Colony One

by Tarah Benner

  He hops into his space suit much the same way I did, and I feel a slight twinge of disappointment once he’s all wrapped up. He settles into his seat and secures his harness, and I get a whiff of very expensive cologne.

  “I’m Tripp, by the way,” he says, turning and offering his gloved hand for me to shake. Up close, I see that his eyes are emerald green — framed by inky-black lashes.

  “Maggie Barnes.”

  A single dimple reappears. “Maggie Barnes . . . a.k.a. Layla Jones?”

  I cringe. “Yeah . . . How did you know?”

  He shrugs. “It’s my job to know.”

  I study him for a moment, and suddenly I realize why he looks so familiar. “Wait . . . You’re Tripp Van de Graaf?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “CEO of Maverick Enterprises?”

  “Uh, no. The CEO would be my father. I’m the CXO — the X stands for ‘experience’ to minimize confusion. Although . . .” He trails off.

  Shit. Maybe I should be questioning my karma. I’m sitting next to the man whose company I blasted all over Topfold.

  Tripp is the son of legendary space architect Strom Van de Graaf. He joined the board of his father’s company when he was just twenty-two years old.

  “Why are you sitting in coach?” I blurt.

  “It’s important for me to experience the voyage the way our customers will be experiencing it,” he says. “If future charters reach the demand we’re anticipating, we’re going to have billionaires sitting here.” He grins. “Even the cheap seats have to feel like riding in first class.”

  I blink stupidly at him, wondering if I should thank him for the job or rip him a new one for contributing to the decline of the human race. But before I can decide, a pre-recorded video pops up on my Optix, and Space Flight Barbie is back in all her smiling glory.

  “Welcome aboard the Impetus. Please ensure that your flight suit is securely fastened and that your harness is engaged. A hostess will be around shortly to help you with your helmet.”

  Tripp doesn’t wait for the hostess. He reaches up with both hands and pulls the helmet free from its bungee cords. He places it carefully over his head and runs his finger along the neck to activate the seal.

  I copy him, and Vanessa’s cheery voice is suddenly being piped straight into my ears.

  “We have prepared a series of short in-flight films that will help you prepare for your time on Elderon. Once we dock, a series of modules will guide you through a tour of the colony, and the hospitality crew will be standing by to assist you if needed. Elderon is fully equipped with all the comforts of home, but we care about your feedback.”

  I turn to Tripp, and my comm system automatically pairs with his. “You know, if you wanted to experience the flight the way your customers do, you should have worn the jumpsuit.”

  “I’ll have you know that I designed those jumpsuits,” he says in a mock-defensive tone, fixing those smiling green eyes back on me.

  “I hope you didn’t design the spaceship,” I mutter.

  “I made some tweaks.”

  My mouth falls open, and I suddenly find myself doubting the efficacy of the so-called comfort tonic.

  “Kidding!” he says, leaning over to pat my arm. “Geez, lighten up. Everyone takes this whole space-travel thing so seriously.”

  I let out a breath of relief, which Tripp seems to find very funny.

  “I confess that I did not have any part in designing the spacecraft. But I did suggest they do the jumpsuits in blue . . . I look good in blue.”

  “Noted,” I say, taking a few good stills of him with my Optix. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Hey, it was your idea to pick a seat next to one of the journalists that you hired.”

  “True.”

  “Why did you ask Natalie to meet with me?”

  Tripp seems to hesitate, and I wonder if I’m going to get a straight answer or not. “I liked your style,” he says after a moment.

  “Come on . . .”

  “I did! Well, that and I figured that it would be good to have that biting wit directed at my competitors instead of me.”

  “A-ha!”

  “What?”

  “You were scared,” I say, feeling a twinge of pride.

  “Who wouldn’t be?” he murmurs. “You’re very scary.”

  I fight the grin twitching at the corners of my mouth. “What’s it like seeing your vision become a reality? Boarding a shuttle with the first civilians to colonize space?”

