THIRTY-SEVEN
STARS AND SATELLITES
March keeps a wary eye on Bahjin as the latter hurries around a massive spherical white pod in section three of Odysseus. He drifts from one dashboard to another along walls lined with storage compartments and wires, flipping switches, entering parameters into a long, tactile screen. A final pull on a big lever causes a low hum to rise from the reentry pod.
“Okay, now we suit up,” he announces.
March and I help each other seal our respective helmets. Once it’s done, I look into his eyes, the lines of worry and exhaustion around them. Mr. November really doesn’t like space, this beautiful immensity he has zero control over . . . I take his hand and pull him with me toward the pod. Somehow, each in our little bubble, with about a million layers of various insulation systems between our skins, we’ve never been closer.
Once the three of us are strapped in our seats, the pod’s air lock closes slowly and hisses shut. I look around at the two rows of three seats and the big, round window while Bahjin programs the pod’s boosters to propel us back into the atmosphere. I crane my neck to check the back of the pod. There’re two crates of dry food and drinking water encased in the walls, along with medical equipment. Most of the space is occupied by some sort of long and large back seat. The whole thing was probably designed to be minimally habitable in case the astronauts land in the middle of the Arctic Ocean, and it takes days to rescue them—and they have to eat the weakest one in the end . . . Jesus, I should have never read that book about the Franklin expedition. It messed me up.
Next to me, March is silent in his seat, his nostrils flaring slightly with each breath.
“Are you okay?” I ask, taking his hand.
His voice echoes inside my helmet, sounding frayed. “Yes . . . but let’s agree to never go to space again.”
“What happened? How did you get into the ship?”
He squeezes my hand. “Let’s say I’m not entirely certain Mr. Stiles was ever loyal to Anies.”
“He helped you?”
“Threw the suit at me and shoved me into the cargo unit, really. But yes, he went to great lengths to ensure Odysseus’s mission failed.”
I try to compute the news. Has he been some sort of triple agent all along? For who then?
“You fucked us up, dude . . .” Bahjin mumbles to March through the radio while the pod starts to move, carried by an electronic arm toward a large air lock.
“So you traveled in there,” I muse, ignoring the input from the sociopathic douchesac—who’s admittedly saving our lives—in the front seat.
“Those missiles were a little too close for comfort,” March admits.
I wince.
“We’re going out,” Bahjin announces, as a series of soft clanks outside indicates that the metal arms are releasing us. I watch them through the window as we float away into the star-studded void. They look like they’re waving good-bye. I remember that this place is a tomb and avert my eyes.
With the help of the boosters, Odysseus shrinks away until all I can make out is a white spot in the dark blanket enveloping us. My head lolls, and I think I close my eyes a few times, holding on to March’s hand as we drift, drift . . .
“We’re seventy-five miles downrange; it’s gonna get a little shaky,” Bahjin warns us.
A bold understatement. I grip March’s hand as the pod starts to tremble and, indeed, shake badly. Fiery arcs of light flash through the window, yellow, orange, and then a bright, beautiful pink. “It’s the plasma trail,” I yell excitedly in my helmet while my body is otherwise threatening to come apart as we barrel into Earth’s atmosphere at four thousand miles per hour. March turns his head to look and consents to a stiff smile while, around the pod, compressed air ignites and engulfs us in fireworks so vibrant, so beautiful that maybe it was all worth it, just for that moment. March still doesn’t like space though.
The pod’s trail blaze eventually dies, replaced by an endless blue sky. We tear through a gradient of indigo, cobalt, azure until Bahjin’s voice yells in our helmets, “Hold on tight; the chute’s getting released!”
I brace myself, expecting to feel the same kind of jerk I experienced when March and I jumped from the helicopter back in Finland, something that will make my stomach heave all the way up to the back of my throat. But we didn’t fall at the speed of sound in a two-ton capsule at the time . . . and it’s bad. Shaking-and-mixing-your-internal-organs bad, three-thousand-mile-high-roller-coaster bad. We spend several seconds dangling at the end of a giant yo-yo, and I fear brain commotion is on the menu, when at last, the ride comes to an end.
