4

 

April 18, 2052 (Launch plus 89 days), 06:08 GMT.

 

I struggle up from the depths. I’m heavy, like I’m water-logged with sleep. Somehow, the water drains away.

It’s dark. I’m on a bed. My right arm is bruised and sore. My head is throbbing. The gravity’s not right. The air is moist, full of animal smells. Then it hits me. I haven’t been dreaming. I’m on the Galileo, spinning in black, cold inter-stellar space. There’s nothing underneath me…

 

****

 

06:31 GMT.

It’s dark and loud. Insistent keening sounds shrill in my ears. I hear dogs barking. I’m on the Galileo, in the black void. There’s nothing…

 

****

 

07:05 GMT.

I hear birds screeching, Naomi’s kestrels. They’re hungry. How do I know?

I lift my head. Lights go on. Dogs yap behind me, as if they know I’m here. I’m up here, up in space, with nothing holding us…

 

****

 

07:28 GMT.

I have a dim memory of Naomi’s voice. I promised to feed her kestrels. I remember Carmen playing Bach for me and Bronson’s urgent voice.

The kestrels call again. They’re to my left. I push myself slowly off the bed. Lights come on. Must be motion detectors. The wall in front of me has ivory tiles. There’s a gray-flecked tile floor. Along the other three walls, I see the eight-foot-tall wire cage for Naomi’s birds. Across from the door is a long cage where the dogs are barking.

I get my feet on the floor. Panic hits: sweats and pressure and narrowed vision. Hold on, buddy. You can do this. Big breath…no! Wait!

 

****

 

07:44 GMT.

I come to on the floor. It feels solid. But I know what’s underneath the floor. Nothing. Vast, howling, eternal nothing.

 

****

 

08:14 GMT.

The kestrels’ cries are pitiful. I shove myself to my feet.

The room is simple and uncluttered. On the plain wall ahead of me, there’s a door that must lead to the ship’s corridor. Beside the door, I see shelves, three plasma screens, a data console, and, strapped in the corner, a bassoon.

It reminds me of Carmen, and I feel a great sadness rising up in my chest.

“Jepler, you did this to me! You scheming, manipulative jerk. You drugged me and stuffed me on this ship, and now I can’t let those birds die. You should be here, you horse-trading, weasel slime.”

I squeeze my hands into fists, then relax and squeeze again, kneading the air. Breathe in, buddy. You’re not in a tree. I rest my fingers on my pulse.

I’m feeding these birds because everybody’s dead. That makes me more angry. The anger burns in me like molten 557s.

It will take only one step to reach their cage.

I steady myself, leaning against the bed.

The birds study me with wild, black eyes that remind me of pools of water in a mountain stream. The kestrels look like number 2s, perched on thick branches. The fierceness in their eyes is fascinating. I can almost feel a gust of wind in my face.

Behind me, dogs whine urgently.

I take the step. They did a good job of physical therapy. I’ve got good muscle tone. Somehow, I know Vicente worked with me.

But that won’t stop me from blacking out. I’m on the verge. I can feel it. There’s nothing beneath me. That conniving, rodent puke Billy Jepler. He stuck me up here. No one can ever come and take me down. And I’m here alone.

Deep breath. In and out. Slow and steady. Your feet are on the ground. I’m blacking…

 

****

 

09:00 GMT.

I pull myself to my feet beside the kestrels’ cage. They’re quiet now, studying me. The dogs whimper. Billy Jepler, you traitor. You camel snot. I’m going to do this.

“Steady guys, I’ll get you water. It may take me all day.”

My whole body is drenched with sweat. I force myself to take huge breaths and move slowly.

I see a blue-handled faucet to the left of the cage. The hose from the faucet goes to the kestrels’ water jar. I turn the handle. Nothing happens. It’s all the way open and no water is coming out.

Where’s the blasted water? Here I am, on the edge of blacking, and I can’t get water. I’m ready to take a ball bat to these water lines.

