Chapter Text
I was never meant to remain alone up here. It was supposed to be hours– twenty-two to be exact; everything in space is known and measured, precisely predicted. And yet, here I am—preparing to be completely alone for an unknown amount of time.
I hear the quiet whir of machines as I bound weightless from screen to screen, trying to determine my current status. But even as I look from screen to screen, my brain wrestles with a feeling of impending doom.
“Some issue with their main rocket,” the voice in the speaker tells me, “that’s why they aborted.”
I’ve prepared for situations like these. You don’t become an astronaut by being delicate or soft. I remind myself of the tough stuff I’m made of: graduating from The Naval Academy top of my class, breezing through medical school, and being recruited by NASA. Having a successful career as an astronaut—
“Dr. Scully, can you confirm your current velocity and the pressure parameters?” a technician asks, interrupting my inner pep talk. The technician is one of many voices from Houston—the Johnson Space Center, to be precise, where several dozen engineers and scientists monitor everything that is happening up here.
“Seventeen thousand, six hundred and eighty-four miles per hour, Houston. Pressure gauges are within limits.”
“Thank you, Dr. Scully. We’re working on next steps down here. The Director suggests you might do your daily exercises and report back when finished?”
“Affirmative.”
Houston ends the call. They’re still monitoring hundreds of readings—pressures, temperatures and speed among other things, but when our calls end, they mostly leave me alone.
Despite the isolation I feel at being alone here, it’s nice to have a bit of privacy in which to continue my mental meltdown. If every step I took up here was being watched as if I had a stalker…I think that would be worse.
I huff laughter at my thought—I don’t actually take steps here. I’m floating two hundred and fifty miles above Earth on the International Space Station. I push from a wall and float through a chamber into another section, finally ending up in node three.
ISS inhabitants are required to exercise daily for ninety minutes, a necessity to keep our gravity-less bodies healthy and strong. I use the weight-lifting machines and run on the treadmill—my body harnessed down so I don’t float away.
As my Nikes pound the platform, I close my eyes. I’m completely alone in space. No other human is with me, nor is anyone scheduled to join, thanks to a rocket issue with the Russians.
This was supposed to be the smallest mission on the ISS in terms of people; dubbed “Expedition 4A,” it was set to determine the minimum number of crew members that could successfully maintain the ISS between more elaborate missions. I am the lone American taking part, along with one Cosmonaut and one German who were set to join me today—but alas, the rocket failure.
I know I can handle myself up here—I’ve already been through some extraordinary situations with NASA. But, I feel haggard as I finish my run—my heart racing faster, my sweat beading harder, and my breath catching. It’s a panicky feeling I’ve experienced occasionally in life, but not in years.
I turn off the treadmill and take a deep breath, centering myself before returning to our main communications pod. Houston is waiting for me.
“Dana?” I hear the voice I recognize as Mission Director Walter Skinner booming through the speaker.
I pick up the headset—although I can hear through the speaker, the headset is much clearer. I turn on a monitor, seeing Mission Control brightly lit with dozens of bodies bustling about.
“Director Skinner. I’m here.”
“Alright, Dana. We’ve been discussing next steps. Our plan is to abort the mission and bring you back down, but it’s going to take us about a week to prepare.”
“Okay, sir,” I say. I’d love to argue the mission could continue with just me, but it’s not designed for one person, and I learned many years ago—as the daughter of a Naval Officer—that I need to accept the well-thought-out decisions of my commanders without debate.
“Also, we noticed a blip at the end of your workout—an anomaly—possibly indicative of a panic attack. Are you alright?”
How could I forget I’m hooked up to heart and respiratory monitors while exercising? Houston misses almost nothing—they can’t afford to—too much is at risk. “I’m alright, sir. I just needed a moment to collect myself. I uh—I haven’t ever been in space alone. I just needed to wrap my brain around that.”
I see Skinner nod his head. “I wondered about that. I’ve called for a NASA Psychologist to check in with you,” he shuffles his papers; “I’m not sure if you’ve worked with their team before…Dr. Diana Fowley runs the unit.”
“A Psychologist?”
“Just to make sure you’re feeling okay about the mission getting canceled and being up there alone.”
“Okay, sir.” For the second time in minutes, I begrudgingly accept the decision without further debate.