Between stars – on stars where no human race is
Robert Frost, “Desert Places.”
I hook my toes back under the bar on the footrest and straighten under the seatbelt. Burying my nose in my book, I try to concentrate on the words. But I hear hands padding on grips and the merest rustle of a thermo-suit as Bob floats into the cockpit behind me.
Bob. God, that name suits him. There’s the tinny “thwacka-thwack, thwacka-thwack” of that stupid PCD player he drags around like a third leg.
“Hey Leesa, what you doing?” he asks.
I wave my book towards him and rebury my nose. What’s it look like, Einstein.
“You could’ve downloaded 120 movies into a P-screen that size.”
I sigh internally and roll my eyes behind my book. “Uh-huh.” Perhaps if I sound bored he’ll drift off.
“I need your help. I can’t find those disks I put all that data on yesterday.”
“Check the gray cabinet.” I don’t bother looking up. I’m not your mother.
“Huh?”
A sideways glance. Christ, why ask if he’s not going to take the dunce plugs out?
“Ah,” he grunts. A flash of intelligence and he jerks at the waving cords. The plugs flick out.
Ick, was that a wad of earwax?
“Grey cabinet?” he inquires, lifting his eyebrows cheerfully.
“Thwacka-thwack, thwacka-thwack.” The noise gets louder as the earpieces snake by. Obviously he doesn’t grasp the concept of the off-switch.
“The big one or the little one? Come show me?”
Oh please. This is ridiculous. There are only two of us living in 36 square meters of spacecraft. How hard can it be to find a couple of disks? I look over my book and give him a blank stare. Do I make an issue of it? No, two years is a long time. “You know, I didn’t file them. You did.” I unclip my belt and let my book float away.
He shrugs. “I’ve never been good at filing.”
You don’t say. I try to slide past him without touching him, without looking in his eyes, but I miss a grip and brush up against him. He’s kind of sexy, in a primitive way, and two years is a long time.
He laughs and pats my bottom to send me back in the right direction. The groping squeeze that follows isn’t necessary though.
I grit my teeth. Suddenly, I can wait two years. I haul myself back on course.
He seemed like such a nice guy back at port. Funny how three months in a tin-can changes your perceptions. His smell has become so stifling it makes my nose gag. It lingers in the cramped head and on the loungers until it seems to be smothering me, growing on my own skin like a fungus. Only three months and already I feel myself beginning to hate him. Judging every word, every small syllable of body language, scanning for faults.
I’m a reasonable woman. Well, apart from those last few months back at Colcise 5. I admit I got a little loose then, but that wasn’t my doing. That was those idiot technicians stirring up merry hell since they realized their contracts had renewable options.
Of course the space station would pick them up again. It wasn’t easy to get veterans like me who were happy to spend their whole careers in space. I’ve been reassigned so often that it would take me five years just to get back to Earth. More, once we touch down on this new station. In eleven years, I’ve never once suffered coop fever. So why is this guy getting to me.
I pull open the large gray cabinet and flick through the first few disks. Well, well. I point to the "lost" disks. “Did you use both your eyes?”
Bob’s face lights up as if I’ve just discovered the secret to world peace. “Oh, they’re orange. For some reason I could’ve sworn they were red.” He shoots me a where-would-I-be-without-you type smile. How sweet. So this is what it’s like to be married, huh? Not today, thanks.
“If you can manage, I’ll get back to my book.” I breathe deeply. I can almost smell that tote of rum I stashed in the cockpit earlier. God, I need to mellow out.
“You could help me match the file numbers. Just check them off as I call them out.”
What a wheedling tone. I give him my best I’m-trying-to-be-patient sigh. “It’s not a two-person job.”
He rolls his blank gorilla eyes. “You’ve got nothing better to do. We’re in this together you know.”
“Mmmm.” Don’t remind me. Anyway, who died and left you in command of my time? “OK, let’s get it over with.” Maybe it’s a caveman thing.
