by Kaz Morran
“Simultaneously pissing off your country’s biggest ally and biggest adversary. That’d be quite the accomplishment for a grad student.”
He had to laugh at her assessment. Any shadow of resentment over her knee-jerk anti-nuclear stance vanished.
“I guess I was a bit naive,” he said, getting to his feet and brushing off. Nel stood as well, and gave him and nod and half-smile that extracted a further admission, “And our timeline was too ambitious. No spacecraft could get to the Oort Cloud that fast.
Nel had one more thing to add: “I presume you played around with different gravity assist trajectories?”
“Of course.”
9
Taiyo took Grandma’s globe down off the bookshelf and knelt with it on the fluffy carpet. Up close, the floor still smelled like fish tank water from when he’d visited Grandma two years ago and spilled out her guppies and nemo-fish. He was eight now, and much more responsible. He knew a lot more about astrophysics now, too.
Before he could explain how gravity assist worked, he had to fix the globe. It was so old it didn’t even have Nunavut or South Sudan. Even worse was that the axis wobbled.
“Grandma, do you have any throw-away chopsticks?”
“No disposable ones, but …”
She let him have proper ones. They were Chinese, which was good because Chinese ones were longer.
“And hockey tape?”
“How about duct tape?” she called from the kitchen.
He waited for Grandma to sit back down in her chair before popping the sphere off the cheap plastic stand. Then he taped the chopsticks together end-to-end with a bit of overlap to form an axel, which he poked down through the north pole and out Antarctica into the stand. The shock on Grandma’s face, followed by her delight at the ingenious simplicity of his solution warmed young Taiyo like hot chocolate and marshmallows.
“It’s perfect,” she said.
She must have known it wasn’t. Taiyo frowned; he got enough patronizing complements back home in Japan for his “ability” to eat with chopsticks or to speak the language of the country he was born and raised in. “It’s still not right,” he told her. “The axis should be tilted twenty-three degrees, not forty-five.”
She leaned forward, and the chair creaked. “Would you like me to find the atlas instead?”
“It has to be non-Euclidean.” He shook his head, but added, “I guess it’s fine how it is.”
He jumped up and grabbed the remote off the coffee table from beside Grandma’s tin of stinky arthritis medicine.
“This is a spaceship, okay?” He held up the remote with his right hand and picked the globe up by the base with the left. “And this doesn’t have to be Earth. Anything with lots of gravity is okay.”
“Okay.”
“So the spaceship is getting closer, right?”
“Right.”
“And what’s happening?”
“Um …”
“The gravity is pulling it in closer and closer. Faster and faster.” He spun around the living room, his feet moving quickly but the remote edging toward the globe in slow motion. He added rocket sounds for effect, and from her spot on the carpet, Grandma made some, too.
“Actually,” he suddenly stopped to say, “we’re outside the atmosphere, so …”
“Of course,” she said as she nodded. “No noise in space.”
“Yeah, but I mean something different. After, you’ll see. Just watch, okay?”
“All right.”
He went back to flying around the living room, minus the sound effects. “So, the engines are off—that’s why it’s quiet now,” he said and moved the remote into a closer orbit around the globe. “Except that— Grandma, look. Are you watching? The spaceship is speeding up. It’s going faster now, right? Even though I didn’t turn on the engines. But how?”
“Be careful.”
“Do you know the spaceship is speeding up?”
“I have no idea. Could you tell me?” She was rubbing her knees.
“You want to know?”
“Of course.”
“Because of the planet’s gravity.”
“Ah. I see.”
He stopped in front of her. “But the planet is moving, too.”
“It is?”
“Yeah, Grandma. Didn’t you see me?” The globe and the remote sunk in the air as his arms went limp. “That’s why I’m running. So I can simulate the planet moving around the Sun. You and the chair are the Sun. I’m an inner planet like Earth. That’s why I had to run so fast.”
“Oh, right. I know. I just forgot.” She outstretched her legs.
