Cris Jolliff

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 20^th 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.

?

I made my way incautiously into the main control room. It was in the hub of the station, which was shaped overall somewhat like a starfish. Each of the five outer limbs housed various rooms for laboratory space, recycling, hydroponics, and assorted dwelling spaces. The hub was where the gravity well was strongest on the station, because of the micro-singularity. Because of this, the kitchen, exercise rooms, and the control rooms were all in the hub, where the gravity helped a great deal to perform such work.

The second in command was Jim Zagovich, a Czeck Commander. He was one of those guys who not only had many a pair of white gloves, but he actually used them during cleaning inspections, much to the annoyance of the crew, particularly Pavel and myself. The second I entered the command room he was in my face.

“You have the morning status, Mr. Brown, yes?” Zagovich slurred, his heavily accented English running the words together as he brazenly snatched the notebook from my hand, unasked for. For a guy who graduated from MIT, you’d think he would speak the language better. For a European, his manners were atypical, however. I personally think he does it on purpose to alienate himself from the rest of us. Captain Jackson is so open and personable that Zagovich must feel he has to play the role of “Hardass” or else we’ll all revert to weed-smoking coeds. He was already seated at the conference table thumbing through the daily checklists from my notebook before I noticed that his haircut was a mirror of my own. Had we popped out of a can head-first, our heads both might have been mistaken for brown-furred tennis balls. How peculiar, I though for the second time that day—thinking of tennis in a time and place like this. Was I getting homesick, at long last?

“Still no word on the repairs of our secondary re-entry vehicle, eh?” Zagovich raised an eyebrow as he quizzed me. Sometimes I’ll give him something to bleat about in his blustery, ram-like way. Other times, like this one, I could sense that there was already enough tension, and just meekly handed over the status checklist without a word. As he was reviewing it, I padded over to the coffee machine and fixed myself a proper cup of hot English tea, grateful for the partial gravity created by our power core here in the center of the station. As a new spacer, I still enjoyed freefall at times, awkwardness and all, but as an Englishman, I wasn’t about to give up my tea, and you can’t sip a cup of hot tea in freefall.

“Last report was that mission control would have it for another three weeks before sending it back. We have one remaining vehicle, and the next scheduled shuttle is about two weeks away.” I reported with my usual level of detail. He seemed satisfied.

Pavel and Dr. Richard Noell, the American Astrophysicist stepped into the tiny conference room, already apparently in discussion of some minutia regarding astrophysics. Pavel had his nose in everyone’s business, and could double as a lab technician in almost every field. He was my mentor and my idol, to some degree. Dr. Noell was not one of my favorites. When I had first arrived at the station, he had grilled me intensely, as though I was there to challenge his position. I’m just an Engineer, I had told him, but he continued to track me from the corner of his eye every time I had to enter one of his compartments for anything…which was a bit too often for my preference.

“So you believe quantum signature of star is blocking transmission to system?” Pavel’s grasp of English was no better than Zagovich’s but at least Pavel learned it the hard way, and had an excuse for forgetting the odd article here and there.

“Precisely,” said Dr. Noell, apparently agitated by this statement. “If you had more background on quantum physics I’d love to bounce more of this off of you—“

Pavel interrupted, “Have studied some, actually. Can we run over this later?”

“You mean, go over this later?” corrected Dr. Noell. “I’d like that, but I’ll be the only one doing any calculations, just…well…you know, because.” That American astrophysicist was always correcting Pavel’s English, and his isn’t much better, considering it’s his native language. Twitchy fellow, too…always looking over his shoulder. I didn’t ever catch him trying that “correction business” on the second in command, Zagovich, though. I heard once that he tried it and Zagovich assigned him to mess duty for a full week—a duty we normally share from meal to meal—and did a complete inspection of every one of Dr. Noell’s lab and personal spaces every day during the whole time. Every discrepancy had to be checked off by Zagovich before he let him off mess duty. Zagovich was a right bastard.

My musing was interrupted by the simultaneous entrance of the rest of the crew: my new sweetheart Dr. Juliette Bonhomme (O Canada!) and the commanding officer, Captain Audrey Jackson. Captain Jackson, as she preferred to be called, was an amazing woman. She had advanced through the American ranks like a dervish moving through a crowd of mongrels. Now she was in charge of one of the most prestigious space assignments to be had by any country. She was tall, and almost stately. Her dark skin was nearly ebony, and her hair, like the rest of us, was close cropped. Her features were somewhat severe, and even a bit exaggerated by her über-conservative use of makeup, but we all knew she was a gentrified lady. She was not smiling now, though, and held a lightly crumpled piece of paper in one hand. As she took her seat, sans coffee, the rest of us settled down and stopped whatever small talk was going on.

Without comment, which was highly unusual for the captain, she handed the missive to Zagovich. The commander began to read it aloud in his heavy accent:

“AP News: Dateline Atlanta, Georgia.

Research on a man-made virus designed to attack cancer cells went horribly wrong today. Researchers at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention announced that an airborne strain of the virus was accidentally released in the lab two days ago. Initial reactions were mild as the virus was not deemed toxic. Later discoveries indicated that the virus was mutating and had begun to attack the normal physiology of humans, rather than cancerous cells. This new variant has spread all throughout the southeastern United States and is considered pandemic at this time. Reports from abroad are starting to come in from cities that are along airline routes from Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport, indicating that the virus is spreading out from there, as well.

All international travel has been halted indefinitely. The President has declared the entire nation a Disaster Area, and has initiated Martial Law to protect the health of uninfected citizens, but the virus continues to spread unchecked. Deaths are already approaching the millions. The CDC has announced that its scientists were the first and worst hit, and have assumed responsibility for the virus’ initial spread.

Symptoms of infection mirror Lepromatous Hansen’s Disease (Non-tuberculoid Leprosy) and include bruising and loss of sensation in the extremities. Onset is 24-36 hours, and is currently fatal in 100% of cases. Advanced cases are highly contagious, and considered untreatable. Death occurs painfully, when the victims’ internal organs fail.

End Transmission.”

?

“I think I’m going to be sick,” I exclaimed. Apparently Dr. Noell agreed, because he was almost as pale as the white lab coat he wore over his ubiquitous blue jumpsuit. Without warning, he abruptly spun in his chair and heaved into the small waste basket next to the coffee maker.

Several others, myself included, seemed as if they might become sick sympathetically, but no one else actually did get sick, at least not at that moment. Captain Jackson was ashen. We were all stricken dumb. Zagovich was the first to react.

“We must call Mission Control at once.” He rose, crumpling the paper and pitching it to the center of the table to punctuate the sentence. We were all probably thinking the same thing, though, as we stared at the harbinger in the middle of the table. What if they don’t answer? I thought to myself.

For as long as this station had been in orbit—seven years, now—Virgin Galactic mission control had been stationed in southern Florida. It was very close to the epicenter of the outbreak, and, even though there were other stations for communications, it was the only commercial center left in service that had a viable launch center for boosting our periodic and necessary restocks of supplies into orbit. None of the other nations was currently supporting any independent space programs, commercial or otherwise. They had all acquiesced to the clear leader, and had funneled their space exploration and research funds through Virgin.

We were in deep shit.

We followed the commander into the command center like a troupe of zombies on a parade route. We already all stank of fearful sweat. We settled into our regular stations. Pavel and I were at the Engineering Controls, Dr. Noell (who was still shaken after his little oopsie) and Juliette were stationed at Astrogation and Life Sciences respectively, Captain Jackson and Zagovich were seated in the Pilot and Copilot seats. Those last two seats were really just nicknames. Everyone knew this station didn’t really fly, so much as it just kept itself from falling too far. The seats were named in honor of their user’s titles, rather than for any semblance of flight control. Both stations were identical, and included redundant views of what each of the rest of us were seeing. We all donned our headgear to drown out the station noise while we eavesdropped on Zagovich’s call, rather than try to listen over the control room’s lame speakers.

