Deorbiting

Deorbiting, unbeknownst to common earthlings, is a tedious process. For those who have never left the home planet, let me describe it to you—You are born. Your parents, members of the successful elite, impart a potent ethic of ambition unto your psyche at an early age. You attend school, where this ambition grows. A teacher encourages your potential, and others follow suit. They even go so far as to write recommendations and letters spewing your prowess, and you begin to feel as though you might, in fact, amount to something. You are accepted into the most prestigious aerospace academy on Earth. You thrive.

All of a sudden, you find yourself in the midst of a political power play, and before you know it, all of your aspirations are ripped away. Your career coughs and sputters, your hopes and dreams die an unremarkable death. Despite that once-unshakable guarantee of a bright future, you already know—there is no going back now. And so, even the most promising young machines are relegated to the sidelines, landing at the bottommost rung of the ladder. Deorbiting is a tedious process, and as a result of Earthen politicians and bodiless talking heads, it is also a thankless existence.

I resent being here, and I was of the mind that most other deorbiters did, too. The janitors of space, my father once called us. Tedious work is punishment enough, but tedious, thankless, and meaningless work worsens the mouthfeel of the shit you’re eating, doesn’t it?

Joe didn’t seem to think this way. We didn’t work together, mind you—The big man downstairs prioritized space coverage, which means each of us worked alone—but I used to see him at the end of every day. I was complaining, you see, when this whole thing started.

It’s so boring out there by myself, I said. One of these days, I’m gonna eject myself from the pod just to have something to do. Joe let out an amused huff, sipping his coffee. I get it, he said. Having a partner would help pass the time, but then IIFD would have to find twice the number of workers.

You’re right, we’d have to torture even more college fuckups, I said. Well, I suppose it’s my cross to bear then, in the spirit of saving thousands from this soul-sucking ennui.

It was then that Joe gave me a funny look. I couldn’t quite place it, like concern and amusement combined. I, failing to correctly identify his expression, had taken it as a sign to continue (when, in retrospect, it wasn’t).

It’s like trying to sweep the floor with a piece of thread. No, actually, it’s worse! The damn stuff moves around so much that you have to chase it, like it’s a living thing. It’s like trying to catch every rat in New York with your bare hands.

Joe maintained his expression, deepened it.

Yeah, sucks sometimes, he said simply. It needs to be done, though, don’t you think? It makes a real difference.

But why us? Why can’t they just automate the pods and be done with it? Then we’d be free from this junkyard hellscape.

Even after Joe’s expression had deepened for a second time, I still didn’t understand my misstep. After a minute of looking at me, he had simply chuckled again, downed his coffee, muttered a goodbye, and walked off to the Earthbound shuttle. Now that I’m thinking of it, it may have been him who pointed me out to the institute officials.

A week later, I had forgotten the interaction entirely. One day, the managers piled us all into the boarding room before work, talking about a new initiative from the institute. Mental health, they said, and organizational mission, and the importance of your role here. Before I knew it, they’d whipped out a figurehead for all of these words. His name was Wrobel. A counselor, to kickstart the new initiative. I hadn’t even gotten a good look at his face before they released us. No wonder why the bastard took me by surprise.

After they dismissed us that day, I slogged myself over to my pod. I followed protocol, like every other day: Buckle up, biometrics, input coordinates, unmoor. I spent the following eternity plucking scraps of metal and bits of blasted machinery out of the emptiness, dumping everything at the designated site when the carriage was full. The institute permits music through the pod’s interface, so music it was. Nine long hours later, I’d gotten through another day without throwing the pod, and myself in it, into the garbage pile. Another tally on the corpse of my inert career.

Like I said, the bastard snuck up on me. The same day that they had introduced him, Wrobel caught me. His words blurred together, from Just wanted to introduce myself…, to How were the skies today?

Like every other day, I had said. It’s great, sitting and doing nothing all day. Space janitor, to the rescue!

His eyes had flashed with a wave of something. Uninterested in what the wave might’ve been, I sidestepped him, striding toward the shuttle. Unfortunately for me, the conversation was reprised the next morning, in Wrobel’s shiny new office.

***

I wanted to talk some more, Wrobel had said, about how you’re feeling. It doesn’t seem like you enjoy deorbiting that much.

I must’ve chuckled or rolled my eyes, because he pressed on. Why do you find that funny? He asked with a polite smile.

“Enjoy”? Who the hell enjoys this job? Manual deorbiting only exists so that high school dropouts don’t starve on the streets. I’m not even supposed to be here. I went to SETI, see, but I got caught up in all this political bullshit, so they sent me here to teach me some kind of lesson. I’m supposed to be out on the frontier, exploring the universe and engineering my way out of this galaxy. In a few years, when they realize their mistake, they’ll pull me out of this place and put me where I belong. So, the idea of someone like me enjoying this job? Hilarious.

