The Fated Sky

by Mary Robinette Kowal

  “And Mission Control knew. Didn’t they?”

  “Well. I mean, I’m married to the lead engineer.” Although I’d hidden the worst of it from Nathaniel for years. “So, yes. Parker and Kamilah knew too.”

  Florence stared at me, then bent her head back to her sewing. Other than that, the only reply was the whirring of the fans.

  I cleared my throat. “Well.” I had to stop saying that, but my Southern roots were strong sometimes. “The good thing is that it’s pulling attention away from Leonard.”

  “Who should never have been under scrutiny in the first place.” Florence’s needle darted in and out of the cloth, silver catching the light with each stab. “Must be nice, not having to be perfect all the time.”

  That shocked a laugh or a sob out of me. “You have to be kidding. What do you think the anxiety was about? I’m Jewish. And I’m a woman in science. There’s never a moment where I don’t get to be perfect.”

  “Taking Miltown is a mark of perfection?”

  “How did you—” I closed my eyes, as if that would hide me from scrutiny. “It’s in the paper.”

  “Florence—” Leonard’s voice was low and urgent.

  “No. She just got to waltz in and take the spot of someone else. You think there’s no link—”

  1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13 … I didn’t have to worry about what people would think. I knew. My breath came in shallow pants, and I forced my lungs to shudder into a longer breath as I opened my eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake! What the hell do I have to do to prove to you that I’m pulling my weight?”

  Florence whipped around in the air to face me, thread trailing behind her in an arc. “You still don’t get it. Was I angry that Helen was bumped? Yes. But ask yourself why Mission Control chose to bump the Taiwanese computer and not the white computer.”

  I opened my mouth to retort, but had nothing, so I just floated there, mouth gaping. “I—I know. But there were reasons beyond the fact that Helen wasn’t white. Publicity wanted Parker and me on the same ship.”

  “Sure. Let’s go with that theory.” Florence gave a single nod.

  “Look—if it were just that, they would have pulled Leonard at the first hint of trouble.”

  “Trouble.” Florence glanced over at Leonard. “You hear her?”

  “I do.”

  Maybe I was just trying to get attention away from me. I don’t know. “You know it’s true. I mean, DeBeer did his darnedest to make that happen.”

  “And why not you? Hm?” Leonard folded the newspaper into quarters, then folded it again, and again, driving his thumbnail along the edge of the paper. “Why was I ‘part of the conspiracy’ and not you?”

  I knew the answer, of course: He was Black.

  “Okay. I see your point.” My hands were sweating. I jammed them farther into my armpits. “But the fact is that you still got to come on the mission. You’re here. Right? So neither of us has to be perfect.”

  “But your imperfection is in your brain.” Leonard held up his hand. “Mine is here.”

  “I’m not—” … 21, 34, 55, 89 … This wasn’t about me. Florence had just told me that. “That is not an imperfection. You are a brilliant astronaut and damn well deserve to be on this mission.”

  “And what do they have us doing here?” Florence tilted her head. “Scrubbing walls. Cleaning toilets. Cooking. Laundry.”

  “Well, we all do that. I did a toilet repair two weeks out, and—”

  “Stop talking, Elma.” Leonard crumpled the teletype paper. “For the love of God, stop talking.”

  My heart rate began to achieve escape velocity, and sweat clung to the back of my neck in warm droplets. Leonard had never so much as raised his voice. “I just—”

  “I am trying to remember that you mean well. But at the moment, I cannot take the protestations of a well-meaning white woman. I do not have the energy to reassure you or to pretend I am happy and content with my lot in life.”

  “I’m sorry.” I dug my fingers into my sides. “I’m sorry. I was only trying to help.”

  “Help?” Florence folded up her sewing. “You can help by shutting up instead of being openly clueless.”

  Terrazas snorted. “You’re acting like she’s DeBeer. In case you haven’t noticed, cleaning the ship is part of all of our jobs.”

  “Not you, too. Pay attention to the duty roster next Monday. Tell me that it isn’t uneven.” She shoved her sewing into a bag that had been floating tethered to her waist. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should check the laundry.”

  She was being ridiculous. There were only seven of us on the ship, so it wasn’t like there was a staff that came in to tidy up after us. “But we all clean; that’s part of basic maintenance.”

