Despite thumbs down from the likes of Elon Musk, efforts were underway to repair the broken dreams of the International Space Station. The tin can was up there, anyway, and launchpads from French Guiana to Kazakhstan needed business, let alone reasons for relevance. NASA had to sign off on whatever research would take place, but was far more invested in private-sector contracts to profit from satellites and James Webb data. China and India had set their sights on the moon, ostensibly to operate on its dark side. The ISS had lost its sex appeal, if still attractive to a faithful few.
Like now: half the crew of astronauts was checking on the captive tardigrades—water bears who’d get their daily drop in complications of their airless atmosphere. In an ISS module adjusted for this experiment, Michal (technically a cosmonaut) sent prayers into the windowed diorama of moss and measured light. He looked through lenses that magnified the creatures’ prosperity or plight, if only guessing what the long-term data would determine, well beyond the scope of human observation.
Masha (fellow Slav, if from a land politically at odds) was asleep—they’d need to trade their conscious hoursupon the ship and share their findings in the overlap. There’d be other jobs between them, and some that wouldn’t need as much attention, yet tardigrades were the closest thing to having pets upon the station. Water cubs, to keep them cute.
Any debrief had to wait until both were wide awake. “Your breathing is a lullaby to me,” the man whispered in the English both agreed to speak, wanting equally to drift into her dreams. “Our oxygen exchanged is of some divine design to guard against a life enclosed from other life.” His breath expired, he needed to absorb the very thing he mused about. “Our lungs must trust the space beyond ourselves, and these poor tardigrades are trying to prove the science wrong—or right.”
Masha stirred as if to nudge the needle to the side she’d so decide would indicate her truth. She might have whispered word for word the stuff her partner hoped would never enter loveless ears, not that those were hers—yet how is anyone to know how any language lives within a vacuum….
You’ll realize, came the tacit thought, from one M or the other, in the overlap. Meanwhile, don’t forget those drops—we can’t deprive the sample set to that extent.
Days passed into nights, if sunsets aren’t as obvious from outer space. The engineers of ISS are more concerned the nights turn into days and time is not so warped to feel like nothing much is worth the rising for. Masha liked to work the hours that weren’t so light, lending homage to the fact the cosmos had enticed her childhood, gazing at the gaps between the stars. Early on she learned the Kelvin scale and the paradox of how those blazing suns could not create a livable temperature between them.
“Unless a capsule could be made to insulate the molecules,” she whispered to her other half, asleep, “at least in terms of water, and then eukaryotes, and then…” She thought of air and shuttered at the lack of such for the tardigrades next door. “We’re burying them alive,” she spoke at fuller force, “like Edgar Allen Poe.”
The consul raised its voice from earth, waking Michal as a consequence: “is everything alright up there?”
The Ms looked at each other, equally unsure of what to say to Ground Control. “Roger. We’re just in the overlap of being asleep and being awake.” Their eyes acknowledged also passion for their tardigrades, bearing all the weight of human curiosity (if not to overstate).
“Roger back. We’re here for you, you know.”
“Indeed, we know.”
“And a shuttle’s coming soon.”
Not so happy news, if truth be told. We’ve gotten rather used to the atmosphere and wouldn’t want to leave things out of hand. Instead, they spoke as colleagues to the business of the day—or night, depending on the point of view.
Daniel Martin Vold Lamken (2026)
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