by Robert Kuntz
“You’re a hero, Dr. Chapman, and we’re going to welcome you like one.”
I realize the president has just dismissed everything I’ve said to him. That warms my heart.
“Dr. Chapman, get that pulse comm fixed as soon as you can.”
“Yes, sir.”
I hear a click, then nothing, and I realize the call to the president is over. I’m starting to stew about politicians when I hear Ferris’s voice.
“Dr. Chapman, here’s Dr. Jepler.”
“Grant, have you been to the Beta Ring?”
“You pond scum. You plague germ. You tricked me and shoved me up here—”
“Grant, what’s the status of the Beta?”
“Listen to me, you back-stabbing quisling. We have only one thing to talk about: Carmen’s bassoon. They want to bring me home. If they do, what happens to the price for her bassoon?”
Billy’s pen clicks furiously. “The contract is for a bassoon that completed the mission. If it’s not completed, the contract is void. Grant, for people on Earth, the mission is a tragedy. No one would bid on her bassoon. Right now, owning it seems morbid, like stealing from the dead.”
In Billy’s words, I hear the twisted knot of his emotions. He’s more frustrated than he’s letting on. “Grant, I promised interviews and photos with you, and the most I can get for the bassoon, if you return now, is six million.”
“Is that enough for Ángela’s treatment?”
“No. She needs the full twenty-five.”
“Doesn’t Carmen have life insurance?”
“Her husband cashed in the policy. She was in debt five years’ worth of her six figure salary. How could she afford life insurance?”
“Fix it, Jepler. Carmen played for me. I’m not coming home to have her niece die.”
“Grant, I’m not with NASA anymore. I’m not sure I can do that.”
“Fix it. I don’t care if you have to start with spit and trade up. Fix it!”
“Grant, have you read the letter I left for you?”
His energy and conviction are like a force pressing on me.
I press back.
“I didn’t know about your letter. If I had, I’d have fed it to the goats. I don’t want to hear another word from you until I hear that Ángela is cared for.”
“But Grant—”
“That’s how it is, Jepler. Ferris, get me Dr. H.” I try not to shout. Ginger and Mouser snarl at me, so I don’t think I succeeded.
Ferris says, “Here’s a private line with Dr. H.”
There’s a click and Dr. H says, “How are you, Grant?”
“For a man stuck in space, I’m doing great. I’ve learned how to scrub off the stink of calcium carbonate slime. I get to clean algae scrubbers and feed algae to the chickens. I put up with SINDAS nagging me.”
“Little peeved at SINDAS, are you?”
“Why did they give her a human voice?”
“Actually, Grant, I know the answer to that one. Frennelson had been reading Shakespeare: ‘Her voice was ever soft, / Gentle and low, an excellent thing in women.’”
“It’s not an excellent thing in computers. And her infuriating human-interface program. That pea-brained cluster of data chips will never pass the Turing test. Having a computer offer comfort is foolish. It doesn’t mean comfort; it can’t understand it. That only makes things worse. Why didn’t they see that?”
“Makes you mad?”
“Yes. Yes, it does!”
“That’s a good thing, Grant. And I heard you’re mad at the president.”
“Why did he want to talk to me? He thinks the mission’s a waste.”
“How are you doing blacking?”
“I blacked yesterday. But since I moved into the ag biome, I’m at 61 percent fewer per week than my first week here.”
“More anger, less blacking.”
“Well, you can thank Billy Jepler for that. He kidnapped me and sent me up here.”
There’s a pause. Then Dr. H says, “Grant, you consented to go on the mission. Billy showed me the papers you signed.”
The words erupted from me, “I never signed papers!”
“But it was your signature. Knowing you and knowing Jepler, I checked it against your signature in my locked files.”
“He fooled us both, Dr. H.”
I hear a sigh from the speaker. “No wonder you’re furious with Jepler. I’m somewhat ticked at him myself.”
Another sigh. “I’m sorry, Grant. Billy came to me after Dr. Weppler got sick. He asked if I thought you could adapt to space. I told him I was certain you could. Billy said he thought he could convince you to go.”
