by Mary Quijano
“I hate that song,” Gena whispered to Andy as the woman walked away.
She gave his shoulder a fierce, final squeeze before releasing him. Then she rose and went forward to the window wall at the front of the spectator gallery to look across the control room at the simulated image of her husband in the central viewing monitor. She watched mutely as he stared in barely concealed ecstasy at his realized dreams, the visions of outer space playing across the smaller monitor screen before him, a video taken weeks ago just after he’d left the space station and begun the long long journey to Jupiter’s moon.
I wish I could feel what you feel right now, Alex. I wish I still loved you that much, enough to feel your feelings. I really do…
A tear, honest in regret, slipped down her cheek.
* * *
3. Trouble
HIS PRACTICED HANDS at the controls, strapped into the captain’s seat in his red NASA spacesuit, Alex was all business as he made the final adjustments that would send his little X-38R Interplanetary Space Vehicle into a smoothly descending glide down to the surface of Europa. With consummate control, even his excitement was confined, stilled to the faintest of quivers in the softening area of his belly, a nervous tickle in his balls.
“Approaching 5 K mark. On my count; five, four, three, two…firing back thrusters.”
Once again the vehicle shook violently, and there was a muffled roar as the rockets at the rear of the little ship reignited. Alex spared a quick glance up at the overhead monitors, where fire filled the right screen completely, the view from the rear of the ship. This time the flames shot by the right and left sides of the central viewing screen as well, trailing up toward the front of the vehicle in two swirling streams of orange and blue fire.
“Looking good,” Alex reported.
The two rockets attached to the wings or flanges of the wedge-shaped vehicle were doing their job, shooting jets of burning fuel from their forward facing ends to slow the ship’s descent. All seemed to be going fine. Alex checked the read-outs intently for the rate of deceleration.
“Okay, okay—on the money, on the money—lining things up now.”
Suddenly the left thruster flame began to diminish, sputtering. The vehicle immediately began to torque toward the left. Alex saw it first as a reading on the controls, then the noticeable skewing of his trajectory angle on the viewing screen above. That was before the real motion began.
“Houston, we have a problem,” he reported calmly.
Outside the space vehicle, the left thruster flame grew rapidly smaller, then went out altogether.
Time became odd, a stop action series of events rather than continuous play, as if it had slowed down to single frames. Or perhaps his mind had merely speeded up to meet the challenge. But as Alex noted the thruster flame diminish and sputter out on the rear view monitor, at the same time reading the dials and working the controls before him to stabilize the craft, the torqueing rapidly yanked itself into a hard corkscrew twist which sent the vehicle into a wild out-of-control spiral.
Shit!
He fought to regain control, fought to not allow the hopelessness of his situation overcome him.
Alex’s voice was still calm and controlled, even to his own ears, but inside his chest his heart fought like a wild thing to break free, to be out of this nightmare. His bowels felt loose and watery, and he had the vague thought, ridiculous in the midst of this incipient disaster, that if he shat himself there would be no way to clean it off his ass for another 20 months.
“Left thruster has shut down completely. I’m trying to control the spin. Pitch and Yaw are… I can’t read the numbers…changing too fast. Damn! Trying to restart left thruster now…no go…”
* * *
4. Big Trouble
RAY PETERSEN HAD been circulating the room for the past half-hour, making small talk and off-color jokes in sotto voce to the various ground control technicians, all the while making sure his tightly rounded ass in the well-fitted jumpsuit got plenty of air time for the TV camera crews in the upper deck.
Finally, checking his watch against the big digital clock on the front wall, he walked over to the glass partition behind which Gena and Andy were seated, pointed to his timepiece and held up two fingers. Gena nodded her understanding, tightlipped. Andy handed her a new tissue to shred.
Ray turned, walking back to center stage in front of the enormous viewing screen.
“Okay, boys and girls, this is it. Two minutes to burn; let’s look alive here.”
On the screen above, Alex could be seen making adjustments on the ISV’s control panel, flicking switches, reading gauges, pushing buttons. His voice, calm and businesslike, described his activities with minimal space static.
“I’m nearing approach window four-five-zero,” Alex reported tersely. “All systems nominal…preparing to adjust glide path to target.”
“You’re looking good, Europa One,” replied the simulated voice of Flight Director Petersen.
The real Ray Petersen in Mission Control Central looked around and grinned. “Pretty good voice simulation,” he said to no one in particular.
“Prepare to ignite left forward thruster for a five-second burn at ten thousand K,” ordered the simulated voice from the onboard computer.
“Roger that, Houston,” Alex had replied calmly to the directive, actually given thirty-five minutes earlier than Mission Control’s real time. “Coming up on ten triple zero K. Five, four, three, two… Left thruster on…we have ignition.”
