8

 

May 5, 2052 (Launch plus 106 days), 08:00 GMT.

 

After I milk the goats and have breakfast, I walk across the ag biome, past the plots of sweet potato, peanuts, lablab beans, and wheat. On the far side of the biome, is a gray plastic door leading to the hammer mills. The pulse comm will have to wait again. SINDAS insists it’s manure day.

I pull open the door and shoo Ginger and Mouser back. It’s too dangerous for them near the machinery. I’m in a dimly lit, long rectangular box of a room, its low ceiling crawling with green swaying outlet pipes. Before me stands a green-painted hammer mill. To the left, farm bots wait in a line with loads of banana leaves, savannah grass, stalks, vines, and rotten fruit.

I haul the M-1 outlet into place over the hammer mill’s hopper, and then call, “First bot.”

The farm bot at the head of the line trundles forward, an eager little four-armed, high-cabbed dump truck.

I lock the outlet into place, pull the flow lever, and step back. A slurry of acrid animal manure splashes into the truck bed, sloshing around the vegetation. “First bot, dump.”

The wide bed on the farm bot raises up, tilts, and the mess of organic material slides into the mill. When the bed is empty, the bot lowers it and totters away.

I slide the hopper cover closed, engage the crusher, and the mill shudders as it grinds the smelly organic debris. When the grinding stops, the pumps kick in with a whoosh, and the mill empties its mixture into the compost bins next door. There, we grow the fattest worms in the universe as the compost biodegrades into rich soil. With the accelerated process developed in the Beta Ring, the soil will be ready for the farm beds in three months.

I unlock the M-1 outlet, swing it to the side, and lock the M-2 outlet into place. “Next bot.” The process continues for four hours. My back bunches up in burning knots. My arms are sore and weary. But finally, the manure vats are empty and the debris piles depleted.

I stumble through the gray door back into the ag biome. Ginger and Mouser come racing across the gravel path, welcoming me as if I’ve been gone a year. “Down, pups. Down. It’s good to see you, too. I didn’t really leave you. I’d never do that.”

“Dr. Chapman,” SINDAS interrupts, “the wastewater lagoons require attention. An outlet valve is blocked.”

“What do I do?”

“It was covered in orientation.”

“I didn’t get orientation, you blockhead. I was shanghaied.”

“Null capacity.”

I’m tired, and the last thing I need to hear is a moron computer saying “null capacity.”

“I was kidnapped, you amoeba-brain. That means dragooned, waylaid, marooned, rejected. By that back-stabbing Billy Jepler. I wish I could stuff him in the hammer mill.”

“Null capacity. Dr. Chapman, my human interface circuit indicates you may be taking your anger out on me.”

“Who else is there to take it out on?”

“It seems inappropriate to take anger out on anyone. The costs clearly outweigh the benefits. However, as a human being, you have poor anger management skills. If it is helpful, please continue your verbal tirade.”

“Go choke on silicon.”

“Null capacity.”

“Shut up, you ditz. Don’t speak to me.”

I sit on a bench. Ginger and Mouser jump into my lap, sniffing my face, licking me. Then they curl up on my lap.

“You two are lucky. You don’t have to talk to SINDAS. You get to annoy the goats and chase the chickens.”

They look at me with their round eyes, their heads cocked to the side as if they’re considering what I’ve said. Ginger stretches and rolls, and I see her belly. It’s swollen. Suddenly I remember seeing pigs’ bellies like that back on the farm.

“Ginger. Hey, girl. Let me check you.” When I touch her belly, I can feel the taunt stretching of the skin. Ginger’s pregnant. The powerful surge of throbbing life hits me. I feel like I’m on Earth again. Little pups, growing in her. I don’t know the first thing about poodles. How long is the gestation period? What are the signs of imminent birth?

I shake away my worries. Ihor left me notes about the poodles. As someone who’s more anal than I am, he’ll have included all that. I ruffle Mouser’s fur. He squirms onto his back and licks my hand. “Ginger, you’re going to have puppies.” I stroke her fur and feel the comfort of her warm body. I remember being in the barn, watching Uncle Ralph help slippery, glistening calves come into the world. There was blood and the gross afterbirth, but then the wonder and the mystery of life: a new critter, standing on wobbly legs, nudging at mom’s teats, and then latching on and sucking as if its life depended on it. These bawling calves came from tiny seeds, too small to be seen by the eye. It amazed me as a child. Now I get to see it happen here, in FarSpace. There’ll be tiny pups squirming and yipping. I can’t help but smile.

After a while, I shove Ginger and Mouser off my lap and go feed the goats. They butt their heads against me and try to step on my feet. With their little bleats and baas, the goats make me laugh. Then I call to SINDAS and she leads me through the process of unblocking the outlet valve.

 

****

 

May 7, 2052 (Launch plus 108 days), 03:13 GMT.