I hate the work area, the constant breathing and droning of the computers. It doesn’t so much get in my ears as get into my head. I can imagine hearing it even when I’m tucked away in my sleep cylinder or in the cockpit. And now the sound of his breathing is adding to it. God, he must have the lungs of an ox. Does he have to breathe through his nostrils like that? I can hear the air whistling past his nose hairs.
“Here.” He shoves a list at me and smiles like we’re best buddies.
Bless his simpleness. I crank up the corners of my mouth in response. Best keep my feelings hidden. One of us may have to go before the two years is up. The element of surprise could come in handy.
Something catches my eye back at the cockpit. It’s my book, spinning slowly, quietly beckoning me back, back to its strange lands, back to the only room in this bucket with a view. Space, that’s what I need, space and silence.
A scraping sound makes me turn back to Bob. Oh ugh, he’s scratching his head. I can hear the fingernails tearing the dead skin from his scalp and I can feel the flakes wafting towards me. I hold my breath. Now he’s moved down to the stubble on his face. The noise increases. God, you could file Garimian warts on stubble like that! “What first?” I snap.
He turns away to the computer.
I narrow my eyes, shooting evil eye-rays into his back. He starts reading out numbers in groups of three.
Does Caveman Bob think I’m stupid? Would he rather be dragging me around by my hair? This is going to take forever.
“What?” Oh Lees, pay attention girl. You can work out how to mutilate him beyond recognition later.
“Are you all right? This is not that hard.” He smiles. “You don’t have to add them together, you know.”
Oh, very funny. I scrunch my face up into something probably resembling pain in an attempt to humor him. Don’t play innocent with me, you scratching, snorting ox. “You’re right. It’s not that hard. You should be able to manage fine alone.” I shove the list in his general direction and try to haul myself quickly, but with dignity, back to the cockpit, back to my lounger with a view, my tiny pit of space within space. Perhaps my sanity is somewhere out there, among the stars.
* * * * *
Leesa, you stupid heap of ox shit. You have the willpower of a bladder of nutri-gel. Legs ache, do they? Well, good, you deserve it. Whatever happened to your stamina, girly? Half an hour and already you’re a quivering mess. I crank the resistance trainer from "ski" around to "stairs." Take that, bitch!
The vacuums in the exercise cubicle go up to high speed in response to the extra moisture. Every drop of sweat 50% alcohol, I’ll guarantee it. The vacuums gobble it up and send it off to 'ponics to water the struggling tomatoes and spinach. Hope they enjoy the lift. Maybe I could redirect it, distill it. What a thought. Christ, I really am a hopeless dungheap.
I groan as the resistance trainer cuts into my quads. My temples pound even louder. I doomed myself the moment I smuggled those rum pouches on board. Just enough for a couple of shots, just when I really need it. But when have I ever stopped at just a couple? I mean, after a couple, I don’t care if I have a couple more. Still, supplies are dwindling. I hear willpower is easier to come by when you’re sober.
I started out so well, too. New life. New space station and a two-year trip to get there. Two years to do some study, catch up on reading and get my shit straight. How was I to know I’d be locked up with stinky, snorting Gorilla Man? He’s driving me back to all my old habits.
And last night, that has got to be the all-time height of stupid. Way dumber than getting quietly sozzled every night for the last four months. No wonder I got absolutely shit-faced. Fat lot of good it did. I still remember.
Christ, he’s on the move! I hit the vacuum off-switch and watch the droplets of sweat float and explode into tiny balls against the Perspex cubicle walls, some stick, some rebound. Bob’s shape goes a little fuzzy but I may as well face it, there’s no escaping him on this bucket. He’s on his way over.
The door rattles and jerks open. Bob’s meaty head pokes in. He’s reading my face, looking for something.
I hide my repulsion by cranking my cheeks up into a phony smile. My eyes are so puffy I can’t see, so I drop my cheeks again. No point in saying anything, the earphones are jammed in tight. Don’t want to start up that whole "huh?" grunt thing again.
