text: They train you how to amble about on these rocks, but they don’t train you to run for goddamn life. One third gravity, hell one twentieth of Earth gravity, you can learn how to hop in your jump suit, pack and all, without falling on your bubble like a damned terra firmer­ , fresh in the float. But it all goes out the air lock when you suddenly have to run for your last. That lizard brain of yours doesn’t care a milliliter about the tech that brought you out here. It remembers. Remembers you scurrying from one rock to another knowing the sunlight meant death. The memory persists even in one twentieth the gravity, pushing your legs and pumping your lungs until you look like a spaz in your bag, fall over onto your bubble, and pop your top, wide open to the cold, dark suck. Out you go, eyeballs first. But you ain’t supposed to be running out here. There’s no horseplay in the cold, dark suck. There are no busses to catch, no races to run. And there damn sure ain’t supposed to be anyone--or anything--chasing you. But there it was, that perfectly smooth rock. Out of place like the first pearl anyone ever found, a perfect dome clasped into the asteroid’s strata, mostly buried, like a bullet embedded in wood. It clearly didn’t belong there and Dirkins had to go and tap it. “What’s this?” his question clicked with static through the comms. It startled everyone in the silence. It’s bad protocol. “What’s what?” The Boatswain’s crackle just as present as Dirkins’s, even though he was a thousand kilometers away in the bucket. Captain was in her bunk, sleeping off her boredom from the last shift. The Boatswain, a man too old to don a bag and bubble, still had a milliliter of that prospector’s juice in him. “What you got?” I stayed hush. It’s bad form to cram the comms. We were all panning for gold out here, being on a crew didn’t mean we were incorporated, but no need to be a squeaker. The team might leave you on some asteroid. “This ain’t part of the strata,” Dirkins poked at the dun pebbles and sand around the limb of this smooth sphere, tracing the path of ejecta. “This fell here.” “What are you seeing?” the Boatswain sounded twenties years younger in the comms. “Fig, switch your eyes on. Give me the landscape.” I slowly reached up and tapped the comms box on my bubble until the camera started transmitting. “Anyone in the zone can read this,” I reminded the Boatswain. I was being kind of a heel about it. First of all, it’s true that any monkey in the float would see that this thing was something special--even if it was some random geode. And secondly, I just didn’t care for the Boatswain. Old men, stuck in a chair, get cranky and lordly as they soar well and above the color. That hunger that drew them away from Terra Firma into the dark loses its taste when they are demoted to support positions in the bucket. “We’re the only monkeys in range,” he sent back, a little testily, and correct in his own right. Even if a mad rush came on, the nearest bucket was a week away. But the testiness between them evaporated like water on the moon as my telemetry played over the sphere sticking out of the strata. The more they stared at it, the less it seemed like anything they’d seen before. The asteroid they were on was too small for the geologic friction needed to make round geodes. Liquid stone might form a sphere in the float, but it couldn’t get hot enough out here to melt wax. And this thing was smooth . “What is it?” Dirkins ran his pick lightly across its surface. Something about that tickling move made me uneasy. “Fig, step back a bit so I can see how big that thing is.” I complied. But you don’t just back up wearing a bag and a bubble in fractional gravity. You turn around. So around I went. “Fig!” came a cry through the comms, peaking and clipping with panic. “]I can’t see it anymore.” “Gimme a minute to do this right,” I calmly gave him back. It was ugly enough his greed was coming through the comms for anyone on that channel to hear, but you can’t throw caution to the solar wind. If anything went wrong, one kilometer might as well be a light year. “There is a lot of rubble on this ball.” I picked my way around a pile of rough stones, from sand to table size. Anyone of them a hazard to a monkey in a bag. Once a good five meters away, I slowly turned around to put the object in frame. “Here you go.” But Dirkins was gone. “Where’s Dirkins?” The Boatswain barked impatiently. I swung back and forth, looking for Dirkins. I was getting irked. He’s gone, dummy! “I don’t know,” was my politic response. “Wait,” the Boatswain piped, but I saw it too, the once smooth and hemispherical dome was a jagged crater. A red cloud descended around where Dirkins had been, like a macabre fog. For a minute, the only sound was the rising cadence of my breathing. You learn from birth, if you’re unlucky enough to be born in the float, to breath slowly and deliberately. By the time a baby floater is an adult, it’s been nothing but buckets, bags, and bubbles. Slow, deliberate breaths are just as natural as blinking. But fear can still dig its lizard claws into you. You can start to raggedly grasp for breath like you won’t ever again. And just like that, it clicked that I was looking at the frozen lower half