"Come on, Mom. Say yes. You'll be good." That was Douglas. His eyes were shining.
"Use your instrument," I said. "Or it'll get rusty." That was something she'd always said to me. She still looked unconvinced.
It was Stinky who clinched the deal. He blurted, "You guys are stupid. Mommy can't sing!"
That was all it took. She turned to him, annoyed. "Shut up, Stinky. When do we start?"
BAGGAGE
The next three weeks, though, we didn't get much chance to practice. Everything was about final launch, and if it wasn't about prepping the ship for that, it wasn't important.
Fortunately, this wasn't the first time for this crew, and there were a lot of checklists. Everybody had checklists. Everybody had to check everything—every fitting, every connection, every circuit, every pipe, every piece of plumbing. Everything was checked three times over, and then three times over again. And everybody, crew and passengers alike, had to go over their lists, sign them off, then pass them to the next person, who'd go through them all over again. And heaven help you if the next person in line caught something that you'd missed, because that meant you hadn't done your job.
And if you missed three things, you'd better have your goodies packed, because Commander Boynton had a shuttle waiting to transfer you to the Galaxy. "If you're unreliable, you can join the crew at Galaxy. You can be as flaky as you want over there. It won't matter. They're not going anywhere." In the end, eleven people were sent over, and three more who'd decided they didn't want to go to Outbeyond after all. Which wasn't too bad, considering. Senior Petty Officer Bradley told me that on the last trip, they'd bounced thirty-two people, and seven more bailed. We were a much more motivated group.
It was imperative that each and every one of us have our shipboard routines learned and practiced and so ingrained that they were practically instincts, so Douglas and Mickey got a job organizing scavenger hunts for the newcomers. We were organized into teams, all competing for the legendary gold-handled, left-handed Moebius wrench.
The way it worked, you had to do a job or an errand or a favor for some crew member or team leader who needed it. Maybe it was something simple like going to the aft galley and picking up a sandwich or going up to rack 3, circle 2, cabin 4-up, and taking care of someone's laundry; sometimes it was something hard, like taking an eyeball inventory of the contents of a cargo pod. Sometimes you had to find a tool or a part, or you had to find out where it went. Every time you completed a task, that crew member would send you on to the next who'd have another task for you to do. And so on. And if your team finished all of your tasks before every other team, then you got a little plastic badge that said you had won the Moebius race.
And also, you ended up knowing how to get from any part of the ship to any other, you learned how to operate a zero-gee laundry machine, you learned how to read a cargo manifest, you learned how to catch baby chicks in free fall without hurting them because someone had left an incubator door unlatched, you learned how to exercise the meat in the farm tanks, you learned how to harvest mushrooms, you learned how to fight a fire in free fall (that one was only a drill), you learned how to be a nurse, and that included everything from calibrating health monitors to giving injections and diapering babies—I already knew that last one; Stinky hadn't been potty trained until he was four, or maybe seven, I forget—and a whole bunch of other stuff too, all of which is different in zero gee. Especially diapering a baby. Especially the boys.
Despite my rank, now largely honorary, I had to participate too. I was on a team with J'mee, Gary Andraza, Kisa Fentress, Trent Colwell, and Chris Pavek.
Gary Andraza was a go-getter, always full of surprises, mostly pleasant. He was good at scavenging. He could find almost anything. After a while, we started making up our own weird tests, just to see if we could stump him. We never could. And he never told us where he got the coconut either.
Kisa was overbearing, loud, and pushy; it was easy to dislike her—except that her heart was in the right place. Whenever she got angry, and that was a lot, it was almost always for the right reasons; like when somebody was being picked on, or when somebody had hurt somebody else; so she was the kind of person you wanted on your side in a fight. Except that she picked more fights than she needed to. But she knew it and she wasn't ashamed. She just said, "That's the way I am. Wanna make something of it?"
