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Huntsville, Alabama, USA
1996
He didn't know it, but Alfred F. Jones was about to make what he would later describe as the best mistake of his entire life. Considering that he'd celebrated his 388th birthday shortly before making the mistake, this was no small accomplishment. Small or not, however, it passed by in an instant.
"Hey Jones," Harvey knocked lightly on the open door frame even as he leaned in, broad striped tie swinging to the side. "The writers sent me, you got their specs ready yet?" Alfred looked up at Harvey through his double-bridged glasses, and then back around at his desk, which was covered in papers.
"Uh, yeah, yeah, I've got it here." He elbowed a stack of computer code out of the way and rifled through a pile of floppy disks before uncovering a thick, bound report. He yanked it out from underneath a book. "Here ya go."
Harvey took the report.
"Thanks, man."
"Sure." Alfred turned back to his work.
Mistakes, it must be said, can go undetected for quite some time.
Cheyenne Mountain, El Paso County, Colorado, USA
2008
Alfred's phone began ringing while he was carrying a heavy box to his car.
"Shit," he breathed, and glanced around to make sure no one was looking before balancing the box in one hand, never once breaking his stride. He fished the phone out of his pocket and flicked it open without checking the number. "Hello?"
"Mr. Jones," said the caller. It was a man, and he sounded bureaucratically annoyed in the way that only government officials can. "Do you have a moment to talk?"
"Uh, sure," Alfred frowned, pressing the phone to his shoulder and balancing the box on a hip to unlock his trunk. He set the box inside and picked up the phone again, "who is this?" The man gave his name, which Alfred didn't recognize. He didn't know how to admit this, so he stayed silent. The caller sighed.
"The Administrator of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration, Mr. Jones." Alfred's eyes went wide.
"Oh shit—I mean, I'm so sorry sir, I, uh, it's, uh, hello," He put his free hand to his face, wincing. "What can I do for you, sir?" The man on the other end of the line chuckled.
"Well, Mr. Jones, I'll cut to the chase. I'm calling about a machine you helped build for us back in the mid 90s. Part of the Unity module, you remember that project?"
"Yeah, of course," Alfred could see more Air Force personnel coming out to the parking lot with their own boxes, so he ducked into his car and shut the door for some privacy. "What about it?"
"I'm afraid it's broken." Alfred's heart leaped into his throat.
"Unity is broken?!"
"No, but the machine you built is."
"Oh, thank God," Alfred breathed a little easier. The Administrator did not seem so relieved.
"It started malfunctioning earlier this year, and it's getting worse. We don't know why."
"Oh, gosh," Alfred rubbed his forehead. "That ain't good. Have the troubleshooters been able to isolate the problem?"
"That's just it, Mr. Jones. The manuals we have on the system schematics do not seem to be wholly accurate." In the silence and privacy of his own car, Alfred took a moment to look horrified as he realized what this man was saying. The Administrator continued, "A couple of million dollars worth of R&D and many more millions of taxpayer dollars to send the thing into space, and the manual we have isn't accurate. I've already spoken to the writers who edited the manual, Mr. Jones. One of them still had the report you gave her to work from. Her manual was written accurately to your report."
So it's your fault, you see, he did not have to say.
"Oh, Jesus," Alfred said, putting his head into a hand.
"So I was hoping you might have a good memory. Are you in D.C. by any chance?"
"No, sir, I'm out in the rockies, they're moving NORAD out of Cheyenne, and I had to get my old shi-uh, stuff, and…" he realized the administrator would not care. "...when do you need me there, sir?"
"There's two very expensive research projects on hold while this machine is offline. The sooner the better. I will advise you, I've already spoken to the president about this."
Oh, well, shit.
"Yes sir. I'll leave as soon as I can, sir."
It was a good thing he was right next to an airfield.
Alfred travelled to D.C. and met with the administrator, conference called the engineers, even spoke with the ISS expedition crew as they described to him the errors they'd encountered, but for the life of him, Alfred could not identify any flaws in what he was hearing. He poured over his old notes and the finalized manual, he looked at old images of the machine and new ones sent down by the crew.
He could not make heads or tails of it. Neither could anyone else.
A month and a half later, he returned to Colorado in a flight of shame, and winced whenever he heard his cell phone ring. Over the next year, he flew to Texas, to Florida, to Georgia, back to D.C. He'd even flown to Ohio to speak with the technical writer who'd written the manual, to try to suss out the details of what he could have possibly gotten wrong, but she remembered even less than he did.
