Science Fiction: The Last Astronauts
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A science fiction story based on a hidden track from a Butthole Surfers album. If you know, you know. If not, well, have a nice read anyways. Copyright © 2004.
I’d been aboard the International Space Research Station for about three months of a two-year tour of duty when it happened. The station’s official Virgin Galactic title was Sustarre Station, but some of the Americans didn’t like the cheeky—albeit obscure—reference to 20th century role-playing games. Bloody Nora! Most people didn’t even know what that referred to then, much less now. Ridiculous. I say look it up for yourself, later, but be prepared to be underwhelmed. The job was good, however, and living in space was ace! The station was powered by a micro-singularity; it provided about one quarter gravity to some parts of the central station structure, in addition to being a nearly limitless source of power. Elsewhere on the station, things had a tendency to float for a while before eventually drifting towards the center of the station. This meant “down” was generally used to describe the center of the station, and “up” meant any of the outer limbs of the station. My job was to maintain all of the peripheral systems aboard: plumbing, non-navigational electronics, life services, and so on.
It was my first space tour, and so far, I was really enjoying it. The Commanding Officer, Captain Audrey Jackson, was a tough American commander, but she really took a liking to me when I interviewed. I can sometimes tell right away how a person is going to react to me. She immediately began talking to me as though I were a protégé or some kind of adopted son. She’s actually only about five or ten years my senior though. Still, it was nice to know that she would be looking out for me (even while she looked over my shoulder…nobody trusts a space rookie completely, even one with my grades and qualifications). I’ve never kidded myself about being any kind of bloody genius, though. I worked damned hard to get this assignment, and I planned to reap the rewards of it. Perhaps a nice administrative job back home on Earth once this was done, or if I really enjoyed this, perhaps a career as a spacer, like my counterpart engineer, Pavel Kosov. I’d been all over the world, traveling every summer in between college semesters for nearly ten years. “Settling down” in space for a while just seemed like a natural extension of that journey.
Pavel was an old-timer, a spacer since the first of the Virgin Galactic flights. He’d been in and out of space for about 25 years of his life, and though he was only about 55, his bones were so deteriorated from extensive space travel that he wouldn’t survive more than a few months of normal gravity. Most of his loss happened before the gene re-sequencing was developed which hardened and fortified spacers’ bones before traveling in space. Unfortunately for him, those treatments were only good as prophylactic treatment. Nothing would put the structure back into his bones…he was pretty well fucked. His health issues didn’t stop him from making the most vile space vodka ever brewed though, or from rambling on endlessly about bikini-clad women, or about lounging on beaches that he might never see again. Like myself, Pavel was a civilian engineer, though he was definitely senior to me.
It was easier, I thought, to be here as a civilian, than to be one of the scientists assigned to the station. They got a swift kick in the stones about two times a week by the Captain her own self, if they fell behind in their projects, or if they just failed to update her adequately. The scientists were all military doctors of one stripe or another, and all fell under her command, like or no
As I floated nearly weightless through the station, making my morning rounds and checking them off my extensively populated clipboard, I slowed as I went into the Biosciences lab to steal an eyeful of my new fling. Juliette—or as the captain affectionately calls her, “Dr. Bonhomme”—was furiously scribbling on a tablet PC in front of some kind of machinery; it was a centrifuge if I recall correctly. Her short, boyish haircut stood oddly vertical in the zero gee environment, the puffed crown of hair recalling to mind some images of 1980’s era musicians…”Flock of something.” Ah well. Her shapely figure was buried under the swaths of a white lab coat. No big deal I thought. I’ll just waft in on the microgravity and give her a little start. An impish grin crept across my face as the space between us diminished. My stealthy approach was nearly sabotaged by my own barely-suppressed snicker.
“Boo.” I said softly into her ear just as I was about to drift into her back. She had been completely absorbed with whatever she was writing. When she started, her pen leaped from her hand as though animated of its own accord. It struck the top of the cabin with a dull thunk, and began to ricochet around the tiny lab space, providing entertainment for the myriad tiny cages containing a plethora of small critters. Many of them reached for the pen, but they, like me, were relatively new to the nearly absent gravity—many of them arrived with me—most failed to even reach the fronts of their cages in time to do any more than salute the pen with their tiny wavering paws as it floated by them, oblivious.
Meanwhile, Juliette turned to identify her assailant. Realizing it was me (apparently Pavel has done this to the entire crew at a more or less relentless pace. I am just getting into the swing of things here…) she launched into me with a barrage of comically flailing fists. Since I was just freefalling, though, the first strike pushed me back out of range of the rest of her onslaught. Her Velcro shoes kept her feet firmly planted, but the attack thrust her backward until she looked like a movie hero dodging bullets.
