My Stardust

It’s the same recurring dream. She’s alone, floating weightless in a void. It’s dark, cold, dimensionless.

In her worn, leather recliner, the woman snores fitfully, awakens with a start. The room rocks slightly. Disoriented, she looks around, regathers her reality.

“Cal?” She shakes her head. “Tsk, tsk, you’re surely going mental, Meghan Una McMurphy,” she says aloud with the hint of an Irish accent.

Her apartment is small but tidy. In its confined spaces, items from the past and the present coexist under a shared patina of dust and disuse. Sunlight filtered through sheer curtains brightens the living room. No cat naps there in the shafts of light, but a laptop sleeps on a desk. Like a still life image, but it’s live.

Scale models of NASA spacecraft perch on a bookshelf. A bronze cremation urn stands tall among them; it’s torpedo-shaped with a pointy tip like a 1950s rocket ship. Engraved on it are the initials “C. E. M.” Below is the Latin inscription: Per aspera ad astra. On one wall, a digital image displayer is askew. It cycles through a series of gray-hued lunar landscape panoramas. Near that are two framed diplomas:

—Callum Evan McMurphy, Stanford University M.S. Aeronautical Engineering 1968

—Meghan Una McMurphy, Stanford University B.A. Education 1970

Meghan adjusts the hearing aid in one ear, squints at the items on display. “Now everything’s moved. Must have had another of those earthquakes last night,” she said. She picks up a remote from a nearby table, channel-surfs a wall-mounted TV.

On the screen, images flip past: a spaceflight tracking center, a different view of the tracking center, another view of the same center. The chyron scroll along the bottom of the screen reads: “May 18, 2031—JPL Spaceflight Operations Facility readies the MUM Spacecraft for the Mars orbital insertion phase.”

“It’s on every single channel today, Aura,” Meghan frowns, addressing the goldfish swirling around in a brandy snifter next to her on an end table. “Poor service, that. I’ve a mind to have it out with the cable company.” She picks up a booklet from a pile of them on the table. “Lunar mission flight logs are all electronic now. Not like these gathering dust…like me if I don’t keep moving.”

Her doorbell chimes. The package bin beside the front door clangs open. Meghan gathers strength, rises on stiff legs and, with effort, scuffs over to inspect the delivery. A chirping sound on the other side of the door draws her attention. She peeks through the door’s peephole.

A white canary flits into view in the hallway. It perches on the top branch of a plastic plant. Meghan blinks several times. Could someone’s pet have escaped, or is she just imagining things? She dismisses both thoughts, turns her attention back to the chute’s delivery bin, and lifts out a package. Again, she hears chirping sound and peers through the peephole. Again, the same white canary flies by, exactly as before, lands atop the same branch of the plastic plant.

Meghan reaches down, unbolts the door, puts her hand on the knob. She pauses. “I’d best not. Dr. Ares told me to stay inside. Must be the medicine side effects.” She re-bolts the door.

In her kitchenette, Meghan unwraps the parcel. She slides the block of freeze-dried food into the sink with a clunk. A sigh escapes her.

A loud BEEP from the living room startles Meghan, like an unexpected intrusion disrupting her daily routines. Meghan slaps a hand over her fluttering heart, shuffles out into the living room, settles down at the desk.

“Open call from Dr. Ares,” she commands the laptop. A logo for Enterplanetary Corp. appears momentarily on-screen, followed by the smiling face of a silver fox, Doctor Ricardo Ares. He resembles a past-his-prime matinee idol with an avuncular look. Behind him is a scale model of a cylindrical spacecraft module.

“How’s my favorite pen gal doing?” Ares says. “I love reading your texts, Meghan. Hope you’re not feeling too cooped up in your place?”

“Being inside is not much bother for this house mouse, Dr. Ares,” she says. “Though truth be told, I am a bit weary of frozen food. Perhaps they can deliver a takeaway meal now and again? And you’ve not been over donkey’s years. Come for a visit, tea and biscuits and a bit of a chat.”