He went back to demonstrating, but without the running. “So, the spaceship is actually getting pulled along through space even faster than you thought, because the planet is already going super fast.”
“How fast?”
“Depends what planet.”
“Inner planets go faster?”
“Yep. Because of the Sun’s huge gravity. Same like how the globe’s gravity makes the spaceship go faster when it gets closer compared with when it was way over here.” He stretched his arms apart to separate the globe and the remote.
“Okay, but won’t the planet just pull the spaceship right in and make it crash?”
“It might,” he said, raising his index finger. “But if you know lots of math and astrophysics you can figure it out so it just misses the planet. Like this.” He accidentally nicked the globe with the remote on the first flyby attempt and had to show her again. This time, in ultra-slow motion, he whooshed the remote just above the surface of the planet without making contact. “Did you see it?”
“Pretty cool stuff, Tai.”
“But did you see it curve?” He did it again, making sure to exaggerate the spaceship leaving the planet at a different angle than it had approached. At the moment the trajectory bent, he yelled, “Main engines, on! Full thrust. Max-q. Go, go, gooooo!”
“Wow,” Grandma said.
“I know, right?” He set down the globe and remote control and then knelt down in front of Grandma.
“Pretty impressive,” she said and then held out her hands for him to help her up. “How’d you like a cup of hot chocolate?”
“With marshmallows?”
“Is there any other way?”
He knelt back down at the coffee table, waiting, and called into the kitchen, “Grandma, have you ever take down a satellite dish and brought it in the living room so you can roll marbles around in it?”
“Sadly, Tai, I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.” The mug made a satisfying clunk when she set it down on the coffee table. He liked that she let him use a proper mug instead of a plastic cup, and that she filled his as high as hers. “Careful, it’s hot.”
“How many marshmallows do you have in yours? I have five.”
“Five, too, I think.”
“Well,” he said after a sip, “if you throw the marble into the satellite dish too hard, it won’t roll all the way around, right? It’ll curve a little and zip right back out of the dish.”
“Cool.”
“Do you want to try?”
“I’m not so sure the landlord would like that.”
“Not even if we teach him about gravity wells and give him hot chocolate with marshmallows?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“How about we take the cover off the fan and toss a marshmallow into it and watch it shoot out across the room? It’s just like gravity assist.”
“Sorry, sweetie, I don’t think that’d make me as happy as you might guess.”
“Grandma, you care a lot about people being happy, don’t you?”
“Hmm …” She tilted her head and gave him a curious smile. “I suppose I do, yes.”
“Not me.”
“No? Why not?”
“I just mean— Okay, yeah, I do hope other people can be happy, but I don’t need to be happy.”
“What do you mean? Don’t you like being happy?”
>
“I think I mean that …” He had to stop and think. “Of course, it’s good being happy. Hockey and go-carts and stuff are fun, but I like interesting things more than fun things.”
“Doesn’t that just mean that interesting things make you happy? You looked both happy and interested to be teaching me about gravity assist.”
“Sometimes it’s the same, but it doesn’t have to be. Like … a lion killing a zebra is super interesting, right? The way she stalks the prey and creeps up on the herd, then picks out the weakest one before she pounces. And then after she has to protect the dead meat from hyenas. I’m not happy that lions do all that. It’s terrible, right? But reading about it is so amazing!”
“Ah, yes.” Grandma nodded. “You’ve always been that way, Tai. I think the word you want is intrigued.”
“Yes! That’s it. I think that being intrigued is better than being happy.”
“That’s quite the insight for an eight-year-old.”
“Can we throw a marshmallow into the fan, now? I think it would be intriguing.”
“Promise to clean up any mess it makes?”
“Of course.”
10
The teams stepped back from their sand sculptures to let Ethan compare.
"Um … What is it?" he asked of Ronin, Kristen, and Anton’s.
With the pride of a toddler, Ronin explained: "To represent the diversity of our team, we made a shark-alien hybrid.”
"In case that wasn't obvious," added Anton, unable to hide a snicker.
