In the Blackness of Space

by Robert Kuntz

  I take a deep breath. “Dr. H, my father’s been dead a long time, but I’ve been carrying him around. Not anymore.”

  “Forgave him, did you?”

  “He didn’t know what he was doing.”

  “He hurt you badly.”

  “Yes, he did. But I don’t want my life to be about the hurt.”

  “Good.”

  “It feels good. Something dirty and foul is gone; I don’t have to be sick anymore.”

  “I’m glad for you, Grant.” Dr H. pauses a moment and I find myself wondering if he’s choked up. “Billy still needs to talk to you.”

  “OK.” The thought comes to me that I have something to say to him.

  “Billy, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s OK, Grant. It was nothing.”

  “No, it wasn’t nothing. I shouldn’t have doubted you, been furious with you. You wanted what was best for me. I’d never want to undo it. Thank you for being a good friend.”

  For a moment, there’s only silence. I wonder if something went wrong with the transmission. Then Billy sighs. “Thanks, Grant. You mean a lot to me.” He rushes on, as if he needs to get all the words out before they burn him, “We bought you land outside Houston. Before you left, Marsha helped me pick it out. She said after two dates she knew you’re the one for her.”

  “What?”

  “It’s good land, Grant, near the southeast corner of Lake Houston, on a hill that catches the breeze. It has a view of the lake. The land’s fertile, not too hilly. We just planted an acre of peach trees. Next year, cherries. Then Jonathans. Then Melrose. Every year, an acre. When the trees bear, the fruit goes to the Houston Food Bank.”

  “What kind of wire fraud did you commit for this?”

  “No cons in this one. It’s all from donations here at NASA. From the bigs to the custodians. They all wanted to say thanks, to give you something to come home to. I figured when we’re on Earth, we need dreams to take us to space. And now that you’re in space, you need dreams to bring you home.”

  He pauses, and, as sure as weeds grow, I know what’s coming. “Grant, you need to read my letter. The situation’s not what you think.”

  It’s all I can do to say goodbye and break the transmission. Ihor said the poodles mirror your emotions, but now Ginger and Mouser look up at me with questions in their round eyes.

  “You don’t get it, do you? Neither does Billy. It doesn’t matter that trees are growing near Houston, or that Marsha says I’m the one for her. I never told her what she meant to me, that she brought out things in me that I didn’t know were there. And what if I had told her? People don’t wait twenty-five years for someone.”

  Mouser lifts his head and howls.

  That’s how I feel.

  16

  May 24, 2052 (Launch plus 125 days), 20:35 GMT.

  I spend the afternoon in the Ring Two ag, planting rice seedlings, feeling the soothing coolness as my sandaled feet slosh through water in the rice paddies. Gentle breezes from the wind machine make ripples across open spaces of water. The poodles chase each other, jumping in and out of the pools, barking and splashing. They knock me over and jump around me as I stand up, soaked and dripping.

  I finish, shower, change, and eat supper. It’s low-wind in the ag and the crickets are in full chorus nearby. I sit on the bench next to my lean-to. I can’t put this off any longer.

  “OK, pups, see this letter? It’s from Billy, one of your favorite people.”

  They sit up on their haunches like eager number 4s. I unfold Billy’s letter, hold it under the illumination of my lamp, and read it to them.

  You’re probably madder than hornets at me. I’m sorry, Grant. I didn’t know how else to do it. Please give me a minute. Please listen. Then afterwards, if you still hate me, then you hate me.

  More than anyone else, you made me who I am. I went to NASA on a lark. I was a rich kid who dabbled in stocks, acquisitions, and political economics. I’d juggle projects and ideas until I got tired of them. Then I’d toss the balls to others and let them keep everything from falling apart. I knew how to ask questions and play the system. But what was I living for? I didn’t know. What would I do with my life? I had no idea.

  That day we stood in line together and I saw your name tag. Before you said a word, I started shaking inside. My world tottered and shook and fell apart. The things I’d counted on crumbled until all that was left was a fierce void. Then, I felt a stirring, an invitation to find something worthwhile in life.

