Oceanworlds

  “Very Russian,” replied the emcee.

  Seven hours later, the room was still crowded but in absolute silence, except for the emcee and Nitha.

  Nitha Sharma had become the mission’s head in December when James handed over the role. Some had extrapolated her minute frame to her character, but never more than once. She was breaking tradition in more ways than one. She was a she for a start. She was also very young at 36. She was a foreigner who had come to the US for undergrad. She would also become, beginning at launch, the Flight Director ‘FLIGHT’ and Capsule Communicator ‘CAPCOM.’ She wasn’t an astronaut, the historic requirement for CAPCOM, the individual who does all communication with the crew. The buzz cut, in other words, had been replaced by a bob cut.

  “I never endorsed Cape Canaveral for the launch and you know it. I’m no Lone Ranger here—goddammit, Nitha, it will be hurricane season. We are risking everything for a show,” said the emcee.

  “Eddy, we are both engineers, but I’m also the mission manager. Not everything is about facts and data. Individuals like you and me financed all of this, and you’re right, they count on a spectacle at launch. I don’t blame them—and if you want facts and data, Cape Canaveral has only flooded twice since the 1950s. Besides, the launch location was finalized over a year ago.”

  “That’s very faulty logic. Yeah, after getting heads for fifty-eight straight years I do see why people should be forgiven for thinking it’s destiny and not luck. But Cape Canaveral did finally get flooded in 2021 and then once again just two years ago. Well, you say, the exception proves the rule. A lot of us disagree. It’s not that the era of reckoning has come. It’s been here all along. There were close calls before, and now climate change makes the odds much higher—I spoke with the SpaceX folks at Boca Chica on Tuesday. We still have time to clear the paperwork and prepare the pad for a Texas launch. The barge carrying Shackleton doesn’t leave California for another two months.”

  “I deeply respect your point of view and I know you’re not the only one. I’m happy to discuss this at length, but not here and not now. This has already been a long and stressful day,” said Nitha.

  “I will never understand people with fancy MBA degrees like you. Putting the mission at risk so you can appease the crowds?”

  “First, it’s not ‘my’ solution. My vote counted for 2 percent of the total, so not quite my definition of swaying the polls. Second, what is this patrician ‘for the people but without the people’ talk? We are the people.”

  19 | The Eggers

  A month later, April 2027, 61 days before launch

  REGENT’S PARK, LONDON

  This being London, the perfectly sunny spring day is one rare blessing, thought James. Belinda said it had been a soggy year and it showed: an army of people flocked the parks, restaurants, streets, and pubs. The joie de vivre is infectious—and sporadic. A flickering exhilaration that suddenly darkened into a desolate melancholy. Every minute with Belinda boomed with the tick-tock of countdown.

  James’ awareness of the surroundings was always heightened in London because there were big rewards in doing so. Like the blue “Isaac Newton Lived Here” plaque at 87 Jermyn Street this morning. And with launch now imminent, everything hit him. The fresh morning air, the trees’ green hues, the perennial city hum, the architecture, the history of it all, but above all else, Belinda and her bulging cargo. Which I won’t meet for six years—he neutralized the thought by concentrating on his phone’s screen. It was already midday. The peace of his last week in London was almost over. They would leave for the US on Monday and he would not return for years.

  They stopped by the gentle topography of Primrose Hill, which looked like a tilted Monaco summer beach day, full of people light on clothing lying on towels on top of the grass, talking, drinking, forcing a lobster tan. James admired the postcard in front: the Shard, the BT Tower, the London Eye wheel against a backdrop of clouds hanging from a deep blue sky; a few old church spires mid-plane; and the ageless woods below—the elms, cypresses, beeches, cedars.

  “I’ve always wondered how nature could achieve such perfection with English forests. Look down there, they seem almost fake,” said James.

  Belinda turned to look. Her eyes were watery. He pretended not to have noticed. “A Londoner knows better, love. The highest form … of landscaping … is the art of hiding intention behind natural looks,” her words wobbled with repressed sobbing.

  Acknowledge the crying! “Those blue eyes are like the wide ocean. I could swim into them and never come back.” She started weeping.