In the large viewing screen, the audience at Mission Control saw the moon Europa suddenly appear in the spacecraft’s central monitor. A cheer went up from the forty plus technicians in the big room, while a babble of voices reported the successful maneuver to their viewing audiences from behind the glassed off spectator area. Gena sighed and grabbed Andy’s hand.
On the screen, Alex reached forward and flipped a switch. “Left thruster off.”
Ray Petersen, in a quiet voice, repeated the acknowledgement from the onboard computer. After all, it was his voice, preprogrammed into the machine to respond on cue to each maneuver.
“Looking good, Europa,” he and the onboard computer said simultaneously. “Your trajectory is right on the line and holding steady. Prepare for final approach.”
Of course there were alternative responses programmed into the flight computer as well. But he was glad not to have to be repeating any of them. Most of them meant trouble.
“Prepare to fire your back thrusters for a thirty-second burn at the 5 K mark,” Petersen and the computer said.
“Roger that, Houston,” Alex in the viewing screen acknowledged. “Preparing to fire, approaching 5 K mark. On my count: five, four, three, two…firing back thrusters…Looking good.”
Again the room at Mission Control cheered as the onboard monitor showed swirling streams of fire shooting forward on the right and left sides. But the cheer sputtered and died as quickly as did the flame from the left thruster. The room went suddenly silent, took in one deeply held breath. Then Alex’s voice on the monitor broke the silence.
“Houston, we have a problem.”
A moment later the cockpit view on the screen became a dizzying spin as the craft began to yaw and tumble through space.
In the control room, barely controlled pandemonium ensued, with technicians shouting various readouts, comments and useless if heartfelt suggestions. On the large monitor screen at the front of the room, showing the cockpit of the vehicle, Alex was seen reading monitors, flipping levers, adjusting controls, his calm voice in curious juxtaposition to the almost hysterical cacophany from Mission Control personnel.
“Left thruster has shut down completely. I’m trying to control the spin. Pitch and Yaw are… I can’t read the numbers…changing too fast. Damn! Trying to restart left thruster now…no go…trying again…still nothing.”
Now, on both the spacecraft’s central viewing monitor and on the duplicate large monitor in Mission Control, Jupiter was
spinning crazily in circles across the screen, appearing and disappearing as the vehicle tumbled wildly end over end. Inside the viewing gallery the reporters babbled excitedly into their video cams.
Up in the viewing gallery, Gena half rose, her clenched fist up to her mouth. “Oh God, no…”
Andy started to get up as well, yelling, “Dad!” but she pulled him back down, holding him close.
Ray turned to the nearest technician. “Readouts, give me his goddam readouts!”
From the monitors came Alex’s dispassionate voice: “Vehicle approach speed 6 KPS, distance to lunar surface 1000 kilometers and closing.”
Ray looked up at the viewing screen, speaking earnestly into his headset microphone. “Alex, you’ve got to shut down your right thruster and try to control that spin.”
The technician at the nearby console looked up at him oddly; “Sir? This feed is from 35 minutes ago. Whatever happened is already over.”
On the monitor screen, however, Alex instantly responded.
“Roger that. Powering down right back thruster.”
“Just caught up in the moment,” Ray muttered. “On board computer must have told him the same thing… I input messages to cover all contingencies.”
Gena stared at the monitor in stunned disbelief. As Alex reported his progress, he still seemed so calm, so remarkably calm. It gave the whole thing a surreal air. Could this really be happening? And what was he made of, this man she’d bedded and wedded, and once loved so deeply? She found herself gaining momentary confidence from his demeanor: maybe it was not as bad as it looked after all.
“Right back thruster is down.”
* * *
Inside the ISV, Alex’s spacecraft still tumbled end over end as the moon Europa loomed closer and closer in his view screen, its white icy surfaces cut by shadowy lines and ridges that grew larger and more pronounced by the second, its smooth planes aglow in the soft orange light from Jupiter on one side, the slightly brighter and whiter light of the distant sun on the other.
Oddly calm and peaceful now, he reported back to Houston, just for the record. “Air speed is 6 KPS. Distance to lunar surface now 500K.”
He immediately got a response from the flight director. Funny how much the simulator sounded like Petersen now, rather than just a good imitation. And his voice, so intense, like he was really caught up in the moment, even though this moment would actually be long over before he ever knew it had happened.
“Fire your left forward rocket. You’ve got to control that spin.”
“Pretty good voice simulation, Houston,” he quipped. “Whoever built this bird must have thought of everything, eh? However I should point out to both you and HAL here, “ he added with a sardonic edge to his voice, the first betrayal of any emotion. “that I’m already at ten times the max velocity for final approach, so. What’s the point?”
“I don’t give a fuck,” the voice of the computer/Petersen shot back; “you’ve got to stabilize first! Just do it!”
Alex shrugged. “Copy, Houston. Firing left forward thruster.”