He was the only living on Earth being who had a comprehensive understanding of this machine and how it'd been built, and unless he could remember what he'd written down—or not written down—back in the 90s, that damn thing was going to be orbiting the earth as a multi-million dollar piece of space junk for the foreseeable future.
"God," he groaned to himself one night, cracking open a beer and half-listening to the American Idol theme wafting over from the television, "Just my fucking luck."
Solutions, like mistakes, can take some time to uncover.
Peterson AFB, Colorado Springs, Colorado, USA
2009
It was 6 A.M. and somehow Alfred Jones was vertical and conscious, already at his desk and scrolling through his email while he waited for the breakroom black coffee to finish waking him up when his cell phone began to ring. He let it ring a few times and took a long sip of his coffee before he picked it up.
"Hello?"
"Hello, is this Alfred Jones?"
"Yes, who's this, please?"
"Yes, of course, I'm the new Administrator at NASA," the voice chirped merrily at him, "and I've inherited a bear of a problem that I hear you've been the main point of contact for."
Alfred wanted to cry into his coffee.
"It's… very nice to meet you sir, and yes, I'm… I'm afraid so."
"Well I'm hoping you might be willing to humor us one more time, Mr. Jones. If you were able to get your hands on that machine again, do you think you'd be able to fix it?"
Alfred considered it. He'd built the thing, written all the software. The manual and the schematics he'd written were apparently off, but if he could actually break the thing open and see for himself, he was fairly confident he'd be able to crack it.
"I think so, sir, but I was told no one had a copy of that machine, only prototypes and models. The only realone is in Unity."
"Hmm, yes, I'd been told that too," the Administrator said, almost absently. "Mr. Jones, the President tells me that you are a very accomplished pilot, is that true?" Alfred glanced around his office in the NORAD HQ, decorated with old USAF memorabilia, honors, and photographs.
"Yes sir, you could say that," he sipped at his coffee.
"Are you qualified for special missions assignments?"
"I have been in the past." Another sip.
"You ever been to space, Mr. Jones?"
Alfred nearly choked on his coffee. He recovered.
"No sir," he said, suddenly awake. "Why?"
"Would you like to?"
"I'm sorry?" Alfred squeaked. The Administrator seemed to find this funny.
"Old problems sometimes require simple solutions. As you said, the only real machine is two hundred and fifty-four miles above our heads. If your track record is anything to go by, I don't think you'll need much training. The President and the Secretary of Defence have already authorized it, I'm only asking if you'd be comfortable participating in expedition 20. And if you don't mind my saying so, Alfred: you break it, you ought to fix it."
Comfortable participating? Going to space?
"Of course," Alfred said, feeling as though he were floating.
"Good. I'll forward the memo to NORAD shortly. The simulation folks will be expecting you in Houston in three days, it'll be a fast turnaround from there until Launch Day."
"Right," Alfred managed, physically shaking with excitement. "Yes, sir, of course. Um, thank you sir, for the opportunity, I am really so flattered, I can't wait to-"
"Good," said the man happily. "Have a nice day, Mr. Jones, and we'll speak again soon." The line went dead, and Alfred sat there in silence, staring at the screensaver of his computer, which he'd allowed to grow idle. In the black space of the screen, he could see his own dim reflection, the faint outlines of his shoulders and face, the face of… an astronaut?
He fist-pumped the air so hard he nearly knocked over his coffee.
London, England, United Kingdom
2009
Arthur had gotten a cryptic text at 1:03 that morning and hadn't stopped thinking about it since.
Alfred Jones: r u free to skype later today
You: Today as in Tuesday or today as in Wednesday? It's barely past midnight.
Alfred Jones: u still up tho lol. wednesday
You: Wednesday is the Commonwealth meeting, I have very little flexibility. I should be free from 1300–1400 GMT, however. What on earth do you want to Skype for?
Alfred Jones: omg commonwealth! r mattie n jack gonna be ther
You: Matthew and Jack are both here in London, yes.
Alfred Jones: omg say hi to them for me - tell aussie he owes me a coke
You: What?
You: Whatever, it doesn't matter. Why do you want to Skype? I'm very busy.
