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Laura
Campbell |
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It's
hard to imagine the allure of NASA in the Nineteen
Sixties if you weren't there. The weekly magazines like
Life and Look featured extensive
articles, and when Saturn/Apollo hardware started to
fly, we were hooked. That culminated in the summer of
1969 with a landing on the moon. That's ancient history
today. More relevant to our story is the search for
habitable planets. It's hard to imagine the amount of
planetary capital required, but let's assume that
everybody forked over and we have starships with crews
in suspended animation making voyages across the cosmos
lasting hundreds of years to potential habitable
planets. Firmament is the story of one of
these voyages. Over
eighty of Laura Campbell's short stories have appeared
in Chilling Crime Stories, Road Kill: Texas
Horror by Texas Writers Vol. 6, Reader Beware:
A Fear Street Appreciation Anthology, and other
publications. Most of Laura's recent works are available
on Amazon. Laura's short stories From the Garden
and 416175 can be heard on Spotify's Scare
You to Sleep podcast. When she is not writing,
Laura can be found running alongside Houston's bayous or
supporting live music. She is encouraged in her writing
by her children, Alexander and Samantha.
-- Laura
Campbell
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FIRMAMENT By Laura J. Campbell
The astronauts on the deep-space runs called time the ‘Nada.’ The Nothing. The enormity of time and space defied human comprehension. Everything became nothing. When the crew of the Baton Rouge awoke from suspended animation, they were hundreds of years older than they had been when they departed Earth. Machines had kept them alive, hydrating them, nourishing them, taking away their wastes, filling their dreams with images so their minds stayed agile, moving their muscles and bones so they did not suffer debilitating atrophy upon resurrection. Waking up in the Nada brought a quiet resignation that nothing remained of a past they had abandoned. Each of the three-member crew would have to come to terms with the knowledge that everyone they ever knew -- everyone they had ever loved -- had been dead for centuries. Those sentiments were abstractions when they first awoke. The crew felt happy to have awoken; some of the experts had warned them prior to launch that simply waking from suspended animation was not guaranteed. It was just one more risk they accepted before strapping in. They were awoken as they approached an identified habitable planet named CJL-56913210. The visionaries back on Earth had unimaginatively nick-named the planet ‘Eden.’ Those visionaries were hundreds of years in their graves. So, the crew -- Robert Jonah Gagne, Jonathan ‘Johnathat’ Levin, and Marjorie ‘Jorie’ Motes -- had no one to disagree with them when they re-named the planet ‘Hemingway.’ It recognized the author who had articulated the reality of their journey through extra-stellar space with amazing clarity: “It was all nothing, and a man was nothing, too…” “Coffee is on,” Jorie Motes told her crewmates. They were all dressed in white, quilted body suits, designed to warm up their bodies and provide waves of constriction to help re-awaken their bodies. “Thanks, Jorie,” Robert Gagne replied. “I wonder what it will taste like.” “Coffee?” the third of their team, Johnathat Levin asked. “Don’t you remember?” His legal name was ‘Johnathat’. His parents named him ‘Johnathan’ but the undercompensated, overworked public servant filling out his birth certificate had mistyped his name. His parents had let the spelling error stick, reasoning that an unusual name on a birth certificate might prompt him to distinguish himself. Everyone had called him ‘Jonathan’ anyway, so the birth certificate didn’t really control his Earthly life. Sometime during training, the team had elected to go with “J” versions of their names. That allowed Marjorie, Robert, and Johnathan to die on Earth, alongside their family and friends. Now only Jorie, Jonah, and Johnathat existed. The latter identities had no ties to Earth, only to ship, mission, and space. The detachment blessed the pain, made the transition from going to sleep with everything and waking up in nothing more bearable. “I don’t remember what anything tastes like,” Jonah confessed, looking at the mug, filled with hot, taupe-colored liquid. “Do you?” “I have a vague memory,” Johnathat replied. “I possess an idea about the perfect taste of coffee. A philosophical construct, not a visceral memory.” He sniffed the air. “I remember that it smells better than it tastes.” “It’s a caffeine delivery system,” Jorie interjected. “And it will put a little fluid in our systems. Something our stomachs, kidneys, livers, bladders, and urethras will have to deal with – something our systems will have to process. No time like the present to find out if we are still operational biological beings.” “How long to Hemingway?” Johnathat