Reentry

by Peter Cawdron

  He talks to me as we follow the transparent tunnel, asking if I’m okay, if I need any help, if I’d like a wheelchair. What I want is for this to be over. Travel is torture, as we’re never really anywhere other than in between. What I want is to step inside the door of my mom’s home and slump on the couch. What I want is to sleep in on a Sunday morning as snow falls lazily outside my window.

  The air pressure within the tunnel is slightly lower than outside, so if there are any leaks, air leaks in, not out, but this gives the tunnel a shrunken shape. A series of steel frames set every five feet holds the plastic at bay. Although the structure looks flimsy, that’s just the outside pressure bearing down on it.

  “Cool, an RV. ” Su-shun is irrepressible, seeing our quarters on the mid-deck.

  Being stuck in a trailer might drive some people stir crazy, but after our time on Mars and the cramped confines of the Herschel and the Orion, it’s palatial. If it’s anything like the pre-launch isolation trailers they used to keep us from getting sick in the days leading up to the mission, there will be at least three different rooms. Normally, there are several astronauts to each room, but we have such a small crew, we’ll get one each. I don’t think I’ve had a room to myself in two years.

  I call out, “Road trip!” but I’m faking my enthusiasm. I feel sick. In space, I learned to ignore the swirl of my inner ear. Here on Earth, my sense of balance is off-kilter and it’s hard to walk in a straight line. At the moment, I’d fail a sobriety test. The rocking of the ship isn’t helping.

  The trailer is made from brushed aluminum and has sleek curves. Inside, it’s spacious. Return flights are supposed to be in teams of eight to twelve, so the three of us have plenty of room. There are a set of bunk beds, a table built into the side wall with bench seats framing it, a small kitchenette—although I doubt they’ll let us cook—and a bathroom. Fresh clothing sits folded on one of the bunks.

  Su-shun carries in the bundle of solid-state hard drives that together compose Jianyu—and at least one artificial intelligence by my reckoning. They’re wrapped in plastic and look like something left over from moving day. He sets them on the couch seat beside the table, pushing them up against the wall, which is something I find strangely anthropomorphic—treating a bunch of solid-state silicon hard drives with the kindness one would afford a friend.

  I sit at the table beside Jianyu and take off my boots. It’s good to sit. I’m tempted to say something to him, but that would be too weird for the others, so I’m content just to be near him. Funny, after being strapped in a chair for hours on end, I thought I’d want to walk around, and perhaps go a little manic, pacing back and forth within the trailer, but gravity is overwhelming my muscles.

  I’m expecting the support staff to come in and talk with us, but they simply close the door behind Wen, sealing us in the trailer. A voice over the intercom says, “You’ll find swab kits on the counter. Please provide samples as soon as possible, using the transfer port by the kitchen.”

  Personalized poop and wee kits. Wonderful. The swab kits include plastic gloves, cotton swabs, and a stiff sheet of cardboard that could be the world’s worst Advent calendar. Instead of the twelve days of Christmas popping open, there are six flaps lifting to reveal soft-tissue targets for drops of blood, sweat, saliva, urine, fecal matter, and fingernail scrapings.

  The astro-fun never ends.

  Su-shun looks at Wen and me as if to remind us that he went last up in orbit. “Oh—be my guest,” I say, gesturing to the bathroom. Wen and I prick our thumbs, take saliva swabs from the inside of our mouths, and seal each sample with a sticker. Sweat samples can be taken from the crotch or the armpit, and we both elect for the under­arm.

  Wen is the next one to use the bathroom. “There’s a shower.”

  “Oh!” I say, my eyes lighting up. “Water. Hot water.”

  It’s the little things that make returning to Earth worthwhile.

  We had showers on Mars, but the water seemed to drip from the showerhead—I guess that was to encourage us to ration. To be fair, it’s probably the same in the trailer, as it’ll have limited resources, but I cannot wait to find myself alone in a hotel room. I’m going to have a shower, and then a bath, and then go and find a hot tub, and dive naked into a swimming pool (if there’s no one around). I’ve probably got the logical order all mixed up, but I want to immerse myself in whatever water I can find. I’m going to binge on water. We may call our planet Earth, but with over 70 percent of the surface covered in water, that’s really a misnomer. Having been to Mars, with no water anywhere on the surface, I don’t think I’ll ever take an ocean or lake for granted again.

