by Camilla Monk
When the blade presses against my pinkie, I know he’s chosen for me. I shake and cry hysterically, willing myself out of this reality as the pain increases.
“Oh fuck, he’s found the auxiliary cable!”
Bahjin’s scream is the only warning we get before the lights go out, and I am effectively lifted from this reality. The Lion’s hold on my wrist loosens as he floats toward the ceiling, like the rest of us. I find myself looking upside down at the screen, on which March is as powerless against zero gravity as we are. Around him, the remnants of the electric cable powering the ring’s rotation engine dances gently, like seaweed in a quiet ocean. He won’t give up. A light kick against the wall propels him to the door, and he tries the manual-opening lever over and over, his features twisting in rage and exertion.
I blink in realization. I get it! He cut the power because he thought it’d allow him to go manual. But we’re in the command center, and one of the cells still powers our computers to protect the launch system so, logically, in the event of an electrical failure, you can only go manual . . . from this side of the door.
I spin around and scan the air lock at the other end of the room. I see the lever, outlined by the red glow of a series of switches. I try to find a way to float toward it, but arms wrap around my waist like a vise. I look up to see Anies’s face in the dark, a terrifying war mask sculpted by the red light bathing us. In that single second, I know this face will haunt my nightmares for the rest of my life if I survive this.
The blade he holds glints crimson in the darkness as his fingers wrap around my throat, exposing it. Panic floods my system, and a vision of Dries’s blood flowing from the wound in his neck flashes before my eyes. I know I have to fight this, that this time it’s not about cutting off my pinkie. I try to elbow him and arch away from the blade in his hand. My feet hit something—the captain’s seat. Drop self-preservation; be efficient, I remind myself. I stop struggling and feel his hold tighten around me. The blade closes in on my carotid, grazes it in a chilling caress. I breathe out my fear as my feet find leverage against the back of the seat. I push hard to propel myself. Zero gravity does the rest; we both barrel toward the air lock.
I spot shadows in my peripheral vision: Anies’s men are coming to help him. Time is running out, but I’m so close . . . so close. I strain with a howl of rage, of despair. My fingers reach, claw at the air, even as the blade starts biting into my skin. I need more leverage, I just need . . . One of the Lions floats close, to block my legs. Just a little more leverage. I kick back as hard as I can, using him to propel myself one last time, away from Anies and toward the manual-opening lever. A moan of agony buzzes in my ears. Forgive me, Nut Jesus, I think I kicked that poor guy in the balls for the third time. But I feel the lever’s cool steel in my hand; my fingers curl around it! Almost instantly, Anies’s hand clasps around mine to stop me.
He tugs hard to tear my hand away from the lever. I let him.
Relief washes through me and makes me go lax in his grip for a heartbeat. The air lock slides open with a satisfying hydraulic hiss, and in the dark, in the chaos, I see March’s face, his hand reaching for mine.
Anies hauls me back, and I register suppressed gunshots cracking through the room. Fear explodes in my chest; here, in zero gravity, there’s no way to easily dodge. I see March wrestling one of the Lions in a corner of the room while another one floats past us, blood bubbling out slowly from a wound between his eyes. I struggle against Anies’s grip, spurred by his labored breathing in my ear. A fit of coughing rattles through him, my cue to push him hard and break free. Air and blood gurgle together from his throat, and his shaking hand lets go of the blade. I catch it when it flies past me and grip it, terror and rage surging in my veins.
“Island,” he rasps. “I never . . . wanted anything else than to give you all of this.”
A wave of nausea wells in my stomach. All of this? My parents’ blood? The life of a doll? Or maybe all the lives lost, threatened? There’s so much I want to say, to shout, but seeing him like this, defeated, while March is butchering what’s left of his men, I know there’s only one thing that could hurt him more.
I hold out the blade defiantly, to keep him at a safe distance. “I tread on your dream. I fucking trample it.”
In the darkness, bathed in the red of the lights and the delicate blood bubbles floating around us like rubies, shock registers on his face, like he only just realized it’s over. The orbital ring won’t start again, and the power in section five probably can’t be restored to complete the launch.