of Dirkins, standing fast, boiling and spewing more red mist into the cloud above. And out of the broken hemisphere, a shape was recoiling, covered in drabs of frozen red and shreds of white from Dirkins’s jump suit. “Fig,” The Boatswain chattered. “Fig, what the hell is going on? Where is Dirkins?” It was as if the pixels rendered by my bubble cam were less comprehensible than what I was actually seeing. Of course, running was the only thing to do. “You gotta wake Captain,” was all I could explain as I turned and began bumble hopping away . They train you to amble safely on these rocks. But me, the great spacefaring Fig, my lizard brain said RUN. I pushed my foot into the ground and launched myself dangerously forward. Immediately, my arms and legs, fat in my bag, started flailing. I knew I was doing it wrong, but the fear that coursed through my veins pumped my body to spasm and sprawl. The bric-a-brac came up to meet me, my arms catching most of the impact. But my momentum carried me forward, this time by the legs. Now, instead of moving in anyway like a human being, I was flipping over. For an arc segment, as I spun head over thruster, I saw the broken hemisphere. Dirkins legs and torso were gone. The mass around them, the quivering shape, an organic color against the grey pallor of the strata, was moving. Not quickly, but deliberately and shakily, point to point. “Fig,” came the commanding sound of my name through the comm. “Fig, what is your status?” It was Captain. Finally. Either that bastard of a Boatswain had come around to the good move of informing Captain that shit has gone sideways, or I have been out here long enough for the shift to change. “Fig, where is Dirkins?” I spun through the microgravity, the stars now filling my bubble, the jealous glare of Sol stretching out to cast day in the dark night. Life in the float had trained me to hear the sounds my jump suit. My bag sang to me. Increased heart rate? Check. Inefficient gas exchange? Check. Piddle pack filling? Check. I flailed about, feather-like, rolling forward with maddening slowness. With luck, I landed on my hands and knees in a patch that was more sandy than rocky. Alien horrors aside, smashing my bubble would have made a bad situation worse. The firm ground which gave my limbs purpose allowed me space to push the fear backwards. Instead of pumping my legs to run, this time I shimmy hopped from my knees to my feet and crouch-jumped into an upright position. “Dirkins is gone,” I replied through my breath. “He is a red mist sucked into the dark by something that ain’t us.” I allowed myself to turn at the waist to see if my nightmare friend had made any progress. He had. I could see him full now. He was like a couple coat hangers stuffed in a brown leather bag, each corner reaching out for a solid purchase. It was comfortable, as far as I could tell, exposed to the void. But maybe like me, it wasn’t used to the meager gravity. It quivered and hesitated with every move. But each move was in my direction. I could see bits of Dirkins frozen red and tatters of his bag stuck to this thing as it eked out its next step. But how fast could it move? It seemed to be feeling its way over the strata, a big rock in between us might slow it down. “Captain, do you read me?” I asked, stiffening at the ray of hope. I turned back away from the alien and took in the mare of smoother strata that stretched away from me, a few meters through some variable bric-a-brac. If I could amble around these few rocks, I could hit the mare and gain some speed. Put some distance while that thing was still clambering, finding its way. Buy some time for Captain to scoop me up. “Captain?” “Go ahead, Fig. I read you.” There was a pause. Her voice was tense. She was always a professional. “I think I can make you out in the scope below the limb. What the hell is that? It’s moving...” “No time, Captain,” I replied, taking a ginger hop around a knee-high protrusion of strata. I had to be careful not to land on any wonky bric-a-brac. A fall here would let it close the gap on me and I’d be red mist myself. “Ah, no time, Captain.” I repeated. “Funny story, though. Can’t wait to share.” There was a static chuff from the other end, more of a cough than a laugh. But I was calming myself down, not Captain. “Um, Captain, do you see that stretch of mare just ahead of my position?” There was a short pause. “Roger that,” Captain replied. “In about ten seconds, I am going to run like hell across that mare.” I put my hand down on a larger rock that threatened to trip me up and pivoted smoothly around it. The turn put my bubble around enough for me to see that bag of hangers on my trail, a wake of red mist billowing lightly showed its steady progress. My breathing was back to spacer calm again, heart rate high, but steady. I was thinking like a human, not reacting like a lizard. I suddenly remembered that the cam on my bubble could project a feed from my aft. Handy for working the hulks in dry dock around Triton. I flipped it on and made the final hop onto the mare. My friend was clearly visible in the feed which was projected in a corner of my bubble. He was making better time, navigating the bric-brac easily with whatever his limbs were. “Roger