There was more. A lot more. Izzy told me every single part of that day. I listened to it all but heard maybe half of it. Finally she wound down. Maybe she ran out of things to say, or maybe she realized that she was just rattling on about stuff that didn’t really matter, not even to her.
I cut in, “Did you see the thing about the Golden Dragon?”
Izzy stopped and looked at me for a moment, then nodded. “It’s terrible.”
“Maybe,” I said. “They might still be okay.”
From her expression it was clear she didn’t agree. After a moment she said, “There are kids on that ship.”
“I know.”
“It’s so scary,” she said. “How can you even deal with it?”
I shrugged. “We just deal.”
That stalled the conversation for a moment, so I shifted gears and started talking about how Mom disassembled my sleeping pod and left all the pieces floating and a note taped to the wall that said, “Fix it.”
In other words, I babbled. She found more stuff to talk about. Shoes she bought. Her homework. Her dog’s new collar.
Stuff.
Just stuff.
Then our small talk seemed to run down. We had a few seconds of silence. Each of us looking at the other, the connection distorted by the time delay.
Finally Izzy said, “You know . . . we’re not going to be able to talk like this much longer. The delays and all.”
“I know.”
“We’ll have to start recording messages instead.”
“Yeah.”
Izzy stared into my eyes with an intensity that I could feel across hundreds of thousands of miles.
“I’d better go,” she told me. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” I said, but before the words were out the screen went dark. She’d already signed off. My words fell into the black and there was no one out there to hear them.
Chapter 68
* * *
First thing to know is that they tried—they really did try—to make us comfortable. As much as science would allow. You see, the trick is to balance payload weight with fuel. Because they didn’t have to launch the Huginn from Earth and push all that mass through the atmosphere, they were able to build the ship big. From nose to tail it was 222 meters long. There was a command capsule up front and a collar around it from which dozens of different antennae stuck out into the black. Then there was a bunch of storage pods and computer banks. There were massive water tanks to provide drinking water as well as cooling water for the electronics, as well as tanks of other chemicals including liquid nitrogen, liquid hydrogen, and more. Then there were specialized control pods packed with instruments of all kinds.
The next part of the ship was the main habitat, which was a huge barrel with a wide central corridor. The hab, as we called it, was split into several sections. The aft-most section (meaning it was at the back) had twenty bunks built into the walls, each about four feet deep, seven feet long, and five feet high. You could sit up on your bunk but if you wanted to stand—or float at full length—you had to leave the bunk. In our bunks, though, we had cabinets for personal stuff, a full medical kit, a mission computer built into the wall, and a place to store our personal tablets. In front of the sleeping section was the common room, which we called—wait for it—the common room. Behind the hab was the wheel, the thing that gave that part of the ship artificial gravity. Aft of the wheel was the galley—with its rows of cold storage, and microwave ovens—then the fitness center, more storage, more of the specialized pods, a machine shop, the big 3-D printers, more bulk storage, and my dad’s botany lab and hydroponic garden.
In order to make the transit habitat as comfortable as possible, Mars One needed to spend a lot of money. What helped was that everything, everywhere you look on that boat, had a product logo on it. The seats were IKEA, the computers were Apple, the microwaves were Breville, the freezers were Westinghouse. Every reusable cup had a company brand on it. Every food pouch had a name. And our clothes had a bunch of different names. We were taking human consumerism to Mars, which was how my dad said it. He was right. He wore a John Deere cap when he did his interviews.
The only area that was off-limits for us was the command module, which was empty and locked.
I spent as much time as I could in one of the pods talking with Herc, of course. Sometimes just goofing off but a lot of the time talking about the Hart Foundation. Herc had a lot of ideas and sometimes he just went on and on and on about details and plans.
What I’m not getting to—which I should—are the pod sessions with Izzy.
It was way past the time when I should have just cut things off with Izzy. Made a clean break. But I didn’t.
Chapter 69
* * *
Space was boring.
We had been out there for four months. What have I got to say about everything that had been happening since we left?
Nothing.
Nothing worth saying, nothing worth hearing.
Space was insanely, god-awful, I-want-to-stab-myself-in-the-brain boring.
Oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God it was so boring.
Chapter 70
* * *
If this were a thrilling big-budget summer blockbuster movie then we’d have encountered an alien spaceship or been hit by a meteoroid or there would have been a rebellion aboard. There would have been hijinks, teen-appropriate adventures, young love, PG-13 passion. There would have been messy violence. Something dramatic.
None of that happened.
The thing is, though, everything done in every single step of preparation for space travel is designed to remove all possibilities of drama. Mind you, the launch itself was pretty dramatic. Big engines, lots of fire and smoke, and all of the travel was in front of us. Any drama after we left, though, would have meant that someone screwed up. The fact that we were flying through space getting bored meant that everyone did their job the right way.
Again, if this were a movie, there would be a line of text on the screen saying something like “FOUR MONTHS LATER.” After which would be more drama. Landing and unforeseen problems, Martian dust storms, all that.