Yes, now he understands and . . . I pedal in vain as he lunges at me, too fast, his face ravaged by unfathomable hate. His hands are on me, around me, and I thrash in panic. I don’t feel the blade tear past his suit and go in; it’s already in his side when I see black pearls float between us, pouring from the wound. I go still, petrified. My hands shake around the blade, and I let go. His eyes are wide, his features paralyzed. He’s trying to breathe, but he can’t anymore. I remember Morgan’s face when Dries’s body hit the floor, his tears. I don’t know if mine are the same. They blind me and I can find no joy, no relief, only horror.
Behind him, a ghost floats toward me. Claire’s features emerge from the darkness, painted by the red light, and the sound . . . the broken howl erupting from her lips crawls under my skin, twists my insides. She welcomes his lifeless body in her arms and screams, screams, and that’s when I fully process that Anies is no more. He’s dead. I killed him, I repeat to myself, the words impossibly loud in my mind.
I just float, drained, broken. I watch her kiss his forehead, and I see the shift on her face, the tipping point between pain and hate. She draws her gun so fast I don’t understand. I stare at the barrel inches from my face, numb and confused.
Her finger tightens on the trigger but never presses. A single black dot bursts between her eyes, and she too falls asleep amid the black pearls flowing from her wound.
This time, when unseen arms envelop my body, I’m not afraid.
“It’s all right, biscuit . . . It’s over.”
Part of me wants to shout that it’s not, that we’re floating in a sea of blood. and we broke a spaceship we’ll never be able to pay for. I also want to ask what happened to that guy drifting past us, because his neck doesn’t look quite straight. But I’m so tired. I spin around, throw myself into his welcoming arms, and I cry, sob the stress, the pain out. March squeezes me tight, rocks me against him, and we stay like this, weightless, truly suspended in time and space. I kiss his jaw blindly, breathe him. I don’t care that he smells of sweat and blood; the animal in me knows only his body against mine.
I never want to let go, but at some point, March stiffens and maneuvers us apart gently. “I’m sorry, biscuit. Give me a second.”
I watch in confusion as he uses the handles running along the walls to propel himself across the command center . . . in pursuit of the shadow that just slipped through the air lock. I hesitate before grabbing the handle closest to me and following him. I find him floating in section eleven’s hallway, shoving a dark silhouette to the wall. A flash of red from the emergency lights above their heads reveals Bahjin’s wide-eyed face squished against a window.
March presses his gun to Bahjin’s nape. “Please. Land. This. Thing.”
He whines. “I can’t; you ruined the auxiliary cable!”
The hair on my nape stand on end in a prickling sensation. “You mean you can’t fix it?”
“I don’t know, he damaged stuff in section five too.”
Oh my God . . . We’re potentially stranded in space. With a complete douchebag. March and I exchange a look. I read my fear in his eyes. Will we have to eat Bahjin to survive until a rescue mission comes? Will they even send one?
A soft sniffing sound rises from Bahjin. “This time they’ll never renew my H-1B.” He offers me a trembling smile. “Do you think you could testify I treated you well, so they don’t put me in jail?”
March lowers
his gun and releases his grip, allowing Bahjin to float a few feet away. He runs his hand across his face with a tired sigh. “I doubt you’ll ever go to jail if we spend the rest of our lives in space.”
Bahjin blinks at him. “I meant when we get back, with the reentry pod.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
STARS AND SATELLITES
March keeps a wary eye on Bahjin as the latter hurries around a massive spherical white pod in section three of Odysseus. He drifts from one dashboard to another along walls lined with storage compartments and wires, flipping switches, entering parameters into a long, tactile screen. A final pull on a big lever causes a low hum to rise from the reentry pod.
“Okay, now we suit up,” he announces.
March and I help each other seal our respective helmets. Once it’s done, I look into his eyes, the lines of worry and exhaustion around them. Mr. November really doesn’t like space, this beautiful immensity he has zero control over . . . I take his hand and pull him with me toward the pod. Somehow, each in our little bubble, with about a million layers of various insulation systems between our skins, we’ve never been closer.