“Remember, Meghan, it’s especially important for you to stay in your apartment. No visitors. No one. No phone calls either. No contact with anyone but me. Violating your signed agreement would void the seclusion study you’re participating in. If that happened, I’d be so disappointed in you. You wouldn’t want that, would you, dear?”

“On my old life, Dr. Ares, I’ve not so much as set a toe out in the hallway.”

“If Cal were still with us, he’d be so proud of you. So very proud. He faced so many challenges in his career. Made the ultimate sacrifice for you and for the mission. You two were in such a tight orbit. Always together.”

Meghan’s eyes squeeze shut, as if wincing at some memory still raw, some intense reminder of an event that didn’t end well.

“I’ve checked them and all your vital signs are normal. You’re doing fine, just fine, my dear. Let me know if that medicine is helping with those dizzy spells.”

“So I should I still be taking those pills, Dr. Ares?”

“There’s a saying: ‘The older the fiddle, the sweeter the tune.’ That’s certainly true in your case. I’ll send you another of these prerecorded video messages another day, but feel free to text me anytime. Goodbye for now, Meghan.”

Meghan turns to a small, framed photo on a table. “We were so grand, Cal.” Her smile fades as she studies the picture of a handsome man in his thirties, grinning, who wears a NASA jumpsuit. His arm is around the waist of a radiant young Meghan in a flowery sundress. They lean against a large model spacecraft. Handwritten on the photo: To my guiding star, love always, Cal!

“You’re my stardust now,” she whispers, and strokes a tiny glass vial of white granules on her necklace. She rises, wanders over and plops down in the recliner. Meghan lifts a glass of sherry as if in toast, then drains it in one swig. Her eyes drift close. She dreams she is a crewmember in the cockpit of a spacecraft.

***

A panoramic vista of the moon dominates the ship’s view ports. Meghan’s young again, in a white spacesuit, strapped in a crew seat. Beside her is Cal in the commander’s chair. His every move, his every gesture, embodies competence, control, and purpose. He signals her with a nod. She clasps a control lever beside her seat. “Mission Control, this is Specialist McMurphy,” she says into her headset. “All systems go. Permission to proceed.” Static hisses over the cockpit speakers. “Mission Control,” she repeats, “request go-ahead for lunar lander separation sequence.”

Still only static hisses from the speakers. She and Cal shrug, trade smiles. Each extends an arm slowly. Across the space, their gloved fingertips make contact.

***

Meghan snuffles, still fast asleep in her recliner. One hand grips her chair’s lever.

There’s static on the TV. An image materializes on-screen: A NASA spacecraft, the Mars Unmanned Mission, powers toward the red planet. Exhaust nozzles discharge plumes of white-hot plasma. Attached to the ship’s spinning cockpit-lander are four separate modules. Each one has a different company logo and rotates independent of the others. One module is labeled “Enterplanetary Corp.—Life Supported.”

“We’ll talk now with entrepreneur-investor Professor Ricardo Ares,” says an off-screen male voice as the image changes to the interior of the Enterplanetary module. It contains rows of glass enclosures with lab animals. “Enterplanetary Corporation, the company he founded, is competing against three other contenders to supply NASA with living quarters for future crewed space missions. Can you tell us, Dr. Ares, why you’re confident Enterplanetary’s module will outperform the others?”

Ares appears on camera in a white lab coat.

“Because ours alone has proven failsafe with its liquid radiation shielding and artificial gravity, along with normal atmosphere and light cycles.”

“I understand you’re also conducting full-scale, long-term isolation tests with volunteers on Earth, studies that mimic conditions crews will face on future Mars missions.”

“Yes. They’re confined in quarters designed to provide all the comforts of home. Each participant has a bio-tracker implanted to monitor their health continuously.”

Images appear of a Spartan-looking habitat. Three young test subjects in jumpsuits exercise on equipment.

“I see. What about their nutritional needs, like food and water and such?”

“We use an innovative proprietary self-contained waste-into-food recycling system. In our design, food and water are continuously reconstituted and renewed.”

“Okay. Well, it sounds as if those features could keep astronauts safe, healthy, and comfortable on even longer space flights in the future.”