  Wen disappears into the bathroom and then reappears a few minutes later with her “Advent calendar” complete. I’m the last to go in. If I wanted to, I could sneak the first shower, but I don’t. It just doesn’t seem right to be selfish. We’re back on a planet where two-thirds of the surface is covered in water—it’s really not that big a deal anymore.

  Once I’ve completed my samples, I pass Wen in the corridor with a towel draped over her shoulder and a grin lighting up her face. She disappears into the bathroom mumbling, “A shower. A real shower.”

  Within a few minutes, there’s the gentle pitter-patter of what could be rain and she’s singing in Chinese, enjoying the warmth soothing her aging body.

  Su-shun rifles through the kitchen, looking in cupboards, drawers. Why drawers? I’m not sure what he’s expecting to find beyond cutlery. I guess it’s the novelty of it. In the meantime, I’m struggling in Earth’s gravity, so I’m content to rest. He opens the fridge. “Coke? Pepsi?”

  “Ah.” To be honest, I feel overwhelmed at the thought of something as simple as a can of soda. “How about both?”

  “Ha-ha.” Su-shun grabs a couple of cans and sets them on the bench. “You Americans are crazy.” He pops the ring and pours some Pepsi into a cup, topping it up with Coca-Cola.

  I laugh. That wasn’t quite what I meant, but whatever.

  Su-shun raises his glass as though he’s about to propose a toast, and takes a sip.

  Bubbles dance beneath my nose. I sip at the beverage, enjoying the rush of flavors. “Oh, damn. That is good.” I only hope I haven’t just started some crazy new custom in China. I’m imagining Su-shun going back east and telling people, “Oh, yeah, this is how the Americans like their soda . . .”

  The sugar rush hits hard, and Su-shun begins prying around in the cupboards, looking at our supplies. He’s far more interested in food than I am.

  “This is a little unconventional, but okay, NASA,” he says. “If you insist.” He holds up several tiny bottles that look like they’ve been secreted in here from a motel minibar. “I’m not sure CSNA would approve, but when in Rome.” Someone had snuck in contraband: Jack Daniel’s and a few bottles of white wine.

  “I won’t tell if you don’t,” I say, gesturing toward Wen in the bathroom, and he laughs, putting them back.

  I get up and look through the window at the end of our trailer. Outside, sailors work on securing the Orion. They dismantle the portable airlock we walked through, spraying the deck with steam jets probably laced with a cocktail of chemicals. They’re wearing biological warfare suits. Thick folds of plastic cocoon them. Dark masks hide their faces.

  Chains secure our trailer, locking it to the deck in case of bad weather. Su-shun wanders over and peers out at the flurry of activity. It’s funny. They’re so busy. We, meanwhile, have nothing to do. I slump in the seat by the window, resting my arms on the small table.

  “Candy bar?” Su-shun’s found a stash of chocolate in a drawer. I never picked him for a sweet tooth, but it’s probably just a phase, something to tell Michelle about. Returning to Earth is a bit like going to Disneyland. The temptation is to try to do everything at once.

  “Sure.”

  He pushes one across the table, but with so little force it stops within a few inches. For a moment, he looks surprised. We both laugh. In space, that wo
uld have been enough to easily send it tumbling over to me.

  “Things are changing, huh?” he says.

  “A little too fast.”

  Wen comes out of the shower, wearing a fresh set of clothes. Her cheeks are flushed, but something’s not right. She’s looking into the middle distance. Her eyes glaze over—not focusing on us or anything in the trailer, which is confusing, disconcerting. It’s as though she’s seen a ghost.

  Then reality strikes.

  Wen buckles, collapsing and catching her head on the side of the counter as she crashes to the floor. Blood splatters across the linoleum.

  “Wen!” Su-shun rushes to her side. I run to grab the first aid kit from the wall, surprised by how heavy it feels in Earth’s gravity. It’s probably not more than a few kilograms of basic medical supplies, but I’m expecting it to respond in a weightless manner and simply follow my bidding. Instead, it swings down into my thigh.

