They told us to get some sleep but then woke us up a few hours later. I had only just managed to drift off—pun intended—when the alarm went off. I still hadn’t made the adjustment of no real day or night. Sleep wasn’t going to be a “night” thing anymore. You slept when they told you it was time for sleep. A personal nighttime, completely subjective. And this time there simply wasn’t enough of it. Can’t say I felt very good. I woke with a jerk and felt like I was standing on the edge of a cliff, arms pinwheeling, fighting to keep from falling. My brain slipped gears for a couple of seconds and I didn’t know where I was.
Then I remembered exactly where I was. And what was about to happen. My hands shook as I got dressed and there was a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. We left all of our stuff behind. The sheets—well, cotton envelopes, really—pillows, clothes . . . that was all temporary stuff. Our actual gear was already aboard the ships. We got into pressure suits and went out into the hall.
Mom and Dad were there, floating, waiting.
For a moment I thought Mom was going to ignore me, but as soon as she saw me she kicked off from the opposite wall, grabbed me, and hugged me so hard I thought my ribs would snap. She kissed my face a dozen times. Fifty times. And smoothed my hair.
It made me feel like I was six years old. It made me want to cry.
But we all laughed instead. Not sure why. The three of us, with Dad closing in for the group hug as we floated in micro-g.
Mom put her lips right against my ear and whispered.
“Let’s go to Mars,” she said.