“Yes, in the future. Though based on systems data we’re now receiving, I feel Enterplanetary’s test module is a complete success.”

“You mean the test animals on board are doing well?”

“Yes, behaving normally as predicted.”

A video plays of two bunnies humping in a glass tank.

***

In her dream, young Meghan turns her attention away from a view of the approaching lunar surface and back to Cal. His face turns pale, as if he’s just seen something that could end them both. The cockpit-lander rocks violently.

***

A big jolt shakes the living room, shifts aside a sideboard, partially uncovering a metal wall plate. Meghan awakes with a start, her eyes wide, her breath misty.

“Oh, not another earthquake.” She looks down, releases the chair lever she grasps, pulls her bathrobe tighter. “I’m cold.”

She lifts herself from the recliner, scans the room. Everything seems to wobble for a few seconds. Aura’s fishbowl appears to levitate a couple of centimeters. Meghan rubs her eyes. She plucks Cal’s picture from the table, pockets it.

She makes her way to the window, steadies herself with one hand to the wall. Peeking past the curtains, she watches a streetcar rumble by below; it blurs as it passes. “Those dizzy pills are so middling. Now where did I put my space heater?”

Meghan spots the wall plate partly revealed behind the sideboard. She wends her way over to it. She pushes on the furniture; it doesn’t budge. She ponders this for a moment, slides down to the floor.

With her back braced against the wall, she shoves mightily with both legs. The sideboard yields. It slides and uncovers the wall plate. Meghan stands, winded and spent. After a moment, she yanks on the plate’s recessed handle. It’s stuck tight.

In her kitchenette, she opens a drawer, lifts out a flashlight. From another, she retrieves a skillet and a knife. Back in the living room, Meghan wedges the knife blade under one edge of the plate and uses the skillet to hammer on the handle.

Whap! Whap! Whap! There’s a whoosh of air as the plate surrenders its tight seal and swings open. Eyes squinting, Meghan shines the flashlight inside.

“Well my stars and planets.”

At the far end of a passageway, multicolored lights twinkle and flash. To Meghan, it’s a discovery, something unexpected, a promise that may enliven her daily routines. After a moment’s hesitation, she crawls inside on hands and knees.

Mechanical sounds reverberate through the walls around her as she labors along. She squirms around pipes, beneath electrical lines, toward the lights.

Meghan emerges into a corridor. She struggles to her feet, rubs her legs. Light panels and latched compartments cover all the surfaces. Pipes and cables snake along the walls. She wanders over to a round window. It offers her a view of distant pinpoints of light.

Then she turns and sees them, arrayed on both sides of the passageway: clear boxes holding live rabbits, hamsters, and rats. As they stare back at her their pink noses press on the Plexiglas. She opens a box, lifts out a rabbit, strokes it.

“A pet shop? Here? What a muddle. What’s this all about, little one?” Meghan cradles the animal and moves along to a door panel.

She hesitates, considers retracing her steps. For her, this is a clear breach of routine, of permission. She’s had her share of adventures in the past. She struggles to recall the intoxication of spontaneity. She cannot ignore the fact that her life is now a countdown to unavoidable oblivion.

She shrugs, presses a red button on the bulkhead. A panel slides open. She steps through into another chamber—into another reality. Transfixed by what she sees, her shock changes to recognition—she’s in the cockpit of the MUM spacecraft!

Meghan stands transfixed, gobsmacked. How could this be? Collecting what remains of her wits, she stumbles up a ramp, passes white spacesuits hung from a bulkhead. Moving to the crew seats, she takes in a panoramic vista of Mars through the helm windows.

“It looks so very real,” she says, her hand on the necklace vial. “This was your dream mission, Cal, sure it is, after the moon.”

Depositing the bunny in a crew seat, she moves to the commander’s chair, but at the last moment pivots to the copilot’s seat. After a glance around, she plops down. Reaching forward, she gently taps the manual flight controls, then grips them. Her expression turns rapturous. A silent alarm light flashes overhead.

