by Laura Lam
It wasn’t Earth.
She opened the card.
Happy birthday.
Let’s go.
V
Naomi glanced up at Valerie sharply. “Is this a joke?”
Since moving to Scotland, Naomi had often wondered what Valerie’s latest project was. More than once, she’d picked up the phone, their fight be damned, just to find out. She followed Valerie in the news, sifting through the sneering, patronising articles for clues of what she was truly up to.
“I’d never joke about that.” Valerie shifted closer, the firelight flickering along skin smoothed by good gene therapy, expensive creams and injections. No one would peg her for forty-nine. Her mouth curved. “I can promise you a world, Naomi.”
“Cavendish.” Her whole body felt alive, struck by an electric bolt.
The exosolar planet had been discovered the year Naomi turned sixteen. As soon as she’d seen it on the screen in Valerie’s living room, she’d blurted out how much she wanted to go. Valerie had laughed, said she’d come along too. Turned out she’d been dead serious. Hawthorne came upon harder times just after that and Valerie had to shut down some of her medical subcompanies, such as Haven, the one that beat the government to developing viable cloned organs. Growing embryos had already taken off with celebrities who could afford to pay the premium—Naomi remembered the selfies of smiling, glamorous celebrities in front of the tanks showing their growing child suspended in liquid, a hand on their flat and toned tummies. The next level of surrogate. Valerie planned to grow the foetuses in orbit in microgravity, where they wouldn’t need growing supports that could damage the tissue once removed.
It was all snuffed right before it could become relatively affordable. Couldn’t very well make it easier for women to stay in the workplace, could they? Valerie had to fire the head of Haven and throw him under the bus. She redoubled her investments in the robots and AI that had put Hawthorne on the map and focused on interstellar space enterprise instead.
Yet now Naomi was nearing thirty, her teen years long behind her, and they were no closer to that planet just over ten light years away. Probes had been there, and brought back samples, but even if they sent humans, Naomi would never have a chance. Not with how the world was changing.
Naomi still hoped for the moon, or Mars. Maybe even as far as Titan. But no further. She’d long since come to terms with the fact that the little biome of Cavendish she’d made with seeds from the probe was the closest she’d ever get.
“Don’t taunt me, V. They’d never let the likes of us go. Even if you could figure out how.” The news had reported NASA’s latest failure—a probe full of rats, returned in one piece, every rodent frozen solid.
Valerie waved a hand. “We have Jerrie Hixon with the team now.”
Naomi raised her eyebrows, impressed. She remembered her. Sharp pilot. Sharp mind.
“She’s on the case with the calculations. We’ll be able to get within one AU of Cavendish using the drive, I’m certain of it. Let me worry about the government. I need you to keep us fed all the way to that planet. I need you, Naomi. No one else will do.”
Naomi felt something bright and white and hot as a young sun deep in her chest. The shock and depth of her want winded her. Cavendish. A chance at Cavendish.
Valerie motioned to the barkeep—a dour man with a face like a walnut—to bring water. Naomi buried her head in the glass, gathering her thoughts. She prided herself on never showing too much. She was the calm one, the collected one. The one that others turned to when they were losing it.
The conversation flowed around them, people in the pub unwinding after a long day at work.
“I can’t break my contract,” Naomi said, hoping she still sounded cool.
Valerie scoffed, deep in her throat. She knew she had Naomi on the hook. “If Lockwood goes after you, I have plenty to threaten them with. Honestly, Nomi—” Naomi noted Valerie’s use of her childhood nickname; clever—“do you even realise who you’re working for? They’ve done some messed-up shit.”
As if you haven’t, Naomi wanted to say. All corporations were the same. As long as they paid the bills to let her continue her research, Naomi tried not to think about the darker edges. A privilege, she knew, and one that still made her culpable, even if she pleaded ignorance.
“Let me show you the data and where we are,” Valerie said. “Take some leave, come to California with me. You have to at least see the Atalanta. We’ll start ferrying the pieces constructed on the ground to space in the next three months. The assembly hub is already being built.” Her eyes rose, as if she could see through the smoke-stained timber to the sky.