“He never tried to convince me. He drugged me and sent me up here.”
“I can see how that makes you angry.”
“But what if I lose it? What if I become vicious like my father?”
“Will you?”
“I don’t want to. But I could.”
“Yes, Grant, you could. All of us could.”
“Not you, Dr. H.”
“How can you be sure?”
“You’re not like my father.”
“What about you?” he says softly. “Are you?”
“I don’t know. Don’t you get it; I don’t know!”
“I don’t believe that, Grant. You know.”
“All right, I’m not like my father!” I know it, but I don’t know if I can believe it.
“He hurt you. He betrayed you, but you still loved him.”
“Of course I loved him. He was my father. People tell me I have to forgive my father and that’s why I black, because I haven’t forgiven him.”
“They’re wrong.”
“Dr. H, why don’t you tell me to forgive him?”
“One day I will. Forgiveness is a door to healing. But it’s one to approach carefully. Sometimes, people forgive first and then have the breakthrough that brings healing. I don’t think it will work that way for you. To forgive, I think you need to know what you’re forgiving, not just know, but experience how you’ve been wronged. We don’t like to do that because we don’t want the pain. But until we face the pain, it’s not forgiving. It’s overlooking. When we experience the pain of being wronged, forgiveness is healing.”
“And I can do that?”
He laughs. “Grant, you walked a thousand miles to Houston.”
“Dr. H, I want to come home, and I can’t come home.”
“You can come home.”
“But Carmen’s bassoon? And the mission?”
“You’ll have to decide. What you’re struggling with is not all that different from the rest of us. Every one of us has to come to terms with the ways our parents hurt us and how we’ve hurt others. We all have to accept responsibility for our circumstances and our decisions. To be an adult means you give up seeing yourself as a victim. You did that long ago. You don’t want special treatment or favors. You don’t whine that your mistakes are not your fault. That’s being an adult. Someone might have put you up in a tree, but now that you’re there, you’re taking responsibility for what happens. You did that when you walked to Houston. You’ll do the same in space.”
Dr. H paused for a minute, then he added, “Whatever you decide, let Billy work out the details. He’s good at that.”
“I don’t trust him.”
“I gathered. You know, Grant, a brilliant psychologist, Dr. Newby, once told me one of the most difficult things to do is to be angry with people we love.”
“I’m just mad at my father, not anyone else I love.”
“Oh?”
“Dr. H, why did you think I can handle being in space?”
“Because you’ve shown you can handle whatever life had thrown at you, and frankly, because you wanted to go.”
“What?”
“Everyone at NASA wants to go. You heard Ferris. We believe in the mission; we work for it. We all want to go. When you walked from Charleston to Houston, didn’t you think about going into space?”
> “But I knew I couldn’t.”
“Which is the only way you felt safe enough to think about it.”
Dr. H pauses. I imagine him squinting one eye and bobbing his head forward. “Grant, I’m not making this up. We all have an adventurer in us. In some people, it’s obvious. In others, it’s buried beneath troubles and fears. You, Grant Jonathan Chapman, are a courageous man. Your father and mother abused you terribly. They cursed you to failure. But you refused that. You stood up to them. It took courage to imagine your life could be different from what you saw in them, and more courage to persevere until your life was different. You’re not those things your father called you. You’re not a loser. You’re an explorer. If they had been able to see that in you and name it, you would have no doubts. But because you still have to find it in yourself, you’re not sure.
“Grant, it’s OK if you black. Overcoming the abuse you received from your parents isn’t about never blacking again. You walked to Houston; you’ll handle whatever FarSpace throws at you. Think about it.”
Ferris comes back on and goes over the steps to finish the pulse comm and bring it back online. It’s not as complicated as I feared, but it’s going to take some time. I tell Ferris that.
“It will take a little time to get you home, too. Don’t worry, Dr. Chapman. We’re there for you.”
“I know you are, Ferris. I’ll be glad to be home.”