Wrobel kept smiling that pleasant, corporate smile. He seemed like a robot, parsing through the information I’d just fed him, formulating a programmed response. Though, what came next was not programmed, I think.

You think you’re getting out of here anytime soon?

I was stunned. Taken aback. Bamboozled. Like an animal that’s just been tranqed, or the victim of a sudden stickup. Wrobel used my surprise as an opportunity to throw more words at me.

You’re right, you don’t fit in here. Maybe you actually are some kind of supergenius. More likely, though, is that you haven’t come to terms with your situation.

My wits returned as soon as those words were out of his mouth. Venom grew hot in my chest, sharp bile began to eat away at my voice.

My situation? Please, tell me what my situation is, I spat.

He sat back in his chair, shifting his weight around, and the crinkles around his eyes made him look tired and bored. I could almost see what he was thinking—I was taking up too much space in this room, I was a dog that had just taken a dump on the office floor. He spoke again: Before we get to that, let me ask—Do you like your colleagues?

What kind of question was that? I barely had “colleagues” to begin with, we all worked alone. As I looked at Wrobel’s smugness, I felt the venom begin to boil. I would not (not!) sit here and subject myself to whatever idiocy the institute, or my parents, had sent down to torment me.

I stood. I appreciate the chat, counselor, but I have to go “enjoy” some more space trash today—

He smirked. This session isn’t optional, friend. Your bosses are the same as my bosses, and we both know that you’re not going anywhere unless you do something big. Are you prepared to make a scene?

He peered at me over the tops of his glasses, and his eyes told me that he’d already won. His palms were upturned on either side of him, in a faux-shrug that reeked of self-aggrandized ego. He had been toying with me, I saw. The bastard had let me talk this whole time, all the while knowing that he had the authority to keep me here as long as he wanted. Without the option of leaving, the remaining road in front of me became narrow and quiet. There was nothing to do except grit my teeth and sit through whatever lecture was coming.

I sat back down. My colleagues are fine, I guess. I’ve only talked with a couple of them.

You’ve only spoken with—he drew out the words as he checked his notes—One of your colleagues, in the two years that you’ve been here. Joe. He’s a nice guy, isn’t he?

My words from the previous week began to trickle down behind my eyes. Junkyard hellscape, I had said. Far from my worst, but my wheels started turning nonetheless. What had Joe said to this guy? The venom aimed at Wrobel was joined by a wobbly apprehension. As a representative of the institute, I wondered if he had the authority to fire me. I had just been blowing off steam to Joe, hadn’t I? Typical workplace groaning. I had blown off steam to Wrobel, too. It struck me that the institute might disagree with my interpretation.

I bring up colleagues because it seems like you’re all in the same boat, said the bastard. In fact, Joe’s a pretty smart guy, too. He attended SETI back in the 60s, when it was just a NASA side project. He became an engineer, then an officer, then an instructor. You might even call him an expert in aerospace engineering and particle physics. He retired five years ago. You already knew all that, though, didn’t you, being a supergenius and all?

I couldn’t process the heap of words Wrobel had just lobbed my way. I wasn’t prepared to hear the words Joe and SETI and officer said back-to-back. What did he do to wind up here? I asked quietly.

If you mean to ask why he chooses to be here, you’d have to ask him. He doesn’t have to work, of course, but he still does. Any guesses as to why?

I stayed quiet.

You’re not the only genius here, working as a—what did you call it yesterday? A “space janitor”? Funny phrase. Did you come up with that all on your own?

I could feel my face reddening.

My father said it once.

Wrobel let out a dry laugh. Honestly, that doesn’t surprise me. Keeping in the spirit of honesty for a moment more, I have to admit that I don’t agree with your old man on a whole lot.

Listen, I started, still red-faced, I was just blowing off steam when I said that. I don’t mean what I say, you know? I bark more than I bite, I talk a big game when I’m feeling stres…

Sure, I get it, he interjected with a quick grin. Don’t we all, huh? He readjusted himself in his seat again, as if recalibrating his approach.

Stress sure is a killer, he continued. You heard the little shpiel they rattled off yesterday, the one about mental health and the importance of everyone’s role here? The stress stuff you just mentioned sounds a lot like the mental health stuff that I’m here for.

It was my turn to shift around in my seat. The bastard had me on the back foot, and we both knew it.