***

Minutes later, on Earth, at the JPL Space Flight Operations Facility, an alarm wails over loudspeakers in the large room. Along rows of workstations, flight operations personnel stare in disbelief, unnerved by what they see on giant wall screens—a smiling Meghan Una McMurphy, sitting in the copilot seat on MUM, in her bathrobe and bunny slippers.

In the rear of the JPL facility on a dais, executives, news crews, and security guards stand shocked by the sight. Among them is Dr. Ares. He wobbles as if motion sick. His hands clamp on a railing. His lips are zippered in a tight grimace.

At a workstation, Mission Director Tinh Tran looks stunned, his usual air of authority gone. With both palms, the short, wiry man polishes his sweaty bald head. He’s dealt with the unexpected, the unplanned, but never this.

A flurry of questions erupts from the news crews:

“Who is that, Director Tran?”

“Is she an astronaut?”

“Why’s she dressed like that?”

“What’s she doing there?”

“Where did she come from?”

Tran scurries over to nearby female techie.

“We’re less than an hour from orbital insertion,” he whispers. “Tell me one of you is playing this for laughs. It’s a joke, right?”

“No sir,” she answers. “It’s a live video transmission from the cockpit. I’ve verified it...twice.”

“You mean that old woman has been on MUM for almost two years, two freakin’ years, and none of us saw her before now? None of us?” Tran glances at other techies, who concur with nods. “Why the hell haven’t we detected her bio-signature? Get her on an audio channel! Find out where she’s been hiding all this time.”

News crews advance on Tran in phalanx formation. Like shields they hold out their tablets, phones, and recorders.

“What’s the story here?”

“Who’s the senior citizen?”

“What’s her name?”

“Why was this kept secret?”

“Escort our media guests out to the waiting area for now,” Tran says to his security staff. “Give us a few minutes, please. We need time to assess this situation.”

Security guards herd protesting news crews toward the exits. Tran stares down the nervous executives. His face betrays a moment of insight. He gestures to his staff.

“Check for any system anomalies. Recent ones. Anything out of the ordinary. No matter how small or inconsequential. Especially from the modules. Get on it!”

“What about our senior citizen?” one techie says.

“Shouldn’t we do something for her?”

“Brad, work up survival scenarios,” Tran says, pointing to another staffer across the room. “Has she said anything yet?”

“Nothing so far,” he answers. “But she is messing with the control consoles.”

“What’s she trying to do?” asks another.

“Sir, I have two NASA administrators on hold,” says a tech. “One’s from Houston, the other’s from the Cape.”

“It’s gone viral online,” a staffer reports. “The media’s already posted screengrabs. And Elon Musk is holding on line three.”

Tran spins. Faces each person in turn. Directs his attention back to Meghan on screen.

“I know I’ve seen her before. Somewhere, on this planet. Someone try a facial recognition scan. It’s worth a shot.”

“Sir, I’ve detected an air breach,” a techie says. “It happened several minutes ago. From a test module.”

“Which one?” Tran says, already with a suspect in mind.

“Enterplanetary’s.”

Everyone turns, gawks at Dr. Ares. Flop sweat erupts across the doctor’s brow. The other executives back away from him as if he’s now a suspect and a pariah.

“I think we need more information from you, Dr. Ares.”

“A seal failed? That’s unfortunate, Director Tran.”

“What’s unfortunate and criminal is that you apparently considered an elderly woman expendable.”

“That’s not entirely accurate. She volunteered, in a manner of speaking. She knew the risks. I do regret not informing you. I just didn’t want to tip off my competitors.”

The other executives launch poisonous looks in his direction.

“See you in court, Ricardo,” one of them says. Ares sidles toward an exit.

On screen, Meghan repositions her chair and raises it. She hums to herself and slips on a crew headset.

Tran marches over and up onto the dais. He grabs Ares’ necktie. Though a head taller, Ares withers under Tran’s glare.

“Explain yourself, before I have you arrested. Who is that woman?”

“Don’t you recognize her?” Ares says, freeing his tie from Tran’s grip. “That’s Meghan Una McMurphy, widow of Cal McMurphy, the astronaut. She’s the schoolteacher, the crew specialist NASA chose and trained, the one who survived that failed NASA lunar mission decades ago.”

