DOUBLE EXPOSURE
The translation of Woomera is Big Spear, but the locals call it Big Evil. Kurdaitcha, the Aboriginal shaman of death, waits outside the rocket range, surveying the activity inside.
“Gubbah, the white man, always marching onward. Progress, he calls it.” Kurdaitcha’s lips peel back into a smile. “Ah, Gubbah dreaming is eternal; the dream may change, but there is no endpoint. Everything is now. We swim through time as if it is a river.”
A flock of birds beat their wings in a panic overhead. In the moment before the flash, Kurdaitcha sees two hazy figures enclosed in white protective suits. They are here too soon, and he watches as they fade away like ghosts.
The sound of cicadas dies.
The world is white light for an instant, then enters an eternal twilight as nuclear ash falls like poisonous snow.
In the spring of 1964, the Blue Streak missile launched from Woomera Rocket Range. Something went badly wrong. Shortly after takeoff, the rocket exploded, triggering a nuclear chain reaction, obliterating the southern hemisphere. I dream of the flash of ’64 every night.
The speaker in my sleeping quarters chimes, “Report to the office of Guardian Nine.”
The Guardians think of themselves as intergalactic peacekeepers and aid workers. They appeared immediately after the Blue Streak flash, and I am one of 160 children, the Chosen Generation, lifted by the Guardians, who, like Pied Pipers, transported us to Sanctuary, the Guardian’s space station orbiting the galaxy in an endless border patrol.
Unworthy of the Guardians’ aid, the people of Earth were left to suffer. The Guardians judged humanity lacking the qualities of stewardship expected from the dominant species of a planet. They stole 160 children and left the rest to fight it out back on Earth in a cruel nuclear winter. The Rehabilitation is the term the Guardians use to describe what we left behind.
Humans also lack the Guardians’ ability to come up with creative euphemisms.
The children call Sanctuary “Space Zoo.” I’ve been locked away in Space Zoo since I was five. Earth time is not tracked here, but I would guess it’s been more than a decade since we were taken. I don’t think of the Guardians as substitute parents or even zookeepers. They are our jailers.
I dress quickly and jog to Guardian Nine’s office. Colonel Thomas is waiting there already. He grins when I hold off saluting him because he knows I die a little inside every time I have to do that. Tommy’s promotion to colonel is in recognition of his excellent physical condition and certainly not due to any academic achievement or work ethic.
Gender inequality in the military, it seems, is universal.
When the 160 were first placed in the zoo, we were to organize ourselves. Predictably, boys like Tommy adopted the Lord of the Flies model, and chaos ensued. The Guardians noted the predilection for self-annihilation was present in humans from an early age and eventually intervened to organize us along military lines for reasons of efficiency and lack of imagination.
“Captain Beth, radiant as ever,” Tommy greets me. “You look stunning today.”
I mouth, “Inappropriate.” For all the good it will do. Tommy—Colonel Thomas—and I have lived in close quarters since we were five. We have way too much history.
“I’ve been briefed on our special mission.” Not even Tommy’s galaxy-sized ego can contain the glow of self-importance oozing from him. “I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have alongside saving mankind.”
“Humankind.” I grind my teeth. Alongside. Does he mean sidekick?
“Thank you for cutting to the chase, Thomas,” says Guardian Nine wearily.
Nine and Eleven are usually inseparable. I could not tell the Guardians apart when they first arrived, but now it’s easy. Nine is the tallest Guardian. Sometimes he floats six inches above the ground to emphasise his stature. Eleven’s thick eyebrows meet in the middle of his forehead, and with his bowl haircut, he thinks he looks just like George, the third Beatle. Actually, he resembles Moe Howard, the third Stooge, not George Harrison. I expect Eleven will join us soon. Tweedledee and Tweedledum are never apart for long.
“Is there any humankind left to save?” I ask.
“Nothing worth fighting for,” says Nine.
A nerve jumps in Tommy’s jaw. Just a slight quiver but I know him well enough to spot a twitch and a nostril flare of outrage. He was a rebellious boy with a dream of escaping Space Zoo. The Guardians tolerated his futile attempts because they diverted the adolescent population’s attention away from other more hormonally-fueled endeavors.
Eleven, the kindest guardian, once confessed to me nothing had prepared the Guardians for the unrelenting surliness of a rebellious teenager. It was, he said, a dark energy unparalleled anywhere in the universe.
Nine continues: “Operation Reset recognizes the efforts of Earth’s inhabitants towards rehabilitation. It has been decided to give Earth a second chance. You two have been chosen to deploy.”
Operation what now? Deploy? My skill set is meticulous filing and memorizing rule books, so why are they selecting me for a mission? Tommy stares at the ceiling, deliberately avoiding my gaze.
“Operation Reset…” begins Nine.
“We jump in a time machine and stop Blue Streak before it happens,” Tommy blurts out. “I’m Rod Taylor and you’re the girl in the fur mini-dress.”
