by Noah Harris
Growing up I was The Bronze, and in military school I was The Marshmallow. I didn’t mind the joke, because I was obviously anything but, with my boy body gone and lean muscle everywhere you looked. And even now, those are two things I’m comfortable saying about myself.
I always know exactly who I am.
But I also know something else, and it scares me to death that somebody will find out one day. Without Father’s idea of me, I have this weird fear that I wouldn’t exist at all. I’d just float away. A man needs boundaries.
So, every minute, of every day, I choose to be a man and not an animal. Even when it’s tough. The trick is not minding when it hurts.
“Cadet?”
Captain Harbaugh smiles down at me. I spaced out adjusting a conductor on a small-scale electrical model we’re building, with it still in my hand.
“Sir?”
He takes it away and looks into my eyes.
“Where’d you go, cadet?”
“I was just…nothing.” It’s hard to look him in the eye when I can’t put words to what I’m feeling.
But the captain would never accept ‘nothing,’ even the first day we met. Back when I was impossibly young, five years and a lifetime ago.
“Sir, I was thinking about animals. How they don’t make choices.”
Harbaugh nods at me to continue. He always seems to be listening, interested, which makes it easier to say stuff I’d normally keep to myself.
“We’re going to space, sir. To space! After more than fifty years, we’re going back. Because a few decades ago, someone made a choice no animal would even think of. To go to the stars and take the rest of us with him.”
The captain chews his lip, just the tiniest bit, still concerned.
“Doesn’t explain why you’re upset,” he says quietly, smiling to soften the blow, but my back straightens immediately. You don’t ever let them see you sweat, even the ones that love you.
“I wouldn’t say upset, sir. Just thoughtful. If all we are is the choices we make, then there’s infinite paths we’ve chosen not to take. That’s a lot bigger than just the person we end up being. All the things we decided not to be. It just felt…vast, for a second.”
He nods, almost sadly. Like he knows exactly what I’m talking about.
“In the military our burden is doing and remembering things, so nobody else has to. But I think there’s another kind of sacrifice we don’t talk about. The other lives we give up to be a part of this force. All of us, every single part of us, given to serve.”
Exactly. I swallow and nod, but it doesn’t fill me with the same beauty as it seems to do the captain.
“What you’ll realize as you get older is that everybody feels like that. It seems more extreme because we’re devoted to something bigger than ourselves, and it demands a lot from us. But everybody out there feels the same way, wherever they end up. We all give our lives to something, Armstrong.”
Holding his gaze, I nod respectfully, so he knows that was important to me. Much better. I like it a lot, actually. We all give our lives to something.
And back to work. I feel the captain look at me with pride as I smooth down our diagrams with one hand, looking for the right place for the conductor with the other.
One thing we don’t ever talk about is how hard I’m trying. I’m naturally talented at a lot of things, but this kind of problem-solving is my weakness, and we both know it.
I can park a car, or a spaceship, on a dime, but ask me to debug a line of code or find a path through a warzone, and I’ll shut down. Paralyzed by all the choices. Which is why it’s so important for me to do things like this model. To jump into this complicated mess of circuits and wires, without even pausing.
Bravery isn’t a lack of fear, it’s doing things in spite of it. It’s enough to know the captain sees it.
The heavy double doors of the work lab crash open a little too loudly, which is how you always know we’re about to get a visit from Hell. “Sergeant Hell” being the informal, not so secret, nickname for our corporate overlord, Margot Hellstrom. Officially our liaison with the board of trustees, she’s also a Flight School graduate, even though it’s almost impossible to imagine.
People say she took to the defense-contractor life beautifully, and I take their word for it. ‘They’ being Darius, whose family and Margot’s go way back. She’s practically his godmother, and dotes on him, which makes it even funnier that he can’t stand her.
Sergeant Hellstrom doesn’t really know her own strength. When she opens or closes doors, they tend to slam. It’s emblematic of her whole personality, in my opinion.
“Who’s ready for some jacket reviews?” Margot asks with a wide grin, popping open a folder of dossiers on my schoolmates.
She thinks the secrecy around this mission is exciting, so she takes it very seriously. It’s hard to imagine her in signals intelligence, the field she specialized in. Hard to be a spy when you’re yelling all the time. Especially when the one thing she’d want to yell most is, “I’m a spy!”
The part that’s hardest for me is that she’s on the mission. A lot of her excitement stems from pride. I don’t feel good when anybody makes something all about themselves. It does help explain why she didn’t stay in the military, though.
It’s hard to imagine she was Captain Harbaugh’s protégé before me, but not impossible. She’s smart, skilled, she’s in great shape and she knows protocol. All of which will be important for the mission, and all of which the captain rates highly. Maybe I just judge her so harshly because I’m jealous. That would make a horrible kind of sense.
When the three of us are working together, it does go smoothly. Sometimes it feels like a little family, Margot and Alden the adoring kids, Harbaugh the wise old man. Her roughness around me makes more sense if I think about it like that. Half the time I barely consider the fact that anyone else is coming with us, and I know the captain feels the same way. Or at least, I flatter myself that he does.
