by Tarah Benner
“Well, still,” says my mother. “It sounds very experimental. What happens in six months when they run out of money and you’re out of a job?”
“It’s a five-year contract, Mom.”
“Five years?”
I grimace. Now she’s got something to latch on to.
She puts down her silverware. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but this just doesn’t sound like a good idea.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Sue. She’s going!” He turns back to me. “You’re going, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. I think so.”
“Well, you should,” says my dad.
“Don’t tell her that,” snaps my mother.
“Why the hell not?”
“Five years is a long time, Henry.”
“She’s only twenty-five years old.”
“Exactly. In five years, she’ll be thirty. How is she going to meet anybody if she’s stuck in space?”
“Whoa!” I say. “Why don’t you let me worry about that?”
“Because you never do,” says my mother with a snide look. “I know your generation thinks that you can put this off forever. But let me tell you — time is cruel. You only have so many good years left. Ninety percent of your eggs are gone by the time you hit thirty, and —”
“Susie, please,” says my dad.
“What? I’m just telling her how it is.”
My dad rolls his eyes. “When would you leave?”
“A month.”
“A month?” He looks surprised, but the pride in his eyes doesn’t falter. I know he’s happy for me. He’s always happy — until he isn’t.
As a kid, I learned the hard way that an episode of intense joy is almost always followed by a period of darkness. One day he’d be on top of the world, and the next he’d retreat to bed for days at a time, refusing to eat or talk to anyone.
When he landed a publishing deal for Currency of Corruption, things were good for a while. And when he sold his second book, I thought the bad days were behind us. I was wrong.
“A month is very soon, Magnolia,” says my mom.
“I know.”
“Were you even going to ask us how we felt about this? Or did you just accept without even thinking?”
“I thought about you guys,” I murmur. “But I had to accept. They only gave me a day.”
“You shouldn’t rush into things like this. If they want you, they’ll wait.”
“They had to fill the position, Mom.”
“Oh, don’t listen to her,” says my dad. “These opportunities don’t come twice, and if you don’t take them, someone else will.”
My mother rolls her eyes in exasperation. I know she’s heard this all before. My dad’s penchant for opportunity-seizing has made her life a living hell.
“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being a little bit careful,” she says. “She’s got plenty of time to be a writer.”
“Sue, you don’t know what you’re talking about,” says my dad. I can feel him wavering on the edge of irritation. “Maggie is a writer, and being a working writer these days is hard. If you’ve got their attention, you’ve got to run with it.”
I swallow and look down at my half-finished lump of casserole. I’m just glad my mother has the good sense not to throw my dad’s failures in his face.
When Currency of Corruption hit the New York Times bestseller list, he ran with the attention, all right. He ran straight into a story that would ruin his career.
“I just wish you weren’t going to be gone so long, is all,” says my mother. I can hear the tears building up in her throat. I don’t know what to say.
“Well, we’ll keep in touch,” says my dad brightly, taking my hand and giving it a squeeze. He still has that familiar twinkle in his eye — the twinkle that says he couldn’t be happier. “We’ll read every single thing you write.”
7
Maggie
The loneliness doesn’t hit me until I land at LAX — also known as hell on earth. It’s the second busiest airport in the country, and everyone from the baggage handlers to the guy working the coffee cart has an “I will stab you” look in their eyes.
I feel naked traveling without my suitcase. I checked my two enormous cargo crates back in New York, so all I have on me is my messenger bag. I’m supposed to be catching a bus that will take me to Vandenberg Air Force Base, where I’ll board the shuttle to Elderon and start my new life in space.
It’s only nine thirty California time, but it’s lunchtime in my stomach. I grab an overpriced burrito from a food-court-style restaurant outside arrivals and flip on my Optix to grab some footage for my journey to the launch site. I’ll have to edit out the chewing sounds later, but it’s a small price to pay for the gooey queso goodness. I’m sad that my last meal on Earth has to be airport food, but it’s better than the bran cereal I choked down in the apartment earlier this morning.
It’s a little surreal to be doing something as ordinary as stuffing my face while I wait for a bus that will take me to board a space shuttle. Natalie told me that my galactic concierge would handle everything, but I still feel that I should be more prepared for the journey. I’m not even wearing my good underwear.
As it turns out, I don’t have much time to think about it. My bus pulls up a few minutes later, and I climb aboard. About half the passengers are dressed in dark-blue uniforms that I’ve never seen before. They don’t belong to the US Armed Forces.
The fatigues all have the same black emblem on the front and a country of origin patch on the sleeve. I spy half a dozen American flags on the operatives I pass, but I also spot a couple of Canadians and a German. I pan my Optix over the soldiers, wondering why Natalie never mentioned the privatized military presence on Elderon. One of the female soldiers has a black backpack with the words “Space Force” embroidered in all caps, and I make a mental note to research them later.
The rest of the passengers look as though they stumbled straight out of Silicon Valley or some top-secret government laboratory. The university researchers are all polished and blah: khakis, Oxford shoes, polos — top buttons all securely fastened. The Silicon Valley kids are shamelessly casual and equally blah: jeans, T-shirts, puffer jackets, and ugly neon bubble vests. It makes me miss the unapologetic weirdos that inhabit the Lower East Side.