asked. “T-minus three Earth days,” Jorie answered. She started pouring coffee, steadying her dominant hand with her weaker hand. “I’m still a little underpowered,” she noted. “I’ll hit the gym after breakfast. I’ll be happy if I can curl a three-pound weight.” “Baby steps and positive self-affirmation,” Johnathat reminded her. “I can pull out the post-suspended animation 'Resurrection Manual', if you would like. Our guide to getting back on our feet, physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. Lots of pithy quotations to overcome the challenges of being asleep longer than many Empires lasted.” His crewmates knew that his reference to the Manual, stored in a cabinet on the bridge of the Baton Rouge, was offered in humor. “The Manual’s authors never went to sleep and woke up centuries later,” Jonah noted. “They had no idea what we would really be going through.” He got up and looked at a monitor projecting the view outside of the ship. Through the image they could ‘see’ outside their hull; space, with its limitless lack of terrain. The space around them did not appear black. It was a dark, purple-blue swirl, filled with points of light. The stars were incredible in space. They weren’t just little twinkling specks of light. They had all sorts of colors and intricate coronas. Patches of black existed; many indicated the location of dark matter. “You ready to assume manual control?” Jorie asked Jonah. She hesitantly raised the cup of coffee to her face, breathing in the aroma. Hoping she could swallow, hoping peristalsis still worked, hoping that the bolus of coffee would work its way through her digestive system just as flawlessly as the last cup she had, hundreds of years ago. “I’ll be ready. When will you do your checklist on the engines?” Jonah replied. “This afternoon,” Marjorie replied. “When I can see straight. My eyes are still adjusting.” Johnathat joined Jonah, looking outside. “I’ll just sit back and enjoy the ride until we get to Hemingway.” He looked at the coffee. “Now or never,” he said. He put the cup to his lips and swallowed a mouthful of warm coffee. He felt the heat travel down his esophagus. “And?” Jorie asked. “It’s more bitter than I remember. But good. You make a mean cup of joe, Jorie.” Jorie smiled. “It’s good to know that my senses have returned sufficiently to enable me to brew a pot of coffee. Now all I have to do is reacquaint myself with the workings of a fusion drive.” “I can still pull out that 'Resurrection Manual',” Johnathat grinned. “Give you some nice words to think about.” “Go near that Manual,” Jorie replied, “And I’ll tar and feather you.” “I think we have feathers and tar in the hold,” Jonah added. “That would invoke Section Six of the Manual,” Johnathat replied, making up a chapter: 'Now that You Are All Awake: Appropriate Actions to Take When Your Crewmates Are Being Insufferable'.” ### The crew had designed a ritual, before succumbing to their deep sleep. It did not have the imprimatur of any Policy or Manual. The crew had designed and decreed the practice. Over the course of the next three hours, each crewmember individually approached the large view screen. Three pieces of paper and three pens on a table next to the screen. Each piece of paper and pen bore the self-selected symbol of each of the crew members. One bore the image of a seahorse, Jorie’s symbol; another bore the image of a globe, Jonah’s symbol; and the last was decorated with a jellyfish, Johnathat’s symbol. Jorie approached first. She looked at the projected image of space and wrote down the name of everybody whom had ever been dear to her and everyone who she had admired. She folded piece of paper and placed it into a small, cloth bag. “A time to seek, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away,” she whispered. Johnathat observed the second visitation. He wrote the names of his beloved on his piece of paper and placed the list reverently into the bag. He rocked himself back and forth, gazing upon distant stars, reciting the Aramaic words of the Mourner’s Kaddish, the mourner’s prayer. In the third hour, Jonah wrote down his names, and placed them in the bag. He stood and stared at open space for fifty-five minutes, saying no words. After the three hours had passed, Jorie collected the bags, and using a heavily secured ejection tube equipped with multiple airlocks, released the bag into open space. As the names were lost to the Nada, the crew embraced the nothingness. ### The Baton Rogue had a straightforward mission: arrive at CJL-56913210 and start making the place teem with life so it could fully support future colonists. Seeds, embryos, and fertilized eggs held in stasis filled the Baton Rouge’s hold. The age-old question of if the chicken or the egg had been there first would have an answer on CJL-56913210: the egg always comes before the chicken, regardless of the circumstances. The plant stock that the Baton Rogue carried would be planted, cultivated, and grown. The animal embryos nurtured and released. The eggs hatched and the creatures dispersed across the planet’s oceans and lands. A legion of small, robotic beings sat waiting in the hold, ready to be activated and aid in the gargantuan task. Those assigned to the animals were called ‘Cherubim,’ and those assigned to the plants were called ‘Seraphim.’ A contest named them; a thirteen-year-old school girl from Chalmette won with those suggestions. The crew was under orders to dig their own graves and bury one another, in due time. Behind them would be waves of colonists, expecting to find a planet thriving with utilitarian plant and animal life. The Swann Coalition, which funded the Baton Rouge and its mission, sought out naturally habitable galactic locations, adapt those environments to established human needs, and send people to live there. The Swann Fleet initially contained thirteen ships, each named after a major city in the US state of Louisiana (a founding member of Swann belonged to the Cajun Navy). The crew of the Baton Rogue had been in suspended animation for centuries; since their departure, they reasoned significant advances in space travel had undoubtedly occurred since they departed the home planet. At least they hoped so. What had taken the Baton Rogue hundreds of years to accomplish might only take decades for the colony ships in their cosmic wake to achieve. Joanh, Johnathat, and Jorie would need to apply themselves to their work on Hemingway quickly. Johnathat sat on the bridge with Jonah and Jorie. He didn’t have to be in attendance; he wasn’t involved in ship operations. Johnathat served as combat support, mission specialist, cook, clergyman, medical officer, legal advisor, financial expert, agriculturalist, veterinarian, ethicist, and chief bottle washer. He could sit by idly while Jonah drove the vessel and Jorie made sure the vessel could be driven. Once on the planet, Johnathat would be busy, and Jonah and Jorie could sit by idly. Of those three graves Johnathat’s had be the last grave filled. Jorie and Jonah were committed to surrendering their own lives to make sure that Johnathat would outlive them. Jorie picked up a glass of orange juice, emblazoned with the name Baton Rouge, their names, and an emblem comprised of their symbols. The seahorse, the globe, and the jellyfish. She took a sip of the re-constituted juice. “So sweet,” she puckered her lips. “And acidic.” “I told you to start with apple juice,” Jonah reminded her. “But -- your stomach, your rules. And you broke out the mission glassware, I see. Complete with that seahorse-globe-jellyfish thing.” “I like the seahorse-globe-jellyfish thing,” Johnathat objected. “Paul McCartney was the Walrus; I get to be the jellyfish. Goo-gooby-gu.” “You’re proud to be a jellyfish?” Jorie asked. “Jellyfish float in the currents,” Johnathat replied. “I’m like that. I don’t have any control over this ship. I’m just along for the ride. Hoping I’ll get to where I’m supposed to be. Now, Jonah, the globe is not very imaginative.” “Pilots aren’t supposed to have too much imagination,” he answered. “You want us to stick to the course and not do anything too creative. The globe is Earth. The old country. Never forget where you’re from. And you, Jorie? Why choose the seahorse?” “Seahorses represent patience, persistence, calm,” she said. “And seahorses have special protective symbolism for sailors and seafarers. Seemed like that translated to good luck charm for space-faring.” “You like that ancient space history stuff,” Jonah noted. “What was your mission application essay on? You must have chosen something historic.” “Apollo One,” she replied. “Three astronauts lost to an oxygen fire while training for the first lunar landing. Grissom, Chaffee, and White. I wrote about the dangers of space travel, but how we choose to explore space nonetheless.” “Things better contemplated when one is safely on planet,” Johnathat noted. “We’re just forty-eight hours away from Hemingway,” Jonah added. “Hopefully being on planet will be as safe as we hope.” ### Johnathat and Jorie were in their respective quarters, getting their first non-suspended animation sleep. Adjusting to regular sleep-waking cycles was vital to their well-being. Jonah manned the bridge, making sure they were on course. He assessed the view. CJL-56913210 orbited a large sun, designated as Sol 169-181-1. Jonah magnified the view of the sun as best he could. Plumes of fire erupted from the sun’s surface. Jonah consulted his computer, entering queries. He frowned at the data he saw generated. The data represented something they had no control over, so it made little sense to wake his crewmates regarding something they were powerless to influence. Re-establishing regular sleep patterns took precedence. He would tell his crewmates about his observations when they woke up. For now, he made a slight adjustment in their course. Jonah postponed his own retirement. They would be about twelve hours late arriving at CJL-56913210. ### “Sol 169-181-1 is pushing out some major solar winds,” Jonah reported. “I recalculated our course. We will be landing about forty-four hours from now. About twelve hours behind schedule.” “What our risk?’ Jorie asked. “We’re at risk for radiation exposure,” Jonah replied. “Johnathat can import my data and calculate how much radiation. I don’t want to over-shoot CJL-56913210. We’re currently on approach. We need to land and start phase two of this mission.” “In 1963,” Jorie began, comforting herself with history. “Earth engineers designed a vessel they named the Manned Orbiting Laboratory – the MOL. It had minimal shielding. The radiation exposure for the crew, in the case of a radiation event like a solar storm, would have exceeded biologically safe exposure limits. The crew’s skin would have gotten about 1,770 millisievert, their internal organs about 451 mSv of radiation. The powers that were recast MOL as a reconnaissance platform.” “That much would cause nausea, skin burns, fatigue,” Johnathat noted. “And vomiting – not good on board a ship with no gravity system, as they were in those days. We have artificial gravity generators. But nausea and fatigue are still not things we need after resurrection from suspended animation. All of us are still very weak. I could only curl an eight-pounder in the gym last night. And only a few reps.” “I struggled with a five-pounder,” Jonah frowned. “We have a lot of rebuilding to do. Speaking of which, are your eyes back on-line yet, Jorie?” “My vision is still fuzzy,” she replied. “What’s the word, math-boy? We good or not?” “I’m doing the calculations,” Johnathat reported, consulting the data. “A solar wind can move a million miles an hour. Our deep-sleep compartment is a special containment chamber, which kept our exposure to ionizing radiation to amounts below those we would have been exposed to on Earth. Normal space travel exposure is 50 to 2,000 mSv.” “This is a powerful flare,” Jonah noted. He put the magnified image of the sun on screen, the image demonstrating another arch of fire peeling off the sun. Johnathat looked at his computer screen apprehensively. “We have a problem. According to my preliminary number crunching, we’re looking at an exposure of 5,000 mSv – maybe even more. That’s enough that half of us will be dead within a month.” “There’s only three of us,” Jorie noted. “One-and-a-half of us dead in thirty days isn’t an option. Should we return to the sleep chamber? We would be protected there.” “We might be safe,” Johnathat stressed. “But the concern isn’t just for us. This radiation could kill our cargo. Every seed, embryo, egg. During suspended animation secondary shielding panels were programmed to deploy automatically, to protect the ship and cargo. They weren’t needed during the trip here, but we need to activate those now.” The ship’s walls contained contiguous shielding; the secondary panels were stored in an accordion-like fashion, designed to unfurl along side-tracks mounted in the ship’s walls. Once stretched out, the panels would provide a layer of lead shielding embedded with proprietary radiation blockers. Once the panels were deployed, the ship was entombed in the ultimate Faraday Cage. No electromagnetic energy of any type -- from radio waves to gamma rays -- could penetrate the ship. An automatic latch at the top of the panel’s course would hold the panel in place until the danger had passed and the panel disengaged and returned to its pocket. Then normal ship functions would be restored. “We need that shielding up, to protect the cargo. We’ll take it down as soon as we can. We can shelter in the sleeping chamber. Until then, in our automatic navigational systems we’ll trust.” He flipped the navigational system back to an autopilot. He pressed commands into a computer. Twenty-six lights lit up on a view screen. Each light indicated one of the twenty-six secondary shielding panels that encapsulated the ship. Jonah entered a command: twenty-three lights went from red to green. “Three panels didn’t deploy,” Jonah noted. He reentered commands. The three panels, located in separate parts of the ship, remained red, indicating failure to deploy. “I don’t see any obvious indication of a malfunction,” Jonah said. “They should have gone up with the others.” “It’s been hundreds of years,” Johnathat noted. “Eighty-eight percent efficiency. But we need 100%. An incomplete Maginot Line didn’t work for France, and it won’t work for us, either.” “Three panels, three of us,” Jorie noted. “We can manually push the panels up. We trained on this. I remember getting a bruise on my shoulder nudging a panel into place during training.” She gestured to Panel Number Seven, blinking red on the display. “I’ll take Number Seven.” “I got this Panel Twenty-three,” Jonah said. “Which means I get Panel Three,” Johnathat acknowledged. “Let’s do this thing.” ### “I’m in location,” Jorie reported in, using the inter-communications system. “Panel Three seems physically stuck. As if something is impeding its deployment,” Johnathat replied. “Panel 23 isn’t