The Fifth Voyage

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. It sounds like that old riddle, doesn’t it? You know the one: if a tree falls in the forest and there’s no one there to hear it, does it make a sound? I’d say of course it does. It hit the ground, it vibrated, it made a sound. You might argue that without hearing it I could never prove it and that my opinion is no better than conjecture, to which I would shoot back that just because you aren’t there to witness it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen, and besides, there were probably plenty of organisms around that did hear it fall, even if there happened to be no human present. And you’d say, “so you would ask them what it sounded like?” to which I would clench my jaw and think of some equally-condescending retort. We could go around in circles like this forever and never get anywhere. I’ve never liked riddles like that. So let me ask a more real question, one that’s been on my mind every night since I landed back on Earth: your husband is floating in space and you’re reaching out for him, but your gloved hands come up inches short and those inches are growing by the second. The visor of his helmet is reflecting Mars below you but the planet’s crimson beauty means nothing because you are looking only into his eyes, and for a moment he smiles, for a moment you think everything will be alright. And then something cold and sharp and evil pierces his chest. A handful of particles scatter, but most just float idly; bits of him, bits of his clothing. The terrible thing withdraws and leaves a hole in his spacesuit, in his body, and you’re shocked by the fact that he’s barely bleeding. His mouth contorts and twists, opens wide, wider than you knew was possible, but you don’t hear a thing. There is no air between you, nothing to carry vibrations, nothing at all. You watch him die in silence. So I ask, if your husband is killed by an alien in the vacuum of space, and there’s no air to carry sound, does he scream?

###

I woke up before him like I always did. Gently, I ran my fingers through his brown hair, shaggy after months aboard. He wouldn’t trust me to cut it for him, not once he had heard that a barber made it to the Colony on the Second Voyage and decided he was better off waiting it out until we landed. Long hair suited him, and I hoped he would continue growing it out.

My suit was neatly pressed and folded on the bench beside my husband’s. Over the middle months of the journey we had gotten messy and complacent, but now the excitement of our imminent arrival was inspiring a sort of neatness. Every night we neatly laid out the next day's attire. Not that we had anything exciting to choose from, our outfits were the same every day. Colonists were given suits based on their roles, pragmatic trousers and long-sleeved shirts warm enough to handle the all-metal environment but thin enough to fit under a space suit; ours were a forest green, designating us as “Bioscientists.” We didn’t exactly fit in with our NASA-trained peers, professionals in terraforming, or the atmospheric micro-biome, or the effects of prolonged exposure to radioactivity on the fellopian tubes. We didn’t have doctorates and we weren’t Nobel Laureates. Truthfully, we were glorified farmers.

“Maggie,” Peter said sleepily, his face still half-burrowed in the pillow, “I’m worried about the flock.”

“What about them?” I replied.

“I feel like they’re finally getting used to things around here. Finally relaxing. But the second they get accustomed to a new environment, in comes Peter, rocking their little boat. Change is hard on sheep. So is travel. Remember takeoff?” He was sitting on the edge of the bed. Of course I remembered takeoff, I thought. How could I forget. Two sheep dropped dead the moment the rocket ignited. Another three would have heart attacks before we were in orbit. They had been raised indoors since birth, had never viewed the sun or grazed on genuine grass, and were subjected to the same high-G training as us humans all in preparation for their lives on the Colony. Even that didn’t dull the shock of the real deal; now they were members of an exclusive class of organic space debris, them and the Soviet-era chimpanzees that didn’t make it home. Peter had accounted for some loss of life, but five was even more drastic than he had anticipated. We couldn’t afford to lose any more sheep.

“No one blames you for takeoff, least of all the flock. Besides, this time they’ll be sound asleep, and when they wake up tomorrow they’ll be in their beautiful new pastures on Mars.” I tried to sound as lighthearted as I could to ease his nervousness.

He laughed. “Those pastures will just be another metal box, babe.”

“Same as they’ve always known,” I said.

“Fair enough.”

“Hey, cheer up,” I took his hands in mine, “you’re humanity’s first interplanetary shepherd.” He smiled and pulled me onto his lap. His hands caressed my neck, laced their way through my wavy hair. “And your wife,” I said, pushing his chest so that his back fell back against the steel-gray sheets, “is the first Queen Bee of space.” He looked up at me, my legs straddled over his still-bare torso. A playful smile danced across his lips.

“Why don’t you give me a kiss, Space Queen,” he said.