But Ethan declared the space shuttle carved by Taiyo, Walter, and Nel, the winner.
Ronin snarled at Ethan from the other side of the bobsled-size shuttle sculpture, then his fists shot down to his sides, and he raved at Taiyo. “Build one upright with boosters, and I might be impressed.” He plunged his foot into the wing of the shuttle.
Taiyo raised his nose in mock arrogance. He said, “It's back on the runway after a mission accomplished.”
“That’s correct,” said Walter.
Nel nodded agreement from Taiyo’s side. For their part, Kristen and Anton stood behind Ronin trying but failing to hold back giggles.
“And what the shit is that stick for?” Ronin pointed emphatically at the crooked twig sticking out the top of the shuttle. “You can't use props.”
Anton stepped forward for a closer look. “I think it's the robot arm.”
Ronin scolded his teammate: “Don't help them!”
Nel and Taiyo corrected Anton in unison: "The Canadarm."
“Then why the shit are the payload doors closed? Huh, hafu?
Ronin, neck veins straining, shot a bug-eyed glare back and forth between the sculpture and Taiyo.
“Dude, relax,” Kristen told Ronin.
“Sir,” Walter said to Ronin, “maybe you just suck at sandcastles. That’s okay.”
“No," Ronin yelled. “No, I do not suck at sandcastles. I simply want to know how the shit an arm can stick out through closed payload doors.”
“New model,” said Nel.
“Chinese model, maybe.” Ronin smiled through gritted teeth as he tried to bore through Taiyo with laser eyes. “Even in sandcastles, you're bedswerving with China.”
Taiyo leveled an unwavering gaze across the sculpture at Ronin. “Not everyone distrusts the Chinese the way you do.”
“The average person sure does,” Ronin said. His eyes darted around in search of consensus.
“The average person is Chinese,” Taiyo shot back before looking down and away so not to piss Ronin off further.
Nel put a hand on Taiyo's elbow, a gesture that softened the tension in his chest. The relief didn’t last, though. He caught the expression on Walter’s face, an expression that, along with a worsening sunburn, made the commander’s head look like Spam with teeth. It wasn't a good look. From a pace away, Taiyo met Walter’s compact gaze with lifted shoulders and upturned palms.
“Don't downplay it, hafu.” Ronin plunged another boot into the shuttle and wagged his finger at Taiyo. “Treason is a serious charge.”
Walter’s eyes jiggled back and forth between Taiyo and Ronin. He mouthed the word “treason” and raised his eyebrows at Kristen, beside him.
“Not charged.” Taiyo crossed his arms and widened his stance. “Questioned and released.” Taiyo scowled at Ronin and hoped it was apparent to the others that despite being countrymen, him and Ronin were not brothers.
Taiyo walked around to stand with Walter, who was shaking his head at Ronin’s ongoing rampage through the winning sculpture. Taiyo felt the commander’s shadow upon him and felt compelled to put him at ease.
“You know how in the U.S., the government and law enforcement are always paranoid about terrorism and thinking everything is a threat to national security? Same thing in Japan these days.”
Walter looked Taiyo up and down before raising a lip in disgust. “I don't know how things work in Japan, bro, but in the United States of America, we respect our law enforcement agencies for protecting us and our God-given values.”
The animus lingered like the echo of a judge’s gavel.
Taiyo was twenty years younger than Walter, and in far better shape, but the militant stance and the fervor in the man's tiny eyes had left Taiyo feeling brittle. The mistake had been presuming a shared passion for space meant a shared worldview.
Taiyo really was sorry. "I didn't mean to suggest—”
"Yes, you did," Ronin sang the words from a distance. He was over destroying his own sculpture now.
Walter found his compatriot, Kristen, cross-armed at his side. "Forget it," she told Walter, and he dismissed Taiyo with a backhanded wave and huffed over to collect his gear.
It was a quiet walk back to base camp.