  That didn’t come out right.

  You will leave us and disappear beyond the darkest of oceans, Belinda thought. “It’s the hormones, Jimmy, I cry out of nowhere—I’m feeling a bit nauseous, can we find a spot and sit down?” I need to control myself in front of him. It erodes his will. During the bad moments over the past year, she had seen him waking up only by a sheer sense of duty, a boxer desperately dodging the knockout after too many rounds. It was a great deal better now that the mission no longer hinged on him. He was a plain astronaut awaiting lift-off.

  James rested his palm on Belinda’s tummy. “I’ll come home to my family. Late, but I’ll come back.”

  Our 4-month-old Peanut will be 6 years old when you do, she thought. But the promise surprisingly calmed her, blurring the future and sharpening the present.

  They zigzagged around the hillside, sidestepping towels and people, looking for a spot. Belinda saw that a few had recognized them, pointing subtly behind them. She loved that about her city. There were plenty of celebrities and most could carry on with their lives in relative peace if only by a well-kept illusion of anonymity. There was a tacit respect, an understanding of privacy. New York two weeks before was the polar opposite: people asking for pictures and autographs on every corner, Chinese tourist groups literally following them, reporters jumping out in front, construction workers screaming from across the street. Absolutely unnerving. We never—

  “I’m awfully sorry to interrupt,” a distinguished lady with graying sides was standing behind them, “I’m Laura.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Laura,” said James, always friendly.

  “So very sorry, but I just couldn’t let this go. My late husband was a propulsion engineer at Rolls-Royce. In his last year your mission gave him immense joy. Whenever you appeared in an interview, he would turn into the same 26-year-old I met. I wish he was here to tell you …”

  Out of the corner of Belinda’s eye, people started to look up.

  “You are humanity’s treasure. You unite people from all walks of life, from all over the world, around the mission. You’ve already made a change.”

  Their cover was blown. For the next two hours, from kids to parents using their kids, people came over to greet them.

  They later walked along Regent’s Park Road, enjoying the beautiful late-19th-century buildings painted in pastel colors on the left-hand side and exposed red bricks on the other. They passed shops with their multicolor awnings, bakeries, red telephone boxes, tall oaks, until they arrived at Lemonia, a family-run Greek restaurant. A thrilled waiter served them tzatziki, tarama, papoutsakia, keftedes, fish shashlik, 3,000 years of Mediterranean culinary tradition. His next six years will consist mostly of serving variations of tofu-like food. Even airplane meals will be a treat.

  Belinda again caught James with the 1,000-yard stare. “Jimmy,” she said. He smiled back, guiltily as charged. I need to care for and caress him. Prepare him to leave me. The next two months would be a marathon and he would be under great stress. The problem is that everyone expects Jimmy to be Jimmy, an Orpheus capable of going to the underworld and back. But what made James her hero was that, contrary to what most people thought, he always studied harder, trained harder, pushed harder than anyone else. It’s just that after half a lifetime doing that, it starts looking fluid and carefree.

  20 | Derya Terzi

  May 1 2027, 47 days before launch


  BAMBERG, GERMANY

  Derya checked the wall clock once again. The first occasion—fifteen minutes after the agreed meeting hour—he had glanced subtly at the clock, just in case Karl entered Schlenkerla tavern at that exact moment. He didn’t want to seem too eager, but that had been a while back.

  Karl had always been very pünktlich. It was usually Derya running late. Maybe something happened at the hospital, and maybe he forgot his phone—that’s two maybes too many. He looked through the ornamented windows. It was already dark outside. The waiter came by a little unsure, half guessing what was happening. Derya asked for another Rauchbier, surely the best smoked beer in the world. Screw it, this isn’t happening anyway, so he added three bratwurst with onions to his order.

  Disrespectful prima donna. He was a weak, bland partner anyway. All dispelled the moment the door opened and he entered … no, wrong mate. He tried to calm down by looking around. It was a busy Saturday night; everyone seemed to be having a party. The tavern was medieval, with the first documented owner setting up shop in 1405, as it was prominently pointed out on the menu. It showed. The ceiling was low, with dark, thick wooden beams crossing width and lengthwise, allegedly painted with ox blood. The hanging lamps also seemed stolen from an older era. The walls were plastered, but the renovation maintained the aesthetic.

