I glide to a wall-mounted mirror. Haven’t had a good look at myself in a while. Is that really me? Must be, but somehow it doesn’t seem right. Time for some grooming, that’s the problem. Wild hair, nearly to my shoulders, and a frizzy mess after that crazy shower. My beard is worse, all scraggly. The man in the mirror isn’t me. He’s a barbarian.
Inside a cabinet, I find an electric trimmer and a pair of scissors. Using the trimmer, I reduce my beard to an acceptable length, nice and tight, close to the skin. Now beard clippings are floating everywhere. Madison might get upset about the mess. The urinal will help. Armed with the vacuum hose, I go after the stray whiskers, capturing the little suckers—with the big sucker. Rather fun, like a game.
Now the hair. I can’t really give myself a proper haircut without a view of the back, but at least I can trim the bangs and get it out of my face. Maybe I could use the earlier trick, and view myself from outside the body. No, I’ll tip over and stab myself with the scissors, probably right in the eye. Not a good idea. Maybe later, when no sharp objects are in my presence.
I comb the wet hair forward, aim just above the eyebrows, and cut straight across. Well, as straight as can be expected. It might help if I was standing with feet on the floor like a normal person, instead of slowly rotating. Now the sides look too long, like a girl with bangs. And in all truth, I can reach some of the back without going exterior, at least enough to even out this mess. Clumps of wet hair orbit my head, which I must swat away. Time for that sucker again. Madison will never know how messy I’ve been.
After a few corrections, which only shorten the hair further, I’m satisfied. Better, but still, the man in the mirror is a stranger. Those eyes, they don’t seem right, like they’re not even mine. Green around the edges with a brown ring in the center, moving outward like flames on a golden star. So which is it? Green, brown, or gold? All and more—hazel, eyes of shifting color.
What happened to my clothes? Every time I let go of something it drifts away. Gravity has value, unrealized until it’s gone—keeping things where they belong. Back to the berthing compartment, I chase after the apparel and corral each item one by one.
Madison was right, I do like these clothes better. The jeans are long since new, faded and supple, though still cling well to my thighs and butt. The pullover is not so snug, but does follow my shape, heavier fabric than a typical tee-shirt, and long sleeves with thick elastic cuffs that stick in place when pushed higher up my forearms. But most attractive is the black leather vest, which encases my torso rather well, as if custom-tailored. Inside a locker, I find a pair of tall lace-up boots, black with thick, durable soles. They fit perfectly, just like the rest. How is it they have clothes, in a style that would please me, all exactly the right size?
* * *
The lack of gravity has been challenging, but I’m getting used to it. Using rungs along the corridor, I propel my body and soar into the cockpit, targeting the copilot seat. My aim is perfect, I come right to it. Or it comes to me. That’s part of the disorientation. Am I moving? Or is everything around me moving while I, in fact, remain motionless? With everything weightless, including me, it feels impossible to tell the difference.
Dave glances over as I slide into the seat. “Morning, Adam, how’s—” He’s horrified. “What the hell happened to your hair?”
Busy at a console, Madison spins around. She’s not too happy, either. “Aw, Adam, why did you have to go and do that? You looked so good before.”
Matt turns to look and his eyes go wide. “You could’ve at least made it straight, you knucklehead.”
I reach for my bangs. The hair is a lot shorter than I expected, now that it’s dry.
Madison comes up from behind and tidies the mess, running her fingers through and flipping the choppy strands side to side. “Oh, Matt, it’s not that bad. He’s still cute.”
“Like you should talk,” I say to Matt. “At least my hair’s
clean.
”
He doesn’t catch the insult, too busy tossing his own. “Sure, but it looks like you had an accident with farm equipment.”
Dave laughs. “You should’ve waited, I know a good hairstylist. A professional, not a hack like you.”
I’ll live with the hack job. Better than plastic yellow doll hair sticking out all directions.
Madison spins the seat around and yanks me out before I’ve a chance to buckle up. As she conducts a survey of my features, her eyes undress me all over again. “Wow, Adam, you look good.
Real
good.” Her seductive gaze crawls back up my torso, to my eyes, and we lock stares. After an uncomfortable silence, her grin turns wicked—like I’m on the menu, and she’s starving.
