by Nora Lane
And it was half the size.
Noah Sinclair was no ordinary billionaire.
Not because his wealth exceeded all other billionaires combined, by a lot. Not because he made his first billion by age sixteen. Not because his nano-algorithms changed the face of academia and the medical industry simultaneously.
No. He wasn’t ordinary for a much simpler reason. When all those reasons faded into the dust bin of history, one detail would remain.
He was the first man to emigrate from Earth. Astronauts did stints on the ISS. Sometimes for up to six months. But they always returned. They always expected to return.
Noah Sinclair left Earth ten years ago. People in my generation remembered the day like Kennedy’s shooting in my grandparent’s. I was twelve. Young and full of life and wonder. The whole thing was televised into oblivion. I was at my best friend Cindy’s house and we got to stay up late to watch. Cindy and I giggled like crazy, like the twelve-year-olds we were when Noah flashed his gorgeous smile at the camera and waved like he never expected all the attention.
No one believed he wasn’t going to return. Everyone thought it was an elaborate publicity stunt.
We were wrong.
The frenzy of media speculation that followed his departure eventually died down. It took years. There was the occasional report of his return or an equally fictitious interview. They all turned out to be hoaxes. The news mentioned his name less and less over the years.
It seemed the citizens of Earth decided to ignore our high-flying neighbor, just as he apparently decided to ignore us. Everyone thought we’d heard the last of Noah Sinclair. The general belief was that he’d probably died of something or other, because no one could live in outer space for ten years.
The logic was infallible because no one ever had.
Which is why I didn’t believe it when an email from him landed in my inbox.
CHAPTER FOUR
Every aspiring reporter wants the big break. That one, single story that has the juice to launch your career into the stratosphere. For most, that break never happens. For me, it literally meant the stratosphere.
Noah Sinclair wanted to give his first ever interview from his adopted home. Ten years of silence were about to end. I had no clue why he chose me. The mountain of legal papers I signed didn’t offer one.
I almost refused. It was too insane. It didn’t make any sense. But the reality of my situation spoke louder than my fear of rockets, space stations, and the deathly cold of outer space. I had one fear that overrode all others.
The fear of dying without having lived.
I spent twenty-two years coloring inside the lines. Of doing everything exactly right. And what did it earn me?
Eighty percent of a degree in journalism and one hundred percent of a terminal diagnosis.
I wanted to live before I died. This was my chance. Maybe my last. The interview that every journalist worth her salt would kill for. I had to die for.
Ugh. I hated being awake at night. My brain tripped into dark holes.
I took a drink of water and tapped the keyboard to make it brighter. I typed N-O-A-H S-I-N-C-L-A-I-R and searched. The usual links came up. I’d read them a hundred times since agreeing to the interview. I clicked over to images. A million pictures recorded his departure day. He wore a sleek black tux, like he was going to the Oscars or some secret meeting where the masters of the universe decided all of our fates.
I wished I could bust into that meeting. I had a few choice words for whoever decided on mine.
Like I was twelve again, one thing struck me. He was gorgeous. Boyish. Dashing. Confident. Leaping into a great and dangerous unknown and looking for all the world like he was about to go for a bungie jump.
Some of the pics captured a closer look at him. Hazel eyes peeked through a mop of deep brown hair. Those were the last pictures anyone had seen of him. I wondered how he’d changed. Ten years can change a lot.
Did he walk around his space house in a tux? Formally sipping tea and reading Dostoevsky? Maybe his body had withered from disuse and he looked like an old man. All loose skin and weak bone. Maybe he was just a floating brain now. Bobbing around the house in a mason jar, thinking of big ideas.
Whatever he looked like now. He was two helpings of hot stuff ten years ago.
A window popped up on the screen.
REMOTE_USER: Enjoying the view?
What the hell?
REMOTE_USER: You should be sleeping.
Ummmm. What?
REMOTE_USER: Hello? Are you going to ignore the well-meaning suggestion of your obviously gracious host?