Trent was the private one on the team. He was a hard worker, and he never complained, but it was like he was wearing a portable wall. Like he knew a secret and wasn't going to share it. Trent's parents were Revelationists and they had warned him not to get too friendly with the rest of us, so mostly he didn't say much—unless he got angry, and that was usually at Kisa.
Trent and Kisa didn't get along because Kisa's parents were apostates—which meant that they used to be Revelationists, but they'd quit. They'd done it shortly after arriving onboard; they'd petitioned to go to Outbeyond instead, and the committee had no choice but to agree—it would have been too expensive to send them back, and they were pretty good doctors anyway, so it was to Outbeyond's benefit to take them.
The Revelationists weren't too happy about that; they accused the Cascade crew of evangelizing and recruiting people away from their colony. And then they passed a whole bunch of rules for themselves limiting their contact with everyone else—which mostly pleased everyone else—but they were still required to participate in the preparations for launch, and all the different classes too, and that included their kids, so even though the adults mostly kept to themselves, the kids still had plenty of opportunities to hang out together.
Chris Pavek was kind of quiet and smoldering, but if he said he was going to do something, it got done. He was here with his mom and stepdad; his real dad hadn't made it, Chris wouldn't say why, it was obvious he missed him a lot, but the couple of times anyone asked, Chris got angry. Whatever it was, he didn't want to say. I sort of knew how he felt. There were times when I still felt angry at my Dad—I wished I could figure out why.
J'mee was the real winner on the team. She had an implant, so she was in constant communication with the ship's network—and even what was left of Earth's network by relay. So if we needed to find something, she could find out where it was and lead us directly to it. Plus, we never got lost. If there were multiple somethings we had to do, she could organize us. The rest of us had headsets, so J'mee could track us and tell us when we were headed in the wrong direction or if we were getting close to our goal.
We ended up with three of the Moebius badges, and I was proud of each and every one of them.
But if anybody ever tells you space travel is glamorous and exciting, laugh at them. It only looks glamorous and exciting on television because they leave out all the dull and boring parts. Mostly it's a lot of hard work, and when you finish that, there's a lot more hard work—and just because you're a kid, that doesn't mean you don't have to do your share. Everybody works on a starship—everybody.
When we could, we hung out together in the aft observatory/ lounge. We couldn't do it too much, though. J'mee's dad really didn't like me. He didn't want her hanging around with me and he did everything he could to keep us apart. And Kisa's parents didn't want her on the same team with Trent, and Trent's parents were even less happy about it. But ship rules prevailed, so no matter what anyone's mom or dad or preacher said—well, ship rules prevailed. We were all in the same class, so we spent four hours out of every twenty-four in the same classroom. We were all on the same homework team, so we spent two hours of study time together. And because homework teams were also Moebius teams, we raced together too. And when we got break time, well, it was natural for us to hang together.
It was on our second race that Gary asked me something odd. He said, "What's it like to be famous?"
"Huh? I'm not famous. My Dad was, though."
"No, you're famous. Everybody knows who you are."
"That doesn't make a person famous—"
"Yes, it does. What do you think f
amous means? It means everyone knows your name."
"No, it doesn't—" I wanted to say that famous means doing something important, but I realized he was right. There were people who were famous for no reason at all; they were famous for being famous. And some people became famous for even stupider reasons—like having sex with somebody else famous. So I shut up. This was one of those things where I really didn't know what I was talking about.
Trent spoke up then. "Everybody knows how you jumped off the Line in a cargo pod and bounced across the moon. The HARLIE-thing used you for its escape."
"It didn't use us," I said. "We used it."
Trent just shrugged—the shrug that meant yes, that's what you believe, but that's not what's really so.
I would have argued with him, except that J'mee interrupted us then to direct us off on our next search. And that was just as well, because part of me had already been wondering about that, even before Trent said anything; but I didn't think it was an argument I could win, so I was just as glad to drop the subject.