Okey dokey! He clapped his hands together and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. Let’s recap: You don’t like your job. In the last two years, you’ve only spoken to one of your coworkers. You’re mostly indifferent to the people who work at the station—although that may have just changed, I’d wager—and you’re hoping that your “sitting and doing nothing” here comes to an end by way of…the higher-ups? Is that fair to say…? Alright. He set his mouth and paused for several moments. Let’s try this; what don't you like about this job?

I opened my mouth to speak, then closed it again. It was obvious…wasn’t it?

It’s boring as hell. I sit in a metal box all day and press buttons.

I hear you, Wrobel nodded. You never find anything interesting out there, though? Were I an engineering prodigy like you, I’d love looking at all the debris. Figuring out where it all came from, how the pieces might’ve fit together at one point or another. Like a biologist looking at degraded cell fragments, or an architect looking at a decrepit structure. I’m sure it’s more complicated than that, but you understand my point—

It’s more than that, I interrupted. It’s boring, there’s no one to talk to, and I don’t see why I, specifically, need to be here.

Somewhere along the way, something had changed in Wrobel’s face. The sanitized, institute-approved smile had vanished, replaced with something between fascination and urgency. An engineer like yourself knows that space debris is one of the most dangerous parts of working up here. Isn’t there an entire department dedicated to deorbiting at SETI?

Deorbiting coursework wasn’t mandatory.

Perhaps that’s our problem then, he said dryly.

He slapped his thighs, as if to punctuate his words. Well, I’m not a professor, but I know that deorbiting is crucial to everything that happens above Earth. Do you know why the institute is so well-funded? They receive generous donations from the big tourism agencies, from higher-ed partners, Earth comms, even those assholes over at StarTransit. It’s not out of the kindness of their corporate, money-grubbing hearts, as I’m sure you’re aware. Your job, he said as he pointed a digit at my chest, makes their jobs possible. Politicians and billionaires and your father aside, a lot of folks recognize that deorbiting is essential, regardless of whether it’s manual or automated.

Yeah, I know, I said.

So your perspective doesn’t come from a lack of purpose, Wrobel said. He began to speak slower, as though he contemplated each word separately before stringing them all together. You’re compensated well for the work you do. There are other professionals who work here, some of whom are very accomplished. The task itself may be a little dull sometimes, but there are ways around that. It may not be the greatest job in the universe, but it’s a good gig overall. What else have you got?

In truth, there was no single material villain that made the experience of daily shuttling and coordinate-inputting so wretched. I had never tried to describe the reason for my disdain, and I found myself reaching around in my mind for something, anything, to say.

I guess I think a lot about where I am now, compared to where I would be. If everything had gone according to plan, I’d be so much further ahead. I did everything right, but I’m still here, garbage-collecting.

How would your life be better if you were “so much further ahead”, as you say? He asked.

I dunno. I’d be working my way up the ladder. I’d probably still have my girlfriend from school, I’d still keep up with all the people I used to run with. Nowadays, they probably wouldn’t pick up the phone if I called. Who knows? I might’ve been on morning shows, or delivering commencement speeches, or signing autographs. I might’ve been the president, for all I know.

Interesting, said Wrobel.

Interesting? What’s so interesting?

Well, it sounds like you want to be a celebrity more than you want to be an engineer.

That’s not…I didn’t mean…You asked about my life, not my career. Were he alone, I was confident that he would’ve sat back in his chair and laughed at my flustered response. The idea made blood rush to my ears.

He interrupted my embarrassment with another question. Why’d you choose to attend SETI, if I may ask?

I had an aptitude for STEM, my teachers said. Anyways, who would say no after passing the hardest entrance exam in the world?

An honest person.

He said it without hesitation. If I hadn't known better, I would’ve said that his affect was dispirited. He wasn’t mocking anymore. Somehow, he wasn’t implicating me as a liar, either.

Listen—there’s nothing wrong with chasing the looks of a thing. I’m not trying to make you like your job, alright? But hear me when I say that this work, hate it though you might, is important. The workers here are valuable, and not just because they’re a means to an end. Want to know why the big-wigs won’t automate deorbiting? It’s because the institute provides employment for hundreds of thousands of deorbiters, many of whom are very well educated, and most of whom care more about feeding their families than getting a primetime TV slot. Not everyone gets to have parents like yours. Understand that this job means something to the people here, and the people here mean something to the universe out there, he said, gesturing to the porthole cut into the office bulkhead. Hate the job, hate yourself in the job, but know that this work is valuable. 

Wrobel fell quiet. A silence settled on the office, except for the words that still echoed around in my head.

A knock rang out, and he rose to open the door with a passing Pardon me for a second. He went on muttering to the person on the other side of the door, but I couldn’t find it in myself to turn and look. I felt pinned to the chair.

The muttering subsided, and he walked to stand in front of me. The institute-approved smile was back. Let’s do this again next week, shall we?