Who the hell?
I typed a reply.
CG: Roberto, is this you?
My roommate Roberto was naggier than a mother had a right to be. He probably installed a messenger client so he could check up on me.
REMOTE_USER: Roberto Domingo. 4th year journalism student at Berkeley. Cumulative GPA 3.1.
It paused.
REMOTE_USER: No. And he needs to spend more time with his eyes on books and less with them on you.
CG: It’s not like that. And I’m capable of navigating my personal life, thank you. Who is this?!
That wasn’t entirely true but this person couldn’t know.
REMOTE_USER: Ms. Gabarro, why are you not sleeping? Distracted by beautiful images?
CG: How do you know my name? Who is this? How did you know I wasn’t sleeping????
REMOTE_USER: You’re computer turned on.
CG: Is this the government? The NSA or something?
REMOTE_USER: It’s bad manners to insult the host before you step through the door.
CG: Host?
REMOTE_USER: We are scheduled for a visit tomorrow, are we not?
Noah Sinclair?
CHAPTER FIVE
Did the richest, sexiest billionaire recluse just hack my six-year-old Mac laptop to flirt? What was he after?
CG: Is this Noah Sinclair?
REMOTE_USER: As the interview has yet to begin, I get to ask the questions.
It was Noah Sinclair!
CG: You hacked my computer and virtually assaulted me.
REMOTE_USER: That’s a bit dramatic, but true I guess.
CG: Answer one question first.
REMOTE_USER: Granted.
CG: Why me?
REMOTE_USER: Why not you? Have you nothing special about you? Nothing that draws the eye and interest? Nothing deserving of attention and adulation? Don’t you deserve to get lucky?
Was it a bad sign that I was already edging toward exasperated and the official interview hadn’t started?
CG: Those aren’t answers. They’re more questions.
REMOTE_USER: <——guilty.
CG: <——still waiting.
REMOTE_USER: Don’t steal my clever use of ASCII characters!
CG: Don’t use computer nerd speak when regular words will do.
REMOTE_USER: LOL. ;)
CG:<——growing impatient
REMOTE_USER: Fine. I chose you because you are special. Life on Earth grows short for you. Don’t deny it. I know your medical history.
The bastard hacked my medical records!
CG: More hacking?
REMOTE_USER: Massaging. Privacy in this day and age is an illusion.
CG: I guess it is with you. Thanks for invading my entire life.
My skin burned and it wasn’t the humidity. Who the hell did this guy think he was?
REMOTE_USER: Don’t be angry. I’m particular about house guests. So much so that you’re the first.
CG: Do you need a stool sample?
REMOTE_USER: We’ll take care of that when you arrive.
Was he joking? It was hard to tell. Surely he was.
CG: So I’m special? That’s your reason?
REMOTE_USER: Don’t me make sound like a high school stooge. You’re special. You’re now in a position to understand how precious life is, and what you might be willing to do to keep it.
CG: C
ryptic. Vague. Confusing. Partial answer at best.
REMOTE_USER: True. But life is that way. Suffice it to say that you’re uniquely qualified. Besides, you have a great ass.
( o) ( o) - - - - - - (__(__)
Did he just say that?
CG: Is that ASCII art your eyes looking at my butt?
REMOTE_USER: What if it is?
CG: That would be inappropriate, Mr. Sinclair. And it would set a bad tone for the interview. I’ll be there to question you for the people of Earth.
REMOTE_USER: You make it sound like I no longer fall into that category.
CG: Do you?
REMOTE_USER: My turn for questions. Why didn’t you accept the reservation I made for you? You’d find it far more agreeable than your current lodging.
CG: I won’t be bribed into a fairer look at you than you deserve, Mr. Sinclair.
REMOTE_USER: Judging by the way you were ogling my D Day pics, I’d say you find me fairer than most.
Ahhhh! What should I say? Ignore it? Yea.
CG: Thank you for your generous offer, but this room is comfortable.