“Mission Control, this is Sustarre Station, over.” Zagovich’s English was suddenly much more crisp than usual, though still heavily accented. I hadn’t been in the control room with him before while talking to Mission Control. I was a tad surprised.

“Mission Control, this is Sustarre Station, we require information, over.” No answer a second time had my heart in my throat. I couldn’t tell how most of the others were feeling; they all faced away from me except for Pavel. Pavel looked at me and took a brief swig from his hip flask. Almost as an afterthought, he screwed the cap on before passing me the flask. I greedily drank from the tiny battered steel container. I really needed something to chase the fear out of my soul. Perhaps, I thought, I can wash it away with liquor.

I passed the dented flask back to Pavel, with a silent grin of thanks as my only reply. I noted, not for the first time, the faint inscriptions on the flask of the RKA and of MIR, the defunct Russian space station program. Man, I thought, he wasn’t old enough to have been part of that, was he? I hadn’t asked him about it yet, though.

“Sustarre Station,” the voice broke through all of our thoughts, and we all jumped as one at the sound, “This is Mission Control. Please stand by for a prerecorded message from the president of Virgin Galactic. Confirm that you are at your control stations, over.”

“Mission Control, this is Sustarre Station,” said Zagovich crisply. “Please explain why we are being played a recorded message. This is unnecessary. Please advise us of your situation, over.”

“Sustarre Station, please confirm you are at control stations, over.” The reply was more like an ultimatum than anything I had ever heard. Dread began to well up inside me. My fingers and toes went curiously numb. What an odd sensation.

“All control stations are manned, Canaveral. Just get on with it, please. You’ve got a lot of very nervous people waiting on you right now.” Captain Jackson smoothed all of our nerves with her commanding voice. It was the first thing she had said to anyone since showing the commander that message.

“Stand by.”

“…”

Static played into our headphones momentarily. I was lulled for a moment into the sound, when it was interrupted by a voice.

“My esteemed colleagues. There is no way to soften the blow of what I must tell you, so I shall be succinct, and hope that you understand my need for directness. I must regret to inform you that there will be no further international flights in the foreseeable future. This, unfortunately, includes all orbital flights conducted by the Galactic division of Virgin Airlines. It is regrettable that your life, too, has become forfeit in the face of this global tragedy. If you and your station-mates are cautious and can plan creatively, you may survive long enough to outlive what we most assuredly will not. Our scientists and those of every nation work feverishly to discover a vaccine or cure for this malicious virus, but for that there is little hope. May God be with you and watch over you in your final days, and may you forgive us all for our foolishness.”

“End Transmission.”

We all looked around at about the same time, and everyone was wearing an expression more suitable to someone that had just been shot, than someone who had just calmly listened to his or her death sentence being pronounced. As the transmission was coming to a close, my stomach began to flip-flop of my own accord. I felt as though I was a new flyer on my first freefall flight. It was either going to be tears or I would vomit. Torn by indecision, I chose instead to freeze. It wasn’t hard. My blood had already done so, after all, right in my veins, and I felt colder inside than I had ever felt outside. Looking around, it was clear that I was not alone in my feelings. I had never felt lonelier, however.

?

Two weeks had passed, and nobody seemed capable of thought. The entire crew, myself included, refused to talk about the news coming from planet-side. It came to us in ever-decreasing regularity, until Canaveral stopped responding altogether. Other stations occasionally checked in on us as the hours and days passed, but the news was always bad. Catastrophic, actually. Even the stalwart Zagovich was an automaton, drudging through his daily routine without even remembering to shout, or glare, or be his usual unwelcome self.

Alone amongst us, Captain Jackson seemed to be a reflection of herself. It was she who coordinated the retrieval of wastes that were normally jettisoned downward to provide upward thrust in order to power the micro-singularity. This was more efficient, but it meant that we had to store the waste onboard longer than we used to. This was going to affect the smell of our little tin-can home drastically. Pavel and I adjusted the hydroponics systems and increased their production by nearly 20%, which meant that we could go for at least 8 months on the air we currently had stored. The food and other supplies we needed were always overstocked, because of countless flight groundings from Mission Control. We had plenty of food for 8 months. Knowing when you will die does strange things to a person, though. Some of the crew were exhibiting bizarre behavior as a result of our unique position.

The captain was doing routine inspections of our changes when she happened upon me working on the carbon dioxide scrubbing system. I was feeding the huge plates of plankton that ate our exhalations and spat out cleaned oxygen for us to breathe.

“How are you holding up Mr. Brown?” She said. I thought she seemed too preoccupied with her thoughts for small talk, but I engaged her nonetheless.

“Spot on, skipper. Everything is coming together, though I think Juliette…er, Dr. Bonhomme…is regretting having to euthanize so many animals, just to save our air.” I was thinking of her nonstop, now, because I knew as we all did, that there wasn’t much time left to share.

“Don’t worry about your relationship with Dr. Bonhomme, Mr. Brown. It’s a small station, for all of its size, and there are only six of us. It was inevitable that some of us might pair up, and I’ve been aware of your discrete relationship with the doctor almost from its inception.” She didn’t appear to be upset, so I inquired further, to assess her mood.

“Yet you said nothing. Is this common for spacers? I’m still learning the ropes, you know.” I gave a little smirk, intended to disarm her further. With only a little smile of her own, she turned and drifted out of the room, saying nothing more about that or any other subject.

“Shocking,” I said quietly to myself as I returned to my work.

“Indeed,” came a reply, almost from nowhere. A blue-clad shape drifted in foot-first through the thick hedges of the hydroponics plants. As it emerged, I was relieved to see that it was Pavel, and not Juliette. I could just imagine the fireworks of her overhearing such an encounter.

“You are some kind of fellow, David Rubenovich,” said Pavel, using the strange Russian surname of replacing my own surname with my father’s first name, Ruben, and ‘-ovich’ which, roughly translated, meant ‘son of.’

“Whatever do you mean old man?” I reached uninvited for his shirt pocket, Pavel’s most recent “hiding place” for his flask. Everyone on board had a standing offer to drink as much as they wanted, and his production of vodka had skyrocketed along with the new demand. Almost everyone took him up on the offer. Everyone but Dr. Noell, the uptight Astrophysicist. He disapproved of the drinking, but couldn’t say much when Pavel was doling it out in small and mysteriously-replenished quantities, and the captain was openly approving, even going so far as to ask to pass the flask during our meetings, which had become a regular part of daily routine since the…news. I never did find out what he meant though—

“All hands to the command center on the double,” Zagovich’s voice rang clearly through the old speaker system. This couldn’t be good news, I thought. Considering the last time this had happened.

Pavel and I made our way towards the command center. I had improved greatly on moving in microgravity, and was keeping up with Pavel.

“I bet dinner tonight this call is about waste management system again, eh, tovarich?” Pavel was being dinged almost hourly about ways to store the waste that were more sanitary. Pavel suggested just feeding the waste to the micro-singularity all at once, but Dr. Noell had poo-pooed the suggestion, saying it might overload. “The brightest candle burns twice as fast.” He would say, and then spout off long mathematical equations just to shut down any possibility of argument. Personally, though I disliked the man on a personal level, his knowledge of the subject was impeachable, and I was inclined to side with him against poor Pavel. The commander and Juliette hated the stink that was building up, but there was no recourse for it. It meant more work, but it also meant more certainty on our ‘expiration date.’

“No, I’m not taking that bet, with your luck, you old Russian goat.”

“Dr. Noell was acting like jackass yesterday, I think maybe he does this just to piss on me.” You mean, piss me off, I thought, but on afterthought, he probably meant it just like he said it. Like all of us, he had enough on his mind without having his English attacked, anyway.

“Yes, he has been losing his grip this last week. I hope that he doesn’t—“ I was interrupted by the station’s tinny intercom system.

