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“Automatic launch sequence initiated,” the computer says cheerfully.
A grinding metal-on-metal, thunking, crashing noise reverberates throughout the shuttle. It sounds as if giant saw-like teeth are gnawing on the roof.
“What is that?” Amy squeaks. She holds onto her seat as if it will anchor her to safety. The metal arms of the chair are smudged with her fingerprints, her body pressed into the heavy foam padding.
My mind spins through the possibilities. The noise sounds like something breaking—ominous and terrifying. My stomach lurches as the entire shuttle shifts down and forward, as if on a giant arm swinging it from the rest of Godspeed. I’m pressed against my seat, breathless. Screams and shouts of fear from the other side of the shuttle door leak onto the bridge. Amy glances up at me, her face pale and worried.
“That was normal,” I say, not sure if I’m trying to assure her or myself. “We’re separated from the main ship now. ”
Something above us goes ka-THUNK, and the entire shuttle sinks a few feet before stabilizing.
“We’re separated from the main ship now,” I say. Amy laughs, but the sound is high-pitched and nervous, dying quickly on her lips.
“Detachment rockets initiate,” the computer says matter-of-factly. A burst of three small rockets built into the top of the shuttle pushes us down, and our view shifts, the planet looming in the window, filling our vision.
“I’m glad we have the window,” Amy says, staring through the honeycombed glass in front of us. The stars glitter, and the planet—our new home—shines brightly up at us. In some of the old texts from Sol-Earth, the planet is referred to as a blue-and-white marble. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. Maybe in a picture, the planet looks like a marble. But here, with it hanging in front of me, it looks almost alive. The colors are vibrant, a stark contrast to the nothingness-black of the universe.
But even if it is beautiful, we’re not there yet. The shuttle lurches forward again, and shouts and screams—short, muffled sounds of people who cannot contain their fear—erupt from beyond the bridge door.
“Let’s get this over with,” I say grimly.
“Orbital maneuvering system check,” the computer chirps.
Amy gasps as a thunderous boom! fills the shuttle.
I want to grab her, wrap her in my arms, and whisper that everything will be fine. But I can’t move. My heart is pounding in my ears, thudding so loudly I can’t hear anything else. The shuttle knows what to do—probes were sent from Godspeed to Centauri-Earth that are now sending signals to the shuttle’s systems, guiding it to the safest landing point with the best environment for us to land in. All we have to do is be strapped down for the ride.
A sick feeling rises in my stomach and radiates out, the same feeling I get—used to get—when I’d free-fall for that moment before the grav tube would kick in and suck me down to the next level of the ship. My head feels light. My brain screams at me: I’m falling! I panic, my arms and legs flailing, trying to hold onto something, anything, but there’s nothing but air, and it doesn’t matter anyway because I’m not falling. I’m floating.
“Shite!” I shout, staring down at my now-empty chair, just out of reach as I hover several feet above it.
A nervous giggle escapes Amy’s lips, but her eyes are wide with fear. “Didn’t you strap into your chair?” she asks. Her hair is floating around her face in a cloud of red, but the wide, foam-covered belts across her lap and chest keep her rooted in her seat.
“I . . . forgot,” I say. My arms and legs swing wildly, but I’m not moving. Of course—the grav replicator was on the main ship. I twist my head toward the closed bridge door. I wonder how my people feel now, when I’ve taken everything from them, including gravity.
“Hold on!” Amy says, laughter still in her voice. She unbuckles her own seat belt, and, as she starts to rise, she slips her foot into the strap and reaches up for me with both her arms.
“Stupid hair,” she mutters, blowing a stream of air out to make the gold-red-orange strands fly away from her face. Her hair floats around her head like a halo of soft t
endrils, reaching up and out. It reminds me of when I first saw her, when her sunset hair swirled around her face like a cloud of ink.
“Probe communication detected,” the computer chirps. “Probe indicates suitable landing area. Target shuttle to probe? Select yes or no. ” Two buttons light up: a red N and a green Y.
“Frex!” I say, reaching for the control panel. It’s useless—my body is a weightless mass, and the control panel is hopelessly out of reach.
“Hold still!” Amy shouts at me. Her ankle is barely hooked around the twisted strap of her seat belt. It’s not enough—she’s straining to grab me, but I’m hovering just out of her grasp.
“Please select: yes or no,” the computer reminds me.
“Oh, damn,” Amy mutters. She wiggles her foot out of its grip, kicks up from the chair, and launches into the air.
She slams into me—I fly up against the roof of the bridge, and she bounces off me, toward the floor. I ricochet down, missing my seat by several feet, but my fingers slide over the metallic edge of the control panel, and I punch the blinking Y button.
Amy growls with frustration as she bounces from the floor to the ceiling again. She kicks off, aiming for her own chair.
I pull myself hand over hand along the edge of the control panel until I reach my chair, then slide in and tighten my seat belt around my lap and over my chest.
“Initiate orbital maneuvering system,” the computer continues automatically, ignorant and uncaring, oblivious to the way my body is shaking so badly that I don’t think I could stand now even if there was gravity.
