We watched the road, my aunt and me. The bus to the NSP campus was late. It was just after eight o’clock in the morning and there was a hard frost in the air. Above our heads a rocket crackled through the sky and I felt a ripple of excitement because I was going to school where I would learn how they were made. I might even, someday, leave Earth inside a capsule powered by one.
Finally a yellow vehicle appeared at the top of the road. When it stopped my aunt didn’t say anything. I was quiet too. She handed me my bag. Then she put her hand on my head. She pulled at the tangles in my hair and sighed. I worried the bus would leave, but I held my body still. I didn’t pull away. She combed her fingers through, tugging at the biggest knots until they gave way.
When she let go I climbed the bus’s tall steps, lugging my bag ahead of me. I chose a carpeted seat next to the window and pushed my duffel under my feet. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my aunt was still there. But I didn’t turn my head. If I did I would cry.
The bus hissed and staggered away, belching exhaust. It moved down the long, straight road. I turned; my aunt was nearly to the door. I watched her, the carpeted seat shuddering against my back. When she reached the front steps, she let her hands loose, and they swung a little at her sides.
The house was gone now; out the window was only gray sky and frozen trees. Inside was just the driver and a sea of empty blue seats. But, no, a person sat a few rows ahead of me. I hadn’t noticed him because his blue uniform matched the color of the seats.
The shaking of the bus was horrible, the noise of it worse. There didn’t seem to be any heat, and my body felt cold and hot at the same time. My stomach rolled as we went around a bend.
The person stood up and held on to the back of a seat, and I was relieved to see it was my uncle’s student Simon. I hadn’t seen him in at least a year but he looked the same, tall and thin, with soft wavy hair and a book under his arm. On his sleeve was the insignia of the NSP Explorer program. June, he said. I’m glad to see you.
I’d always liked how he spoke to me, not like he was talking to a kid at all.
Are you going to campus? he asked.
I’m starting school, I said.
He sat down next to me. I didn’t mind him being close—he smelled like shampoo and snow—but I wished he wasn’t looking at me so intently. My stomach was bad. The smell of the exhaust and the rumbling under my seat made it churn.
Are you all right? he asked.
I nodded.
You’re young to be going to Peter Reed.
I know.
We were on the highway now and the road was smoother. My stomach calmed a little.
Feel better?
Yes. Thank you.
We were quiet for a minute.
You’ll have Theresa in class, he said. She teaches math—
I think he said this to make me feel better, but I’d always been a little afraid of Theresa so it didn’t help.
—and I have shifts at the dive pool. So I’ll see you too.
Really?
I’ll look at my hours and make sure. Okay?
The heat finally switched on below our feet and blasted our boots. I let my body soften a little in my seat. He opened his book, Space Materials Science. The pages were dense with small text, and bookmarked with a photograph of a woman with cropped dark hair.
Anu, I said. Inquiry’s commander.
Yes.
She’ll figure it out, I said quickly. What’s wrong with Inquiry. Right?
Yes. His voice was soft but certain. I think she will.
The bus exited the highway and slowed. I looked out the window at the frosty trees and thought about my uncle’s fuel cell schematics. Early that morning I’d searched the house and found them in my aunt’s desk drawer. Now they were in the duffel bag at my feet. I could get them out and ask Simon about the cell—
But we were already approaching a large compound and I recognized the familiar outline of the NSP campus. We stopped at a red gate that blocked the road, and the driver waved at a man in a small shed. We traveled down a curved street past sleek modern buildings and bright white hangars, and after an expanse of field dusted with snow we approached three gray buildings, blockish, octagonal.
As we slowed my eye was drawn to the path that ran beside the road. It was etched with something—names. Four or five of them per square of pavement. I tried to read them. Marcus Slinger. Jill Morales. Chris Chambers. Alexi Petrova—
Simon put his book away and stood up. He said, We’re nearly there. He walked toward the front of the bus, holding on to the backs of seats as he went. We stopped in front of one of the squat buildings, and I rose and dragged my bag down the aisle and steps and over the names engraved in the pavement below my feet. Henry Feinstein, Lisa Church—
Who are these people? I asked Simon. I pointed a toe at a name, Susanne Waters. Famous astronauts?
No. Just ones that died.
The air was icy against my hands and face.
Simon turned to go but then he stopped and rummaged in his backpack. The food’s terrible, he said. He threw a granola bar into the air and I caught it. In case you get hungry.
I pulled my bag to the metal-and-glass door, and when I looked back he was walking away over the frosty, name-covered path.