budging, either,” Jonah confirmed. “Okay,” Johnathat thought aloud, “These things are on rails; once we can get them out of their pockets they should glide up their tracks like they’re sliding on warm butter. As Jorie reminded us, we use our shoulders to propel them upwards faster. Like getting the doors on old-fashioned storage units to move.” The three crewmembers each reached inside their respective panel pockets to pull the obstinate panels out of their hiding places. In each case, the tightly wound accordion-like panel jostled, but did not move. “We have about thirteen minutes before the wind gets here,” Jonah said. “It will take about a full minute to push the panel up and lock it into place,” Jorie reminded him. “Then we have twelve minutes,” Jonah said. “Figure out if there is anything impeding the tracks or the channels. Things could have shifted during flight.” Jorie dug her little fingers around the imbedded panel, she felt something hard pushing against the wall. “I think mine has the lock latch popped out,” she reported. “It must have sprung loose during flight. It’s wedged against the inside of the pocket wall. I think I can wiggle it back enough to get the first part of the panel out. Once out, the popped latch shouldn’t be an issue going up in the track.” “And I have the same issue,” Johnathat observed. “My fingers are bigger than Jorie’s, but I can just about get my index finger in there.” Jonah reached his finger in, feeling the deployed latch lock. “Same situation here,” Jonah said. “At least the failure is uniform.” He moved his finger against the top of the latch, gently pushing it back so that it would have enough clearance to make it past the lip of the pocket the panel resided in. “Ten minutes,” Jorie noted. “It is taking some finesse, but I can hold the latch back.” Jonah managed to wedge his finger between the knob-like latch and the wall. He pushed the latch in, giving the panel enough clearance to be gently coaxed out of its pocket. Using the knob itself as a grip for his fingertip, he inched the edge of the panel up. The panel resisted, but with a multitude of small, patient movements, he eased the top of the panel over the pocket lip. “Panel Twenty-Three was a little tricky to move, but I got the latch pushed in and used it to maneuver the panel out of the pocket. Slow, steady moves got the job done.” “The latch of Panel Three is free,” Jorie added, having successfully performed the same maneuvers. “Ditto,” Johnathat reported in. “How are we doing on time?” “A bit over eight minutes,” Jonah reported. The lights on the ship dimmed. Low-level red lighting flooded the interior of the ship. “Emergency systems sensing the solar wind approaching,” Jonah told them. “The lights dimming to red is designed to let us know something bad is happening.” “Plunging us into crimson darkness is supposed to help?” Jorie asked. “Because I can barely see a thing.” “Same here,” Johnathat said. “The system hasn’t been activated in centuries,” Jonah said. “The emergency lights should be brighter; I can’t get to the bridge to fix that right now. My eyes are adjusting to the darkness.” “Glad yours are,” Jorie replied. “Mine are still recovering from deep sleep.” “Whatever moved the panel pushed my panel off of its tracks,” Johnathat reported. “Mine, too,” Jorie added. “Given the similarities in malfunction, possibly an after-effect of the explosive force of the launch. The panels must have been jostled off of their rails, the latches popping out.” “Not like we can complain to management,” Johnathat noted. “Seven minutes to get these things rolling,” Jonah said, keeping them focused. “Jiggle them. Get them back on their tracks. Quickly, folks. Double time.” “Six minutes,” Jonah said a minute later. He worked frantically to align the panel back into its track. A strobe effect began to oscillate through the low red lighting, indicating imminent danger. Jorie felt frantic and anxious. “Keep calm,” she told herself. “Keep calm. This has to be done delicately.” She took a deep breath and maneuvered the top of the assembly, angling one edge of the panel back into its track. The group labored in silence, each struggling with his or her own objective. “Five minutes,” Jonah counted. “Or these things aren’t going to be up and in place in time.” “I don’t want to die here. Not after all it took to get here,” Jorie whispered to herself. The lights flashed around her, casting wild shadows in the nooks and crannies of the hallway in which her panel was located. Her eyes still could not see clearly. The low-level red lights and strobe effect created flutters across her vision. Vague figures moved in between the flashes of light. She closed her eyes, trusting her sense of touch more than her sense of sight. In a moment, she felt the panel beneath her fingertips snap securely into place; its movement became more agile. “I think mine is moving!” she exclaimed. “It’s back on its track!” “I can’t see a damn thing,” Johnathat reported. “The lights just went way down