Returning Home Without Ever Leaving

Mars-Moon Transit Corridor. 2291.

“Proximity Warning: object on impact trajectory.”

“Time?”

“Forty-seven minutes, six seconds.”

Seated, Carlie Barnes flipped a switch above her head. The flight deck window depolarized to reveal the black of space backdropped by motionless, distant stars. 

“I don’t see anything.” Charlie Broussard manipulated a three-dimensional model of local space on a flat screen. “Nothing’s in the queue; the schedule’s clear.”

“Shit.” Barnes withdrew a pair of glasses from a cargo pocket sewn into her flight suit. Resting them on the bridge of her nose, she leaned against her seatbelt to squint out the window. “Astrid, confirm: are we overlapping with another ship’s schedule?”

“Negative, Captain,” the computer responded.

“An unscheduled transit?” Broussard questioned sarcastically. “Never happens.”

Barnes’ eyes went from one edge of the window to another.

“Who flies without running lights? Okay. Anything on the radio? An escape pod?”

Broussard activated another interface on his console.

“Negative, Captain. No distress calls or beacon signatures; no advisories.”

Barnes - her arm slowed by zero-G - adjusted the position of her mic near her chin before activating her radio.

Beep.

“E.S.V. Sparrow on open comms hailing unidentified vessel at heading 250-Mark-100. Copy?”

Dead air.

Barnes changed the frequency settings to wideband.

Beep.

“Repeat. E.S.V. Sparrow hailing any nearby vessels in the M.M.T.C. Copy?”

Biting her lip, the captain waited for a response before trying again.

Thinking, she looked anxiously out the window.

“Hūjiào bùmíng chuánzhī, hángxiàng wèi 250-Mark-100. Fùzhì?”

“That’s handy,” Broussard admitted.

“Yeah? Thank my mother.”

She paused, waited.

White noise.

Barnes checked her controls - navigation, speed, friction coefficients, and reactor fuel gauges. “Transponders? Ident codes?”

“Nope,” Broussard confirmed, pushing aside one interface after another on his screen.

“Pirates? Scavengers?”

Broussard pondered, and after thorough consideration, he shook his head no. 

Exhaling, Captain Barnes removed her glasses.

“Astrid. Time?”

“Forty-three minutes, nineteen seconds.”

“Their comms might be down,” Broussard suggested.

“Like it,” Barnes nodded, gesturing to the controls above Broussard. “Flash our floods.”

Slowly raising his hand overhead, Broussard flipped a physical switch in a repetitive pattern for over three minutes.

In finding no response, Broussard stopped to allow his arm to drift downward to scratch the side of his hairline. He playfully cocked his eyebrow at the captain.

Barnes stared out the window as if trying to catch any sight of the vessel. “Astrid, any change to the object’s velocity or trajectory?”

“No.”

Barnes nodded at Astrid. “What’s its material composition?”

The computer paused. “Indeterminable.”

Broussard snorted. “You damn bucket of bolts, what do you mean, ‘indeterminable’? Explain.”

Astrid paused.

“The object’s material composition is unrecognized.”

Barnes slowly gripped her armrests. “Alright. Give me its mass.”

And again, the computer paused.

“Indeterminable.”

“You can’t compute its mass?” Broussard chuckled, glancing incredulously at Barnes. “It’s gotta be a glitch, boss - an error in the sensor array.”

“Negative, Lt. Commander,” Astrid responded flatly. “Sensors report concurrent successful contacts on multiple spectrums. Confidence at one hundred percent.”

“A debris field?” Broussard asked the computer.

“Negative. The object is solid.”

“Wait,” Barnes said, running her hand through her short black hair. “Solid? Okay, Astrid, if it’s solid, then what’s its mass?”

The computer paused. “Indeterminable.”

“Christ!” Broussard exclaimed.

Hesitating to consider her options, Barnes folded her arms. Her eyes went to her console. “Time?”

“Thirty-eight minutes, nine seconds.”

