17. Delia
CHAPTER 17
delia
I watched the front of house staff from my favorite vantage point behind the bar; three months after the signing of the contract with Hawkins Group, Badd's Fine Dining is finally operating smoothly.
Servers wafted gracefully and unhurriedly about the dining room; bussers smoothly and quietly cleared, cleaned, set tables, and delivered ice water and baskets of freshly baked French bread to new tables while the expo team delivered the dishes. Customers looked happy, digging into delicious food, chatting, laughing, and enjoying themselves. The kitchen staff was a well-oiled machine, hired, trained, and turned into a team by Anton.
Our menu was small, each dish handpicked by Anton, myself, and Rebecca. Our fare was a fine dining take on classic Americana cuisine: burgers, pasta, fish and chips, steaks, salads, and things like that, but done with a fancy, gourmet flourish.
The decor was simple and understated as well, with low ambient house lights supplemented by tealights on the tables, prints of famous paintings on the walls, and rustic-chic furniture.
So far, the reception has been overwhelmingly positive—our online reviews are glowing, and local critics are raving about the success of the revamp.
Professionally, I'm over the fucking moon. Dad spent a week up here for the grand reopening and praised me up and down. That felt good. I never thought I’d be the manager of a fine dining establishment, but it turns out I love it. I can still go behind the bar and sling drinks when I get the bug, but mostly, I get to spend my shift floating in the dining room, chatting with my tables, and stepping in if someone gets in the weeds. It’s slower-paced, almost relaxing, compared to the frenetic frenzy of a jam-packed bar on a Saturday night when cruise season is in full swing. Not as exciting day-to-day, perhaps, which has taken some adjustment, but I still enjoy it.
Personally? I've been sort of a robot. I have a routine. Perhaps "ritual" is the better term.
I take a shower, get dressed in my fancy clothes—the GM of a fine dining restaurant can't wear jeans and a polo, so I’ve had to invest in slacks, blouses, skirts, and dresses, as well as fancy shoes and accessories, so I look grown-up and professional—and I put on makeup. The process is akin to putting on a suit of armor. As I gear up for my shift, I put my sadness, loneliness, and regret into a little box, lock the box, and shove it down deep inside. When I get home from work, I remove my armor, pour myself a glass of the scotch Hunter likes so much, and let myself pine over him for half an hour or so. I let myself Google him to see if there’s any news, any new socialites or models attached to him. I let myself look at pictures of him. I let myself relive the delicious and unbelievable things he did to my body.
I let myself miss him for thirty minutes a day. I let me hate myself for being such a damn chicken.
Once I've had my thirty minutes of missing Hunter, I put it all back in the box, and the next day, I do it all over again.
I did try to hook up with someone once. It was a dismal failure. We met for drinks at a place he knew and had a good time. We chatted, flirted, and played the game. We went back to his place and had another drink. He kissed me, and I let him. It was a decent kiss. But the moment his hand went near my ass, I started panicking.
It felt like I was being unfaithful. I wasn't even with Hunter, and I couldn't have sex because my heart still claimed loyalty to the man.
I’d had to apologize with a stupid excuse not even I believed as it came out of my mouth, and bolted.
I masturbated in the shower the other day. Or, I tried. But if I didn't think about Hunter, I couldn't even get close, let alone reach orgasm. Think about Hunter's mouth, his fingers, his cock? Immediate O.
Fuck me.
So, here I am, working on a Friday night because I have nothing better to do. Rebecca is officially in charge, so I'm helping out behind the bar as needed, and mainly just sort of…being in the way because it's better to be alone here than alone at home getting scotch-drunk and crying.
Why don't I just reach out to him? I could, through Dad. Once this place was up and running, Hunter basically vanished, content to take his percentage and go about his real life, back in New York with his skinny bitch flavor the week, or day, or month, or hour, or whatever the fuck. I mean, sure, other than that one photograph, which some claim was a repost from years ago, he's been radio silent from pop culture. No news articles, no interviews, no social media posts…other than "where has Hunter Hawkins gone?"
I don't know where he's gone. It's just easier to hate him and miss him than it is to wonder if he misses me, if he thinks of me. Because if he did, he'd call. Or text. Or DM me. Or come find me.