Alfred Jones: issa surprise, innit?
Arthur had rolled his eyes.
You: I'm too busy for surprises, Jones.
He'd had no response after that, and despite checking his phone every hour on the hour, Alfred remained irritatingly silent. After a solid slate of meetings, the clock was coming up to 1300, and with considerable grumbling, Arthur found himself lugging his computer bag into an empty room in the conference center, even linking his clunky old laptop to an ethernet cable to ensure a reliable connection before opening Skype. He let the screen sit blank while he waited, glaring at Alfred's icon all the while.
At 1309, a call came through, and he jumped at the sound. Quickly adjusting his webcam, he opened the call. Immediately, a slightly grainy but instantly recognizable shot of Alfred Jones came through.
"What the hell happened to your hair?" Arthur found himself asking before Alfred had the chance to say hello.
"What? My hair?" Alfred moved closer to the camera, which seemed to wobble.
"God, it's huge. What did you do? Don't tell me this is some return to the Ferrah Fawcet days, I don't think the ozone layer can handle that." Alfred laughed at this, a big hearty guffaw, and it struck Arthur as odd how his hair clung to its shape amid the movement, not as though suspended in aquanet, but as though Alfred himself were upside down.
Something collided with Alfred's cheek, and he batted it away. It took Arthur a moment to realize what it was.
"Are those your… why are you dogtags…"
"Hmm?"
"Your dogtags are… hovering," At this, Alfred beamed.
"Guess where I am!" His smile was as wide as the sun. Arthur stared at him, looked around him, but there was little to go off of.
"I… have no idea." Now that he was looking, the background around Alfred did seem rather bizarre. Arthur couldn't have said exactly why it was bizarre, only that it was very white, and metallic, and oddly crowded.
"Ta-da!" Alfred exclaimed, extending his arms. Arthur stared.
"Ta-da what?" He asked. Alfred looked above himself, and then at the screen.
"Oh, shit, I guess you can't see. Hold on." He reached out and moved the computer, adjusting the webcam to tilt up. He double-checked the screen. "Okay, there we go. Ta-da!" He said again, spreading his arms once more. Between the "V" of his arms, there was a line of miniature versions of various national flags. The United Kingdom was represented there, as were a good dozen or more others: France, Japan, Belgium, Switzerland, Sweden… and in the center, the United States and Russia.
"Guess where I am!" Alfred said again, grinning so wide he was liable to injure himself.
Arthur frowned at the flags, which did not seem to lay as flags ought to, and at Alfred, who was moving microscopically, almost as if he were floating. His dogtags traveled upwards once more, threatening to bat him in the cheek again.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Arthur heard himself say. "You're not—you're not on the… you can't be on the fucking space station." Alfred looked like he might actually burst. In a higher-pitched squeak than Arthur had heard in eons, Alfred said, still smiling like a lunatic:
"I'm on the International Space Station!"
Arthur stared.
And stared.
Arthur realized his jaw was hanging open, and Alfred was still smiling. He put a hand over his mouth and continued staring.
"Does… does the president know?"
Alfred laughed at that. "Sure he does! He was the one who authorized it. C'mon! I wanna show you around."
And that was how Arthur Kirkland got a personalized tour of the International Space Station. He demanded an explanation, which Alfred gave him in fits and starts as he navigated the narrow, tubular hallways of the complex. That Alfred had helped build and program equipment for some of the original ISS modules came as no particular surprise, and that he had made some mistake back in 1995 that led him to being on the Space Station today was somehow less of a surprise.
"Only you would have incompetence rewarded with something like… like this," he said.
"Hey now! Be nice!"
Arthur was introduced to the crew, Alfred switching between English and Russian without batting an eye as he floated through the various modules, apologizing to other astronauts as he carted his laptop through tight spaces. His crewmates were Russian, American, Canadian, German, and Japanese, and all of them greeted Alfred with smiles when he addressed them in their native tongues.
"Careful, don't tell Mattie about this guy," Alfred said of his Canadian colleague in a loud aside, "He's rooting for the wrong hockey team."
"Hey!"
"Matthew loves all his hockey teams," Arthur retorted loudly enough for the Canadian astronaut to hear. "Don't let this American lunatic tell you differently."
"Aw c'mon, Artie! I gotta have something to argue about up here." Both Arthur and the Canadian laughed.