  You said you’d walked all the way to Houston. I thought, this guy goes to the edge for what he believes in.

  I didn’t want to be a jerk who lives for himself. I wanted a passion that was worthwhile, a cause bigger than myself. I didn’t know what it was, but I knew (I don’t know how, but I knew) that you would help me find it.

  You did. I saw your eyes blaze when you talked about people exploring other planets. I caught that passion from you: the drive to explore, to challenge humanity, to dare other worlds. That’s what separates us from animals. We go to the edge for our dreams.

  You are the most fascinating person I’ve ever met. I’ve never known anyone as brilliant and determined as you. You do awesome things with numbers. Your mind dances with them and whirls them into the right place, and when they reach that place, they put down roots like trees and grow strong.

  You’re like that first Johnny Chapman, the one they called Appleseed. I knew the moment I saw you, when we were waiting in that line to fill out the application forms. The minute I saw your name, I knew you were like that crazy Swedenbourgian who stocked up with seeds at cider mills and then hiked into the wilderness. You’re a walker, a risk-taker, a propagator. I saw it in you, the heritage, the history, the soul of a saint. I knew I was in the presence of someone who was going to shape continents. I knew that you should go into space.

  Well, of course, that was impossible. You had all your phobias. You blacked as often as I ate donuts. But the thought wouldn’t leave me alone.

  So I developed contingencies. For years, I laid the groundwork for you to be on the Galileo. If the opportunity came for you to go, I wanted to be ready. I didn’t see how that could happen. No one was considering you as a naut. Every time I worked on another contingency, I told myself I was nuts. But I couldn’t help it.

  Then the president was elected and we had a deadline. All of NASA was pulling together for the launch. And Dr. Weppler got sick.

  (Grant, I did not arrange that. I could never do that to Wepp. Word of honor. I did not mess with his life to send you.)

  But when the door opened, Grant, I knew you were supposed to go. Frennelson probably quoted them to me, but the words stuck in my mind:

  “Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting

  That would not let me sleep.

  There’s a divinity that shapes our ends,

  Rough-hew them how we will–”

  You never asked for anything for yourself. All around us, there were people ripping off the mission. In ten years, you never turned in an inflated voucher. You never ‘borrowed’ holo-recorders to use at home. You lived simply and happily. And that’s what I wish for you in space.

  From that first day, I planned for your two-hundred-pound package. At our last breakfast, you helped me see the aspect of FarSpace that most needed failsafe redundancy. No one else was thinking about it. But when you said ‘take the Beta Ring,’ I realized we could take more living things to space. So you don’t have one two-hundred-pound package, you have nine. Two of them are seeds. The other seven are failsafe redundancies.

  Of course, it’s your fruit seeds, but it’s more than that. There’s every kind of seed you can imagine: bulbs, tubers, spores, nuts. Nearly any plant you want. But, more than that, there’s freezer drawers of fertilized eggs for genetic diversity in the animals.

  I can tell you about the seeds, but for legal reasons, I can’t write down or speak from a NASA desk about the other seven packages. They’re in the Beta Ring, the
only place I could stash them at the last minute. I swapped a deed to a restaurant in the Bronx, a used electro-scan microscope, three truckloads of composted elephant waste, a recording contract, a tri-state excavating company, a sword used by George Washington, a small island in a lake in Canada, two barns of Clydesdales, a beach house in Malibu, and half the IOU’s I’ve collected in ten years of dealing. I shoe-horned those nine packages on the last supply ship from Earth to the Galileo. You have to see them! Grant, please go to the Beta Ring.

  You collected your seeds, just like I was planning contingencies, because you had to, because you were in the grip of something greater than yourself. I don’t know if I believe in God, but if there’s a God, this is what I’d expect Him to be doing in our lives, giving us a calling, a mission.

  I may be pudgy Billy Jepler. I eat more donuts than are good for me. I’d be hard pressed to pass the physical to get on the Galileo. But thanks to you, I’m part of the mission.

  Grant, you are my package. Where you travel, skies will blossom.

  ****

  21:07 GMT.