An actual spaceship. Not a shuttle, not a satellite, not a rocket. Something built to fold space and time to bring humans to another solar system. To the planet that had been hidden from humans’ radar, hidden among the data of Hubble until the James Webb telescope was able to reveal it in more detail.
Naomi thought of her lab in Sutherland. It was good, well stocked. Not as state of the art as her old ones at NASA or Hawthorne. She was involved in two projects: perfecting the hydroponics for the ISS and the Gateway as well as experimenting on crops that could grow on Mars. Not so different from what she had done at NASA.
On the space stations, the European astronauts currently grew forty per cent of their food and she was hoping to bump it to fifty next year. Growing plants was harder in microgravity. There was talk of building a new space station with a gravity ring, if the partnership countries could stop squabbling about the funds. It was a good job. A worthy job.
A job that would leave her tied to a desk, if she were honest with herself. NASA had reluctantly bowed to growing governmental pressure—women had been forced out of active space flight, and they were leaving most management, engineering, and science jobs in droves. The UKSA hadn’t followed suit, but deep down, she’d known for months they’d never let her on one of those rockets she saw every day. For her own safety, so the men in power claimed, as piece by piece they eroded women’s abilities to feel safe.
There were others Valerie could have asked. Maybe even better qualified. No one else will do.
Despite their fight, their silence over the last year, Valerie still wanted her. Naomi went to the window, taking her whisky with her. Valerie let her go, crossing her legs, making a pretence of surveying the sticky, laminated menu.
The clouds were too thick to see the stars, but Naomi let herself imagine being up there, the whole world spread below. She’d wanted a shot at this since she was a child, and even the odd space shuttle blowing up as she watched the live broadcasts hadn’t dissuaded her. She’d tackled botany and astrobotany, mechanical engineering, astrophysics. Learned Russian and a smattering of Chinese. All for a chance of something that each day faded further into grey.
Naomi came back to the table, setting down her empty glass.
“I want to be second in command.”
Valerie’s face split into a grin and she gave a whoop that startled the people in the pub. “I would, you know I would, but that role’s already Hixon’s, I’m afraid. She has the military and the Ares experience.”
Naomi’s shoulders folded.
“But,” Valerie said, sensing Naomi’s disappointment, “you know that you’ll always have my ear. Compromise?”
Naomi sucked her lower lip. Held out her hand.
Valerie laughed but shook it in that firm, CEO grip. Then she whooped again, professional veneer dropped. “This calls for more whisky.”
“You knew what answer I’d give before you even arrived,” Naomi said.
“Still thought it’d be polite to ask. I taught you manners, didn’t I?”
No mention of their fight. Valerie seemed to want to pretend it’d never happened, and that worked well enough for Naomi.
There were a thousand ways the project could go wrong. A million obstacles before them. That night, as the moon blurred the clouds silver, and the whisky made them both warm, Naomi vowed she woul
dn’t let anything stand in their way.
When the car dropped them off at the plasterboard spaceport employee apartments, Valerie walked Naomi to the door. She’d be heading down to London for meetings before heading back home to Los Angeles.
Valerie leaned her forehead against Naomi’s. “Happy birthday, Nomi,” she said, the closest she’d come to an apology, and then she was gone.
CHAPTER THREE
3 Hours After Launch
126 Days to Mars
249 Days to Cavendish
They should have had weeks to prepare for a spacewalk, not hours. They’d prepped, of course, through simulations and in EMUs underwater, but that was not the same. Every second they lingered in orbit, their window of escape grew smaller. The U.S. would be preparing to capture them like butterflies in a net, dragging them back down to Earth.
Valerie had lowered the atmospheric pressure in the Atalanta by thirty per cent so coming in and out of the airlock meant less chance of the bends. It was still risky, and everyone on board knew it.
