Cris Jolliff

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“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.

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