“Mission specs, of course, are as follows…”
Margot loves this part, so it’s best to just let her run with it, even though we all know nothing has changed since the papers were first signed.
“Crew: Three Flight School candidates, chosen from the ranks of graduating seniors, and two senior officers. Purpose: Demonstrate the value of Flight School and our rehabilitated space program by documenting this team in action as we travel to the moon by way of the International Landing Platform or ILP, and after landfall, power up the first extra-terrestrial colony, Tiptree Station.”
Translated into layman’s terms; take a shuttle to the space station, kick around there for a week doing science for the cameras, then fly to the moon and turn the lights on at Tiptree.
Robots have been working on it tirelessly for almost six years, longer than we’ve been in Flight School, drilling down into the moon’s surface and turning the waste into livable architecture. There’s a dome over the top, and the city goes straight down, toward the moon’s core. Several hundred stacked habitats go down about as far as Manhattan Island is long.
I like to imagine it. A whole pristine city, waiting in the dark. Everything the same basic shape, extruded by the construction mechs like factory-fired clay. Squared-off boxes of various heights and widths, different floorplans for different folks, with square windows everywhere. Like an old adobe pueblo, but gleaming white, like polished ivory.
They say when we turn the lights on, and the atmosphere starts to build up, the artificial sun will refract through those towers, blocks and windows and maybe make rainbows. The dome is thick but clear enough you can see earth rising and setting.
If I weren’t on command track, I’d sign up for that colony in a second. But it’s more than enough to be the guy that brings it to life.
After about twenty files, with no one really standing out or failing, up pops Julian Forrester’s face and name. That kid makes me so anxious, even just seeing his name in a file makes me go still, and I hope nobo
dy notices. It’s Margot who reacts first, scoffing.
“Absolutely not,” she says flatly, daring us to respond. It’s not the best way to start the debate, although that was my first reaction a few weeks ago. I hope I can hold my voice steady. If she senses weakness, she’ll pounce.
“Why do you say that?”
Margot’s so composed, her blonde helmet of hair never even moves. She’d purse those signature matte-red lips into a tight little smile even while stabbing you in the back.
“I mean, he’s theoretical. He knows ballistics, but so do you. He knows the onboard systems, but so do I. He knows the science of moon landings and translunar injections and what, International Landing Platform docking protocols? So do both of us. What does he bring?”
What he brings, I think quietly, is a tiebreaker. A voice that’s not like any of ours. He’s manifestly different from the three of us, which is obviously the problem. Margot doesn’t trust anybody who wasn’t born into the service, even though she abandoned it. Her military pedigree goes back centuries, and she’s remembered for being downright nasty about Flight School’s first non-military, science-track recruits. I knew Forrester wouldn’t be an easy sell, but her intensity still surprises me.
“There isn’t going to be another mini-me on this trip, Margot. Get off it.”
She grins angrily. “Sergeant,” she hisses, excited and obviously ready for a fight.
“My apologies, sergeant. But these last two need to be science officers, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Don’t lose sight of why we’re going. It’s not just about proving we can, it’s about learning, too. So, let them learn.”
Margot’s clearly unconvinced, but she doesn’t snatch Forrester’s file out of the pile, which is the kind of thing she’d do just to make a point.
“All right, then. Why him?”
I shake my head, holding my hands wide to show that I have no agenda here.
“I’m not saying it should be him, I’m just saying your veto should be for reasons other than the fact that he wasn’t born in fatigues. You’re going to have to be flexible, here. We all will.”
Captain Harbaugh shrugs his regrets when she turns to him for backup.
“I mean, he’s right. And you know he’s right. Let’s take this from the top. Julian Forrester,” he nods back to me, and I keep reading.
“Julian Forrester. Comes from a very small, weirdly secretive community in southwest Texas. Full-ride scholarship in engineering. Problem solving and spatial abilities through the roof…”
“Which we both have!” Margot interjects.
“Which you have. I’m far less confident in my own ability in that area.”
The captain opens his mouth to protest, or jump into another pep talk, so I smile with a tiny wink, knowing he’ll play along.
“Youngest doctorate ever admitted to Flight School or its predecessors. Gift for languages, particularly computer languages…”
Margot cocks her head at that, as I knew she would. She gives me a searching look.
“That is helpful. I keep having this bad dream that the main board shorts out and you have to dock by feel. It usually doesn’t end well.”
The thought makes me shudder. No thank you. But I can tell I’ve got her.
Which is when the captain leans back, looking me right in the eye.
“What’s your relationship?” he asks, casually.
We both know the kid’s q-rating is high. He’s got this introspective poetic thing going on that can turn into biting wit if you’re not careful. If Harbaugh’s drawing a blank on our chemistry, that’s a good sign. Avoiding that particular jinx is a matter of survival, I get so ham-fisted whenever he’s around. But it’s also about preserving the peace.
“Relationship? There is none. Darius was in love with him our first term, but it didn’t go well, so I’m not really allowed to…”
Harbaugh and Margot break out laughing, affectionately.