Nine sighs and shakes his head. Right there with you, I think.
“Could I have an explanation with more physics behind it?” I direct this question to Nine, who explains the Guardians possess technology to take us back to the temporal point before Blue Streak is launched. We will be required to position ourselves at the launch site to force a launch postponement.
“In other words,” says Tommy, “we go back in time and change the future.”
“If the launch goes ahead,” Nine’s voice edges a semitone lower, which is as close as he gets to expressing emotion, “you two will die and nothing will change.”
“But,” says Tommy in a haze of unsupported optimism, “if they halt the launch, the nuclear holocaust is averted and the world goes on, just as we left it. Booyah.” He snaps his fingers. “I save the world.”
“If you knew anything about quantum physics…” I start as Tommy yawns on cue, so I dumb it down. “You can’t reset history without distorting the timeline.” Blank look. I didn’t dumb it down enough. “Without a whole bunch of wrong paying you back for meddling with the past.”
Eleven enters the room. “That’s a limitation dreamed up by your television shows to deal with budget constraints.”
Eleven, a student of human culture, has over time become a secret fan of Doctor Who. Eleven’s weakness for a flawed, beautiful humanity could explain how Tommy made colonel before I did. Be that as it may, it is not surprising to me that William Hartnell, the pacifist doctor, won Earth a second chance.
“The year 1964 will continue as if Blue Streak never happened,” explains Eleven. “The Chosen Generation will revert to their lives on Earth as if they were never lifted, assuming a display of mercy halts the launch when they see you two in the flight path. That act will avert the nuclear explosion and change the timeline. We will resume our position as unseen observers.”
“Until the next time you decide to blow yourselves up,” says Nine, who is less fond of flawed humanity than his counterpart.
A continuation of 1964 at the point I left my life is enticing enough to overlook the fuzziness of this plan and the more likely outcome.
“If we succeed, I’ll see my parents again?” The gulp at the end of my sentence hints I would walk through hell, beating away the sparks, in exchange for just a minute more with my real family. Tommy looks at me quickly, intensely, and with some surprise. Nine and Eleven miss it completely.
“Regrettably, no,” says Eleven. “In the event of a successful mission, you will exist in the same physical and temporal location as your 1964 self, so there can be no reset for you. A necessary sacrifice of the few to save the many. The children you were will live their lives, and the two of you will be transported to Sanctuary, which should ensure the cosmic balance is retained.”
Again, not the most detailed explanation in terms of theoretical physics. I suppose he is the eleventh Guardian, just one away from sitting on the bench.
“You pull us back?” I must clarify this point. “The others won’t be here because they go back to being kids in 1964 as if nothing happened?”
“Just you and me, in this big old space station, just like Tarzan and Jane.” So long as Tommy can swing from vine to vine, clearly temporal paradoxes are not worth considering.
How did this guy ever make colonel?
“Even if you’re the last man on this space station…” I start but he taps his insignia of rank and lifts a “we’ll see” eyebrow.
I move on swiftly to a more important discussion.
“If you can pinpoint a drop into 1964 at a rocket launch site in the South Australian desert, you can drop me in Carlisle to see my parents before everything happens. Drop me in the UK for five minutes, then transport me to Woomera, and I’ll do everything you ask. Five minutes to say goodbye. Give me that. Please.”
The Guardians look at each other, clearly perplexed as to why I would want to go to this effort.
“Technically possible, so why not?” says Tommy. “Think of it as a test run. Check the accuracy of those time machine dials.”
Nine looks unconvinced, but Eleven frowns. “It would not be significantly more effort. It would mean a great deal to you?”
I nod eagerly.
“Very well,” he says, earning a whoop from Tommy and a dark stare from Nine.
“No direct contact,” says Nine. “You may see them, but do not allow yourself to be seen.”
“Scout’s honor,” I say.
***
The suits are not simply for time travel. Over time in space our bodies have adapted, our immune systems rewired. The white suits swaddle us in protection, and black visor helmets disguise us. A tracker in the suits alerts the Guardians to our whereabouts to locate our position and bring us back if the rocket launch is aborted. I suspect this is a redundant feature of the suit. After the much more likely nuclear flash, there will be nothing to bring back.
As we change our clothes, Tommy muses aloud. “I was hoping for a companion in a sweet little space miniskirt instead of this Russian cosmonaut getup.”
In a situation where the fate of humanity rests in the balance, his focus is sexy space armor. Naturally.
“Do you think this is the purpose of the Chosen Generation?” I ask, ignoring his shallowness. “We are here to fly out like doves from the arc, two by two, to see if the world is worthy of a reset?”
Tommy shakes his head. “Dove? I see you more as an eagle. No, they grabbed just enough kids so that when humanity finally annihilated itself, the Guardians could let loose a new batch of sea monkeys to set the whole thing off again. Humanity is hanging in there, which nobody expected. Op Reset is Eleven’s pet project. He thinks they need to run the experiment again, and the other Guardians only agreed because they want to test the suits. They think it will fail and kapow! End of the world the sequel. But, hey, you get to see your mommy and daddy again.” He cracks a grin. “Your lip actually quivered. Damn, I knew there were feelings in there somewhere.”
