I don’t want to throw up in front of Medusa again, but she outranks me.

“Are you really gonna do this?” she asks like it’s the first time. But it’s not.

Senior Crewman 30—that’s what you’re supposed to call her, that’s Procedure—hovers in the bathroom doorway, her strawberry blonde hair snaking away from her blotchy face.

I wish I could do this part alone. It feels good when I do it alone. Clean even. I get to wolf down her rations and she gets to play nurse and make sure I don’t choke when I puke. That’s the friggin’ deal since she caught me two months ago.

Shaking, twitching, boiling, on fire, I’m ready.

You’ve got to get knuckle deep and scratch the bumpy spot on your tongue. Way back, where you can’t taste the hand sanitizer. Where it’s ticklish until you do this three times a Simulated Week.

“Hurry up,” Medusa says. “If anyone catches us, you’re dead.”

We’re both dead, really. There’s no way to explain my eating disorder or whatever weird power trip Medusa is on to a superior officer. You get caught breaking Procedure, you get shipped off. Where to? I don’t know and I don’t want to find out. Thankfully, the rest of the Senior and Junior Crewmen are asleep. It’s just me and her on Night Cycle duty.

I use two fingers. Then three. Tap. Rub. Press. Nothing works. So, I try the spoon I swiped from the mess hall.

The spoon scrapes, my stomach leaps—COFF-COFF. My throat tightens—COFF-COFF. And I can’t breathe—KKWWFFF. My eyes throb black, red, green. I can’t, can’t, can’t…

“You okay?” Medusa asks, her hand on my arm. My stomach leaps and this time keeps going.

I almost get the barf bag in place. Are you an optimist? Then it’s half-full. But one look at these loose blobs of granola bar, chocolate pudding, and stomach acid, and you’d see optimists are all-the-way-full of crap.

“Idiot!” Medusa says. My official name’s Junior Crewman 47, but everyone needs a nickname. “Clean it up, quick.” For the record, I prefer “Sam.”

Medusa checks the hall. Her hair really looks like snakes, and those marks on her face look like spots where they bit her.

I stretch out the piss hose, twist on the suction, and sigh. All this half-digested food’s probably clogging up the Water Recovery System. That means more maintenance work tomorrow. Lucky me.

I can’t believe I wasted the last good barf bag. The NASA surplus kind with a towel liner and everything. I totally believe that, actually. Just my luck.

Medusa swallows her lips. We’ve got an understanding even if I don’t exactly understand what she’s getting out of it. At this point its mutually assured destruction. We left Earth three years ago—where else is there to go?

After I chase down every friggin’ last glob, it’s wet wipe time. This mess is gonna stink up the trash, so the vacuum toilet’s safest. In goes the half-empty barf bag, in go the wipes. Push down the liner and replace it with a fresh one. That’s Procedure.

Medusa laughs and disappears down the hall.

Oh, friggin’ heck, I’ve got a boner.

Idiot, idiot, idiot.

Maybe she didn’t notice.

 

“You’re a pussy,” says the jerk squatting inside a huge robot. The pistons and flywheel almost make it look normal.

“I woulda,” he grunts. “Pinned her. To the wall.”

I kicked away on the treadmill. The bungees pull all the way up the harness through my shoulders. No way I’m drifting off.

Danny—officially, Junior Crewman 35—keeps squatting. Picture the neighborhood bully from back when neighborhoods were a thing. Same Danny-face, same Danny-body. Same crappy clipper haircut.

“I woulda,” he grunts. “Showed her. A good time.”

Go ahead, you tell Danny you can’t pin someone to the wall in microgravity without a counter force. Or that that’s super rapey.

“Yeah, well, she touched my arm,” I say, rollers digging into my feet through smeared sneaker tread. “That counts for something.” Why am I trying to impress this jerk? He’s not my friend. He’s my Fitness Accountability Partner.

“It counts for,” Danny grunts. “You’re a pussy.”

He reminds me of this for two hours every Day Cycle. That’s Procedure—the exercise time, not the calling me name’s part. But it might as well be.

