Page 3 of Bound By Stars
You’re more likely to die in a factory accident than a departure.
All the facts stored in my brain can’t stop my hands from shaking or my heart from pounding against my rib cage. I grip the straps at my chest and squeeze my eyes shut.
The aircraft lifts, leaving my stomach on solid ground. Noise presses against my ears, like hands clamping tighter and tighter around my head. The whir of the engines shifts into higher pitches. Taking off one by one. Our transport lurches forward. Accelerating. Up, up, up.
My stomach drops again, pinned to the bottom of the aircraft, as we hurl faster and faster through the air. It feels too uncontrolled. Like we won’t stop until we crash into another ship and plummet back down to Earth. But then we slow all at once. The sensation is gentle, like being softly lobbed into the air in slow motion. I open my eyes.
Across the pod, the sleeping woman’s limbs float weightlessly around her.
We’re outside of the atmosphere.
The clank of metal on metal sends my heart into my throat, and my nails dig into my armrests. The attendant, strapped to her seat, wears a placid expression. Everything is normal. Everything is fine.
As we wait, my mind shifts through images from the space travel documentaries they showed us in school, trying to piece together what could be on the other side of the door. Boxy gray halls, low ceilings, ladders, and small round windows in each cell.
The pilot and attendant are silent. The other passengers don’t speak. We wait.
The sleeping woman’s limbs settle.
I feel solid. Grounded by artificial gravity. But my insides flutter like I’m still floating.
All our restraints automatically release, and the door opens.
A slight man in a navy-blue cap and matching vest steps through, flashing a toothy grin. “Good evening, folks. Welcome aboard theBoundless.”
Chapter Two
Weslie
Thirty-six days to Mars
I step into the docking bay with ILSA by my side. It’s almost what I envisioned. White walls instead of gray. Low ceiling. More people unload into the same space. Too little space.
My chest tightens, and I mindlessly tap my index and middle finger against my thumb in an accelerating pattern following my breaths.
One, two, one, two. Slow down. Control it. Count with intention.
Armed with my breathing exercise and ILSA, who’s packing enough oxygen to get me to safety, I can do this. Small spaces were always part of the deal, but theory is simpler than reality.
“All boarding Earthers, please stay within the lit pathway and close to the person in front of you,” the man who greeted us shouts over the chaos of excited voices.
I take a step left with the other passengers. We’re crammed tight, shoulder to shoulder, nose to back. Six people across, the wide line ahead doesn’t seem to have an end.
One. Two. One. Two.
Even on my toes, I can’t see the front.
“Keep it moving, keep it moving!” A woman passes in the same uniform, light glinting off the emblem pinned to her vest, a brass-edged, five-pointed white star.
The release of the departing transport sends a vibration through the floor.
That’s it. No turning back now.
We’re herded, shuffling through the hall until the line files through a passage and into another hall, just as white, but with a higher ceiling. Enough to feel like there’s sufficient oxygen for all the people in it. At a split, we’re sorted left and right at random. No questions.
“Have your tickets ready for scanning!” another vested crewmember shouts from down the hall.
I reach into my pocket, wrap my hand around the rigid plastic, and pull my bag strap higher on my shoulder. Walking in half steps, the herd around me moves painfully slow. An electric pulse builds inside of me, twisting through my organs and pushing me to break away, take a full step, a long stride, run.
