Cosmic (14 page)

As we went into the crew quarters, Dr. Drax said it was nice that I was going to see my daughter on this particular day. I wasn’t sure what she meant. When I got inside the house the place was full of balloons and piles of crumpled-up gift wrapping.

Florida shouted, “Hi, Daddy! Where’s my present?”

I said, “What present?”

“Oh, stop teasing,” said Florida, grinning at everyone. “He always remembers my birthday really.”

It was Florida’s birthday!? How was I supposed to know that? How did everyone else know?

“Dr. Drax told everyone. She knew because it was on the forms. Look what Mr. Xanadu got me….”

It was a doll—like a Barbie—but it wasn’t Barbie. It was Florida in her blue Power Rangers space suit. It really looked like her, like she’d been miniaturized by a wicked supermage.
When you squeezed it, it said, “What do you mean, weightless? Am I going to lose weight!?”

“How cool is that?” smiled Florida. I knew right away what it was. It was a prototype of one of his Astrokids dolls.

“What did you get for Florida, Mr. Digby?” said Hasan.

“We’ve been hearing about the time you bought her the pony.”

“Oh really?”

“And also about all the great party games you play. Will you show us a card trick?” said Samson Two. “They interest me psychologically.”

“Maybe later. Just now I’m going to give Florida her present. In private.”

We went into the kitchen. I said, “Why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday?”

“You’re supposed to know. You are my dad, you know.”

“I am
not
your dad. I’m only pretending. Remember?”

“Are you saying you haven’t got me a present?”

“I’m going to give you a birthday treat. This is it: I’m going to save your life.” I told her everything—all the stuff about this being a secret mission and Shenjian having the “measles.”

Florida said, “Ken Mattingly.”

“What?”

“Ken Mattingly was supposed to go on
Apollo 13
but he was pulled off at the last minute—just like Shenjian—because of German measles. And after that everything went wrong and they all nearly died. He suffered terrible guilt feelings for the rest of his life—‘My
Apollo 13
Guilt Hell.’”

“That’s it, exactly. They were in Terrible Danger, and we’re in Terrible Danger. We’ve got to get out of here. You thought it was bad when I nearly drove a Porsche. A Porsche goes 170 miles an hour. Do you have any idea how fast the
Infinite Possibility
goes? We are in trouble.”

“You’re my dad—get me out of it.”

“No. That’s just it. I’m not your dad. I can’t do card tricks. I didn’t get you a pony. And I don’t call you my little princess.”

“But—”

“Ring your real dad.”

“What for?”

“We’re in trouble. He can get us out of it. He’s a dad. That’s what he’s for.” I was thinking how simple it all was. Florida would ring her dad. He’d probably go nuts. But, from then on, I would no longer be in charge. I wouldn’t have to be a grown-up anymore.

Florida said her dad was too busy and I should ring my dad instead. I said, “That wouldn’t work. Besides, what can my dad do? He never goes anywhere. Your dad knows about
these things. He could be here in minutes. He could—”

“No one can get to China in minutes, Liam. He’s not Superman.”

“No. But he is your dad. He won’t want his little princess blasting off in a rocket to space, will he? Especially when he finds out the only person who knows anything about flying rockets isn’t coming and the so-called responsible adult is twelve years old.”

I gave her my Draxphone. I told her to call. Now. Before it was too late. She fiddled with the phone for a bit and then she said quietly, “Liam, I haven’t got a dad.”

I didn’t understand. What she’d just said didn’t make any sense. “What d’you mean?”

“I mean I haven’t got a dad. It’s just me and Mom and Orlando and Ibiza.”

“But your dad travels the world. That’s why he named you after faraway places.”

“We never go anywhere. My dad left just after Orlando was born. I don’t know where he is. He had a big row with Mom and never came back. Even when he was there, he never did any of the things I said he did. You know—taking pictures, buying ponies, anything like that. He just used to sit watching the holiday channel. That’s where he got our names from.”

This was unexpected. I said, “Okay. Well, if you did have
a dad…if you had a dad now, he would not let you sit on top of two hundred feet of inflammable fuel. He would not let you be sent up into the air at thousands of miles per hour. He would be very, very concerned at the thought of you experiencing 40
g
. He would be worried if you went on a big ride. And this is not a ride. The point is, this is not a ride. This is the Real Thing.”

Florida looked a bit surprised.

“But, Liam, if I got famous, my dad—wherever he is in the world—he’d see me, wouldn’t he? And he’d come back and find me. Or at least he’d know about me, you know? He’d go round telling people he was my dad. He’d be proud of me. That’s why I want to be famous. That’s why I want to go on the rocket.”

