Satellite

by Nick Lake

  as she says it, lights click on inside the dome. lots & lots of lights.

  “not very long, it seems,” says Grandpa. “ok. this might get interesting.”

  the plane touches down & bumps & slides for a moment, rocking, before its wheels find purchase. the ailerons go up & it slows with a shhh sound of rubber on tarmac, the engine roar loud now in our ears, & finally comes to a stop only a few ft. from us.

  “go go go,” says Grandpa. i hear the joy in his voice. i hear the astronaut in him, still there, a man in a silver space suit who lives inside my grandpa’s skin.

  we go.

  i hobble. Libra pushes, the little wheels of her walker squeaking over the ground. Grandpa hustles Orion forward, making sure the IV bag on its pole doesn’t drag behind, doesn’t snag.

  the door of the plane opens & a man in a baseball cap peers out, shielding his eyes from the cold air, then hits an unseen lever & stairs unfold onto the tarmac with a pneumatic hush.

  “stop!” says a voice behind us. i turn & c several doctors hustling out of the dome. the guard confers with them for a moment, then starts half running toward us, as if careful not to slip on the cold ground.

  “stop!” he shouts. “i’ll shoot!”

  “he won’t,” says Grandpa.

  bang.

  i glance back & c the muzzle-flare out of the corner of my eye—there’s a whistling sound & the sense of something passing above us.

  “he’s firing over our heads,” says Grandpa. “just a warning.”

  1 of the doctors starts shouting at the guard, & he holds his hands up, like, what? but then another Dr. yells at the first 1 & no one seems sure what they’re doing.

  meanwhile we are at the stairs of the plane.

  “what the hell, Freeman?” says the man, Rick, from the aircraft door. icy wind snatches his words half away. “u didn’t say there’d be guns.” then Grandpa is gently picking up Orion from his chair, a fireman’s lift, holding him over his shoulder while tucking the drip under his arm, balancing the oxygen tank.

  “i said it was a rescue,” says Grandpa. “what did u expect? anyway, quit whining. a little help here please.”

  Rick hops down the steps. he’s short—maybe 5'6"—but muscly, wiry. he has a twirly mustache that curls in loops at the side of his mouth. he nods at me & Libra. “hey,” he says. then he gets hold of Orion with Grandpa & they start carrying him up the short flight of steps.

  they disappear from view.

  i hear running footsteps behind. i turn. the guard is 100 ft. away.

  80.

  70.

  he pauses, shoulders his gun. fires once more over our heads. “stop right now!” he says. “those kids are Company property.”

  “oh screw u,” shouts Orion from the door of the plane.

  “hurry,” i say.

  Grandpa comes out again & holds the handrails, just slides down, feet at the sides of the steps, whoosh. he lands in a crouch on the runway. Rick runs down behind him & picks up Libra while Grandpa grabs her walker.

  “Leo, u’re on ur own,” he says. “throw the crutches in first.”

  i look at the steps. they seem very high, somehow, even tho there are only 3 of them, maybe 4.

  i turn.

  the guard is 20 ft. away. if he jumped now, like a football player going for a touchdown, he could almost reach me.

  i c Grandpa enter the plane with the walker & i move quickly. at the bottom of the steps i hoist each crutch & then throw them like javelins, thru the hole of the door. then i hold on to the railings & try to put most of my weight on my good wrist, on my good leg, as i climb.

  1 step.

  2 steps.

  it’s the first time i’ve been up steps since i was at Grandpa’s house, i realize, & then i remember the first time i did it at the base, the pain of it, the feeling of wrongness. now that feeling is made worse by my blood pounding in my ears. i can hear my heartbeat so loud, & it seems like even the guard will be able to hear it as he closes on me; i hear the crisp sibilant sound as the soles of his shoes skid to a halt on the tarmac, right behind me.

  “last chance, stop now,” he calls.

  but i’m thru the door. Rick is beside me. he pulls me in, almost pulls me off balance. i kind of dance awkwardly into a seat that’s just opposite. he yanks on a metal lever & the stairs fold up with a breath of pumps, & then he hits another button & the door snicks shut.

  click.

  outside, the guard shouts. “do not even think about taking off. if u try, i will shoot, i will—”

  everyone ignores him.