  This was supposed to be a fine evening, maybe the time to forgive and, who knows, even start again. He asked for the check, drained, disheartened, and sad. He would leave Germany earlier than planned. No point in staying there.

  It was drizzling outside. He took Dominikanerstraße, walking over its slick cobblestones. The passageway was empty. It could have been the year 1600 and everything would have looked the same. On the intersection, he stared to his left at Bamberg Cathedral and decided to walk by for old times’ sake.

  The Twilight Zone sensation persisted. Built and essentially unchanged for 800 years, it predated the Gothic style—the monumental fashion from the high and late medieval period. Yet its four 250-foot-tall towers gave it an imposing, if more subdued, demeanor.

  Derya walked back to the hotel via a long roundabout path by the river, where everything was quiet and peaceful. He fought between feelings of indignation and pensive sadness. I’m going to the end of the Solar System and you didn’t have the decency to try to mend things. That’s no way to end up after so many years.

  He stopped in his tracks. Out of Kropf, an upscale restaurant, a male couple came out embracing and laughing. He instantly recognized the tall frame, broad shoulders, and blond hair. His legs weakened. And then something inside escalated as he crossed the street. Next thing he knew, there were recriminations, screaming, crying, and he fell to the ground. Somebody helped him stand up. His chin and his right ear felt swollen.

  The queer shit had stood him up on purpose. You’re a nobody. To hell with all this. I’m going to Saturn, you’ll have your whole life to regret—I’m ready to go, I’m leaving little behind.

  21 | Yi Meng

  May 22 2027, 26 days before launch

  MIAMI, FLORIDA

  Yi had been in America for three years but this kind of thing still baffled him. He had stopped for a quick sandwich at the Subway joint right past the Arrivals at Miami International Airport. Out of curiosity he followed the instructions on the receipt and was promptly handed a free cookie by the Latin lady behind the counter, along with another receipt for $0.00 with a new code.

  “I’m sorry but I’m very confused,” said Yi. “You mean to say I can get one more free cookie if I fill in another survey and enter this code?”

  “Yup. You go ahead, sir.”

  “But—but I could do this forever.” She looked at him disinterested, assenting, as if thinking why would anybody ever bother to do that? It isn’t a more culturally advanced society, it’s just sheer laziness.

  It was a breezy evening at Cape Canaveral as Yi’s car approached the control post to access the sprawling Kennedy Space Center. Three hours back he had been recognized by the car rental clerk, “I didn’t place you at first! You guys all look the same—in a good way, you know.” After a fairly obnoxious commotion, including bro-hugs and selfies, he upgraded him from an intentionally low-key Compact to a brand-new Corvette convertible. The temptation to floor the pedal ended up cutting the trip by half an hour, which he was thankful for. It meant he might be able to do it after all.

  The security guard did not look welcoming as he hauled his big frame to the car, before resting his left arm on the windshield.

  “This is off-limits. Kennedy Space Center is that way,” he said, pointing past the barrier. “Tourists. That way.” He pointed back to where Yi had come from.

  Yi started to explain. “What? I don’t … can you repeat? Hey, Bill, there’s a tourist from Asia or something that needs help.”

  Bill looked much nicer. It took him an instant to realize this was Yi Meng. “Jeez! Duncan—oh crap! Well, I never! Duncan—call the Center to tell them Mr. Meng will be there in five minutes. Now!”

  “I’m really sorry, sir. I …” Yi told him not to worry about it. That startled face paid for all your sins. You look like a dog that knows it ate his master’s cat.

  Before Yi left, Bill asked him to please wait for ten seconds. He came out of the booth with a faded framed poster of Alan Shepard seated on the hood of his white Corvette. The first American astronaut to travel into outer space, signed by the hero himself. Bill looked very tempted to ask for something, but decided not to.

  After Yi departed, Bill reminded Duncan, “You’re an idiot.”

  “I’m an idiot,” he conceded.