  “Yes.” Leonard slapped the folded newspaper against his palm. “Yes. We all clean. But the rest of you are assigned to do other tasks relating to the maintenance of the ship. Florence and I aren’t.”

  Rafael said, “It’s true. Leonard was trained to assist me in engineering, but Mission Control’s roster keeps giving me Estevan, who only shadowed him.”

  Terrazas turned his head, brows raised. “I thought you liked having me help.”

  “I do.” Red flushed Rafael’s ears. “But you’re missing the point. It should be Leonard.”

  “Thank you.” Leonard scowled down at the pages.

  I turned to Rafael and Terrazas, although I’m not sure exactly what I wanted. Reassurance that I wasn’t a terrible person? Confirmation that I was? The lines of Rafael’s face looked as dragged out as if he’d spent the day in the Neutral Buoyancy Lab. Compressing his lips, he turned back to Terrazas and smiled. Sort of. His lips curved up, at any rate. “What was that song you wanted me to learn?”

  Breathing hurt. I bit down on the inside of my cheek. Rotating, I pushed off and flew through the door into the spindle.

  And because I’m a professional, I actually made it to the gravity toilet in the centrifugal ring before I threw up.

  * * *

  From the toilet, I made my way up the spindle to the comm module. I figured that chances of Parker or Kamilah being there were slim, and I was rewarded by finding the module empty and dark. Chewing the inside of my lip, I hung in the doorway for a minute. The teletype sat there, a link to Nathaniel. I wanted to tell him everything, and also didn’t want to worry him. But … I’d promised I would be honest with him, and being 97 million kilometers away didn’t change that vow.

  I pushed through the door and floated to the machine, rotating to a good working position. Stretching out, I hooked my feet under one of the guide rails to anchor myself as I wrote.

  I didn’t have Kipling’s book with me, so I picked a word we’d already used, RHINOCEROS.

  A buqt tspow ul. At’q tso capqt tago kj tsaq gaqqakj. A qullkqo yku’vo qooj tso rptaifo rhkut tso Iyejuq Qax tsrt trfdq rhkut gy rjxaoty lpkhfog. Fokjrpn hpkuest at ul. A tskuest rff kc tsaq wrq hosajn go rjn wrq hfajnqanon. Tsoj qkgoskw tso ikjvopqrtakj buqt noeojoprton ajtk rjeop rff rpkujn. A’g cajo jkw. A djkw yku wkj’t hofaovo go, hut tso crit tsrt A’g toffaje yku tsrt A wrq ulqot kuest tk porqqupo yku. Rt forqt r fattfo? A sklo at wkj’t srlloj reraj. Ekn. At’q hooj qk fkje qajio A tspow ul fado tsrt. A irj’t hofaovo tsrt at uqon tk ho poeufrp. Hut, porffy, A’g cajo. A’g kjfy toffaje yku hoiruqo A lpkgaqon A wkufn.

  (Translated: I just threw up. It’s the first time on this mission. I suppose you’ve seen the article about the Cygnus Six that talks about my anxiety problem. Leonard brought it up. I thought all of this was behind me and was blindsided. Then somehow the conversation just degenerated into anger all around. I’m fine now. I know you won’t believe me, but the fact that I’m telling you that I was upset ought to reassure you. At least a little? I hope it won’t happen again. God. It’s been so long since I threw up like that. I can’t believe that it used to be regular. But, really, I’m fine. I’m only telling you because I promised I would.)

  Dear Nathaniel,

  The news from Earth seems
fairly bleak sometimes. I feel awful for those who were hit by the typhoons in the Indian Ocean. I have to remind myself that our mission exists to provide some hope for those trapped in untenable situations on Earth. As the weather worsens, we hope to establish a new beachhead for humanity in the stars.

  I’ve been reading The Gods of Mars and am quite enjoying the absurdity of it. The first book in the series is on the Pinta, so I’ve asked Kamilah to pick it up the next time she goes over on a medical visit. Everyone’s health continues to be good, thank heavens.

  How goes the apartment search?

  All my love,

  Elma

  Ovopykjo’q lsyqairf sorfts aq ekkn, rq aq gajo, hut toglopq rpo qtpotison tk tso hpordaje lkajt. Tsopo rpo tagoq tsrt A waqs wo wopoj’t eottaje jowq cpkg skgo hoykjn fottopq cpkg crgafy rjn cpaojnq. Lforqo nk dool tskqo ikgaje. A gaqq yku toppahfy.