Naomi adjusted the mask over her face, breathing in pure oxygen rather than the usual mix of oxygen and nitrogen. Lebedeva was across from her, her face likewise covered, tubes snaking into the spare canisters. Head and neck covered with absorbent cloth, the mic tracing the curve of her cheekbone. Her blue eyes were serious, blond brows drawn down as she stared, unblinking, at the hatch leading to space. Nine minutes. They were both lost in the spacesuits, so puffy that Naomi’s arms fell to her sides like a ballerina about to pirouette.
Naomi always thought calling it an Extravehicular Mobile Unit sounded too technical and uninspired. But scientists veered from naming things poetically—drawing from myth and legend—to incredibly factual, with letters and numbers or baldly stating the obvious. Naomi had burst out laughing when as a child she’d learned they were naming the new telescope in the Atacama Desert in Chile the Very Large Telescope. It was, at that.
In truth, Naomi was in a tiny spacecraft in the shape of a human. Layers of high-tech fabric, the hard fibreglass torso, the life support system in the back like she was a mountaineer climbing Everest. It still seemed so flimsy compared to the vastness of space. If their ship was named the Atalanta, she’d call her small spacecraft the Argo, even if it was just in her mind.
Hixon floated between them. Double-, triple-checking their suits, despite the inbuilt integrity sensors. She ran a hand over every join, every seam, in wordless superstition. Hixon had been the one to help them climb into the suits, adjusting everything except for the helmets.
Naomi found her calmness again, waiting for the hatch to open. She did not think about what could go wrong. She did not let herself clasp on to dizzying excitement that could make her reckless.
“You ready?” Hixon asked, the helmet in her hands.
“Yes.” On went the helmet, shutting out most sound. Hixon fastened it, double-checked it, and went to do the same to Lebedeva. Inside the helmet was a tube to suck down water, and another to breathe into on the off-chance her helmet filled with liquid. It had happened to other astronauts before, though they had survived.
The spacesuit was heavy, but microgravity kept her limbs light. Naomi held her hands out in front of her. Thick fingers, like white bananas. Soon they’d be holding the tools, grappling with the reduced motor skills, having to work as quickly as they could without being unsafe. Ten main bolts to loosen, and the Atalanta would be free.
“Can you hear me?” came Valerie’s gravelly voice through the comms of the helmet.
“Loud and clear,” Naomi replied.
“Affirmative,” said Lebedeva.
Hixon gave them a last pat on the shoulders. “Good luck.”
Hixon left, the metal door clanging shut behind her. Lebedeva and Naomi faced each other, legs treading the air like water. Naomi allowed herself a slow somersault. Lebedeva gave a rare laugh and did the same. They locked eyes, gave a little nod before clinging to the handholds.
“Open the hatch,” Valerie commanded.
Lebedeva grunted, twisting the wheel of the hatch and opening it into darkness.
Lebedeva went first, sticking her head out of the craft. The spacewalk had mentally started at different points for them. In Russia, a spacewalk began when the hatch opened. In the U.S., it was when at least the head was out of the airlock. Lebedeva snapped her tether on to the nearest handrail. One moment she was there, outlined against the black, and then she was gone. Naomi straightened her shoulders and guided herself out of the airlock.
It was like she’d expected and yet like nothing she could have prepared for. A chasm of darkness with no pressure, no sound. Black above, below. The Atalanta sheltered her from the worst of the sun, so she was cold, despite the high-tech gear under the EMU. It was 250 degrees Celsius below zero. Once she and Lebedeva clambered over the spacecraft to the assembly hub, they’d be in direct sun and the pendulum would swing up to 250 degrees the other way.
Naomi gripped the tether, even though it was connected at both the waist and the handrail. She had a local one she could move herself and a long one that led back to the ship at all times. If there was one thing they’d told her in training, it was always be aware of the tethers. If you floated away, that was it. There was no getting you back. An astronaut had lost his tether a few years ago, off the ISS. By the time they gathered a rescue mission, it was too late. He was gone. His corpse had eventually burned up in the atmosphere. The tiniest meteor.
Floating out there was a little like standing at the shore, looking out to the sea, beautiful but cruel. The currents would pull you under and would not care. In that moment, Naomi fully understood the meaning of the word “awestruck.” The word “sublime.”