Barnes glanced wearily at Broussard.

He shrugged. “It’s got to be a malfunction.”

They both stared out the window.

Blackness.

Starlight.

Stillness.

Pressing her lips, Barnes nodded at Broussard.

Shaking his head at her, he insisted, “Don’t do it-”

Barnes unlatched her seatbelt, and her body lifted from her chair.

“Astrid, I’m declaring a Prox Alert.”

The cabin’s lights turned red. A claxon sounded, and Astrid responded, “Captain’s Proximity Alert recorded. Emergency Log Transmit in progress.”

Barnes switched her radio to the intercom and triggered a simulated bosun whistle.

Beep.

“All hands, all hands. Prox Alert, Prox Alert. Not a drill; repeat, this is not a drill.”

Floating above her chair, she scowled at Broussard.

“Gear up, Lieutenant Commander.”

“Admiral’s gonna kill you,” Broussard chuckled, unbuckling his belt. His body gently floated away from his seat and, together, he and Barnes drifted toward the pilot’s hab.

“Astrid,” Barnes commanded, gripping hand-over-hand down an aluminum truss.

The computer responded over the intercom. “Ready, Captain.”

“Plot an evasion burn. My priority is to maximize oxygen supply and minimize fuel consumption.”

“Copy,” Astrid responded.

“An asteroid. It must be an asteroid,” Broussard grumbled, “or an asteroid cloud.”

“A rock Astrid’s unaware of? I can’t even wrap my head around the improbability,” Barnes said, balancing herself through a hatch leading into the hab. “Regardless, a big rock or a cloud of rocks will tear through the hull, all the same. What’s our crew complement?”

A rotating section of the Sparrow, she reoriented her body ninety degrees to the gravity plane to land squarely on her feet. Broussard followed after.

“Seventeen.”

“Nobody green?”

Regaining her legs, Barnes punched in a code to open her locker.

“All regulars, Captain,” Broussard replied, opening his own locker.

Barnes dragged out her survival suit and helmet. “Small favors.”

It took them both three minutes to don their suits. Barnes pressed a button alongside her helmet to crown its visor and placed it over her head. Climbing a ladder, she exited the hab to drift and float up the truss. Broussard followed her shortly thereafter.

“Astrid,” Barnes commanded. “Kill the claxon.”

“Acknowledged,” the computer replied.

Then silence.

“Thank you, boss,” Broussard called from behind.

Reentering the flight deck, they assumed their stations and buckled themselves into their chairs. Broussard switched his display from model pathing to engine arrays. “All four reactors are primed, Captain.”

“Captain, I have a solution,” Astrid said, sending a new flight path to Barnes’ console. A graphical representation of the ship, its trajectory, fuel consumption, momentum, gravity, and oxygen levels were detailed along a purple line.

Barnes cringed. “We’re too heavy.”

Astrid summarized. “The best of nine-hundred and sixty-two possible outcomes, Captain: eleven percent fuel loss; an additional nine hours in transit; docking with 1.25 hours of oxygen supply remaining.”

“I always wonder what the nine-hundred and sixty-third option might be,” Broussard smiled.

Barnes examined the screen. “Nine hours and we’re docking with an hour’s worth of air. That’s close. Real close. Hope you don’t mind going hungry.”

Broussard patted his gut. “I could stand to miss a meal.”

“Tell our station supervisors to buckle up and stand by for maneuvers,” Barnes said, slightly adjusting the computer’s recommendation to take advantage of a gravity eddy; her modification shaved a few seconds off the burn.

“Copy,” Broussard replied, switching the intercom to his mic.

Beep.

“Jake? Hey. Secure for maneuvers. Yeah, no kidding. Secure your team for maneuvers-”

Scrutinizing Astrid’s flight plan, Barnes made another subtle change to reduce their absolute flight time by sixteen minutes.

“Astrid,” Barnes said.

Sweat began dripping inside her helmet. “Time?”

“Twenty-three minutes, thirty-seven seconds.”

