FRIGATE KANORADO
SATELLITE MISSION
Isabel Kalishnikov
We lowered the satellite onto the deck of the frigate Kanorado.
“Okay, WarChild. Good job working the claw. Bring it back and I’ll hover around for a set down.”
“Are you sure we can’t just get them to sign off electronically?” He complained.
“No,” I replied. “We have to set down, visually inspect the satellite to make sure we didn’t dent it or break it. Then we need the payload master to sign off. Once the PayMas signs off, we can jump off the deck and head back.”
He sighed. “Okay. What...Ever.”
I could tell by the long what /pause /ever that he was now aggravated with something else. “What is it with you now?” I asked.
“I just don’t like dealng with Greenies. That’s all.”
“Come on, recoil the claw. Stop complaining. Earth people are just people. Like us.” Although, it was obvious I was talking out of my bowel chute.
“Come on! They are not like us,” he insisted. “I know I can deal with them. It’s just that, well, you know.”
“Ohhhh,” I nodded my head. “You’re saying I can’t deal with them. Because, what? I’m a girl?”
“You’re also young, even for a Martian slicker. I mean, you are only 12.”
“Spare me your condescending attitude, WarChild.”
“Hey, I’m not just responsible for myself, I’m responsible for you, too,” he said.
“Child, please.” I held up my hand. “I might only be 12. But I’m more than capable of handling a few old people.”
And it’s true. I’ve grown up mingling among the adults on the the shipping lanes. It is true that I identify my age with the Martian cycle. My calendar has 668 days on it- just like all Martians and Capitalists. Because the Martian year passes slowly, I would have with half as many birthdays as a Greenie born the exact same time as me. Meaning, I’m half as old.
And it’s not just the number of trips around the sun. Earth people just get so old. Scientists think it could be the gravity or proximity to the sun’s radiation. But they become adults. Us Martian folk, we live slow and die younger.
Sometimes I think about what it would be like to get old. How cool it must be to look seasoned and wise. I wonder what it’s like to move slower, with a measure of patience.
But then other times I think “Ewww. It must suck to get old.”
I was so fixated on these thoughts that I tuned out my turn and approach. I was already hovering on approach over the frigate’s deck. The brown vest was waving me in. The magnetic tracking was just latching onto us. The RavenClaw set down on the deck. We powered down the thruster cycles.
I unbuckled my harness as WarChild announced the EPS panels were closed. I turned to head back out of the flight deck.
“Hey, take your helmet,” WarChild called.
“Why? I asked. “The deck pad is air and heated.”
“Look, I just want to make sure we’re safe. Just do it. And I promise I wont do anything else to protect you.”
“Ugh. Oh-kay!” I rolled my eyes and grabbed my helmet. I feigned annoyance. But secretly, there was a part of me that was touched. WarChild is looking out for me. He actually cares about me. And that means something.
But I’m still going to mess with him ove it. “Fine! Anything else, mom? Want me to tie my shoelaces? Maybe go to the bathroom before we leave?”
We walked out of the back ramp. There were several people standing off to the side, watching a forklift drive over to the satellite. I had the digipad tucked under my arm. I wanted show WarChild I’m a competent girl by handling the Greenies. Any normal person might be daunted by having to be on stage in front of everyone. But I understand my emotional spectrum. Insecurity can be a very useful tool for solving multiple problems at once. Think about it. Insecurity is the fear of inadequency in front of multiple perceptions. So, it stands to reason that if a person can see how their biggest insecurity can be altered, it can change how they are viewed by everyone around.
“I’ll do the talking. You just stand there looking serious.” I slapped WarChild’s shoulder. “Hey, brah. Who’s the PayMas?”
It was slightly disorienting, hearing my loud words bend in the open air of the deck’s atmosfield. With insecurity, it would have been intimdating. But I accepted it as part of the weirdness I brought to the moment.
The group of four turned slowly toward us. “I am the Payload Master,” the one man said. They looked like three adults and an older youth. Perhaps he was a Martian. The oldest of the the four was the PayMas. He had streaky, white blond hair that flared out from his headphones. He had stark, green eyes. A Greenie with with greeny eyes. His face was windburned. Lines were etched around his eyes where he smiled, or squinted. And he was tall.
WarChild and I stood before them, looking up at them. They were all condensed humans. Fleshy. Blocky. Definitely looked like Greenies.
“My goodness,” he said. “Martians look younger every year.”
The slur didn’t even phase me. “Maybe you’re just getting older. I mean, like old. How old are you? Sixty?”
“I’m thirty-five,” he replied. He smiled at his group. “I like this one. Seriously, how old are you?”
“I’m twelve,” I said,
“Wow,” he said. “That’s pretty young.”
“What can I say?” I shrugged. “Even on Mars, I’m a prodigy. Imagine how accomplished I’ll be when I’m your age.”
I could tell I hit a nerve. He grimmaced. Or maybe he was passing gas like an old person.
I held out the digipad. “You mind signing this? We would like to be on our way. I’ll wait if you need to find your reading glasses.”