###

Afterward, I told him I would meet him at the mess for the celebration. It was our final day aboard the Marsflower, our home for the last six months. Tomorrow we would be welcomed into the Colony, finally see it for ourselves, the monument of human will and technological capability that was to be our homes for the rest of our lives. Like ants, we burrowed under the surface, making a labyrinth of living quarters, greenhouses, sewage systems, and workshops. The first three Voyages, full of a hundred settlers each, all of them skilled scientists and builders, had made the Colony almost self-sufficient. Once longevity seemed assured, the real fun began. The Fourth Voyage brought the supplies to build the colossal domed Home², a glass-enclosed “natural” space that would one day be a thriving eco-system and a testament to our burgeoning terraforming abilities. It was our Voyage, the Fifth, that was bringing the first non-human animal life to Mars. It was big news, which my husband and I had somehow found our way into the center of. Someone had to tell the bees.

My apiary was on the same floor as our quarters, down a series of narrow hallways. The Marsflower was initially built to hold human cargo, large enough to ferry a hundred and eighteen colonists plus the five-person crew between Earth and the red planet. That meant that most of its space was occupied with living quarters, almost all of them identical to the nine-by-nine metal cube that Peter and I occupied. There were some exceptions; the crew lived aboard for twice as long, so their accommodations were sized and furnished accordingly. A handful of the highest ranking Colonists, members of the new government, also had more spacious rooms, equipped with private bathrooms and double-sized beds. On our Voyage, there were only twenty human passengers, so most of the rooms were filled with cargo and provisions. The lowest floor, closest to the center of the station, was normally the cargo bay, but it had been re-purposed as a pen for Peter’s flock. Almost a hundred sheep, (the minimum amount, Peter said, to avoid long-term inbreeding,) lived below. My bees didn’t need so much space, so we had simply refit one of the larger living quarters.

I input my four-digit passcode and the door slid open. Inside was a plastic-enclosed space with its own door, just big enough for me and my beekeeping suit. Much like an airlock, this double-door gave me a place to enter a change without allowing the bees to escape into the rest of the ship. I put on the suit and stepped inside. It was the greenest place in space. Vines climbed the walls, clinging to the ceiling like a canopy. Flowers of every shade grew on every surface. I was shocked at how quickly they had reproduced, how they had thrived, filling the room with a powerful scent. After the sterile metal and plastic of the rest of the station, stepping into the apiary always felt like taking my first breath of air after a long time underwater. And the bees. Four hives were in the center of the room, although if they ever went inside their boxes, they could have fooled me. The air was almost as thick with their yellow bodies as it was with the smell of the flowers. I stood still and raised my arms beside me, enjoying the gentle pressure of each little creature landing upon me. They knew me well, and soon I was covered head-to-toe in curious bees.

“Hello, my friends,” I spoke softly, as I would to a sleeping child. “I have exciting news for you. Today is the last day of your journey.”

I don’t know what they thought of this. Some buzzed expectantly, most stayed lounging on my outstretched arms.

“Tomorrow you will move into a new home. I think you will like it. It is much, much bigger than here. There aren’t as many flowers, but together we will work on that. With time I think we can make it very beautiful. Later I will need to put you to sleep. Please, don’t be worried. It is only for the descent and will not last long.”

More were beginning to stir. If it was because of my warning that I would have to smoke them or if they were simply tiring of exploring my body I couldn’t tell.

“Peter is well. His hair is long now, and it looks good. I’m nervous for the Colony. I hope everyone is welcoming. That is all. I’ll be back soon.”

###

The mess hall was the largest room in the station, and the only one long enough to make its curved shape obvious; if you stood in the middle of the room, the floor on either of the far sides would be about as high as the middle of your shins. To simulate gravity, the Marsflower was constantly spinning, using centrifugal motion to pull our bodies downwards. Even the smallest rooms had an almost imperceptible curve. As brilliant as it was, it wasn’t a perfect match to Earth’s natural gravity; more than once I lowered my cup of coffee too quickly and had the liquid linger a little longer than it would have back home, spilling over the rim of the mug. Peter swore that he woke up once in the middle of the night and the whole room was unnervingly still, the stars weren’t moving outside the porthole, and my body was floating with the sheets over the bed Exorcist-style. I told him he had been dreaming, but who knows, maybe the artificial gravity really had stopped for a moment and everyone else just slept through it.

I found Peter talking with Marcus at one of the tables. I pulled up a chair and joined them.