The Cascade was on a twenty-four-hour clock, operating in four six-hour shifts. Some people worked twelve hours on and twelve hours off. Others worked six on/six off. It depended on your duties. There were three complete engine crews, they worked eight/eight. This meant that there was always one crew on duty, one on standby, and one sleeping.
But we weren't all on the same clock—crew and passengers had our clocks staggered at four-hour intervals. That meant that every four hours, one shift was going to bed and another was waking up. Every four hours another shift sat down to breakfast and another got up from dinner. It took some getting used to—especially if you wanted to meet someone for something. It was hard to meet someone for dinner if your schedules were eight or twelve hours apart.
But finally, one day, everybody came up for air at the same time and we all realized that all our checklists were checked, all our countdowns were counted, all our preparations were prepped. We were ready to go. Boynton ran us through three departure drills, pronounced himself satisfied, and confirmed the launch window. The hour of our departure.
Once we lit the torch, we were on our way. We were never coming back. Last chance to get off. Anyone having second thoughts? You've got twelve hours before the last boat leaves for the Galaxy.
Senior Petty Officer Bradley didn't think anybody would bail. You didn't get this far unless you were ready to go all the way.
But for a moment there, while we were locking down—
One of the things I'd learned while earning my Moebius badge was how to use a health monitor as a tracking device. It was no big secret, but neither was it something that everybody had learned yet. Whenever I got nervous or scared, which happened a lot more than I usually cared to admit, I'd check to see where everybody else was. Just knowing where they were made me feel better.
Mom and Bev were making sandwiches and stuff because the kitchens were going to be shut down during launch, so we'd need a lot of food already prepared. Stinky was in school. Douglas was on a waste-management team. Mickey was supposed to be on the same team, but he wasn't there.
I was supposed to go up to the bridge to authorize HARLIE, but—
Mickey was in a cabin at the aft end of the ship. Right above the shuttle dock. It was called the observatory, because that's what it would be later on, but right now it was mostly a lounge with a big observation window smack at the very end, and when the ship was oriented right, you could look one way and see the Earth and look the same angle the other way and see the moon.
Mickey wasn't looking at either. He was hooked onto a perch and he had his face in his hands. I found a tissue in my pocket—you learned to carry a pack of disposables in free fall—and swam over to him. I pushed one into his hand, and then floated back away without saying anything.
"Thanks, Chigger." How he knew it was me, I couldn't figure out. He hadn't looked up and I hadn't made much noise. He wiped his eyes and blew his nose and flapped his hands in a gesture of frustration and futility. "I'm sorry. I can't help it. I miss her so much."
"Your mom."
"Earth. The Line. Aunt Georgia. Everyone. I even miss Alexei Krislov, that Lunatic Russian bastard who damn near killed us. I know it doesn't make sense, but I'm homesick."
"So am I," I said. I eased onto a perch next to him. "I miss my Dad. I miss ugly old El Paso. I miss the tube-town. I miss the way the wind used to sweep down one chimney and up the next, making everything vibrate like the inside of a steam-organ. I even miss the arguments, because then I had an excuse to ride my bike up into the hills and listen to my music where no one could find me—and sometimes it was too hot up there and sometimes it was too cold and sometimes it was so windy I felt like I was being sandblasted and I didn't dare open my eyes to see where I was. You ever try to ride a bike in a windstorm? But I didn't care because at least I was alone. And I can't understand why I miss all that, because when we were there, I hated it. All I wanted to do was get away—but at least, the stuff you're missing, that's good stuff; pizza and ice cream and the orbital elevator and everything else. You should miss that stuff. The stuff I'm missing is all crap. By comparison, all this is luxury. How stupid can I be?"
