Satellite

by Nick Lake

  “ok,” i say. like: so what?

  “so there’s this old idea, & ur Grandpa went back to it before anyone else: u keep ur cattle down on ur lower fields most of the year, while u let ur upper fields grow. & u plant them with cover crops, stuff with strong roots. collard. rye. clover. then, right at the end of summer, u move ur cattle up to the upper fields & u let the cows eat those cover crops till they’re almost gone, before u send the cattle to slaughter or back down to the low fields, if they’re still too young or they’re too old or too light or whatever. u move the cattle around, never letting them graze the land completely. & u plant carefully. & that way u keep ur soil.”

  i feel proud of Grandpa, in that moment. who am i kidding. i feel proud of Grandpa most of the time. “thanks,” i say. “for explaining.”

  Grandpa explains a bit—but i think he is also 1 of those “learn from doing” kind of people. he is all about doing, really. look at the ranch he built.

  Kyle tips his hat to me again. “any time.”

  Grandpa & 1 of the other men—i think his name is Alonzo & he has a mustache & green nail polish—come over & nod to Kyle. no, not Alonzo. Lorenzo. “we’re going to drive them down the west chute”—Grandpa indicates a direction—“& into the corral there. there’s a race: we can separate the 2-year-olds from the rest of the herd. then u can do the ultrasounds. ok?”

  “ok,” says Kyle.

  “ultrasounds?” i ask. it’s a weird after-echo of the base, like something of it has stayed lingering in the world around me, a mirage. i think of the nurse. maybe they don’t need to send him. her. whoever. maybe Kyle could do it instead. scan me.

  “i’m a vet,” says Kyle. “at least i worked with 1 for a while. i ultrasound the cattle. check the marbling of the meat. it’s all quality & provenance now. well, i guess since quantity became impossible anyway. only rich people can afford beef & they only want the best.” he says this as if the words taste bad, bitter, & i wonder if he’s the son of 1 of the farmers whose ranch has failed, with the drought, or if he just doesn’t like people buying top meat when most can’t buy any at all, but i don’t say anything. Kyle tips his hat to me again & goes to plan with the others.

  i stand for a moment, just looking at the land & the cattle, so many of them, dozens & dozens, that are scattered around—over maybe a hundred acres. i know the dogs will round them up, but it seems like a difficult task.

  i look down at my own dog. he is twisting around my feet. i say, “sit,” & he keeps twisting around. i say, “sit,” again, & he still runs. again—& finally he sits down, in the grass. i have kept some pieces of bacon in my pocket & i bend to give it to him. he licks it from my hand with his leathery tongue—the sensation of it when i first felt it on my skin was so startling i almost cried out.

  i’m training him. Grandpa told me how. i want him to be the best cattle dog in the valley, 1 day.

  i pick up a stick & throw it for Comet—tell him to fetch it. that one’s easy. fetching is hardwired. dogs just do it naturally. then i start slowly walking in the direction of the cows; the ground is uneven, so i step with care. i tell Comet to heel, & repeat it until he shadows my movements, as if tacked to me.

  Grandpa talks to the others for a while, then comes over to me. “good dog, that,” he says.

  “i figure that’s why u chose him for me,” i say.

  Grandpa winks. “he can watch the others round up the cows,” he says. “he’ll hear the whistles. start to learn.”

  “ok,” i say. “& what do i do?”

  “u stay right here,” says Grandpa. “don’t get too close to the cattle. u can move along with us to the west if u like. when we have them corralled u can come & sit on the fence. ok?”

  “ok.”

  “keep Comet close. u don’t want him getting trampled.”

  “ok.”

  “ur crutches are in the truck, if u need them.”

  eyes on mine. challenge 3.