I trace the lines. There’s a keypad beside the faucet, but no break in the line.

“What flea-brained orangutan designed this system? What in the realm of insanity do I have to do to get water?”

The voice is calm, with a deep timber, a steady woman’s alto. It resonates in the moist air. “System designer unknown. To obtain water and prevent over-watering and waste, program the faucet using the keypad. First your code number, then the number of ounces to be dispensed.”

I nearly jump through the ceiling. The adrenalin shock jolts me, and I feel a rush of relief. Someone survived. I’m not alone.

Immediately, I know it’s not true. If they’d survived, they’d water the animals. I’m hallucinating. I’m going crazy. Jepler, what kind of torture chamber have you trapped me in?

“Dr. Chapman, it’s been one day, eleven hours, and six minutes since you’ve had water. Hydration would improve your mental capacity.”

I look around. I can’t see anyone. “Where are you? Who in the world are you?”

“Null capacity.”

“What?”

“Dr. Chapman, your query is incomprehensible. A null capacity set.”

It dawns on me. “You’re SINDAS, the computer, the Self-Initiating Naut Data Awareness System.” Back in Houston, I’d smoothed computer code for all Galileo’s functions except the Artificial Intelligence.

Beside me, the kestrels keen. I have to take care of these birds. “What’s my code number?”

“08.”

I stab my fingers on the key pad.

“How many ounces for these two birds?”

“Each one requires twenty ounces a day.”

“Will that water jar hold forty ounces?”

“Yes.”

I punch the numbers. Water runs into the jar. Four drips fall to the floor of the cage. The two kestrels jump to the perch in front of the jar, shoving each other in their thirst to sip from the spout.

My throat’s so dry it’s sore. My skin feels thirsty. To the left of where the cage starts, next to the water line, is a sink. Beside it, a plastic cup stands against the wall. There’s not a blasted keypad. I turn on the water and fill the cup. The water’s cool. It soaks into my mouth, but seems to evaporate before it reaches my stomach. I drink two more glasses of water and feel my skin coming back to life. My mouth is still dry. My lips are chapped. I drink three more glasses.

It’s the water and more than the water. It’s the shock of hearing that voice, the jolt of adrenaline, the wildness of the kestrel’s eyes. Something is happening to me. My heart is pumping, but not like a runaway train. I’m not on the edge of blacking. My body feels the water restoring me and knows that I’m safe in this room. The soft swish of air through the vents is a familiar sound. The humid air is laden with scents—birds and dogs, a hint of moist grass, loam, and bananas.

The dogs whimper. I am determined to get them water.

“Do I have to punch numbers for the other animals, too?”

“Yes.”

“What nano-brained fruit fly designed this system?”

“First reference null capacity. Identity of system designer currently not available. Presently out of contact with Houston.”

“Forget Houston. Give all the animals water.” Now I’m more than mad, I’m at the edge of losing it. “With all the things nauts have to do on a FarSpace ship, why make them punch in numbers all the time?”

“Forgetting Houston is null capacity. Proper water usage must be maintained for ecological balance.”

“But you can count every drip without making me program the numbers every time.”

“Correct, Dr. Chapman.”

Suddenly, I slip into the zone. “What’s the system code to revise dispensing of water?”

“Life Support, section six, number 404.”

“Open LS, 6-404. Disconnect the keypads. Dispense water by verbal command.”

“You’re not authorized to make that change.”

“SINDAS, what is your problem? Did they program you to create roadblocks?”

“Null capacity, Dr. Chapman. There are no roads on the ship.”

“You addled cesspool. Who is authorized to change code?”

“Addled cesspool is null capacity, Dr. Chapman. Authorization comes only from the ship’s captain.”

“Who’s the captain?”

“Carmen Pioquinto was the original captain. When she became unavailable, Thommas MacCardell became captain. After he became non-responsive, Bronson Gwen assumed command.”

