Somewhere Beyond the Moon

It’s June, someday just after the twentieth. I find myself leaning against the walls of the smallest closet in my home. Resting in here for hours, my head is numb and my neck is stiff. Tapping the edge of my foot against the door; I listen to the hinges whine. A bit of tungsten-lamplight peeks inward, invading the sacred darkness of the closet. I stop tapping, just before the door would give-way to a view of the window.

I don’t want to look out of the window. I’ve no need to see the specks of light, projecting views of ancient and dead planets - those beyond our atmosphere. There is nothing to gain from people celebrating the coming launch. The gathering of communities all over the world, waiting for the next civilian rocket to lift from the eternal of our little planet; the next person to set foot on the rock that swirls around us. No one knows who it will be this year, the announcement will come in the next few days. A lottery, of sorts, is used to pluck one lucky person from their comfortable lives.

It’s an honor- Sure it is.

A random selection, which turns into six-months of preparation; it includes six days to say goodbye to family and friends, too. After their landing on the Moon’s surface, the civilians are then trained further, to be fully functional in low-gravity.

This is, however, not to say that the lottery isn’t built with stipulations, of course. In fact, MACE, or the Manned Aerial Colonization Effort, specifically only sends Men and Women, of able-body and sound-mind. All of the selection is under the guise of volunteering; but, being physically able is automatically volunteering. I remember, ten years ago, one man was chosen. A father; family man of four. He argued against going, for obvious reasons. MACE, however, wasn’t bothered by the family dynamic; they sent him anyway.

Another, upon hearing of being the lucky chosen one, shot a hole in their foot - an attempt to be set on the not physically able list. MACE only delayed the launch slightly, deciding that the observation of how such an injury would heal on the Moon’s surface could be beneficial to future colonization efforts.

So, this is what I do, every year since turning 18. I squirrel away in some small space, hiding away from the world - hoping that maybe the universe forgets who I am for the few days leading up to the inevitable drawing of the next name.

It doesn’t help that the missions aren’t always smooth-star-sailing.

Of the twenty-eight civilian-manned missions to the Moon, twenty-five have made it. I stand, or, rather, sit, as one of the minority who doesn’t seem interested in becoming number four, on the list of tragedies.

Looking at the light that creeps into the closet, I think of the first tragedy.

#

It was December, someday around the fifteenth, twelve years ago. Everyone awaited the launch of the next civilian, Gary M. Schubert. This civilian had been something quite different from the usual winner of the MACE-lotto. He was very outspoken, over his excitement for the Moon landing. Gary had been in better shape than almost anyone sent up to the Moon, in the MACE program; only to be outdone by the four actual astronauts on the Moon - sent by NASA, in accordance with MACE.

That day, Gary waved to the crowds from afar, stepped into the elevator, and disappeared inside the tip of the rocket. Then, the usual Three, Two, One- Liftoff. I watched the skies that day, from our back yard. My mother and I sat on the porch, peering through dark sunglasses. She had always loved the worlds beyond our skies; even had dreams of working for NASA one day. But, those dreams were left to be derailed by my unexpected arrival. So, she chose motherhood and raising a little girl over maneuvering robots on a distant planet. Not that she had forgotten her dream of the stars, she passed them on to me. She filled my room with little toy rockets and planets hung from thin wires - always seeming more magical to me as a child, than they do in my distant memories, now. She would even tell her friends - or anybody who’d listen - about how her little Jaks would be the first explorer to reach the worlds beyond even Mars.

And, in my child-like wonder as I watched Gary’s rocket float into the haze of the sky, I dreamt of seeing what was beyond our tiny marble. Only, Gary’s journey would lead to more caution, if not more concern, in the years to come. Sending civilians had always been a risk, MACE knew this - NASA had even lobbied against it, in the early years of the project.

It wasn’t the launch or the flight, that ended in disaster for the jovial amateur-astronaut. Rather, it was the landing. In almost eerie fashion to the first Moon landing, Gary’s capsule had overshot its landing upon reaching the grey surface of the Moon. It turns-out he had become anxious when the small unit had overshot its landing and, ignoring MACE’s guidance, Gary thought it better to take over the manual controls. Bumping the thrusters as he took moved to steer the fragile ship, Gary accelerated himself toward the back-end of a large crater.

Live. In full view of the world. The civilian’s capsule exploded into a ballet of metals and orange-reflected aluminum. The pieces dance for what felt like hours, before soundlessly collapsing against the thick dust of the crater. Gary was thrown out, too. His cracked visor drawing gasps from terrified onlookers.

My mother covered my eyes, but I’d already seen plenty of the crash - a lifeless man’s body swirling in low gravity. It didn’t scare me at the time.

I didn’t fully understand it.

#

July, now. The fourth. Everyone celebrates the new candidate. My face plastered on every social-media outlet and blog that you can read. Headlines screaming, Meet Jakson! Our newest explorer! It feels almost fake; surreal, in the way of terror. I know little of what to expect, the majority of the process is kept secret from the public. Curled against the back of my couch, the sounds of fireworks and freedom ringing in my ears. I can’t help but think of all the belongings that surround me - the elusive cat that lives here, as well. I don’t know what to do with everything.

A glass of water ripples beside me, echoing the loud bang of a firework. I begin to lose myself in it, the movement of the water. I think of drowning.

#

The water reminds me of November, just after the eleventh - nearly eight years ago. A civilian launch had been set earlier than expected. The timing was set to give the slowly growing Moon-Society a new inhabitant and extra food supplies, just in time for thanksgiving. Marlon Ellis would be the next man on the Moon. The news never reported on his state of mind, however. They often wouldn’t, when the civilian was less than excited. I assume what I feel now is similar to what Marlon had felt back then.