  Rick gestures at my seat. “belt up,” he says.

  i look behind me. Orion & Libra are already strapped into seats, on opposite sides of the plane. Orion’s drip is lashed to his armrest with some kind of canvas strap & i wonder how they managed that so quickly. he is terribly pale, breathing deeply from his oxygen tank, which is strapped into the seat next to him—2 seats on each side, 2 rows.

  i turn back to the front of the plane & c Grandpa leaning back from the cockpit. “ready?” he says.

  “er, yeah,” i say.

  there’s more shouting from outside.

  “where’d u get this plane from anyway?” i hear Grandpa say. “this isn’t ur crop sprayer.”

  “borrowed it from the flying club,” says Rick, pulling on headphones as the plane turns. “don’t think they expected me to take it to Alaska.”

  “well, thanks,” says Grandpa.

  “any time,” says Rick.

  he throttles down. the plane accelerates, going back along the runway the way it came. i look out the window, c snow & rock blurring past. i tense, waiting for gunfire, but it doesn’t come.

  a sudden pull on my stomach, & a lurch, & then the plane is in the air, climbing. gravity fights: i feel it pulling down on every fiber of my body. but we’re leaving, we’re going, we’re letting the ground fall away from us, & i hear a whooping sound & realize it’s me, yelling with happiness.

  i think again how the word flight is the noun that relates to flying & also the noun that relates to fleeing.

  fleeing the mountain. fleeing Boutros. fleeing the earth.

  fleeing my mother, even.

  i stop thinking about that.

  we rise, & rise, & rise, & the mountaintop is beside us & then it too falls away, & we are just in blackness, in space, as we begin to level out.

  Grandpa sighs heavily, a kind of happy sigh, & comes out of the cockpit. he steadies himself with his hands as he walks down to us & stops, checking us all over.

  “u guys all right?” he says.

  Orion nods. Libra puts her thumb up. “yeah,” i say.

  he smiles. “told u i had a plan,” he says.

  i rub my eyes. “i thought he might shoot us down,” i say.

  “never,” says Grandpa. “they’re all about PR, these people. how would they explain that?”

  i nod. yeah. that makes sense. “lucky u stole that medical ID card,” i say.

  he looks at me blankly. “what?”

  “the 1 u showed the guard. when u said it was a medevac.”

  Grandpa laughs. “that? no. that was just my Farmers Union card. good thing Orion pulled that coughing fit.”

  6 hours later, i know we’re descending because i feel the buildup in my ears & swallow to pop them, to clear the pressure.

  i look out the window, pressing my forehead against the cool of the plastic glass. Vancouver reveals itself as a network of light below, the ocean & the land varying patches of darkness. we fly over it & out to sea, then double back, losing altitude all the time. the propellers make a keening sound, over the rushing of the air.

  “buckle up,” shouts Grandpa from the front.

  i look at Orion & Libra, their expressions unknowable, then click my belt so it’s locked.

  the plane dives steeper still, & i feel my organs rise toward my throat, feel almost as if my body wants to lift up, up, up into the sky, into space, wants to untether
itself already & go floating up there, without even the aid of a rocket.

  but the ground is getting closer & closer, the buildings too, big shiny office blocks all made of windows, with lights flashing on their roofs. it’s as if we’re flying right into the city & for a moment i wonder if Rick is going to land on a street, just come down to rest in the middle of some Vancouver avenue, stopping traffic, but then i c the green dots of a runway just ahead & to the right, & we swing down toward it.

  it’s about a mile from the high-rises of the financial district, the runway, & it’s a big 1, like a commercial airport—a couple of low white hangar buildings over to our left as we come in to land & vehicles parked everywhere—a big control tower with a tall mast on top that must have cleared us for landing, & i wonder how Grandpa has managed to pull strings this big.

  coming in close to the ground, we almost seem to stop for an instant, to hover, to remain for seconds between earth & sky, hanging. then the wheels touch the ground & we bump along, & i feel the force of the brakes as we slow dramatically.

  then we stop.

