Satellite

by Nick Lake

  it’s a look that says: trouble.

  for u.

  not for them.

  because their look also says: competence.

  their look says: hardness.

  the men hold their hands in a strange way. then i realize it’s a ready-to-draw-a-weapon way.

  the Dr. stares at them. “who are u?” she says.

  Boutros waves this away like a wasp, or something lesser maybe—a fly. “we’ll take over from here,” he says.

  & then the men escort the Dr. from the room.

  Comet barks & barks in alarm. the epicenter. waves of sound pond-rippling away from us, echoing off the walls of the little windowless room.

  Boutros requisitions a wheelchair from somewhere, & they sit me in it & push me down the hallway until we reach the exit. then we go thru a sliding door & into the cool night air. above, thin clouds drift past the stars.

  they wheel me along the pavement a short way until we reach a convoy of big cars with blacked-out windows. Comet is agitated: i keep my good hand on him, stroking him, reassuring him.

  he whines, low.

  we reach a van. black like the others. chrome bumpers. ahead, there’s an identical 1, & i c my mother being wheeled up a ramp at the back, her arm & shoulder bandaged. i call out.

  “Mother.”

  she turns, looks at me.

  unspoken questions flow thru the air from me to her, waves of them.

  then she looks away again. they push her into the van & close the doors.

  the doors of the closest van are opened. the men in black roll me up the ramp & secure the wheelchair with straps. it’s as if they have planned for this. 1 of the men in black sits in a seat just in front of the space where i’m secured. doors open & shut.

  then the engine vibrates into life, & the van pulls away.

  “u going to tell me what’s going on?” i say to the man.

  he keeps looking straight ahead.

  “thought not,” i say.

  we drive for no more than ten minutes. then we stop. the doors open & artificial light pours in. i blink. the man in black undoes my fastenings & presses a button to lower the ramp. then he wheels me out.

  we’re on a landing strip. big arc lights on poles illuminate the scene, banishing the stars. a hangar of some kind stands to the right. there are other low buildings in the distance, some stationary vehicles scattered about: forklift trucks, small flatbeds. i c a red-&-white-striped wind sock hanging slack in the slight breeze. on the runway is a small plane, also black.

  the goon pushes me toward it. Boutros walks ahead, with other suited men. i hear an engine buzz & cut out, tires coming to a stop. i look behind. the doors of a van open, & my mother is rolled out. now we are both being pushed across the wide-open tarmac to the jet. steps lead up to it.

  when we reach the steps, 2 men lift me up from the wheelchair. i glance back & c that my mother is being lifted from her chair too.

  “wait,” i say, as Comet digs his claws into me in alarm. i sort of scoop him up with my 1 good arm, hold him tight against my chest.

  he doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t resist.

  surprisingly gently, the men carry me to the steps & start climbing them.

  i don’t know why it surprises me actually. gentleness is 1 of those strange things: the stronger u are, almost the easier it is.

  but that’s not important.

  what is important is that i am taken into the cabin & placed in a big leather seat. it’s not like planes i’ve seen on vids. it’s an open space, with seats more like armchairs, facing each other. the side walls of the aircraft are white. there is a lot of wood detailing: panels, accents. it’s like a luxury apartment. on the floor is a thick carpet.

  what is even more important is that Grandpa is sitting in 1 of those seats already. at his feet is a gray duffel bag, zipped up.

  gently—again—they lower my mother into another seat. she blanches, & i c sweat beading on her forehead. why’s she allowing this to happen? i wonder.

  what’s going on? i think.

  because i know something is going on.

  i have known for some time that something was going on. but maybe…i didn’t want to know.

  at the same time.

  then Boutros comes & stands between us, hands clasped together.

  i let go of Comet. he jumps down to stand at my feet, as if guarding me. i realize that he is growling, quietly, at Boutros, the hair stiff on his neck.

  Boutros glances down at him. “he’d better not shit on the carpet,” he says.

  Grandpa makes a tutting noise. “he’s house-trained, but i guess it depends on how long the flight is,” he says.

