Orb (4 page)

To amuse Kelly, I had Angie sit in rapt attention while I held out two closed hands, a treat hidden in one of them. A gentle paw was placed on the hand with the treat, followed by the weighty stare of two beady little eyes. “Good Angie,” I said, chuckling as she gently plucked the morsel off my open palm.

“You love Angie,” Kelly said matter-of-factly, watching us interact.

“You could say that,” I responded.

An odd look of bemusement came to Kelly’s face. “I do, too,” she said, and was about to say something more, reconsidered, then began scratching the base of Angie’s tail. The exact best spot, you could tell, because it sent Angie drifting narcotically into space, snout pointed upward, her abbreviated tail cocked so far to one side it almost appeared broken.

Rapture.

Kelly and I had ours. Angie was entitled to her own.

I decided to use the opportunity of being out of earshot from the crew to get Kelly’s opinion on how the crew was faring during the long outbound voyage. Specifically, I wondered if she had observed, as I had, behavioral changes too insignificant to bother Thompson with.

She was the right person to ask. Graduating near the top of her class and completing her residency training, she had gone on to fulfill her life-long ambition of opening a family medicine practice. Daily contact with a diverse patient population had honed an innate talent to read people, both by what they said and, more often, by what they failed to say. I sometimes wondered to what extent she applied that particular skill to me.

I had an ulterior motive for inquiring about my crewmates. Examining my own feelings of isolation (always present, but voyage-accentuated) I discovered a potential cause applicable to all. My primary concern was Melhaus. I didn’t say as much to Kelly. Singling him out might, in some subconscious way, influence her opinion. Instead, I couched my question in the form of a generalization.

“Overall,” I asked, “do you see any subtle changes in the crew’s mental health?”

Kelly’s reply was immediate.

“Shall I assume you mean Doctor Melhaus?” Seeing my surprise, she laughed, then added, “I thought so.”

“Meaning what? You believe there’s a problem?”

“No, not necessarily. But it makes good sense to think of him first, given that at this morning’s meeting you became aware of the sleep medication I prescribed for him. It’s not unusual for sleep patterns to be disrupted during extended periods of space travel, even when taking into account that the ship’s lighting was adjusted to help maintain circadian rhythm.”

“Did he come to you?”

“No. Some careful questioning during a routine examination revealed the insomnia. He was reluctant to take any medication. That is why I made that little joking comment about it. You inadvertently helped with your remark. I took it as a positive that he could respond with humor.”

“He was testy at the end of the meeting.”

“True, but I think whatever you are seeing in his behavior is Larry being Larry. He closely fits the classic stereotype of the genius who concentrates on work to the detriment of social skills. To the detriment of almost all else, for that matter.”

“You don’t see anything troubling in his behavior?”

“Not presently. With the crucial part of the expedition at hand, we’ll all be subjected to greater pressure. I will tell you that Thompson gave me a specific order to report any signs of abnormal behavior in the crew. Without delay, he said. And he included himself.”

“That’s interesting.”

“Mildly. Why the sudden, if it is sudden, interest in Larry? Does delving into our personalities help with your work, your writing? After all, he is a bit of a character.”

“The mood of the crew is of interest. Our vulnerability to aberrant behavior—and Larry seems most on edge—has the potential to not only jeopardize the success of the mission, but our safety. Besides, nothing exciting has happened … yet.”

Upon uttering those last words, I knew I’d be called to task. It didn’t take long.

“And, so,
Kyle
,” Kelly said, accusing me with a wry smile, “our little romps in bed?
They
haven’t been exciting?”

“Uh huh,” I answered, somewhat sheepishly, certain I would be greeted with the next logical question.

“Well…?” she asked.

I didn’t need it spelled out. Addressing the sensitive issue had become unavoidable. Kelly had the right to know if details of our intimate physical relationship were being incorporated into my work, into the mission record for the whole world to eventually see. I had no choice but to confess.