This is the part of the trip they skip over in movies.
I grew a mustache. Nirti said it looked like a diseased caterpillar, so I shaved it off.
Luther grew a goatee. It looked really great and made him look twenty. Everyone dug it. I seriously hated that guy.
We all had birthdays out there. I was taller (thanks to microgravity) so I kept telling myself I looked older. The mustache was part of that plan. Oh well.
We had the world’s most boring Thanksgiving. Me and my folks. It’s an American holiday, so . . . the whole ship didn’t stop to celebrate.
Christmas and Hanukkah were different. They showed A Christmas Carol—in Dutch with English subtitles. Mr. De Jaeger told this really nasty story about Krampus, which is the anti–Santa Claus. He comes around when you’ve been bad and does horrible things to naughty children. Zoé laughed at the story, and so did Colpeys and some of the others from the Netherlands, Norway, and Germany. It creeped everyone else out.
After that we sang carols and some Hanukkah songs for the one person on board who was Jewish. We did not swap presents. I mean . . . seriously, how could we? Really tough to run to the local Walmart for last-minute stocking stuffers, and not even Amazon delivered all the way out there.
Tony Chu put on a fake beard that was made from insulation and told jokes we all pretended were funny.
Overall it was really kind of sad. I didn’t think we were going to have a Martian Family Christmas Special anytime soon.
What t
urned it around, though—and really turned a knife in all of us—were the Christmas messages sent from home. Thousands of people in Amsterdam gathered in a town square, everyone holding candles, and sang Christmas songs. They did the same thing in Madison. Izzy and Herc and Spice were there, dressed in wool hats and scarves and earmuffs, their breath puffing white in the cold air.
It was supposed to be them sending love all that way. But . . . after it was over I was more depressed than I’ve ever been. I spent all Christmas Day in my bunk. Didn’t read or watch anything. Just listened to Izzy’s playlist. All one hundred songs. No one bothered me. I think the only people on board who weren’t bummed out were those who had no family or any real friends back home.
Then there was New Year’s.
The year 2027 came in with a big shared meal, and it was a surprise. Lots of stuff they froze for this event but didn’t tell us. Real meat loaf, real vegetables, real mashed potatoes with gravy. That actually got weird. First thing was that we had to keep the food from floating away. When you wanted a bite you had to fish around in a bag with a fork. The upside was that it was great to have that kind of meal, and I know the mission folks meant well, but I think we all had the wrong reaction to it. We’d never have a meal like that again. It was going to make our regular food taste a lot worse for a long time, even with Sophie working her magic. Some of the crew saved portions for later, to make it last. Some skipped the meal altogether. I ate it all but after a while the Earth food began tasting weird to me. It bummed me out.
One of the TV networks back home sent us a ten-hour-long comedy and music special. None of us knew they were making it. All these top pop, country, and hip-hop artists singing for us, on stages all over the world. People sent best wishes, prayers, and shout-outs. And Director Colpeys and Mom rigged a countdown that played through both ships so that all forty of us could yell “Happy New Year” at the same time.
That was kind of cool. That was fun.
I got New Year’s kisses from Nirti—sisterly; Zoé—awkward; my mom—motherly; a couple other women—strange; and Sophie. That was a little weird. I mean, I’d become really good friends with Sophie. We talked a lot. She was sweet and pretty and very smart. She knew a lot about history and philosophy. Even knew some science.
When she kissed me a little after midnight, it was about two seconds too long and I backed off. She looked at me, a little confused and maybe surprised at what she’d just done.
“Oh God,” she said, “I’m sorry.”
“No,” I said, “it’s cool.”
It wasn’t, though. Sophie knew about Izzy, and even if I was going to eventually formally break up with my girlfriend, I hadn’t done it yet.
The holidays passed, the ships flew on. Or “hurtled,” I guess. Regardless, time passed and except for the fact that we had an official “night,” it was hard to tell one hour from another, one day from another. No highlights, no drama.
The way it’s supposed to be in space.
The way it was probably going to be for the rest of the trip. We were all beginning to buzz with excitement. We all wanted to stop traveling and actually arrive. To stop being passengers and start being explorers of the unknown.
Mars . . . here we come.
Chapter 71
* * *
Izzy and I couldn’t really talk in real time anymore. Not for months. It was all taped messages. So it was only an exchange of video files, some of which were chapters in a really stilted and frustrating conversation. Others were impulse videos. Izzy sent a lot of them. Even more than I did. The first ones she sent were short. Stuff like:
“I miss you sooooo much. I love you.”
Then things changed.
About two months ago her messages got suddenly longer. She’d sit there and stare at the camera and talk. Just talk. About her life, about stuff that happened in school, about Herc and Spice—who were a serious item now. About her parents. About the segments she was taping for Tristan and Izzy.
But there was something strange about those videos and it took me a long, long time to figure it out. When I did, I crawled into my bunk and cried.