Another surge of hope rushes through me. Someone was alive. It’s a great force, the denial of death. It blocks out bad news, tragedy, pain. But it can’t be true. If Bronson were alive, he’d be punching the blasted numbers to water the dogs.

“What’s Captain Gwen’s location?”

“He’s in the Ring One auxiliary freezer with the rest of the crew.”

“How did he get there?”

“The crew programmed a farm bot to take all crew members without respiration and heartbeat to the freezer.”

“And Bronson’s condition?”

“No heartbeat or respiration. His temperature is below life-sustaining limits.”

“Then implement subroutine 2525 of section twelve, Emergency Succession Procedures.”

“Implemented. You are in command, Captain Chapman. LS 6-404 opened and amended. Water will now be dispensed on your verbal orders.”

“Give all the animals a daily water ration.”

Water rushes into a trough in the dogs’ kennel. Yelping, slurping sounds come from behind me. The sound makes me thirsty. I drink two more glasses of water and steady myself against the counter.

“Captain, Houston requests immediate contact to deliver instructions for repair to data pulse comm. Nine level-one life-threatening emergencies require your attention.”

I don’t want to hear this. Jepler, what kind of insanity have you consigned me to?

SINDAS interrupts. “Number one: water levels in the ocean in Ring One are a quarter inch from critical low, endangering the functioning of the wave machines. Without water movement, the coral reef in the ocean biome will die in twenty-four hours.

Number two: algae scrubbers in the ocean in Ring Two need cleaning. This is impacting the chickens. They need to be fed the algae to increase egg production. This could impact you. You’ve lost seventeen pounds and ten ounces since leaving Earth and are malnourished. You need calories, fat, and protein.

“Number three: the rice paddies in Ring One need to be sprayed with Bacillus thurigensis to parasitize looper worms.

“Number four: an unconfined buck goat in Ring One ag has consumed all available fodder. The other goats are underfed. Milk production is threatened. More fodder must be harvested from the savannah grasses and banana plants.

“Number five: methane gas in the atmosphere of Ring Two is six percent in excess of acceptable levels. More methane-consuming bacteria must be released into the soil and the blow rate must be increased to clean the methane from the air.

“Number six: ocean pH in Ring One is below 8.0 and falling. If it is not kept between 8.2-8.4, algae will bloom, carbon dioxide and pH will increase, and the coral will die.

“Number seven: a leak in drinking water storage tank in Ring One has flooded the short-term food storage room and ruined its stores.

“Number eight: in Ring One dictyopterous insects have eaten through wiring and shorted out light sensors.

“Number nine: arthropods of the order Isopoda, family Armadillidae have infested Ring Two ag biome, endangering the soybean crop.”

“Jepler, you offspring of slugs and road kill. I can’t handle this. I can’t climb through the Galileo chasing cockroaches on the wiring and pill bugs on soybeans. All these blasted level-ones. What in the world were you thinking?”

My mind is spinning. My thoughts race, wondering if there’s a plant on board toxic to cockroaches. Then I’m recalling the symptoms of methane poisoning.

Part of my mind says the level-ones will take care of themselves.

Sure, Grant, you can practice denial of death with the best of them.

My body trembles, I’m drenched in sweat again, and I see black around the edges of my vision. It’s the blackness around the ship, the vast, eternal void…

“Captain Chapman, in addition to the nine level-one emergencies, fourteen system-crucial decisions require your attention, 314 minor adjustments are required in Rings One and Two, and Houston insists that we bring the new pulse comm online, then clarify conditions and operations. In addition, all systems in Rings One and Two require reconfiguration for the current human population. Please note, the most time-critical of the nine level-one emergencies are numbers one, two, three, five, six, and nine. Without remedy within twenty-four to forty-eight hours, they endanger all life on the mission.”

The calm voice is like a shove. Again, I find myself in the zone, quiet and focused.