“Check it out,” Dave says. “We’re coming in.” He points out the forward view and urges me to strap in.
We’re still in space, but swiftly approaching a planet. The atmosphere looks detached from the globe, like a giant pink bubble surrounding the fragile world.
As we enter the atmosphere, gravity returns, and with it, a myriad of strange sensations, worst of all the rocks rolling around in my gut. We descend through bright daylight, scattered clouds whipping past, then glide over a coastline where ocean waves crash and burst, thrust against towering red cliffs. The steep rock walls rise to lush plateaus that blend with forested land, and farther in the distance, snowcapped mountains. Lower still, we soar above a stretch of white sand, waves lapping the shore. People crowd the beach, sunbathing in bikinis and flashy swim trunks, others playing in the water. The scene reminds me of something, a better time, a better place, but I can’t see it. The memory is cloudy.
Dave talks with someone over the radio. Our speed decreases and the craft drops, then he flips switches and the landing gear extends. “Let’s see how well you did, Matt. Hang on everybody, this might be bumpy.”
“It’s going to hold,” Matt says. “Have I ever let you down before?”
As the ground approaches, Dave ponders a memory. His thoughts remain private, but judging by the foul expression forming, the experience wasn’t pleasant.
“That’s not fair,” Matt says. “I already told you, that wasn’t my fault.”
I remark, “So Mister Genius isn’t all he’s cracked up to be.”
Dave laughs and Matt doesn’t say another word.
The craft sets down, a solid boom, followed by creaking and groaning, giving Dave an expression as if his face is making the noises. A few moments pass, the unsettling racket eases, and all is quiet.
“Told you so,” Matt says.
Dave’s reply is almost apologetic.
“Okay, you did all right.
This
time.”
* * *
Dave pops the hatch, the small steps fold out, and he starts down. I follow him out, Matt and Madison trail behind. Off the last step, I pause to enjoy the warm weather and fine air, fresh and sweet. The pink sky is full of puffy white clouds, sunbeams slicing through it all, a gorgeous day.
As we cross the landing platform, a creaking sound comes from behind, and grows to a screech of twisting metal.
I spin around.
Matt stands frozen, eyes tight contorting his face, bracing for the inevitable failure. Beyond him, the craft shudders. The landing strut snaps, and the hull crashes down.
Once the booming echo fades, Dave says, “Told me so, eh?”
Matt looks ready to tear off another strut and wrap it around Dave’s neck. “Yeah, I told you so is right. I said it would hold until we got
home.
I never said it would last forever.”
The mind is an interesting device, how it must justify all results, whether intended or not. The perfect analytical machine is incapable of error, so when faced with the possibility, it must invent an excuse as ridiculous as calling attention to the precise words spoken. And now, after the fact, it’s almost like Matt expected this to happen. His mind is satisfied, right again. Try computing an excuse that satisfies the rest of us.
Dave gives his opinion of Matt’s mental prowess. “Fine, be all happy with yourself, Mister Never-wrong. Now fix it,
right.
And the rest. I want her purring like a kitty next time we fly, you got that?”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Matt says, walking away. “I’ll take care of it . . .”
“What did you say?” Dave asks.
Matt turns back. “I said I’ll take care of it.”
“No, after that.”
Matt makes a valiant effort at absolute innocence. “I didn’t say anything after that. You’re hearing things.”
Dave tightens his brow. Then he gives it up, walks past, and leaves our injured craft behind.
If my senses serve me well, I’d say Matt mumbled, “Jerk.”
* * *
The landing platform is a long strip of concrete where countless craft are parked facing a similarly long terminal building, a few floors tall, constructed of glass with an aqua sheen supported by a network of struts. From the terminal, maintenance personnel emerge, dressed in gray coveralls. When they see our craft and its awkward droop, they start shaking their heads.
On his way inside, Dave turns back. “Come on, we have other business.”
Madison pulls me along and we follow Dave, leaving Matt to face the repairmen and explain our craft’s condition. His stellar mind will compute excuses enough to justify the damage, none of it Matt’s fault, of course.