  (Translated: Everyone’s physical health is good, as is mine, but tempers are stretched to the breaking point. There are times that I wish we weren’t getting news from home beyond letters from family and friends. Please do keep those coming. I miss you terribly.)

  It was late in Kansas, and a weekend. As much as I wanted to hear from Nathaniel, I hoped that he wasn’t still at work, though, knowing my husband, he very well might be. On second thought, he should be at his poker game tonight. I sighed, trying to release some of the ache in my chest, and went to find Leonard.

  * * *

  I found Leonard in the garden module. He sat on the bench in the middle of the hydroponic rows of tomatoes. I guess the original design hadn’t included seating, but it didn’t take long to understand how much humans craved the sight of greenery in space. As I walked in, I scuffed my feet against the metal grates in the floor to catch his attention.

  Leonard looked up, hands knit together, and sighed. “Elma … I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

  That stopped me in my tracks. “You don’t—I was coming to apologize to you. I was wrong.”

  He snorted. “My mother once told me that an apology wasn’t about being right or wrong, but showing that the relationship was more important than the problem. And you aren’t actually the problem.”

  “I contributed, though. And I was wrong. And you’re important to me.”

  “I appreciate that.” He stretched his hands out, flexing the fingers wide. “But I was explaining why I apologized to you.”

  “Oh.” I stood on one foot, feeling like my dad was disappointed in me. The leaves of the tomato plants stirred in the breeze from the fans and spread their earthy scent in the air. With a finger, I reached out and traced the veins on a leaf. “Do you … Back on Lunetta, you and Florence asked me not to get involved, but if you want, I can nudge Nathaniel to nudge someone else about the duty rosters. But only if you want.”

  Leonard shook his head, standing with a groan. “Thank you. I appreciate the offer in the spirit in which it was made. But, no. I think Rafael might request me now, and that will do more good than anything else. Probably should have talked to him sooner.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  Leonard shrugged. “No. Thank you.” He started to walk out of the module, but stopped at the end of the row, framed by the verdant plants. Turning, he held up a finger. “One thing: Don’t explain my experience to me. It’s annoying as hell.”

  I winced, because that’s exactly what I had done, multiple times—everything from explaining that we all cleaned to telling him that he wasn’t being singled out. And I knew how annoying it was, because Parker did it to me all the time. “Copy. No explanations.”

  “Roger.” He winked. “See you at dinner.”

  After Leonard left, I settled on the bench he had vacated. It was only after I had relaxed into the green that I realized that I had effectively chased him out of the module.

  TWENTY-TWO

  ADVERTISING MAGAZINES SHOW AN UPTURN IN BUSINESS

  By PETER BART

  Dec. 27, 1962—Magazine advertising salesmen, who have been wearing baleful expressions for months now, are beginning to look a little more cheerful. Business, they report, is picking up. The pattern is far from uniform, to be sure. But many magazines predict that the advertising they will carry for the first half of 1962 may be well above the levels of the 1961 period and that the ten-year decline, begun when the Meteor struck, is at an end.

  A couple of weeks after my … discussion with Leonard and Florence, I slid down the ladder into the kitchen module to set up the kitchen for the Monday morning meeting.

  And yes, since they’d pointed it out, I had paid attention to the duty rosters. Leonard wound up on cleaning or kitchen duty only. Florence had cleaning, laundry, kitchen, and comms, so at least she got to work in her area of specialty. And, amazingly, the men never had to make coffee for the meeting.

  The Christmas decorations that Mission Control had packed were still up, with the silver garland taped in loops to the top of the wall. In the corner, seven bulbs glowed from an electric menorah. It wasn’t the same as candles, but I was glad to have it.

  Parker was already in the kitchen, writing the agenda on one of the whiteboards with his usual crisp, angular strokes. He gave me a guarded nod, then moved on to another perfectly spaced line. I’ve written on more than a few chalkboards during my career, and his handwriting was shockingly precise.

  “Why is your handwriting so good?” I opened the cabinet to pull out the pack of ground coffee.

  “Test pilot.” He glanced down at the next item on his agenda.

  “I’m not following.”