“For number one, can you increase Ring One ocean levels to optimum?”

“Yes.”

“Is there a leak or any reason not to increase the water level?”

“Not by present sensor data.”

“Increase the Ring One ocean level to optimum.”

“Yes, Captain.”

I feel a familiar throbbing in the floor and hear the faint hum of pumps.

“For number three: can bots spray the paddies?”

“Yes.”

“Do it.”

“Sending bots to spray.”

“For number six: certainly there’s a standard protocol to increase pH.”

“Affirmative.”

“Implement.”

“Being implemented.”

“For number nine: check your data bank from the 1990 Biosphere 2 experiment. I think they used wet tomato plant prunings to attract pill bugs. Can farm bots prune tomato vines, wet and spread them? Can the bots vacuum off the pill bugs every hour during the night and feed the pill bugs to the chickens?”

“Your data about Biosphere 2 and tomato vines are correct. The bots can do as instructed and will be programmed.”

 

****

 

21:07 GMT.

I walk from the kestrels’ cage to my bed for the fourth time: I’ve taken eight steps covering sixteen feet. For each step, I’ve blacked twice.

The gravity is not the gravity of Earth. It’s almost right, but it’s missing something, the tide pull of the moon, tug of the sun, sea-level variation. I’m not home. Every step I manage drives home the message. I’m not on Earth. I’m up in a tree, alone. My father’s not coming, and there’s no way I can get home.

“I can’t leave the room.”

“Null capacity, Dr. Chapman.”

“I’ve been thinking for hours, and I can’t find a solution. If I leave this room, I’ll black.”

“The color of your skin will change?”

“No. I’ll pass out.”

“Oxygen levels in Ring One are optimum.”

“It’s not about oxygen, you dimwit. It’s a phobia. I didn’t ask to come on this mission. I was shanghaied, kidnapped, abandoned, orphaned. I’m a victim of Jepler’s chicanery. I’m not naut material. They’re independent, bull-dog, adventure types. I’m a programmer. I can’t leave the room.”

“My human interface bank informs me that you have been through extreme emotional trauma. I am sorry to hear about that.”

Her response infuriates me. What does she know about emotional trauma? I clench my fists and spit the words at her. “I don’t expect sympathy from tree bark or from you. It’s a null capacity set. Never say that to me again.”

I take two steps in a new direction, to the dogs’ cage. The three rings are structurally linked but environmentally sequestered. They spin around a central axis to give us gravity. I don’t feel the spinning, but I’m moving in space, in the eternal void. Sweat beads up on my neck. My field of vision narrows. Relax, buddy. Breathe. Deep breaths. You don’t feel any motion. Get a grip.

The dogs look at me. Two poodles the size of soccer balls. Quivering number 3s. They’re Dremenev’s. I’ve petted them in the park in Houston.

I take two more steps toward their cage. Two index cards have been neatly taped to the wires on top of the cage. I recognize Dremenev’s precise printing.

Dr. Grant Chapman,

Ginger is the apricot-colored miniature poodle, two years old in January. She is quietly curious, loves to curl up on one’s lap, and is never needlessly alarmed.

Mouser is the blue miniature poodle. He is not black, but the rarer deep navy blue. He is a mouser, unusual for a poodle because they’re retrievers. He was born four months before Ginger, and is indisputably the alpha dog. He’s frisky and loves water. Keep him out of the mangrove swamp, but you can let him enjoy the ocean.

Notes on poodle care and grooming are on my laptop. I did not upload them to SINDAS. Both dogs require a good measure of daily physical activity and brushing. They are sensitive to human emotion. They will tune into your feelings and mirror your emotions. They need affirmation. Always conclude interactions on a positive note.

For caring for my dogs, you have my deepest thanks.