Inside the terminal, we enter a wide corridor thrumming with people. They wear every fashion imaginable, some in shorts, loose shirts and sandals ready for the beach, others more spiffy in relaxed business attire, though most dress casual—jeans and pullover, boots or sneakers. Hairstyles vary, females long and loose, brunettes, blondes, even bright pink. A few males have long hair, though most wear shorter styles, some flashy like Dave’s, but none so butchered as mine. There are soldiers as well, roughly an equal number male and female, wearing a variety of military uniforms, either dark coats with stiff collar, tight bodysuits, or camouflaged shirt and pants a mixture of olive drab and tan.
As we push through the crowd, some people glance, and when I fall under their gaze, they brighten up. Many smile, others wave, a few even say, “Hi, Adam.”
Privately, I ask Madison, “Do I know these people?”
She smiles and pats me on the back. “Their favorite hero.”
Have I been here before? I must have, but so much is foreign. Certainly attractive to my tastes, but still, it seems unfamiliar. Emotions clash—this place hints at a life full of meaning and purpose, but at the same time, dread strikes—there is no clear memory of being here. I feel empty, out of place. And what does the emptiness hold? A time of success and accomplishment? Or strife, burdened with too much responsibility? Even to recall misery is better than to be empty.
* * *
On the street side, the terminal faces a multilane boulevard crammed full of vehicles dropping off and picking up passengers, one after another, then moving along. Overhead, elevated walkways connect the terminal with a parking structure across the street. Hanging from one of the spans is a wide banner that reads “Welcome home.”
I ask Madison, “Welcome who? Me?”
Dave chuckles. “Not much trouble remembering his ego.”
“No, silly,” Madison says. “The troops.” She points to soldiers marching toward buses farther along the street, and others joining friends and loved ones parked at the curb.
Dave says, “We’ve repelled another Association offensive, and they’ve backed off for now. The fleet is home to resupply and celebrate victory.”
“Fleet?”
He points to the sky. I must strain to see anything other than scattered clouds.
Madison leans near, her head to mine, and directs my gaze as she points upward. “See, up there.”
High in the sky are tiny specks clumped together, a few reflecting glints of sunlight.
“In outer space?”
“Low orbit,” Dave says. “Too big for surface landings. They’re coming in on shuttles, like that one now.” He points over my shoulder just as a faint whine grows to a deafening roar. A craft passes directly overhead, blocks out the sky, and I nearly leap from my skin. The craft maneuvers behind the terminal and drops to the landing platform.
“The thing’s the size of a city block.”
Dave chuckles. “It’s just a shuttle.” He calls for us to follow, and we proceed along the sidewalk. As more craft zip past, I try to heed his advice and convince myself not to be alarmed by the cantankerous hunks of steel magically floating overhead.
Chasing after Dave, we advance at a hurried stride, and soon my breathing matches the pace. But something is different about the air. Not bad, rather rich and satisfying, but certainly peculiar. Each breath tingles deep inside my lungs, and my head begins to feel light.
“Slow down,” Madison says, walking alongside. “You’ve been gone awhile. You need to adjust.”
I can feel a tight grin pinching my cheeks, and a slight buzz coming on. Feels like I’m walking on mashed potatoes.
She grabs hold and makes me halt. “Your breathing, you ’tard. You’re hyperventilating.”
Oh, that. Against an instinctual urge to do otherwise, I slow my breathing to the point I should be gasping for air, but the concentrated atmosphere contains abundant oxygen. Strange that I could pause so long between breaths and not struggle for more. But not strange—I already knew that.
My gaze wanders to the sky. I do remember this place. Rich atmosphere, pink sky full of puffy white clouds, and bright sun warming my skin.
I have been here before.
* * *
At the curb, Dave waves at the passing cars. What is this about? Greeting his friends? He must be popular. I go to the curb and wave with him.
“What are you doing?” he asks. “I’ll take care of it. We only need one taxi.”
“Oh.” I smile. “Better chance we’ll get one.”
I must look like an idiot. But it’s true, two of us waving is sure to score a ride. What? A lame excuse for acting like an idiot, when I know perfectly well what he was doing. Who’s insisting they’re right here?