“Naomi,” came Valerie’s voice. Commanding and comforting.
Naomi’s attention snapped back to the task at hand. “Following Lebedeva.”
Naomi drew herself along the tether and clasped the handrail with her gloves. Her legs kicked out behind her. It was like ballet. Like swimming. Like neither of those things. She drew herself along, her breath echoing in the helmet along with Lebedeva’s on the comms.
The cosmonaut reached the front of the ship, leaving Naomi’s field of vision. The helmet was static, and she was hemmed in.
Sun glimmered along the white hull of the ship. Only a few dings from space debris marred its veneer. She drew a hand along the metal. The golden light of the sun glimmered through the Earth’s atmosphere below her before striking her suit. She was already warm from pulling herself along the handrails. Sweat pooled along the small of her back, beneath her arms, wicked by the cotton under-layer. She flipped down her helmet shade to protect her eyes.
Lebedeva had paused, legs streaming out horizontally, taking in the dying world below. Naomi drifted beside her.
Lebedeva whispered something in Russian Naomi couldn’t quite catch. An exclamation of wonder. A prayer. They were nearly the same thing.
They allowed themselves half a minute of drinking in the swirling clouds—including the spiral of a hurricane above the blue of the ocean. It was a little too early for wildfires, at least. Naomi was grateful not to see the grey plumes visible from all the way up here. It had been night when they took off, and from their position, the Atalanta had already seen two sunrises and sunsets. In orbit, they were travelling more than 17,000 miles per hour over the Earth’s surface. Five miles a second.
“Lebedeva. Lovelace.” An edge in Valerie’s voice.
The astronauts continued their journey. They passed the bridge. Hart and Hixon waved, and Valerie made a shooing motion. The ground must be closer to launching than she was letting on.
The construction hub was ugly compared to the ship. All dark, gunmetal grey, inelegant modules clamped together. Minimal life support. It wasn’t meant for humans.
Valerie had chosen their launch date carefully. Construction was finished, the robots on the hub either shut down or shipped back to Earth. Those were still Hawthorne property, and Valerie had made
damn sure they couldn’t be turned on remotely.
Ten giant bolts connecting the starboard side to the hub. Ten bolts keeping the Atalanta from flight.
Lebedeva and Naomi took their tools from the transparent kit at their belts, clipping more tethers to their waists. They’d be using long, large ratchet wrenches, not much different from what they’d use on Earth except for a larger wheel so they could twist easier with their gloves. Lebedeva took the closest connection and Naomi moved along to the far end.
Earth spread below them, sunset deepening back to night. They were over Asia—there was the little finger of Japan and Korea, the sprawl of China. Shocks of light from Tokyo, Beijing, Seoul. The cities were bigger, buildings for accommodation and business, but also vertical farms. Sea walls protected the changed coastline as best they could, and more walls bisected landmasses in a futile attempt to stop the next wave of climate change refugees who had nowhere else to go. So many millions of people far below them. If the Atalanta didn’t make it, all those lights would darken.
Naomi braced herself, using a rail as a foothold so the torque wouldn’t twist her around with the wrench. Each connection had a dozen smaller bolts in turn, and each took at least a hundred turns to loosen. They pocketed each bolt in an empty container so they wouldn’t be floating within the vicinity of the craft when they left. Before long, her hands hurt despite the padding of the gloves. Sunset brought back the night and she cooled again despite the EMU’s protection. She adjusted the temperature of her suit, using the mirrors at her wrists to read the backward-printed controls. Her elbow joints grew stiff.
She and Lebedeva finished their first connection at the same time. Four each to go.
Naomi pulled herself to the next one, grunting. The second one seemed to take even longer. Were people down there even now prepping a rocket to launch? Was the Gateway a hub of activity, as they calculated how long it’d take them to travel to the other side of Earth’s orbit? Another capsule could attach to the hub or the spare dock on the Atalanta. Helmeted men arriving to let them know their time was up.