“Don’t you have family back in that swamp they plucked you out of?”
This assumes his father was not a feral hog that crawled out of the undergrowth his momma took a fancy to. I know, I spend a little time with the man, and I sink to his level. He has this way of rubbing off on you like a bad rash.
Tommy quickly pulls down his visor. “Bayou, not a swamp.” He speaks through the speaker in my helmet; his voice is muffled. “It was a relief to leave my family behind. The only person—people—I care about are here. We give one hundred and fifty-eight kids a chance to live their lives. It’s worth it, Beth. I know it.”
The unrecognizable tone of hope affects me too.
“If echoes of the future linger like ghosts tempering the hasty decisions of men, who wouldn’t risk being cremated to ashes to bring about a brave new world?” I like the sound of my words, but I don’t really believe them. I inject more credibility into my next sentence. “Thank you for taking me with you, Tommy. I know we are probably going to die, but if there is any chance of a reset, I’ll take it.”
“That’s my girl.” The helmet comms need adjusting because Tommy’s voice is husky in my earpiece.
***
My memory of the picnic is black and white. Now I see my frock is bright autumn colors. Mummy shakes a red tartan blanket to set out the lunch. This is the last day of normal. The other me nods somberly when Daddy asks to take a photograph of my new dress. The suit’s external microphone picks up his request, and at the sound of his voice, the ache I’ve experienced for so many years is unpeeled, real and raw.
As I step toward him, his camera captures the moment, but he is peering through the viewfinder-cropped rectangle of the world and doesn’t see me.
Tommy immediately pushes the button to transport us to Woomera. He knows I would abandon the mission, the world, everything just to embrace my father one more time.
Before we vanish, I hear the click of his camera, and I can imagine the excitement in Carlisle when they develop an image of a Solway Firth Spacewoman. Spaceman, because it will not occur to anyone in 1964 that women could be astronauts. My parents won’t even know it’s me. It will be explained as a double exposure, and I suppose I am in the picture twice, so in a way it is.
But now we stand on the other side of the world on a missile firing range as the doors of the hatch open. We are in the direct line of the flight path. The people in that building nearby must see us on the cameras. They wouldn’t risk two people standing in a path under burning liquid oxygen and kerosene. Our fate and humanity’s future are in the hands of the joint allied forces of the Australian military’s ability to make a quick decision that will save lives.
I prepare myself to die.
I hear Tommy’s voice in my earpiece. His tone is urgent. “Blue Streak was not weaponized. It was a decommissioned missile. Its purpose was to launch satellites to allow man to communicate with the stars. The explosion wasn’t humanity’s fault. The Guardians didn’t want us to know they were out there, and they didn’t shoot us up with space lasers, which means they’re not the only law in this galaxy. They framed humanity, but if this works they have to hold up their end of the bargain.”
Tommy believes humans are not the negligent morons the Guardians have always told us they are. I’ve studied enough Earth history to doubt him.
I open my mouth to argue that even if we win this round, history will repeat with the next time they try to launch Blue Streak. We won’t win against the Guardians. But then I realize there’s no noise apart from cicadas. The countdown has stopped. A siren starts to wail, and a voice orders us to move from the restricted area.
Tommy pulls off his helmet. I do the same and breathe fresh air for the first time in over a decade. It’s sweet and good and I never want to breathe recycled air again.
Tommy grins his white-toothed, confident smile, although it is dialed down a notch or two from usual. He’s scared and he is very good at hiding it. But I know him very well, and I see him even when he hides inside that boisterous front he has displayed to the Guardians for so many years.
“Booyah! You really did save the world, Tommy,” I say, thinking if it were not for this damn suit, I would hug him.
He may have the same idea because he is struggling out of the suit, tearing at the belts desperately.
“Follow my lead,” he says. With a genuine smile he adds, “That’s an order, Captain.”
That was the plan all along. Smarter than he looks, my Tommy.
The Kurdaitcha looks toward Big Evil. He feels the stir of bird wings and the hum of cicadas. The figures in white appear, and this time they do not fade. One of the figures rips his helmet jubilantly from his head and shucks off his suit. His companion does the same only seconds before the suits disappear. The couple remain where they stand. Hand in hand they run toward the edge of the perimeter, in the direction of the ocean.
The cicadas chirp uninterrupted.
It is a beautiful noise announcing the rebirth of the world.
The sky is a brilliant blue, the color of hope.
***
The story is inspired by The Solway Spaceman incident. Follow this link to see the real Beth in her orange frock⸺and in her space suit⸺standing behind her younger self. Lens flare indeed!
***
A career in defense, whisky, chamber music, and Aussie rules led Maria Wickens inevitably to writing fiction.