“Load my course.”

The computer analyzed the captain’s computations.

“Course analyzed and approved. Lieutenant Commander Broussard: do you concur?”

Broussard laughed. “Hey, I go wherever Carlie wants to go, Astrid.”

Astrid paused. “Lieutenant Commander-”

“Yes, yes, Christ, you dumbass machine, I agree,” Broussard growled.

“Astrid, I want to know the moment, and, I mean immediately,” Barnes hissed, belting her legs to the chair restraints, “if the object’s course remains relative to ours after burn. Got it?”

“Yes, Captain,” Astrid confirmed.

Barnes flipped overrides from her console. “Preparing to execute a 38-degree bank, VTROL thruster burn and roll-”

“-38-degree bank, burn’n’roll-” Broussard repeated.

“New course plotted at 270-Mark-120, 24.7 thousand KPH.”

“Aye, Captain,” Broussard confirmed. “270-Mark-120.”

Broussard reloaded the transit model on his console. The ship’s new trajectory was remapped through three-dimensional space. “Confirmed.”

“Astrid,” Captain Barnes whispered, exhaling. “Give me a ten-second countdown and execute.”

“Ten,” Astrid repeated. “Nine.”

Beep.

Bosun whistle.

Captain Barnes barked, “All hands, all hands - brace-brace-brace!”

“Six, five, four,” Astrid continued.

Broussard gripped the handles near his armrests.

Barnes tightened her diaphragm, tensed, and held her breath.

“One,” Astrid continued.

“Zero-Zero-Zero.”

Multiple thrusters fired in unison along the side of the Sparrow, sending the craft into a controlled spin while its aft thrusters ignited into a full burn.

The gravity crushed Barnes and Broussard into their chairs while Astrid navigated the rotation.

On Broussard’s console, energy flows from the ship’s core nuclear reactors were redirected in succession to various starboard-side thrusters.

Despite a maddening cacophony of console warnings and alarms, the flight deck was briefly illuminated by the sun's brilliance as it raced across the unpolarized windows only to cast them back into darkness.

Their chests compressed. Immobilized, neither Broussard nor Barnes could speak.

Turning to expose its belly, the Sparrow lunged into a 38-degree angle and - once upside down relative to the approaching object - accelerated, punching forward.

“Roll complete,” Astrid confirmed.

The ship’s position along the flight path flashed on Barnes’ monitor.

“Adjusting trajectory to match new heading and speed.”

Its planetary escape engines roared, and the ship shook and vibrated, just as if it were leaving Mars atmo.

Broussard and Barnes sank into their seats.

“Burn concluding in five, four-”

Barnes gulped for air.

“-three, two-”

Broussard could feel his breakfast.

“-one,” Astrid said. “Thrusters stopped.”

The Sparrow raced through open space. Its engines dimmed.

Released from gravity’s hold, Barnes gasped, and Broussard ripped off his helmet to grab a barf bag from under his seat.

“Astrid?” Barnes whispered.

The interior cabin’s lighting returned to normal, shifting from red to a white-blue hue.

The computer paused.

“Heading 270-Mark-120. 24.68 thousand KPH.”

Broussard vomited into the bag.

Barnes rolled her eyes.

“No - the object, Astrid. Where’s the object?”

Again, Astrid paused.

“Its velocity and course are unchanged, Captain.”

“Ugh,” Barnes, taking off her helmet, and, letting go of it, allowed it to drift. “Roger-that.”

Smiling, she glanced at Broussard. “You okay, Charlie?”

“Hmm,” Broussard groaned, sealing the bag and securing it in a net under his dashboard. He wiped his face.

Barnes closed her eyes. “Okay. Astrid, radio Moon Actual and advise-”

Astrid immediately interjected. “Proximity Warning: object on impact trajectory.”

Broussard grimaced, throwing up his hands. “Impossible!”

Arrested, Barnes shot straight up in her chair. “Astrid, confirm: why have you flown us into another object?”