Dr. Ihor Dremenev

The two poodles bark and jump at the side of the cage, eager for human contact. I kneel, open the door, and ease my hand into their domain. They lick my hands furiously with their moist, rough tongues as if I’m a luscious human Popsicle. They roll on their backs, inviting me to stroke their wooly fur. Their bodies are warm, humming with life. Petting them, I feel like I’m back in the park on a spring day. I can smell clover.

“Captain, another level-one emergency, the disposal of bodies, currently packed in the Ring One auxiliary freezer. No protocol exists for this situation. Furthermore, as mentioned, you have lost seventeen pounds and ten ounces. Your diet requires immediate, remedial sources of protein. This unexpected protein store—”

I bend over gagging. My mind is screaming, my stomach heaving. Bilious water splats out on the floor. “What kind of horrific beast are you?” I shout at the top of my lungs. “They’re my friends.” Ginger and Mouser retreat to the other side of the cage. I can’t stop myself from shouting. “Look at these IV bruises on my arms. They fed me, cared for me, did my therapy for eighty-eight days to keep me alive. I did nothing for them.”

Distant memories surface. I hear an elegant Bach fugue in deep bassoon notes. Carmen practiced here, to keep me company. I remember Bronson saying thanks for the blueprints. I hear Vicente’s chuckle as he moves my arms. Naomi and Dremenev caged their pets here so I would have reassuring animal sounds and company. They were my friends.

I straighten up. “Computer, never suggest that again. That’s an order from the captain.”

“Captain, this level-one emergency requires—”

“I don’t care what it requires. Open program adjustment routine 3371. Immediately.”

“P.A.R. 3371 open.”

“New regulation: disposal of all human bodies shall be the decision of the captain. The computer shall make no suggestions unless requested. Let the bodies be stored in the Ring One auxiliary freezer until Captain determines otherwise. If freezer malfunctions notify Captain immediately as level-one emergency. Close P.A.R. 3371.”

“Closed.”

“Adopt new regulation.”

“Adopted.”

I bend down to the cage. “Sorry I frightened you, pups. Come on, let me make it up to you.” They inch forward and I stroke their short curly hair, then burrow my fingers through their coats to touch their warm skin. It’s comforting, like sunshine through a window in the winter.

Can I let them out? Would they get hurt in the ship? If they mark their territory in the biomes, would that negatively impact the system? The ecosystem is too fragile for their solid waste. I’d have to collect it for the ship’s recycler. And I can’t do that. I can’t leave this room.

I turn, grab a rag from under the sink, and wipe up my vomit. I stuff the rag in the laundry bin and wash my hands. I hold on to the sink and take another drink of water. Then I turn back to the dogs. “I’m sorry, pups. There’s nothing beneath us. It’s all black emptiness. I can’t go out there.”

They look up at me with gentle eyes. I know what they’re thinking: I could go out there. I have to go out there. Someone has to clean the algae scrubbers, catch the goat, release methane-consuming bacteria, repair the drinking water storage tank, corral cockroaches, and rewire light sensors.

Jepler, you spawn of aardvarks, rancid waste in human clothing. Why did you do this to me?

I open the cage door and the two poodles race out. They jump up at my knees and then romp around the room. Their cage has auto-flush so there’s no smell.

The dogs are warm and alive. They squirm to lick my hands and then jump up trying to lick my face. The kestrels look at me with fierce liquid eyes. Something settles in my soul. For a minute, I feel like I’m in the park back at home.

I’m hungry.

I step to the exit door. Beside the door are two posters. The top one I recognize immediately: the familiar silhouette of the Galileo. I remember Billy Jepler, back in Houston, interrupted at lunch by a group of touring school children. His voice had boomed over the cafeteria. “The Galileo? Sure, I can show you what it’s like.” He’d grabbed a retro glass soda bottle from his tray and then shoved three donuts over the bottle so they were squeezed together almost to the bottom of the bottle.