  Boutros nods. “u have a lot of questions. i understand.”

  Grandpa smiles. “oh, u do, do u?”

  “events have overtaken us,” says Boutros.

  “no shit,” says Grandpa.

  “we knew the nutjobs were getting bolder. we didn’t think they’d actually…” he trails off.

  actually: break into the house.

  actually: try to kidnap or kill me.

  “to answer ur indirect question,” says Boutros, “we’ll be flying for around 5 hours. we’re going to Mountain Dome.” he says it like that. with capitals on the M & the D.

  “oh,” says Grandpa.

  my mother’s eyelids are half-closed. she forces them open a little more. “why?” she says. her voice sounds dry. croaky. a crow mimicking human language.

  “like i said,” says Boutros. “events have overtaken us. clearly the wider world is not safe for Leo. too many people want him.”

  “how did they even know where we were?” says Grandpa.

  “we’ve had…a leak,” says Boutros.

  Grandpa nods. “i assumed.”

  silence.

  “but…why?” i say. “why do they want me?”

  Boutros makes a gesture with his hands that might mean: that’s too big a question for me to answer right now. “X-Files loonies,” he says. i know that’s a TV show from decades ago. “twisting the information. convinced u’re something u’re not.”

  “an alien,” i say.

  he nods.

  pause.

  “am i?” i say.

  “Leo, i told u,” says my mother.

  “u haven’t told me anything,” i say, smacking the armrest of my seat. “i want answers.” & i do. no more waiting. no more bullshit. it’s time to get the truth.

  “& u’ll get them. at Mountain Dome,” says Boutros. his tone is final. his tone says: don’t ask again.

  “i still don’t c why we’re going there of all places,” says my mother.

  “we also have some…medical issues,” says Boutros. “the other 2 subjects. there are…complications. we are hoping the high altitude will help.”

  “we have some of those here too,” says Grandpa. he cuts his eyes to me. my leg in its cast. my wrist.

  my mother says nothing, she just looks back & forth between the 2 of them.

  “yes,” says Boutros. “the doctors at the hospital assured me that there was no immediate risk. we can administer pain medication on the flight. when we arrive, of course, Dr. Hendricks & the medics at the facility will take it from there: get Freeman’s shoulder fixed; check the boy’s wrist.”

  “Dr. Stearns is unavailable, i suppose,” says Grandpa. there is something in his voice. a knowing tone. an implication.

  “Dr. Stearns is no longer with us,” says Boutros.

  “i know,” says Grandpa. still that undercurrent of belligerence in his voice.

  Boutros claps his hands together, softly. “well,” he says. “i will be aft, for the voyage. if u need anything—painkillers, a drink, whatever—just press the button on ur armrest.”

  “have a good flight,” says Grandpa, sarcastically, it seems to me.

  Boutros turns on his heel & walks away & thru a door at the end of the cabin.

  “what’s happening?” i say to Grandpa.

 
he shakes his head. “it’s not for me to say,” he says. “i apologize.” it sounds like he finds these words difficult, his mouth unused to them.

  huh.

  “it’s not for u to say, or u don’t want to?”

  he smiles at me, a sad smile. “both,” he says.

  “Mother?” i say. but she doesn’t answer. her eyes are closed. she’s asleep, or pretending to be.

  Grandpa sits back in his seat. i feel the plane begin to move, & we taxi for a moment, before the engines power up fully & the thrust pushes me back. it reminds me of when i first landed & the days afterward. that impression of being catapulted into the ground; into a bed; into a chair.

  the plane rushes forward, & i rush backward, into my seat.

  & then we’re in the air—

  i feel it, i feel it deep inside me, the sudden divorce from gravity, the leap up, the springing into another dimension, into weightlessness or near it—

  i feel it with every atom in my body, every spinning particle orbiting around nothingness, feel the beauty of all the heavy material, the thick mantle of earth falling away, below us.

  flight:

  the noun for flying.

