Situational

by Luc Reid

“You left your dishes on top of the sonic again, dear heart,” Miranda called from the kitchen. The phrase “dear heart” had started as a little joke between them, but after a few months it had turned into a real expression of love, and now … Buckley wasn’t sure. She always used a little extra emphasis, now. Was that playful? A tiny bit sarcastic?

“Sorry,” he answered, distracted, as she emerged from the kitchen holding the offending plate and cup. His gaze was drawn irresistably back to the message displayed on the entcenter. She read him immediately.
“You got it,” she whispered, gripping the dishes.

He nodded, re-reading the screen. … accepted for the position of Junior Situational Flexcoder on the ninth Alpha Centauri mission. The 9.7-year mission (experiential time) will be paid on the basis of the 31 earth years that pass …
Buckley looked back at Mir, seeing the tension in her, the whiteness of her face, the wideness of her pale blue eyes, the rigidity of her fingers clamped down on the china. She stared at him fixedly, saying nothing. Somewhere in the room, a fly buzzed.

He brushed toast crumbs off the table remote and hesitated for a fraction of a moment while he pushed his dream job out of his mind. Buckley pressed “I decline” with his forefinger, making sure the table had a chance to verify his print. Before he lifted his finger again, he knew, the automated hiring system would have offered the job to someone else. He looked up at Mir with a weak smile.

She stared at him with disbelief and disgust. “You idiot,” she said, and stomped out of the room.

* * *

…

Buckley looked back at Mir, seeing the tension in her, the whiteness of her face, the wideness of her pale blue eyes, the rigidity of her fingers clamped down on the china. She stared at him fixedly, but then a fly buzzed past her face and she brushed it away with the irritated expression he knew intimately well.

He brushed toast crumbs off the table remote and hesitated for a fraction of a moment while he banished a life he would now never have. Buckley pressed “I accept” with his forefinger, making sure the table had a chance to verify his print and legally obligate him. He meant to apologize, but he could only look up at her miserably.

Mir stared at him with disbelief and disgust. “You asshole,” she said, and stomped out of the room.

New Year’s Clouds

by Kat Beyer

New Year’s Eve on Ganymede: we still celebrated it on Earth’s Julian time. Paulie would always make sure the link was good, so we could watch Big Ben, and then the Ball in New York, and the Firepod in San Francisco.

“Pretentious dirtniks,” Paulie would say, sniffing as the Pod burst over the Bay. He still says it. He’s never thought much of anyone who didn’t have the guts to leave Earth’s gravity.

“You smoke Lucky Strikes, though,” Ming pointed out to him on our second New Year’s.

“Yes, they use up too much oxygen. Strains the manufacturing rig,” I added, because it was time someone brought this up.

“Never a big one for small pleasures, our Stefania,” Paulie sniped, and took a long drag on his cigarette; he knew by then his sexist quips wouldn’t draw any anthrax from me. I had been through naut training before the lawsuits. “Anyway, we’re not going to have to worry about that much in a minute, right?”

He was probably right, damn him. We had chosen Hawai’i’s New Year, in honor of our chief scientist, Dr. Hana, even though—actually because—she hadn’t made it through planetfall. Sometimes it takes someone. Maybe like the gods of a new land demand a sacrifice. That’s superstitious, I know. I wondered, just the same, what Ganymede’s gods (if any) would make of what we were about to do.

We had seated the first canister and the master switch by her grave.

“If this works can I turn the manufacturing rig into a barbecue?” asked Paulie, stubbing out his cigarette at 11:06, Hawai’i time.

“If it doesn’t work,” said Ming, taking our suits down from their hooks, “it will turn all of us into barbecue.”

Paulie shrugged and looked at me. Everybody knew I had the final say, by then.

“Sure. But let’s wait a bit, first,” I said.

By 11:45 we were suited and through the doors, having learned from past mistakes to allow plenty of time for them. We felt pretty silly standing by the master switch for a quarter of an hour, but somehow it still seemed right.

At midnight we all laid hands on the switch together.

“For Dr. Hana,” said Paulie, suddenly solemn.

“For Dr. Hana,” repeated Ming and I.

We pressed the switch.

We weren’t barbecue.

After a while, when the sky started to form above us, each canister adding to the atmospheric mix, Paulie said, “You know what I’m looking forward to?”

“Smoking outside?” asked Ming.

“No. Well, yes. But no.”

“What, then?” I asked, when he kept on staring upwards.

“Clouds.”

“Happy New Year, Paulie,” I said.