Danny ducks the machine’s steampunk arms and hovers next to me, breathing out his mouth and mopping up sweat orbs with a gray-green towel.

“Alright,” he says. “My turn.”

But I’m not done yet. I’m still working out the kink in my lower back from servicing the Water Recycling System this morning.

Enough is enough. I stop kicking and look at him, right in the eye.

“Yeah? … Okay,” I say and get off the machine. Did you see that? It’s like I told him to shut up. That’s huge for me, I swear.

Danny straps in while I adjust the machine’s settings and wedge myself between the metal arms and the platform. We’re lucky to have this hunk of junk. I heard other stations got stuck with giant rubber bands. Not sure why we didn’t bring weights. Probably too heavy for space. All that’s stuff’s long gone, anyway. One day you’re sitting at home reading an X-Men comic. The next you’re wearing a uniform and on a desert car trip to a spaceship hangar. Dad wasn’t even there to say goodbye.

“Sex is all about angles,” Danny says as he lumbers in place.

There are four girls aboard, all Senior Crewmen, and only one—Medusa—is in our squad. Odds are better Danny screwed the piss hose.

I squat. Pain snakes through my legs, hissing at the hips, knees, and ankles.

“If you’re gonna do it right, you’ve gotta spin her around doggy-style,” Danny says, even though doggy-style and reverse cowgirl are the same thing in space. I ignore him and focus on me and my horrible body.

C’mon, Sam. Push away the granola. Push away the chocolate pudding.

“She’ll arch her back if you’re doing it right,” Danny says.

Push away the food. The fear. The food.

Idiot.

Screw Procedure.

IDIOT.

No more eating. Never. Ever. Again.

 

“Hurry up. I’m starving.”

That whiny voice is Sgt. Squidward. You’re supposed to call him Senior Crewman 27. He’s huddled with the rest of the squad over the bolted table we pretend is a mess hall.

“I’m working on it,” I say, fiddling with the CCTV monitor. The screen’s still blank.

“I’m working on it, sir,” shouts Junior Crewman 33—J.C. 33, because it rhymes.

“I’m working on it, sir,” I repeat, still not looking over my shoulder. These ancient TVs are crap.

That squawking laughter is Junior Crewman 42—The Answer, because of Douglas Adams. It’s ironic because he can barely read a Procedure Log, let alone a book.

“Just hurry up, shit-for-brains,” says Sgt. Squidward. “That’s an order.” It’s not cute like when Medusa calls me names.

There’s no escaping dinner. That’s Procedure. But I don’t have to take this abuse. Not anymore. I’m changed. I’m a man. If no one’s got my back, it’s up to me to stand up for myself. Today’s the day.

“Look, sir, I’m doing my best,” I say, spinning to face Sgt. Squidward. I look right at him. Seriously, full eye contact and everything. The whole squad — Medusa, Danny, J.C. 33, The Answer—my whole space family’s watching. If only Dad was here to see it.

“’Look, sir, I’m doing my best,’” parrots The Answer and they all laugh their jerk laughs. Except Medusa. She just looks away and looks sad. Can’t even see that I’m taking the bull by the horns here. She’s just chewing, chewing, chewing air. She’s not even pretending to swallow.

The CCTV crackles and settles into a grid of similar scenes in other squads and other stations. I drift over to my spot as The Leader preaches over the speakers. Go ahead and sing along if you know the words:

“… WHICH ARE NOT MENTIONED IN THIS ACT, OR FOR WHICH NO PUNISHMENT IS HEREBY DIRECT TO BE INFLICTED, SHALL BE PUNISHED BY THE LAWS AND CUSTOMS IN SUCH CASES USED IN SPACE.”

“Amen,” choruses everyone, then everyone else dives nose-first into their green foil packets.

Today is chili with beans. You can swipe the sides and dessert rations when no one’s looking—the camera resolution is low, and our uniforms are covered in pockets—but you’ve got to make a show of chowing down on the main meal. You eat with everyone. That’s Procedure. No breaking Procedure. No choice. Surely someone’s out there watching. Why else would they tape us?