I end the transmission. Ginger and Mouser are on their feet, snarling at me from the next seats. “When we get home,” I tell them, “I’ll take care of you.”
They both sniff. They don’t want to go home. For them, being in space is the greatest adventure in the universe, the best playground one could dream of.
“Look, I didn’t sign up for this. Dr. H says I’m an explorer. The woods, maybe, but not space. I need people. I’m not a hermit who can go years without human contact.”
Mouser bristles and snarls at me.
“I don’t know why I didn’t turn on the holo-vid. But it’s not because I don’t need people. Maybe it’s because I don’t want to think about how far I am from Earth. Did you ever think about that?”
Ginger growls and jumps on the floor. Mouser follows her. “Look, you spoiled poodles, I’m doing the best I can. I got you water that day, didn’t I? And I take care of you.”
They scamper away without looking back, as if they can’t stand to be in my presence. I’m so frustrated I want to spit. Instead, I lean back on the chair and sob.
8
May 5, 2052 (Launch plus 106 days), 08:00 GMT.
After I milk the goats and have breakfast, I walk across the ag biome, past the plots of sweet potato, peanuts, lablab beans, and wheat. On the far side of the biome, is a gray plastic door leading to the hammer mills. The pulse comm will have to wait again. SINDAS insists it’s manure day.
I pull open the door and shoo Ginger and Mouser back. It’s too dangerous for them near the machinery. I’m in a dimly lit, long rectangular box of a room, its low ceiling crawling with green swaying outlet pipes. Before me stands a green-painted hammer mill. To the left, farm bots wait in a line with loads of banana leaves, savannah grass, stalks, vines, and rotten fruit.
I haul the M-1 outlet into place over the hammer mill’s hopper, and then call, “First bot.”
The farm bot at the head of the line trundles forward, an eager little four-armed, high-cabbed dump truck.
I lock the outlet into place, pull the flow lever, and step back. A slurry of acrid animal manure splashes into the truck bed, sloshing around the vegetation. “First bot, dump.”
The wide bed on the farm bot raises up, tilts, and the mess of organic material slides into the mill. When the bed is empty, the bot lowers it and totters away.
I slide the hopper cover closed, engage the crusher, and the mill shudders as it grinds the smelly organic debris. When the grinding stops, the pumps kick in with a whoosh, and the mill empties its mixture into the compost bins next door. There, we grow the fattest worms in the universe as the compost biodegrades into rich soil. With the accelerated process developed in the Beta Ring, the soil will be ready for the farm beds in three months.
I unlock the M-1 outlet, swing it to the side, and lock the M-2 outlet into place. “Next bot.” The process continues for four hours. My back bunches up in burning knots. My arms are sore and weary. But finally, the manure vats are empty and the debris piles depleted.
I stumble through the gray door back into the ag biome. Ginger and Mouser come racing across the gravel path, welcoming me as if I’ve been gone a year. “Down, pups. Down. It’s good to see you, too. I didn’t really leave you. I’d never do that.”
“Dr. Chapman,” SINDAS interrupts, “the wastewater lagoons require attention. An outlet valve is blocked.”
“What do I do?”
“It was covered in orientation.”
“I didn’t get orientation, you blockhead. I was shanghaied.”
“Null capacity.”
I’m tired, and the last thing I need to hear is a moron computer saying “null capacity.”
“I was kidnapped, you amoeba-brain. That means dragooned, waylaid, marooned, rejected. By that back-stabbing Billy Jepler. I wish I could stuff him in the hammer mill.”
“Null capacity. Dr. Chapman, my human interface circuit indicates you may be taking your anger out on me.”
“Who else is there to take it out on?”
“It seems inappropriate to take anger out on anyone. The costs clearly outweigh the benefits. However, as a human being, you have poor anger management skills. If it is helpful, please continue your verbal tirade.”
“Go choke on silicon.”
“Null capacity.”
“Shut up, you ditz. Don’t speak to me.”
I sit on a bench. Ginger and Mouser jump into my lap, sniffing my face, licking me. Then they curl up on my lap.