“I am writing about us. How could I not? I’ll use some discretion, of course, but unless our relationship is in no way pertinent to what transpires during the expedition, the intimate details will very likely remain in my work.”

I had answered truthfully. Now I was hoping it wouldn’t be an issue that came between us.

She thought for a long moment and said, “I respect your professional judgment. And
nothing
we do together, in or out of bed, could ever embarrass me.”

Then, without allowing me time to respond (which was a good thing since I was a little choked up by her faith in me) she half-smiled and turned to leave. I stopped her at the door, spun her around to face me, stared into her eyes and kissed her.

No additional words exchanged. They didn’t need to be.

Once again I was alone, or should I say deprived of human company, for Angie was present. I’ve acknowledged that relating to her was simple and easy. What concerned me was why human relationships were, for me, so hard. Returning to my workstation to write, I began to wonder if there was something affecting my relationship with Kelly that I wasn’t fully conscious of; an outside influence that, together with my own emotional baggage, would explain why I would want to hold back my feelings for her.

An answer suggested itself in the manner by which the crew is forced to conduct day to day life.

Despite her being a well-appointed ship, our lives onboard are defined by an artificial environment, a veritable prison of our own choosing where time is served with no hope of escape. Oh, sure, we have any number of AI-generated distractions at our fingertips. For a short while they seemed to be enough. But how terribly distant we are from the sight of wide open sky, the touch of a warm breeze on skin, the sound of a summer songbird. Isolated, not only from nature, but from the solace of hearth and home. From everybody and everything that makes us feel human. Even the harshest of Earth’s prisons can no longer deny
all
these simple pleasures, and for those that are denied, a small measure of comfort can be derived from the knowledge that they exist nearby. Perhaps only meters away.

For the crew of
Desio
they are trillions of kilometers remote.

Distant to a point where we have begun to doubt, in our darker moments, that they exist at all. By comparison, the scores of people traversing the solar system could at least
see
Earth, are able to communicate with Earth. We are deprived of even those comforts.

Consider how this deprivation might foster the bonding of two people when such closeness would not normally exist. Is not the all too human response to hold onto somebody, almost anybody, to help fill the emotional void? Are Kelly and I deluding ourselves (if we believed) that back on Earth we could continue our relationship? If that is the unlikely future, is it not presently unfair to be placing expectations on one another?

Despite all my strained logic to the contrary, the biggest part of me said the emotional risk was well worth taking, that Kelly was,
is
, the best woman to come along in my life. The rest of me said shut up and be thankful for the temporary solace we gave each other.

But what of Paul, Diana, Thompson and Melhaus? How were they coping?

Diana Gilmore and Paul Bertrand are a pair, a partnership cemented several years ago on Earth’s firm footing. They seemed to be doing well onboard, especially Diana. Short, red hair, fiery and profane: Her demonstrative enthusiasm for the mission was infectious. In some ways she acted more like fourteen than forty-one. I once saw Thompson use this to his best advantage during the only time I saw them in a heated argument. When her complaint (I don’t recall what) deteriorated from reason to accusation he abruptly changed tact, ever so calmly stating that if she didn’t behave herself she’d be sent to her cabin without any supper. Few things are as satisfying as witnessing a raging argument doused by a good laugh.

Paul, on the other hand, is just a bit reserved, possibly because Diana has enough excited energy for both of them. As she sets fires, he sits back with a bemused look on his face and takes it all in. If she is effervescent champagne, Paul could be labeled vin ordinaire, an analogy he’d likely take umbrage to, he being of French nationality. He is very much devoted to Diana. As the mission planners had found out, they were, in fact, inseparable. During the outbound voyage, they were taking great comfort from each other’s company.

And what of Thompson? Although it may appear he has nobody to care for, that isn’t quite true: He has his ship and the entire crew. We are, after all, his primary responsibility and he takes it seriously, despite the sarcasm he doles out on a routine basis. We’re five mature (except, maybe, Diana) children to watch over, each with our own peculiar personality quirks and problems. You could say that to him we’re one big adopted and sometimes dysfunctional family. I’ll have to remember to call him stepdad.