He hasn't.
So, neither will I.
Fuck it. I'll just be a lonely old cat-lady spinster. Except I don't have a cat, and I don't even really like cats all that much; I’m more of a dog person, but I don’t have the time for a dog right now.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, alerting me to a new message. Since we have a strict no-phones visible in the dining room policy, I hurried into my office to check it.
Emerson:
DID YOU SEE THIS?
It's an article in Business Weekly.
The headline: HUNTER HAWKINS DIVESTS 50% OF HAWKINS GROUP PORTFOLIO, STEPS DOWN AS CEO.
What?
I rapidly skimmed the article. It detailed the shocking move wherein Hunter sold off more than half of his company, stepped down as CEO, and appointed a new CEO. The article speculated on several unsubstantiated rumors of what he was planning to do next, which ranged from running for public office to going to space with Valkyrie’s next launch to the Asgard Orbital Construction Platform.
It also discusses, again with breathless speculation, as to what prompted the sudden move and his subsequent disappearance from public life.
Emerson:
He’s coming for you.
Me:
Bullshit.
Emerson:
You really think it’s coincidence that he sold his company, stepped down, and vanished within months of what happened with you two? Because I don’t.
Me:
He had months to make a move. He didn’t.
Emerson:
You rejected him, woman. Why would he come back for more? You’d call him a pathetic puppy or something if he’d followed you around begging for a second chance.
Me:
I didn’t reject him.
Emerson:
Okay, fine. You didn’t reject him. You pussed out. You ran away from him, literally, like a scared little bitch.
Me:
Jesus, Em. That was harsh AF. I’m honestly hurt.
Emerson:
Oh, fuck off. You’re an idiot. You know I love you, you know I support you, you know I’m on your side no matter what, but I told you then and I’ll tell you now: Men like him don’t come along but once in a lifetime. You let him go. You’re an idiot. And you’ve been a closed off, grumpy, miserable little bitch ever since.
Emerson:
Everyone in your family is talking about it. We’re all sort of glad you’re in Anchorage because none of us could handle dealing with your bullshit right now.
Emerson:
This is me calling you out, Delia Badd. You had your chance and you blew it. Stop moping around. Accept the consequences of your decision and move the fuck on, or go get the man.
My eyes stung, burned, and blurred.
Me:
Wow, okay. Tell me how you really feel. Some friend you are.
Emerson:
I’ll always tell you the truth, even if it hurts. I love you with all my heart, unconditionally, forever. But you hae to get out of this funk. If you won’t woman up and call him, then you have to move on.
Me:
I can’t! I don’t know how.
Emerson:
No one can do it for you, babe. This is called heartbreak and you did it to yourself.
Me:
I do NOT feel any better. Thanks for the pep talk, BESTIE. I have to go to work now. Bye and thanks for nothing.
I silenced my phone, and then turned it off and left it in the office, muttering curses and imprecations under my breath.
I snapped at a server for no reason. Nearly caused a catastrophic collision when I failed to call out as I entered the kitchen. Messed up a drink order.
Eventually, Rebecca pulled me aside. "Delia, I…with all due respect, I think you need to go home. It's obvious to all of us that you have something on your mind. We've got this under control, okay?"
Eyes burning, I nodded, my throat too full of a hot, hard lump to manage words. I exerted every ounce of willpower I possessed, swallowed the lump, kept the tears in, and let out a breath. "Tell everyone I'm sorry. I'll see you all on Monday. Call me if you need me."
She squeezed my shoulder, hesitated, and then hugged me briefly. "If you need a friend to talk to, I'm here."
"Thank you, Rebecca. I'm going, now."
I had the staff put together a to-go meal for me, took it home, and ate it in silence; it tasted like ash.
I drank scotch until the world swam, and then I passed out on my couch, tears staining the pillow under my face.
I woke to someone knocking on my door.
I ignored it. They paused and then resumed insistently.
When several minutes went by and the knocking didn't go away, I realized I had to face the fact that whoever the fuck was bothering me on a Saturday morning wasn't going away.
So I lurched to my feet, stumbled blearily to the door, and yanked it open without checking the peephole first.
"The fuck you want? Jesus." I blinked one eye and then the other, realizing I may still be a little drunk.