  “After writing reports on a clipboard strapped to my leg, while pulling a plane out of a spin…” He thumped the board with his marker. “This doesn’t move.”

  “Huh.” I dumped the dregs of yesterday’s coffee into the reclaimer. “Gotta admit, I never thought about that.”

  “Well, you don’t think—”

  “I don’t think about most things.” I finished with him.

  Parker looked up from his clipboard with a snort. His dimpled grin flashed for a minute and—I’m almost ashamed of this—I wanted to make him smile again. If I could just figure out how to keep happy Parker around, the whole trip would be so much easier.

  Staring at the glow of the menorah candles, I wiped out the inside of the coffee pot. “Say … Parker. I’ve been wanting to apologize.”

  My back was toward him as I slid the coffee pot back into place. Behind me, the marker squeaked on the board. Of course. Of course he wasn’t even going to respond to that. Sighing, I shook my head and pulled the filter out of the coffee maker.

  I’m not sure why I tried to make peace with the man.

  “About…?”

  I turned around fast enough that the Coriolis effect threw my balance off, and I had to grab for the counter. Old grounds scattered across the stainless steel and spilled onto the floor. “Damn it.”

  “Not an apology.” He glanced up from the clipboard. “Need help?”

  “No. Thanks. I’m just an idiot.” I tossed the filter in the composting and grabbed one of the rags. “But you knew that already.”

  “York.” He sighed and lowered his clipboard. “I think you are many unflattering things, but not an idiot.”

  “’Least you’re honest.” I swiped at the grounds on the floor, folding the cloth over to gather them inside. Belatedly, I realized that, for Parker, that was a compliment. Almost. He didn’t think I was an idiot. With another sigh, I sat back on my heels. “I’m sorry about your wife. I mean, about the assumptions I made, and needling you and everything.”

  “I asked you not to talk about her.”

  “I—” My mouth hung open at the chill in his voice. “I know. I’m sorry. I just wanted to apologize. I won’t bring her up again.”

  Why did I try? Wadding the cloth up, I scrambled, carefully, back to my feet. Once the coffee was set up, I would clear out until the meeting started. With a clean corner, I wiped up the grounds on the counter.

  Behind me, Par
ker pulled out the bench, its metal feet scraping on the floor of the kitchen. He sighed as he sat down, and the clipboard rattled against the table. “Thank you.”

  This time, I did not turn quickly. I did not turn at all, in fact. I kept my focus on the rag, and shook the used grounds into the compost bin. Only after biting the inside of my lip was I able to not cry. God. I hated the fact that I wanted to cry. This man gave me such grief that a little bit of kindness made me tear up. “What can I do to make you stop hating me?”

  “I don’t—I mean, I did. For a long time. But I don’t hate you. Honest to God, York. I don’t hate you.”

  Folding the dishrag into quarters required my full attention. The rough cotton bumped under my thumbs as I smoothed the corners. “You don’t like me, either.”

  “The feeling is mutual, I’m sure.” Parker cleared his throat. “So what can I do to make you stop hating me?”

  “Stop being an asshole?”

  He barked a laugh. “Sorry, sweetheart. It’s baked in. But I’ll try to remember that you’re a delicate flower.”

  “That.” I slapped the cloth down on the counter and turned. “That is the kind of thing that I’m talking about.”

  Parker’s mouth hung open. He blinked twice, before snapping his jaw shut and trying again. “I’m joking.”

  “It doesn’t feel like a joke.”

  He threw his hands into the air. “For the love of God. Your feelings are not my responsibility. I meant it as a joke.”

  “There’s nothing funny about telling a woman that she’s too delicate to handle something. We get told that all the time by people—by men—who are trying to keep us in our place. It’s offensive.”

  “And calling me an asshole isn’t?”

  “It is.” By this point, my hands had started to shake with anger. “But I wasn’t joking.”

  “That would require a sense of humor.” Parker grabbed his clipboard and slid off the bench. “Thanks for the apology. I’ll treasure it always.”

  As he stalked back to the whiteboard, I squeezed my eyes shut. God. I really was an idiot.

  * * *

  By the time Florence slid down into the kitchen, I had the coffee going and a reasonable facsimile of a calm demeanor. My teammate, on the other hand, was grinning. She whipped her hand away from the ladder and waved a sheaf of papers over her head. “Got the morning paper here!”