The high, clear silver of the sky lays over the Earth like a blanket. In the distance, a pair of T-38s circle the perimeter of the IAC to keep our flight path clear. We’d once had to delay a launch because some tourist decided to fly in to watch the launch from the air.
The grasslands have just begun to turn green after a too-short winter with barely any snow. A patch of pink shifts in the breeze as early wildflowers greet the dawn.
I inhale, as if I could breathe in the fragrance of the Earth one last time, but all I get is more canned oxygen. I turn to face our craft, one glove against its side. Terrazas gets to his knees and crawls inside.
I give the crew time to get him settled, and then it is my turn. I’ll be in the center bench for the ride up. Lebourgeois will have the left, as is traditional for the commander of a mission. The seat cradles me, with my legs up in the air. The crew tightens down the straps that will hold me firmly in place as we launch, and switches my oxygen over to the ship’s source.
It is still metallic, but less tinny than the little portable pack. That might be my imagination, though.
Lebourgeois is settled, and then sound comes back into my world as our comms are patched in.
Lebourgeois says, “Kansas, Artemis 9. We are in position.”
Parker’s voice crackles into my ear from his seat at CAPCOM. “Position confirmed. Welcome aboard.”
The hatch closes, taking away the last view of Earth. All I can see now is the silver sky above us. All of us have checklists to run through, and I do, making sure that all the gauges and switches that I am responsible for are in the correct position. For the trip up, I will have very little to do. I am a passenger, while Lebourgeois is the pilot. Even that is mostly in name, because he will only need to take the controls before we are in space if something goes wrong.
And even then, the list of survivable errors is short. When we get into orbit, we have only two hours to prep for the transition to the translunar insertion. In theory. Everything we can do now to prepare for the TLI will buy us time, which is why we practiced this until we can do the checklist by rote.
There is something about having your legs over your head that makes you need to pee. This makes it into none of the press releases, but every single astronaut talks about it.
The men have complicated condoms and catch pouches. I have a diaper.
Two hours into our three-hour wait, I use it, sure that the urine will overflow its confines and spread up the back of my suit. It does not, but I am once again enthralled by the glamour of being an astronaut.
And then, somehow, we are in the last six minutes before launch. I have gone through my checklist four or five times, certain that I’ve missed something. Outside our tiny capsule, my family is being led to the roof of the IAC to watch the launch.
Before I was assigned to a mission, I thought that this was a kindness, to give them a spectacular view. I thought that, right up until I was asked to pick an escort for my family from among the astronauts. Benkoski’s wife once made a joke about her “escort to widowhood.” Our families were on the roof, isolated from the press, so if something went wrong …
So if we died during launch, the IAC would have control over them. The media would get no pictures of the moment grief set in.
We projected the appearance of triumph.
Parker’s voice crackles in my ear. “York. The engineering desk says to remind you of prime numbers.”
The engineering desk. He can’t say “your husband,” or just give Nathaniel a moment with the comm? On the other hand, Nathaniel should be able to hear me at this point. “Please thank engineering, and say that I’ll continue work on my theorem regarding divisibility when we return. Pending a successful rocket launch.”
“Message confirmed.” And without a pause, he returns to the technical jargon. “Engine test is Go.”
The ship shudders and lurches against its bolts. Beneath us, the two massive Sirius engines swivel, to test their range of motion. We’d been told to expect this, but they couldn’t get the simulator to mimic the moment when the engines first got power.
“T-minus sixty seconds and counting. We have passed T-minus sixty. Fifty-five seconds and counting.”
Lebourgeois says, “Thank you, Mission Control, for the smooth countdown.”
“Confirmed thanks. We’ve passed the fifty-second mark. Power transfer is complete.”
The last of our gauges leaps to life, needles spiking like my heart.
Lebourgeois nods, watching the gauges. “Confirmed internal power.”
“Forty seconds away from the Artemis 9 liftoff. All the first-stage tanks now pressurized.”
“Confirmed pressurization.” Lebourgeois is the French priest in our tiny chapel, reciting the litany of space.
“Thirty-five seconds and counting. We are still Go with Artemis 9. Thirty seconds and counting.”
“Everything is very good here.”
“Twenty seconds and counting. T-minus fifteen seconds, guidance is internal.”
“Confirmed internal guidance.” Lebourgeois lifts his hand to rest it over the clock, waiting.
I clench the arms of my couch, counting with them in my head.
“Twelve, eleven, ten, nine. Ignition sequence starts…”
The engine roars to life beneath us and the entire rocket shakes like a cabin in an earthquake. It’s always been quiet at Mission Control during this moment, but now, sitting atop the rocket, there is no delay between ignition and the sound.
“Five, four, three, two, one—zero. All engines running. LIFTOFF.”
The rocket thunders beneath us and pushes me deep into my couch. The acceleration pulls me back, as if the Earth is trying to keep us from leaving.
Lebourgeois pushes the clock start. “Roger. Clock.”
“Tower cleared.”
“Roger. We have the roll program.”
Clouds spin past the windows as we roll into the right attitude for our orbit.
“Confirmed roll program.”
We rip clear of the clouds into startling blue.
Abruptly the ride smoothes out as we push through the sound barrier, and the thunder of the rocket falls away behind us faster than we are traveling. We’re on our own now. There’s nothing that Mission Control can do until we are in orbit.
“Artemis 9, this is Kansas. You are Go for staging.”
Now Lebourgeois’s voice sounds strained by the G-forces pressing us into our seats. “Inboard cutoff.”
“We confirm inboard cutoff.”
The blue of the sky grows deeper, into a rich velvet, then darkens to black. It is so dark that it is not a color but an absence. Ink. Velvet. Dark. None of these give the sense of the depth of space.
“Staging.” His hands move over the controls, flipping switches.
The G-load vanishes and I fly up against my restraints. Past our windows, the dark sky flares red and gold. Pieces of housing whip past, trailing sparks.
“And ignition.”
And then silence.
Beneath us, the smaller engine pushes us higher, out of the Earth’s influence. But without an atmosphere it is largely silent, letting us know its presence only through the vibrations of the ship. We are technically in space, but if Lebourgeois and Mission Control don’t get us into the right orbit, we’ll fall back to Earth.
A loose end of my harness floats up in front of me. Up.
I turn my attention from that and watch the gauges, doing the first task of the navigation that will be my job for the next eight days. “SECO. We are showing 101.4 by 103.6.”
Parker replies with the same calm he has for everyone. He’s probably tossing his tennis ball in the air. “Roger. Shutdown. We copy 101.4 by 103.6.”