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  As he ultrasounds me, I recall the angry young teen bursting in here to confront the ‘Tool of the Man’ with all this forbidden knowledge and a righteous fury. He let me rant for a good thirty minutes. I demanded to see my ultrasounds with all the secret transmitters implanted in me broadcasting to Area 53. I wanted to know all the tests being run on our blood and the names of the animal and human growth hormones being used on us. I physically threatened him. It wasn’t pretty. Oh yes, yours truly had been very busy that week reading all these things and searching my body for any suspicious bumps. Courtesy of the security cameras, Doc Melton has my tantrum preserved for posterity. Thankfully, he’s only ever shown it to my parents; at least that’s what I hope.

  After my ‘I am Spartacus’ revolt, he sat me down and explained exactly how much crap the conspiracy nuts are full of. There are medical experiments going on. That said, other than regular doses of vitamins, immuno-boosters, calcium supplements, and some legal muscle builders that might hinder my Olympic aspirations, I’m not a poster child for illegal testing.

  Unfortunately, legal testing is another story. To prove his point, he mentioned that his wife has rheumatoid arthritis and that she is regularly monitored to see how a low-G environment affects people with that particular malady. He continued by mentioning to me that there are several others on the station with different conditions. Since I was so interested, he handed me a disk of all his articles published for The New England Journal of Medicine and told me to ‘knock myself out.’

  One thing he said still stands out: ‘Boy, let me tell you something. For every one of us up here, there are about seventy million of them. That’s a whole lot of crazy, if you ask me and they come up with the wildest crap you’ll ever see.’

  Naturally, Mom and Dad got their hands on ‘The Conspiracy Disk’ and I had to sit and watch it with them while they mocked every clip, document, and snippet on it. It was the hottest bit of viewing Dome-wide for the next month. A year later, it’s more amusing than humiliating, especially the aftermath, where I told Carson to go blow himself out an airlock for sending it to me.

  I get the final injection and wait for the prescribed five minutes before standing behind the partition as the third generation MRI scans me through the open front of Bertha. After that, it’s onto the treadmill.

  “So, would you like the classics today: Wagner, the Beatles, Aerosmith, that retro-grunge garbage your age group seems to enjoy, or shall I put something up on the screen for you? There might even be a story about you on CNN.”

  “I’m still not a big fan of being on the screen. How about playing those Simon and Garfunkel guys?”

  He cracks his knuckles. Aside from his constant throat clearing, it is his most annoying trait. “They’re a bit melancholy, Adam, but an excellent choice …”

  He puts on the music and goes back to his monitors while I try to keep a brisk walk going on the treadmill to The Boxer. I ease the adrenaline patch out from where I’ve hidden it under Bertha’s straps. I snatched it from an open first aid kit a few weeks ago. My plan is simple. Halfway through, I’ll slap the patch filled with tiny micro-needles on and it’ll drive my heart rate up. When I complain of chest pain and have an elevated heart rate, they’ll have no choice but to cancel my little trip.

  The thud of my feet on the treadmill blends in nicely with Cecilia. I concentrate on keeping my rhythm going. There’s a story in mythology about a Greek guy and a rock he had to push up the hill everyday only to have it crush him. That’s what my life sometimes seems like.

  While I wait for the right time, I consider what’s going to happen after my chest pains. It’ll probably buy me about three months. I’ll have to make certain I dispose of the four centimeter patch discreetly. I’ll crouch by the waste can for a moment and drop it in using my body to shield it from the cameras.

  Starting to sweat and get the jitters, I pick up the pace, as things I hadn’t considered race through my mind. What if they do catch on? It’s not like they’re stupid. Even worse, what if the ISA bigwigs get involved?

  I try to work through it calmly. The people on Big Blue would start to question whether Lunar Colonies are a viable option if the people born there would never be able to go to Earth. The ISA could take a budget hit. The cost of colonization is always a sore topic and it’s not like the ISA doesn’t have competition. Several of the countries along the Indian Ocean are doing artificial reef and island development. Then there are the so-called ‘cities on stilts’ projects and the Antarctica settlements, as the nine plus billion people on Earth scramble for room to grow. Every one of them would like a slice of the ISA’s bottom line. Don’t get me wrong, they’re probably good ideas. They just seem like little more than stopgap measures.

  Then, there’s the personal cost if they figure out it was intentional. What happens then? I’d be the laughingstock of two terrestrial bodies! Instead of doing jokes with Jay McGraw on the Tonight Show, he’d be doing them about me. I’m past the halfway point and my heart rate is where the patch would push me up to an alarming level. Do I risk it? The lesser of the two evils is to simply go along with all this and get on that spacecraft.

  #

  By the time Bridge Over Troubled Waters starts playing, I’m almost done and I’ve returned the patch to its hiding place. Tom Jensen just lumbered in. He’s a year younger and currently only at three times his weight in his suit – ah the good old days. He seems a bit flushed. I need to distract myself from the emotional freefall I’m in.