"Ms. Delia Badd?" The insistent knocker was a tall, trim man with a shaved head and a salt-and-pepper beard, wearing an immaculate three-piece suit.
"Yes. Am I being served or something?"
"No ma'am. I represent Hawk Aeronautics."
"Never heard of it—you—them, whatthefuckever. What do you want?"
"Will you come with me, please, ma'am?"
"Fuck no. Go away."
He reached into the inside pocket of his coat—my instinctive, half-drunk reaction was to think he was pulling a weapon on me, so I pulled a BJJ throw on him and had him on the ground beneath me before he could blink.
He gasped hoarsely. "Ma'am, please. I have a message for you."
I backed away from him and let him get up. "Sorry, sorry. My bad."
He got to his feet, wincing, and brushed himself off. Caught his breath. This time, when he reached into his suit coat, he did so very slowly, his other hand raised. "I'm getting my phone, ma'am."
He withdrew a sleek folding smartphone, unfolded it, cued up a video, and handed it to me. "Just press play, ma'am."
I pressed play. The background was a blank white wall. For a moment, nothing happened, and then a body crossed in front of the camera, too close to make out anything but black fabric and movement. And then Hunter filled the screen as he sat down facing the camera.
He grinned, and that grin took my breath away and caused tears to spurt into my eyes. "Hey, you. Did you punch my employee? I'm guessing you did. It's okay; I’ll just pay him off to keep him quiet about the assault.” Those gorgeous green-flecked eyes twinkled and then went serious. “You may have heard about my, um, business activities. Or maybe not. If not, here’s the short version. I sold off most of my company, made my secretary the CEO, and left Manhattan. As in, I sold my condo. I am, as of last month, no longer the CEO of Hawkins Group.” He paused and smiled. “What does this have to do with you, you ask? Well, I’ll tell you: everything. I’m miserable without you, Delia. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, and nothing that used to bring me even the slightest amount of happiness does anymore. Not without you. I’ve been bored for months, if not years. But being in Alaska, meeting you, getting away from the grind? It changed me, Delia. You changed me. I knew within weeks of trying to go back to my old life without you that it wasn't going to work. I was an asshole to everyone. Givey called me out, Harriet called me out, even my PA called me out on my shit. So, I decided to do something drastic."
"Get the point, Hunter," I muttered.
"I can hear you telling me to cut to the chase, so here it is. I never should have let you go. I should have chased you. I should have told you the truth—that I care about you." He swallowed hard, looked away, and then let out a sigh. "Saying that I care about you is the understatement of the century, but I won’t say how I really feel in a video.” He gritted his jaws and sighed again. “If you have any interest in finding out how I really feel about you, Delia, then accompany Bruce. He’ll bring you to me. You don’t need to take anything with you but your phone—but if it makes you feel better, pack a weekend bag."
I looked at Bruce. "Bring me to him…where?"
"It's intended to be a surprise, ma'am. I'm not allowed to say. But Mr. Hawkins did tell me to tell you, when you asked me this, that you don't have to trust me, you just have to trust him."
"How do I know this isn't some serial killer plot to cut off my tits and stuff me in a hole in the ground?" I asked.
Bruce blinked at me, puzzled. "Um. I just showed you a video of Mr. Hawkins?” He hesitated. "Also, ma'am, I'm gay. I'm not interested in your breasts."
"Oh." I frowned as I considered. "Fine. Come on in while I rinse off and get dressed. Are we on a schedule or anything?"
He shrugged and shook his head as he entered my apartment. "No schedule, ma'am. Take your time."
"In that case, I'm going to need a medically inadvisable amount of caffeine and something greasy to eat. I don't suppose I could convince you to run and grab me something while I shower?"
His smile was sweet and knowing. "No convincing needed, Ms. Badd. One hangover cure coming up."
He left, and I hopped in the shower. I meant to be quick, but the hot water felt so damned good that I got shower-locked and couldn't make myself get out. Therefore, it was nearly thirty minutes before I emerged from my bedroom, showered and dressed in my favorite black leggings and my oversized black Badd's Bar the effect when airborne must be incredible, however. The seats were zero-G lounge chairs with five-point harnesses, able to sit upright for takeoff and landing and reclinable into something you could sleep in. Everything was airy and white, in shocking juxtaposition to the villainous black of the exterior, with quilted leather for the seats and soft-touch surfaces everywhere else. It looked to fit maybe twenty people max, but I was the only passenger.