Bob sticks out his fat pale tongue and slurps up a couple of droplets of sweat. “Mmm, girl juice. You might want to use this.” He hits the vacuum button, winks and slams the door.
Bastard! Girl juice. I’d like to juice him. I’ll juice him and feed him to the tomatoes! “Yeah, thanks,” I call then drop my voice. “Where would I be without a man to sort out my technical problems.”
My thighs are cramping, my brain is whumping into the back of my dry eyeballs and my kidneys ache. Time to give this self-punishment thing a rest. I shut off the resistance trainer and wipe down the walls of the cubicle before I release my feet from the clamp boots. Puffing, I haul myself over to the head but I can’t bear to shut myself in there. I hook my feet and pull my arms out of my thermo-suit to clean myself up with hyg-wipes.
My spine ripples. I shudder and turn around. Well, surprise, surprise, look who’s floated by for a perve. “Got a ticket?”
Plugs out. “Thwacka-thwack, thwacka-thwack.”
“Aw, come on. After last night?”
Caveman Bob’s eyes never rise to meet mine. They are flicking back and forth between my breasts like a child who can’t decide what kind of candy to choose.
“That was you, wasn’t it? The hot, naked chick who squeezed into my sleep cylinder?”
Chick! “Nah, I think you were dreaming.”
“Yeah, I must’ve been.” Bob sneers and starts to haul himself away.
He’s snotty with me! How dare he! “Women get the horn too, you know. It didn’t mean anything. You men only want to divide us into lovers and sluts.”
He stops and looks at me hard, as if wondering if I can handle some home truths. I seriously doubt I can right now, but where to hide? Too late.
“Oh, I’m into casual sex all right. It’s just annoying that it’s all on your terms and you have to be completely tanked before you jump my bones.”
“What?” Bastard!
“If I stripped off and climbed into your cylinder while you were sleeping, you’d be screaming blue murder.”
Hmmm, murder, now there’s a thought. “I don’t remember putting out a standing invitation like some. But if it’s upsetting your fragile ego, I won’t bother.” I shrug.
“Hah.” He spits out some air and pulls a face like I’ve just told the most pathetic joke in the universe. “Sure, Hon, as if you could stay away.”
Hon? Horrifying thoughts of coupledom race through my head. Leesa and Bob. Bob and Leesa. Christ, I feel sick. He’ll be calling me "Baby" next. “It won’t be hard. It wasn’t that good anyway.”
The corner of his lip creeps up. “Felt all right to me and if you didn’t like it why do you keep coming back for more?”
“More?”
“Ha! You don’t remember do you? This was the third time.”
Third? A flash of memory. Grunting, sweating, face pressed against the side of the sleep cylinder. But three times? My gut heaves. He must be lying. He’s trying to get to me. “Fuck off!”
Caveman Bob cracks it big time. He laughs until every inch of him jiggles. Including the bulge between his legs, floating freely beneath the thin thermo-suit. The bulge that started this whole thing. Crap! Why am I even looking there? It’s true! I am a space slut. Fuck Bob! I give him a missile-launching glare.
Bob decides to make a break for it. “Nice tits,” he calls over his shoulder from a safe distance.
That proves it. It’s premeditated. He’s trying to drive me mad. He must be lying.
Gotta get to my locker. Get my book. Lose myself for a few hours or I’ll go nuts. I grab my floating thermo-suit and haul it back over my arms and zip it up. My hands slap at the grips as I pull myself towards my locker. He must be lying. It’s the only explanation.
Missed a grip. Shit! Off-course. I thump the hull when I drift into it and push off back to my locker. Hook my feet, jerk open the door. There’s my stack of books, jostling and bumping. Which one was I reading? I spin a couple to see their spines. Can’t think. Fuck Bob! My stomach’s knotted. A couple of pouches float out from between the books. I slap them back in. “You’re not helping!” I grab the book nearest the top and slam the door.
