I had Arlo analyze the planets’ positions in our solar system repeatedly. Every iteration produced the same result. The orbital paths of the celestial bodies changed, elongating further out from the sun. The difference was minimal compared to the scale of the system but enough for Arlo to recognize the anomaly. By his calculations, the planet’s orbital cycles progressed through roughly four hundred years.
It wasn’t possible, but the data was consistent. At first, I thought it was a calibration error with the sensors, but Arlo ruled that out after repeated adjustments. Alone, one could’ve rationalized our trajectory reversal or planetary shift. But together, there wasn’t another explanation. Some form of mass with a significant gravitational pull arced the station around its orbit, dilating time. This was never a concern back in Houston. Based on Richardson’s accounts, however, they understood there was a significant addition to the mass of the solar system. I wondered if they always knew this could be a possibility. Not that it would’ve mattered. As Richardson said, they sent us there as a sacrifice for the greater good. There was never an intention for this craft and its crew to return.
Welcome to Earth.
What a strange greeting. I wondered what civilization looked like. In a way, it was comforting to know the world’s nations didn’t rip it apart. Maybe these suicide missions worked. I didn’t go up there to be humanity’s salvation, though. I went up to answer the question burning a hole through every bottle I picked up. The question that tore at me relentlessly. Could they be saved? If I couldn’t cradle the head of my newborn daughter, I had little desire to take part in the society I was meant to save. The likelihood of finding a way back to them was near nonexistent, but not zero. If I failed, however, a slow, lonely death was as much as I deserved for what happened. I never anguished about how the world or god could take those so precious to me. The universe has been and always will be indifferent, enforcing what we believed to be arbitrary yet insurmountable rules. That is, until the signal. Welcome to Earth.
“Arlo, how long until we cross Earth’s orbit at our current trajectory?”
“Calculating… Complete. Two years and three months.”
That’s a long time.
“Is my pod still functional for stasis sleep?”
“No.”
Fuck.
“Why?”
“The pod was damaged as you exited. My diagnostics show a programmed power surge to the electrical systems.”
“Programmed?”
“Yes. Admiral Richardson amended the launch instructions to disable your pod after you exited stasis sleep.”
“Seriously?”
“Would you like me to read out the launch instructions?”
“No. No, that’s alright.”
I couldn’t fathom what her reasoning for sabotaging my pod would be. I figured she wanted me to suffer the same as she did. But Richardson chose to stay awake while I was forced to. I’d never been to prison, or even arrested for that matter. But I understood what a cage was. That hull was merely a solitary shell to confine me. Richardson built me a cage and unceremoniously shoved me in.
“Arlo, what did Richardson do for the two and a half years she was awake?”
“Admiral Richardson worked extensively on the navigation system for the first few months after coming out of stasis sleep. She also dedicated a large portion of her time to mapping the different bodies of mass in the solar system using the gravitational wave detector. She would also have me read from the extensive library I have downloaded into my corpus.”
“Can you provide the output of her mappings?”
“Displaying…”
“Displaying? Where?”
“The embedded touch panel in the left hand corner.”
Behind me, a glow crept across the adjacent bulkheads. I turned to find a dim screen hidden behind the leftmost jump seat. I hadn’t seen it until now. Then again, the screen was hidden well enough; I probably would’ve never stumbled across it. A series of charts and graphs were displayed depicting time series data of total system mass. Before our departure, Richardson uncovered from Houston that the total mass had increased. As I followed the line jutting through the plot, the mass appeared to grow while we were in stasis sleep.
She must’ve seen this, too.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
The display flickered for a brief moment, updating with a new data point. The change was minuscule, but the mass grew with each new time step.
“Arlo, is there a critical point for the mass increase?”
“I am unable to say for certain. However, I believe it pertinent to say the new bodies of mass will affect our charted vector back to Earth.”
“How so?”
“With each incremental increase, our time to destination, the crossing of Earth’s orbit, shortens.”
“Wouldn’t it take longer if we have to avoid these new bodies of mass?”
“No. This station’s navigation system is equipped to harness the gravity produced by these new bodies of mass.”
Well, that’s convenient.
“What’s our new time to destination?”
“One year and seven months.”
It took a moment to sink in, but a single incremental change shortened the trip by eight months. The force required to accelerate the craft to that speed was unfathomable.
“Arlo, can you update me every time there is a change in our time to destination? Also, give me updates whenever the craft accelerates.”
“We will approach the outer gravitational reaches of the first body of mass in approximately two hours. At which time, you will encounter significant gravitational forces.”