  Grandpa gets up & comes back to us. “Rick’s opening the door. there’s going to be a car waiting. we’ll carry u down & into the car & it will take us to Deer Lake Park. by the time we get back, there’ll be a private jet ready for us.”

  “another private jet?” says Libra.

  “yes,” says Grandpa.

  Libra is speechless for once, for a moment. then: “cool,” she says.

  Rick appears, & he & Grandpa go to Orion first. he winces as they lift him up & carry him down the stairs, being slow & careful, because of his IV. they prop him against a wheel. then they come back for Orion’s wheelchair, then for Libra, & finally Grandpa comes up on his own. he moves up the plane, leans into the cockpit, & snags his 2 bags. he drops 1 at Rick’s feet. Rick glances down at it & nods.

  i realize this must be payment of some sort, cash that Grandpa has somehow gathered together.

  i can’t ask him. i don’t know the words.

  i feel tears stinging my eyes & i blink them away.

  Grandpa sees me looking at the bag & shrugs & smiles, & it breaks whatever spell is on me. “grabbed everything in the safe before we left the ranch,” he says. he offers me his arm, to help me down the steps. he holds my crutches.

  Rick leans against the wall of the plane. “well,” he says. “this is as far as i go. i’d better get this baby back to California before the week is out or the club will start wondering.” he gives a little salute. “good luck, Leo.”

  i salute back. “thanks, Rick. thanks for coming for us.”

  he shrugs. “best night i’ve had in a long time,” he says. then he turns & heads to the cockpit. he stops. looks at Grandpa. “actually, if ur friend could c his way to refueling me, i’d be grateful.”

  “consider it done,” says Grandpa.

  “all right then. i’ll c u on the other side.”

  “i’ll call u,” says Grandpa.

  “u better,” says Rick. “i’ll be needing some water for my horses pretty soon.”

  “sure thing,” says Grandpa.

  & that’s that.

  we go outside, & start down the steps.

  the air is less cold than at the mountain but still cool, with a salty tang in it that i assume drifts in off the sea, the very breeze tasting of it. at the bottom of the steps, a dark limousine waits, its windows blacked out. a door at the back stands open, & Libra & Orion must be inside.

  for just an instant, i think of the men in black suits & their black cars, back in that farmer’s field where we landed all that time ago, but then the front door of the limo opens & a guy in a very different kind of suit—pinstriped, gray—leaps out. he has neat white hair & a white beard & is wearing a red tie against a white shirt, matching his red pocket square.

  he walks over briskly & waits at the bottom of the steps. & when we get down he claps Grandpa on the shoulder.

  “Freeman!” he says. “welcome to Pearson Field.”

  “thanks,” says Grandpa. “& thanks for ur help.”

  the man waves this away. “this ur grandson?” he says.

  “yes,” says Grandpa. “Leo, meet Jonas Lindsen. Jonas is the CEO of Lindair. they make planes—private jets mostly—which they test right here. Jonas: Leo.”

  “good to meet u,” i say.

  “so u’re the 1 who wants to go back to space.” it’s mostly not a question but there’s a hint of a question in it.

  “yeah,” i say.

  he nods. “closest i got was high-altitude test flying. high enough to c the curve of the earth, u know? man, i’d love to get back up there. sadly none of our planes can fly that high.”

  “u could always come with us,” says Grandpa, smiling. some private joke is being had, i think.

  “& ruin this suit?” says Jonas. “this is Italian herringbone.”

  Grandpa grins. “well, we’re grateful,” he says. “without u this wouldn’t even get off the ground. literally.”

  Jonas shrugs. “it’s nothing for me. a car. a plane. i have lots of them.” there’s a thread of irony in his voice that makes me smile. like, he’s rich but he also knows it’s ridiculous to be rich. even tho it’s something useful, or something like that. it’s hard to describe.

  “well, it means a lot,” says Grandpa. “the car u’ll have back in an hour, maybe a bit more. the plane…it might take me a bit of time to return it.”

  “u’re flying to Kazakhstan?” says Jonas.

  “yes.”

  “u’re going to go up in 1 of those old Burans they’ve got stashed away there?”

  “u know about that?” says Grandpa.

  “i know a lot of things,” says Jonas. “so?”

