Winter World

by A. G. Riddle

  My nerves ratchet up again. I think he’s waiting for me to take my shirt off.

  But I’m wrong. He takes charge, reaches out, grabs my shoulders, and softly says, “I’m going to turn you over.”

  I roll in the weightlessness of space, and he tugs my shirt off. I watch it float free ahead of me as his hands touch my lower back and begin working upward.

  “Two,” I whisper.

  This time he rubs some cream on my back, taking his time, hands gently massaging me.

  He touches pain points three more times as he works his way up, hands moving over my back and sides, into my ribs as I float face-down.

  My neck is sore (a two), and my shoulders and arms are bruised but require no treatment.

  “Fowler told me what happened aboard the ISS.” He squeezes my hand then works his way down each finger. “You were very brave. And smart.”

  “I was lucky.”

  “True. And brave and smart.”

  I feel myself blushing. I’m glad he can’t see me. A bolt of pain shoots out from my left pinky finger. I almost welcome it to change the subject.

  “Three.”

  He squeezes and twists the finger. “Another sprain. Not broken. I could tape it, but you won’t get back in the suit gloves.”

  “It’s okay. Leave it.”

  His hands return to my shoulders. I’m waiting for him to roll me over. But he doesn’t.

  “I figure you can do a self-exam on your torso.”

  My heart is about to explode out of my chest. If he checks my pulse, he’ll probably treat me for hypertension.

  I remind myself: survival trumps modesty. I reach out, brace against the capsule wall, and roll over and face him, staring straight into his eyes.

  “Please. Finish.”

  He swallows hard and breaks eye contact. He scans me, his hands reaching out, thumbs running along my left and right clavicles.

  “One.”

  “Probably the neck pain radiating.”

  I realize I’m holding my breath. I try to exhale casually, but I know he can feel my heart beating like a drum.

  His hands never touch my breasts, they slide around and below, and I groan in pain.

  “Four.”

  He presses and kneads with his fingers.

  “Five.”

  “Bruised rib. Unlikely it’s fractured. Nothing to do for it.”

  My abs are bruised too.

  His hands stop at the top of the diaper—the last thing I have on. He doesn’t remove it. Gently, he says, “You’re in amazing shape. Given what you went through.”

  “You think so?”

  His eyes lock on mine.

  “Know so.”

  We stare at each other, for how long I have no idea. Could be a second or a minute or an hour. The world stands still—until a boom shatters the silence and the capsule slams into us, me on top of him, and we’re hurtling through space.

  Chapter 24

  James

  Emma and I bounce around the capsule, our bodies slamming into each other, both reaching out for a handhold. This actually does feel like being in a dryer that’s on—with another person. Who is naked. And whom I barely know. Yet she’s someone I care about.

  I finally grab a handle on the wall and wait for her to crash into me. With my free arm I curl her into me, shift her to the wall, and hold her there, covering her. Random loose bits pepper me while I shield her.

  If this capsule gets hit with debris and punctures, we’re finished. We’re doing one, maybe two gees. No way we can get our suits on in this kind of thrust. I’m not even sure I could get my helmet on.

  Space is empty, or nearly empty, so once an object achieves velocity, there’s nothing to slow it down. It just keeps going. Gravity exerts a pull on it, but that’s about it.

  This scenario—the capsules being blown out of Earth’s orbit by a solar event—is one we actually trained for before launch. The protocol is to run dark and proceed to a rendezvous point. I just hope we’ll make it there—and that the other crew and capsules do too. Right now, I need to see where we are and course-correct.

  “We have to shift to the other wall,” I whisper to Emma.

  Her breath is hot in my ear. “You lead.”

  With my left hand, I grab her forearm, then release the handle with my right. I push off, float to the opposite wall, grab another handle, and pull her over.

  The screen shows our velocity and position—calculated based on data from the capsule’s external cameras, which are tracking our position relative to the stars. It’s prompting me to activate thrusters to course-correct. I hit the button.

  “Hang on.”

  There’s a blast on the right side of the capsule, then the top. We’ve been flipping end over end. Now we’re flying more or less straight, still at high speed.

  “What was that?”

  “Taking a left.”

  I feel her chest press into me as she laughs.

  She catches floating detritus and stuffs it behind her, trapping it and pressing her body closer to mine.

  “ETA?” she whispers as she catches a roll of gauze from the med kit.

  “Fifteen minutes.”

  “Locations of the other capsules?”

  “Unknown. We’re running dark and the capsule isn’t programmed for any kind of line-of-sight analysis. Just star positioning.”

  A few silent minutes pass before the forward thrusters fire. We’re on approach.

  “Where are you from?”

  I catch myself before saying, “Edgefield.” I’ll wait until later to tell her that I’m a convicted felon out on an astronaut work-release program.

  “I grew up in Asheville, North Carolina. You?”

  “New York City.”

  She’s slipping her long johns back on. The force inside the capsule has subsided. She’s a lot more coordinated than I am up here.

  “You always wanted to be an astronaut?”

  “Not growing up. I just wanted to get away from people. Solitude.”