The left thruster powered up, flames shooting out on cue. Then, after a second or two, the crazy spiraling motion of the spacecraft seemed to slow a bit, as if the craft might actually come out of the spin. At Mission Control, there was a small bleat of joy, an instant of hope. All eyes were on the overhead monitor, looking at the spacecraft’s onboard screen where Europa loomed ever larger. Readouts beside the screen indicated the vehicle was now within a hundred miles of the surface and approaching fast.
Alex turned to face the camera, looking directly into the viewing monitor seen by Mission Control. His face almost filled the screen, his eyes huge, blue-gray.
“It’s working, Ray! I think….”
As the larger than life image of Alex turned toward the unseen audience at Mission Control, those who watched from Earth could see behind him, in the space vehicle’s central monitor, the surface of Europa rapidly approach, its ridges growing ever closer, more distinct.
“…I think I got it….”
A huge explosion reverberated through the room, as the enormous central viewing screen in Mission Control filled with a great red fireball, then static, then nothing at all.
Andy jumped to the viewing window, pressing against the glass as he yelled hoarsely, “Dad!”
Behind him Gena screamed once, then collapsed inside herself, her face a mask of open-mouthed horror and disbelief.
Ray looked up at her, his own mouth open in similar stunned surprise, his expression helpless, and not sure how to respond to such unfamiliar emotions. He turned to the technician on his right.
“It’s over?” He meant it to be a statement, but it came out as a question.
“Sir, it was over a half-hour ago. Time lapse, remember?” the technician reminded him gently. But, silently he wondered: So, why were you yelling directions at a ghost?
Petersen stared at the man as if he had heard the unspoken question and was trying to comprehend this, then asked in a voice barely above a whisper, “But…but why was he responding?”
* * *
5. Awakening
ALEX SAT STRAIGHT up with a gasp, like a diver who’d been down too long, and had frantically fought his way to the surface just as the fading edges of blackness were closing in. His heart pounded in his chest, overly loud, but none-the-less comforting in its strength, the fact that it was beating at all. For a moment he hadn’t a clue as to anything about himself, no sense of identity, no concept of location in time or space: no past, no future, not even a certainty of the present. Only this gulping of air, this thumping pulse of life.
He had not yet even opened his eyes, but now, as he became vaguely aware that he could and should do so, he forced open those reluctant lids, willing them to peel back from his unfocused and vacant eyes. Gradually, with concentration, the room he was in came into sharper clarity. His eyes, and only his eyes, roamed his immediate field of vision. But there was only whiteness.
He forced his gaze downward at his body to discover he was reclining in a white metal hospital bed, stark naked beneath a very white, very smoothly pressed sheet which covered him to the waist. His arms were held close to his sides beneath the sheet, one hand curled protectively over his genitals.
Gazing around again, he found the room itself was oddly featureless. There was a white ceiling, the whole of which seemed to glow with a soft diffuse light, though it lacked any visible light source. The walls were white as well, and the whole room appeared to be windowless, seamless, and without even a visible doorway. It was like being inside an ice cube. Even the floor was made of white tiles. The only other furniture in the room besides the bed on which he sat was a small white table which offered a clear crystal pitcher of water and a single drinking glass.
Now puzzlement began to override the blank unquestioning curiosity with which he initially viewed his surroundings: a touch of memory, a small inkling of some distant cause for alarm racing toward him. There were no machines in this room, no monitors. He wasn’t hooked up to anything… Should he be?
He looked down more carefully at his body, letting go of his balls so he could check: Arms, hands, belly, neck—all seemed intact; smooth, flawless, completely devoid of any injury or
scar… Should they be?
He reached up to his face, running his fingers delicately across every inch, much like a blind person would do to envision another’s features; then he swung his bare legs over the side of the bed and checked them out as well. Perfect. Except for that little scar just below the knee he got skateboarding as a kid. He inspected his belly again, then lifted the sheet to take a peek beneath, verifying with a small sigh of relief that his privates were also still perfectly intact.
I don’t get it—where the hell am I?
Reaching to his left, Alex grasped the water pitcher and brought it back around in front of him. He held one hand behind it to create a reflection, then put his face up close, turning it and his head to va
rious angles in a vain attempt to see the faint and slightly distorted image of his features. After a minute or two he gave up and poured himself a glass of the liquid, which seemed to sparkle a little in this light. Hesitating only for an instant, he shrugged and drained it in one thirsty gulp, then lay back down on the bed, closed his eyes and waited for the other shoe to drop. When nothing happened after a minute or two, he reopened his eyes and just lay there, straining at memories that wouldn’t come. After a time, he drifted into a dream.
* * *
6. Memories and Dreams
ALEX STOOD AT the tailgate of a late model black SUV that looked vaguely familiar. Nissan? He shook his head. Looking down, he saw that he was in an Air Force uniform, a military flight bag in his left hand. He closed the back of his car, and turned. Gena and Andy stood a few feet away, watching him. Their faces showed a hidden secret strain, a wary distance that had nothing to do with space, but more with time and feeling and issues unresolved.