She was trying to fill time.
Izzy wasn’t talking to me; she was info-dumping because she didn’t really have anything to say. Nothing. Not really. She was having new experiences and so was I and there was absolutely nothing in common. Not even the same sky, the same air, or the same gravity. Nothing.
The videos still came in a couple of times a week, but they were like clockwork. She uploaded clips from the kids at school, but they were getting stale too. And let’s face it, I wasn’t exactly holding up my end of the conversation. One day I realized that I’d spent twenty-two minutes explaining how I stripped space-particle-collector assembly down to parts, cleaned it, and put it back together. Wow, how exciting is that? I could imagine Izzy sitting through it, eyes glazing as I went into detail about how tricky it was to disassemble it without upsetting the calibrations. She’d hear how truly excited I was about it, too, and she’d wonder who I was.
And who was I?
When had Tristan the high school kid and boyfriend of the world’s prettiest and most wonderful girl become only Tristan the space mechanic who could only talk about machines and not actually relate to anything else? Where in all this emptiness was the line, and when did I cross it without even knowing?
That was the last time I recorded anything about repairs or maintenance. When you hit one of those moments of self-awareness you’re supposed to stop, reassess, and find a better way to move forward.
Which I did.
The problem with that was it left me almost nothing to say to Izzy.
Herc and I could still talk, but that was starting to get a little strange too. He told me about the movies and TV he watched, and what was happening in the comics we both liked. Batman was still moody and antisocial. Spider-Man still had girl troubles. And we talked about the Hart Foundation, but most of that was us just commenting on what he’d already sent in long e-mails. We were talking about stuff, but we weren’t really talking. Herc didn’t call as often as he used to. He had Spice, had schoolwork, and was reading tons of books about financial investments, nonprofit administration, and charitable trusts.
And I found that although I sent him e-mails and video files, I wasn’t talking to Herc much. Not about what I was really feeling. There were things I could only talk about with Nirti. And there were things I could talk about with Sophie, because she was older than me but still young enough to understand what I was going through.
The Huginn and the Muninn flew on. Farther and farther away.
Or closer and closer.
It all depends on how you look at it.
Chapter 72
* * *
Luther and I were in the fitness center taking turns on the ARED. They put the machine in the big wheel, so there was some gravity. It was set to Mars gravity, though. We all had to train in there now because we were almost at the point where we didn’t have enough fuel or supplies to turn around and go back.
The ARED was getting harder, though, because we were both thinner, our muscles less dense. My bones ached a lot and I knew it was because micro-g was weakening them. The docs and the exercise equipment helped slow that, but it was a factor all the time. A fact of life.
I’d rebuilt the ARED twice so far to maximize its effect on us. Mom and Colpeys were so impressed that they filed a request with the manufacturers back on Earth to get them to sign off on a permanent redesign, and to cut me in on any profits. More money I couldn’t spend. More cash for the Hart Foundation.
Luther was running on a Martian-g treadmill while I did sets of squats. He tapped the keys to increase his pace. The environmental systems would reclaim excess moisture from our sweat, purify it, and put it back in the tanks. Disgusting but practical. He was smiling.
“What are you smiling about?” I asked.
Luther laughed. He was running pretty fast now. Because there was gravity in here
his sweat sluiced down his bare chest. “I’ve taken up mathematics,” he said.
“Math—?”
“I’ve been calculating the value of pi.”
I paused midlift and looked at him. His grin was pure evil.
I said, “Oh.”
“ ‘Oh’ is right,” he replied, his grin getting wider. Like the Joker in the Batman comics, and every bit as spiteful.
“Congratulations,” I said without enthusiasm. “And you’re a real champ for bragging about it.”
“Thought you might want to know,” said Luther.
“No, I don’t.”
He laughed as he ran. Five minutes later he said, “So . . . you and Sophie. You hitting that?”
“Jeez, you’re really disgusting,” I said as I lifted.
He grinned. “So that’s a yes or a no?”
“It’s a no, so stop asking. It’s always going to be a no.”
“Missed opportunity,” he said.
I growled low in my throat as I tried to lift the whole weight of the ship. Sophie and I were just friends and that was the absolute truth. After that one weird thing on New Year’s Sophie had been totally cool and we’d both left that stuff behind us. We had spent some time together, but only for me to start teaching her how to do repairs. I helped her disassemble and then rebuild one of her microwaves. Like that. Just crewmate stuff.
Suddenly Nirti appeared in the doorway looking scared. “Tristan!” she cried. “Your mom needs you right now.”
“What’s wrong—?”
“It’s the Muninn!”
Chapter 73
* * *
I wasted no time getting out of the gym and away from the low-grav pull of the wheel. As soon as I felt the gravity fall away I kicked myself into a free fly down the center of the main corridor, grabbed a handle to swing a right, and monkey pulled myself to the open door of my mom’s workshop. She was there with Tony.