“Dr. Bonhomme, please bring a medical kit…code blue, Command Center!” He was completely panicked. It was the first and only time we had ever heard Jim Zagovich panic. It was terrifying. None of the rest of us had remained as composed as he was at the beginning of our ordeal, but the commander had fallen the farthest, even so. Now it appeared that something even worse was about to reveal itself. We ran into the captain and Juliette as we raced towards the module, and we met the commander at the door to the command center. His face was ashen, and he was sweating through his thin blue jumpsuit at the armpits. Dr. Noell was nowhere to be seen. The door to the command center was locked, its red “No Entry” symbol clearly lit in the now-reduced lighting of the control module. The captain pushed past Zagovich and attempted to enter a code into the door’s locking mechanism.

“What the hell is going on, Jim?” shouted Captain Jackson as she furiously entered a long string of numbers and letters.

“I have been expecting something like this. It is unfortunate that I had to be right this time. The doctor has lost his sensibilities. He says he will land the re-entry vehicle himself and take his chances among the population, rather than die here. He will kill us all with this foolishness.” The burly Czeck punctuated each sentence with a soft slam against the hull where the door joined the outer chamber to the command center.

“Oh, my god, he’s gone insane,” said Juliette. I wondered whom she meant for a moment. I moved to her to attempt to comfort her, but she rejected my offer, withdrawing into herself visibly as she curled her arms about herself.

“David, help me break through door,” Pavel suggested. It seemed like a sound idea. I moved to an outside wall and began to uncoil one of the small welder/cutters that was in every compartment in the case of hull breach or other problems. Captain Jackson stopped me short of the door, though.

“No, I don’t want to risk burning through this door. It will compromise the airtight integrity of the entire station. Think people, what if he commits a hull breach in there, and we burn this door open? How the hell would we stop that kind of leak?” Stalled, we all foundered for a moment, searching for another idea to present.

“This door has been reprogrammed, Mr. Kosov. You have worked with Dr. Noell the most. Will you try to open the door electronically first?” Before Pavel could voice assent, he was interrupted by the speaker system.

“I know what you’re all trying to do. Don’t try to stop me, or I swear I’ll kill myself right here and now!” Dr. Noell was completely frantic. His voice was high and cracking, and sounded very unpleasant and not at all sane.

“Dr. Noell, open this door. This is the Captain. I realize how much stress you are under, but you cannot seriously expect me to allow you to harm this station and abandon everyone aboard just to satisfy your own need for self-destruction.” She banged on the door with her balled fist, her long legs spread wide to prevent her from pushing herself backwards in the low gravity. She looked much angrier in that position than her words belied, I thought.

“Self-preservation is what I seek, captain. I don’t think that your commander clearly understood what I was doing when I threw him out the hatch. I’m merely starting up an emergency module and preparing for my own egress. To hell with the rest of you. If you want to die out here in the vacuum, go right ahead.” Pavel had been peeking through the tiny glass observation window mounted in the door, and said, “Holy Mother of God, he is doing it. We must stop him now, or not at all.” He and I looked to the captain, and saw resignation in their eyes. With that, I struck the engage lever on the cutter. Captain Jackson and Zagovich looked at each other and then back to me briefly, then they both parted and gave me access to the door.

“Don’t you fucking do that, you goddamn limey bastard! I’ll fucking kill myself, I swear it!” Now, names don’t really bother me, normally, but for some reason the insane ranting of Dr. Noell actually spurred me to a greater pace. I frankly was less concerned that he would kill himself than the thought that he would steal our only remaining reentry module, or Heavenly Mother forbid, damage it or the station. Nonetheless, I carefully slowed my progress to be sure that I did not accidentally hit an O₂ line—or worse.

Juliette snapped out of her shock long enough to press the transmit button on a nearby intercom and scream, “You go right ahead and kill yourself, you selfish prick. See if we care! It would be better than you screwing up the station and killing us all, now STOP FUCKING AROUND!!!” She was nearly as apoplectic as the man inside the command module.

The captain grabbed her and yanked her away from the intercom, and in an attempt to return to some order, she spoke slowly and calmly into the device. The picture of confidence: “Dr. Noell. I know that you’re frightened. We are all frightened. You can see what your actions are doing to the rest of us. Please stop what you’re doing and just talk to me for a minute. That’s all I ask.” A lone bead of sweat ran down the captain’s forehead; the only indication that she too had begun to worry.

“Tell Brown to stop cutting the damn door up, and I’ll consider it.” I looked to Jackson and she made a cutting off motion to me, so I snapped the cutter off.

“There, the noise is gone now, Richard. Please come over to the door and talk to me. She gave the commander a strange look that I didn’t understand, and Zagovich began fumbling around the cut that I had already made, trying, it appeared, to peek through the cut. He reached into his jumpsuit as my attention was drawn back to the captain, her face practically pressed against the tiny window.

“Come and talk to me Richard, face to face. There’s no need to panic. We’ll just talk, okay?” She was much more nervous than she sounded. Her hands flexed and balled of their own accord, as though they were creatures in their own right, coiling to strike.

“Fine,” came the voice through the intercom. I couldn’t see Dr. Noell, but I could tell by his voice that he was anything but fine. “You should know that there’s no way I’m going to just sit around and wait to die. I’d rather die in a fucked up re-entry than just sit here and suffocate, or starve to death. Do you have any idea how long it takes a person to starve to death, Commander? DO YOU?” It was evident that communication wasn’t going to last long. Dr. Noell was raving like a cuckolded Frenchman.

“Richard. Please reconsider your methods. I’m sure that if we all sat down and put our minds together, we could come up with a solution that satisfied everyone. None of us wants to die. None of us is waiting to die, either. If you do this, you take away everyone’s choices. Please think carefully about this.”

“Okay, I’ve reconsidered.” He sounded like he was doing anything but thinking…sounds of him shuffling around came through the speaker. “If I just point us directly downward—“the station lurched suddenly, and we all felt a bit of centrifugal force as the entire station swung around. Pavel began to look around wild-eyed, as though the station might come apart at the seams if he didn’t watch them all himself. “—then I’ll just press a few more buttons, and we’ll—“

“Now, Jim.” The captain stepped aside just as she spoke, averting her gaze. I heard a sharp crack, and immediately smelled burnt gunpowder. A GUN! Sweet Jesus, I never thought anyone would do something so outrageously stupid. Firing a gun onboard was suicidal! Has everyone onboard gone insane? As I looked down, the commander rose slowly, the slender barrel of a small-caliber pistol smoking gently in the cool station air. He had aimed it through the cut and shot the poor balmy doctor!

I was appalled. I could do nothing but stare in disbelief as the captain and commander frantically worked to get the door opened, the captain loosed a single fat tear which mixed with the sweat on her face and was quickly lost. Shocked and frustrated, I stood there watching the entire scene play itself to my eyes. Pavel finally cut through the lock on the door, but by the time we had access to the room, it was too late for Dr. Noell. He had died of blood loss.

It was a strange sight. In the low gravity, the blood had pooled deeply around the doctor’s body. He had crumpled rather slowly into a fetal position, covering his wound with his thighs. The surface tension of the blood had soaked nearly every inch of his garment before pooling on the scratchy Velcro-covered floor. The blood had then pooled, rather than spread, in the low gravity. It was nearly a ½ inch deep, and surrounded him in a perfect red-black circle. We were all strangely unaffected by his death, as gruesome as the final sight was. What gathered our attentions instead was a small blinking red light on every console in the control room. Everyone knew, or rather, should have known, what that light meant.