I wasn’t sure what to say. I think I was probably quiet for a while because in the end she said, “Liam? Have you fallen asleep?”

“No. I’m just thinking.” I realized I was all the dad Florida had. It was time to do the right thing, the dadly thing, and give her exactly what she wanted—what we both wanted. There was one of those cardboard party hats on the table—the pointy kind with the tinsel in the top. I found a pair of scissors in the kitchen drawer and started cutting it.

“What’re you doing?”

When I finished I held it up for her to see. I’d cut it into
a kind of crown. It was a bit rubbish, but it was a crown. “I thought it would be easier to say this if you were actually dressed for the part.” I put it on her head and said, “Happy birthday, Princess.”

She grinned and said, “You’ve still got to get me a proper present.”

“Okay. I’ll tell you what…I’ll take you to space.”

We went back in to the others. They were all standing around, eating cake. I said, “All right, let’s get this party going.”

They all looked blank. They really didn’t know any party games. I made them play grandmother’s footsteps, musical statues and this game called fish, where everyone has a fish-shaped piece of paper and you race them by blowing on them. This went on for ages because Samson Two developed a very streamlined fish, which Hasan tried to buy off him. And Max blew so hard he more or less asphyxiated himself. And as it happens, I do know some card tricks—Dad used to teach me them sometimes when I went out with him in the cab, if we were waiting a long time at a taxi stand. The other kids were all amazed and amused. Florida said it was her best birthday party ever.

In World of Warcraft, the quests are all color-coded. Gray quests involve defeating people with fewer skills than yourself. They’re very easy, but you don’t gain much experience. Then there are green—a bit harder; yellow—harder still; orange—a lot harder; and red—Certain Death. I decided the best thing was to treat this whole thing as a quest.

Dr. Drax definitely gave us the impression that she was sending us on a gray quest. Maybe a bit green round the edges. But definitely not yellow or orange. And certainly not Certain Death.

For a start, we had loads of backup. She took us to DraxControl so that we could see for ourselves. It’s a massive glass office, with huge plants and a little water fountain and dozens of people strolling round in white shirts, talking into headsets, reading their BlackBerries. They certainly looked like they knew what they were doing. “These are the
clever people who will be steering your rocket,” Dr. Drax said, “so you won’t have to do a thing. The
Infinite Possibility
really is just a ride. And DraxControl is like the man in the fairground booth. All you’ve got to do is be sensible and enjoy the view for a few hours. Oh, and do one simple little thing for me.”

And it did seem a very simple little thing. We had to press some color-coded buttons in the right order at the right time. That was it.

Because the
Infinite Possibility
is really a launch vehicle—that’s why it’s so big. It was carrying something into space. A payload. A completely cosmic payload.

“I’ll explain it all to you,” said Dr. Drax. “It’s a kind of space minibus. I designed it myself. It’s called the
Dandelion
because it doesn’t have engines—just these big silvery sails that catch the solar wind, just like normal sails catch the normal wind, and blow it across space. A spaceship propelled by sunbeams—as quiet and traceless as a dandelion seed. Hence the name.”

She showed us a model. It looked like a high-sided vehicle with lots of windows. Like an ice-cream van. Only with no wheels. And no ice-cream man.

Once it was separated from the
Infinite Possibility
, the people at DraxControl were going to steer the ice-cream van across space, round the back of the moon, and back
to Earth by remote control. Then it was going to do a lap of the Earth and head back around the moon. And it was going to keep doing that—one lap of the Earth, one lap of the moon—in a kind of figure eight, forever. It had comfortable seats that turned into beds. Dr. Drax’s plan was that as soon as Infinity Park was opened, people would pay to get into a small rocket, dock with the
Dandelion
during its Earth orbit and stay on for one lap of the moon before going back down to Earth.

A sightseeing trip around the moon in an interplanetary ice-cream van.

The
Dandelion
was a kind of massive box just under the living quarters of the
Infinite Possibility
. All we had to do was shoot up into space, float around for a bit, and then, when Dr. Drax said so, press the buttons in the right order—red, orange, green—and that would blow the
Dandelion
off into its own orbit.

Then DraxControl would bring us back home in the command module.

The buttons are designed to set off a series of small explosive charges—red to separate the
Dandelion
from the rocket, orange to blow the covers off the
Dandelion
and green to make its sails pop out.

“We could detonate the charges from the ground,” said
Dr. Drax, “but we thought it best to keep it simple.”

What could go wrong?

Well, nothing did go wrong, exactly.

Not with the buttons.

Not with the charges.

Not with the
Dandelion
.

The thing that went wrong was us.

Countdown begins forty-eight hours before liftoff.

