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by Camille Alexa
Science Fiction, 19 pages.
Originally Published in Tainted: Tales of Terror and the Supernatural, 2008
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As a young woman, I had the privilege of attending the fledgling Orbital Space Academy. Though decades had passed since I’d graduated and gone on to train the next generation of cadets for extended stints at Mir V and at the International Habitat, I never forgot those first heady days in space.
We young astronauts rode the crest of a wave of revived space exploration and experimentation in permanent extra-planetary living. There was a real sense of wonder in those days, of hope. Lifelong bonds were forged between us early graduates and our idealistic teachers. We strove to renew the efforts begun by our individual governments in the 1950s and ’60s, with egalitarianism and an unprecedented sense of international cooperation. Everything had seemed magical to us then: living for extended periods in rather shoddy, half-built stations while the new Habitat was under construction; watching the Earth and the Moon do their slow, lazy dances across the portals in our tiny cylindrical cabins; exploring abandoned wrecks of habitats begun in earlier times when governments had been flush and willing to blast money into space in the name of progress, of expansion, of humanity.
The invitation from my favorite instructor came from out of the blue, as the Earthbound say. For those of us who’ve lived among the stars, we may as well call it out of the black. We’d kept in touch, though long-distance, for many years, and he’d been most supportive throughout my career. It seems he’d called in some favors with planetary bigwigs, and a private reunion of sorts had been arranged.
Training young astronauts kept me fit enough for active service in space, though I hadn’t thought of returning. I travelled up to the Habitat with a load of supplies and relatively little publicity for a weekend visit to Old Huffy, as we students had affectionately named Dr. Albert Huffton in our irreverent youth. Even when I’d been his student, I’d thought him old. Now he looked positively ancient, the toll taken by his recent illness evident in the lines of his face and limbs. He’d received special dispensation several months earlier to live out the remainder of his natural life at the Habitat. He’d argued, most publicly and effectively, that it was in Earth’s best interests to study the effects of extended Habitat living on the human body at every stage. He claimed he wanted to be of this small service to humankind before he died. Think of me as donating my body to science, he’d argued, only I’m giving it to you a few months early.
Frail he may have been, but unlively he most definitely was not. I took his arthritic hand in my two and leaned to kiss his withered cheek. His eyes sparked; his smile was enigmatic.
“What’s up, you old dog, Sir?” I said to him, laughing. Though my adjustment to decreased gravity was progressing more slowly than it had on visits during my younger days, I was certain I’d soon regain my equilibrium. I felt only mildly disoriented, and a bit drunken, truth be told, on the oxygen-rich atmosphere of the Habitat.
“It’s good to see you, Vicki,” he said. Bending close, he whispered, “I’ve got a little adventure in mind, and I very much need your help. Of all my students, I’m glad it was you who came.”
To very few people was I anything other than Professor Lewis these days. Old Huffy’s casual address made me feel almost young, and good to be back in space.
“Something in the works, Sir?” I said. “You’re always up to something. And of all my acquaintances, you’re most likely to get away with whatever it is. What’s up your sleeve?”
He chuckled. In the artificial light and low gravity of the Habitat, the deep crevices of his face smoothened, making him appear for a moment almost younger than myself. He looked over his shoulder, and then winked conspiratorially at me. “Only this,” said he, drawing from his pocket a thing I recognized from cadet lore with a shudder through my veins like ice water. In his hand was a cube of plastic, of a gaudy orange, unapologetically artificial color from a bygone era. It had a stiff protrusion at one end, and on its side was a block-printed numeral: 13.
“Nobody will miss the key for at least twenty-four hours,” he said, sliding the cube back into his pocket with a sinuous dip of his hand.
Not wanting to disclose my discomfort, I feigned ignorance. “Key to what?” I asked, all innocence.
“Don’t fool with an old fool, Victoria Lewis! It’s the key to abandoned Station Thirteen, tethered off the rim, and we’re going tonight. We can do it, we two. You’re not afraid of that old place, no matter what happened there. You’ve always been the fearless one.”
Looking into my old instructor’s face, I felt another tremor run though me. His excitement shone from his eyes like beacons; his shriveled limbs, sticking from the cuffs of his shorts and short sle -- [End of Preview.]