full power behind us, dumping our speed so suddenly that our heads are thrown back.
i keep the boosters on, finessing the steering, so that as we keep slowing we angle toward the point where the Soyuz & the station meet. if nothing else, we’ve skipped the slow journey on the RCV, i think almost hysterically. then i grip Sara tight while turning us around again so that we’re facing Moon 2. the station looms up, massive & heavy & very, very hard.
with the boosters behind me, there’s no way to slow forward momentum. so i just have to hope i braked us enough before we turned around, or we’re going to crash into the side of the station with an impact that could shatter us.
6 ft.
3 ft.
but as the body of the hull swings up, the Soyuz attached to the end, i realize it’s ok: we’ve slowed sufficiently & i’m able to catch the rail with my left hand, turning as i do so that it’s my back that takes most of the blow & the pack, Sara kind of rolling over the front of me & i say,
“grab hold!”
& she does, which is a relief because i don’t think i could have held on to the station & to her. she pivots off me & seizes the rail with 2 hands & bumps to a stop.
i hang there, breathing hard, right at the extreme end of the x-axis. the RCV is back at the joint between the 2 arms, so we’re going to have to hand-over-hand it all the way down the 3 modules to get back there, but that should be ok too. i look at my HUD. 20 minutes of oxygen left.
slowly, i get my bearings. i take my cable clip & attach it to the rail & motion to Sara to do the same.
“thanks,” she says, a little shakily, as she clips on. “i kind of…lost it there.”
i gesture at space. “it’s scary,” i say. “it happens.”
“well, thank god u were there,” she says.
i feel a glow spread thru me. i am useful for something. i have a purpose. i am not just imprisoned in a dome in the mountains. i drink in the endless vastness of space all around me.
of course, i remind myself, if i hadn’t been here there would have been no need for the EVA in the first place. which kind of punctures my feeling of triumph.
“sitrep, please,” says Boutros, very loudly, in my ears.
i turn from space & to the hatch, & can c the 2 latches that have not released properly. beyond, thru the window of the Soyuz, i c my grandpa & Yuri, both watching me intently, Grandpa with a slight smile on his face. he wipes his eyes, & i look away.
“we’re both connected again,” i say. “i can c the problem with the peripheral docking assembly.”
“& Aziz?”
“i’m ok, sir,” says Sara.
“hmm. right. get the job done,” says Boutros gruffly.
we edge over to the hatch, & Sara takes a multi-tool from her belt, which she uses to lever 1 of the latches open—it’s surprisingly easy; there’s a screw bolt that must have been too tight & she just loosens it & then gets the tool under the latch & pries it till it pops up.
she hands me the tool, gets into position for the next latch.
thru the window of the landing module, Grandpa mouths something.
“Leo,” says Ku. “i’m patching the Soyuz thru to u.”
silence.
then Grandpa’s voice comes over the little speakers inside my helmet. “u did good, son,” he says.
my eyes well up, hotly. “thanks,” i say.
“goodbye, Leo,” says Grandpa.
“yes, goodbye, Soviet hero Leo Freeman,” says Yuri. “we will toast u with rocket fuel & vodka when we reach hom
e.”
“we might leave out the rocket fuel,” says Grandpa.
i laugh.
“goodbye, u 2,” i say. “thank u for everything.”
“no. thank u,” says Grandpa.
he lifts a hand & gives a salute, a sharp snap off the forehead. Yuri echoes the gesture.
i turn to Sara.
“do it,” i say. i hand her the tool.
she unscrews, levers, pries.
the latch clicks up.
the Soyuz remains there, for just an instant, as if frozen in time & space, & then begins to float slowly away from us.
Grandpa waves.
i wave back.
space enfolds me & embraces me; all around, the stars are everywhere. i watch Grandpa & Yuri shrink, the landing module too, falling away & then turning, & then trailing sparks & comets & meteors as they fire the boosters & sparkle-burn down toward the blue & the green.
i think of Orion, & Libra, & how Libra said we would be angels when we died, floating, looking down on the earth. i feel Orion by my side & i turn to him, inside my mind, & smile, & i picture Brown too as he circles the earth alone, & at the same time not alone. i’m the same. i’m alone but i will never be alone: my mother is coming soon, rotating in, & Grandpa & Comet & Libra too in her garden will always be there, thru the window of the screen, which is a hole that leads right down to earth & that u can speak thru instantly—a kind of miracle; a kind of prayer.
signals.
transmission.
speed of light.
i turn, & i begin to head back home.
it happens when i’m in the cupola. i’m reading the poetry book, the 1 i gave Orion, & that he gave back.
& i realize his words weren’t in the wrong order. when he said “most this amazing day,” he was quoting.
i read the poem.
i thank You God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
& a blue true dream of sky; & for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes…
i stop reading.
my eyes are open, but i can’t c anymore.
i turn to where i know the foreverness is tho, the stars. how can i have known, when i looked at him, about the yes? how can the same word have been in my head?