Melhaus represents a totally different case. What comfort, if any, he derives from the company of others is difficult to say—our most intimate (and woefully incomplete) knowledge of him had been obtained indirectly, and somewhat indiscreetly, through CSA psychologists. He can be a hard person to read because he reveals little of his inner self. On the exterior, that which we see, he appears quite content to keep his emotions hidden away. It helps to know that he is smart. Scary smart. While attending Imperial College in London (he happened to be fifteen at the time) he scored 178 on an IQ test. His mental skills developed so rapidly, and at so an early age, that his social skills suffered. Eventually he came to believe that personal relationships were something he could never be proficient at. As a consequence, he withdrew from most unnecessary contact, not wishing to suffer a potential blow to his ego by trying to relate, and failing. He wasn’t very accepting of failure. He wasn’t used to it. Not in the arenas of academia and science.

Our reaction: During the three-month outbound voyage the physicist has been prodded, coerced and cajoled to come out of his shell and take part in our little group. This was sometimes accomplished by Thompson’s sarcasm, other times by Diana’s enthusiasm. Even Angie occasionally got into the act by dropping the stuffed duck at Melhaus’s feet and looking up at him with that expectant, silly look of hers. Now, whether or not Melhaus appreciated the efforts routinely made on his behalf, who can say. These thoughts, if he has them, he keeps to himself.

As I ponder these observations and attempt to make them coherent, I feel Angie’s soft pink tongue licking the back of my hand. Out of nowhere I begin to think there is something vaguely sensual about the act. Now
there’s
a thought, innocuous as it is, best kept to oneself. Remarkable, is it not, that just like Melhaus, we humans hide much from each other and some things even from ourselves. Perhaps the quality and extent of this mental editing is as good a signpost as any as to how well an individual fits into society.

As we neared P5, I wondered if an alien civilization, if they understood us at all, would be startled, even afraid, of how extraordinarily selective and inhibited our thought processes can be.

THE NEXT MORNING I entered the mission room and was immediately greeted by an astonishing and beautiful sight. P5, which yesterday had been a fuzzy, golf ball-sized glow, now loomed large below us, filling a significant portion of
Desio’s
main observation window.

What I was seeing for the first time, in crystal clarity and without teloptic augmentation, was the shimmering surface of a silver-blue, planet-sized droplet of water suspended in the ultimate blackness of space. The surreal size and scope of this fantastic image had my mind fighting a battle between the irrational fear of being inescapably drawn down toward the planet with the overwhelming urge not to look away.

As I stared, Diana and Paul entered the room and at the same time I heard Thompson say something purposefully irreverent, something like, “an entire planet of ocean and I left my fishing poles and tackle at home.”

I don’t know if it was Thompson’s remark, or the expression of amazement etched on Diana’s face, or both, but Kelly, who was already a fixture at the viewing port when I arrived, laughed, and then, in jest said, “Give me a moment, Bruce, I’ll get Diana’s sedative ready.”

Diana, with Paul standing close by her side, appeared transfixed by the image in the viewport; you could tell she was having trouble working through and expressing her emotions. Her response was late in coming, but it was still typical Diana.

“Yesterday I was excited, but today, Kelly … you need scientific notation to quantify the orgasm I’m having today.”

We all offered our comments, but it was Paul, forgetting that the onboard language was English, who expressed himself most eloquently when he spontaneously blurted out,
“Il est presque aussi belle que vous, mon amour!
”

Diana, caught unawares, looked up at Paul and affectionately squeezed his arm. She seemed more than a little pleased.

“Care to translate?” I asked.

Feeling very much self-satisfied, she was more than happy to oblige. “It is almost as beautiful as you, my love.”

“Ah, you have a way with words, Paul,” I said. “Maybe you should be the person chronicling this voyage.” Before Thompson expounded on
that
observation, which I could see he was eager to do, I faced him and added, “Just saving you the trouble of pointing that out.”