  “It’s a bit surreal, to be honest . . . I’ve never actually been to space.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. My father has, but I never had a chance to go until now.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “This is a big deal for you, then.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Did you get an enema?”

  “What?” He lets out a snort of surprised laughter. “Wow. You’re not shy.”

  I shrug. “I’m a journalist . . . and the people want to know.”

  He shakes his head. “No, I did not get an enema. But I did get a straight-razor shave.”

  “Interesting . . . So, what’s in your cargo bin besides the necessities?”

  Tripp doesn’t miss a beat, and I get the feeling that he’s rehearsed his answer. “A picture of my late mother, a case of Miracle Mousse, and a custom showerhead for my bathroom.”

  “A custom showerhead?”

  “The water pressure is something we never did get quite right.”

  “Thanks for the heads up,” I grumble.

  But Tripp is sporting an enormous grin. He’s enjoying this.

  “What will you miss most about Earth?”

  “Surfing . . . and watching the sun set over the ocean.”

  I do my best to suppress an eye roll. The guy’s answers are straight out of the tech executive PR handbook. I pause to think, trying to come up with a good question to wrap up the interview.

  “What’s your primary emotion today?”

  He seems to weigh this for a moment, juggling several possibilities. “I guess I would say hope.”

  “Oh, come on,” I say, unable to hide my derisive expression. “Hope?”

  “Yes, hope!” says Tripp in a tone of offense. “We did three test launches this month, and only one of the shuttles blew up.”

  At those words, I feel all the blood drain from my face. My lungs seize, I can’t breathe, and I suddenly feel as though I might upchuck my burrito.

  “I’m kidding!” says Tripp, reaching over and squeezing my knee. He lets out a burst of musical laughter, and I have to resist the urge to punch him. “Don’t worry so much. I’m sure it’ll all be fine.”

  When I don’t relax, he quirks an eyebrow. “Consider this payback for calling my company Big Brother’s big brother.”

  8

  Jonah

  After they herd the last of the nonmilitary personnel off the bus, they dump us off on the other side of the terminal to report to our commanding officers.

  The Space Force is bringing me on as a sergeant — one notch below my army rank. It doesn’t matter. The signing bonus they offered me was enough to pay off my credit-card debt and put some money back in my pocket.

  Three weeks ago, I sold my car, got out of my lease, and packed up everything that would fit in two cargo bins. Everything else went straight in the dumpster. It’s not as though I had much anyway. I’m used to starting over. Hell, being on the move feels more natural than staying in one place.

  Still, I have that nervous first-day-of-basic feeling as I get off the bus. My uniform still has that scratchy newness, and my leather boots are stiff — never worn.

  I line up with the others and wait to check in. The other soldiers are just as keyed up as I am, and I recognize a few from officer training. Several have already coalesced into groups, but I’d rather be alone than glom on to strangers.

  When I get to the head of the line, th
e man sitting behind the folding table raises his head. He gives me a quick once-over but doesn’t say hello or even acknowledge my presence. He’s got a large square head, thick black eyebrows, and the calculating gaze of an ex-Marine.

  The name stitched on his uniform tells me he’s my CO, Captain Callaghan. Great.

  “Name?”

  “Wyatt, sir.”

  “Service number?”

  “85-6827.”

  He scans through a list on his Optix before coming across my name. “Jonah Wyatt? Former staff sergeant in the army?”

  “Yessir.”

  He shoots me a critical look. “Humphrey says you’re a good fighter.”

  “Glad to hear it, sir.”

  There’s a long accusatory pause.

  “Well?” he says roughly. “Do you think you’re a good fighter?”

  I hesitate, trying to decide how to play this. Some COs like confidence, but most take it as a sign that you need to be knocked down a few pegs.

  “It’s been a while, sir.”

  “What kind of answer is that?” he asks, cocking his head to the side. “Your former captain stuck his neck out for you when you’ve done pretty much everything in your power to get written off as a screwup.”

  I stare at him in shock, blood pounding in my veins.