  “Hey TJ, how are you making out?” I’m resigned to my fate now. That sounds so noble – Adam Cornell taking one for Mankind. It’s a real “one small step” moment. So why do I feel like a schmuck?

  He takes a minute to catch his breath. “AC, I don’t see how you made it so far! This crap is killing me!”

  I’m a bit winded, but I find the necessary breath to mock him. “I believe you used to call me a whiny domebody when I complained.”

  “I reckon I did. It’ll be boring up here without you. I don’t think I’ll do the ‘little green men in the moon’ skit without you.” TJ refers to our annual Halloween gag appearance with Doctor Jay.

  “Oh come on, you gotta. It’s a tradition. Maybe, I’ll show up on the Tonight Show live that night.”

  “Better find a dye that washes out quicker than the stuff we use up here. You’d look pretty stupid for the rest of the week until it fades. I still wish I was going with you, Adam.”

  “You just want to see Cassie a year earlier.” I’ve always enjoyed winding him up and watching him try to deny it. Sometimes it’s hard to believe TJ actually has a girlfriend that he has never met in person. I have many Earthside friends, and a fair number of them are female, but I’ve never seen the point in entering into some kind of exclusive relationship with someone a quarter of a million miles away. She sent him her underwear once! What’s the point? I heard his parents made him put them on. Fortunately, his dad is the colony’s therapist, so I joked that he wouldn’t have to go far for treatment.

  Considering the obscene number of marriage and “father my baby” offers we’ve both received, I’m almost afraid for the female population when TJ gets there. Cassie has indicated that she is rather open to group relationships. I suppose I should make a good impression before my partner in crime shows up. He’s liable to try and become some kind of sultan with a harem.

  Of all my rumored girlfriends, I felt the worst for Eve in England, whose “friends” played a nasty joke on her by pretending to be me and proceeding to lead her on through a string of mushy emails. The ruse went on for a few weeks until she sent me an email from a computer that wasn’t infected with their little home-built redirection program, and I read it. It’s sad how cruel people can be for the sake of their own entertainment.

  The buzzer sounds and my spin on the wheel of torture is over. I gladly relinquish it to TJ and go over to the body imager. Knowing that this is one of my last opportunities, I keep peppering TJ with questions, just like
he used to do to me.

  “How is Cassie anyway?”

  “Good. She hopes you’ll stop by and see her sometime.”

  “Maybe, did she say when might be a good time?”

  “No, you better … ask her yourself.”

  “Does she expect me to bring a gift?”

  “Probably…”

  I smile a little as he grunts out the last bit and takes a big swig from his water bottle. “What would you bring?” I ask innocently.

  “I don’t … know.”

  “Tell me what she likes.”

  “Girl stuff – she loves girl stuff; jewelry, flowers, and … that garbage. Why are you asking? Crap, you’re … just trying to wear me out and I fell for it!”

  “Only four minutes in and you’re starting to breathe heavy. Sorry TJ, it’s gonna be a long day for you isn’t it?”

  He somehow finds the air in his lungs to go on a foul-mouthed tirade at me, which ends up drawing Doc Melton’s ire. The good doctor dismisses me rather rudely, telling me that he’ll evaluate the data and give his decision this evening. I don’t recall him coming to my rescue that quickly in previous years.

  #

  Somehow, I don’t feel like celebrating. The patch is history. Someone might spot it in the recycling, but no one will ever connect it to me. Everyone’s cycling through Operations, snacking on the ‘Bon Voyage’ cake thing, and saying their goodbyes. I’m cleared. I knew it was going to happen. My modest belongings have been packed into the allotted one-meter cube for the past week. Everything else has either been given away or set aside to be reissued. At least they found the time to tell me that before they sent the press release back to ISA headquarters. Poor little Laura started blubbering, and then did this c-clamp number on my leg. It’s too bad that a deep muscle bruise isn’t enough to ground me.

  That got my eyes all moist too. Mom and Dad were right – I’ll miss that little hellion. I know the drill: put on a brave face, smile and chuckle every few minutes. Twenty-four hours until I lift off. Dad is staying after shift just to give the countdown. It’s a nice gesture, but I’d rather they just let me stay here.

  Off to the side, I see Ivan and Chuck going at it again. Ivan didn’t really care for Chuck’s offer to let me have a go at the flight controls on our transit. I hear him say, “Come on Pops, they’re already grounding us…”

  Mom’s reflection appears in the observation window. She asks, “A Euro for your thoughts?”

  “You can do better than that! I’ve got book offers you know!”

  “Clever. Let’s hope they don’t actually want you to write any books. I’ve seen your stuff. I wouldn’t pay for it.”

  I mutter at her grinning face, “Thanks. Kick a guy when he’s leaving. ‘Don’t let the airlock decompress you on your way out.’ Or something like that.”

  Her expression softens. “You might actually like it down there. You’ve never even smelled the ocean air before.”

  “I’ve smelled Dad after tofu-burrito night – that’s probably close.”

  “Not even. Don’t forget, I’ll be right there with you until you’re settled in. You’ll be begging for me to go soon enough. There’s good news, though, I’ve just got confirmation of a speaking engagement in College Park, Maryland for next March.”