that,” Captain replied again. “ETA, two minutes.” “Let’s hope that’s not too long,” I added, knowing there was no point in arguing. All that was left was to run. “I need a dust off upon arrival, I will jump to you. Do not land. Repeat, do NOT land.” “Fig--” “Please, Captain, just be there to catch me.” It sounded futile, but there would be no time. The trick to ambulation in microgravity is timing and momentum. Microgravity walking is more like a slow gallop. For each push, you will have an arc of motion, up and then down. If the strata is right, you don’t need to worry about slipping or tripping, you just need to get your feet below you by the time you come back down. You only gain speed from contact to the strata. Once you are in your arc, anything you do short of getting your feet ready for the next landing could throw you off your timing. I pushed off. I had to be cautious. Any fumble now was my end. Floating a bit, I found the feel of the asteroid’s pull, landed on one foot with my other leg slightly ahead so that I could roll onto it and push off again. Too much and I would float gracefully up and away, but not enough to fly away. The asteroid had enough girth to drag me back down. But if I hedged my push too much, I mis-time it and stumble. Alien food. So I had to dance to run. Next foot down, roll onto the other. Too much “Shit,” I jetted up at least three meters. I did not want to move up, I wanted to move forward. I could do nothing until I came back down. Losing time. “Fig,” it was Captain. “Fig, I see you clear on the mare. That thing is closing about ten meters behind, slow going on those rocks. But it is definitely coming for you.” “Thanks for the update, Captain,” I touched down and absorbed the landing in my knee to dissipate excess energy. I needed to get control of my pace. Now push. Better, more forward than up, but low enough to keep the wheel spinning. Down again, rock onto my front leg, up again. Rhythm. Timing. This was working. “Fig,” came Captain’s staccato call. “It’s on the goddamn mare.” Fear coursed into me again like a solar flare. The lizard part of me twitched my attention to the rear display in my bubble and sure enough it was making its way onto the mare. I timed my next push wrong and launched myself horizontally. But you don’t just belly flop in microgravity, you have momentum. And the attitude my body took into its blunder would have me bouncing awkwardly forward with my legs where my head should be and my feet uselessly skyward. All I could do was use my arms to lessen the damage and try not to crack open my bubble. I skidded to a stop on my elbows and knees, kicking up clouds of strata dust around me. “Fig!” “Captain,” I sputtered through my teeth. “You have got to stop that.” “Fig, it’s flying at you now.” I stood up and looked over my shoulder with a tilt at my waist. Sure enough, my nemesis was about a meter above the mare, its protrusions spazzing and twitching in all directions. But it wasn’t flying. It was flailing! The course it took above the strata gave me the impression that it had tried to give chase with too much vigor. Once again, I got the impression that, while it could suffer the cold suck of the void, it was just as lost as me in microgravity. I straitened and set myself back to running the hell away. In my rear display I could see it was starting the to fall back, so I wasted no time. Short ambling hops to gain momentum, then strides. Jump, catch the fall on the front foot with bent knee, push off, repeat. With each cycle, push more forward, time it right to catch and shove again. I was gaining speed. “Thirty seconds,” Captain reported. I hazarded a glance above the round horizon of the mare, a glittering star was moving in an unnatural arc in what I hoped was a vector towards me. Fall, rock, push, fall rock push. I could not help myself but to look again at my rear display. The creature was finding its own rhythm. But his was more of a roll, one protuberance rolling underneath, and one or two swinging around from above to catch the next descent. I could see the strata kicked up behind him, deeper than mine. Stronger. He was catching up. Fall, rock, push, fall rock push. Fall, rock, push, fall rock push. “Ten seconds,” blared Captain’s voice in my bubble. I gave my attention back to my front and there was the bucket. Concentrate! Fall, rock, push, fall rock push. A light snapped on in the side of the bucket, the sally port, wide and inviting, hanging about three meters above the strata. Fall, rock, push, fall rock push. At the last ten meters, I timed the fall to land on both feet and pushed myself at the sally port with all my strength. I flew like a rocket into the bucket and immediately was thrown to the deck as Captain fired the boosters, so happy to feel solid Gs. I felt the Boatswain clip me into the rigging and pat my back as a way to say, “We got you, mate.” The bucket pulled away from the asteroid in an arc that gave me one final view of the mare falling away below. And there he was, brown and alive against the dull strata of the mare. It was framed in a slow cloud of dust as he fell back to the asteroid. “They don’t train you how to run on these rocks,” I said to the Boatswain. “But I learned to run today.”