I drown every spoonful in hot sauce even though I friggin’ hate hot sauce. It’s the only way I don’t wolf down the whole packet at once. Everyone else guzzles hot sauce, too, actually. The whole thing almost feels normal. Only none of them are resisting the urge to throw up every single bite. Expired MRE rations are bland as heck.

“You set for tonight?” Sgt. Squidward asks Medusa. There’s a big initiation party or something over on the main station. They’ve been talking about it all week. I’m not invited, though. Someone’s got to take care of this place.

She replies, but I don’t know what because of the ringing in my ears.

I paint hot sauce on the roof of my mouth with my tongue. The pain slows me down. Hoping it makes me feel full. Hoping it helps me get through another Night Cycle.

The tears are from the friggin’ hot sauce. I swear.

 

I’m pretty sure I’m not dreaming. I blink a few times and make sure. Medusa’s hovering in the doorway of my cubicle, half bathed in light, half in shadow. Not a peep from her. I check the clock. It’s late in the Night Cycle—another three hours till wake-up time.

She smells horrible. That means she’s been drinking fruit booze. I heard a rumor the senior crewmen had space-brewed hooch. Guess that’s part of being an adult. Medusa’s just floating there, looking at me. No, through me.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, as I untether and unzip myself from my sleeping bag. I kick on some pants in a hurry, praying the fly doesn’t open and she can’t see up my boxers.

Medusa doesn’t reply. She just ghosts down the hall. I follow before I can ask where are we going, what are we doing, and won’t the people on duty see us. She outranks me, remember?

Medusa floats slowly, like real slow, not touching anything. All creepy. There are red marks on her arms. Her pants are on backward. And torn. I know this means something. Something bad, but I can’t think what. Won’t think it.

“That’s not Procedure,” mouths the other part of me. The part still scared of being caught alone with no one and nothing to tell me what to do. There’s a tightness in my stomach and I remind myself to breathe.

We stop in the Service Module, where cargo ships deliver supplies and take away garbage. Where the ship ends, really. Medusa runs her fingers along a swollen storage cube. Did she swipe some rations? Does she want to watch me throw up again? Maybe it’s something different. Maybe she’s impressed I finally stood up for myself. Is that it? Does she want to hook up?

I manage a “so, um, yeah,” and try to look cool, but there’s nothing to lean on.

“Do you trust me?” Medusa asks, her hair snaking in front of her face.

“Totally. One-hundred percent,” I say, and I really mean it. Things are so crappy and confusing up here. I swear she’s the only sane one, even if she’s totally nuts.

“You shouldn’t,” she says. She looks like she’s about to shatter. “You can’t trust anyone here.”

She floats there and trembles, saying nothing, her pants still on backward.

“Okay,” I say, not sure what to say but sure I have to say something.

“Do you remember the ride here, on the spaceship?” she asks suddenly making eye contact.

“No,” I admit.

“Me neither,” she says and closes her eyes, so all her features squeeze into the middle of her face. “Open the window.”

“You mean the airlock? But that—” I start.

“Sam,” she says. “Just open it.”

I watch myself drift over. There’s a click and a hiss as the first of the four seals unlock.

This isn’t Procedure. This is totally friggin’ against Procedure. But an order’s an order.

I look back at Medusa. Those marks on her face really look like snake bites.

I watch myself open the next two seals, shaking, twitching. My heart rattles my rib cage. Click-hiss, click-hiss, right in a row. Is this really happening? This is really happening.

I am the pit in my stomach and I’m falling, like back on Earth.

I look back again. Medusa’s eyes are still closed. Is she drunk?

“Let’s get out of here,” she says. She’s not drunk.

I watch myself put my hand on the last seal, boiling, on fire.

And I turned to stone.

The lies, the games, the power dynamics. No more. For real this time. I’m not budging until I have some answers. What happened to her tonight? Where are we, really? What’s really happening here? Does she like me or not?

I work a rock-sized hunk of air down my friggin’ sore throat.

“Why?” I ask. “Why the fuck are we doing this?”

Medusa smiles.

“Maybe there’s hope for you yet, Sam.”

And we leave.