I whistled as I took it all in. "Holy shit, Bruce. This thing is…I don't even know."
“Pretty remarkable, huh?"
"You could say that, yeah," I said. "How much does something like this cost, you think?"
“Well, considering that this is the only one in existence, I'd say 'priceless' is a pretty accurate estimate."
I blew out a shaky breath—this was getting real. "Hunter is really pulling out all the stops, isn't he?"
Bruce just grinned. "You ain't seen nothin' yet, ma'am."
"That sounds a little ominous, Bruce, not gonna lie." I sat in the nearest seat, clicked the harness together, and eyed the ground nervously. "Is the floor gonna stay like that the whole flight? Because I'm not sure if I can handle that."
Bruce shook his head as he buckled into the seat beside me. "No, we can turn it off. I had it on for the flight here."
He touched a button on his armrest, and a panel opened, allowing a small touchscreen to rise up out of the armrest. He tapped a few buttons, pressed his index finger to the screen, which flashed green as it scanned his fingerprint, and then tapped again. The floor went dark and opaque, becoming nothing more than a mere floor.
I breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you. I've only flown a few times, so I'm a nervous flyer. Seeing the ground from however many thousands of feet? No fucking thank you."
Bruce laughed. "Yeah, it's not for everyone. I do hang-gliding and skydiving in my free time, so I think it's cool."
I shuddered. "Nope, nope, nope. My uncle is a pilot, so when I say I'm a nervous flyer, I mean commercial. I fly with Uncle Brock in his little seaplane all the time, but that's different."
I felt something, then—a lurch and a sense of movement. I looked—well, not out the window, because the whole thing was a window, essentially. You know what…I just looked . The screens showed that we were gliding away from the hangars and terminal, taxiing toward the runway. We made the turn onto the runway, paused for a minute or two, and then began rolling forward. The sense of movement was gradual at first. Just a nice little roll, and then the landscape was blurring a little, and then my stomach was protesting its passage up into my throat as we accelerated to the point that the horizon was one great blur.
And then…nothing.
The ground fell away and the clouds settled around us. We made a big, banking circle until we were heading south. With the ability to see in 360 degrees, I could see all of Alaska laid out beneath us as we flew higher and higher.
A male voice came from the ceiling. "Prepare for hypersonic."
Bruce reached out and made sure my harnesses were secure, and then his own. A moment later, I felt a giant fist press me into my chair, making it hard to draw a full breath. The crushing sense of acceleration lasted for several minutes.
Outside, huge banks of puffy, scudding clouds swept beneath us so quickly you’d miss it if you blinked. Far, far below, the ground was a quilt of green and brown and blue; from this height, the curvature of the earth was visible.
After the acceleration was done, the sense of momentum faded, and it once again felt like we were just floating along…except for the Earth speeding underneath us at a disorienting pace.
"I'm gonna turn the floor on for a minute. You really should experience it, just once, just for a minute," Bruce said.
I swallowed hard and gripped the armrests. "Okay."
A few seconds later, the floor vanished, and I screamed, yanking my feet onto my seat, hyperventilating. "Holy shit holy shit holy shit." I was a bird, soaring miles above the earth. "Fuck me, that's wild."
“Breathe, Miss Badd. Put your feet down. Reassure yourself that you're safe."
I let out a tight breath and set my feet down—it did help, actually. The sense of vertigo was still debilitating, but by scanning the horizon and the sky as well the floor, it eventually lessened into something like breathless, but still vaguely terrified, wonder.
"Shall I turn it off?" Bruce asked.
"No," I breathed. "Leave it. It's…"
"Incredible, right?" Bruce said.
"Once I get over the abject terror, yes."
He laughed. "I'm used to being up high, and it still got me the first time."
We touched down smoothly, taxied, and halted. Bruce used another touchscreen to open the door; someone had attached one of those portable staircase thingies to the airplane, and I followed Bruce down to the ground.
"Um. This is not an airport," I said, using my Sherlock Holmes observational skills.