  Wen is breathing but unconscious. Su-shun rolls her on her side, resting her head on her arm, bringing one leg up and pulling her closest arm behind her back so she’s in the recovery position, with her rib cage open wide to help her breathe. Her eyes have rolled into the back of her head.

  “We have an emergency here,” I call out, pulling open the Velcro straps on the first aid kit and tearing the plastic from a gauze pad to soak up the blood on her forehead.

  “Copy that” is the reply through the speakers. I slip on some surgical gloves and peel back her hair, gently daubing at the blood running from a gash above her eye. Su-shun cracks open a tube of saline solution and carefully tips the fluid over her face, washing away the blood so we can get a good look at her injury. I apply pressure to the cut, trying to stem the bleeding.

  Wen groans, which is a good sign—she’s at least semiconscious. Her eyes, though, are still largely in the back of her head, with only the rim of her irises visible. Occasional groans mean she’s exhaling, breathing freely. Between us, Su-shun and I do our best to make her comfortable.

  I support her head. “Easy. It’s okay. You’re going to be fine. You’ve had a fall. You hit your head. But we’ve got you. We’re here for you.”

  Wen is delirious; her fingers twitch. Spasms run down her arms. She’s trying to move.

  “Just relax. Su-shun and I are here to help. Don’t try to get up. Just breathe deeply. There’s no rush.”

  Su-shun looks up at one of the cameras, saying, “We could do with some help in here.”

  Again, the reply through the speakers is nothing more than “Copy that.”

  Copying is not help.

  I’m angry and frustrated, but for Wen’s sake, I bury that emotion.

  The combination of warm water, low blood sugar, and gravity weighing her down must have made her lightheaded coming out of the shower and she fainted, probably only momentarily. If she’d had another second or two and could have steadied herself, she would have probably come out of it on her own, but the fall caused significant damage. I’m not just worried about the bleeding. The blow to her head could have caused a severe concussion. She fell with no control, striking both the counter and then the floor without any attempt to soften her fall with her arms.

  Wen vomits. Spew runs down her arm, soaking her clothes.

  “Get me some towels,” I say to Su-shun, cradling Wen’s head as she lies on her side. Wen dry-retches a few times and spits, trying to clear her mouth. She tries to speak, but her words are incoherent. I don’t think it’s that she’s speaking Chinese, but that she’s struggling to process her thoughts. Su-shun steps around us, handing me several towels and some bottled water to wash away the sick. I rest her head on one towel, and use the other to mop up the sick.

  With Wen having fallen in the narrow walkway, we’re struggling to get around her properly. I’d like to move her into the open space by the table, or perhaps get her up on one of the bunks, but she needs to rest. Her body needs to find equilibrium.

  I raise my head to the roof and yell in exasperation. “We need a doctor in here!”

  “Copy that.”

  “Bullshit. Where the fuck is that doctor?”

  The cut on her head is bleeding again. When she vomited, I released pressure—not intentionally—it just felt like everything was happening at once. She’s sick. She’s hurt. She’s bleeding. I’m crying. Su-shun rests his hand on my shoulder. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. I breathe deeply and set myself to cleaning her wound again. Blood mats down her hair. I’m gentle, but she grimaces beneath my touch.

  Focusing on Wen helps me get through the moment.

  “What do you need?” Su-shun asks.

  “Another towel.”

  Su-shun’s brought a stack from the bathroom and hurriedly pushes one in my hand. I use it like a gauze pad, even though it’s not sterile. Right now, infection is low on the list of priorities. Knowing NASA, this place is probably cleaner than a surgical unit anyway.

  “Butterfly clips.” No sooner have I spoken than Su-shun is placing them in my hands. Carefully, I position the clips, pulling the skin on either side of her cut together to close off the wound. Swelling is already taking hold on her scalp, and bruising is showing around her eye. Within about an hour, it’s going to look like one of us took a swing at her with a pair of boxing gloves.

  “Ah, I need something that won’t stick. Is there any plastic gauze?” A packet is torn open and held out to me so I can retrieve the bandage without either of us touching the sterile side.