The tour continued with Alfred's constant commentary, offering overly-complicated and enthusiastic explanations regarding the functions of every computer, doorway, and strip of velcro. Alfred even gave Arthur a demonstration of how he and the rest of the crew slept in space, strapped into their place by a giant vest-like sleeping bag.
"Alright, I've saved the best for last," the space-farer announced.
"Alfred, it's very nearly 1400, I need to be heading back–"
"Yeah, yeah, I know! I know, I really do, just… let me show you this, alright? It'll be worth it, I promise. We're coming up on Europe right about now. It's a clear day over London today, right?"
"Yes," Arthur confirmed, leaning forward in involuntary intrigue. Alfred floated downwards, the webcamera temporarily obscured by his chest. Then, the image erupted into an over-exposed view of the Earth's great curve, the sun's brightness throwing the camera into a tizzy as it focused.
"Here we go," Alfred's smile was evident in his voice. "This is the cupola," he said, as the camera focused on its subject. "Honestly? It's the best module in the whole station."
Sunlight was the first thing Arthur noticed. He was looking at Europe from above, sunlit and sparkling. Iberia and northern Scandinavia were covered in clouds, but the continent from France to Turkey was clear as crystal. Britain shone in the prime yellow of an afternoon sun, and the many lakes and rivers of Finland sparkled like molten gold in a way that no map for ten thousand years had ever been able to capture. Arthur watched, transfixed, as the light of the sun caught the twists and and oxbows of the Volga, and felt his chest swell with emotion.
"Can you see it?" asked Alfred, behind the camera.
"Yes," Arthur told him, quickly wiping away tears so that Alfred wouldn't see if he peeked at the screen. "Yes, I see it all quite well. God, but it's something, isn't it?"
"It's better at night," Alfred told him, voice going soft in its disembodied place. "You can see all the cities, the roads, the connections between places. It's like starlight, but we made it. It's like... even when the sun is gone, we instinctively want to sit among the stars. It's funny, you know," Alfred chuckled, and his voice was unlike anything Arthur had ever heard from him, full of peace and wonder both. "We spend so much time looking up at the stars, I never thought I'd live to see constellations on Earth itself. But they're just as beautiful, you know, as the ones we see at night."
Arthur didn't know what to say, so he covered his mouth quietly and kept staring at the video being funneled into his computer from hundreds of miles above.
"Anyway," Alfred flipped the webcamera around at last, "I wanted to be able to show you," He grinned, lopsided and bright. "I have a lot of work to do up here, but… I thought you should see that. I know space freaks you out, but… it really is quite beautiful." Arthur smiled.
"I know," he said. "Thank you for sharing."
"Arthur?" called a voice outside the empty conference room, accompanied by a loud knock. "We're just about ready to start again, you alright?"
"Yes, Matthew, I'll be right there," Arthur called to him, and turned back to Alfred. "I ought to go," he said.
"Yeah, I know, I'm running out of time on here anyway. Say hi to everyone for me."
"Do any of them know where you are?" Arthur asked, unable to keep his grin at bay. Alfred shrugged.
"It's all been such a whirlwind. I only got tapped a few months ago. No, none of 'em know."
"Shall I tell them?"
"Hmm," Alfred seemed to think about it. "If you do, tell 'em I said that their places all look incredible from up this high. We share a pretty cool planet, ya know."
"That we do," Arthur smiled, appreciating Alfred in such a philosophical mood. "Take some photos for me, will you, love?"
"Already on it," Alfred said. "Not every day a chance like this comes along, you know?"
"I can't believe you're actually there," Arthur chuckled. "Only you would get a ticket to space by doing a poor engineering job."
"Hey!" Alfred defended, "no one had ever built one of those before!"
"My point stands, Alfred Jones," Arthur retorted. "Have a safe trip back. Enjoy your time among the stars." Alfred was all grin.
"You got it," he saluted casually. "See you plant-side, Artie."
That Christmas, most all of Alfred's friends received beautifully framed prints of their homelands, captured in the sparkling lights of the solar system that no cartographer had ever thought to account for: rivers and lakes sparkling, clouded shadows and cresting coastal waves, northern lights twinkling over borders in a way that blurred the lines of politics and human arbitration.
Aim for the moon and you'll land among the stars, the notes all read, but when you reach the stars, you will realize that you've been there all along. There is truly no place like home.