To wit: there was no terminal, no other airplanes anywhere around, parked or taxiing, taking off or landing. The runway was, at a rough guess, infinitely long, and there was just the one.
Another factor that featured heavily in my deduction that this wasn't an airport was the monstrous structure in the distance—a tower of girders and booms supporting a rocket-spaceship-thing.
"No ma'am, it's most certainly not," Bruce said. "This is Valkyrie's launch center outside Houston."
I stared at him. "So, um. Question. I'm not going on that thing, am I?"
Bruce grinned. “That's not for me to answer." At that moment, a black SUV made a turn to appear on the tarmac. It pulled to a halt beside me, the driver's door opened, and the driver circled to the rear passenger seat. A short, stocky Asian man in a black three-piece suit, the driver smiled at me. "Welcome to Valkyrie Extraglobal Solutions Launch Facility, Ms. Badd. I'm to bring to you Mr. Hawkins."
I smiled back, albeit a little weakly, since my nerves were firing on all cylinders. "Thank you, Mister…"
"Lin," he answered.
"Thank you, Mr. Lin," I said, climbing into the interior of the vehicle.
It was a short drive—straight for the rocket. My heart started pounding in my chest and then migrated northward and started pounding in my throat. I didn't bother asking Mr. Lin any questions because it didn't seem likely that he would answer if he even knew. Apparently, Hunter wanted this whole thing to be as mysterious and nerve-wracking as humanly possible, the jerk.
Up close, the rocket was mind-bogglingly gargantuan. As jet black as the airplane I’d just arrived in, it stood several stories high, bristling with bits and pieces I couldn’t even begin to identify. The actual nozzles from which the fire emitted were so big they could fit a small ranch-style house inside with room to spare. The support framework—gantry?—featured an elevator cage; Mr. Lin parked the SUV, left it idling, walked me to the elevator, guided me inside, pressed a large yellow button with an up arrow, and then closed and latched the cage door. The moment the door was latched and locked, the gears started humming and whining, and the elevator rose smoothly and swiftly upward; the rocket was so close I could have stuck my hand out of the cage and touched it. I didn’t, however, because that seemed a little unwise, and I’m not an idiot. Despite how fast the elevator moved, it still seemed like the journey lasted for an hour before the cage slowed and halted at a platform near the very top of the rocket. A man in a pale blue jumpsuit bearing the Valkyrie logo—a stylized winged woman wielding a sword and shield—and a yellow hard hat opened the cage door.
"Ms. Badd, welcome aboard the Brynhild." Br-ihn-hild .
"Um…thanks? I have no clue what's happening."
He gestured for me to follow him along a catwalk within the gantry. "You're accompanying a resupply flight up to the Asgard, where you will meet Mr. Hawkins."
"The Asgard?" I asked. "And…how far up?"
"The Asgard is an extraglobal construction platform orbiting the Earth at a distance of a little over four hundred kilometers above the equator," he answered.
I halted in my tracks. "Wait. I'm going into outer fucking space ?"
He nodded. "Yes ma'am."
"But…but…I'm not—I haven't…I'm hungover, wearing leggings and a hoodie, and also I'd like to point out that I'm not a fucking astronaut!” I may have been shouting by the end.
He just smiled. "Spaceflight tourism is at an all-time high. We make flights up to the Asgard every month, and we usually have a handful of civilians going up simply for the experience. You're the only civilian on this flight, however." He resumed walking, and since I had nowhere else to go but back down, I followed him. “You have nothing to worry about, Ms. Badd. It’s perfectly safe. We’ll walk you through everything you need to know, do, and wear for the trip up. I've been up myself, and it's…well, ma'am, it is frankly life-changing."
"If you say so," I muttered.
He led me along the catwalk another few dozen feet to a hatch in the side of the rocket. A gangway led up and inside—the walls were thicker than a bank safe; the gangway led to a small platform at the bottom of a stairwell, although it was more of a ladder than anything.
My guide climbed up before me, pausing after a few feet to glance back down at me. "Keep three points of contact on the ladder at all times, please."
Yeah, no problem there.
