As the spacecraft and the space station completed the final steps of the docking process, a loud bang, which sounded like a gunshot, reverberated from the ship.
“Was that normal?” Parker asked.
“Are you kidding me, Parker?” asked Dish, snidely.
“Easy, Dish,” said Quesen. “Parker has only done this on the sim. It’s nowhere near as loud there.”
“I’m sorry, y’all, I’m just wired up, ya know,” Dish admitted.
“It’s all right,” Parker said. She looked at Quesen and mouthed the words “Thank you, Queasy.”
“Lock is secure. Pressurizing,” said Matthews, unbuckling.
“Let’s roll,” said Col. Quesen, smiling.
“Thank goodness, I’m about to wet myself,” breathed Abrams, getting a stern look from Quesen.
“What? It’s true,” Abrams said.
“Keep it to yourself, Abrams. We don’t need to hear about your bodily functions. Not unless the doc asks, that is.”
“I don’t want to know,” said Lennon, smiling.
Abrams scoffed and floated to the back of the spacecraft.
Day Three
Lennon strapped in, preparing for the firing of the rockets that would place Seeker 3 into solar orbit for the Hohmann transfer. As latch clicked on her harness, a distant memory came to her mind.
She remembered a late morning on a clear, sunny day in Texas. She entered a nondescript white building and checked in with the receptionist, who smiled curtly, but barely looked up. After a short wait, a young woman called her name and signaled for her to follow. The woman was smartly dressed in a red blouse and grey skirt, although Lennon thought the skirt was a little on the short side. The woman wore her hair up, and Lennon could see small gold studs in her ears. The woman walked briskly with a clipboard in her right hand. Lennon obliged the woman’s request to follow, trailing her down a well-lit hallway to a metal door at the end.
The woman opened the door and they went down a dimly lit metal stairway, which bleak, beige-painted, concrete walls surrounded. Lennon could still remember the handrails: bent steel tubes with exposed metal on the top surface, where many hands had traveled, wearing the paint thin. Many layers of paint in various colors were visible on the sides of the handrail, indicating that someone had repainted it several times. She felt as if she was voluntarily walking herself to a dungeon. After pondering that thought for a few minutes, she realized there were absolutely no pictures hanging on the walls, nor any other decorations.
They went through a steel door, which was two levels down from the first door they had entered. On the other side of that door was a seemingly endless hallway, surrounded on both sides by walls of unpainted cinderblock.
The woman led her to a third door, just a few feet from where they had entered the hall. “Here you are,” she said dryly, as she held open the door. As Lennon passed, she noticed faint lines around the woman’s eyes and mouth that indicated the woman most likely frowned far more often than smiled. She must hate her job, Lennon thought.
Lennon entered, and saw a middle-aged man seated behind a metal desk inside the room. The man stood, smiled weakly, and offered his hand. “Dr. Lennon! Pleased to meet you. I am Dr. Phillips. It’s nice to meet you.” Lennon wondered if he was aware that he had repeated himself. He wore small, wire-framed reading glasses. They sat halfway down his thin, beak-like nose. His hair, grey and thinning, had receded long ago, and his forehead rose longer because of it. The light shone on the top of his forehead and gave it a shiny appearance. He had a small chin. His poor genetic luck had positioned his chin farther back than his upper lip, and this feature, in combination with the receding hairline, made his nose appear to jut out like a pointy stick.
She shook his hand. It was cold and bony. He motioned to a wooden chair next to his desk, letting his hand flap like a tiny bird wing. “Have a seat, and we’ll get started,” he said, glancing over his reading glasses with cold, pale blue eyes that had probably seen this same situation play out a thousand times prior.
The seat did not look comfortable. It looked like an electric chair, only smaller. Maybe it was the compact version. The energy saver. It was wooden, stained with a dark color, perhaps walnut. The armrests seemed taller and longer than a normal chair should have, and long, flat pads covered the top of the armrests. The pads were five or six inches wide, sixteen inches long, and an inch thick. Various wires hung over them, presumably ready to attach to something. Probably me, mused Lennon. She awkwardly sat down in the chair. The seat of the chair was noticeably missing a pad, or any comfortable contours.
“I just need to attach a few things,” he said, while hovering over her and circling behind her. “Pardon me,” he said while he wrapped some bands with bulging cylindrical sections in the front around her torso. “These are to monitor your heart,” he explained. He attached a blood pressure cuff to her right arm and then several other wires to her fingers. Finally, he sat at his desk and typed on a small laptop, which served as the final destination for all of the wires.
“Now, there is no reason to be nervous,” he said, unconvincingly. “This whole thing should be relatively painless. What I am going to do is ask you a few easy questions, such as your name, or your age, which you will answer correctly. Then, I am going to ask you what color the sky is. When I ask you that question, I want you to lie. Tell me it is some other color than blue. Do you understand?”
She nodded.
“Great!” He clasped his bony hands together. His nails were long, for a male, and were shiny and smooth. They curved inward slightly, hugging the contours of his fingertips. Lennon felt an urge to shiver.