“Odd? It’s more than odd, Pete, it’s unheard of. Oh, Maggie, good to see you,” Marcus said. He seemed nervous, even paler than usual. At takeoff, Marcus had looked like someone merged a quarterback with a Communications Engineer. Which was exactly what he was. Six-foot-four, dark-skinned, and strong as an ox. It had felt like I was back at high school at times, listening to the few women on the Voyage talk about him back on Earth. The second we left the atmosphere, though, Marcus got sky-sick. While our eyes were glued to our receding home planet, his were glued to the top half of a puke bag. And it hadn’t stopped since. The pounds shed off of him like melting butter, and his once chiseled face grew languished and sullen. He never lost his humor, though. He quickly grew to be Peter’s best friend.

“Did I interrupt?” I said. Marcus looked hesitant, but Peter raised his eyebrows, prompting him to continue.

“Yesterday,” he started quietly, “the Captain asked me to look over some of the comms equipment, thought they might have been malfunctioning. I asked ‘what seems to be wrong with them?’ And he says, ‘they’re sending fine, but they aren’t picking up any replies.’ So I look over the equipment. Pretty soon I realize, though, that everything is fine. I even send a dummy transmission from my own gear and it comes through straight away, clear as glass.”

“So?” I ask.

“So,” Peter takes over, “if the problem isn’t the equipment, it’s the transmissions. If Marcus is right, the Colony has been silent for almost three days.”

“Could it be something with their equipment?”

“With four hundred of the solar system’s best and brightest to troubleshoot?” Marcus says. “It isn’t likely.”

We were all talking under our breaths. By then, the rest of the passengers and crew had started to trickle in. Peter and Marcus seemed to want to keep this information on the down-low, and judging by the fact that no one had heard anything official yet, I assumed the sentiment was the same among the higher-ups. My brain was cycling through possible explanations; sandstorms, marsquakes, blackouts. But three days was a long time. This close to rendezvous, the stream of communication between the Colony and the Marsflower is almost constant. And why was there no warning? As Marcus said, the Colony was the stomping ground of the best scientists Earth had to offer. What could they have missed?

Before we could continue, the captain came into the room, followed by his entourage of crew. Trailing them was the Fifth Voyage’s representative and leader, Elizabeth Wren. She looked better than any of us had in months, hair and makeup done, sky-blue suit of the government officials showcasing a figure untouched by time in space. Peter, who disliked vanity in general and hated it on his leaders, was noticeably on guard around her. At least, noticeably to me. Marcus, Peter, and I shared a look and got up to join the crowd. They were pouring expensive champagne, hidden somewhere until this final day of the voyage. There was a lot of shaking hands and excited greetings, as if we all hadn’t been locked in the same box for the last half-year. Once everyone had a glass, the murmurs died and we eyed our leader expectantly.

“Members of the Fifth,” Elizabeth began, “we’ve had a long six months together aboard the Marsflower, longer for some of us than for others.” She gestured to Marcus, who weakly raised his glass in response.

“God curse this tub!”

The captain’s laugh, already laced with champagne, echoed above the rest. I wondered what she would say about the radio silence, or if there was any news from the Colony. Elizabeth continued: “Soon enough we’ll all be back on solid ground Marcus, and spinning only slightly faster than we’re used to. But just because we depart the station, don’t think that the adventure is behind us. For it is only just beginning. We’ve all seen the photographs of the infinite red expanse, read the memoirs of the early settlers. Eagerly we followed from Earth as Home² was built, and cheered with the rest of them when the last pane of glass was in place. Tomorrow, all of that changes. Tomorrow, we stop watching history be made. Tomorrow, we start making it. Side by side we will lay the bricks of the New World. Fellow Colonists, join me in a toast. Raise your glass to a new home. To new frontiers. To new friends, and to keeping the ones we’ve made on the way. Members of the Fifth, raise your glasses to the Colony.”

Even Peter seemed moved. We all drank, and Elizabeth flashed the caliber of smile that gets you a spot in government on a new planet. No news; I guessed we would be kept in the dark after all. I took my husband's hand and pushed my worries aside. In less than an hour, we would rendezvous with the dropship. Then came fourteen hours of packing, loading, and waiting while we orbited once around Mars until we were in position for descent. And then: the new start we were all waiting for. My husband and I would cement ourselves into history as the bringers of life to a new world. My bees would flourish, and our flowers would alter the surface of Mars. Peter's flock would grow, and he would feed the Colonists the first fresh meat they'd had in years. They would love us.

That’s what I told myself while I sipped my champagne. That’s what I told myself before the dropship came, and everything changed.