  “i won’t,” i say.

  challenge accepted.

  he walks off with the others, & Kyle tips his hat to me from afar as they start to work.

  i watch. it is like a ballet, a performance, it is orchestrated & almost mute, the men just occasionally shouting some instruction to one another that makes no sense to me. they whistle to the dogs too—all border collies, 3 of them Grandpa’s & the others belonging to the men. the dogs circle groups of cows that huddle, scared, & then move when the dogs yip & nip at them, responding to high-pitched commands from the men.

  i purse my lips, try to whistle. nothing but the sound of air escaping a vent. i will learn. like Comet. the puppy is dancing at my feet—occasionally he runs toward the cows but i call him back, & to my amazement he comes, each time, fleet over the clumped ground, “fleet” the only word for it, because it’s a word for fast but it has that L in it, has liquid in it, & his speed is something more of water than of flesh.

  we make our way steadily westward, as the sun climbs in the sky. we are working early—even at this time of year it gets hot at midday, & Grandpa wanted it done before then, that’s what he said in the truck.

  as i walk, i c something smooth & white on the ground in front of me, paper of some kind. i glance around: a few ft. away i c another, bent against a tuft of grass.

  carefully, i bend down & pick it up. it’s a small sheet of shiny paper. on it is printed a short message:

  SPACE BOY

  we can help u.

  call vidlink 598.9xt.87##

  i swallow.

  i look around again. in the distance i think i c another sheet, half-pressed into the ground. did someone drop these from a drone? from a crop-dusting plane? the fence is a long way away but they’re here, these pieces of old-school paper, & they seem to be meant for me.

  space boy.

  i think of Kyle calling me an alien. but he said it nicely, & of course he doesn’t know the truth, whereas this feels…not threatening exactly, but scary. assuming this is meant for me, why would anyone think i need help? why would anyone know where i really came from? it’s meant to be a secret.

  i wish Libra & Orion were here, or i could vid them, so i could talk to them about it.

  Grandpa turns, a few hundred ft. ahead. “come on, Leo,” he says.

  the sheet of paper is kind of folded in my hand & from there he can’t c it, at least i don’t think so. i wave, to say, yes, i’m coming.

  then i fold it again & put it in my pocket.

  something is going on: i know it. & i need to find out what it is.

  choosing my steps, i cover the grassy ground, trying not to fall. heart hammering; chest rhythmically rising. i fight gravity. i fight it with every step. Comet meanwhile seems only half subject to it; seems a creature of permanently coiled & potential energy, a spring always ready to bounce off the ground, Hooke’s law in action with a k value of stiffness immeasurably smaller than mine, a thing of rubber, not flesh & bone.

  he skips, & gambols, & runs; i stagger.

  but we mirror the movement of the cows & the men as they gradually head to the chute, which turns out to be a smooth silvery tapering pen, made of walls of thin steel, leading to a long fenced section of ground, enclosed by wooden posts on either side. this must be the race, i guess.

  i stop, my muscles aching. the sun is nearly at its zenith & i am sweating too, the liquid running down my skin, a sensation i am still getting used to. i can put out my tongue & taste it—salt, on my lips.

  space boy, i think.

  why would a boy from space need help? how would anyone know i was a space boy in the first place? i’m in a wide-open field, my grandpa is here, these men he trusts. yet i feel vulnerable, small, scared in a way i didn’t on the station.

  the other men drive the cows forward, until they enter the chute & hurry down it, then into the track of grass beyond. i c that Grandpa has moved to the far end, where he is operating a gate that can swing 1 way or the other, like a tongue in a mouth, sending the cattle either into a
round fenced corral or out into another field.

  finally there are no more cows entering the race, & Grandpa shuts the gate he has been manipulating to close off the corral. he sees me watching & beckons me over.

  i make my way to him, Comet running ahead. there’s a weird moment—i am about to take a step when Comet jumps at me, barking, & i fall back but catch myself & don’t go down. i sway for a second. then i c: in front of me is a hole in the ground, maybe there was a rock there or something or it’s a small sinkhole, & i was about to step into it.

  it’s as if Comet saw it & warned me—& maybe that’s exactly what happened. i bend to him—which still hurts—& put my arms around him & hold him close. i feel his breath hot against me & he makes a low growling sound that sounds like happiness.

  then we walk again, to Grandpa. i wonder if he’s seen them, the flyers. i passed a couple more, in the grass. from the condition of the paper i think they were dropped there recently. but he doesn’t say anything & nor do i.

  he waves over Kyle, & the 2 of them catch me under the legs & lift me up onto the flat-topped, wide fence of the race, so i can c into the corral but without my legs dangling into it. then they stoop & pick up Comet & put him into my arms, where he squirms at first, & then settles, pressing into me.