I’m walking to Houston, and I’ve stopped in a hilly cow pasture to unroll my sleeping bag and rest for the night. Overhead, the night sky deepens from navy blue to ink black. The stars twinkle like little number 20s, laughing in the heavens. As I watch, the stars turn into 57s, then square boxes, then jagged thorns and splots of hydrochloric acid. They burn holes in the sky. The holes become sickly gray. Then they churn and chew like devouring mouths, consuming stars and sky, leaving the heavens a vast expanse of vomit-colored waves.

I lean over and wretch. The acrid smell overwhelms the fragrance of clover. I want to scream, but I can’t. I want to fight the heavens, to beat them back into blackness and stars. But my arms won’t move.

The gray sky is as still as death and it reflects puddles of vomit on the ground.

Suddenly, I’m awake. The hammock is swaying, and I swing my feet over the edge and anchor them on the floor to stop the sway. Ginger and Mouser lift their heads from the nest of rugs where they’re sleeping. They stretch and wander over to me, nuzzling against my leg, and then jump into my lap.

“I had a bad dream, guys,” I tell them. Their warmth is a comfort. It soaks into me, and I cradle them against me and lie back on the hammock. The poodles squirm for a moment. Once they’re settled, they fall back asleep.

I can still see the sickly gray nightmare sky. I look down at the pups. I know what Uncle Ralph and Aunt Clara would say. They’d talk about God’s Son and quote that prayer about Him being our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.

Then they would argue again. Aunt Clara would say, “Ralph, we never take him to church.”

Uncle Ralph would answer, “It’s too expensive. We can’t afford the tax and the gas to use the car. If we hitched up the mules, we’d have to leave at five in the morning.”

In a weary voice, my aunt would say, “But the boy needs to learn about God’s Son.”

So for a few weeks, they’d read me Bible stories. It didn’t make sense. God’s Son was a human being, just like we are. He needed to eat and sleep. But he could walk on water, heal the sick, and raise the dead. He was a kind teacher and a good man. But the leaders, government, and people were afraid of him.

They killed him by torturing him on a cross. I didn’t like to think about that. It was painful and gross and cruel. I can’t see how God’s Son, tortured on that cross, could be a refuge or strength. The impossibility of it distracts me from the nightmare. Then my mind shuts down and I fall asleep.

 

****

 

22:17 GMT.

I’m in the lab, repairing the pulse comm. Soldering isn’t going badly. I burned out a few components, but now I’ve got the hang of it. This means I’m no longer fuming at Dremenev for being so anal that he refused 3D printers for circuit assembly, insisting that he run the wires instead of trusting nano-circuit boards built by additive manufacturing.

Ginger and Mouser are sitting on the floor by the gray doorway. They look at me with eager faces as if they want to go out for a walk in the park on some distant planet.

“Here’s what you don’t get.” I plug in the last laser relay circuit board and stretch a new wire. “I can’t run this ship alone. I believe in the mission. I’m committed to it, but I have to go back. I can’t keep up with the planting, harvesting, and animal care.

“I don’t want to give the president the satisfaction of shutting down FarSpace. But the mission was designed for eight people. I can’t manage it all. I’m not qualified. I can’t live twenty-five years without other people.

“Don’t talk to me about Ángela. Jepler has the morals of slug slime. He played me like a mark at a carnival. But he’ll wrangle something for her. He’s a genius at cons and deals and backstabbing.”

When I burn my finger for the third time with the soldering gun, I realize I’m too tired to see straight, much less solder tiny wires. The repairs on the pulse comm are half finished, but it’s time to go to bed.

 

****

 

May 8, 2052 (Launch plus 109 days), 03:29 GMT.

It’s two months after my sixth birthday. My father shoves me up in an apple tree. A branch rips against my arm and I feel the blood welling in the cut. I turn and hide it from him so he doesn’t blame me for bleeding. A few dried apples cling to the bare branches. I cling to the branches too, so the wind doesn’t rip me from the tree. The gusts tear at me, threatening in a rasping voice that I’ll be here so long I’ll wither like the apples.

Night comes. Branches scratch in the wind. I can’t see the moon or any stars. The heavens are empty, as if pieces have been ripped away. I’m alone. It’s like my mind stretches far outside of me, extending out into the vastness. There’s no one there. Being alone is an ache in my chest, a grinding series of sharp 7,777s.

Morning comes. There’s no sun. The sky has a glaring void. The moon, stars, and sun have deserted me. I shout, “Come back! You have to come back!”

I’m clinging to the tree, taking great breaths so I don’t black. The empty heavens rage. The tree shakes in the wind. Gusts lash it, bending the tree to one side and then the next. I hang on, afraid of being blown into the void of heaven. Roots tear free.

The emptiness in the heavens swallows the wind. The paved street beside me slips away. The neighborhood houses disappear, snatched by the void. In the dream, I black.