  & the noun for fleeing.

  we flee the earth, & my heart pounds with the joy of it. what’s wrong with me? all i ever wanted was this place. the ranch. the feeling of the ground beneath my feet.

  but when we take off, into the sky, my body sings with it.

  we rise & rise, & my ears pop, again & again. i swallow, to clear them. Comet turns in circles, barking excitedly. he doesn’t know what this is, this strange kind of motion, this lifting up. he runs over to Grandpa & jumps into his lap & twists there a moment, then jumps down again & runs over to me.

  “it’s ok, Comet,” i say. i lower my hand & rub behind his ears.

  he calms a little.

  eventually we level out.

  minutes pass.

  more.

  hours.

  i close my eyes & i think i fall asleep.

  when i wake, nothing has moved, & no one. like a slice of time has just been elided, like my sleep was a bracketed clause, & the sentence just goes on, full of commas, full of &s, never reaching any conclusion—& the plane moved, & they sat there, silent.

  i watch my mother, her eyes closed. Grandpa looking out of the window, as if the clouds can tell him something.

  then finally a period, & a new line:

  .

  my mother’s eyes open. she winces.

  “he said u could press the button in the seat arm for painkillers,” says Grandpa.

  Mother nods. she pushes the button, & a moment later a guy in a black suit appears.

  “drugs,” she says.

  “uh-huh,” he says. he goes away & comes back with a plastic cup of water & some white pills. my mother knocks them back. the guy disappears.

  Comet walks over to her & winds around her foot.

  “hello, Comet,” she says.

  bark.

  “hello, Mother,” i say. “what’s going on?”

  she shakes her head.

  great.

  she squints at Grandpa. her eyes are clearer now, her eyelids drooping less. “after the fence, u should have got him out of there. taken him to the base.” her tone is accusatory.

  “the base isn’t safe either, Marie,” he says. “u know that. protesters all around. they’d c our car a mile off.”

  it’s the first time i’ve heard that: Grandpa calling her Marie.

  “the advantage of the base…” she sucks in air thru her teeth, adjusts her leg. “…is that it doesn’t bring armed men to ur house. on the base, the armed men are on the perimeters. guarding it.”

  he doesn’t say anything to that. he closes his eyes for a moment. “i’m sorry,” he says, a little later.

  she flicks this away with a hand.

  pause.

  “why are u here?” says my mother. “with us? why didn’t u stay on ur precious ranch?”

  he blinks, like it’s a ridiculous question. “i’m here for Leo. i’m here for u.”

  she does that laugh that has been carved out, just empty bones, rattling. “first time for everything,” she says.

  i feel like i’m watching a vid in a foreign language, without subtitles. or like i have entered a room & missed the first part of the conversation, even tho i have been here all the time.

  i close my eyes.

  time passes.

  after a while, Grandpa clears his throat, low & quiet.

  “are u going to tell him, then?” he says, in an almost-whisper.

  “not here,” says Mother. “not now.”

  Grandpa shrugs. “soon he will know anyway.”

  silence.

  the plane begins to descend, i feel it, it’s a feeling a little like sadness. coming down. i think how those words convey loss, convey the end of a dream. coming down to earth. coming down with a bump.

  Grandpa unbuckles his seat belt & goes over to the windows. he opens the blinds & the plane banks & i c snowy mountains below, glittering in the pale light of dawn. the plane lowers & lowers in the air & i realize we’re circling, going round & round a high-up valley in the mountains. they stretch almost to the horizon, this range—i can c green trees, but a long way away.

  i can’t get out of my seat but i’m quite close to the window. i watch. there is a building of some kind at the top of the valley, a semisphere, rising from the snow, glassy it looks like. panels of translucent curving wall, a sort of biodome shape. below it is a landing strip, lit up by twinkling blue & red lights.

  Mountain Dome, i presume.

  “where is this place?” i say.

  “Mountain Dome,” says my mother.

  “i guessed that.”

  Grandpa stirs in his seat. “it’s a high-altitude, low-pressure training facility. i haven’t been here since before the moon trip.”