  “And you chose to be crammed in a confined space with no escape for months at a time?”

  She laughs. “Well, ISS wasn’t exactly my plan initially.”

  “What was?”

  “Commercial space travel was advancing so fast when I was growing up. Unmanned trips to Mars. Drones exploring the belt to scout for asteroid mining. I wanted to be part of one of the first human colonies.”

  Interesting. There’s more to her than I thought. None of this was in the file.

  I try to come up with something insightful to say, but sadly settle on: “That’d be cool.”

  “It was my dream. Surviving on a new world. Setting up a new kind of society.”

  “What kind of society would Emma Matthews set up?”

  “One with decency. Civility. Equality.”

  “I’d live in that colony.”

  “I haven’t given up on the idea.”

  “You’ve just been blown off course a bit.”

  She grins widely. “I rate that space pun as a three on the pain scale.”

  “But you’ve recently course-corrected?”

  “Four.”

  “Okay, I’ll stop.”

  She laughs and stares out the porthole window. “I’m alive. That’s good enough for now.”

  “Alive and floating through space half-naked with a strange man. What would your parents say?”

  Her smile turns somber. Her parents are dead. Shouldn’t have said that.

  “You don’t seem that strange,” she says.

  “Yeah, I’m super normal.”

  She squints. She’s got a good sarcasm detector. That’s essential for communication with me.

  “Have you always wanted to be a drone designer?”

  “Actually, I’m not a… drone designer per se.”

  “Per se, what are you?”

  “A robotics engineer focused on… more complex devices.”

  “What kind of complex devices?”


  She doesn’t know what I did or what it cost me—or how the world sees me. Better to get it out there now. “The kind that got me in trouble.”

  She squints, wondering if I’m kidding. “In trouble with who?”

  “Pretty much everyone.”

  Her tone lightens. “So you’re a rebel.”

  “A freedom fighter.”

  “Whose freedom?”

  “Everyone’s, actually.”

  Her smile fades. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Usually I’m not, but in this instance, yes. I created something I thought would help restore decency and freedom. To the whole world.”

  “And you got in trouble for it?”

  “I did. I miscalculated. I didn’t factor in human nature. Never bothered to consider how people would see what I created. I learned a very valuable lesson.”

  “Which was?”

  “Any change that takes power from those who have it will face opposition. The greater the change, the greater the force with which it will be struck down.”

  “Sort of like Newton’s Third Law of Motion: for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.”

  “Never thought about it that way, but yeah, it’s a lot like that.”

  And she and I are a lot alike. She wanted to get away from people and the world that was so flawed and start over anew. I saw the same messed-up world and wanted to stay and fix it. Look where it got me.

  The forward thrusters fire again. We’re less than five minutes to rendezvous. The inertia in the capsule is still strong, but manageable.

  “T minus five. Better suit up.”

  When we reach the rendezvous point, there are only three capsules waiting. I was hoping for more. And I hope more are coming. I try to hide my concern from Emma, but I sense she sees it.

  We float to opposite portholes and peer out.

  “These two are unmanned,” I call back to her.

  “Same with this one. What now?”

  “Now we wait.”

  “These four capsules won’t assemble?”

  “No. Well, they can, but there’s a preferred assembly sequence. The capsules are programmed to wait and see what shows up. And we need one of the larger engine components to really get anywhere.”

  “How long do we wait?”

  “About two hours left.”

  “And what do we do with those two hours?”

  I reach for a bag with MREs. “First, we’re going to rehydrate you and get some food in you.”

  “That won’t take two hours.”

  “True. But getting you up to speed on the mission will.”

  While she eats, I tell her about the second artifact—Beta. She stops chewing. She’s smart enough to realize the implications, but I state them anyway. We go over the mission objectives: to make first contact, ask for help, and if that fails, to see if we can destroy it.

  Between bites she mutters, “Let’s hope they want to make friends.”

  “Indeed.”

  From memory, I recite what I know about the crew. I focus on the Pax since she’ll be with us, though I mention Dan Hampstead over on the Fornax since he’s the main difference.

  “I’m dead weight on this mission,” she says. “Everyone else is here for a reason. I’m here because I was stranded along the road on the way.”

  “Just because you’re a cosmic hitchhiker doesn’t mean you’re dead weight.”

  “No. My lack of relevant skills makes me dead weight.”

  “Fowler shared your file with me. You wouldn’t be dead weight anywhere, Emma. Certainly not up here. This is my first time in space. Building complex robots on Earth is tough enough. Up here, it will be a challenge. You’ve been running and maintaining the ISS for months. You’re good at working in space. And I’m going to need some help.”

  “You’re offering me a job?”

  “You interested?”

  She smiles. “Compensation?”

  “Potentially… your life, those of everyone you know, and everyone else on Earth.”

  “Benefits?”

  “Unlimited. Full dental too.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Don’t take too long; we’ve got other applicants.”

  “Right.”

  Something catches her attention in the window behind me. “There’s another capsule.”

  I spin and stare out. Harry Andrews’s face is floating in the other capsule’s window, his helmet on, visor up.