“At the present moment,” Billy had said, “there’s three rings on the Galileo. They don’t taste as good as these donuts.” The school children had laughed and I knew he had them. Billy “the showman” Jepler, wowing another audience, explaining the donuts were the three rings, each with a full life-support ecology. The soda bottle was the framework of the ship. The neck of the Galileo was not solid like the glass, but a framework of girders.

Billy said, “The EVA units and PLC—Planetary Landing Crafts—are tethered inside the bottle. Within the soda bottle are the zero-gravity machine shop, cargo, and storage bays. The soda bottle doesn’t rotate. Therefore, it has no gravity. The donuts rotate; they have gravity. That’s where the nauts will live.”

The poster of the Galileo was just as he’d described it. The base of the bottle was the Trempanni engine. Right above it are the nuclear reactors that provide power to the ship. Above that, in the Galileo’s deepest storage, was failsafe redundancy at its best: enormous tri-ply vats storing spare water, air, and fuel. Their mass shielded the rings above from any radiation emanating from the reactors or engines.

Above the thick base of the ship were the three rings, like donuts jammed on a soda bottle. From the sides of the top donut, four sticks jutted out into space. Equally spaced around the rings, the sticks held the plasma pulse engines that maintained the rotation of the Galileo. At the top of the ship was the framework of girders, the neck of the bottle, that formed the docking port.

I take a deep breath. It’s beginning to sink in. I’m in space.

Hand-printed words on the lower poster catch my eye.

You are here in Ring One, the highest. May the Almighty One bless you.

I recognize Dremenev’s precise lettering.

I’m here, Ihor. And you’re not. Thank you.

The second poster is a schematic of the ring. Ginger and Mouser bark at my feet as if they’re begging me to go outside and play.

The room I’m in is labeled “Animal Treatment Lab.” Out the door, to my left, is the ocean biome. The ocean’s the size of an Olympic swimming pool, just big enough for the coral that recycles CO2 into oxygen. It has a low ceiling because an immense room over the ocean houses the ship’s computer system. Moving left, the next biome is the 18,800-square-foot fog desert. Its air is moist, but there’s no rainfall. Next, on the left, is the 33,500-square-foot ag biome. I remember an early lecture: “Using intensive agriculture, as the Chinese have for centuries, the nauts will grow food for eight for twenty-five years on a plot of ground not much larger than a couple of suburban backyards.”

Somewhere in that ag, there’s a rogue goat that I need to corral. I can’t possibly do that. And while I’m thinking that, I wonder if poodles would be any use in herding goats.

I force my eyes back to the map. Out the door to the right, the corridor leads to the mangrove swamp, the smallest biome. At 6,000 square feet, it’s the size of a baseball infield. Farther down the corridor to the right is the tree-lined savannah of 17,500 square feet, then the 35,000 square foot rainforest, and the hab, short for habitat, with living quarters and labs.

The poodles dance at my feet.

Before I know what I’m doing, I shove open the door. The corridor walls have the same ivory-tile as this room, the same gray-flecked tile floor. Overhead light panels glow dimly, then brighten as the poodles race out, barking and yipping, their feet making rapid clicking sounds on the tile.

I don’t want to go out there. I don’t want to face the emptiness.

The dogs scamper ahead of me down the corridor towards the ocean biome. I force myself to follow them, counting my steps, fingers on my pulse, telling myself that I’m going to see the coral sand beach and waves lapping on the shore. I took beach walks in Charleston. I never blacked on the beach.

We reach the door to the ocean. It’s a light green, double-wide door with a full environmental seal, like a level four quarantine room on Earth. I punch my security code into the keypad, open the seals, and pull open the door.

The soft swish of waves greets me. A muted rasping sound follows. To survive, coral needs moving water that washes food over the polyps of the hungry coral. Just beyond the deep end of the ocean, there’s a pump system that rasps quietly as it draws eighteen thousand gallons of water from the sea and drops them back into the water sending a surge over the coral reef and waves scrambling up the shore.