He smiled smugly. “Well, let’s begin then, shall we?” He pressed a key on the laptop and Lennon heard a hiss as the blood pressure cuff tightened on her arm. She could not help but notice the laptop keys, which showed signs of heavy use. The markings had long since worn off, leaving an empty black face over a large portion of the keyboard. Dr. Phillips did not seem to notice or care. He tapped mercilessly on the keyboard, causing the desk to shake with every letter that he typed. “Your arm might go a little numb,” he explained, “but it will be ok. I will try to make this as fast as possible.”
He turned on his chair and faced her. “What is your name?” he asked, with a stern and unblinking gaze.
“Rebecca Lennon.”
“Middle initial?”
“T.”
“How old are you, Rebecca?”
“Thirty-four.” With every answer she gave, she noticed that he pressed a key on the keyboard.
“What color is your hair?”
“Blonde.”
“Is that your natural color?”
She hesitated. “I found what I thought might be some grey hairs, and so I dyed it—but I dyed it the same color. You probably couldn’t even tell it was gr—”
“Try to answer yes or no, please.”
“Yes.”
“What color is the sky? Remember, I want you to lie about the answer.”
“It’s red.”
“Very good,” he said with a satisfied smile that revealed large teeth. They were spaced apart, with unexpected gaps between them. “Ok, I’m going to start the polygraph. Try to answer directly, using ‘yes’ or ‘no’ whenever possible. If you have any questions, or if you are confused about the questions that I ask, you need to ask me to clarify before you answer. Do you understand?”
She nodded.
“Please say ‘yes’ or ‘no’,” he reminded her without a hint of impatience. In fact, his voice was devoid of any type of emotion whatsoever.
“Yes, I understand.”
“Have you ever consumed alcohol?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever been drunk?”
She really hated this. She wished she could go somewhere else, hide, and keep her past to herself. “Once,” she answered quietly, as if to keep an eavesdropper from hearing.
“Please answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’.�
�
“Yes.”
Have you ever used illicit or illegal drugs?”
“No.”
“Never?”
“No, ah, yes. Never.”
“Have you ever purposely used legal drugs or medications in a manner in which they were not prescribed or designed to be used?”
“No.”
“Have you ever stolen from an employer?”
She hesitated. “Yes.” She had taken small supply items like pens or paper, in small amounts, as she needed them. Most of the time, she only took items necessary for official duties, but not always.
“In terms of a dollar amount, how much property did you take?”
“Five dollars.”
“Have you ever taken anything classified without authorization?”
“Uh… no.”
“There was some hesitation there; did you need me to clarify the question?”
“No, I just wasn’t expecting that type of question.”
“I understand. To be fair, these are not my questions. I actually received this list of questions from the examination board. Normally this test would not be so extensive.”
“Are we almost done?”
“There are a few more questions. Are you doing alright?”
“My arm… It’s numb. I can’t feel it at all.”
“That’s normal. I apologize. Let’s try to get through this.” He pressed another key on the laptop, presumably to move to the next question. “Have you ever been treated for, or do you currently have, any medical condition that you have not disclosed to the screening board?”
She swallowed. Although no one had ever officially diagnosed her with anxiety disorder, she was aware of the high likelihood that her occasional symptoms were not normal. Still, she knew that because of the high competition in the program, reporting even a possible condition would disqualify her regardless of whether the reported condition might have any impact on her job. “Could you, ah, clarify the question?”
He looked a little surprised. “Honestly,” he said, and then hesitated, “as I told you, they supplied me with these questions. Unbelievably, you are the first one to ask for a clarification. I think what they are trying to ask, is, do you have any physical problems with your body?”
Thank goodness for the rewording. “No,” she answered.
The rest of the examination went without incident. Two weeks later, she learned that the results showed a ‘questionable’ response for one portion of the interview but the administrator did not feel that the analyzed biofeedback response was enough to justify his labeling of her answer as ‘deceptive’. From that point on, she was on the fast track to joining the crew for the Mars mission.
The ship shook and the acceleration pressed Lennon into her seat. During the maneuvering process, Dish and Matthews occasionally pressed a button or flipped a switch, but for the most part, the procedure to enter the Hohmann transfer orbit was automated and relatively short. Thankfully, her responsibility in this task was minimal—she would be much busier later in the mission. She closed her eyes and said a small prayer for her mother, hoping her mother would still be alive when Lennon returned.
Day Twenty-Two
Major Matthews floated in front of Dr. Lennon, and gripped a handle on the wall to steady himself. His body hung loosely in the fetal position, which is the natural position that the body moves to when weightless. His light blue shirt was crisp and new, still showing the crease marks from the way an assembly worker had folded it before placing it in storage. He wore dark blue shorts. Lennon hovered in the air, slightly lower than Major Matthews did. She was measuring the diameter of his thighs as part of a scheduled health assessment, which was mandatory for all crewmembers, including herself.