  “now, we weigh & scan,” says Kyle.

  between them, the men work to separate single cows, or bulls, & i suddenly realize. meat herd—they’re all bulls. the dogs push them into a little area within the corral, fenced, where they stand on a metal plate that i suppose is for weighing them. meanwhile Kyle is next to them with a handheld wand that is connected to a machine running off a generator, & displaying images on a screen that is too far away for me to work out. they must have brought the equipment here before they came to the ranch.

  i can smell the fuel from the generator tho, the exhaust. i can smell the animals—i feel like i can even smell their nervousness. when they pass close by i feel the air move & i c the beauty of their big dark eyes, framed by lashes—when i look into those eyes it seems almost as if there is something being communicated, some bond; it’s weird, & it makes me feel sad, because this is all about choosing which ones are going to die.

  sometimes Kyle shakes his head, & then Grandpa or Lorenzo or 1 of the others takes the cow away to the field, where the too-small remaining cattle were thinned out. but most of the time he nods, & they go thru a gate in the little channel where he is working & into yet another field—the field of slaughter, i think to myself, & then chide myself for thinking something so melodramatic.

  the day wears on.

  my tailbone aches. the wood presses splinters into the backs of my thighs. flies from the cows buzz about my face. incredibly annoying: in space there are no small things with wings that zip about u, emitting low drones, tickling ur hair & skin. but i won’t complain, not to Grandpa.

  Comet goes to sleep on my lap.

  the smell is always in my nostrils: dung, sweat, hide.

  the sun arcs across the sky.

  the clouds continue their endless journey from the mountains where they are made.

  & finally, the herds begin to thin. occasionally Kyle presses his hand to his back—he is sore, i think, from bending to ultrasound the cows’ flanks. i swat flies from my eyes.

  then a trail of dust, rising like smoke, resolves itself into a truck—no, 2 trucks—driving up a road hidden from me by a crest of land. they pull up beyond the field the best 2-year-olds have been sorted into, & i realize they have come to take them to the slaughterhouse.

  Grandpa comes over to me. as he passes 1 of the few remaining bulls, he stops, looks into its eyes, whispers something in its ear, & then pats its nose before slapping its rump, so that it hurries toward Kyle & the other men.

  he leans against the fence next to me.

  i c that he is crying—either that or he is sweating in a really strange way, from his eyes.

  “u’re crying,” i say.

  “yes,” he says.

  “why?”

  he forces a smile. “because i am killing my cattle.”

  “but…” i look around me. i think of the vids i have seen. the books i have read. “i thought ranching was all about being…tough. i mean, u grow them to kill them. or u rear them. whatever.”

  “yes.”

  “but u’re still upset.”

  “yes.”

  i shake my head. i don’t understand.

  “have u looked into their eyes?” he says.

  i have. i have seen into them. the blackness. like looking into deep space.

  i nod.

  “so have i,” he says. “farming is not about being tough. it’s about looking after them as best u can. & then bearing witness, when they go. not closing ur eyes.”

  as he says this, the men begin to herd the cattle into the trucks, maybe a hundred yards from us—i can’t c the wheels, but i can c the heads of the cattle, disappearing up into the vehicles.

  Grandpa watches the whole time. he never looks away. finally the trucks drive off, swirling with dust.

  “well,” says Grandpa. “home.” he sets off toward the pickup. Lorenzo & the other guy whose name i don’t know are doing the same, making their way from where the cattle were being loaded into the truck, their dogs following.

  i realize i am meant to get down from the fence & follow them. challenge 4.

  i sit there for a while. then Kyle passes.

  “u’re crying,” he says. “are u ok?”

  i am thinking of the eyes of the cattle. of their gentleness, the flicking of their tails, the flickering of light in those eyes—stars, distant.

  “yes,” i say. “just witnessing.”

  “ah, yep,” says Kyle. “the old man is a romantic all right.”

  i nod.

  “u want a hand down from that fence?”