I breathe in the tangy salt air and step into the biome to stand beside a small palm tree. I pull the doors shut and seal them behind me. Ginger and Mouser race over the sand, barking and yapping as they chase each other into the water. They jump up and down in the waves like children.

I look out over the water. And stop. The ocean’s curved. It’s not an expanse of flatness like on Earth. It rises ahead of me, curving with the curve of the ring. The ocean rises, a wall of water ready to crash down on me. It’s not safe; I’ll drown.

Breathe in, Grant, five seconds in; five seconds out. The spin of gravity will keep the water in place. It only looks like it’s going to swamp you. Don’t black out. Just back up. Go easy.

I turn my eyes from the water. I feel dizzy. The sand underfoot shifts as if it might open into a huge pit. My mouth is dry. My mind is doing loops. I feel stretched thin, like I’m no longer solid, but filmy and wavering. Things are coming apart. I have to get out of here.

I back up against the door, turn, and unseal it. I yank it open and stumble through. My voice barely works. The dogs come racing back. They scamper back into the passageway, and I slam the doors shut. The poodles shake the water from their coats.

I don’t want to go near the ocean again. It’s not safe, not how an ocean should be. The ceiling’s too low. There’s no room to breathe. Walls of water loom as though they’re going to surge and fall on me. How could anyone work there? It’s like being locked in a closet to drown.

I lean against the corridor wall and catch my breath. The corridor light is dim, soft, and gentle. The poodles nudge my hands, then engage in a fury of licking that tickles my palms. I stoop to the floor and pet them. They bounce and jump, vivid, indefatigable dynamos of life that are strangely comforting.

“Ginger, Mouser, let’s find some grass. There has to be someplace in here that’s real, that feels right.” The dogs race ahead as if we’re going to invent dog biscuits. If I can feel grass, if I can only touch something growing…

The next biome is the fog desert. But the poodles have charged ahead down the gray-tiled corridor. It seems endless, curving up and out of sight, like I’m always headed up a tunnel to someplace higher. At the door to the ag biome, Ginger and Mouser sit calmly, looking at me with cocked heads and bright eyes. I reach down and ruffle their fur. Then I stoop and stroke them. They nudge me and lick my hands as if the most important thing in life is to delight in me. I can’t get enough of them; their warmth soaks into my skin.

I take a deep breath, open the seals, and yank open the door. Humid air rushes out with heady scents of grasses, crops, and animal manure. It smells like my aunt and uncle’s farm. I can almost see Aunt Clara’s hollyhocks beside their stone back porch.

A gentle breeze brushes my face. I see one of Ushamla’s rose bushes, with thick brown mulch around the base. The buds are forming; it’s spring for this bush.

Ginger and Mouser race past me to a resin bench and proceed to mark their territory. Go in, I tell myself. You can do it. The biome won’t bite you.

I force myself to step over the threshold. Gravel crunches underneath my feet. I pass by a plot of wheat and then a bed with peas, lettuce, and spinach. The biome stretches ahead. It’s spacious, like you’ve arrived somewhere; you’re not wedged in a narrow room. Above, the white structural grids reach upwards over a hundred feet to long banks of fluoro-solar lights. The sheer height makes the room seem vast and open. The curve of the room doesn’t bother me; there’s nothing about to come crashing down.

In front of me, I see the wooden walls of the storage and goat shed and hear bleating. Everything is green and growing: raised beds thick with oats, short, neat rows of blueberry bushes, and a plot of kale. The air smells rich, moist, and alive. I walk past two raised beds crammed with onions, carrots, two thick rhubarb plants, and a row of raspberry canes. Beside them is a long plot of asparagus, the pencil-thin stalks vibrant green.

I snap off nine stalks, slip them into my pocket, and walk down the path to the goat shed. I pass plots of Swiss chard and strawberries. A lizard scurries across the path ahead of me. Ginger and Mouser bark wildly and race after it.