  “Yeah, I read your file,” Callaghan grumbles. “Honestly, I’m not sure what Humphrey sees in you, but I’m gonna have to take his word for it ’til I see what you can do.”

  “Captain Humphrey’s one of the good ones, sir,” I say through gritted teeth. “You won’t be disappointed.”

  “We’ll see.”

  I don’t say a word. I just stand there grinding my back teeth together, wondering exactly how much direct contact with Callaghan will be required. I already want to kill him.

  “Listen up,” he says, glaring at me as though I’m some kind of delinquent. “I don’t tolerate any bullshit in my company. You give me any reason not to like you, and I won’t hesitate to jettison your ass back to Earth like a defective piss valve. Got it?”

  I swallow. Callaghan is baiting me. He’s hoping that I’ll give him a reason to dismiss me right here and now, but it’s not going to happen.

  “Noted, sir.”

  He continues to stare. What the fuck is he waiting for?

  “Well?” he barks. “Are you going to curtsey or what? Boarding pass!”

  I blink furiously and pull up the boarding pass on my Optix. His device registers the barcode, and my seat number pops up.

  “L7. Now get your ass on the spacecraft.”

  “Yessir.”

  I walk off with the feeling that I’ve been tossed straight into the viper pit. I knew the Space Force would have access to my service record — I just didn’t expect it to bite me in the ass so soon.

  By the time I reach the gate, I’m still shaking all over with fury. Callaghan might be the biggest asshole I’ve ever served under, and that’s saying something.

  I don’t know why he’s decided to hate me, but I know I need to watch my back. Guys like Callaghan will push you over the edge if you let them, and pissing one of them off is the fastest way to get your ass court-martialed.

  I’m not paying attention when I reach the head of the line, and it takes me a minute to pull up my boarding pass. The hostess rattles off my seat number in an overly cheerful voice, and I storm down the jet bridge to get to the spacecraft.

  On my way, I nearly collide with another hot lady in white, but she recovers quickly and ushers me through the door.

  My bad attitude is momentarily sidelined as I reach my seat. There’s a space suit already waiting for me, and it feels surreal as I pull it on. The woman I almost plowed down on the way to my seat comes over to help me with my helmet. She must be a hostess.

  As soon as the helmet suctions down, I can’t hear a thing. The inside smells like new plastic, and my view is dimmed by the dark glass.

  An instructional video starts to play on my Optix. It features a pretty blond woman with big movie-star hair and an even bigger movie-star smile. She’s wearing a short white dress that makes her look like a nurse and one of those old-fashioned blue neck scarves.

  “Welcome aboard the Impetus. The Impetus is a wide-bodied commercial spacecraft capable of transporting up to five hundred passengers to low-orbit space. This is the first of ten launches that will be carried out over the next two weeks, transporting passengers roughly three hundred miles from Earth. To ensure your safety, please check that your flight suit is fully zipped and that your harness is securely fastened.”

  At this moment, an Asian guy comes careening down the aisle. He’s sweaty and out of breath, and the patch on his uniform tells me he’s a private. He does an awkward sort of tango with the hostess as he attempts to slide around her to his seat, but she picks up the suit for him as though she’s going to help him get dressed.

  The kid breaks into a huge grin, kicks off his boots, and starts to unbutton his overshirt. I can’t watch. They perform a series of awkward gymnastics to get the kid into his space suit, and by the time he throws himself into his seat, the hostess is clearly traumatized.

  The little “fasten harness” light above my seat changes from yellow to green, and the hostess takes one last lap to make sure everyone is ready for takeoff.

  All of a sudden, I feel an abrupt cooling sensation spreading inside my suit. It starts around my chest and quickly spreads to my extremities.

  I look down. The little blue snowflake icon on my sleeve is illuminated, which means the suit must be trying to cool me down.

  I take a deep breath, and another video feed appears on my Optix. I see a man sitting in a cockpit. He’s not looking at the camera, but he’s speaking with the lazy authority of an airline pilot.

