Mission Red

“Dex, please. I trust Luke.” she pleaded. Dex pushed her back and stepped forward. “Dex! Let me go!” she pleaded. I knew he wouldn’t. Just then, the sky went dark. A star cruiser covered the sun. Hundreds of pods and fighters screamed out the bay doors and raced towards us. The lead fighter rained fire on the field. Guards scattered and Erica raced toward me. Dex was left in the middle of the field yelling for his guards. “Cowards!” he cried out. Just then a modified bomber flew overhead and dropped a T13 firebomb. It flew down towards Dex and for a moment there was silence as it hit the ground. Then the great BOOM and the crackling of synthetic fire followed. The ball of fire expanded and lit the field up. A transport landed and troopers filed out towards the house and the Interceptor. We reached the ship and I fired up the engines. Erica looked out the window as the great house she grew up and lived in slowly burned to the ground. The Interceptor lifted up and blasted out of the atmosphere. After minutes in space, the sun dropped down on Earth and the stars began to shine brighter. I turned to Erica, who was still crying. “Where do you want to go?” I asked. “Where can we go?” She wiped the tears from her eyes and turned

to me.

“Away,” she whispered. “Far away.” “As you wish.” I turned around and pushed the throttle hard. The Interceptor shook and left the Earth forever.

~ Holden Brew

Mission Red

Today is the day. December 15, 2042. The day that NASA will announce the crew of the first Ares mission. The first people to go to Mars. The news will reach the candidates first at 11 am. Only then, an hour later, will it be released to the media. I remind myself of this as I open my eyes to the sunlight shining through the blinds. I drag myself out of bed and slouch into the kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee. The clock reads 8:47. Two hours and thirteen minutes left until the email arrives. Two hours and thirteen minutes of worry. I think to myself as I fall onto the couch and switch the TV on. I flip through the channels, but there isn’t anything good to watch.

My mind starts to wander, and suddenly, I’m eight again. I’m watching TV at my grandmother’s house when a news update interrupts my Saturday morning cartoons. I’m upset until I hear the words ‘Mars’ and ‘astronaut.’ I turn my full attention to the TV just in time to catch the reporter

Bobby Frigon

announce that NASA is planning a manned mission to Mars. My mouth drops open in wonder, and my head fills with images of rockets and spacesuits. That was the day I knew I would do whatever it takes to become an astronaut. A subtle beeping shakes me out of my reverie. The coffee is ready. As I pour myself a mug and sit back down on the couch, my nerves come flooding back. Being an astronaut has been my biggest goal for as long as I can remember. When I was a kid, I remember staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling and imagining myself walking on one. But that was before I learned that stars are made up of gas and would be too hot to get near enough to walk on. I remember asking for tickets to space camp when I turned nine, and then every year after.

I get lost in my memories again, and all of a sudden, I’m twenty-two. A brand-new graduate of MIT, I was proud to be top of my class, but not overly cocky. I filled out NASA’s online astronaut candidate application the day after graduation. The second I hit submit was the greatest moment of my life up to that point. Even better was the moment I received the invitation to the program about a week later. I am pulled out of the memory by my phone ringing. One glance at the caller ID tells me it is my mom. She is probably calling to wish me luck. I let the phone go to voicemail and sigh. My phone rings angrily a few more times, then goes silent. Well, even if I don’t make the crew this mission, I’ll still make the backup crew. I’ll ’ll still go to space. Someday. But even as I think that I know I won’t be satisfied with second place. I care too much not to be first. I get up from the couch and start pacing around the room. I can’t even imagine my life if I don’t reach my goal. If I don’t become an astronaut, I don’t know what I’ll do. Everything I’ve ever done has led me toward my dream. All of the hours I’ve spent studying so that I could get a scholarship to my dream school. All of the hours I’ve spent training at Johnson Space Center to become the top astronaut candidate. I can’t fathom all of that effort being wasted. I stop pacing abruptly and look out my window at the New York City skyline. As I watch the familiar New York traffic, my mind flashes through all of the physical evaluations and medical tests NASA has put me through. Every simulation they’ve put me through, and every trip on the Vomit Comet. It finally settles on my first time on the human centrifuge. I remember walking into the room with a nurse and immediately feeling intimidated by the massive metal arm that would be spinning me up to fortynine meters per second. I remember the panic that arose inside of me as I was strapped in and as the centrifuge slowly started to spin. The human centrifuge is designed to exert five g’s of pressure on a human’s legs and to keep the normal one g on a human’s head. As the centrifuge picked up speed, I was thankful for that. I couldn’t move my legs at all, and my head was spinning. When I finally got off of the centrifuge, it was a struggle to stay upright, and an even bigger struggle to keep my breakfast down. As I shake myself out of my daydreams, I check the clock. It’s 10:56! I grab my laptop from the coffee table and sit down on the couch again. As I log in and open my email, I wonder if I’m really ready for all of the pressure the mission brings. I know I’m not prepared for failure, but what if I’m not ready for success either? Am I really ready for all of the media attention if I am chosen? All of my doubts start creeping up on me as the clock ticks down. I get lightheaded, and I realize I must be hyperventilating. As the one-minute mark approaches, my hands start to shake. Thirty seconds left. Then fifteen. As I stare at the screen, a ridiculous thought pops into my head. Does space really smell like burnt-toast? I shake my head and start the countdown. “T-minus 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.” A new email pops up on my screen. And as I click, I know that this moment will change my life forever.

~ Yaz Aubrey