  “Compression bandage.” I wrap the bandage around her head, pulling tight to help reduce the swelling.

  Wen is relaxed. She’s unconscious, but I don’t think that’s a bad thing. I suspect her body is simply overwhelmed. I check her pulse. It’s steady, not erratic, and her breathing is rhythmic.

  “Wen? We’re going to move you, okay?” I ask, not actually expecting a reply. “We’re going to get you up on one of those beds.” Her head rolls about and her eyelids flicker. Good signs. She responds with a drunken slur. Not as good a sign, but better than being unresponsive. Su-shun shimmies past me and takes her upper torso, grabbing her beneath her armpits, while I lift her legs. We rest Wen on the bed and cover her with a blanket to keep her warm and help ward off shock.

  I’m shaking. It’s not until now that we’ve got her settled that I realize how weak I feel. Like Su-shun said: gravity sucks. I run my hands through my hair, forgetting I’m wearing bloodstained plastic gloves with vomit sticking to them. Frustrated, I peel the gloves from my fingers and toss them in a trashcan.

  Su-shun pulls a chair up next to Wen and gently cleans her face with a damp cloth, rinsing it in a bowl of water. He whispers to her, talking tenderly to her in Chinese. I turn and look at the door, waiting for it to open, willing medics to come rushing through, but no one does.

  “She needs to be hospitalized.” I know someone is watching, listening, calculating, even if they’re not replying. “She could have sustained serious internal injuries, perhaps a fractured skull.”

  There’s silence.

  “What is wrong with you people? You can’t do this to her!”

  I slam my hand onto the glass window. Outside, the vast mechanical bay is empty. Hydraulic lifts. Heavy chains. Pipes. Cables. Hatchways. Doors. Ladders. Reinforced struts lining the hull. I can see everything other than people.

  “Hey, easy.” Su-shun puts his arm around my shoulder. The way he’s holding me, he’s probably thinking I’m about to collapse like Wen. “It’s all right.”

  “No, it’s not all right. It’s mean. It’s cruel. It’s stupid.”

  Su-shun rubs my shoulder. I’m shaking but not from the cold or out of anger—I’m emotionally exhausted. Then come the two words I’ve learned to dread over the past half an hour.

  The speaker in our trailer crackles once more and I cringe, knowing what comes next. “Copy that.” But this isn’t the friendly acknowledgment of a flight controller in Houston, someone dedicated to supporting a mission. It’s the mind
less mantra of a naval officer following orders rather than his conscience.

  I cry. I don’t understand. How can they ignore Wen’s plight? A severe head injury to a Chinese astronaut under the care of the U.S. military must be sounding alarms—it has to be.

  But just then—finally—the far door to the vast, empty loading bay opens and several soldiers come through, wearing chemical warfare suits. They have rifles, which is baffling, but in their midst, there are soldiers carrying a stretcher overlaid with an oxygen tent. They make double time over to the trailer.

  “Stand clear of the door. ”

  They can see us. Neither of us are anywhere near the door. We’re both by the window at the other end of the trailer, watching the soldiers. From where we are, neither of us can see down the side of the trailer, but it’s clear there’s some kind of large tent erected beside the door. The edge of it is just visible. They’ve set up some kind of portable airlock.

  The door opens. The first person through is a soldier with a rifle. The barrel points at the floor of the trailer, but it’s disquieting nonetheless to see such a display of force.

  Su-shun and I back up by the window, watching in a daze as soldiers clad in thick, noisy chemical suits place the stretcher on the floor by Wen. With each movement, there’s a squish and squelch and the sound of rubber flexing. The soldiers talk to each other, but their voices are muffled by their suits. They must have radio contact. There’s no yelling. No one says anything to us, although the soldier with the rifle remains by the door—his eyes fixed on us. He’s ignoring the transfer of Wen to the stretcher, watching only for our reaction from behind a cold, dark mask.

  The soldiers strap her into the stretcher, fix the oxygen tent over her, start the flow from a cylinder, and nestle it in beside her. Then they raise her and exit out the door. The soldier with the rifle, still pointing at the floor, is the last to leave.