Zenonaut’s Diary

At launch, they called me the Union’s hero. The Emperor addressed the people, speaking of my vital mission as the intergalactic high guard. I was tasked with watching over the empire. Orbit after orbit, day and night. Even insomniacs could look up at the sky and see a shining dot. That was me, aboard the station: Zenonaut Number One. Thousands, maybe millions of people had already waved to me, then drifted back to sleep.

But now, things are happening down there. Things I can’t do anything about. I don’t know much about politics, but I ask myself: why change something that works so well? The salary landed in the account every month, the Emperor was the Emperor, and soon his son, the Regent, would take over. Sure, the police could be bribed, but they were our police, they looked the other way in a reliably bureaucratic fashion. And all of us, myself included, were issued clean, pressed uniforms. There weren’t a bunch of elections. Bread was bread. Everything was in order.

Now it’s just chaos. I follow the TV news from orbit. Stores looted, tanks waiting outside parliament, the flag flown upside down. Crowds shouting wildly on live broadcasts, expressing opinions you weren’t even allowed to think before.

Up here on the station, everything remains unchanged. I keep orbiting, staring into the sun nearly all the time while missing it deeply.

Suddenly, the new rulers call from Earth. They’ve already installed themselves in every palace and city hall and handed out fancy titles to one another. They’re not interested in a space program anymore, there are more pressing matters now, like the cable car system and mold remediation. They say: You’ll have to stay up there a while longer, until we can scrape together some funds. You know, it’s democracy now. We have to think things through.

I say to them: One day on this space station is hard internal labor. A week is tough. I don’t dare think about a month. How do you expect me to survive six?

There’s a pause. There always is while the signal travels, but this time it feels even longer.

Then another voice says: We don’t have the resources, you know. It is what it is. Your food rations should last. You’ve got books. Read. Enrich yourself in the world’s knowledge. We’re fighting for our lives down here. You can lean back and enjoy. You’re not the one to pity.

I don’t know what to say, because answering would reveal something embarrassing. So I say:

Yes, I hear you. I’m trained for this.

That’s the spirit, they say down there.

Every time I glance toward the planet, I see a part of my vast realm—from the Sewer Ravines to the Icebreakers. I think: How are they doing? The system is collapsing and the people are left to fend for themselves. But how could my mother be sold at a market? She can sew, she can cook, but she knows nothing of commerce. The others might learn. But her?

Six months is a long time to be alone while everyone else lives their lives. I end up fantasising a lot. It would almost be easier if all life on Earth had perished—then I wouldn’t have to worry about them. But it is what it is. What am I supposed to do? Force them to come get me? How? I’m at the mercy of the new rulers.

Then again, I’m not easy to rule. So I start embroidering. It’s against protocol, but it makes me think of my mother. She showed me once how it’s done. It’s not hard, she said. The hard part is doing it well, not doing it at all. And I can do it. Doesn’t have to be good. My future biographers will wonder what drove me to use fine mouliné thread even though I had to double up on bandages so the blood from the wounds wouldn’t stain the fabric. In the beginning, little red droplets floated through the station’s microgravity. I had to catch them with empty tuna salad containers. Not very appetising, but blood can damage the equipment. Up here, liquid always finds its way into the machine’s heart.

I watch TV almost constantly. I feel shackled, want to descend and fight. Probably everyone feels that way. So they show other things: soap operas, game shows, reports from the world expo in Spain. The heat is intense. Every street corner has devices that spray mist, as if humans were plants. Nations show off their pavilions. There’s Sweden, there’s Brazil, there’s Morocco. I know nothing about these places. I’ve never longed to go there. It’s like the new rulers want us to dream of elsewhere, to desire things we don’t already have.

The biggest pavilion is called Futuro. In the future, people will have forgotten me, because I belonged to a country that forgot itself. But I’m sure many will want to hear my story of circling the Earth in solitude—because they too have felt alone. I’ll say I felt like the child staring out the window, watching the other kids play in the courtyard.

Sometimes I call Earth for no real reason. I make something up, say a lever is starting to wobble or that the toilet pump is making noises—I don’t want to risk floating feces. It’s obvious what I’m doing, but they let me do it. I ask how the weather is in Zenopolis. They laugh. It’s like they don’t notice the weather at all. Even though I know they’re just sitting around.

I get that there’s no space program anymore, but still, people are assigned to it. They’re not paid. Instead, they sell stuff on the black market. Satellite models or rocket fuel in jugs, anything they can get their hands on. Someone’s talking about turning the rocket hall into a nightclub. Charge admission. Sell gin. Up here, I have no one to sell to.

When I call too often, they remind me I should read a book or something, like an annoyed parent would say. Though I think they suspect I’m not really the reading type. If asked, of course I’d claim I’ve read Zee-Stiernborg, Xi-Offerman IV, and, if a southerner asked, even Xú-Alexis. It’s not true. The truth is I struggle with words, always have, even back in school. It became my secret. But numbers came easy. How things fit together, how to dismantle and rebuild a generator or a steam engine. My hands have always served me well.

Now I have no choice but to search the bookshelf. I’ve embroidered so long my fingers are numb. And I’m out of bags. I find political pamphlets on property rights, some manuals for the docking station, and a small booklet of short stories another Zenonaut brought and left behind. It’s all mine now. If I’m ever rescued, my final act will be to send the ship off course. In billions and billions of years, perhaps some alien will find my blood in the tuna containers and build a replica of me.

One story in the booklet is about a man who writes. It’s kind of silly, writing about writing, or reading someone writing about writing, but beggars can’t be choosers, as an American once said in a strip club (I looked it up afterward). The author says there are other values than ambition, other pursuits than efficiency. He claims fantasies are necessary, not to balance budgets, but to deal with life. He brags about smoking and drinking. Writing, smoking, drinking. He meets women and caresses breasts. They see drive-in movies in his Chevy. The women can’t get enough of him.

I probably shouldn’t have read that. For weeks afterward, I dream of driving on the highway. I spot an exit ramp but I’m going too fast to make the turn. The car flies into the shoulder and beyond. That’s when I wake up, when it all comes to a halt. A pine tree, or a ginkgo, or a bus. I don’t know, because in the dream I’m already dead.

When I regain consciousness, I decide to go back to numbers and hands. I start embroidering again. It goes better this time, no bandages needed. It’s as if I learned while doing something else. My mother would’ve had a stroke if she knew what I was doing up here. But she would’ve been proud too. The stitches lie neat and close. And she would’ve said that at least somewhere in this world, there’s order. That’s definitely what she would’ve said, I think, hearing her voice echo in the space within me. Just like I was on Earth.