For the last forty-eight hours we had to stay in the crew quarters and not talk to anyone from outside. It was supposed to be a bonding experience.

Also, all the food in the fridge and the cupboards was replaced with space food. Little packs with straws sticking out of them, a bit like Capri Sun but with meat and veg instead of orange juice. We were supposed to eat space food from now on so that we’d get used to it. The packs had some worrying names—for instance “Saliva Chicken” and “Pork That Makes You Eat Your Own Hand.”

Samson Two said it was probably a problem with the translation. “Maybe ‘Saliva Chicken’ means ‘Mouth-Watering Chicken,’” he said. “And perhaps ‘Pork That Makes You Eat Your Own Hand’ is just Finger-Licking Good.’”

“Maybe,” said Florida, “but I think I’ll stick to ice cream.”

“Me too,” said everyone else. So we just sat there sucking on space ice cream (two flavors—“Raspberry Like a Breeze on a Lake,” or “Banana Divided”) and practicing the color-coded button-pressing on the computers.

During the night there was a clanging sound, like the lid had fallen off the sky or something. Everyone ran into the living room. When I got there they were all huddled together. I was going to get into the huddle too when Samson Two said, “What is it?” And I realized they were all waiting for me to sort it out.

Hasan said, “Is it bears?”

“Bears? Why would it be bears? Wait here and I’ll go and look.”

I opened the front door, thinking, What if it
is
bears? I couldn’t see any. Or smell anything. I could hear a noise though—a slow, monotonous rumble. But I couldn’t see anything except the Possibility Building. Then I realized the building had changed shape. I stood and watched for a while before understanding what was going on.

They were moving the rocket.

Very, very slowly it was trundling out on its tracks, out in the desert, about three miles away. It was moving along the rails to the launch site. You could barely see anything happening, but if you looked away and looked back, you
could see that a bit more of the rocket had shouldered out of the building. It was like watching the minute hand on a clock. The others all crowded round me and I said, “Come on. Let’s get some sleep. It’s just the rocket. Nothing to be scared of.”

I was thinking, That is so much scarier than bears.

“I want my dad,” said Samson Two.

I knew just how he felt.

Next morning there was a pile of presents waiting for us on the dining table—some rubbery pencil-casey-type things called Personal Inflight Packs and five of the latest Draxcom games consoles (they’re called Wristations). We’d had a visit from Space Santa. Wristations are quietly cosmic, by the way. They’re basically Game Boys that fit on your wrist, but instead of having some squinty little screen, they project the game onto the wall, like in the cinema, so you can have it as big as you like. They all came loaded with Orbiter IV, Stone Age Boneheads and Surfing Eskimos. Except mine, which had Professional Golfer and a test-your-own-cholesterol kit.

There was a note from Dr. Drax explaining that we could pack whatever we wanted in the Personal Inflight Packs (PiPs for short) to take as personal luggage on the trip. We could take anything we liked as long as it fitted in the PiP.

Two minutes later there was a Wristation territorial dispute. Hasan and Max were playing Orbiter IV together on one wall and Samson Two was using another whole wall to play Stone Age Boneheads. So there was nowhere for Florida to play. I started by suggesting that Florida and Samson Two play Boneheads together, using the two-player option, but that suggestion led to immediate offscreen violence. In the end, I told Samson Two to stand nearer the wall to make the projection smaller.

He said, “No.”

Everyone stared at me.

It was a test of Dadness.

What was I supposed to do? Beg him? Threaten him? Shove him?

If I couldn’t control them here in the living room, what would it be like in orbit?

I moved the couch into the center of the room. I checked that it was lined up with the middle of the wall. Then, without even looking at him, I said, “Samson Two, sit down here,” and that’s all I said. I did try to make it sound like I expected immediate obedience. Then I held my breath. Samson Two didn’t look away from the wall. And he didn’t say anything. But he did move forward and around the couch. Then he sat down and carried on playing. His game had shrunk to half size now and there was loads of room for Florida to play.
I said, “Now move right to that end, Samson. And Florida, you sit at this end.” Which they both did.

Hasan and Max weren’t even looking at me now. I’d passed the test.

But what if Samson Two had just carried on saying no?

I decided then and there to pack
Talk to Your Teen
in my PiP. It was really too big. I had to squeeze it in, bit by bit. And as I was nudging the rubber sides over the book’s spine, I noticed all the dad things on it—the two overlapping tea stains, like a figure eight, the phone number written in pen, the gas receipts. It was my dad’s book.
My
dad. I wished he’d turn up now, like he did when I got into that Porsche. I wished he’d turn up and shout, “Stop!”