Meridien K - Chapter 2: The Western Man

 

Take a deep breath and hold it. The frail gravity makes you think you're underwater. Your weak eyes open, blinded by the softest hint of blue, blue like the deep ocean, a tight blue coffin, a deep breath that, since the cold air freezes the hairs inside your nostrils, makes you think, for a moment, you're suffocating. And then depressurization and the whoosh of the lid on its hydraulic lift and the burning white light, clenched eyelids so the light turns hot pink through your thin skin, sandpaper in your throat and an ache in your atrophied vocal chords as you strain to answer that tinny voice asking if you're awake.

             

That's hibernation.

           

 I think I responded, then I collapsed back into the open shell of the coffin and shut my eyes again. Whoever it was who woke me up turned off the overheads, left the room, and eased the door closed.

             

It could've been hours or days. Back asleep, that is. Not how long I'd been inside with the seal shut. I knew almost exactly how long I had been Inside, casket-flat and conked out.

             

At length the room's opened again, and the light didn't hurt as much.

             

"Ben…?" I managed.

             

Ben wore a white t-shirt and jeans, stood in the doorway and worked a handgrip strengthener, rubbed one hand over his shaggy hair, which, last I saw him, was buzzcut to mil regulation even though we were both on the civ part of the mission.

             

"John K., back from the dead. Figured I let you sleep in. Engineers said it best to let those who adapt, uh, poorly to have a few more hours to get a handle on the situation."

             

"Are we," I croaked, a boneless hand up to my throat, putting pressure where it hurt, "on the surface? In orbit?"

             

Ben looked, scoffed and, "Fuck no. We're a month out. Jesus. The pod put the zap on your brain or what?"

             

"A month out… from home?"

            

 "That's relative," said Ben. "Almost capital-R Relative."

             

"You know what I mean."

             

Ben pointed at me, the way he had a habit of pointing when he thought someone was trying to deliberately misunderstand him, and then he said, "If you mean 'home' as in, the, uh, destination, which will be our home, then yes, we're a month from home. I'm not even sure I want to dignify the second possibility."

             

I already knew the answer. Six months minus one month equaled five months. Five months out in the Void, and I hadn't been awake for a second of it.

             

It stung far more than I thought to speak louder than a whisper, but it was the only way to get my voice back and, "The hell are we gonna do for a month?"

             

Ben now leaning on the doorframe, as comfortable as he could make himself, appearing totally oblivious to all around him, that trademark white-grey of the craft, black wiring neatly tucked into the corners of the ceiling.

             

"They don't tell civ scientists fuck-all," said Ben. "We've already got a team back at…" and he stopped, tried to correct himself, but went on, "back at You Know Where running the probe and drones. Plus all the dumbbots are autonomous. Not even a failsafe or override built into them. Good thing they're no bigger'n roaches. One tries to bite your shoe thinking it's a rock, just smash it. Things only cost like a hundred bucks anyway, right? Tallie really nailed that one. Gotta love low bids."

             

The room was windowless but Ben looked up at some corner as though he could see the inky blackness and a few pinpoints beyond. He said, "I guess if we nix the Mission after planting a flag we could move on toward the giants, take gas readings or something."

             

"Fuck that."

             

I rose to a sit and felt the most intense wave of nausea to ever overcome me. I looked for a place to vomit even though I hadn't had solid food in five months. "I want something with a surface," I said. "Playing golf and shit, like back in 1969."

             

"Don't tell me you signed up for this racket to play moon sports in low Gs. Well, at least we won't have to do it with spacesuits this time. The TF numbers are rock solid for the area around the LZ or DZ or whatever-the-fuck, where the bots have already set up a posh runway and where the scouts dropped the heavy materials. Was the plan, at least. Hope no morons didn't convert imperial units to metric or whatever lest our first supplies burn up in the atmosphere."

             

Another gamble and I stood up from the hard edge of the coffin, waited for Ben to come to my side and help me up but he didn't. On my bare feet on the cold floor and offbalance.

            

"Whoa. Is that me?"

             

"Probably. We're running point-seven g here. Makes no fuckin' sense, cause when we land we'll be at, like, point-three. We'll bounce off the goddamn walls. I'll put lead in my shoes or something. Come on, John. Put on some duds and let's look at the view and write a poem about it or some sentimental shit."

(Chapter 3 coming Monday, November 21, 2011.)