I find a seat by myself near the back and watch the rest of the passengers board. Most of them are military, but there’s one guy in khaki pants and a lime-green button-down who is completely absorbed in his Optix.
I glance to my right and catch the eye of a Space Force guy with very short dark hair. He’s tall and well-built and has a steely blue gaze that seems to pierce right through me.
He doesn’t smile. He’s sitting alone with his legs spread wide, analyzing the passengers as they board.
Unlike the tech workers, who act as though they’re catching a commuter jet from San Fran to LA, this guy looks as though he’s heading into battle. I get the feeling that his entire body is a coiled ball of energy — just waiting for a threat to materialize.
The bus doors close with a rattle, and we spend the next forty minutes navigating through prime-time LA traffic. I try to enjoy the ride, since I’m about to leave the big blue marble behind, but I find that I’m just annoyed. I’m spending my last hours on Earth crawling through gridlock traffic in what has got to be the dirtiest city in America.
Fortunately, we reach the base in no time at all. The bus stops at a gate, and the driver scans his credentials.
My heart beats faster. I can practically taste the electricity in the air. Even the blasé tech workers seem excited. I can see the endless blue ocean stretching in the distance, and I’m glad that the Pacific will be the last thing I see before we leave the atmosphere.
Winding through the base toward the Maverick Enterprises launch complex, I’m disappointed to see that it looks and feels exactly like an airport. We glide down a one-way road toward the terminal, passing a line of flags from all different
countries flapping in the breeze.
The bus pulls up at the terminal, and I disembark with the rest of the nonmilitary personnel. Apparently, the Space Force operates separate from the rest of us.
I walk through the sliding glass doors straight into a sea of people. Most of them are already dressed in their hideous blue jumpsuits, talking excitedly on their Optixes to loved ones before they depart for Elderon.
Enormous screens mounted at each end of the terminal show a perky woman with golden-blond hair and a blinding megawatt smile. She’s giving directions to the eager crowd, and I see that the real woman is standing on a raised platform in the terminal, wearing a crisp white dress and a jaunty blue scarf.
“Welcome, welcome!” she says in an electronically magnified voice. “I’m your galactic concierge, Vanessa St. James. I’m here to guide you along your journey to Elderon. Please put on your complimentary flight suit and prepare for check-in. All passengers must pass through security before proceeding to the gate.”
I groan and shuffle off to the bathroom to put on my suit, which is crammed into a ball at the bottom of my bag. It’s made out of some cheap fuzzy material that snags on my nails, and the thought of enveloping my entire body in the thing makes my skin crawl.
I peel off my jeans and jacket, leaving my underwear and T-shirt on underneath. The jumpsuit is snug in the hips and chest — definitely designed for a man.
When I emerge from the bathroom, Space Flight Barbie is still in the middle of her spiel. “Please have your boarding pass queued for scanning and make your way to the gate for check-in.”
I wake my Optix and pull up my boarding pass. It says we board in forty minutes, which seems like a very short layover, considering we’re about to leave the planet.
I follow the throng of passengers toward the security checkpoint, and a hostess in white waves me forward. I step into a narrow booth, and the automated doors slide shut behind me.
Once inside, a woman’s face appears on the screen in front of me, blinking slowly to create the impression that I’m facing a real person.
“Welcome to Vandenberg Air Force Base,” says the woman in a stilted robotic voice. “Please direct your gaze toward the screen and state your full name.”
“Magnolia Barnes.”
As I speak, a green light appears above me and pans over my entire face. There’s a dull ping as the software confirms my identity and runs my name through some big government database.
“Please place your hands on the red circles and answer the following questions.”
I flatten my palms on the wall in front of me over two circles the size of bread plates. They’re designed to measure my heart rate, blood pressure, and whether my palms are sweating as the woman asks me a series of questions.
They start out normal enough — my age, my address, the city where I was born — but quickly progress to serious.
“Are you a US citizen?”
“Yes.”
“Are you carrying any weapons or explosives?”
“No.”
“Do you have any illegal drugs in your possession?”
“No.”
Each time I answer, the device scans my face and records every microscopic tic. It tracks my eye movement and the timbre of my voice and uses thermal imaging scanners to detect even the smallest hint that I might be lying.
It’s over in less than thirty seconds. When it’s done, the woman thanks me, and the door slides open to let me through.
“The flight from Earth to Elderon will take around five hours — less than a flight from New York to LA!” booms Vanessa’s voice over the speakers. “This historic launch is the first of ten that will transport you and your fellow crew members to Elderon, colony one!”
A burst of applause greets this statement, and I see a crowd full of people gathered outside the gate.
“Everyone around you is the best in their field, and you’ll be working side by side for the next five years.” She winks. “I suggest you use this time to make some introductions.”
Right on, Space Flight Barbie. Time to grab some interviews.
I scan the crowd for someone who looks interesting and find my path blocked by a brunette woman in white carrying a tray of what appears to be wheatgrass shots.