“So you just decided to use her to evaluate your life support systems? For some business advantage with NASA?” He points at Meghan on screen. “I’m sure as hell that poor woman didn’t expect to spend her golden years on a spacecraft in Mars orbit.”

“But just think about this, Tran: you’re now the first flight director of a manned mission to Mars.”

Tran shoves the doctor backwards—hard—against a wall. Security guards dash over to restrain their flight director.

“We’re making history here!” Ares says.

“That lander was never equipped to sustain someone for the duration of this test mission,” Trans says. “She’ll run out of air before then.”

“Unless she returns to my module.”

“How would she do that?”

“Let me speak to her, please.”

“At that distance, voice transmissions are delayed by minutes. You can’t talk to her in real time.”

“She’s engaging manual controls,” a techie announces.

“Try to override her commands,” Tran says. “And know this, Ares, there will never be a NASA contract with Enterplanetary’s name on it while I’m here.”

“There’s always China or India,” Ares says.

Tran pivots, stomps back to the workstations.

“I’ve demonstrated proof of concept Tran. So Enterplanetary’s won!” Ares shouts. “Let me speak to her.” Tran waves his comments away.

***

Minutes later, Meghan presses lit panes on an instrument control console.

“There once was an astronaut named Cal, who could pilot a spaceship like HAL. But his biggest success, far above all the rest, was the Big Bang he gave to his gal.” She ends her singsong limerick with a wicked giggle. Panel lights blink before her. “So chuffed to be here! Either I wake up...or I come to my senses.” Meghan glances at a flashing gauge. “Or I run out of air.”

Alarms tweet and buzz over cockpit loudspeakers.

***

Later, Ares is hunkered down at a workstation. Techies mob him, but in silence.

“Meghan my dear, this is Dr. Ares. Please stop what you’re doing right now. Return to the module...the facsimile…uh...your apartment. I’ll call you there. We can talk more about all this and how we’ll get you back home safe and sound. OK?”

***

Now in a white crew helmet, Meghan taps her headset. “Didn’t copy that. My hearing aid batteries are low. Please repeat again. Over.”

A console screen before her displays messages: “Separation sequence engaged. Thrusters at 25%. WARNING: CEASE ALL ATTEMPTS TO ACTIVATE MANUAL INSTRUMENTATION. JPL MISSION CONTROL MUST REGAIN ACCESS TO MUM.”

“Nonsense, we’ve come this far.” Meghan listens, shakes her head. She attends to the console. “Dr. Ares doesn’t sound the full shilling.”

Meghan pulls Cal’s photo from her bathrobe pocket, positions it in the commander’s chair. She drapes her necklace over it with its vial of cremains. Gives them a thumbs-up sign.

“Now let’s get on with this, my stardust.”

She pushes a flight control lever forward. Her eyes shine with tears and youthful excitement.

***

The cockpit-lander disengages from the MUM spacecraft. It floats over the vastness of Mars, a tiny, alien metallic sphere, then it vectors a descent toward the surface of the Red Planet.

***

At JPL everyone’s slack-jawed in amazement.

“Got to hand it to her,” says a techie.

“She’ll never make it,” says another.

“Meghan, dear, this is Dr. Ares again. Please stop what you’re doing. Right now. Please. You’re risking your life...the mission...and...and—”

“Billions of tax dollars,” Tran says.

They all turn, stare at him. He shrugs in resignation.

***

The Bagnold Dunes peak like rust-colored stationary swells on sea of sand. For eons, Martian dust storms, charged with lightning, have rearranged their scalloped edges. The Bagnolds skirt the northwestern flank of Mount Sharp, inside Gale Crater.

Blue fumes swirl up from the cockpit-lander, now half-buried in a Bagnold ridge. The hatch pops open. Meghan clambers out in a bulky spacesuit. She glide-walks in the lower gravity several meters away, sinks to her knees.

From a compartment on her suit, she pulls out the glass vial, opens it, sprinkles the contents over the sand. Meghan Una McMurphy extends a gloved hand. Her fingertips touch the Martian surface.

“We made it to Mars, Cal. Mission accomplished.”