REMOTE_USER: It’s ninety-eight degrees in there. The mosquitoes are waiting for you to lower your defenses. The “cold” water comes out at eighty degrees. Your bed is a wet mess. Is that what you call comfortable?
I flung my arm over my bare chest and crossed my legs. Was he looking at me? Seeing me naked?
I looked through the blinds, stood up and checked the peephole. Nothing. I sat back down and noticed the camera lens at the top of the screen. Covering my breasts with one arm, I touched the lens. Did he hack into my laptop camera?
CG: Are you watching me?
REMOTE_USER: Yes.
My other arm snapped over my chest. They did the best they could to hold it all in.
CG: That’s totally inappropriate! How?
REMOTE_USER: I’d rather not say.
CG: You massaged my computer camera?
REMOTE_USER: No. But it would be trivial to do. You should cover the lens with black tape.
CG: Don’t massage my computer camera!!!
REMOTE_USER: You have my word.
How else could he be watching me? He was probably bullshitting. He found out where I was and knowing it was hot and infested with mosquitos wasn’t exactly a news flash in Florida. He was messing with me.
CG: If you are watching me, then tell me what I’m wearing.
REMOTE_USER: Isn’t that an inappropriate question, Ms. Gabarro?
CG: Why?
REMOTE_USER: Because you’re naked.
I screamed, jumped into the damp puddle that was my bed and covered myself with sheets. I crept back to the chair, swaddled in clingy fabric.
REMOTE_USER: I apologize. It’s been a long while since I’ve had regular contact with anyone outside my business. It’s entirely possible, even likely, that my compass for socially acceptable behavior is askew.
CG: Obviously. So how are you watching me?
REMOTE_USER: I’d rather not say. I’m not the only one who can massage computers.
CG: Stop watching me!
REMOTE_USER: Granted.
CG: Are you watching me?
REMOTE_USER: No. You just asked me to stop.
CG: Technically, it wasn’t a question.
REMOTE_USER: Life is a question. Especially yours.
CG: Inappropriate, Mr. Sinclair.
REMOTE_USER: Stop calling me Mr. Sinclair! Reminds me of my dad. I’m not that ancient yet.
CG: How am I supposed to know if you actually stopped or not?
REMOTE_USER: You’ll have to trust me.
CG: Forgive me for stating the obvious. You haven’t done much yet that is trustworthy.
REMOTE_USER: I hope to remedy that, Ms. Gabarro. Now get some sleep. Try sleeping on your side.
CG: I’m quite capable of—
REMOTE_USER: I look forward to your arrival tomorrow. Don’t be late.
( o) ( o) - - - - - - (__(__)
:0
The chat window vanished, leaving me staring at an Alaskan landscape desktop. Crystal blue icebergs tinged with the warmth of sunset. I picked it out the summer before starting college. It was supposed to be a graduation present to myself. Now, it wasn’t likely I’d log either achievement.
Maybe this was my last big thing. The only big thing to be honest.
If so, I was gonna suck the life out of it.
CHAPTER SIX
Director Chu tightened the belt restraints over my chest. She had a quick wit and a reassuring smile. More importantly, she’d flown more missions than any other astronaut over her twenty year career with NASA. Sinclair Industries tempted her into early retirement.
She told me Noah kidnapped her from her country and she hadn’t managed yet to escape. I was pretty sure she was joking.
She stood above me, which was weird. It looked like she was walking on the back wall of the small closet that passed for a space shuttle cockpit. I was technically sitting, but my inner ear and the push of gravity on my chest affirmed that I was laying back in the seat, facing up. The whole cabin was on its side.
“So why do I have to be laying down for launch?”
“Human bodies handle the g’s better in a perpendicular orientation to gravity,” she said. “Early tests for the Apollo missions showed that a parallel orientation caused damage to the spinal column.”
I shifted in the bright orange g-suit. It made the hot cocoon of steamy bedsheets from last night feel like heaven. I pawed at the sweat on my forehead, and jabbed a finger in my eye instead.