  “i couldn’t possibly comment,” says Grandpa.

  Jonas laughs. “ok. well, just bring the plane back whenever u’re ready.”

  i stare at him. at the crinkles around his eyes. the wry smile. the silver pin thru his tie. “u’re not worried about, i don’t know, losing ur plane?” i say.

  he looks at me. bends down a little, so we’re on an even level. “listen,” he says. “ur grandpa & i were in the air force together. actually, he was my commanding officer. he asks for something, he gets it.” pause. “plus, 30 years ago, i had a contract with NASA. supplying engines. the Company came in, took over, & they canceled the project. i had to let 200 people go. in the air force, they used to say, no man left behind. i do not like leaving people behind.”

  he straightens, & puts out his hand, then shakes mine—his grip is strong.

  “well, thanks,” i say.

  “any time,” he says. “altho in this context that does not seem very appropriate.”

  another black car pulls up behind & he points to it. “that one’s me. the limo will take u to the park. the concert starts in”—he looks at his watch, an old Speedmaster like Grandpa’s, i notice—“10 minutes. u will miss the beginning. but with Mozart, it’s the endings that matter.”

  he strides over to his car & Grandpa & i go to ours & Grandpa helps me in, to a seat next to Libra & opposite Orion. i c that Orion’s wheelchair is parked in a space that has been made by removing some of the seats, & i wonder if Jonas arranged that, before we arrived, if it’s all been planned.

  yes, & in great detail, i suspect, are the answers, if i know Grandpa at all. to be honest, i don’t even believe he didn’t steal a medical ID card. i think he really did. i think that thing he said, in the plane, about the Farmers Union, is just the type of joke he would make.

  i think…i think my grandpa might be kind of hardcore.

  “u have a lot of friends who owe u favors, huh?” i say to Grandpa.

  he nods. “it’s a good life strategy.”

  the car pulls away & we drive down the runway, then off onto a path marked by cones, which leads past some airport buildings to a security gate that opens automatically, rolling smoothly on bearings. we drive out onto the street.

  to a concert
.

  on earth.

  with Libra & Orion. & those are things that even two days ago i wouldn’t have thought i would be saying. ever.

  we cruise thru a land of wide streets & strip malls, which quickly gives way to bigger buildings. streetlights wash over us, faces illuminated & plunged into shadow in turn as we pass them, the red glow of Somali food stores, neon signs in Arabic, the riotous multicolored logos of Jamaican cafés.

  people hurry down the sidewalks, not looking up, hunched over. intersections flick past, & the tick of the indicator as we turn, as we roll thru dark Vancouver, windows leaking light, makes me feel sleepy, makes me feel like maybe we should just stop here & forget this whole thing, forget going back.

  lights flash on hard surfaces of glass & metal.

  we slide thru the night.

  it’s almost like being back on Moon 2 & it makes me feel sleepy…

  but just as my head is nodding forward we pull to a stop in a parking lot.

  the partition window lowers. “this is the park,” says a deep voice from the front seat. “head thru that gate in front of us. can’t miss the concert. they put out chairs right in the main space.” pause. “oh, wait.” a hand appears, holding a thick wedge of blankets. “u’ll be needing these,” he says.

  “Jonas think of that?” says Grandpa.

  “yes sir,” says the driver.

  the door pops open & Grandpa helps me out, then Libra, who leans on the side of the car, then Orion’s wheelchair & finally Orion.

  we stop, & sit there for a moment.

  Orion takes off his mask.

  “i can hear it,” he says. his voice is quiet, weak. “i can hear the violins.”

  i listen. & sure enough, i hear them, their thin tremolo, like the air itself is vibrating.

  “come on,” says Libra. “let’s go.”

  Grandpa tucks a blanket over Orion, then starts pushing him, & Libra props herself on her walker & follows, & i crutch along after them, thinking what a strange group we must look like, the 4 of us. we go thru the gate & down a path that turns, & then we’re in a wide-open space. a low building made of glass walls is on the far side, & all around are carefully arranged gardens, borders planted with flowers whose colors shine under fairy lights strung up everywhere above. a lake is ahead of us, gleaming dully.