Chuckling, I said, “You sure are jumpy this morning.” My smile began to melt as I realized she was still not smiling herself. Even Pavel wouldn’t normally have been received so poorly.
“Have you heard about the meeting that Jackson called?” she asked, still maintaining that look of concern.
“Yep. Didn’t think much of it,” I replied honestly. I had drifted into a wall, and the Velcro patches on my uniform had lodged me there rather firmly. I had the faintest sensation of hanging like a family portrait. I was still getting used to this place.
“She doesn’t call all hands meetings, David.” Juliette replied. She absently pushed her glasses back up to her face and glared at me through them, as if they would focus her thoughts and burn them through my thick skull. Even in space, glasses never stayed where they were put. How peculiar, I thought. Barely enough gravity to pull things to the floor, but her glasses dropped again like they were poured from pure lead.
“Well, I’m headed that way, finishing my rounds,” I said. “You want to join me, my little boffin?” I slyly winked. We’ve been sneaking off for about two weeks now. It’s a new tryst, and both of us are like 30 going on 16. Hormones out of control. I’m surprised her Biosciences background hasn’t encouraged a more formal study of our nocturnal experimentation…then again, who’s to say it hadn’t, and I had just been too horny to notice?
“No,” she said flatly. Well, she was worried then. “I want to finish this experiment before I head up. You know how I am. It’ll take me two hours to figure out where I left off.” Aye. She was funny that way. Brilliant, but a little ditzy; a perfect boffin—the wacky professor. I’m sure everyone made the typical references to absentminded professors (behind her back, out of self-defense against her quick swing, I’m guessing). The cliché has merit though. Most truly brilliant people are just a little bit out of touch with the rest of the world.
“Okay,” I pushed off the wall that I had come to rest on, my cornflower blue jumpsuit making a quiet tearing sound as the Velcro patches on my arse and shoulders released from the scratchy pads on the wall. I floated directly towards her, spinning slowly, like an old mercury capsule. I gripped her shoulder gently as I reached her to slow my progress. I completed the “docking maneuver” with my face, pressing my lips to hers. This greeting/farewell was much better received. She changed her mind quickly, as a rule. This was to be no exception. Juliette reached for the lab lights just as we drifted gently towards one of the walls.
“Mmmm!” she murmured into the dark cavity of the capsule. I was pressed flat against a wall, clinging to it as though trapped by an enormous space-dwelling spider. As I’ve said, my jumpsuit was covered front and back with patches of Velcro. The mated sides covered the walls of the space station like a fuzzy carpet, catching all manner of things, like tools, books, and even people who had the patches on them. It was a handy way to keep things in one place, and it made itself useful for other, less well-documented activities. Juliette was on her knees, her lab coat open in the front, and her suit pulled open clear to her waist. I suppose if you were to enter the room, it would appear that we were using one of the walls as a floor, because she was straddling my prone body in a most fortuitous manner. There was only one real problem, and that was that we weren’t going to get much farther in our current position, with the suits in the way, and taking them off meant turning ourselves into an orgiastic pinball in a Brighton Beach boardwalk game, as we screwed our way around the room in zero gee. We had done so before, but not on short timetables, and with some rather curious bruises to explain to our peers afterwards. In the dim light we could both see the clock. It was ten minutes of two, and we were due in the main conference room in twenty-five minutes. It would be enough. It would have to be, at least for now.
“Not a problem, yet, my dear Jules,” I said to her gallantly as I pushed us both away from the wall. The gentle grip of the Velcro gave way under my strength easily; it was designed to hold things still, not to resist effort. As we drifted across the darkened laboratory, a chorus of animal sounds rained around us, adding a sense of urgency and voyeurism to the experience.
“Oh, my!” she exclaimed as we drifted lazily across the compartment. I hurriedly helped her free of her outer garment, and partially escaped from my own. As we reached the other side, I had undressed just enough of myself from the suit to…ahem, allow for certain…well…you know…liberties. Back on earth I had never considered myself to be shy, or private. I was an open book. Perhaps even a touch exhibitionistic. But living in such close quarters had taught me to respect the limited privacy afforded, and had made me much more modest than I usually was.
..They say that a gentleman never kisses and tells. Being a modern man myself, I feel that this is a bit of an antiquated sentiment, but for the moment, I will suffice it to say that we had a wonderful time, the animals got an incredible show—if I do say so myself—and we made it to the all-hands meeting (the official one, mate) on time…but only barely.
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