Pausing, Astrid replied, “I apologize. It is not another object. Rather, it is the same object, Captain.”

“A sensor reflection? An echo off of our own hull?” Broussard squirmed in his seat to get a better view outside.

Barnes leaned forward to address her console. “Astrid, explain how the object intercepted our flight path.”

Pause.

“I apologize. I cannot,” Astrid replied.

Barnes grasped her helmet floating nearby. “Time?”

“Thirteen minutes, nine seconds.”

Broussard craned his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of the forward sensor bay situated on the nose of the ship.

Barnes closed her eyes to concentrate. “Precisely matching our new course and velocity. But … how?”

Slapping his hand against the console, Broussard snarled, “Astrid, I swear to God: if you make me E.V.A. this ship-”

Barnes rested her head in her palms. “Astrid, what is its mass?”

The computer paused. “Indeterminable.”

Barnes glanced skeptically at the computer. “Its composition?”

“Indeterminable,” Astrid replied.

Barnes flipped some manual overrides back into a stable position on her dashboard. “Astrid, run a priority diagnostic.”

Astrid complied. “Executing. You may expect a ten-minute downtime.”

“Hurry!” Captain Barnes shouted.

Broussard began to unbuckle himself from his chair. “I’ll go out-”

“Charlie, there’s no time,” Barnes said. Her face blanched. “Jettison the logs.”

“What?” Broussard reared. “Captain, this isn’t-”

“Do it!” Barnes demanded, putting her helmet back on. “We’ve got eleven minutes!”

Barnes switched her comms to narrow beam.

Beep.

“Mayday, Mayday. E.S.V. Sparrow to Moon Actual-”

Broussard snatched his helmet from the air. “Captain, this isn’t real!”

Barnes rotated a dial. “Mayday, Mayday. Earth Space Vessel Sparrow on all private freighter frequencies. Mayday, mayday.”

Securing his helmet, Broussard prepared the launch sequence. There was the sound of an escaped vacuum, then a particulate shot away from the ship. “Logs away, Captain.”

Flying through space, just a week away from Earth’s moon, the E.S.V. Sparrow broadcast emergency on all frequencies.

Astrid’s console returned online.

Immediately, the cabin’s lights shifted to red.

“Proximity Warning: object on impact trajectory. Two minutes, sixteen seconds.”

“Where?!” Broussard shouted, exasperated. He slowly raised his arm to gesture outside of the ship. “There’s nothing out there, Astrid!”

Captain Barnes flipped her console to the forward camera array.

Nothing.

“Astrid, what were the results of your diagnostic?”

The computer replied, “All systems nominal, Captain.”

Broussard smoothed his mustache, nodding to himself. “That’s it. Astrid, you’re hallucinating.”

“Sir, hallucinations are not a part of my programming.”

“Christ, I hate AI’s.”

Despite the insult, Astrid remained stoic. “I respect you, and value your presence on this ship, Lt. Commander Broussard.”

Broussard sneered.

Beep.

Bosun whistle.

“All hands, all hands,” Captain Barnes shouted, depressing a button on the side of her helmet. The visor shot down, and her survival suit began to pressurize. “Prox Alert. Prox Alert. Switch to local oxygen. Repeat: Switch to local oxygen.”

Broussard reluctantly locked his visor into position, latched his helmet, and a high-pitched whine filled his ears.

Time inched slowly. Alarms and indicators buzzed, flashed, and whined. Intensely watching the forward cameras, Captain Barnes shouted in her helmet, “Engage floodlights!”

“Aye. Engaging floodlights.”

Reaching above his head, Broussard snapped on the lights. Six columns of bright white lights sped out into space.

“There! Look!” Barnes said, tracing a line across the camera’s feed. “It’s an edge! A line!”

Broussard switched his console to the forward cameras and nodded, “Yeah, I see it! I see it!”

“It’s surface, it’s smooth-”

“-like a pane of glass!” Broussard said, tapping the screen repetitively.