***
Taiyo hadn’t been able to fall back asleep after the earthquake. He stood on the porch sipping a thermos, ignoring the chill, and taking in the encroaching hues of the pre-dawn sky. He’d been ready to go since 04:15.
Behind him, the others clustered with their backpacks around the patio furniture, downing coffee and sandwiches as they ran through their checklists. Taiyo hoped they weren’t being hasty with their prep; small oversights could steamroll into critical errors.
At 03:22, six phones had blasted six sleeping candidates with a combined alarm to rival the klaxon of a sinking submarine. Four of the candidates had dived from their bunks and outside for cover, making a hell of a racket in the process. The only motion from Ronin and Taiyo had been to roll over and silence their phones.
The bungalow was flexible; bamboo bent without breaking. And Earthquake alarms were useless, anyway. From the epicenter outward, the warning signal hardly outpaced the tremor waves, so if the place wasn’t shaking by the time you got the warning, you probably didn’t need one. And if you were close to the epicenter, the alarm only added cardiac arrest to your list of immediate concerns.
Nothing more than a mild sway rolled through the bungalow, and it soothed Taiyo back to sleep. Only for a second, though. The clambering of Kristen, Nel, Walter, and Anton returning to their bunks soon re-awoke him. Even Kristen, who lived in quake-prone California, chirped about how “wild” the tremor had been. Taiyo tried to blame not being able to fall back asleep on Kristen swatting the mosquitoes she’d let in, on the birds and cicadas, on hunger, on the pitter-patter of rain, on Ronin’s snoring, on Walter’s snoring …
Dad used to say to look on the bright side of insomnia—less chance for spiders to crawl into your mouth. He thought about Dad and his mother, about the detective—the Dick—and the pending charges, about Tabaldak and MONSTAR-X, about the past and the future, and he rolled all he might encounter in the next two weeks of the mission over in his mind, starting with the trek they’d set out on after breakfast.
Seven days at Wujal Wujal had come and gone so fast; all the crash courses and trials ran together in Taiyo’s mind. Geology, microbiology, cartography, rafting, rock climbing, caving, orienteering, and more. The variety and in
tensity of those lessons hinted at what T3 had planned for them next.
Leaning on the railing of the porch, Taiyo watched the wisps of red clouds streak across the oily lenses of the Aviator’s sunglasses. A hot gust from the east raced across the clearing. It tore through the surrounding forest and spiraled through the Aviator’s arm hair like a typhoon-swept rice field.
“I know where you’re going,” the Aviator said. Taiyo felt his smirk. Too bad I’m contractually obligated not to tell you.
The candidates only knew that after a four-day trek they’d spend the last seven days in some sort of isolation.
“Somewhere special is all I can say,” teased the Aviator.
The trek was, at least in part, meant to wear the candidates down. It would simulate an astronaut crew’s condition upon arriving on Mars after a long, cramped journey. Physically and mentally exhausted, they’d have to jump right into setting up camp.
Taiyo looked at the sky. The red clouds turned Halloween-orange and then black. And like Halloween, a cackle arose from a woman at the bottom of the porch steps. Dr. Sylvia Wilson, the same British woman who’d gossiped to Taiyo and Nel about the Aviator, had come to hand out “treats.”
She set a plastic bin down on the table and wiped the morning mist from her face onto a hand towel.
“Have any of you used one of these before?” She held up a body camera.
Ronin raised his hand.
“You have?”
A grin eclipsed Ronin’s sunbaked face. “I performed my own colonoscopy with a GoPro and selfie stick.” After a long, awkward silence, he added, “In Uzbekistan. … But not recently.”
A croaking frog beneath the porch almost seemed to be chortling along with the table of candidates.
Dr. Wilson narrowed her eyes down at the octagonal, puck-sized device in her hands.
“A modified GoPro,” said Ronin, and he stroked his ponytail.
“Of course,” she said.
“Otherwise it wouldn’t really—” Ronin stood and illustrated with his hands. “It’s kind of bulky, so you have to—”