  Before I think about it, I’m at the Tri-Comm. The voice that answers, not Ferris’s, is new to me. “Let me talk to the president.”

  “Dr. Chapman, it’s three in the morning.”

  “I don’t care. Get me the president.”

  After a few minutes, I hear a sleepy voice say, “Of course, I’ll take his call.”

  “Mr. President, I’m going to complete the mission.”

  “But that means you’ll be alone for decades.”

  I expected an argument so his words surprise me. You’re right, Mr. President. I don’t want to be alone. It’s a foolish decision. But Billy is right, God has chosen me for this mission.

  Then I hear a sound like a palm slapping a table top. “Nonsense! The risk is too great. Captain Chapman, you’re a brave man, but I don’t want to lose you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President. I may not succeed, but I’m going to be loyal.”

  “It’s not about your loyalty. The electorate wants you back.”

  “With all due respect, Mr. President, hogwash. You didn’t ask the electorate. You told them what you thought would get their support.”

  “Captain Chapman, you’re under my command. The Galileo is a ship in the service of the United States of America. It’s not your pleasure vessel. Alone, you don’t have a chance. I order you to come home. And you’re obliged to follow my orders.”

  “Seven people died on this ship, Mr. President. They died so humankind could go to the stars. They get to vote, not you. I’ve got their proxy and the vote is seven to none. We’re continuing the mission.” For a moment, I glimpse the seven of them in my mind, their vague images nodding in agreement. I hear MacCardell whisper, “Dragonslayer.”

  The president shouts, “I don’t care about those nauts or their vote. Seize control of the Galileo. Bring it home.”

  I reach out and flip off the enhanced pulse comm. Null capacity, Mr. President.

  “Mr. President, NASA no longer has control of the Gal. I’m sorry we don’t see eye-to-eye. But there’re several things I need from you. First of all, Dr. Jepler is to be reinstated at NASA. I don’t imagine that’s high on your to-do list, but are you aware that SINDAS can make contact with any outlet on the VidNet? And that she has recordings of all communications from the ship, including our conversations? What do you suppose the electorate will say when they hear you shout, ‘I don’t care about those nauts or their vote’?

  “Secondly, there are some planets to be named. The first planet that’s habitable will be named Carmen Pioquinto. Her body will rest there. And its moons, sun, and surroundings will be named after the Seven. No one will forget Dremenev because he invented the pulse comm, but we’re going to see the other nauts aren’t forgotten.

  “Mr. President, I’m continuing the mission. You have a choice. You can go down in history as the president who found funding to support the Galileo, or I’ll have Jepler set up private funding outside of government control. If we do that, everyone on Earth will get reports from space, each with a reminder that you gave up on this mission.”

  He sputters and I click off.

  ****

  May 27, 2052 (Launch plus 128 days), 18:06 GMT.

  “Billy, thanks for the seeds.”

  “Have you gone to the Beta Ring? Have you seen them?”

  “Billy, the Beta Ring’s dead. The whole ecosystem’s failed because there’s been no one to care for it. I’m not in a hurry to see Beta’s corpse.”

  “Grant, how do you know it’s dead if you haven’t checked it out? Go to the Beta Ring.”

  “Billy, I’m on a twenty-five year journey. I’ve got lots—”

  “Grant, you can’t wait. Promise me that you’ll go this week.”

  It’s unlike Billy to beg. “Billy, I’ll be alone—”

  “That’s why you have to go this week. Don’t put it off.”

  His urgency gets through to me. “OK, Billy. I’ll go this week.” Even as I say it, I wonder how long a Galileo week is. We’re not orbiting Sol anymore.

  Billy sighs. “Thanks, Grant. You don’t know how important this is. When you go to the Beta Ring, it will change everything. Now, tell me what you want.”

  “There are four planets in the mission trajectory. We don’t know if any of them can support life. But if we find one that can, we’ll need pilots at NASA who can fly the landing shuttles by remote link. And you’ve got to figure out how those shuttles can carry the bots and birds and plants.