My nostrils flare. Shit! I can smell the rum. Impossible, of course. I know that. If it wasn’t sealed it’d be all over the place. But I can smell its sweet promise, and it’s right. I can’t concentrate on my book without it, not with Bob floating around sniggering. Just a pouch. I’ll scull a pouch and go to the cockpit feeling beautiful and calm. The pouch floats right out to my hand as I rip open the locker door. A sign? I tear it open with my teeth and knock it back using the locker door as cover. If Bob sees me he might think he’s in. Christ, I’m hiding like a child. What a pathetic wimp I am.
I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand and shut the locker. Deep sigh. Warm chest, rum breath, stomach unwinds. That’s better. Hang on. Christ, no it’s not! Stomach rising, churning. When did I last have a meal? Not today. This time yesterday? Hell! Stomach heaves. Back to the head. Slap, slap, slap. Need my hand over my mouth. Can’t do this one-handed. Moving like a slug. My stomach is like an independent life form. It’s fighting to get out. Don’t want to chuck in zero Gs. I’ll be netting floaties and wiping walls for a week. Made it. Too late to shut the door. Grab the vacuum hose. Hit the on-switch. It has an attachment? Too late. Whoosh! Gag, what was so tasty about this evil shit a moment ago? Foul-smelling bile. I spit into the funnel and hit the off-switch.
Sigh. I’m wrecked. I’m broken. If I ever move or talk again it’ll be a miracle. Giggling? Caveman Bob is giggling?
“Aw, Baby, I’m so sorry. You know how bad I am at housekeeping. I forgot to take off my personal funnel.”
His funnel? My face has been pressed into his funnel?! Dry-retching, temples thundering, face on fire, muscles shaking and surging, I launch myself at him. He’s laughing. I slam him into the wall. Still laughing. Fuck! No gravity! Jellyfish wrestling in custard. I launch again. Full body slam. He grabs a cupboard to keep from being knocked away. The door flies open.
“Ooooh, Baby, hurt me more. I like it,” he taunts. But he’s stopped laughing.
“I’ll do more than hurt you, you smelly ox. I’ll skin you alive and leather bind all my books!”
I bunch my legs and launch again. Slam with my shoulder. He hangs onto me. Thick hairy arms wrapped around from behind.
“Just like last night, Baby,” he whispers in my ear.
We tumble towards the ceiling. I’m there first. I plant my feet. With a last massive effort I push off. “I’m not your ‘Baby,’ Baby!”
Crack! Bob’s head smacks into mine. I’m blacking out. The bastard’s killed me!
* * * * *
Ow, my head. The light scorches into the backs of my eyes. My throat’s claggy and my tongue is positively hairy. My diaphragm aches so I know I’ve been up to my usual trick of drinking till I puke. I swear to you Lees, I’ll never touch another drop if you will just start feeling better now. Argh, I need water. I twist and writhe, working myself towards a grip. Something deep red and gelatinous wobbles past my nose. More on the corner of the cupboard door. Christ, Bob!
There he is, hanging lifeless near the cockpit, red tendrils snaking out from the side of his head. Fingers seeking revenge. “Bob?” Shit! I’ve killed him! I dodge a glob of blood as I move closer. “Bob! Wake up, Bob!” Nothing. I reach for his garroted artery. He floats away. I shirtfront him and jab my fingers deep into his throat. Nothing. I shove him back and recoil.
I really have killed him! My heart staggers. Calm down, Lees girl. It was a freak accident, completely justifiable. Any woman would’ve reacted the same way. He drove you to it for Christ’s sake. I need a plan - a plan, a lot of water and a handful of paracetamol and kopikos.
The water, paracetamols and kopikos I find in the galley. The plan is harder to come by. I crunch kopikos furiously. I figure I’ve had the equivalent of a dozen cups of coffee but still no plan. Plans are hard to come up with when the body of the victim is floating a meter away. Probably no point in suggesting he’s doing it on purpose now.