  This is wrong. Harry shouldn’t be here. His capsule should be at the Fornax rendezvous point. Unless there weren’t enough capsules left to constitute the Fornax. It makes me wonder how many of the Pax crew have survived—and how many capsules we have to work with. Our mission could be over before it even begins.

  The other possibility is that mission control re-routed his capsule. Why? Maybe they decided I couldn’t do the job alone. Or perhaps because they think two heads are better than one. I would agree with that; even in our brief time together, Harry and I have proven to be a good team. I like him. I like working with him.

  Harry holds up a hand and waves at me, and I wave back. Whatever the reason is for his being here, I’m glad to see him.

  Two hours later, every capsule except for two have arrived. Save for Harry’s capsule, they’re all original to the Pax. It’s strange. I wonder if the other two capsules impacted each other. Or if they hit capsules from the Fornax. It could be worse: both are supply capsules, and we can do without two of them. NASA wisely distributed the cargo across all the capsules, so each one contains roughly the same stuff. Overall, the solar event cost us about seven percent of our supplies. That’s manageable.

  I can only hope the Fornax was as lucky. Without electronic transmissions, I won’t know until we meet up with them. And that won’t be for months.

  Months before we launched, NASA devised an ingenious communications method between the capsules that requires no electronic transmissions. It uses line of sight. There are twelve “comm patches” on each capsule, on all sides, spread out, ensuring that the cameras on the other capsules can see them. The panels use electronic ink technology, similar to what the old e-book readers employed: they have a thin layer of film that holds a liquid solution with microcapsules. Electric impulses below the film cause positively charged white particles—or negatively charged dark particles—to come to the surface. Each panel shows symbols without emitting any light or microwaves or anything else; all the electrical charges are hidden below the film.

  NASA devised a codebook and a series of symbols to compress and streamline messages. Each ship has a long-range telescope that can see the comm patches. The range is pretty far but nothing like an electronic transmission. That’s how we’ll communicate.

  Assuming the Fornax made it.

  Through the porthole, I see the comm patches changing, the complex symbols visible for less than a second before flashing to something else, like flipping through a black-and-white comic book. It’s beautiful, the subtle flashes as the capsules maneuver closer to each other, an orchestra of construction in space. This is probably the greatest feat of space engineering in history, the product of months, maybe years of planning, followed by a stress-ridden crash course of work by the world’s leading minds.

  It strikes me then that it’s our darkest hours and greatest crises that push us to the highest peaks of performance and genius. Wars, hot and cold, produced the nuclear bomb and the Space Race. And the Long Winter gave us this: what will be the farthest humans have ever ventured into the solar system. I wish the world could see the beginning, this ship assembling itself in space, and know the names of the hard-working, brilliant men and women who made this possible.

  The hatch opens, and Harry floats through. He raises the visor on his helmet, and so do we. The air has a metallic, artificial smell, but I’ll get used to it. I’m just glad to be breathing it.

  Harry grins. “Welcome to the Alien Artifact Express. Just need to see your boarding
passes, folks.”

  “Blew out the window on the way.”

  He laughs. “I’ll let it slide—just this once.”

  “Lucky for us.” I motion toward Emma. “Harry, this is Commander Emma Matthews.”

  “Glad to have you aboard, ma’am.”

  Chapter 25

  Emma

  We’re a month into our journey to the Alpha artifact. It has been the most incredible month of my life.

  I felt a sense of wonder and awe the first time my capsule docked with the ISS and I floated out into it. This ship is something else altogether. It is a marvel, a wonder eclipsed only by the crew, whom I find even more incredible. Each one has his or her specialty, a job to do, and they have poured themselves into those jobs like lasers carving up the mountain of work upon us.

  Grigory, the Russian engineer, obsesses about engine efficiency, constantly muttering to himself as he floats around the ship.

  Charlotte, an Australian linguist and archaeologist, has spent every waking hour writing out her first contact protocol, only stopping to check with James and Harry to see if the drone can do this or that—and sometimes with Lina to see if her ideas can be programmed.

  Min, the Chinese navigator, has busied himself plotting alternative courses both to Alpha and back home, based on every scenario he can think of.

  The ship’s physician and psychologist, Izumi, a Japanese woman about ten years older than I am, floats in and out of the pods, constantly checking on us, like a mother hen prowling a nest.

  I’ve spent my time with James and Harry, and I admit I’ve enjoyed it. They have a quirky dynamic—a mix of competition and camaraderie. They work mostly independently, designing the drones and then showing each other what they’ve come up with. It’s a sort of game between them to see who can one-up the other with new functionality or efficiency. They debate the merits of every idea, but they’re not combative. For two competing scientists, there’s no ego. They’re supportive and even jovial with each other.

  And there’s something else, too—a certain protectiveness Harry has for James. Harry is maybe fifteen years older, but I sense that there’s something more. Maybe it’s related to what happened to James in the past—the trouble he got into. The trouble he’s refused to tell me about every time I’ve subtly brought it up. I don’t dare ask Harry, though I badly want to know. I wonder why that is. I’ve told myself I’m being thorough, because it’s important to know all you can about your crew. But I know that’s not it.