Pavel clearly did. He walked over to his station and pointed. He mutely looked to us for some consolation, or some negation of what the blinking red light was telling him. His eyes welled with tears that did not fall. However, each of us in turn inspected our own red lights, and turned to each other to confirm what he had already known, even as our bodies became buoyant in the absence of a gravity well. Doctor Noell had not started the engines and pushed us into a dive as we had feared. That would have been bad, but it would have been correctable. He had turned the station and dumped the micro-singularity power supply into space. We had no power.

?

Between the frantic calculations being performed by Pavel and I in the cramped control room, and the steady stream of expletives that fountained from Commander Zagovich, he, the captain, and Juliette managed somehow to clear away Dr. Noell’s body. Pavel and I had come to similar conclusions. We had approximately three weeks of power before we would need to start shutting down modules, and about two weeks after that until life support systems would fail to sustain life. The entire station was now on zero gravity, or free-fall, so even the kitchen had to be shut down and reorganized. We had no capacity for recreating the micro-black hole that was our power supply.

Thankfully, Zagovich’s gun had been loaded with frangible bullets; tiny ceramic beads suspended in a plastic bullet that, when fired, superheated. The plastic would release the ceramic pellets with nearly zero resistance when the bullet struck something. The pellets wouldn’t penetrate anything tougher than thick leather. Skin and thin jumpsuits wouldn’t stop them much, and as they entered the body, they did spectacular amounts of damage. Good news for Dr. Noell, as he wouldn’t have suffered much; the single shot had probably ground his heart to hamburger. The bad news for us was that shot had come a few moments too late to keep us from suffering a five-week long death. At least I could relax my concerns over Zagovich’s sanity; he wasn’t trying to kill the rest of us along with Dr. Noell, when he had used that gun. It was virtually incapable of piercing the hull, loaded as it was.

As it turned out, Dr. Noell had done us one small favor though. In his inexpert attempt to turn the station towards earth and run it down into the atmosphere to keep us from interfering with his “escape” attempt, his rotation had actually thrown us into an even higher than normal orbit. We were clear of the debris of lower-flying satellites and space junk, but we were still in a bloody mess, and our clean orbit had become a mad tumble through high orbit.

Captain Jackson, Commander Zagovich, and Juliette had all changed clothes after the cleanup. It was tough, seeing them haul Dr. Noell’s limp form from the control room, but it was harder still, to concentrate on assessing our situation while knowing our probable fate. Morale, which had been low but stable, had gone directly to pot. Once the cleanup had been done, and our calculations had been shared, we began to stew over ideas for “rescue.” There weren’t many. We sat in the small conference/dining room and tried to talk without emotion. For the most part it was successful. For my own part, perhaps less so.

“Life Sciences? Captain Jackson asked Juliette, for her part looking drawn and ashen. Her usual calm demeanor had taken on a slightly haunted aspect. It seemed to lurk just beneath the surface, refusing to let us see it fully, but refusing to be hidden completely.

“I’ve finished…euthanizing…the test animals, so our air supply should be extended by another six percent. The station’s solar panels are going to provide scrubbing and conditioning of the air long after we’re—well, the real problem.” Juliette did not look up as she spoke, refusing to look any of us in the eyes as she spoke.

“We don’t have enough food.” She shuddered visibly. I was torn by the sight of it. “The hydroponics system depended on a LOT of power from the core, and without it, it’s just going to draw too much power from the solar arrays. We keep food, and we can’t scrub the air, we scrub the air and we starve. Pick one.” She clipped her last words as though they were an accusation. Against whom, I wondered? It was the most she had said since the incident with Dr. Noell, and I think she surprised herself by being so verbose and not breaking down. She too carried the pallor of one beset by grief. I imagined that I probably did, as well. I certainly felt no better than they looked.

“There is no need for melodramatics, doctor,” Zagovich spat back. “We will find a way out of this predicament. Stay focused on one problem at a time. We can all fall apart after we’ve dealt with our situation.”

“Do you really believe this is just a problem to be solved like docking a ship, man? Bloody Hell!” I was incredulous, and couldn’t help but voice my concern. I was a bit surprised by my outburst. I hadn’t realized how close to unraveling that I was, or how much seeing Juliette stricken with grief was affecting me, or how much I doubted these precautions would offer any real survivability. Pavel too was skeptical of the Commander’s assessment, no matter how optimistic he ordinarily was.

“We need other solutions, Comrade Captain, No?” Pavel’s oddly phrased question seemed loaded to everyone but Zagovich. He sat as he had often done, of late. At the edge of the table, with one arm on the small table, and the other reached out, slowly rotating the two-way radio’s receiver frequency with a pair of buttons as static blared from the headphones resting around his neck. He had been doing this every day since the last transmissions from control. He sometimes sat there for hours on end, just turning the dial, always receiving only white noise. I suppose it was his way of coping with a seemingly hopeless situation. Despite this apparent inattention, it was Zagovich who replied to Pavel, not the captain.

“Yes of course, Mr. Engineer. Is there something you wish to say?” he interjected with his rolling Czech accent. He continued to cycle frequencies, even as he looked at Pavel for a reply.

Pavel grimaced at the ridiculous moniker, but replied anyway, “Well, I was thinking about this, while we do the calculations. We have much fuel aboard for our small reentry vehicle. Enough to send four such vehicles down, tovarich.”

“How the hell does that help us, Pavel?” broke in Juliette. Her reserve of self-control was beginning to splinter; her voice likewise cracking as she rebutted him.

“Indeed, Mr. Kosov.” The captain was beginning to pull herself back together yet again. “How do you propose to fit the five of us into a three-person reentry vehicle? Perhaps we could gut some of the control systems and fit a fourth, but five is going to be impossible. What then?” Brainstorming was benefiting her greatly.

“What if I get you one more vehicle, eh? That would be feat fit for cosmonaut of old, no?” Pavel grinned now, apparently pleased that he had found a hole card.

“What are you going to do, call up control and ask for one?” she said as she extended an arm to point at Zagovich. “Don’t you realize we haven’t heard from anyone earth-side in nearly two weeks? If you’ve got an idea, then out with it, dammit! Don’t toy with us now Pavel. I’m not in the mood,” the captain said. I was startled by the way she verbally pummeled him.

Ever gregarious, Pavel spoke slowly, pronouncing each word clearly through his thick Russian accent, “There is another reentry vehicle already in space.”

“I don’t mean to mince words with you, old man,” I said, without much conviction. I knew he had a trump, but didn’t know yet what. “…but that sounds like a lot of ballocks. Virgin is the only company that’s been flying space for the last fifteen years.” Even the Chinese, who hung in there so much longer than the rest, are—no, were—no longer actively developing their own manned programs. Now we were the last astronauts. Sad thought, but one dwarfed by the events going on below us on earth.

“Even if there were enough seats for everyone…” Zagovich began.

“…we wouldn’t have anyplace to go,” finished Juliette.

We all visibly slumped into our chairs. Having the cold reality of our situation thrown in our faces didn’t exactly inspire joy. We had a schedule of events that culminated in a rather firm—and final—date with destiny. Despite my upbringing in the stodgy confines of an East Sussex home, I felt as though I should like to cry. I was about to let go, when—

“Sustarre station, this is Carter Observatory, in Wellington New Zealand. Is theah anyone still up theah?” The tinny voice, with its odd inflection, sounded like a bullhorn in the absence of the steady thrum of the power core. Following the query, the command center was filled once again with the sound of static.

Thunderstruck. That is how I felt. You could have slammed my thumbs with a Birmingham screwdriver, and wouldn’t have got a more shocked expression from me. We all were frozen, our faces had transformed from morose despair to anticipatory shock, and none of us, it seemed, could get any farther than gaping at each other. Zagovich was the first to finally react. His simple motion of removing the headphones was like an electrical jolt to the seat of my pants. I rose too quickly, forgetting that in the zero gee I had seat-belted myself in. The others had no such problem, and as quickly followed the Commander into the control center.

There was no transmission capability in the conference room, I recalled, as I unbuckled myself and launched myself like a spring into the control center. The others were already donning their headgear, and the Commander was adjusting the comms to the frequency he had happened across.