  Something’s wrong. That’s pretty far off, considering it is June right now. She’s smiling way too much. Then it all clicks into place. “Mom, where’s the ACC tournament being held this year?”

  “Do you believe in coincidences?”

  “No.”

  She leans in and lets her voice drop, like she’s imparting an international secret. “Me neither. That’s why I offered them a three day guest lecturer booking for me. It’s the last stop on our tour.” It’s enough to get a laugh out of me.

  We stand there for a silent minute or two before she says, “I’m proud of you.”

  “Oh God, what did I do now?”

  “No chest pains. No shortness of breath. No strange lumps suddenly popping up?”

  I stare at her in shock.

  “How did you…when did you?”

  “You should know by now that I am all-knowing,” she says smugly. “You were either about to ditch your aerospace engineering dreams for a career in medicine, or you were looking for a way to stay.”

  I try to hide my embarrassment from her, but she knows me too well, damn the luck!

  “What would you have done?”

  She gently swats the back of my head and pulls me into a hug. “Gone along with it – I’m a mother first and foremost. I’m not too fond of missing a year of Laura’s life, either. The point is, you didn’t do it, and that makes you brave. For all of us who came up here, it took some real bravery to leave Earth. It takes the same kind of courage to leave here. Keep that in mind and you’ll be back up here before you know it. It might even be just to visit and not stay.”

  “Thanks.” Damn traitorous eyes betraying me again.

  “Now come on, let’s get back and see your father and sister. I’ve got at least two breakdowns in me before we launch. Besides, I need to start thinking about updating my wardrobe. Should I ask those girls you’re always watching where they do their shopping? They seem rather fashionable.” The mischievous smile in her eyes doesn’t tell me whether she’s serious or not. I really hope not.

  I sputter my strongest objections and we say our final goodbyes to the remaining guests in Ops. Free of Bertha, I’m able to bounce down and off the sides of the corridor. I made the right choice. I’m sure of it now. Knowing it will be a long time before I can do it again – if ever – I do a somersault. Mom opts not to scold me like she usually does.

  Back in our quarters, I borrow the digital camera and take a shot out of my porthole.

  Mom looks at me like I’ve grown another head. “Why’d you do that?”

  “Remember Eve, from England? We’ll since I’m really going down there, I might as well go see her. Imagine the looks on her friends’ faces, when I do take her out on a date? I think I’ll give her this. It’s the view from my room and I reckon it’s pretty cool.”

  Lieutenant Armchair

  by Jim Bernheimer

  I always thought that if the good old U.S.A. ever reinstated the draft, I’d be dragged to some hellhole halfway around the world. Upon arriving, I fully expected to be fighting for all that’s good and just, which of course meant my life.

  Instead, I get the opportunity to die for my country right here in the scorching heat of the Texas-Oklahoma border. Gunfire erupts from the M-2 Bradley. It’s my cohorts cutting loose to give Moses and me a chance. Those damn Apache jocks said they cleared this grid.

  How the hell did they miss the mini-mart? The damn thing’s been converted into a beehive. When I get back to base, I’ll find the nearest flyboy and lose me a pay grade!

  Ominous buzzing fills the air and I decide “If I get back” is more appropriate. I toss my smoke grenade to slow the insects down and Simmons triggers the Bradley’s smoke dischargers.

  “Moses, go back to back. We’ll torch ‘em and cover each other!” It’s time to find out if our chain mail cool suits can stand up to stingers. If these are African honeybees, we’re so screwed.

  Nearby, the fifteen-foot tall deer that Fox One shot to hell rots in the sun. Bastards asked if we’d bring back the antlers as a trophy once the body was torched. The two of us could make a run for the flatbed, but I’d seen enough Hollywood flicks and real-life horror to know that shit never works.

  Something butts up against me and I pray it is Steinmeyer. Over the radio I shout, “Chico, get the gas can rolling back towards the road, now! This place is crawling.”

  The gas can is a remote controlled four–by-four moving behind us with a five hundred gallon tank of gasoline on it and two hoses connected to the flamethrowers in our arms. One of these days, we might even get the fully automated model, but I’m not holding my breath.

  The modulated voice of our current lieutenant interr
upts. Someone just looked at their monitor and noticed that the dots on the screen are in trouble. “Negative on retreat. Gibson, Steinmeyer, engage the enemy. Bradley Bravo Three is sufficient fire support for this mission.”

  I fire back at the anonymous Combat Action Officer, bravely commanding us draftees to fight and die. “The hell they are!” No offense to my buddies in the tin can over there, but they’re not out here with a swarm of foot-long angry bees flying above.

  The warbling voice of the “CAO-ward” sounds angry; his butt pillow probably needs some fluffing. “Private Rodriguez, if that mobile fuel platform starts back towards the road you will be on flamethrower duty for the next month! Is that clear?”

  Chico replies from the nearby Bradley, “Sorry Ese, I got my wife and kids to think about.”

  “Screw you too, Chico. Light it up, Moses! Let’s give them the burning bush.”