I followed him up, still trying in vain to swallow around the hammering of my pulse in my throat. At the top of the ladder, I emerged into a large circular room; the interior wasn't at all what I was expecting. I don't know what I'd pictured, but it was probably something like the images of spaceships from my school days—gray, industrial, and complicated, with a billion dials and buttons and switches. The walls bore racks of space suits, although these looked less like the bulky things that came to mind when I pictured a spacesuit. Instead, they were more of a beekeeper’s suit or a hazmat suit. They were white, made of a thin, flexible material that was somewhere between rubber and leather. There were six of them spaced evenly around the circular room, and each rack held a dome-like helmet beside the suits. Another hatch-door-thing stood open across the room from the ladder, through which I could see suited figures seated at consoles and carrying out various tasks.
My guide went to one of the suits; he tapped a touchscreen, which came to life with a glow of digital light. "Come over here, please," he said to me, indicating a green circle painted onto the floor near the rack. “Stand in the circle, arms at your sides. It's a simple laser scan. You won't feel a thing."
"What is it scanning me for?" I asked as I moved to stand as indicated.
"One moment, please," he said. He tapped and typed and swiped for a few moments and then turned to me. "These suits are customizable for each wearer. Nearly as much R-and-D went into the design of the suits as the rockets, shuttles, and the station itself."
A circular blade of green laser light swept down from the ceiling in the precise circumference of the circle in which I stood, paused at the floor for a beat, and then swept back up. LED lights in the rack lit up, which made me realize it was more than just a storage rack, but was actually an intricate piece of machinery. Things hummed and whirred, and lights blinked and flashed. Something hummed, and the suit slid away from the wall, held by a robotic arm. The back of the suit hung open from below the knee to the neck.
"Step in, please," the technician said.
"Just as I am?"
He nodded. “Yes ma'am. Just as you are." he frowned. "Actually, you should remove the sweatshirt. You'll be more comfortable."
I removed my hoodie and handed it to him, and then I held up my phone and wallet, the only things I'd brought. "What about this stuff?"
He took them from me. "The suit has pockets, ma'am. Once you're sealed into the suit, I’ll show you."
"Pockets?"
He shrugged, tipping his head to one side. "Technically, they're sealable pouches, not pockets, but the downstream meaning is the same. You'll see in a moment."
With a shaky breath, I stepped into the suit, leggings, T-shirt, and sneakers and all. The technician placed my hoodie into a small locker on the side of the suit rack. I placed my arms into the sleeves and my feet into the…boots? Foot-places? I don't know. I put my feet where they were supposed to go.
"Hold still for a moment." The technician tapped the screen, and the suit closed itself, the edges zippering together somehow—I couldn't see how since it was happening behind my back.
Once it was sealed up to my neck, the technician fiddled with the screen again for a moment; the suit was voluminous, way, way too big for me. It hung on my shoulders, sagged at the legs, and bunched around my chest. But then, a few seconds after he finished with the touchscreen, I felt it adjusting. It cinched around my legs and waist, belled outward to accommodate my chest, and tightened around my shoulders and arms. Once done, it felt like a second skin. Now, only my head and hands were bare.
The technician handed me a pair of gloves and the helmet. "You don't need these till launch time," he said. "Simply click the gloves into place and they'll seal on their own. Same with the helmet—don’t worry about which way it goes, just put the helmet on your head and pull it down till you feel it click. The moment you hear the click, you should hear and feel oxygen flowing. It'll be a little cold and smell a little funny at first, but you should stop noticing it after thirty seconds or so."
He tapped the screen again, and the robotic arm holding the suit retracted and folded itself away within the suit-rack mechanism.
I took an exploratory step; it felt no different than wearing insulated coveralls and was actually a little lighter. I moved my arms and legs, testing my range of motion—zero restriction.
"Barely can tell I'm wearing it," I said.
The tech nodded, grinning. "That's where the R-and-D dollars went, ma’am, making sure it not only functioned the way it needs to, but functioned comfortably so you can wear it indefinitely."
I frowned. "Indefinitely? What about going to the bathroom?"
He chuckled. "Well, this flight is rather short, ma'am. You'll be able to take it off once you dock and board the Asgard, you just have to wear it for the flight as a precaution."
"Precaution against what?" I asked.