“Hostesses will be circulating with complimentary comfort tonics,” says Vanessa.
“What’s in this?” I ask the hostess, being sure to get a good shot of the viscous green goo.
“It’s a tonic derived from cannabis,” she says brightly. “High CBD, low THC . . . It’s great for anxiety and nausea.”
“Mmm,” I say, taking one of the shots and tossing it back. Unlike the dirt-and-grass flavor I’d been expecting, the tonic has a pleasant minty taste. It doesn’t quite offset the oily consistency, but it’s not bad.
“I’ll take two,” says an elegant Indian woman, elbowing in behind the hostess and grabbing a shot glass with each hand.
“Nervous?” I say, focusing my Optix on her. She’s very pretty, but she’s wearing an expression that suggests she’s about to walk into an amphitheater to fight a tiger.
She rolls her eyes. “My company sent me because I’m the only qualified unmarried woman.” She downs the first shot. “I study the long-term effects of simulated gravity on bone-marrow density, but I hate space.”
I grin. “What company do you work for?”
“GenMed.”
I open my mouth to say I’m with the press, but Vanessa’s booming voice cuts me off.
“If you need to use the restroom, there is a facility on board. Please keep in mind that the spacecraft lavatories are modified to function in a microgravity environment. For number one, the big blue hose is where it goes. For number two, seal up your poo!”
The woman takes her second shot, looking as though she’s about to pass out. “I took a home enema last night,” she says. “No way am I shitting in a bag.”
I laugh, but inside I’m filled with panic. Clearly I missed the memo on space shitting.
“We’ll begin boarding with our first-class passengers,” says Vanessa. “If you purchased our first-class package, you may now board the spacecraft.”
“Is it possible that things up there will be exactly like they are down here?” asks the woman with an eye roll.
“Sure seems like it,” I say.
I manage to interview a few more people before Vanessa calls the coach passengers.
I line up with the others to get my boarding pass scanned, and Vanessa continues to deliver instructions via the screen behind the counter. She demonstrates the correct way to put on a space suit and how to download the welcome packet to our Optixes.
My heart skips a beat as I’m cleared for boarding and make my way down the jet bridge. It all feels familiar and exciting at the same time.
The door to the shuttle is lower and smaller than the door one would use to board an airplane, and everything has a telltale new-spaceship smell.
When I step inside the shuttle, I see seven rows of empty seats equipped with four-point harnesses. Space suits are draped over the cushions, and the helmets are suspended from bungee cords overhead.
Another smiling hostess ushers me onto a lift in the center of the first row and instructs me to wait. I look up.
I’m standing at the bottom of a tall shaft that rises nearly a hundred feet above my head. She fills the lift with six more people and hits a button. We rise slowly through the center of the spacecraft to our designated level. When the lift clicks into place, we pile out, and I look around for my seat.
It’s all the way in the back row. I find my number and pick up the suit. I’ve already forgotten everything Vanessa said about the correct way to put it on, but I remember I need to take off my shoes.
Getting inside is much more difficult than Vanessa made it look. There isn’t enough room to sit in my seat and slide my legs in, so I stand in the aisle and shimmy it up my hips.
The suit is lighter than I expected, with rubberiz
ed boots, gloves, and a full communication system. There are buttons on the arm for volume, brightness, and climate control — even a help beacon to call a hostess.
Just as I’m preparing to waddle to my seat, another group gets off the lift, and a very attractive, very familiar man sidles toward me down the aisle.
He’s only a few years older than me — probably twenty-eight or twenty-nine by the look of him. He’s got jet-black hair that falls over his face in wild curls, light-mocha skin, and the sort of do-me eyes that are a hazard to women everywhere.
Oddly, he is not zipped up in the horrible blue onesie. He’s wearing low-slung jeans and a tight gray T-shirt that shows off his tan, muscular arms.
“Is this seat taken?” he asks, nodding at the seat beside me.
“Nope,” I say, feeling a little less composed than normal. “Are you J11?”
He grins, and a perfect set of dimples appear. “I am.”
“You’re supposed to wear the jumpsuit,” I add, a little annoyed that he thinks he can get away with breaking the rules just because he’s so good-looking.
“So they tell me,” he murmurs, eyes twinkling with mischief. “How are those things, anyway?”
“Scratchy. Hot. Whatever dumbass designed them is definitely a man.”
His smile widens. Damn those dimples. “Why do you say that?”
“They don’t fit right.”
He laughs, though I’m not sure what he finds so funny. He bends down to untie his tennis shoes, and then he does something that makes my jaw drop to the floor. He unbuckles his belt and unzips his jeans.
“What are you doing?” I ask, glancing around at the other passengers. They’re all too preoccupied to notice the guy stripping in the aisle, but I have a front-row seat.
“Can’t wear jeans in the suit,” he says, dropping his pants to his ankles. He’s wearing tight black boxer briefs, and I force myself to look away. “The rivets could tear a hole in the thing.”
“Uh-huh . . .” I’m not sure what I did to deserve a free flight to space with a cannabis-infused tonic and an underwear model, but I’m not going to question my karma.