“—ation, can you all heah me or not? I know you saw lights, Hemi, but they’re not resp—”

“Carter Observatory, this is the Cosmos International Space Research Station. We copy your transmission, over.”

“Bloody hell. How about that, eh Hemi? They’re alright after all.” Apparently the voice on the ground was talking to someone named Hemi. I though it odd that a man would be nicknamed after a 20th century American motor, but then I though the Kiwis were odd as a whole, so it wasn’t much of a reach for all that.

“My name is Peter Hohepa.” Another strange name. Then it hit me, they’re probably Maori, natives of New Zealand. Hemi was a Maori version of Jim, or James. One of the places I had really enjoyed during my college days had been New Zealand. I had spent nearly a month traversing the small island nation, and had been forced to leave because of the approaching semester, wanting more.

“Nice to hear from you Mr. Hohepa,” the Captain was taking charge again, and I was glad to see it. She’d been sort of running us all on autopilot for a few days at that point, and I was sorry that it took such a tragic event to bring her back in touch with our situation, but as I said, I was glad it happened anyway. It’s not that I had anything against Commander Zagovich, though, mind you. The strain of trying to run things while the captain moped about must have been hard. His health was in a bad way. After the episode with Dr. Noell, even I was concerned for his health. We all were.

“Well chums, you must be about the only people alive that haven’t been exposed to this nasty little bug, eh?” The tinny voice of Peter Hohepa was sounding more and more scattered. I looked through a portal and realized why.

“Captain, we’re not going to have much more time to talk to them. New Zealand is on the far side of the horizon, and we’re about to go ’round.” I spoke aloud as I faced the window. The control space was small enough to carry my baritone, and my face in the window told half the story to everyone who looked over at me.

“Copy that.” She replied to me off-mike. Then to the microphone, she said, “Mr. Hohepa, we’d love to get a report on the virus from you, if you wouldn’t mind. How is it that you’re alive? I thought the fatality rate of the virus was 100%?” The Captain’s face was animated with anticipation.

“Yeah, it is,” an almost imperceptible pause before he continued, “but only upon exposure, and only if you aren’t vaccinated. We’ve got a good doctor or two heah. They managed to study it and find a cure. Killed two of them before they figured it out, though. Tough turn. Heh, the rest are all getting Maori tattoos—they think they’re warriors now. Funniest part is, the boys are actually going for it! Good laughs, that, eh Hemi?” A faint chuckle crackled through the steadily worsening radio transmission.

“Do you have enough of the vaccine to spare?” The captain, bless her pragmatic American heart, was getting right down to business. No warm-up for those Yanks, once they see opportunity.

“Sure, we got enough for a whole bloody country. I’m guessin’ you got what? Six? Maybe seven people? —jzot—you—gzzt —bottom—down heah! Exzz–Hemi?” And that was it. New Zealand slipped around the horizon like raindrops running up a windscreen in the wind, and was gone. Only static followed. But what news!

?

The captain whirled in her chair and glared at Pavel. I was surprised by the intensity of her gaze.

“Okay, you old salt. Out with it. Where is there another reentry vehicle?” Old salt was a sailor reference to someone who’d been at sea so long he’d begun to soak up salt. I snickered in spite of so recently feeling doomed. Nervous laughs came from the others, as well.

“I only wanted to say—how do you say?—once upon time—there was another reentry vehicle. Maybe isn’t working. Maybe isn’t there anymore.” Juliette, Zagovich, and I were beginning to climb from our chairs. It was as if we had agreed unspoken that we might be able to beat something out of poor old Pavel, just to get him to spill his story without being so bloody evasive.

I have decided for myself that once a person begins to feel the effects of age, he becomes inured to the irritation that his own taciturn ramblings create in the younger generations. Even the normally stoic captain was making a show of aggravation, good-natured though it was. Our spirits had been elevated quite a bit by that brief conversation with the New Zealanders.

We all circled around Pavel as though we were small children, and this was Pavel’s Story Hour, on the BBC. Pavel was to tell us a grand story about the fabled “extra vehicle” and we would all live happily ever after.

“Old Chinese Missile Satellite,” was all he said. Grumbles and moans of dissent were immediately expressed by the gathered group.

“Hear me over.” Out, I though. Hear me out. Who cares?

“Just tell us, you bloody reprobate. Stop teasing us. There’s no satellite full of missiles in space. That’s science fiction, old boy.” I couldn’t believe what he was telling us.

“The Chinese were developing ASAT—anti satellite—systems as early as 2000, but those systems were all unmanned. No reentry vehicle would be required.” The Commander had certainly done his homework. Those early anti-satellite programs had involved tiny anti-satellite probes launched from a “mother” satellite. The practice was very innovative for its time, but was later overcast by cheap and highly effective ASAT microwave directors that could cook a neighboring satellite in orbit and leave no debris or physical evidence of the origin of the failure.

“This satellite, manned. I have seen this with my own eyes, on spacewalk. Saw the reentry vehicle facing space, cannot photograph from earth. Sits in high orbit, like we are now, so no other space vehicles have seen him. Come, you see.” With that, he pushed past us and started for his berthing compartment. We gave chase.

Moments later, gathered around his fastidiously neat yet still somehow dingy berth, he produced a small packet of old 35mm photographs. He had to have carried the film down and returned with it himself. No way to develop old-fashioned celluloid photos here. Everything was digital these days anyway. The photos’ backings all had a yellowish patina, as though they might be rather old. They were immaculately preserved, otherwise, and the photographs themselves were truly startling. Sure enough, there was an enormous bell-shaped Shenzhou-style re-entry vehicle. The massive three-ton craft was originally designed for just a single passenger. To my surprise, the photograph didn’t show any signs of wear or aging on the old model.

“Just how old are these photographs, Pavel?” I asked, looking over to him. He had taken the opportunity while we pored over the photographs to release his flask from its current hiding spot somewhere on his person. He passed it around quietly as we pointed and commented on details of interest in the photos.

“How did you get so close, Pavel?” asked Juliette. This question, Pavel chose to answer.

“Nikon 35 millimeter with telephoto lens, times twenty magnification. I shot him during close flyby working on NASA station in—2004. First spacewalk. I never show them to anyone before.”

“Bullshit,” came the quick reply from Captain Jackson. She looked up from the photos, “this has got to be bullshit! These pictures can’t be real. You’re just jerking my chain, Pavel, and I don’t appreciate it.” She pushed the photos to him, and began to float herself out of the cramped and overcrowded berth.

“We can go see in person, comrade Captain.” She stopped herself at the hatch. “You approve?” he was very smug. He was often in a good humor, and was excellent at staying poker-faced, but he seldom let a joke go this far. I was convinced he was if it might be possible that he was actually telling the truth.

“If you’re just screwing with us, Pavel, leave it out. We can’t take the constant up-down of emotions, man.” I tried to implore him to break off his bad joke.

“We will take a closer look,” surprisingly Zagovich said this more like a demand than a request. The Captain looked at him, then at Pavel, and reluctantly agreed.

“Fine.” She thought for just a moment as she stared at a spot on the bulkhead, and then to all of us, “Mr. Kosov, find your satellite. Mr. Brown, fuel and preflight the capsule. We’re going on a road trip.” Then to Zagovich, “We’re not doing this half-assed. I want a thorough inspection on this old bucket—if it actually exists.” As she turned to leave the berth once and for all, I could see the corners of her mouth turned up for the first time in weeks.

?