"Something going awry out of the atmosphere," he answered. "But please, don't worry. Nothing will go wrong. It's just standard operational procedure. We've done hundreds of flights without issue." He gestured at the suit. "Were you to be going on a longer flight, say to the moon or beyond, you'd be hooked up to a full recycling and reclamation system. Oxygen scrubbers, waste reclamation and recycling, a cooling and warming system, biometric telemetry, comms, the works. For this short hop, though, all you need are the comms, scrubbers, and temperature control."
"Tell me about the temp control," I said. "Please."
"Once you put the helmet and gloves on, the suit comes online. It’ll measure your body temperature and respiration rate and will adjust accordingly, so you’ll feel like you’re at room temperature within the suit—not too hot, not too cold. It’ll dispense the oxygen mix that lets you breathe in space for the flight to Asgard. The shuttle has atmospheric capabilities, but it only uses it on long trips.” He eyed me. “Any other questions?"
"What if I have to pee?" I asked.
"Do you? Because if so, we need to handle that right now. There's a porta-potty on the gantry for that purpose. Otherwise, you hold it. If you have to pee during the flight and can't hold it, just go. The suit will turn on the reclamation system and process it. Your clothes will smell, but they'll be dry. But you launch in T-minus…" he checked a cheap digital watch. "Thirty minutes. The flight itself should last about five hours and thirty minutes, max."
I didn’t have to pee, so I shrugged that question off. "Five hours? Is there an in-flight movie?" I asked, only partially kidding.
He laughed. "No ma'am. You’ll be in space. Once you get up there, you'll forget everything else. You won’t get bored, I promise."
"How long will I be up there?"
He shrugged. This shuttle is scheduled to return in seventy-two hours. You and Mister Hawkins will be returning on that flight."
"Seventy-two hours in outer space?" I shook my head. "I'm gonna have to have words with Hunter about springing this kind of thing on a girl."
"Ms. Badd, again, I promise you, once you're up there, it'll feel like far too short of a time. It's…well, magical is the only word I can think of." The tech gestured at the hatch leading to the cockpit. "Please, this way, ma’am."
I let out a breath and then headed for the cockpit, helmet in one hand, gloves in the other, and my heart in my throat.
Once again, my expectations were shattered. I’d been picturing inverted seats, you know? Like sitting upside down, facing the sky, with screens and switches and buttons. Instead, the cockpit felt more like the interior of a particularly technologically advanced electric vehicle. The windshield was a curved sheet of glass wrapping three-quarters of the way around the nose of the shuttle, providing a nearly 360-degree view of the world around us. And, despite the fact that the rocket and shuttle were vertically aligned, as in pointing skyward, the cockpit was oriented “normally,” as in I walked in as if I would into any other room.
In fact, the cockpit looked and felt like something out of a Star Trek movie, with curved stations around each of the five seats, with four more seats behind those, which didn’t have a workstation. The seats resembled zero-G recliners, upholstered in the same material as the suit I wore. The armrests featured digital touch screens, headrests with bolters to prevent side-to-side head movement, and stirrup-like rests for the feet; it looked like your feet were locked in, somehow, like the pedals of expensive bicycles.
The five workstations were manned by the figures I'd seen earlier, and judging purely by what I could see from behind, at least two of them were women.
The tech ushered me further into the cockpit. "Captain Malcolm, this is Ms. Delia Badd, your passenger for this flight.
The stations were arranged, again, like the bridge from a Star Trek ship—one by itself in front, and the other four in two rows of two behind that. Captain Malcolm was at the station in the front.
Captain Malcolm was a short Black woman with long microbraids tied back behind her head, hanging down her back within the suit. She smiled warmly at me. "Welcome aboard the Brynhild, Ms. Badd. It's a pleasure to have you with us today." She nodded at the tech. "That'll be all, Mr. Thompson," she said, and the tech nodded, smiled at both of us, and exited the spacecraft.
Captain Malcolm took me by the arm, her warm smile still in place. "Your seat is here," she said, guiding me to one of the passenger seats. "Do you have any questions or concerns?"
I laughed. "I mean, considering I had no clue this was even happening until a few minutes ago, I don't…I don't know. Everyone's reassured me how safe this is, but in my experience, the more you have to reassure someone of the safety of something, the more suspicious I get."
