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The Last Ballad of the Atlantis

By

Edd Perez

“This is a bullshit mission, Colonel. I mean really? Oxygen tanks and spare parts to the ISS? On Atlantis’s last mission? Couldn’t NASA think of a better way to spend tax dollars?” Pilot Lieutenant Commander Katherine “Kat” Ramirez said. She pushed back a strand of floating long brown hair behind her right ear then gripped the RHC—the Rotational Hand Controller, what NASA called the control stick—tightly, pushing it millimeters to the left to get a better alignment with the International Space Station, their home for the next three weeks.

            “Kat, think of this as earning your badge in international relations,” Shuttle Commander Retired Colonel Richard Brown said. He smiled at her, then checked the gyro display and hit a button on an overhead panel.

            “I don’t do international relations, Colonel. I leave that to the politicians and their collective.”

            The warm smile faded from his face. “Well, guess what Kat, you’re part of that collective whether you like it or not. You’re an astronaut. That makes us all political ambassadors of the world. If that means you’re going to smile at the cameras when the time comes, then I expect to see teeth, commander.”

            “Yes sir, Colonel. But don’t expect me to kiss Frenchy over there to earn my badge in international relations.”

            “And what’s wrong with the French?” Mission Specialist and Flight Engineer Jean-Loup Viso said with a wide grin under a bushy mustache. “We’ve given the world some great things: French fries, French toast, French kissing—”