Once the three of us are strapped in our seats, the pod’s air lock closes slowly and hisses shut. I look around at the two rows of three seats and the big, round window while Bahjin programs the pod’s boosters to propel us back into the atmosphere. I crane my neck to check the back of the pod. There’re two crates of dry food and drinking water encased in the walls, along with medical equipment. Most of the space is occupied by some sort of long and large back seat. The whole thing was probably designed to be minimally habitable in case the astronauts land in the middle of the Arctic Ocean, and it takes days to rescue them—and they have to eat the weakest one in the end . . . Jesus, I should have never read that book about the Franklin expedition. It messed me up.
Next to me, March is silent in his seat, his nostrils flaring slightly with each breath.
“Are you okay?” I ask, taking his hand.
His voice echoes inside my helmet, sounding frayed. “Yes . . . but let’s agree to never go to space again.”
“What happened? How did you get into the ship?”
He squeezes my hand. “Let’s say I’m not entirely certain Mr. Stiles was ever loyal to Anies.”
“He helped you?”
“Threw the suit at me and shoved me into the cargo unit, really. But yes, he went to great lengths to ensure Odysseus’s mission failed.”
I try to compute the news. Has he been some sort of triple agent all along? For who then?
“You fucked us up, dude . . .” Bahjin mumbles to March through the radio while the pod starts to move, carried by an electronic arm toward a large air lock.
“So you traveled in there,” I muse, ignoring the input from the sociopathic douchesac—who’s admittedly saving our lives—in the front seat.
“Those missiles were a little too close for comfort,” March admits.
I wince.
“We’re going out,” Bahjin announces, as a series of soft clanks outside indicates that the metal arms are releasing us. I watch them through the window as we float away into the star-studded void. They look like they’re waving good-bye. I remember that this place is a tomb and avert my eyes.
With the help of the boosters, Odysseus shrinks away until all I can make out is a white spot in the dark blanket enveloping us. My head lolls, and I think I close my eyes a few times, holding on to March’s hand as we drift, drift . . .
“We’re seventy-five miles downrange; it’s gonna get a little shaky,” Bahjin warns us.
A bold understatement. I grip March’s hand as the pod starts to tremble and, indeed, shake badly. Fiery arcs of light flash through the window, yellow, orange, and then a bright, beautiful pink. “It’s the plasma trail,” I yell excitedly in my helmet while my body is otherwise threatening to come apart as we barrel into Earth’s atmosphere at four thousand miles per hour. March turns his head to look and consents to a stiff smile while, around the pod, compressed air ignites and engulfs us in fireworks so vibrant, so beautiful that maybe it was all worth it, just for that moment. March still doesn’t like space though.
The pod’s trail blaze eventually dies, replaced by an endless blue sky. We tear through a gradient of indigo, cobalt, azure until Bahjin’s voice yells in our helmets, “Hold on tight; the chute’s getting released!”
I brace myself, expecting to feel the same kind of jerk I experienced when March and I jumped from the helicopter back in Finland, something that will make my stomach heave all the way up to the back of my throat. But we didn’t fall at the speed of sound in a two-ton capsule at the time . . . and it’s bad. Shaking-and-mixing-your-internal-organs bad, three-thousand-mile-high-roller-coaster bad. We spend several seconds dangling at the end of a giant yo-yo, and I fear brain commotion is on the menu, when at last, the ride comes to an end.
The parachute is rocking us gently as we descend toward turquoise waters and pale sand. I let out a deep breath as the pod plops into shallow waters, swaying a few yards away from a beach.
March removes his helmet with a deep sigh. “Nie meer ruimte reis.” No more space travel.
“Where are we?” I ask Bahjin as we both remove our helmets.
He checks the screen in front of him. “About six miles northeast of Nassau. Rose Island. Just so you know, the pod is emitting a signal, so the men in black are probably gonna show up in a few hours to get it back.” He unclasps his seat belt and seems to be searching for something under his seat. March tenses, and his hand reaches for the gun in its holster.
