Calling Major Tom

by David M. Barnett

‘As we begin to comprehend that the earth itself is a kind of manned spaceship hurtling through the infinity of space – it will seem increasingly absurd that we have not better organised the life of the human family.’

‘I got it, Dad! I got the moon!’ ‘Put it in your pocket, son,’ he says.

Thomas Major closes his eyes to think, and decides that the absolute best thing of all is the silence.

The Earth fills the four-inch thick pane, blue and green and wreathed in cloud and quite, quite beautiful. So big he could almost reach out and touch it.

Baumann’s shirts are so neatly pressed he either has obsessive compulsive disorder or a wife chained to an ironing board in his basement.

Talking about the weather, even in space. How very British. ‘I knew I should have packed my umbrella.’

If the Prime Minister came up and asked her what bit of advice she had for the nation, she’d say never let anyone you love out of your sight if you’ve had a row.

Director Baumann’s eyebrows do a little dance. Thomas idly wonders if they are sentient and controlling him like twin parasites while Baumann is trapped inside his own body, screaming silently.

But sometimes she wonders if that’s what heaven really is, being lost in your memories, just the nice ones, the lovely ones.

people only remember the very good times, and the very bad times. In between, things are just mild and wet and ordinary, unless something very remarkable occurs.

Oh, he’ll occasionally think about sun-lit meadows or the glittering of the sea or conkers on the damp ground beneath a tree or the clink of milk bottles on an electric dairy float or the hiss of a needle on a vinyl record or the smell of a new book or the gentle pressure of another person’s lips on the nape of his neck, and feel a distant sense of loss, but largely he just feels … nothing.

‘How do you do that? Appear to be grumpy and jokey at the same time?’ ‘It’s a gift. I’ll show you how to do it over a pint sometime. I’ll let you know when I’ve got the pub up and running on Mars and you can come up for a few jars. On second thoughts,’ he says hollowly, ‘there probably won’t be much atmosphere …’

James wails and sobs. Nan dances around him, singing. Ellie just continues to stare at the picture of her mum and dad. She feels weirdly calm. ‘We’re fucked,’ she says softly. ‘Absolutely, utterly, royally fucked.’

She once saw something on TV about sharks and how if they stop swimming they drown. That’s what Ellie feels like. If she stops, she’ll drown. They all will.

Baumann looks at Claudia then back at the camera. ‘What? You knew we could Skype you but didn’t say anything?’ Thomas shrugs. ‘Stands to reason. I’ve still got internet connection, presumably on the same comms link the Iridium phone is using. It did occur to me but I didn’t bother mentioning it as you have the finest minds of BriSpA working for you so I imagined someone would have already thought about it and discounted it. Besides, I like using the telephone. It means I don’t have to look at you.’

‘This isn’t Back to the Future and I’m not Marty McFly. That’s not going to work on me. Because, as it happens, yes, I am. A coward. It’s how I got where I am today.’

Frank Major is shrunken and wasted in his bed. The cancer had started in his lungs, born of thirty Woodbines a day and ripening over the years, colonising the rest of his body until he is more cancer than man.

And then he supposes it’s better to regret something you have done than to regret something you haven’t done, and for the first time in the new millennium Thomas considers that it was possibly not a bad thing at all that the world didn’t end as advertised.

‘But burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars,’

Janet looks at him, and he wonders what happened to that twinkle in her green eyes that so arrested him when they first met, wonders when she lost it, wonders why he never noticed it had gone.

We’re not trapped by mistakes, Thomas, whether they’re ours or other peoples. We learn from them. What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, and all that.’

Nothing had prepared him for this. At first it’s like looking at a piece of black velvet, perfect and flawless and all-encompassing. Then the stars emerge, shy pin-pricks of light that intensify before his very eyes, blazing suns billions of light years away, some so far that they have long since died, their light the mere ghosts of their past lives.

There was good in everything. In everybody. I just chose not to see it.’

There’s a starman. And he’s waiting in the sky.