“How significant, Arlo?”
“4.5 times that what you experience on the surface of Earth.”
That’s going to suck.
“What will the sustained duration be?”
“Unknown, but in the magnitude of hours.”
That’s really going to suck.
As a fighter pilot, the highest gravitational force I’d ever experienced was just shy of nine, but that was for a few short seconds. Escaping Earth’s orbit only required a sustained force of over three gs. Even then, we only had to endure for a matter of minutes, not hours. Houston had provided us with a series of pharmaceuticals that they sponsored the development of. Theoretically, they would keep you conscious and, most importantly, alive longer at a high sustained g-force pull. But these drugs were untested and, in my view at the time, just as likely to kill me as the acceleration forces.
There wasn’t much time before we entered the mass’s gravity. I raced down the corridor into the crew’s quarters, rounded the corner, and into the blackout room. Behind the pods nestled a row of narrow rectangular hatches, each vertically aligned to the other. You would never notice if you didn’t know they were there. Hatch by hatch, I pulled out the contents of the long cubby and splayed them out on the floor. There was an eclectic mix of pills, bandages, and gels. On the interior of the door, read in bold print: ‘Burns and Lacerations.’ I checked the next one and looked for any descriptor matching high acceleration negation. None seemed to fit, and I didn’t have time to read every package carefully. The interior of the last hatch read: ‘Misc.’.
Not very scientific.
I rummaged through its contents, pulling and tossing aside packages as I checked. A small white box sat near the back, with a red stamp of ‘Experimental’ overlaid. Checking the label, I found what I was after.
‘Take two pills two hours prior to planned acceleration,’ read the instructions.
I was cutting it a little close.
I popped the pills into my mouth and tilted my head, feeling their slick, sweet coating glide down my esophagus. After the pills settled, I was overcome with anxiety. Risk-taking may have been how I made my living, but taking experimental drugs never sat right with me.
It can’t be worse than the ones they gave us in the pods.
Having my internal organs fail because of the acceleration wouldn’t be the most pleasant way to go out.
At first, the effects of our acceleration were subtle, almost unnoticeable. The further we traveled, the more pronounced they became. Each breath was more strained than the last. My hip flexors burned with every step I took as though climbing an unseen peak.
We’re getting close.
“Arlo, how much time do I have until I need to strap into a jump seat?”
“My recommendation would be to strap in now. Safety should always be a priority.”
“Do I have time to hit the head?”
“If you need to use the lavatory, I would advise doing so quickly.”
My feet stuck to the ground as I entered the crew’s quarters. The lavatory was more akin to a wet bath in an RV, providing little room to stand. My urine was pulled from my body like a string yanked from the base of a sweater. I still hadn’t healed fully from the tube. I finally understood the adage: ‘Pissing needles’.
Is that what chlamydia feels like?
With that discomfort out of the way, I raced up to the control room. During take-off, I was relegated to the rearmost jump seat. Most other seats had an assortment of panels ladened with knobs and buttons, but my seat rested alone. There was nothing for me to control during our ascent, so it made sense then. If something went wrong, I chose Bradshaw’s seat at the front, figuring Arlo would guide me in an emergency.
Does he know how to control the station?
“Arlo, do you know anything about the controls of this station?” I asked as I clipped the five-point harness into the seat frame.
“No. Station control manuals have not been uploaded to my corpus.”
“Yeah, makes sense.”
“How so?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
I wonder if he knows who HAL is.
I felt the forces of acceleration growing. The air rapidly escaped my lungs as they were driven further down into my abdomen. Reaching out to the control panel became such a burden I elected to sit still, focusing on my breathing. I began to feel faint. Blood rushed from my brain and was pooling in my legs. I wasn’t near blackout yet, but I was on my way.
“The station’s rate of acceleration is increasing,” Arlo informed me.
No shit.
My vision began to tunnel, a telltale sign you were nearing the limits of your consciousness. I let out short, rapid breaths to drive blood back to my brain. I clenched every muscle in my lower body, but my vision still receded. I had left my suit in the crew’s quarters, locked away from when we went under after launch.
Rookie mistake.
The suit was designed to withstand those high g-forces. They actively compress your body’s lower extremities and abdomen to facilitate blood flow back to the brain. It was too late, though. I was fighting to stay awake just sitting down. If I had gotten up, I would’ve collapsed and been at the whims of shifting acceleration forces, battering my unconscious body about the hull.
“The station’s acceleration is nearing nine times that of Earth’s gravitational pull.”
Arlo’s comment was the last thing I remembered.