  “oh.” i think for a moment. hope for a moment. “we’re training for something?” it’s so obviously not the case, but sometimes it’s nice to say something, to act like it might be true.

  “i don’t think so, Leo,” says Grandpa sadly. the plane roars as it goes into a landing pattern. i hear the wheels deploy. “i think this is more of a permanent arrangement.”

  mother gives him a look but doesn’t say anything.

  the door opens & Boutros comes in. he puts a hand on my mother’s headrest to steady himself. he looks at Grandpa & at Mother, her eyes more alert now. “u discussed the Constellation Mission yet?” he says. something in his tone tells me he already knows the answer. maybe he’s had a camera on us this whole time.

  actually, he has definitely had a camera on us this whole time.

  “no,” says my mother. “treatment first.”

  Grandpa gives her a look. i don’t know what it means.

  “fine,” says Boutros. “i would like to be present, if that’s all right with u.”

  my mother inclines her head. but it wasn’t really a question.

  “right,” says Boutros. “seat belts on for landing please. we’ll take u straight to medical.”

  we fasten our seat belts.

  he goes away, thru the door.

  in my head: what is happening? what is happening? what is happening? Comet poises, then pounces up onto my lap. he curls up. i scratch under his chin—he loves that. he growls quietly, a satisfied-but-still-a-little-frightened growl. a what-is-happening growl.

  i know how he feels.

  coming down.

  wheels squealing.

  coming down to earth.

  air brakes flip up: thrown forward into seat belt, digging into my waist.

  coming down with a bump.

  the cold hits me like a wall when they carry me down the stairs & out of the plane, unlike anything i’ve felt before on Moon 2, where every temperature is controlled. this is like loneliness; like death; made into weather.

  they put me into a wheelchair that is waiting. my mother too.
r />   Comet walks alongside as they push us. i c him stumble a little, then regain his balance. he seems unsteady on his feet. disorientation from the flight, i assume.

  we cross a snowy runway, Grandpa insisting on pushing my wheelchair, the scent of what i assume is pine somewhere, thinly, on the air. i am conscious of being at a great height—in the distance, i c hills, giving way to woody expanses, but they are a long way down. a mountain peak rises above, rock & ice lit by the rising sun.

  the dome is huge ahead of us. a hill in its own right.

  they push us across the runway & ahead, thru glass doors, into the dome. immediately, warm air embraces us. a vast atrium rises around us, curving into the distance, gangways & lights & scaffolding. there is a sense of much greater depth than we can c. in front of us is a semicircular wall, as high as the dome, which is maybe 100 ft. tall, with doors set into it.

  Boutros walks up alongside us, his heels clicking on the concrete floor. one of the doors in front of us opens & we move toward it, then thru, & into a hallway. fluorescent lights are set in bars overhead.

  to my surprise, Comet chooses to walk alongside my mother’s wheelchair, behind me.

  “hello, Comet,” says my mother.

  bark.

  then he runs up & bounces along next to me, as the men push me. i reach down my hand & pat his head, & he yaps. to him this is some kind of adventure, i guess.

  the hallway turns, once, twice, & we go thru a couple of doors, & then we’re in what is clearly a medical bay. a man in a white shirt comes over. there are nurses too, & people at computers, & others pushing equipment around.

  “Dr. Hendricks,” he says, & reaches out his hand to shake mine, but Comet jumps up at him & barks.

  “sorry,” i say.

  Dr. Hendricks smiles & the smile pulls his eyes in too; they crinkle at the corners. “no problem. he’s cute,” he says. he takes a step back. Comet sits back on his hind legs, looking up at him. “u must be Leo.” he turns to my mother. “& u’re Flight Officer Freeman.”

  “yes,” says my mother the conversationalist.

  Dr. Hendricks nods. “right.” he lifts a screen. “i have Leo’s x-rays here & his new injury is straightforward. so my registrar”—he indicates a guy in a turban standing close by—“will take care of a better cast for that, actually we just use a kind of special wristband, while we get u seen to, Flight Officer. ur shoulder has been reset as i understand it? but i’d like to give it a second look all the same.”