The parachute is rocking us gently as we descend toward turquoise waters and pale sand. I let out a deep breath as the pod plops into shallow waters, swaying a few yards away from a beach.
March removes his helmet with a deep sigh. “Nie meer ruimte reis.” No more space travel.
“Where are we?” I ask Bahjin as we both remove our helmets.
He checks the screen in front of him. “About six miles northeast of Nassau. Rose Island. Just so you know, the pod is emitting a signal, so the men in black are probably gonna show up in a few hours to get it back.” He unclasps his seat belt and seems to be searching for something under his seat. March tenses, and his hand reaches for the gun in its holster.
But all Bahjin pulls out is a big orange bag. He flips a couple of switches, and the pod’s door unlocks before whirring open. He gives a sharp tug at a string hanging from the bag before tossing it into the water. March and I watch in mild confusion as a self-inflating raft unfolds and swells into shape.
He turns to look at us. “Is it okay if I go?”
March’s jaw tics.
“I mean, you’re good now. And they have condoms in the med kit if you want. They added them after they figured some engineers had been testing the pod after hours—totally gross.” When he sees that the two of us are staring at him blankly, he swallows. “I’m making things awkward . . . No, no, I get it. That was . . . awkward.”
Bahjin and I see March reaching for his gun at the same time, and our savior’s wince mirrors mine. “I thought we were good? Come on, man . . . Is it because I’m Indian? Blame the immigrant for everything, is that what this is about?”
March’s chest heaves, his lips set in a thin line, and I’m sure I know what’s coming, but Bahjin doesn’t. He gives us this candid and expectant look that turns into panic when March lunges at him. There’s little suspense as to the issue of the fight as March efficiently locks Bahjin’s arms behind his back—a shiver of sympathy makes its way down my spine. The way his elbows are bent looks painful. Bahjin squeals in vain as March drags him out of the pod, and they plop together in the raft.
Water sloshes, laps at the orange plastic, and there’s a lot of scuffling and protesting as March straddles Bahjin before he grabs a handful of the parachute’s lines floating all around the pod . . . Oh my God, I knew it: he’s secretly into bondage. My eyebrows rise higher and higher as I witness his expert trussing of a squirming Bahjin. The guy’s wrists, legs, and ankles get secured with tight knots before March performs his finishing move, using a loose nylon strap to gag his victim. After that, Bahjin’s screams dial down to muffled, exhausted grunts.
“Are you gonna leave him in the raft like that?” I ask, unfolding from my seat to better examine March’s handiwork. “What if seagulls try to eat him?”
The interested party writhes in terror as March casually answers, “They’d need to tear through his suit first, but they’re very smart creatures. They’ll start with his face.”
I study our prisoner with a sorrowful sigh. “Maybe we could cover him with something, just in case?”
•••
March agreed to cover Bahjin with the parachute so seagulls won’t gouge out his eyeballs, and after he secured the raft to the pod, we closed the door to get some much-needed privacy. He’ll be fine . . . I guess.
It’s not that bad in here, and it helps that we’re in the Bahamas and it’s 80.6 degrees. I’m starting to get why the engineers liked the pod so much. We got rid of our space suits and made ourselves comfortable in that giant back seat. I rifled through the various storage compartments in search of things to steal. You wouldn’t believe the things NASA slaps its logo on . . . I found wet wipes to freshen up, a clean white tank top and a matching T-shirt for March—so keeping those—but also NASA toothpaste, blue NASA blankets, and even a few Milky Ways. These guys thought of everything.
Once March is done with his second candy bar, he proceeds to fold the wrappers repeatedly, until all that’s left is a compact square that he puts in the pod’s tiny trash compartment. He did the same with his wet wipes, and I’m almost scared at the idea of how clean his place must be.
When he returns to the back seat with me, I curl against his shoulder while his lips linger on my forehead.
“March, there’s something I need to ask you, and I’m so sorry if it sounds . . . awkward.”
Around my shoulder, his hand pulls me a little closer, as if he’s afraid I’ll drift away. “I have no secrets from you.”