He didn’t wave, when he walked across the platform. He didn’t even show his face to the crowd. The reluctant man simply stepped aboard the rocket and disappeared for the last time.

The rocket left just fine. But, mid-flight found there had been something wrong with the fuel tank - or so we’d all found out later. The rocket was floating, shimmering in the distant blue-haze. Then, like a small firework, the white-shimmer suddenly sparked red. Light danced downward from the hot flash of the orange-hued explosion. Grey smoke plumed, weightless in the sky; the cloud nestled where the rocket had been.

It wasn’t the explosion, however, that killed Marlon. His capsule had been set with a fail-safe that managed to eject the passenger-portion of the vessel. Lucky. That’s the statement MACE had given- The passenger was quite lucky, as we’ve confirmed the proper ejection of the passenger module. All that’s left, is to bring Mr. Ellis home. The man in the suit - the head of MACE - Edgar Levin, smiled at the cameras that day. Bring Mr. Ellis home. 

Sounded simple.

They searched for Marlon over the next few hours. Assuming him to be nearby, MACE and the National Guard tracked the GPS on-board the module. They arrived to the last coordinates the capsule had sent out, seeing little more than a patch of Atlantic strewn with shrapnel. So, they searched a few hours more. And more. Until it had been announced that lucky Marlon may not have been so.

It would be later that MACE’s official investigation lead to the conclusion that shrapnel must have pierced the hull of the capsule. Thereby allowing the vessel to take-on water. Ellis still lies somewhere lost in the Atlantic. It’s hard not to imagine him drowning. Difficult to not think of the reluctant astronaut screaming with the last bit of air he has, sinking to the ocean floor.

#

Nearly completely, now. The thought of water invading my lungs stresses my already shallow breath. The pervading ideas of what could go wrong - it all feels so cumbersome. I want to say no. The wish of controlling my future seeming to be more and more of a blown-out birthday candle - a worthless dream.

Mom never saw that launch. She didn’t get the chance, working that day at one of many jobs. I watched the entire thing from my backyard, alone. She wouldn’t even watch the footage; said it was all too sad. There was a fear in her eyes, then. Some look that worried her daughter might someday become one of the selected. I don’t think she wanted to imagine what it looked like - the silent plume of air, her child lost in the sparks.

So, I imagined it alone.

#

January, the following year. I don’t know what day it is; I’ve forgotten. The world seems little more than a haze. Everything has rushed by in these past months. I was supposed to be on the Moon, already. MACE pushed back the flight out of concerns for my preparedness. I feel no more ready now, than I had a month ago. Yet, MACE has decided I am finally ready. Half-dressed in this heavy suit, I’m beginning to feel numb. The tips of my fingers are lost somewhere in a pair of thick gloves.

This room mumbles to me. The voices from outside - scientists, journalists, politicians - everyone waits to shake my hand, as I heroically stride across the next horizon. Next to the entryway sits a set of frames with pictures of the lost. Three astronauts bound together by their involuntary goodbyes. Schubert, Ellis, and Ariss - remembered in three small photos. In Schubert’s photo I see the smile of a man who wished to change the world. Ellis looks just as I’d imagined, stoic. He looks as though he’d left all feeling behind; a man who had lost any semblance of who he had been. Then there’s April Ariss. A woman whose bright smile almost covers the sadness in her eyes. I stare at it for longer than the others, losing the world around me to frozen memory of the woman I haven’t seen in over five years.

Mom was selected in early June, just seven days before my birthday. She said goodbye to me the day before I turned sixteen - it had been the end of her allotted six days. I remember her eyes shimmering as tears welled-up below them, and she smiled - the same smile in this photo. We had phone calls, later. But, none of it ever felt anything beyond dreaming. It just seemed that, at some point, I’d wake up.

Though, it seems I’ve only fallen deeper within my dreaming.

I watched her walk onto the platform, waving goodbye to the crowds of people watching from around the world. Although, I’ve always believed that wave was meant only for me. I saw the glowing white of the ship through tear-muddled eyes, that day. Her final words on the phone, echoing in the air around me. I’ll see you up there some day. I could almost hear her smile through silent tears. I love you, Jaks.

Mom didn’t get to see the moon, as Schubert had. But, she didn’t fall back to Earth, as with the fate of Ellis. She died because of damage to the oxygen tanks. That’s it. It wasn’t anything grand, like the other two. Mace said that she most likely passed-out due to the lack of oxygen, long before actually dying. The statement was intended to be comforting, I suppose.

It wasn’t.

#

Placing a hand over the glass of the frame, “I’ll see you up there someday.” I whisper between us, “Love you.”

The walk to the rocket is loud and hot. The seat inside is uncomfortable and lonely. I grow tired of the constant radio chatter and the voices begin to blend as singular, long hum. We have liftoff, is the only phrase to break the monotonous tune. The weight of the launch sinks me deeper into the chair. I lose track of everything around me and, in what feels like mere moments, I feel the Earth begin to lose its long-held grasp of me. 

Everything goes silent and I am more alone than I have ever been.

It’s comforting that I’ve made it even this far. But, looking out to the vast depth of the void around us, I can’t help but think something will still go wrong. The thought passes that, maybe, the rocket will miss its mark. Maybe I’ll pass right by the Moon, and mom will have been right- I’ll be the first person to float away, beyond even Mars.

I close my eyes and remember her voice.