Four hours later, Pavel had radar-locked the old satellite. Its orbit had deteriorated a bit from Pavel’s remembered position, but nobody was the least bit discouraged by that. If anything, it seemed to lend more credence to his story. There had been a brief discussion-slash-argument, when the Captain told me that I was going in Pavel’s place. I had argued fervently against it, but between the five of us, I was the only one that had ever even been to China, much less knew anything about the Chinese language. During my travels I had passed through the startling country, bedding down for a while in Hong Kong. It was a former British territory, and the Chinese there were still pretty cosmopolitan by most standards of measure. I had picked up some of the alphabet and a few phrases, but was mostly counting on a laptop with some translation software. It was inevitable that an engineer go, though. No one else was qualified to certify the old capsule for flight. Zagovich and Pavel and I would be going to the Chinese satellite.

We had a few hours to kill while the fueling took place, so I paid a visit to Juliette. She and I had been very cool around the others recently. The stress was getting to us, and of course, the best thing for stress is the first thing stressed people forget to do. She was very receptive. A true gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, but I’ve never claimed to be one. It was gentle and at the same time quite randy. Urgent. We used a sleeping bag to keep us together, which floated around in her tiny berth as we made love, bumping us randomly into the walls and floors, and adding a level of intrigue to the impassioned lovemaking. Once we had both had our fun, so to speak…

“David, do you think we’ll really get out of this?” Juliette whispered. Her voice was barely louder than the low buzz of the ventilation system.

“This whole situation is pretty loony. Either Pavel is a pillock, or there’s really another capsule out there.”

“We have a chance, then,” she said as she nuzzled me closer. I was struck by how sensitive she could be, for such a well-respected scientist. Amazing how we break down into our constituent parts when the going gets rough. I was happy to see that beneath the polish of her scientific persona, and beneath the lusty young woman she had shown me until now, that there was a gentle and loving woman who needed me as much as I needed her. At that moment, I vowed to myself that I would do whatever it took to see her safe and sound.

“I…I love you, Juliette,” I spoke softly into her hair. She moved slightly, and glanced upwards to me from her cuddling position.

“Oh, David, of course you don’t. It’s sweet to say so, though.”

“No, seriously Jules, I really love you. I’m not just some dumb bloke that has it off with a chippie and thinks he’s found true love.” I pulled away from her slightly in the confines of the soft sleeping bag and turned her to face me. “I will do whatever it takes, Jules, to see you through this. I love you, and that’s that. I don’t care a whit if you believe me or not, right now. You will.”

She said nothing, but pulled closer to me, burying her head into my chest again, nestling closer once more. I took that for assent, having nothing else to go on.

?

It took almost another hour to finish prepping the flight. Zagovich, myself, and Pavel all crammed into the tiny re-entry vehicle. We were fully suited for a long spacewalk, and expected fully to do just that. Without much peremptory activity, we began the launch sequence.

“All systems are nominal and on the line,” Zagovich called to the station, where Captain Jackson was acting as our groundside control.

“Flight One, you are clear for launch. Good luck boys.” It had suddenly struck me that, there we were, three men all crammed into a tiny capsule of air and about to be jettisoned across the sky to another tiny capsule, all based on twenty year old photographs taken by an alcoholic engineer from Russia. What the hell were we thinking? Thinking was the one thing I soon ran out of time for, though.

“Launch  in three, two, one, go!” Zagovich punctuated his last word with a flourishing punch of the launch release button. Nervous energy forced another untimely chortle out of me. I felt like an Irish soccer fan on an all night pub crawl. Puddled out of my mind.

“Good, lets get over with!” came the ebullient retort from Pavel. He must have downed the entire flask before they sealed him into his suit. Nobody even cared.

?

It took nearly two breathless hours of thrusting, maneuvering, and braking before we were able to get our first brief glimpses of the old satellite through the tiny heat-resistant windows in the capsule.

“Sonovabitch,” Zagovich exclaimed as we rotated into view of the satellite at a crawl. “There is a dock on the cylinder!”

Pavel and I looked at each other in excitement. This was much better news than we could have hoped. It meant we wouldn’t have to tear apart the satellite to remove the capsule from its grasp. Zagovich reported this to ‘control’ with his usual terseness. We got the go-ahead from Captain Jackson immediately. It sounded like there was relief in her voice.

“The docking target is clear,” Zagovich reported, then gave the two of us orders off the comm channel. We complied at once, the tiny capsule began orienting itself with the hatch on the satellite.

“Twenty meters.” A short pause

“Ten meters. Engaging braking thrust.” Another short pause. Zagovich was working the control systems now, his heavily gloved hands barely moving on the oversized controls. His eyes never left the targeting screen. I doubt he even blinked.

“Flight One, this is control, I show your blips merged. You have the ball, Jim.” I could hear her smile in the transmission.

“Five meters. Four. Wait…okay, there, got it.” Zagovich was throwing switches and pressing buttons, but I didn’t pay any attention. My focus was solely on the powdercoated and dented aluminum shell outside of my viewport. I was surprised by the seemingly small amount of work it took to lock the tiny capsule to the satellite. Either Jim Zagovich was an ace pilot, or this astronaut stuff was easier that everyone made it sound.

There was a loud clank, followed by a series of cycling motor sounds, and that was it. We were docked to the Chinese satellite.

“Cycling the airlock systems.” Zagovich was still reporting in to control. “There is air pressure, but no breathable air aboard the satellite. The locks cycled, and we felt more than heard the tiny rush of air as the two atmospheres were connected by the tiny gap between the two hatch covers.  We immediately unbelted ourselves and made our way into the darkened satellite.

It was surprisingly roomy within the drifting hulk. Although it was dark, our suit lights shed copious light through the central chamber. It was about three meters across, where machinery wasn’t intruding, which was not very often, and there were two ports in the chamber. It took us some time and exploration, but we discovered the lighting control panel and, with the help of my portable computer, managed to safely turn on the interior lights. Some time later, we established that the CO2 scrubbers had failed, probably some years ago. Though the atmosphere was otherwise clean, there simply wasn’t enough oxygen to support life. Never mind that is was as cold inside the satellite as it had been outside. Thank God for suit heaters.

I began to assess the condition of the Chinese escape vehicle, while Zagovich conducted a thorough inventory of the satellite by personal inspection. He had a list of items that I had translated (correctly, I hoped) for him, and he was comparing symbols on various containers, looking for useful supplies. Pavel had examined the satellite’s egress hatch and discovered to all of our mutual pleasure that it was a fully functioning airlock in its own right, and he began the external spacewalk to inspect the exterior of the Shenzhou-class capsule. It was designed for overland reentry. It was a true antique, and it was clapped out. Really spaceworn.

Pavel and I began the release procedure to separate the old boat after I finished inspecting its interior. It was cluttered with debris, as though the Chinese had been using it as a wastebasket, but the equipment appeared to be functional and the entire satellite appeared to have full power.

“Stepping release motors.” I called through the helmet comms. We hadn’t bothered to try the satellite’s comms equipment.

“Go ahead, David.” Pavel’s voice was tinny in my ear. In spite of the vacuum cold, the closeness of the suit and the clumsiness of the gloves had made me start to sweat. I turned down my internal heater two degrees and then stepped the motors. The release locks were still engaged.

“Looks good, David. Step release mechanism one.” I was vaguely amused by how Pavel’s English was very precise when using technical jargon, but his conversational English had always been heavily broken. I guess you learn what you need to do the job, and the rest comes as it comes. I stepped the first release mechanism.

“Moving now.” A brief pause, followed by, “Step release mechanism two. I wish I had drink right now, tovarich. This is very boring.” I cycled the second mechanism, and red lights erupted all over the board. The hatch leading into the fat bell-shaped Chinese re-entry vehicle cycled shut, but not before it gave me a brief glimpse of vacuum. Thank God we were all still in our suits, or we’d have popped our cogs for sure. Zagovich came sailing up from the storage area below me. Drawn by the rush of escaping air that preceded the closing of the upper hatch, he was cursing a blue streak.

“David…Oh Shit!” Pavel sounded very alarmed. I felt a “clunk” against the side of the satellite, and then the audible alarms faintly rang through the suit, keeping pace with the lights on the control board.

