“Catatrophic? Don’t you mean catastr—”
“Yes, Grumpy. Catatrophic. Promise not to tell?”
Frank bit his lip. He stood up, and fingered the controls to the airlock.
Shit.
His handset beeped again. It was Ramona.
You matter to us, Grumpy. To a lot of people.
We love you very much. Do what you have to do.
“Grumpy? Promise?” said Wix.
Frank’s hand trembled over the controls. History was waiting. His destiny was literally at his fingertips.
He would matter.
“I ... I—” he began, before adding, “aw, sh—” He stopped himself.
“Shamwow? I still think you made that up.”
Frank chuckled. “Ok. I admit it. I made it up. I was going to say shit.”
Wixam lowered his voice to a mocking, sarcastic tone. “No shit, Grumpy.”
Frank lost it, convulsing in laughter. “Kid? Are you sure you’re six? Fine. Fine. I promise. No one will ever know you cried when I didn’t come visit you. My lips are sealed. Forever.”
“Forever? Why? Are you dying?”
Frank laughed again. “Not today, kid. Then I wouldn’t be able to visit you. How’s five o’clock sound?”
Frank sipped his coffee, and offered the other cup to the other man as he sat down at the table on Bickam Boulevard. “Will Doc Pratt let you drink it?”
“Do I care what he says?” said Ed Smith, an oxygen tube suspended below his nose.
“Good point.” He turned to his other companion. “How’s that hot chocolate?”
“Tastes like shamwow,” said Wixam Hanuman.
“Well you’re late for school anyway. Get.” Frank waved a hand, shooing the kid away. Wix gulped the rest of it down, stuck out his tongue at Frank, and trotted off down the street.
“Turn it up, will you? I want to hear if everyone made it.” Ed motioned up to the TV, which was playing the CNN feed.
Frank waved a hand and said, “volume up.”
“—and ongoing coverage of the Mars shuttle crash. With me now is the media relations officer for Interplanetary Reserve with an update.” The new anchor on the screen turned to a mousy man in a crisp suit seated next to him.
“Thank you, Jim.” The mousy man turned to the camera. “I’m afraid we have bad news to add to the good news I delivered earlier. While it is true that the shuttle made a miraculous crash landing and remained mostly intact, it is with heavy heart that I announce that there was, in fact, one fatality. Jerry H. Su, flight engineer on the shuttle’s voyage, sustained life-threatening injuries during the crash, and, unfortunately, did not make it. I’ve spoken with the American President, and he will posthumously be awarded the presidential Medal of Freedom. The French President will award him the legion of—”
“Well ain’t that something,” said Smith. “Wasn’t he...?”
“Yeah.”
“And now he’s...?”
“Yeah.”
Ed shook his head, incredulously, the oxygen tube wagging back and forth. “The first man to walk on Mars, and now the first man to die on Mars. Funny how things work. He comes all that way, lives a life like that, all to die in a fiery crash for nothing. Poor guy. I guess he’ll be in the history books, or something.”
“Or something,” Frank repeated, glumly.
It seemed Ed was intent on watching the broadcast, but Frank had no such interest. Luckily, he noticed the notebook lying on the table.
“Shit. Wix left his schoolbook. Enjoy your coffee, Ed,” he said, picking the pad up and starting off down Bickam Boulevard, heading towards the school.
He ran into someone carrying a bag of ‘just-add-water’ meals, and they spilled all over the sidewalk.
“Mrs. Doughby! I’m terribly, terribly sorry!” He stooped to pick them up. She joined him.
“Mr. Bickham! Not a problem!” She stuffed a few packages into the bag, and noticed Wix’s notebook. “Heading to school?”
“Yep. Wixam Hanuman left his schoolwork at my table.”
“Then you let me handle this mess. School’s starting in less than a minute—if you don’t get moving you’ll be late.”
Frank glanced at his watch. “Naw. I’ve got all the time in the world.” He lowered his voice. “Plus, just between you and me, his teacher owes me one for that class presentation I gave last week. Nailed it.”
“Well, in that case...” She trailed off, kneeling down to reach for a few that had strayed onto the street.
He stuffed the last package into her bag, and helped her up. “So? How’s work going?”
Q&A with Nick Webb
Where did this story come from?
Someday, someone will be the very first human to die on another planet. I don’t know if that makes me morbid or not, but it’s fascinating to think about. Will they die there on a failed exploration mission? Or will they die there because they live there, and, well, dying is just what regular people *do*. I hope to be able to see that day, when living on another planet is so normal for people, that imagining people dying there feels entirely natural, because then we’ll know we’ve finally arrived as a multi-planetary civilization.
Do you want to die on another planet?
No! I won’t even get in an airplane!
Really?
I hate flying. But if space travel ever gets safe enough, with hundreds of safe launches per day, and as long as I’m over eighty or so and lived a full life, then I’d absolutely like to go to another planet.
So are you Frank Bickham, your protagonist? He’s an old guy who’s lived a full life, and now wants to go live on another planet in retirement....
There might be a little Frank Bickham in me. Not that I’d feel compelled to have to be “the first” at something, like Frank is, but ever since I grew up watching Captain Picard vacation on Riisa, I knew I wanted to get to another world. Someday. When it’s safe. And cheap.
Where can readers find you, and learn more about your books?
My website, for one: nickwebbwrites.com
Or, I’m active on Facebook: facebook.com/authornickwebb
Last Pursuit
by Piers Platt
ONE MORE, DESH thought. Forty-nine kills completed. Just one more, and then you’re out. But no sooner had the thought formed than a mission update notification appeared in his heads-up display, and he felt a pit form in his stomach, cold dread washing over him. Don’t get worked up yet. It could be a routine update. He forced himself to ignore the notification, and instead checked his ship’s arrival time on his datascroll. Five minutes to deceleration.
Desh loathed interstellar travel, from the queasy feeling of the faster-than-light accelerations, to the interminable waiting aboard the transports. In an effort to encourage travel, the spaceliners featured exercise rooms and entertainment centers whose use could be purchased for a nominal fee, but a week or more of traveling through the vacuum of deep space drove most passengers slightly insane regardless of the activities available. For Desh, it just meant more idle time to spend fretting about the mission, worrying the details like a sore tooth. And more time trying to forget the anguished faces of his victims. So he sighed with relief when the arrival announcement flashed on the bulkhead displays, and he quickly made his way to his cabin to finish packing his gear.