But all Bahjin pulls out is a big orange bag. He flips a couple of switches, and the pod’s door unlocks before whirring open. He gives a sharp tug at a string hanging from the bag before tossing it into the water. March and I watch in mild confusion as a self-inflating raft unfolds and swells into shape.
He turns to look at us. “Is it okay if I go?”
March’s jaw tics.
“I mean, you’re good now. And they have condoms in the med kit if you want. They added them after they figured some engineers had been testing the pod after hours—totally gross.” When he sees that the two of us are staring at him blankly, he swallows. “I’m making things awkward . . . No, no, I get it. That was . . . awkward.”
Bahjin and I see March reaching for his gun at the same time, and our savior’s wince mirrors mine. “I thought we were good? Come on, man . . . Is it because I’m Indian? Blame the immigrant for everything, is that what this is about?”
March’s chest heaves, his lips set in a thin line, and I’m sure I know what’s coming, but Bahjin doesn’t. He gives us this candid and expectant look that turns into panic when March lunges at him. There’s little suspense as to the issue of the fight as March efficiently locks Bahjin’s arms behind his back—a shiver of sympathy makes its way down my spine. The way his elbows are bent looks painful. Bahjin squeals in vain as March drags him out of the pod, and they plop together in the raft.
Water sloshes, laps at the orange plastic, and there’s a lot of scuffling and protesting as March straddles Bahjin before he grabs a handful of the parachute’s lines floating all around the pod . . . Oh my God, I knew it: he’s secretly into bondage. My eyebrows rise higher and higher as I witness his expert trussing of a squirming Bahjin. The guy’s wrists, legs, and ankles get secured with tight knots before March performs his finishing move, using a loose nylon strap to gag his victim. After that, Bahjin’s screams dial down to muffled, exhausted grunts.
“Are you gonna leave him in the raft like that?” I ask, unfolding from my seat to better examine March’s handiwork. “What if seagulls try to eat him?”
The interested party writhes in terror as March casually answers, “They’d need to tear through his suit first, but they’re very smart creatures. They’ll start with his face.”
I study our prisoner with a sorrowful sigh. “Maybe we could cover him with something, just in case?”
•••
March agreed to cover Bahjin with the parachute so seagulls won’t gouge out his eyeballs, and after he secured the raft to the pod, we closed the door to get some much-needed privacy. He’ll be fine . . . I guess.
It’s not that bad in here, and it helps that we’re in the Bahamas and it’s 80.6 degrees. I’m starting to get why the engineers liked the pod so much. We got rid of our space suits and made ourselves comfortable in that giant back seat. I rifled through the various storage compartments in search of things to steal. You wouldn’t believe the things NASA slaps its logo on . . . I found wet wipes to freshen up, a clean white tank top and a matching T-shirt for March—so keeping those—but also NASA toothpaste, blue NASA blankets, and even a few Milky Ways. These guys thought of everything.
Once March is done with his second candy bar, he proceeds to fold the wrappers repeatedly, until all that’s left is a compact square that he puts in the pod’s tiny trash compartment. He did the same with his wet wipes, and I’m almost scared at the idea of how clean his place must be.
When he returns to the back seat with me, I curl against his shoulder while his lips linger on my forehead.
“March, there’s something I need to ask you, and I’m so sorry if it sounds . . . awkward.”
Around my shoulder, his hand pulls me a little closer, as if he’s afraid I’ll drift away. “I have no secrets from you.”
“I forgot your name,” I admit bluntly. “I know you have this nickname, Mr. November, but March, I have no idea if it’s your first name, your last, or even some sort of . . . codename. I’m sorry, I don’t remember.” God, that sounded almost as bad as “Who are you and what are you doing in that pod with me?”
“March is the name my mother gave me, and I never told you my family name,” he admits quietly. “I wanted to be Mr. November for you, someone . . . right. So I never told you. I gave up my name when joining the Lions . . . and I thought you wouldn’t have liked the boy I used to be much, anyway.”