“I forgot your name,” I admit bluntly. “I know you have this nickname, Mr. November, but March, I have no idea if it’s your first name, your last, or even some sort of . . . codename. I’m sorry, I don’t remember.” God, that sounded almost as bad as “Who are you and what are you doing in that pod with me?”
“March is the name my mother gave me, and I never told you my family name,” he admits quietly. “I wanted to be Mr. November for you, someone . . . right. So I never told you. I gave up my name when joining the Lions . . . and I thought you wouldn’t have liked the boy I used to be much, anyway.”
“It was you, even then, and I think”—a sob builds in my throat that I can’t contain—“I think Dries liked the boy you used to be too.”
He draws a tired sigh. “I never imagined I would say this one day, but I’m going to miss him.”
“He was a flamboyant asshole,” I concur. March chuckles in response. “But I feel like I lost such an important part of me.” My vision blurs again as I say this, and he pulls me into a tight hug that eventually results in our spooning in the back seat.
“We’ll find a doctor to remove that thing,” he murmurs in my ear. “And there’s a big part of yourself awaiting you in New York. It’s been a very difficult eight months for your father and Joy too…”
March is right: the warmth in my chest as he mentions them reminds me that I miss them, need them. Their memory has been wiped, yet my love for them remains, like a glimmering outline in my mind. I roll around to face him, caress his cheeks, his jaw, made rough by a little stubble. “You’re a very important part too.” Perhaps the most . . . “But you still haven’t told me. Who’s my boyfriend?”
He whispers it against my lips, like a secret just for the two of us, and I smile. It’s a good name. I can get used to that. I close my eyes when his lips roam away from my mouth, tasting my neck, my clavicles. His hands sneak under my tank top—I think he’s trying to say it’s in the way: I pull it over my head and drop it in the crate closest to me. March’s T-shirt joins it right afterward.
I indulge in some chest-hair therapy, caressing it over and over while his fingertips skitter across the territory they already know, making me squirm. “You’re tickling me!”
“My apologies, I would never . . .” is what he says before launching a vicious attack on my sides.
“A penny for your thoughts.” I gasp after he decides I’ve suffered enough.
His eyebrows rise comically. “Are you certain?”
“I can handle the truth,” I proclaim with a firm nod.
He brings me close to his body, so I can feel exactly just how much all that tickling affected him. My hands roam on his shoulders, linger on the rough canvas of the lion that was once carved into his skin. He welcomes the attention with a purr, and I feel the mood shift. “I’m thinking,” March begins, “that this is perhaps the only place in the world where no one will call or barge in.” His body moves atop mine as he goes on. “Additionally, I checked under the bed and determined we are sloth free.”
I press a trembling kiss to his chin and tug at his underwear. “What about the men in black? What if they knock to get their capsule back?”
He stifles a strained laugh in the crook of my neck. “I’ve reached a point where I’m shooting whoever interrupts us. Human or animal. No exceptions.”
“You’re a menace to society.”
I think he says, “Indeed,” but the word gets lost in a deep, meticulous kiss that leaves no part of my mouth uncharted. I feel my panties slipping down my legs, the caress of his hands as he helps them past my ankles. I hold on to him and lose track of time, forget everything but our skins gliding, our hands and lips exploring urgently.
I’ll be eternally grateful to the lewd engineers who first explored the pod’s potential, because we quickly reach a point where each touch is simultaneously too much and not enough. March’s breaths become husky sighs. He says we really need a condom, but his hands won’t listen, caressing my thighs and bringing my hips ever closer to his. How we manage to stop kissing long enough to disentangle ourselves, I have no idea.
It’s a strange pause, a few seconds of shivering anticipation, when he moves away to take a little blue foil packet from the pod’s medical kit. I’m not really scared, but I become aware of my inexperience; everything feels new, the smell of the condom, the way March’s body molds to mine with intent. I look into his eyes, finding tenderness and hesitation that mirror mine, and I know that bond is all I’ll ever need.
My heart beats fast, elated, and when the pain comes, I embrace it. I bury my head in the crook of March’s shoulder, breathing a little sweat and tasting salt. It’s done, and that single precious moment belongs to us both.
Above me, March isn’t moving yet. I feel the tension coiling the muscles in his shoulders; they strain under my palms with the effort to support himself and keep still. “Biscuit, I’m so sorry . . . are you all right?”
