Andy Weir

“All right, all right,” I play. “Everyone settle down and get in your seats.”

They scamper to their assigned desks and sit quietly, ready for the lesson to begin.

“Who here can tell me the speed of light?”

Twelve kids raise their claws.

How come Aquaman can control whales? They’re mammals! Makes no sense.

“Mark, you sneaky, clever, son of a bitch!”

“But if I wasn’t willing to take risks to save lives, I’d…” He thought for a moment. “Well, I guess I’d be you.”

I’m a scientist! Now we’re getting somewhere! Time for me to use science. All right, genius brain: come up with something!

…I’m hungry.

You have failed me, brain.

I like kids. Huh. Just a feeling. But I like them. They’re cool. They’re fun to hang out with.

So I’m a single man in my thirties, who lives alone in a small apartment, I don’t have any kids, but I like kids a lot. I don’t like where this is going…

A teacher! I’m a schoolteacher! I remember it now!

Oh, thank God. I’m a teacher.

“Are they alive?” Stratt asked.

I glared at her. “I can’t just tell that at a glance. What do you expect to happen here?”

“I want you to find out if they’re alive. And if so, find out how they work.”

“That’s a tall order.”

“Why? Biologists worked out how bacteria works. Just do the same thing they did.”

“That took thousands of scientists two centuries to work out!”

“Well…do it faster than that.”

“Tell you what”—I pointed back to the microscope—“I’m going to get back to work now. I’ll tell you anything I work out when I work it out. Until then, you can all enjoy some quiet study time.”

“How did you do it? What killed it?”

“I penetrated the outer cell membrane with a nanosyringe.”

“You poked it with a stick?”

“No!” I said. “Well. Yes. But it was a scientific poke with a very scientific stick.”

“It took you two days to think of poking it with a stick.”

“You…be quiet.”

Then I go about the grim task of dressing my departed comrades. The jumpsuits don’t remotely look the right size on their thin, desiccated bodies. I even put the booties on. Why not? This is our uniform. And a traveler deserves to be buried in uniform.

“Olesya Ilyukhina,” I say. I don’t remember her religion or if she even had one. I don’t know what she would have wanted said. But at least I will remember her name. “I commend your body to the stars.” It seems appropriate. Maybe corny, but it makes me feel better.