She laughed with me. "That is entirely understandable, Ms. Badd. This will be my thousandth flight into orbit, and I've only experienced one malfunction in that time, and that was a non-critical system glitch, resolved with a simple reboot. These flights are, statistically, safer than anything you can do anywhere on the planet. It’s safer than flying on a commercial airliner or cruise ship. It is absolutely normal to be apprehensive for your first trip up, but I assure you, you're in the best hands on or above the planet."
I let out a breath. "I guess I feel better, but…still. This is all very last minute for me."
"I'm aware," she said. "Now. Let me show you around a little."
The tour was short but interesting. She showed me the various stations—telemetry, guidance, biometrics for the crew and myself, and critical systems overwatch, as well as her captain’s station, which featured the data from all four stations, as well as other data she said I wouldn’t understand. She explained that the cockpit was actually a gimbal system, meaning the cockpit was sort of free-floating, so to speak, within the shuttle, so no matter the orientation of the shuttle itself, the cockpit remained oriented in whatever direction the guidance officer dictated. After the tour, Captain Malcolm eyed me, chuckling. “You look overwhelmed. Why don't you just take your seat and relax? We'll take off before you know it."
And she was right—only a few minutes after taking my seat, speakers in the cockpit announced T minus five minutes. Captain Malcolm helped me click my harness in place, used the touchscreen to bring my seat online—my feet did in fact click into place, which connected the suit to the seat's electronics system, bringing my telemetry online, communicating it to my seat, to the telemetry officer's workstation, and to ground control's system. Or, at least, so it was explained to me.
By the time the count was at two minutes, the whole craft was rumbling, and a deafening roar made my ears ring.
"Helmets and gloves on,” Captain Malcolm announced.
I settled the helmet on, pulled down, and felt it click. Immediately, I heard a faint hiss, felt cool air rush upward into the helmet, and tasted copper and iron—the smell and taste faded quickly. I slid the gloves on, and they too clicked into place; once the gloves were sealed, I heard an electronic whine in my ears, and then Captain Malcom's voice.
"Comms check. Sound off."
"Telemetry online," a deep male voice said.
"Guidance online," a high, soft, female, Spanish-accented voice said.
"Systems Overwatch online," a rough but quiet male voice said.
"Biometrics online," another voice said—this voice was very quiet, very soft-spoken, and gender neutral-sounding. Or, at least, I couldn't immediately determine the gender of the speaker, and the heads I could see from behind gave no clues, since everyone's hair, except for Captain Malcolm, was cropped short.
T-minus thirty seconds, and the rumbling felt like an earthquake; the roaring was muted by the helmet.
I gripped the armrests until my knuckles hurt, gritting my teeth and staring up at the clear blue sky.
"Ms. Badd," came a voice in my ear—the biometrics officer. "You need to breathe. Your respiration rate is quite low. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Slow and even."
I didn't bother answering—I couldn't. It took everything I had to force my lungs to draw a breath, and the moment I did, my head swam. But the next breath felt better and came easier, and then I was able to keep my respiration nominal, as I imagined the biometrics officer would have said.
"Ten…nine…eight…" came the countdown.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I'm going to space? Hunter Hawkins, I'm going to kill you for this.
The rattling, rumbling, and shaking were all-consuming. My bones rattled in my skin. The noise was monstrous, even through the noise-canceling of the helmet.
"Five…four…three…two…one…"
For a moment, nothing changed.
And then a giant fist pressed against my chest, shoving me into the seat. I felt the suit tighten around my limbs, squeezing hard like a blood pressure cuff. The pressure increased until it was hard to draw a breath, and my head swam, and darkness floated at the edges of my vision. I tasted copper and iron as the suit worked to compensate for my low respiration. Above, the sky seemed to swell, to grow larger, brighter, bluer. A cloud scudded past faster than my eyes could track, a brief blur of white.
Blue gave way to black in an ombre shift, and the titanic pressure squeezed harder and dizziness washed through me.
And then…stars.
A countless trillion of them, everywhere, like being inside a snow globe full of sunlit diamonds.
White sunlight blazed brilliantly as we angled away from the globe, and then the pressure of acceleration slowly subsided, and I could breathe and was no longer dizzy.
Holy fucking shit.
I'm in outer space.