I look up at him and nod, too overwhelmed to form words at the moment. It hurts more than I expected—enough to for me to briefly consider that penetrative intercourse is to foreplay what the Gremlins are to Gizmo, really—but I need him to know that it’s okay, that there’s nothing to apologize for. Because we’re making love.
I cradle his jaw in my palm and feel it quiver under my fingertips. His features are taut like he’s in pain too . . . but a wonderful kind of pain. Our hands join on the fleece blanket, his lips find mine, and little by little, we learn each other, find our rhythm.
I let that gentle swell rock me and lose myself in March’s eyes, blue galaxies where his emotions lie bare: the need, the joy. The pleasure. All too soon, he strains against me, draws in a hissing breath, and I know it’s over. He’s falling from the stars, and I hold him all the way down, until his body grows heavy atop mine, exhausted. He rolls over, his hand never letting go of mine, even in that sweet aftermath.
Curling against him, I listen to my own breathing and feel my heart rate slowing down with a sense of wonderment. From a purely physical point of view, it wasn’t exactly stars and satellites, but nonetheless, a giant step for all twenty-six-year-old girls named Island who love their hit man boyfriend . . . Also, to be honest, my lower regions are tingling quite a bit, and not just from the lingering ache. That whole Lego business does sound very promising.
After he’s recovered from the high, March draws the blanket over us, and his thumb swipes at my cheeks. “I’m sorry . . . I hurt you.”
I lick a salty drop from my upper lip. I didn’t realize I’ve been crying. I shake my head. “Not that much.”—I swallow back more stupid tears—“I think it was awesome.”
He draws me close, wrapping his arms around me like a safe cocoon. “You’re too generous with me. I’m sorry that you didn’t . . . that it wasn’t quite—”
“It was the best sex I ever had,” I say to rescue him, burying a smile in the holy rug covering his pectorals.
I feel his laughter rumble through his chest. “The things you do to my ego, Miss Chaptal . . .”
We stay like this for a while, sated, sleepy, cuddling and whispering to each other the silly things you can say to someone who officially knows every square inch of your body. I can’t say we’re really concerned about who will come to recover the pod or when—the later the better.
That is, until a distant droning reaches us through the thick titanium walls. I prop myself on my elbows to glance through the window . . . and fall back with a groan.
“Helicopter?” March asks, rather rhetorically.
“Yeah.”
“Biscuit, I’m afraid we have to give the pod back.”
I stifle a hiss of pain as I get up—I didn’t realize I was that sore . . . “I’m keeping the toothpaste and the underwear.”
“I’m certain they won’t mind,” March concedes with a wink before reluctantly slipping back into the pressure suit. Because it’s those or greeting the men in black in our birthday suits instead.
As the droning grows in intensity, we open the pod’s air lock. March jumps onto the inflatable raft to check on Bahjin, who remained safely roped and gagged. He looks fine, but I still feel a little guilty that we left him outside like that while we . . . Well, he was going to nuke a US airbase after all.
As expected, a navy blue helicopter is hovering above our heads, the wind of its rotor raising a crystalline mist around us and swaying the raft gently. When the ladder drops down, my knees quiver, and I hesitate. For all I know, that’s another first for me, and I thought the US government had secure procedures for this kind of stuff rather than G.I. Joe–style stunts. But I remind myself that I broke the sound barrier twice today. I flex the couple of muscles in my arms. I can do this.
March helps me latch on to the ladder, and I try my best to ignore the way it swings back and forth as I climb, one torturous rung after another, with the wind lashing at my face. And, for the love of Raptor Jesus, I repeat to myself, don’t look down. Don’t!
I inwardly squeal in relief when I feel strong hands taking mine and helping me inside the chopper. It takes me less than a second to figure what’s wrong though. It’s the black fatigues every man is wearing that tip me off. Or maybe the fact that behind their sunglasses, none of these guys seem genuinely pleased to see me. March’s expression too darkens when he reaches the top of the ladder and discovers the rescue team.
I’m not entirely certain that those Lions flew all the way to Nassau to congratulate me on successfully murdering their commander.