here.” “Four minutes,” Jonah warned. “Focus, people, focus! Jorie – get that panel up.” Time, which had drifted by for centuries without meaning, abruptly become critical again. Jorie breathed deeply. She had barely been capable of moving the panel during training; and she had been significantly stronger. She had been curling twenty-pound dumbbells during pre-launch training; post awakening, three pounders challenged her. She closed her eyes again and pushed. “Help me,” she beseeched. In the darkness, she felt something helping move the panel, joining in her efforts. The panel began to move freely, gliding on its rails. She placed her shoulder against it, using her body to propel the panel upwards. She opened her eyes. And then she saw him. The man stood beside her, garbed in an ancient astronaut suit. The white fabric of his space suit reflected the scarlet strobe light. He wore an old helmet, white and solid, smudged with black marks. She could see her reflection in his visor. The man put his shoulder against the panel. He held up a finger, indicating a rhythm. They moved together, methodically pushing the panel up. “Two minutes,” Jonah said. “My panel is in its tracks. Damn this thing is hard to move! I could use two of me...” “What the hell ...” He stopped himself from completing his statement. The sound of the panel rhythmically being deployed filled his microphone. “There’s someone here.” Johnathat said. His tone reflected elation and terror. “Is he helping you?” Jorie asked. “Is your panel moving?” “Yes, and yes,” Johnathat answered. “We’re getting it done,” Jonah reported. “One minute.” The man in the ancient astronaut suit assisted Jorie, his hands and shoulder supplying labor stronger than hers. Then she heard a latching sound, the panel locked in place. “We’re latched,” she reported. Thirty seconds. “Panel Three secured!” Johnathat reported. “Thank you,” he muttered, his voice barely audible over the link. Twenty seconds. The lights continued to strobe, splashing erratic crimson light throughout the Baton Rouge. “Jonah?” Jorie beseeched. Snap! Seven seconds. “Panel Twenty-Three secured,” Jonah replied. Zero seconds. Silence entombed the ship. The strobe kept oscillating the in the crimson emergency lighting. “Radiation levels holding,” Jonah said, watching the numbers on a counter. “No radiation seepage. We can hold until the danger has passed us by. After that, we’ll drop the panels back into place and jump back on manual controls.” He stared into the crimson darkness. As he watched, the space-suited figure give him a thumbs up. Jorie looked around her location in the dark red bay. The antiquated astronaut had disappeared. She was alone. ### Johnathat put a box underneath a tree. Sunlight from Sol 169-181-1 filtered through the leaves of a nearby tree. “So far all data is tracking what the Swann scientists predicted,” Jonah confirmed. “Four seasons. Clement weather. Perfect atmosphere. Fresh water.” Cherubim and Seraphim, activated upon landing, were busy taking soil samples and chattering robotically with one another. “Any takers for helping me plant saplings?” Johnathat asked. “I have a bunch of fruit trees to get growing.” “I’m retired, remember?” Jonah smiled. “Seriously?” “Oh, alright. I’m game. I’ll throw some pecan trees in the ground. I can make a mean pecan pie. Maybe for Thanksgiving. We have a lot to be thankful for.” Jorie walked out of the Baton Rouge, bearing a flag. “About time,” Jonah remarked. “What took you so long? Time to raise the colors.” “I had to make a few alterations,” she explained. She secured the flag’s grommets to two fasteners outside of the ship. The breeze picked up the fabric; the flag waved in the wind. The flag bore the images of the seahorse, globe, and jellyfish. And, mirroring their names on the flag, she had added three new names. Gagne. Levin. Mote White. Grissom. Chaffee. “The Apollo One crew?” Jonah asked, recognizing the names from the mission patch. “Jorie?” “They helped us with the radiation panels. If not for them, we would be dead. They have as much claim to this planet as we do.” Jonah looked away; his intellect frustrated by his knowledge. “We all saw them,” Jorie emphasized. “Not just me.” “We don’t know what we saw,” Jonah said. “We were just coming out of suspended animation. You had just told us about your mission essay. Radiation sickness can be disorienting. I don't believe in ghosts. Even helpful ones.” “Grissom helped me,” Jorie said, her tone resolute. “I saw a name, too: Chaffee,” Johnathat reported. “Jonah? That leaves White.” “In the Nada, I saw White,” he confessed. “In
the Nada, we were saved by the algo,”
Johnathat observed. "In
the nothing we were saved by the something." Johnathat headed towards boxes full of dormant chrysalises. “We have a planet to set up,” he said. “Our days of flight are behind us. Now it is time to set butterflies free, and thank those who went before us. And those who may be with us still.” THE END
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