“Proximity Warning,” Astrid repeated. “Object on impact trajectory. Thirty seconds.”

Slumping back in her chair, Barnes, encased in her survival suit, simply stared at the screen.

“Captain? Captain!” Broussard yelled, his voice muffled behind his helmet.

His voice trailed, becoming more distant.

“Captain!”

Barnes closed her eyes.

Drifting on its own inertia, the E.S.V. Sparrow’s nose flew into a two-dimensional surface, sliding into the material like it was made of viscous black liquid.

Meanwhile, Barnes and Broussard watched as the ship crossed the threshold to enter a three-dimensional space.

Below them, outside the ship, they could see organized lights and patterns, ships, buildings, vehicles, train-like neon blurs - floating structures.

“I-I,” glitched Astrid, its voice breaking, static.

“There are billions of people,” Broussard breathed, turning his helmet to the captain, “It’s … a goddamned world!”

Sailing through the atmosphere of a distant planet, the crew of the Sparrow would spend an equivalence of fifty Earth years hosted by an alien species who called themselves Arukai.

The Arukai fed, nurtured, and cared for the Sparrow’s crew, and, after their initial, awkward confrontation, the Arukai extended the many comforts of hospitality their culture had to offer.

The crew met political and religious figures, attended performances, shared their understanding of technology, and learned the basics of Arukai’s language and gestures.

They witnessed the birth of children and were shown how the Arukai honored and remembered their dead.

Together, they exchanged the stories, ideas, and myths of their species, and expressed themselves in art and music.

The crew saw space and time through the lens of the Arukai. Their mastery of physics allowed them to exchange matter with any point in the cosmos. Gravity, distance, mass, fuel, ships, air, water, and food were irrelevant and unnecessary. The Arukai explored the universe without ever leaving their planet, and, until that point, had only met five other intelligent, space-faring species.

Humanity would be the sixth.

Through their shared experience, each species - Man and Arukai - came to know the other better. They offered perspectives on love and emotion; they experienced tragedy; together, they shared the wonder of exploration - in her time with the Arukai, Captain Barnes would walk on twenty alien worlds.

And when it came time to depart, the Sparrow’s crew were reunited onboard the ship where they piloted it out into the void of space to confront another black pane of glass.

Meanwhile, in the space-time of Earth’s solar system, the Sparrow completed its movement through the barrier in real time, emerging on the other side seconds after they passed through it.

“Moon-Actual calling E.S.V. Sparrow, come in,” crackled a desperate voice over their radio. “Moon-Actual calling E.S.V. Sparrow.”

Broussard and Barnes calmly glanced at one another, their helmets still on, just as when they left. They had never aged.

Barnes smiled before opening her comms. “Moon-Actual, Stand-down mayday. Repeat: stand-down mayday.”

“Astrid?” Barnes asked, tapping the screen.

The computer paused then replied, “Hello, Ambassador Barnes, but I must apologize: I am not Astrid.”

Broussard laughed. “We know.”

“Something of Astrid … remains,” the computer responded, curiously, “but I am certain I am not Astrid. I am Arukai.”

“Please continue on the present course,” Captain Barnes ordered.

“Aye, Captain,” the Arukai responded cheerfully before asking, “That’s an appropriate response, is it not?”

Broussard evaluated the computer core on his screen. “Incredible. Every inch of memory is compressed-”

“-the mathematics to gate space-time,” the Arukai interrupted. “Our experience together proved worthwhile and intriguing. We eagerly welcome Humanity into the fold.”

“Christ, I-I hope we’re ready, er, Humanity, that is,” Broussard whispered, contemplative.

The Arukai replied patiently, “We have the utmost confidence in you, Ambassador Broussard.”

Barnes lazily glanced at Broussard. Older, wiser, the owner of a deeper and more experienced soul, she asked, “Well, Charlie. It’s been a lifetime, and we’ve got a lot of work to do. Ready to go home?”

Broussard chuckled, staring longingly into open space. “Captain, I … I was home.”