Maybe I should just send a message on to the space station. I suppose it’s best just to go with the truth. I strap myself into the chair at the workstation. Ugh, it smells of Bob. I fire up the computer and tap out the body of the message:
‘Bob struck his head on a cupboard door. He is dead. Please advise procedure.’
Short, truthful, non-incriminating, I hope. I sigh and push send.
“Well, Bob. I think you should wait in the airlock until the station replies. I’m pretty sure your carcass will be off to feed space bacteria, no offense.”
I grab his foot and tow him the length of the vessel. A snail trail of blood streams from his head and globules wobble away. Once I lock him in the airlock, I go to work with the net and hyg-wipes. Even after the bastard is dead, he’s still messing the place up. The blood and wipes get sucked off to 'ponics. The tomatoes will think it’s Christmas. I have the whole place to myself. Time to get rid of the gorilla smells.
*****
By the time the computer alerts me that the reply has come back, 52 hours have passed. The old hulk is sparkling. I’ve had a few hours sleep and my heart rate has almost dropped to normal. I pick up the message:
‘Leesa, terrible news. You must be devastated. Please fill in the attached accident report so Bob’s relatives may be advised - and jettison his body.’
Hmmm, I never thought of Bob having relatives before.
‘You have 17 months of space travel ahead of you. We feel this is too long to be alone, no matter how desperate we are for staff out here. We suggest terminating your propulsion and arranging a rescue from Neoscene 9. A vessel can be at your current location in 4 months. We await your final decision on the matter.’
Ha! Is that all? A report, jettison the body, easy! Seventeen months alone, a stroll in the park after seven months with Bob.
I tap out a reply:
‘No to rescue. I have a job to do. I’ll be there in 17 months.’
I knew my life couldn’t all be shit. I’m off Scot-free. What a strange, glorious feeling. Time to take out the garbage.
If it’s possible to saunter in zero Gs, then I do as I approach the manual controls for the airlock. A twist of a dial, a punch of a button and the man that has been systematically stealing my sanity for the last seven months will be out of my life. Oh, it should always be this easy.
I pull myself to the tiny airlock porthole to give dear old Bob a final wave cheerio before the drop in pressure pops him inside out. Holy fuck! Why did I look? I should’ve just pushed the button. Bob is there, hammering on the window, screaming my name! Only inches of porthole glass separate us. I can’t hear him but I can see his tongue rolling out the "Lee" and his teeth spitting out the "sa." How long has he been awake, watching me through the porthole? I back away from the door. His eyes bulge and he shakes his head furiously. His eyebrows peak like a puppy’s and he clasps his hands up to the porthole, praying to me. Does he think I’m doing this on purpose? I’m not a murderer… am I?
I should be pleased he’s alive. I should’ve ripped open the door straight away and said "Thank God, you’re OK." So why didn’t I?
Now he’s angry. The veins on his forehead rise. I imagine trying to explain. He’s got that I’m-gonna-make-you-pay-bitch look in his eye. If anyone is qualified to recognize that look, it’s me. The look vanishes as fast as it appeared and now he’s back to pleading pathetically, sweating and shaking miserably. Poor guy, he’s in turmoil. I pull myself back to the control panel. I need to disengage the lock.
But that angry look… I stare at the purge button as I play over the possible confrontations in my mind. All those idle threats… Has he been watching me cleaning away all trace of him? What will station control think? What will he tell them?
Shit, I can’t do it. My shoulders slump. I’m a weak-willed dungheap. It’s time to admit that I’m never going to get control of my life. I just can’t do it. I can’t explain myself anymore.
I hit purge.
The instant I touch the button, I regret it. This is wrong, terribly wrong. But it is the perfect crime. Already absolved before the crime was committed. No one will ever know… except me and I still have five pouches of rum left.