As long as there is an object with mass in the universe, gravity also must exist. There is no such thing as a ‘zero gravity’ area in space. There is always some force of gravity acting between any particular bodies of mass, anywhere in the universe. Therefore, the term ‘microgravity’ is a better way to describe the space environment than the term ‘zero gravity’. Because the first obvious symptom of the effects of microgravity most astronauts experience is disorientation, Lennon asked Matthews if he had been feeling nauseous or dizzy. Without the effect of gravity on the vestibular organs in the inner ear, balance is disturbed, but this affects different people in different ways, so she could not rely solely on the question to determine if he was having adverse affects to microgravity.
“I’ve felt fine,” Matthews assured her.
“Have you been drinking water?” Lennon asked. She did not want him to develop kidney stones.
He smacked his lips. “Yes, ma’am,” he replied, obviously lying, and then sniffed.
“Have you been developing cold symptoms?” she asked, letting his sniffle distract her from the issue of hydration. Getting a cold in space is a terrible ordeal. In microgravity, the sinuses do not drain. A simple cold can lead to high levels of discomfort, and discomfort causes crankiness and lack of focus. Lennon did not want six cranky people stuck together on a ship, and she did not want anyone to be unable to focus on his or her job.
“No. I’m fine,” he assured her.
She furrowed her brow and checked the measurement she had taken from his thighs. Between muscle loss and the fluid shift from the legs to the abdomen, a symptom called ‘bird legs’ is common in space. ‘Bird legs’ is an apt description for a common ailment in space, where legs atrophy from lack of use, and become very thin. Measuring the thighs is a quick indication of how much microgravity is affecting the bone and muscle of a particular individual.
“You’ve lost some size in your legs.”
“I’ve been exercising.”
She frowned. She did not like how much he had lost. “I think you need more time.”
“Come on, doc, how much time do I have to spend in there?”
“Twenty minutes more a day until I see the muscle loss taper off.”
He sighed, and she knew how he felt. The Box was a short-radius centrifuge, designed to simulate gravity in as small of a space as possible. The shorter the radius, however, the more motion sickness the machine would generate. She had begged for a long-radius centrifuge, which would have provided simulated gravity to most of the ship, without the high levels of motion sickness. A long-radius centrifuge would have to be huge, however, and would probably need to be part of the ship itself. A decent long-radius centrifuge would need to be over two hundred meters long.
No way. Forget about long-radius. That is what they told her when she asked for it. She should have stood her ground, and made them find a way to make it work, or at least make them give her something better than the Box.
“Can I do the bike instead?”
She thought for a minute. The bike was good for aerobic exercise, but it did not quite build muscle and strengthen bone in the particular way muscle and bones grow under the effects of gravity. She sighed and gave in, feeling sorry for him. “Ten in each. In addition to your normal set.”
He brightened slightly, did a strange wobble with his head as he tried to re-orient himself to leave the room, and pulled the wall to propel out of the area. She heard him sniff again as he was leaving. Not good. She wondered if she should make him wear a mask. She decided not to. It probably would not make a difference in such close quarters, anyway.
Lennon swallowed hard, but her mouth and throat were dry. She was not ready for this. She constantly felt like she did not know what she was doing, and felt as if she were guessing all of the time. She had no idea why the committee had selected her above the thousands of other applicants. Secretly, she felt that she was completely unqualified. She was a good speaker, that was sure, and that probably contributed to her success in the selection process. She had credentials, and on paper, they looked impressive. However, she had seen some of the other competitors, and a small part of her felt that she had stolen her position from them. Not intentionally, of course. She had no way to manipul
ate the choice of the committee. Why me, she thought, mindlessly rolling up the measuring tape. Additionally troubling to her were her recurring anxiety attacks—they anchored on overwhelming feelings that she was going to fail the crew in some disastrous fashion. The anxiety attacks were not debilitating, and she had never sought treatment. That was beneficial during the vetting process, because if the selection board had discovered her condition via medical records, it would have disqualified her, and another astronaut would be sitting in her place. Nonetheless, the attacks recurred often, though thankfully they surfaced in only mild, but bothersome instances. In addition to her anxiety attacks, she chose to keep other things private; specifically, there were minor details about her life that would not affect her performance, yet could have cost her a place in the ship. There was an incidental visit as a child to the hospital, for what seemed like asthma at the time. She had experienced a single but notable allergic reaction once, for which she never found a responsible antagonist. There were also the relationship troubles she was dealing with.
She pushed the concerns out of her mind. She was here, and she needed to perform. The crew depended on her, just as she depended on them. She wondered how many of the others hid secrets, which had also slipped through the cracks. She could not see how; the process was invasive and relentless. Yet she had done it. Still, she considered her situation lucky and rare.
“Next,” she shouted. Parker was already drifting towards her with a goofy smile on her face.
“A priest, a rabbi, a nun, a doctor, an engineer, and a blonde walk into a bar,” Parker giggled, “The bartender says, ‘Hey, what is this, some kind of a joke?’”
Lennon smiled.
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