  “yes please,” i say.

  challenge 4: accepted.

  Comet stirs in my arms as Kyle puts a hand under my knees, the other under my arm. he lifts me & i feel his strength, the perfect assembly of his muscles & tendons, so effortless, so efficient. things i have never felt in space: the engineering of another body, the gravity-fighting mechanics of levers & springs. when he eases me down & steps away i feel relieved but also like my body has been hit by a very mild stun gun.

  i take a step. instantly awake, Comet leaps from my arms & bolts off ahead of me.

  “heel,” i call.

  he turns & flashes back, something of light & movement, not even physical, & then he is at my feet.

  “u’re training him well,” says Kyle.

  “thanks,” i say.

  & we walk.

  we pass another of those sheets of paper. i can just c the letters ACE B— the rest is hidden. by the way it’s been trampled into the earth, i’m guessing by a cow.

  Kyle doesn’t look at it or say anything. so i don’t either.

  Grandpa has his screen on his lap. Comet is on my lap, snoring.

  the stove is sending a glowing, pulsing heat into the room.

  Grandpa is talking in Russian to a man on the screen. for once the internet is working.

  the man Grandpa’s talking to has very white skin, whiter than i’ve ever seen. he has long, bushy, pale eyebrows, & glasses, & looks like a retired university professor but actually he’s a cosmonaut named Yuri; at least, that’s what Grandpa said when the call came thru on the screen.

  Yuri laughs a lot. he gestures a lot too, & Grandpa laughs, talking to him. i get the sense they have known each other a long time. they must have flown together. or were up on the station together.

  then Yuri looks sad. he dabs at his eyes. Grandpa’s tone goes low & sympathetic. they talk like that for a bit longer until Grandpa says goodbye & cuts off the call.

  “what was that?” i say. “why did he cry?”

  “they’re an emotional people,” says Grandpa. “he was talking about the end of the Russian space program.”

  “ah,” i say. �
�end of an era.”

  “yeah. now it’s all INDNAS. no Russia. no USA.”

  “uh-huh,” i say.

  “now it’s all just gathering dust,” says Grandpa. “the Russian equipment.”

  “yeah?”

  “yeah. Yuri said he’d been out to Baikonur recently & they’ve got a big hangar there full of old Buran shuttles, rusting. they just shelved them. fully operational spaceships, abandoned.”

  “oh,” i say.

  “yeah,” says Grandpa. “shame. used to be it was all of us together. now it’s just the Company. the Russians helped to build the first station, u know? actually they were kind of instrumental in the early stages.”

  “yeah,” i say. i’m Mr. Monosyllable today.

  “now Yuri’s just sitting around in his father’s cabin by the Black Sea, telling anyone who will listen, which is mostly me, anecdotes about his time in space. looking after his woodland.” he pauses. “he misses space a lot.”

  “sounds like u do too,” i say.

  Grandpa gives me a slow, sad smile. “sometimes,” he says. then his smile grows brighter, & he indicates the fire, the dog, me. “but not right now,” he says.

  it’s a cool day when it happens.

  fall is well named, & when it comes falling like a rock in these parts, i’ll know it. that’s what Grandpa says. 1 day it’s summer & then 1 morning there’s a thin film of ice on the puddles. there aren’t many trees to speak of, so we don’t c leaves turning orange & dropping, but every morning when i wake, it’s cooler, until my breath smokes above me, as i lie under several blankets—& Comet.

  always Comet. curled over my feet, or nestled into my side, hot as a hot-water bottle—that’s a comparison i can use now. the space station robs u of most similes—u have never experienced anything but space, so it is hard to hold 1 event or thing against another & say these are alike.

  another morning we wake & there is a filigree of frost on the inside of my window; delicate as fern leaves—something else i have now seen, in the fields. the seasons are turning. it’s to do with the earth’s precession. the earth wobbles up & down in a slow wave, as it circles the sun, tilting the northern hemisphere closer & then farther from the sun, close-far, close-far, close-far. & when the earth leans to the sun in the summer months, the sun is higher in the sky, & when it leans away in winter, the sun is lower & hits the horizon sooner in the evening.