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As much as the hours were dragging by and the loneliness starting to crowd in, the thing I feared most was the door opening. It hadn’t happened much. Ever since they shoved me into this cell with its barred windows yesterday evening, the only person who has come to the door is the guard, Meknikov I think is his name, who brings me meals I can’t eat. I’d tried the first time, only to vomit it straight back up. The anxiety is just too high; I’m effectively an innocent man on Death Row. Tomorrow, when the guards come, they won’t be bringing food; they’ll be bringing a doctor and a sedative, and my time on Earth will be over. It’s impossible not to think about that, no matter how much I want to forget.
I’m rarely violent, but I smashed the clock that had hung on the wall within my first few hours in here, crushing it to pieces under my heel while screaming, unable to listen to its incessant ticking as it mercilessly counted away my remaining seconds. They’d taken my watch and my phone, so now I had no way to track the time other than by watching the sun, and so I sat by the window watching the birds and the clouds, resolutely looking to the left and not to the right where I knew the launchpad lay in wait for me.
The door unlocks for the second time today, but instead of Meknikov, Stratt walks in.
“Fuck off,” I snarl. People think I never swear, but that isn’t correct. I’ve always sworn but only very, very rarely. It has more impact that way. I can tell it’s worked this time because Stratt visibly flinches. That pleases me.
”I brought you lunch,” she says, recovering quickly and holding out some sandwiches.
I turn away. ”Unless you’re letting me go, I don’t want anything from you.”
”Not even a last walk outside?”
I turn back toward her, eyes narrowing. She pulls out a set of handcuffs, the type connected by a short chain around two feet long, and clicks one around her wrist, holding out the other end to me.
If I go out there, I’m going to be forced to come back inside this room with the full knowledge that I’ll never set foot outside again, but I don’t want to give up the chance to experience fresh air one last time. I’ll regret whichever decision I make, but one regret will be immediate and mean I’ll get to touch the Earth again, while the other would be a regret felt later. Future me is going to have enough regrets as it is, and I don’t want to add another to his burden, so I stand up and hold out my bare wrist, allowing Stratt to close the cuff tightly around it.
We walk along the edge of the Cosmodrome ground by the fence, flanked by a pair of armed guards who keep a respectful distance, toward a small grove of trees, and to her credit, Stratt doesn’t attempt to speak to me. I try to soak it all in, knowing all the while that it will never be enough. The feel of the air on my skin and the breeze tousling my hair, the warmth of the sun – cooler now than it had been a few years ago – and the shifting of the dirt beneath my shoes, damp from this morning’s rain. I wish it would rain again now so I could experience it one more time.
When we reach the grove, I move to sit on the ground with my back against a tree, and Stratt sits beside me, as far away as the cuffs will allow. I reach down and scoop up dirt in my hands, and that’s when the tears begin. I find myself clawing at the ground, tearing out chunks of grass, trying to inhale the scents of petrichor and green leaf volatiles as if they can anchor me forever to this planet.
I let it all out, screaming and sobbing, clutching at whatever I can, fallen twigs and stones, dirt and dust and skittering creepy crawlies. All things I’ll never experience again in the sanitised ship that will become my tomb. I fall to my side, curling up in a foetal position, rubbing my hands on the bark of the tree beside me until my palms are raw. I know I’ve yanked Stratt’s arm around, but I don’t care. The least my murderer can do for me is handle a bruised wrist and a sore shoulder. Eventually the sobbing subsides; I have nothing left to give. I lie on the ground looking up at the sunlight through the leaves of the tree.
”Why did you lie to me?” I ask, my voice hoarse.
”I didn’t, I just omitted certain facts.”
”A lie of omission is still a lie.”
”That depends on your point of view.”
I don’t know how long we stay there, only that the sun is dipping towards the horizon. I sit back up to watch it, knowing it will be my final sunset. The sky is on fire in brilliant shades of red and orange and yellow and pink. I drink in the colours like a dying man.
We must have been here for hours. Eva Stratt, the most important woman on the planet on the eve of the most important mission humanity has ever launched, has spent her day sitting in near silence at the base of a tree. I imagine her schedule says something like “Dr Grace, Final Pre-Mission Briefing” or some other equally made-up BS. I wonder how long I could push this for. Would she let me sit out here all night, right up until the doctor and his sedatives arrive tomorrow? Part of me suspects she might, another part of me suspects the opposite, and I don’t want to find out the truth. I don’t want to be dragged from here kicking and screaming, so I force myself to my feet, Stratt instantly and silently following along. I stroke the tree’s rough bark one last time and squeeze the stone I’ve been holding tightly before letting it fall. I turn and force myself to walk back toward the holding cell as the final rays of sunlight fall on me.
Just as we approach the door, I feel a slight shift in the air, and I falter. I feel Stratt tense beside me, perhaps fearing that I might finally try to bolt or to hurt her, but instead I simply look up. The Earth has one last gift to bestow upon me, and I feel the first few drops of rain hit my face. I stand there, gaze held aloft as the heavens open, soaking me and Stratt to the skin in a matter of seconds. The water feels like a promise. The planet itself reaching out to envelop me one final time in the only way it knows how. I whisper a thank you to the sky and allow myself to be led back inside.