“I wouldn’t cross Darius either,” the captain chuckles, and Margot leans back in her chair.
“Who would? We should take Darius on the mission, just in case there are any little green men that need intimidating...”
“My point is that you’ve been here for five years alongside Armstrong, and you don’t have a solid opinion of him. That tells me something.”
Margot looks from him to me, wondering what he means. Honestly, I wonder too.
“What I mean to say is, you’ve spent so long running on different tracks you never even passed each other. To be honest that seems like a vote in his favor. Somebody far, far outside your wheelhouse. As long as he can be counted on to follow orders…”
I nod decisively. That won’t be a problem. Julian Forrester is a lot of things, and one of them is a good soldier.
“Then for this week, he gets my vote. Hellstrom?”
She nods, so taken up in the project that she forgets to act like it’s win or lose. It’s just a group decision. Our little family.
“Fine. But if you’re determined to take two science kids, then I want one of them to be Philippa Cortez.”
I catch myself nodding forcefully at that. I didn’t think it was even up for discussion.
“I don’t like that we’re from the same background. There should be more diversity. But if we really are dedicated to using this mission for all it’s worth, she’s the fifth. It dovetails with her work, and from what I gather it’s Cortez’s research that’ll take us into the next phase of space travel. Like, as a species. I’d like to ride with that.”
In academic circles, Pippa’s even more well-known than Julian Forrester. Plus, they’re friends, so that’ll be good too. I can see the captain coming to the same conclusion, and he nods back with that cocky cowboy smile he gets when he’s proud of you.
“This may just be the shortest jacket review we’ve ever done. Hilarious that Darius is out of the running, so that brings us to five...”
That brings me crashing forward so suddenly I bash my knees against the table.
“Wait, that’s it? We’re done? And what do you mean about Darius?”
The way they look at each other, a little worried, only makes me more anxious. I’m not a kid, and I don’t like being treated like one. And even more than that, I hate being discussed. So much of my childhood was spent listening to my parents and doctors make decisions about me.
“He was in the running, as you know, from day one. His q-scores rival yours, most weeks. And his studies are general enough he can fall into whatever role we might need…”
No, no, no. I can tell by their expressions that I’m looking panicked, and I know it’s going to come out in my voice no matter what I say next.
“So, then why’s he off the table? Let’s just have a bake-off between Cortez and Forrester, and…”
Harbaugh smiles, nodding. This is going about as well as he thought it would, that’s what that smile says. I don’t even bother checking Margot, I’m sure she’s loving it.
“He took himself off the table, son. He said he doesn’t want it like you all do, and it wouldn’t be fair to take someone’s spot.”
“Even if it means handing it to Julian Forrester? Does he know that part?” I sniff, and they chuckle again, relieved.
“So, we’re saying that really is it? We’re done choosing?”
Captain Harbaugh smiles at us, laying one finger alongside his perfectly sculpted nose.
“Of course not, cadet. We won’t know the decision until the banquet. But I have every hope that the team will be the three of us, and your two science twins.”
After that, there wasn’t much left to say. And I have only myself to thank.
And, apparently, Darius.
Sergeant Hellstrom pulls me aside after the meeting, and I wonder if she can tell from the way I’m walking that I plan on reading Darius the riot act.
“Armstrong. Hey,” she says, her low voice more tender than I’ve ever heard it. I stop, but don’t look at her. I hate being
handled. Especially for something like this. I know people assume I’m entitled and always get my own way, but the truth is I find it very awkward to ask for stuff.
“That wasn’t a tantrum, back there. I’m mad at Darius, that’s all.”
She laughs, crossing her arms, and right there in the corridor she gives me a long look.
“That came across, trust me. But Alden, listen. I was there. Darius put a lot of thought into this, okay? I mean, two weeks is a long time! Have the two of you ever even been apart that long?”
I’m suddenly exhausted. I shake my head, hoping she’s not gearing up to be nasty about that, too.
“So, he must feel pretty strongly about this. And you’re going to go in there and make him feel worse about it? That’s not like you.”
I immediately straighten my back. She’s right. I should know better than to think she’s out here worried about me. It’s her boy Darius she wants to protect. Oh, he’s going to piss and moan when I tell him that.
“I just haven’t even thought about this without him, for the last five years. It’s going to take a while.”
She nods, approving, and clicks back into PR mode.
“Well, take your time. And do it before you get in front of any cameras, okay? We’re excited, we’re happy, we’re patriotic and we’re having fun with it.”
I nod, rolling my eyes, which earns a rare laugh from her.
“It’s hard. But we both know it’s crucial, so just trust me. Okay? I trust you.”
I know that’s true, too. I summon a smile to reward her, and she immediately cools down.
“Thanks, Sarge.”
She claps me on the shoulder, back to being as rough as her old Marine self.
“You just get in there and give our boy hell, and we’ll call it even.”
He’s going to love that.
“Ugh,” Darius spits, just as I knew he would. “Just because she changed my diapers when I was a baby doesn’t mean she gets to speak for me! Marshmallow, she used to give me graph paper every Christmas. Graph paper. She fundamentally does not get it.”