He laughed. He reached over and ran his hand over my nearly bald head in an affectionate gesture. We were still shaving ourselves smooth. At least once a week. He sighed and shook his head and wiped his nose again. "Y'know, when I was training to be a Line attendant, I had to take a lot of psychology courses. I had to learn how to deal with all the stuff that people bring up—claustrophobia, agoraphobia, homesickness, grief, panic attacks, sexual licentiousness, clinginess, arrogance, bullying, catatonia, despair, fear, sorrow, rage, covert hostility, appeasement, obsessive interest, wild enthusiasm, you name it. We spent a week just on grief and homesickness. People get on the elevator, they get excited. Sometimes they get emotionally overwhelmed just at the idea of finally going into space. And sometimes, they go through all their crap, all their emotional baggage. They take it out, they sort through it, they pick their favorite bits, and they rehearse them endlessly. You can't believe the number of times I had to sit and hold someone's hand while they worked through their stuff."
"That must have been interesting."
"Nah. Mostly it was boring. After a while, you begin to learn the truth of it. There are no original problems. They're all the same problem, they just change faces. I know that sounds harsh, but it isn't. Most problems people have—it's because somewhere they made it up themselves that they have a problem. 'Oh, ick, I don't want to handle this.' Most problems end when the person finally gets bored playing pattycake with all the crap, over and over, and finally says, 'Oh, all right, I can handle this.' It's the refusal to handle something that makes it a problem. That was the part that always made me angry. Sometimes I just wanted to slap their faces and say, 'Grow up! Get over it! Stop being an ass!' I never did, of course. But you know what? I miss it now. I miss being useful."
"But you are useful—to me, to Douglas, to Mom and Bev. To Stinky."
"Yeah, but that's a different kind of useful, Charles. It's a harder kind."
"Harder?"
"Because I care more." He turned to face me. "You want to know something? It's easy to be useful to people if you don't have to care about them, if you know you're never going to see them again. You just do your best, put on your happy face, smile pretty, hold their hand for a while, then help them repack their emotional baggage, and send them off to take advantage of the next helpful person." He reached over and put a hand on my shoulder. "But when you care about people, well, that's different, Charles. That means that you don't just patch them up for a day and then move on. It means that you have to get seriously involved with everything they're dealing with. And that means you're part of what they're dealing with too. What I mean is, you guys, all of you, are my life now, and I can't deal with you like passengers anymore. I have to deal with you like we're a family." He stopped abruptly. "Do you get what I mean? Or is this t
oo much for you?"
"No," I said. "I get it."
"Listen," he said. "Let's make this easy on both of us. Why don't you just slap my face and tell me to stop being an ass, and then we'll both head off to our launch stations?"
It was tempting. And the person I used to be—before all this started—would have done it without thinking. But instead, I shook my head. "Uh-uh—because you're not being an ass. Can I tell you something?"
"What?"
"You are family. And all the same stuff you're going through about us—well, we're going through it with you too. I know I am. And Mom. And Bobby. And if you hadn't noticed by now … well, it's not just Douglas who loves you."
"Hey, now you've done it." He wiped at his eyes again. "You made me cry. Thank you, Charles."
"Thank you, Mickey."
We hugged for a minute, and then he glanced at his watch. "Hey! You'd better get to the bridge. Go on. I'll be all right."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
I was five minutes late reporting to my station. Boynton noticed but didn't say anything. Damron glanced over and said, "I hope it was important, Ensign."
"It was," I said. "I had to help someone get his baggage secured. It's okay now."
DEPARTURE
HARLIE had been demoted. His duties on the bridge were now "extra-curricular."
IRMA was going to handle everything, but for safety's sake HARLIE would monitor and provide confirmation and backup services. So if HARLIE was mostly redundant, I was completely redundant. All I had to do was authorize HARLIE to accept the Captain's orders, and then drop out through the hatch into the Captain's lounge, the little cubby at the back of the command module—only now it had a keyboard installed, and that was my new job. Commander Boynton had specifically requested it.
Launch music. And I knew exactly what to play.
The bridge crew went through the countdown exactly like it was a drill, only this time, every time we reached a go/no-go point, Boynton quietly said, "Go." I began to feel the excitement building in my chest. Everyone on the entire starship was listening. This was it—this was really it!
Leaping to the Stars Page 15