  “I can’t go down to a planet. I’ve got to stay on the ship. Fix it, Billy. You had the blasted dream; you fix it so the bots can set up the garden plots and dump the soil and unroll the sod and plant the seedlings and uncage the animals. You fix it so we leave the bees and cockroaches, pill bugs and worms, kestrels and poodles, so they’ll flourish and grow.

  “We need to leave satellites in orbit over the planted lands, each with one of Dremenev’s comm systems. Get NASA to figure out how I can build them with what I’ve got. Or send supply ships with the satellites ready to go. We need live vid-feed from planets so everyone on Earth can see what’s growing. You got that, Billy?”

  “Yes, Grant. I promise. Promise me that you’ll come back.”

  “I’m bringing back Carmen’s bassoon.”

  I sigh. “Thanks for the seeds, Billy. I’ll plant them. I’ll harvest bamboo, build germination boxes, and start new garden plots. There’s plenty of compost and manure, everything I need for good soil. When I get to Carmen Pioquinto, I’ll have trees, apple and peach and all the rest.

  “When people come, the planets will be waiting. There’ll be goats, chickens, and dogs on the ground, and kingfishers, kestrels, and bats in the sky, and wheat growing and orchards flourishing. It will all be waiting. Waiting for people who can brave the darkness for a new home.”

  “Grant, go to the Beta Ring. There’s more in your two-hundred-pound packages than you think.”

  ****

  June 3, 2052 (Launch plus 135 days), 10:39 GMT.

  I finish forking the day’s fodder into the goat pen. SINDAS has been nagging me to clean out a clogged stream in the marsh, but I find myself heading down the ivory-tiled corridor to the rainforest. Ginger waddles along, happy in her pregnancy. Mouser trots proudly at her side. I keep thinking about going to the Beta Ring. The corridor seems cold and somber. Mournful number 29s settle like stones in my stomach. The two poodles ahead of me are the only spot of light.

  I step into the rainforest. Thick, humid air engulfs me. It’s sticky and close, like pushing through taffy. Ahead are the short trees, like number 14s, that will stretch to 41s and become the forest canopy. Above them, I see water vapor rising to become thin mist at the top of the girders. The moist turgid air is hard to breathe. The biome is hushed, the soft splashing sounds of the waterfall muting the twitter of birds and cheeping of frogs.

  The poodles pad along beside me as if they’re immune to heat
and humidity.

  I turn right, to the small tropical orchard. On a breadfruit trunk ahead, I see the rose-colored dewlap of a knight anole. The lizard turns his head, watching me as I pass. He gives a slow wink, as if he knows an amusing secret, then scurries down the trunk and into the brush. I look at the lemon and lime trees. Their fruit is starting to ripen. There’re more bananas ready to harvest. The fig trees are lush and the plots of avocados and guavas are doing well.

  I reach out and pick an orange, peel it, and drop the peel into the compost pouch at my waist. The dogs sniff around and mark their territory. Then they scamper into the underbrush, chasing scents, barking at lizards. I sit on the gray resin bench, section the orange, lining up the three sections with seeds on my right and the five without on my left. I work the seeds out and line them up in four rows of three. I bite into the first seedless section and feel the juice trickle down my parched throat. Realizing how thirsty I am, I take a long drink from my water bottle and then savor the orange, slice by slice.

  Billy has something waiting in the Beta Ring that no one thought to send. It’s more than seeds. I remember our last breakfast in the diner. He talked about a breakthrough. It’s probably a propagation lab for complete protein breadfruit trees, or a DNA splitter and sequencer. Knowing Billy, he probably provided rare cacao pods from deep Amazon for more chocolate production, or vine seedlings and wine making equipment. Or a donut machine.

  Whatever it is, it’s important. If Billy’s worried about legal repercussions, it’s big.

  I still don’t want to go. Everything’s dead in the Beta. It’s all noxious fumes, rotting plants, dead stinking goats.

  One of those thoughts comes to me that it won’t get any easier. If I don’t go today, I’ll stew and promise to go tomorrow. That’s what I did yesterday, and the day before that. I’ve been frittering my time away on repairs, avoiding the inevitable. I want to get mad at Billy, but I can’t. He’s a good friend; he didn’t know I would end up here alone.