Chu dabbed me with a white cloth.
“The suit will cool down once it’s pressurized and the circulatory systems activate.”
“Thank god.”
“On the bright side,” she said, “it clashes beautifully with your hair.”
I laughed. It came out in a high-pitched blast.
Nerves.
Buckets of them.
The suit was a bulky monster that made you feel like a two-year-old learning to walk for the first time. Chu had to lead me by the hand to prevent me from keeling over.
I sat in one of two seats in the cockpit. The other was empty. A bewildering array of instruments, knobs, buttons, and gizmos littered the wall in front of me. Did anyone actually know how to operate this thing?
And if so, why wasn’t that person sitting next to me?
I asked Chu that very question this morning when it became clear that I was going up alone. She assured me that Cosmo was more reliable than any human could hope to be. She said it with a grimace, like she wished it weren’t true.
Cosmo. The artificial intelligence Mr. Sinclair created to run his space station. It later learned how to operate shuttle launches. Sinclair Industries hadn’t depended on a human-controlled launch in years.
I sincerely hoped it was as good as Chu claimed.
“Why is it named Cosmo,” I said.
“You want to answer that, Cosmo,” Chu said.
“I will if that is your preference, Director Chu,” Cosmo said over the cabin’s comms.
“It is my preference,” she said.
“I am named in honor of the first human in space the Russian Cosmonaut Yuri Alekseyevich.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” Chu said. “Another theory is that Mr. Sinclair has an unnatural affection for the Jetsons—a campy kids cartoon from the 80’s about a family that lived in space. He thinks of you like the cranky boss Cosmo Spacely.”
Great.
I was about to trust an artificial intelligence named after a children’s cartoon character to launch me off planet Earth.
Could this get any worse?
CHAPTER SEVEN
This was suicidal. My doctors were right. I had a death wish and it was about to be granted.
My heart raced, the singular beats blurred. My palms poured puddles into the thick gloves. The flashing lights on the wall glared and glowed. My body took two steps back behind itself. A high-pitched
ringing echoed in my ears. My lungs sucked air in short, staccato bursts.
Panic.
I was panicking.
The realization didn’t help. Didn’t stop it. If anything, it got more intense because I knew I was freaking out. I wasn’t ready. I was going to die and never again know the feeling of grass between my toes, of a spring mist settling on my cheeks.
I wasn’t ready to die!
Chu lifted my chin and held my gaze until my eyes focused.
“Ms. Gabarro is showing elevated—“ Cosmo said over the cabin’s comms.
“Butt out, Cosmo,” Chu said. “Slow your rate of respiration, Ms. Gabarro.”
I realized I was panting like I’d run a marathon.
“Deep, slow breaths,” she said.
I inhaled, held it a moment, and then blew it out.
“Better?”
“Yes,” I said. “Thanks. I’m kinda nervous.”
“Totally understandable,” she said. “I know it doesn’t help one bit, but you’re going to be fine. Mr. Sinclair doesn’t pay me to lose cargo.”
“I’m cargo?”
“We’re all cargo, honey,” she said. “You’re more precious than most.”
“That’s something I guess.”
She laughed.
“That’s the spirit. Let’s get your helmet on. It’s about time to say goodbye.”
She lowered a large white dome over my head. Thankfully, the visor was still up. She clicked it into place.
“Ready to confirm pressure,” she said.
I nodded. She walked me through the entire procedure early this morning when I arrived at Kennedy Space Center. It was exciting then, on the ground, in a briefing room.
It was terrifying now, in the cockpit, strapped to a fifteen-story tank filled with tons of highly explosive liquid hydrogen. Flown by Cosmo, Mr. Sinclair’s pet program named after a cranky cartoon boss.
Terrifying didn’t cover it by half.
Chu dropped the visor and sealed it. She punched some buttons on my chair. A rush of air filled my ears. I felt like a stick puppet stuck in a balloon. Chu scanned the tablet in her hands.
“Suit systems Go,” she said. “Cosmo confirm.”