“What the hell is going on, Mr. Brown?” Zagovich had grappled with a set of cables and stopped his upward drift nearly parallel with me. I was trying to interpret the symbols on the flashing lights, but my attention was directed at the fact that I saw space through the hatch before it closed.

“I think the Chinese capsule has been released, but I can’t figure out how, or why.”

“Mr. Kosov, please respond,” I looked over to Zagovich. Like me, he was sweating inside his suit. From Pavel, there was no response.

“I’m going out there,” I said, pushing off from the control panel. Zagovich followed me towards the airlock.

“We both will go.”

We stood silently in the dark little airlock that had been built into the satellite. This old satellite was really more like a stealth station. It had all the amenities expected of a cramped flying tin can. Neither Zagovich nor I spoke. We were dreading what we would find. Or what we wouldn’t find, to be more precise.

When the outer hatch finally opened—there was no indicator to show us the atmosphere had been evacuated, it must have burned out—we quickly clamped our tethers to the inset tie-down point in the center of the dingy floor, and made our way around the exterior of the satellite. It was only the second time I’d ever been out in a vacuum. Zagovich began transmitting to Pavel again, but still no response.

The stars are so crisp and brilliant when you are up in space. There is a sense of vertigo that is heightened by weightlessness, but to stare into that void was to increase the sensation one hundredfold. There’s nothing between you and that spectacular vision but a thick bulb of plastic and a few inches of air. On my first “walk” I had just drifted for a few minutes, enjoying the unfiltered, unequaled view of the universe. The raw enormity of what I was seeing was enough to feed my imagination for a thousand lifetimes. The sight of it all, without sound, special effect, or edge of screen to interfere, was humbling. I shall never forget that day, or this one.

We practically threw ourselves up a series of handholds, Zagovich following me much too closely for safety. I noted on the way “up” that many of the grips had been recently used. Pavel had come this way. Where was his tether line, then?

It wasn’t until I crested the upper end of the satellite that I finally was able to guess at what had occurred. Just as I was about to hand myself over the lip though, I felt an unrelenting tug on my tether. I quickly turned in the suit. Foolishly, I could only see the back of my own helmet. I more slowly turned my entire upper torso, to see what Zagovich wanted, keying my mike at the same time.

“What is it Commander?” I said, perhaps a bit too impatiently, but I was eager to find out what had happened. It was when I was turned to face him that I saw he still had both hands on the hand holds, and was not touching my tether.

“What?” came his confused reply.

“Oh, Bloody Nora!” I exclaimed. I was out of tether.

“Mr. Brown. You appear to have reached the end of your tether.”  Well, golly, Mr. Zagovich, Bob’s your uncle. I did not need people to restate the obvious to me.

“Then bloody go and clip my tether to your suit, so at least one of us can get up there!” I fairly shouted into the mike. I had begun to sweat again, profusely this time. Zagovich wordlessly began the trek backwards to the airlock, and as I turned to face forward, I was gripped with a fierce attack of vertigo. I nearly swooned, and almost lost my grip on the satellite at the same time. I was falling apart, just like everyone else.

It was then that I also saw what I desperately wanted not to believe…could not dare to believe. There was a broken tether clip attached to the rung just above my hands. I had not seen it in my haste to climb up to the capsule. It was the same manufacture as ours. Fresh as a daisy, but the buckle end was rended, as though some great force had torn it free. I began to tremble uncontrollably. Behind me, I could feel Zagovich removing the tension from my tether. I held very still. Any sudden movements might jerk me away from the satellite and rip the tether’s end from the commander’s clumsy gloves and throw me into space—like Pavel, Oh God!

“Go ahead, Mr. Brown.” Came a sudden voice in my headphones, shocking me back into the moment. Zagovich had attached himself to my tether. With all haste, I thrust myself up and over the edge of the bulbous satellite. As I had feared, the Shenzhou re-entry capsule was nowhere to be seen, and neither was poor Pavel. I searched the release mechanisms for signs of failure, of which there were plenty. I snapped some quick photos of the exterior of the hatch and made my report to Zagovich, and then to Control. Through choked voices and vision blurred by tears, we managed to enter our own reentry vehicle and maneuver it away from the old Chinese deathtrap.

“Flight One, we have three blips in motion near the satellite. One is yours, the other two are probably Mr. Kosov and the Shenzhou vehicle.” After some quick transmission of coordinates and estimations of remaining fuel, we set off to investigate. We came upon the Chinese capsule first. It was spinning madly. There was virtually no way for a vehicle like ours to match that insane rotation, especially when short on fuel, so we wrote that off for the moment. We met Pavel a few moments later, and activated the close quarters transmitters, hailing Pavel, but there was no reply. A close flyby revealed the reason. His suit had been horribly crushed; blood had seeped through it in several places, only to freeze. His face shield was a red mass, reported Zagovich from his view port, and I for one was grateful to be spared from having a clear view of such a thing.

Our return to the station was to be one of great celebration. Instead, there was no warm greeting, no happy smiles of success. Only heartbreak announced our return to Sustarre Station. Their eyes still haunt me to this day. There was never anything certain about living—all our lives were subject to the whim of the fates, and that no matter how hard we struggled, there was still a great element of chance that could take away everything. Zagovich reported our loss to the station. He looked as weary as a man could look, and still draw a breath.

Those two very different women were joined in a mutual terror and grief. Looking to me as though I might have an answer—or might be somehow to blame, I could not tell which. Neither ever expressed such a sentiment, but I felt it strongly, nevertheless.

The four of us began the laborious routine of excavating unnecessary equipment from the remaining re-entry vehicle to accommodate four riders. It was going to be no small feat, but we were up to the challenge. Pavel’s death had thrown down the gauntlet, so to speak, and honor demands a response to such a blatant challenge. Once the labor had been completed, we made for our bunks and work areas to gather whatever personal effects that we could carry on our persons; there was no room for any baggage of any kind. Juliette grabbed several of her unfinished research notes, burned to DVD in haste, and some small bits from her personal effects. Zagovich ditched the gun and grabbed the station logs. The captain brought only one thing, her baseball cap that read “CO Sustarre Station” with the requisite “scrambled eggs” decoration of gold leaf along the bill. She was wringing it her hands as though it had been soaked in something. I grabbed nothing of my own. I had nothing here of consequence, my only important belongings were already down there, on the contaminated earth. Instead, I grabbed the last undisclosed work of Dr. Noell, thinking that at least his memory could be carried nobly in this way. I also pocketed Pavel’s battered flask. He had left it behind. There was no room for it in a suit, and no way to drink from it anyway.

Unguided by any kind of ground control, we were forced to make our calculations based on GPS, Magnetometry, and celestial navigation, as well as visual inspection of the ground. It would have to be enough, as there was no one to do the job. We installed one extra piece of equipment, the fastest laptop on the station, to assist us with last minute adjustments. Our return to earth was…anticlimactic, to say the least.

?

There was a bit of tension, as we waited in the vehicle for their boat to arrive, but that was merely an inconvenience. The New Zealanders were very hospitable, just as my memory had suggested. When the ugly old fishing boat arrived, there were more than a dozen of them climbing around in the nets over the side, some knee-deep in the water. They were all smiling and laughing and calling to each other, and as we emerged from the tiny capsule, the entire entourage erupted in cheers. The four of us returned wan smiles. I was very nervous about the virus, and drew a tentative breath, expecting to smell it on the air. Only fish guts and salty air met my olfactories as we trod carefully onto the small rubber raft that had pulled alongside our lifeboat. The men and women on the boat were a mixture of Maori and Caucasians, all had the charming lilt of New Zealanders.