  A few hundred feet down the road, the car turned north, facing the Vehicle Assembly Building a mile or so ahead, the tallest single-story building in the world and one of the largest by volume. A huge American flag and NASA logo were painted on its front.

  Crossing the city-like Kennedy Space Center buildings, Yi drove the last miles east to the legendary Launch Complex 39A by the Atlantic waterfront. He deliberately avoided raising his eyes, content with looking at the swamps by the sides of the road.

  Until he did. Shackleton looked colossal, dominating the landscape. The reddish, cloudless sunset sky, the perfectly sharp horizon line far into the ocean, the flat shrubby vegetation all around. The spaceship on top of the rocket towered over land, sea, and sky.

  He stopped the car, goosebumps mixed with chills going down his spine. The pristine liquid silver Shackleton had the proportions of a cigarette, and at this distance looked almost as featureless. It was two-thirds as wide as the Leaning Tower of Pisa, but twice as high. He got out of the car before the concrete octagon ring surrounding the launching area. Two vehicles were parked nearby and the three people that would show him around stepped out.

  The four walked hurriedly to the launchpad around half a mile away. Someone tried to start a conversation but Yi asked politely for some quiet time. The three exchanged looks. The protocol was for at least one person to be with him at all times. Two of them went back. Yi didn’t even notice.

  Yi and one of the liaison officers walked over a gravel path the width of a highway, leading to the launch platform. From 1965 until the end of the shuttle missions in 2011, the enormous caterpillar tracks of crawler-transporter Franz or Hans—two of the largest vehicles ever built—trampled over this path, carrying the Saturn V rocket and later the Space Shuttles from the Vehicle Assembly Building to here, Launchpad 39A.

  On the last 300 feet, Yi looked down at the gaping banana-shaped flame trench arcing out from right under the rocket. This is where the fire and cloud mushroom escape after ignition. You quickly run out of superlatives and adjectives. Everything is enormous.

  Yi’s pulse raced as he stood at the side of the rocket by an elevator structure that climbed all the way up, where a bridge would allow the crew to access the spaceship. The liaison officer put in a security code, a voice through the intercom asked for a vocal confirmation, the elevator door unlocked.

  �
��Sir, I’ll wait here. Take as much time as you need.”

  I wish we could tell that to the dying Sun. “Thank you.”

  He was thirty-five floors up when the elevator stopped. As he stepped onto the bridge, he pinched his cheek again for proof. This was his lone, spiritual rehearsal. In three weeks, he would walk inside a bright blue spacesuit. I won’t feel the wind or taste the ocean. He stopped in the middle. Going further felt wrong. He rested his hands on the railing, bent forward, and looked down at the looming shadow. Along the Vehicle Assembly Building, he was higher than anything else in his field of view. In fact, he was higher than any geographic feature in the State of Florida. Not even Britton Hill, 400 miles away, was high enough to match him.

  Still hunched over, he looked around. In a few decades, the entire Cape Canaveral will be underwater. Well, technically 95 percent—he jerked upright as the car keys slid out of his shirt pocket. They fell unimpeded all the way to the ground.

  He was stirred. There is no symbolism in what just happened, he kept telling himself.

  It was from this very spot that the Challenger Space Shuttle launched on January 28 1986, with a fifth of the US population watching Christa McAuliffe live, selected among 11,000 teachers to fly to space. Last time he saw the footage was a few years back and it left him uneasy for days. Some seventy seconds in and nine miles high, “Roger, go at throttle up,” confirmed the commander, and three seconds later white smoke flashed in all directions. The crew cabin survived the explosion and continued climbing for another three miles. A few of the seven astronauts were likely alive and conscious during the next two minutes and forty-five seconds, as the cabin came back to Earth and hit the ocean surface at over 200-g. “We will never forget them, nor the last time we saw them this morning, as they prepared for their journey and waved goodbye and slipped the surly bonds of Earth to touch the face of God.” Yi got lightheaded. Rockets are really, really finicky—balance a pencil by the eraser over your index finger, and then push up as hard as you can while keeping it balanced. That’s exactly what Shackleton would need to do after launch to avoid a catastrophic failure.