“You two are lucky. You don’t have to talk to SINDAS. You get to annoy the goats and chase the chickens.”
They look at me with their round eyes, their heads cocked to the side as if they’re considering what I’ve said. Ginger stretches and rolls, and I see her belly. It’s swollen. Suddenly I remember seeing pigs’ bellies like that back on the farm.
“Ginger. Hey, girl. Let me check you.” When I touch her belly, I can feel the taunt stretching of the skin. Ginger’s pregnant. The powerful surge of throbbing life hits me. I feel like I’m on Earth again. Little pups, growing in her. I don’t know the first thing about poodles. How long is the gestation period? What are the signs of imminent birth?
I shake away my worries. Ihor left me notes about the poodles. As someone who’s more anal than I am, he’ll have included all that. I ruffle Mouser’s fur. He squirms onto his back and licks my hand. “Ginger, you’re going to have puppies.” I stroke her fur and feel the comfort of her warm body. I remember being in the barn, watching Uncle Ralph help slippery, glistening calves come into the world. There was blood and the gross afterbirth, but then the wonder and the mystery of life: a new critter, standing on wobbly legs, nudging at mom’s teats, and then latching on and sucking as if its life depended on it. These bawling calves came from tiny seeds, too small to be seen by the eye. It amazed me as a child. Now I get to see it happen here, in FarSpace. There’ll be tiny pups squirming and yipping. I can’t help but smile.
After a while, I shove Ginger and Mouser off my lap and go feed the goats. They butt their heads against me and try to step on my feet. With their little bleats and baas, the goats make me laugh. Then I call to SINDAS and she leads me through the process of unblocking the outlet valve.
****
May 7, 2052 (Launch plus 108 days), 03:13 GMT.
I’m walking to Houston, and I’ve stopped in a hilly cow pasture to unroll my sleeping bag and rest for the night. Overhead, the night sky deepens from navy blue to ink black. The stars twinkle like little number 20s, laughing in the heavens. As I watch, the stars turn into 57s, then square boxes, then jagged t
horns and splots of hydrochloric acid. They burn holes in the sky. The holes become sickly gray. Then they churn and chew like devouring mouths, consuming stars and sky, leaving the heavens a vast expanse of vomit-colored waves.
I lean over and wretch. The acrid smell overwhelms the fragrance of clover. I want to scream, but I can’t. I want to fight the heavens, to beat them back into blackness and stars. But my arms won’t move.
The gray sky is as still as death and it reflects puddles of vomit on the ground.
Suddenly, I’m awake. The hammock is swaying, and I swing my feet over the edge and anchor them on the floor to stop the sway. Ginger and Mouser lift their heads from the nest of rugs where they’re sleeping. They stretch and wander over to me, nuzzling against my leg, and then jump into my lap.
“I had a bad dream, guys,” I tell them. Their warmth is a comfort. It soaks into me, and I cradle them against me and lie back on the hammock. The poodles squirm for a moment. Once they’re settled, they fall back asleep.
I can still see the sickly gray nightmare sky. I look down at the pups. I know what Uncle Ralph and Aunt Clara would say. They’d talk about God’s Son and quote that prayer about Him being our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.
Then they would argue again. Aunt Clara would say, “Ralph, we never take him to church.”
Uncle Ralph would answer, “It’s too expensive. We can’t afford the tax and the gas to use the car. If we hitched up the mules, we’d have to leave at five in the morning.”
In a weary voice, my aunt would say, “But the boy needs to learn about God’s Son.”
So for a few weeks, they’d read me Bible stories. It didn’t make sense. God’s Son was a human being, just like we are. He needed to eat and sleep. But he could walk on water, heal the sick, and raise the dead. He was a kind teacher and a good man. But the leaders, government, and people were afraid of him.
They killed him by torturing him on a cross. I didn’t like to think about that. It was painful and gross and cruel. I can’t see how God’s Son, tortured on that cross, could be a refuge or strength. The impossibility of it distracts me from the nightmare. Then my mind shuts down and I fall asleep.
