Orbital

Nine Truth

The classroom resembles something JJ Abrams had his production designer come up with. There’s a full video wall behind me, screens all around the classroom and a state of the art projection system on the ceiling. The whole school is designed to make parents feel good about writing large checks so their kids can be part of “the big future in space.” It’s a far cry from the blackboard and sparse warehouse where Halston Bennet explained the fundamentals of astronautics to me in the early days of iCosmos.

Looking around the classroom of college-aged kids in their SpaceTech polos, I see a few that might actually make it into some space-related career. But the majority of them were aimless students in high school and couldn’t get into any of the more serious academic programs. They’re going to come out of here thinking that their diploma is going to mean something to iCosmos, SpaceX or Blue Origin.

Hell, I went through one of the best aviation programs in the country and still got looked down on because I never flew for the military or NASA.

They brought me in as a special lecturer — really just a trial run to see if I worked out. So far, not so much. I knew things were off to a bad start when the students kept asking about warp drives and teleporters the first day.

Only three out of forty knew who Yuri Gagarin was. None of them had a clue who Alexei Leonov was or the importance of Apollo 8.

I’m in the middle of explaining the significance of that mission — the first time humans left Earth orbit and orbited another body — when a hand shoots up.

I used to love questions in classroom visits. Here, I’ve begun to dread them.

I point to the young man with dark curly hair and hipster glasses. “Yes, Gabe?”

“You were shot in space, right?”

“We were talking about orbital insertion.”

“Right. Right. Yeah. So, uh, I saw some video on the Internet that poked all kinds of holes in the Reynolds Report.”

Great. The Reynolds Report was the name of the Congressional inquiry into the K1 affair and became the government’s official position. Admittedly, it’s filled with a lot of half-truths, it’s become a ripe target for conspiracy theorists; so called K1 Truthers. Now it looks like Gabe is among them.

“I can’t really talk about the incident. Let’s get back to talking about velocity and insertion windows.”

“Well, this video said that you couldn’t have got the bullet wound outside the station because bullets need air.”

I can see the other students have woken out of their stupor to listen to the discussion. “I wasn’t shot by a musket, Gabe. How do rockets work in space?”

“Uh, rocket fuel?” he replies, as if it’s the dumbest question in the world.

“Just fuel? So if I light it up it’ll explode?”

“Um, no. You need oxygen.”

“Correct. An oxidizer. Bullets have their oxidizer inside the ammo.”

I think this is about to shut him down, but realize I fell into some kind of argumentative trap he thinks he’s set for me as he turns a page in his notebook.

“Okay. Then how come Newton’s First law of Thermodynamics didn’t apply here?”

“Well…Gabe, there is no such thing as Newton’s First Law of Thermodynamics. He did have laws of motion, which were adapted by Celsius and others to describe different kinds of systems. I think you mean Newton’s Third Law about every reaction causing an equal and opposite reaction.”

“Yes. That’s it. So you know it?” he asks, oblivious to my response.

“Yes. I’m a pilot and an astronaut. It’s sort of the most important thing for me to know. May we move on?”

“Wait, wait, so if they shot at you with enough force to poke a hole in you, why didn’t they fly off into space?”

“For one, we already were in space. Second, the rifles and handguns they used had special recoil chambers designed to minimize the backwards pressure. Third, when they fired, or I did, we braced ourselves against something. This is all in the Reynolds Report. Have you actually read it?”

“Mostly…”

“So, no.”

I watch his hand go under his notebook. “But you stand by everything in it?”

Okay, something funny is going on here. I walk over to his desk and flip over his notebook. His phone has an audio recorder app running.

“Are you recording this?” I ask.

“Um…I’m just taking notes for class.”

“Great. Hopefully it’ll help your grades.” I leave the phone where it is and return back to the front of the classroom.

“By show of hands, how many of you really want to work in space?”

Everyone raises an arm into the air.

“Okay, how many of you are willing to do anything that it takes?”

Most of the hands are still up.

“Great. Here’s my advice. Quit this school. Get your tuition back. Go to a community college, get straight A’s, go to a good state school, study science or engineering and then either go to work in the Navy, the Air Force or get a graduate degree. Along the way, get a pilot’s license, learn to scuba dive and volunteer for every space related project you can.”

A girl in the back raises her hand and says, “I thought this was the easiest path.”

I shake my head. “Right now, space is not for people looking for the easy path. Get rich or wait for space tourism to get cheaper and then go.”

Two hours later I’m in the dean’s office, Miriam Caldwell, a former NASA official, who to her credit, while never having gone into space, successfully ran training in Houston for several years.

“David, you can’t say stuff like that.”

I knew this was coming and had already put all my personal items from my cubicle in my backpack. “I’m sorry. I’ll send you the grades and my class notes.”

“While it’s not like any of those students are actually going to take you up on your advice — if they were that motivated, they wouldn’t be here. I have to let you go for another reason…” Her voice drifts off.

“It doesn’t matter. We gave it a shot.”

“No. You need to know. We’ve had some…concerns from parents. While most of them are thrilled that you’re part of our faculty…”

“Others are not. They still think I’m a terrorist or a target.”

“And there’s the whole Reynolds Report. It’s become such a political issue right now. Maybe when things settle down a little bit we can have you back?”

I force a smile and thank her for the chance.

To be honest, I’m relieved. I was finding it hard to care as a teacher — which is the worst trait an educator can have.