  “This is Michael Garrison, pilot in command for your flight aboard the Impetus. Our entire flight today from launch to docking will take around five hours. We are right within our launch window, and we should arrive at Elderon a few minutes ahead of schedule. Hostesses, please prepare the cabin for launch.”

  Just then, the feed switches, and I’m staring into the helmet of the perky blond woman from the video. “Please remain in your seat with your harness fastened at all times. The spacecraft is pressurized for your safety and comfort, but suits and helmets are required for the entire duration of the flight.”

  The feed switches, and I’m staring at a map of the spacecraft with a restroom symbol illuminated near the center.

  “The lavatories are located on either side of level six. If you need to use the restroom after we exit the Earth’s atmosphere, please use the handrails to guide yourself to level six. There is a sanitary hose for urine and solid-waste containment bags available for your convenience. If you require assistance, please illuminate the help beacon, and a hostess will instruct you on proper hygiene procedures.”

  Suddenly the feed goes dark, and a countdown appears on my Optix. I hear the pilot counting down and grip the armrests for good measure.

  “Ten, nine, eight . . .”

  I look down to make sure that I’m buckled in. I’m breathing extra hard, and my suit is working overtime to keep me from sweating. I feel the rumble of the main engines lighting — almost as if I’m sitting on the chest of a dragon that’s waking up in a furious rage. The shuttle tilts.

  “Three . . . two . . . one.”

  Suddenly, the ground beneath my feet quakes, and the entire spacecraft seems to shudder. Then the rocket boosters ignite, and the force of the blast knocks the wind out of me.

  We’re thrust violently into the air, and it sounds as though the earth just broke in two. My seat rattles as we leave the launchpad. We’ve gotta be moving at more than a hundred miles an hour. My stomach clenches, and I grit my teeth to ward off the sudden feeling of motion sickness.

  The vibrations grow more intense. The shuttle is shaking us like bugs in a water bottle. My skull is bouncing around on my spine, but I can’t move an inch. The force of the
acceleration is pulling me deeper and deeper into my seat, and soon I get the feeling that I’m being crushed under a pile of dirt.

  Suddenly, I’m back in that Siberian tunnel — buried alive under a mound of rock. I can’t move. I can’t breathe, and I get the feeling that my ear drums might burst.

  I try to tell myself that everything’s okay. I’m not trapped underground — I’m up in the air. I tell myself that these feelings are normal — that they were in the welcome packet — but nothing about this experience is normal.

  I grip my armrests for dear life, and the sight of my own torso bouncing and shaking with the shuttle’s vibrations is enough to make me sick. I’m amazed the human body can withstand such an assault.

  Then the pressure changes. The engines ratchet down, and then they’re back in full force. The high-pitched whistle of the slipstream reaches my ears — almost like the whistle of a tea kettle.

  A flash of light bursts in my periphery, and I know the boosters have separated from the shuttle.

  I close my eyes, willing it all to be over. And then, suddenly, it is.

  The immense pressure all over my body disappears, and I get the feeling that I’ve just been thrust into a deep pool. The tension evaporates from my chest, and I suck in a burst of air. I am weightless.

  I lie back to enjoy the feeling of floating in the space between my seat and harness when I’m interrupted by the cheerful ding! of my Optix.

  What the hell? I’m shooting into space, and someone needs to get ahold of me?

  A second later, the avatar of a smiling Asian guy appears. It’s the guy sitting next to me. He taps on my helmet, and I jerk around. This kid is unbelievable.

  Resisting the urge to deck him, I reach up to answer the call. The feed from inside the guy’s helmet fills my Optix — a giant smile and two dark eyes crinkled in amazement.

  “Can I help you?” I growl. This guy is shitting all over my space experience.

  “You all right, bro?” he asks, his California surfer-dude voice immediately grating on my nerves.

  “Yeah . . . Fine.”

  “That was wild, man! We lifted off, and you were like —” He rolls his eyes back and mimes a horrified expression. “Pretty sick.”