We were brought aboard the boat, and surrounded by happy faces, cheering men and women who were saluting our return as though we had been victorious over something, as though we had surmounted incredible obstacles. We had merely fallen to earth, after losing two of our friends to fear and misfortune. It was obvious to me that the others didn’t feel like celebrating. Neither did I, but the inimitable Kiwis were fully determined to get us pissed—the beer and wine had been brought with them to ally any fears that they wouldn’t get the party going soon enough—and celebrate like there had never been an astronaut in their midst before. I suppose for most of them, that was the truth of it.

There was to be no period of isolation and decontamination, since the earth was gads more dangerous at the moment than any of us could ever have thought to be. We were inoculated more or less right away, in between the back-slapping, and the hugs from strange and beautiful women, and the mugs of beer being plied upon us, we all managed to get hit in the arm with a high-air-pressure injector, which they told us was all we would need to put the horrible virus behind us. How likely that was, none of us were willing to speculate. We all remained quiet amidst the chaos of the fishing boat as it returned to Stewart Island, off the south end of New Zealand. The doctors reported that the virus was mutating, probably because it was lab-created and not a thing of nature. Aside from the deaths of a few minor species of monkey—sad, yes, but nothing compared to the billions dead of mankind—there appeared to be an end in sight for the virus.

We stayed for a few days on Stewart Island, just to make sure the inoculation had taken successfully. They had an excellent if small hospital, and although everything seemed a tad under-populated, for the most part the beautiful little city of Oban is quite warm and welcoming. I found out later that Oban had never been particularly populous. I had never found myself there during my college days, but was incredibly happy to be there now.

When the festivities had died down, and the otherwise sleepy town of Oban had gone back to its daily routine, we decided to head for our homes. Captain Jackson shipped off to the south island, where a small US contingency had retained control over some planes, and were operating the Christchurch airport for the Kiwis. They used to be operating a port of entry for the South Pole research expeditions, but everyone down there was dead or presumed dead—no contact with any South Pole bases in nearly a month, and it was summertime for them. Presumably, she would be flying herself home in one of their smaller combat/reconnaisance vehicles.

Commander Zagovich left us a few days later. His health had continued to decline once we were on solid ground. Apparently the stress of our ordeal, and possibly some guilt over the death of Dr. Noell, had taken a heavy toll on him. I had asked him if the Doctor’s death weighed on him heavily, in a moment of reflection.

“Things are often out of our control, Ano?” He shrugged, and turned away from the conversation, but it was clear enough that he hadn’t come to terms with his guilt yet. I understood him better than he probably thought. I could not stop thinking about Pavel, and what I might have done differently that day on the Chinese satellite. I wish I could go back to that day, and have Pavel set up a camera or something, so that we could have remotely observed the testing. That day has passed though, and there’s no going back, other than in dreams, or nightmares.

?

“David, you know that I care about you, right?” Juliette and I were riding a small ferry flight to Christchurch, and she had seemed pensive all morning. I was curious about it, but had tossed it off as nerves for traveling home.

“Sure, Jules,” I turned to face her in the tiny single engine plane. We were practically nose-to-nose, with the Maori pilot only a few inches in front of us. “What gives?”

“Well…this is difficult, but it must be done,” she half-murmured to herself. My hands were like ice, despite the warm subtropical weather. “David, I probably won’t see you again.” She said that with disturbing finality.

“Well of course you will, I’ll come after—” I began, a pleading tone already coming from me.

“No, David. You see…I…I have someone. A boyfriend. He’s…well I don’t know if he’s even still alive, but I have to find out. And I don’t have room in my life for both of you. You’re very sweet David, but my relationship with Jaques is pretty…well, strong. We’ve been together for several years.” I was stunned. I had no hints, not even a vague suspicion of such duplicity. I slumped back into my seat, suddenly feeling as weary as Zagovich had seemed when I last saw him.

The rest of the flight, we rode side by side in complete silence. Not for the last time, I wondered if she harbored some secret resentment with me over the death of Pavel. I had to quash that thought process though. None of us had foreseen such a horrible outcome. We all had such great hope at that moment that none of us had dared to think the worst of anything.

We landed and went our separate ways, she to Canada to seek out her probably-late boyfriend, and I to seek out my home, and to see if anyone I had known or loved had survived. So decimated had the population been, that I was forced to take a flight four days later. They only flew to mainland Europe once per week, and only the largest planes were being used, so they waited until they could fill one, or nearly so. I was in a particularly black mood that day, still irritated at Juliette for having lied to me all that time about being available, and irritated at myself for not having seen it. She was chasing a ghost now, most likely.

When I finally sat down on the plane, I felt something digging into my right hip, and reached for it. As I was pulling it out, an older woman drew up next to me in a collapsible wheelchair. The stewardess helped her out of the “spaz chariot,” as my peers might call it, and into the seat next to mine. She must have been about 70, and had the sweetest Eastern European accent. Probably Bulgarian, or Prussian, I thought, and I looked down at the battered flask that had appeared, as though conjured via prestidigitation, in my hand. Looking at the thoroughly disreputable container, I remembered how lucky I actually was just to be there, girlfriend or no.

“RKA,” a ragged but otherwise cheerful voice exclaimed from my shoulder. I turned to face the wizened face of the old Easterner. “That is old Soviet Space Program, eh boy? Where do you come by such an antique? You do not look Russian.” Her last bit surprised me momentarily. I glanced down to see my face faintly reflected off the dented and scratched canister, with the cryptic RKA – MIR and the ominous but defunct hammer-and-sickle emblem of the old USSR. Sure enough, my slightly narrow and under-bitten chin, and slightly outsized nose and ears just screamed English. I sighed.

“I’m not, but my friend was.” I turned in surprise and looked at the old woman. Her eyes were shining brightly, and almost watery. I wondered if it was because of the canned air that you get blown at you on every craft that flies, or if it was something else.

“I am Kisa Yuptirova,” said the old woman, “and you?” No, the glitter was definitely hers, and not a byproduct of air to the face. I reached up and turned my own air vent away from me. It was threatening to make my own eyes run.

“David Brown, ex-astronaut.” I replied, idiotically. I had practiced saying that as though it would be an accusation that it was the fault of the person to whom I was speaking at the time. I regretted saying it instantly, even though Kisa seemed to take it in stride.

She said, “This must have been very good friend to give you such a fine thing. They are rare today, beyond guessing. My grandfather was Yuri Koptev, he was—”

“—in charge of—” I tried to interrupt.

“Russian Space Agency.” We finished in unison, perhaps Kisa felt as silly as I, for we both looked down for just a moment before continuing.

“My friend Pavel died up there,” I said, more to the flask than to her, with a cursory wiggle of my finger in the direction of space, “this was the only thing I could find to remember him by.”

She looked at me sadly and said, simply, “What is in it, besides cold memories?”

“Vodka, brewed in zero gee,” I replied quietly, as though not to break the spell that she had cast over us with the phrase, cold memories. My skin prickled, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood of their own accord.

She fairly punched me on the shoulder and practically shouted in my ear.

“Then we must DRINK to his name, yes?” Now she was grinning from ear to ear, like the Cheshire cat himself. I found myself smiling in spite of myself. I slowly unscrewed the cap of the old flask and raised it just a bit—I didn’t want the stewardess to return and take it from me at this critical juncture.

“To an old friend, lost along the way.” I tipped it back. Vodka had never tasted sweeter, nor the warmth that it brought me at that moment had ever seemed so amiable, so desired. Without further comment, I passed the flask to my new friend.

“To Rosaviakosmos, and its fine sailors,” she rejoined. Taking a tentative swallow, she turned to me and—grin still creeping around the edges of her mouth—Kisa shyly added, “This isn’t very good, is it?”

For the first time in what seemed like weeks, I laughed aloud. It felt good, it was an honest laugh that I didn’t expect myself to have. I shook my head no even as I reached for the old Russian’s flask.

“No. It isn’t,” I said, still grinning, “but right now, it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”