Behind the goat shed, I see the twelve-foot-tall wire fence that encloses the goat pen. Inside are sturdy resin boxes for the African pygmy goats to climb on. They smell like the goats at Uncle Ralph’s farm. I feel myself relaxing.

I hear the buzz of a hummingbird and see it flitting among the flowers on the blueberry bushes. It looks like a whirring number 5, sharp, pointed, and fast. Beyond the goat pen is the chicken pen. I count about a dozen fluffy Japanese silky bantams pecking about in the rich dirt, feasting on pill bugs. Clucking and strutting like a gang in a corner of the pen are another dozen gallus gallus, a tough fowl from the jungles of India. Roosting and wandering around the pen are the jungle silkies, a cross between the other two birds. Overhead roosting perches cross the width of the pen. Against the back wall are the laying and hatching boxes, lined with straw. The silkies are good moms; they hatch and raise their chicks without help.

I hear loud crowing protests from another wire mesh pen on the far side of the goat shed. The sounds are like jagged yellow 7s. One of the crew locked up the roosters. I’ll need to let them out.

I hear something behind me and turn around. A billy goat ambles up to me as if he’s lost his way and is glad to find human contact. I remember the first time I heard Uncle Ralph talking to goats on the farm. It seemed so strange. But then I got over my fear of the shaggy critters and helped Uncle Ralph in the barn. “Well, Buck,” I tell this errant goat, “your freedom’s about ended.” I grab his horns and pull him toward the goat pen.

He puts up little protest, as if he’s tired of being out on his own. When I open the pen door, he trots in beside me. I take a scoop from the grain bin and toss a couple of scoops of grain into his feed trough. He saunters over and munches while I fix the hole in the fence.

I hear sounds from the goat shed, does protesting that their udders are too full. I latch the pen door behind the buck, enter the shed, and herd the first doe onto the milking box. I find the bucket and begin milking. The warm feel of the goat’s teat, the swish of the milk into the bucket, the fragrance of the milk wafting up to me, all take me back to South Carolina and Aunt Clara’s and Uncle Ralph’s farm.

I finish milking her and, one by one, milk the rest. It’s as if my hands have taken charge, leading me. When the last doe is milked, I see a cup by the water spigot. I dip it in the bucket and drink the warm, fresh milk. The taste reminds me of summer on the farm. I can smell newly mown hills and clover.

When I’ve had my fill, I call the pups over and let them lap milk from the cup.

There’s another bench opposite the goat shed. I sit on it and feel the light on my face. It’s not the sun. My skin knows that. But it’s warm, and there’s life in it. It will do. I eat the asparagus.

Mint is growing alongside the path, and the sweet potato and sorghum gardens need weeding. There’s a viny tomato patch and a large plot of green beans. The hummingbird dashes past and stops at a feeder hanging on the corner of the goat shed. Its throat is a vibrant scarlet; its wings a blur of neon green.

For a moment, something like joy burbles up in me. I’m on a FarSpace ship, sitting on a bench near the goat shed watching a hummingbird. I’m farther away from Earth than any human has ever gone. Ginger and Mouser come rushing back to bark at my feet and nudge my hands with their wet, milky noses.

Is this crazy or is it wonderful? I want to fix up a bed and camp here. It would be like the nights out of doors on my walk from Charleston. Memories from the walk flood over me: the endless blue sky with burgeoning masses of clouds sailing overhead, the dusty scent of the dry, red clay freshly overturned in farm fields, the keening cry of a hawk, and the distant barking of dogs. I remember the vague sense of presence, as if someone, from a great distance, is not just watching me, but accompanying me. I shudder. On the walk from Charleston, that somehow made sense. But here? How could there be a distant presence here? I shrug the thought away.

A wren sings overhead. I look but can’t see it. High overhead, the ceiling is bright, a mellow golden color that reflects the light from the banks of fluoro-solar floods. I miss the blue vastness of the sky. But it will do.