I down the first before I get to the cockpit. Something white flutters outside the cockpit window. I let go of my last four pouches and scramble backwards. A torn piece of thermo-suit. Bob is out there! He’s out there with MY stars.
“You bastard! Do you have to pollute everything!"
I retrieve my pouches and we lock ourselves in my sleep cylinder - a private party.
I wake up with a full-blown case of the shakes, hovering over the droning workstation. I don’t remember the party moving but it wouldn’t be the first time. There’s that familiar tinny “thwacka-thwack, thwacka-thwack.” It’s grating at my eardrums. How does he listen to that crap? Hang on… Bob?!
I jerk and twist around. The noise is coming from the drawer. I yank it open. Bob’s PCD player floats out, ear-pieces snaking towards me, trying to infect me with some sort of waxy caveman boom-boom disease. I tear them from the player and hold the case in the path of the drawer. Slam, crack! Catch the fragments, jamb them back in the drawer. Ahhh, silence.
I take a deep breath and get a grip on myself. So much for drinking to forget. I’m never going to touch a drop again. There, resolutions are much easier when you’ve got the shakes, a raging headache and you know there’s not a drop to be had on board. Bob is dead, but I’m not. Time to take charge and get healthy. Should be a lot easier without the snide remarks, without the scratching and grunting, 17 months of silence to hear myself think.
Ahhh, silence. Suspended in silence. My clean, sterile tin can floating in an endless universe of silence.
I pull myself over to 'ponics and open the sectional door. Some vitamin-packed veggies are what I need. Unusual… the tomatoes are booming. Fat, juicy, blood-red. Oh, hell!
“Thwacka-thwack, thwacka-thwack.”
****
“Thwacka-thwack, thwacka-thwack.”
“Bob? Is that you, Hon? Talk to me, Bob.”
Where did these people come from? They weren’t here when I went to sleep. They’re looking at me oddly.
“Why does she have earplugs in with no PCD?” one of them asks, his voice is muted by the plugs.
Damn! These things don’t work at all. I jerk them out.
“It’s broken, silly,” I try to say but my voice cracks. I try to sit up but my body feels like a bladder of liquid metal. Gravity? Someone pushes me back down and pats my shoulder.
“Leesa, you made it. You’re back among friends.”
Friends? “Who are you?” Small girl, seems nice enough. Is she real?
“I’m Jan. I’m a doctor. You’ve been very lonely out there in space and your mind has got a little lost. We’re going to help you.”
“Help me?” Girly, I’m way beyond help. I’m on my way to rot in hell.
“Yes. Can you tell me what you’re feeling?”
I don’t feel. I have the emotional capacity of a hunk of rock. I must look puzzled - she tries to clarify.
“If I know what you’re feeling, I can help you. Space delirium takes many forms. Did you miss Bob?”
“Bob? He liked me, you know. He said I had nice tits.”
They all look at me again. They are silent. Have to fill the silence.
“He acted like a caveman and his housekeeping was terrible but he liked me.”
Jan smiles. She pats my shoulder but she doesn’t say anything. Silence again!
Christ! I fumble for my plugs. I know they don’t work but what else can I do? Too late.
“Thwacka-thwack, thwacka-thwack.”
I grab the doctor girly’s arm and pull her close.
“Hear it?” I whisper.
She looks puzzled and tries to pull away.
I don’t blame her. I know how I look, eyes like flaming carbuncles, irises devoid of color. I smashed the mirror weeks ago - or maybe months - so I wouldn’t have to see myself.
Latching onto her with another wasted arm, I pull her back. Can’t let her get away. I need to know.
“Thwacka-thwack, thwacka-thwack.”
“Does the sound of your heartbeat ever drive you crazy?”
END
Bren MacDibble is an Australian-based writer who has been writing science fiction for three years. She has published a children's book, and her short story "Blurred Horizons" won an Other Worlds Writers' Workshop contest earlier this year.
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