THE BEST-KEPT SECRET OF THE INTERSTELLAR PROBE WANDERER
It is quite possible that in the whole of human history, there was never a fiercer debate than the one concerning what we were going to include on the record that was to be launched on the interstellar probe Wanderer. Though, to be fair, I was chosen as one of the contributors and voices to be recorded, so I may be a little bit biased. The goal of the project was to create a recording that adequately summarizes what it means to be human, so no pressure there. The intent was to communicate our existence and intentions to any extraterrestrial beings that might be out beyond our own solar system. There was an enormous amount of hullabaloo about it, especially with regards to funding and public perception of the project. The government has always been reluctant to shell out funding for a project like that, especially since we were not doing anything as important (in their words) as putting a man on the Moon, or drilling for oil on Mars, or something equally ridiculous. No matter how many times you tell them that we’re not ready for that, they push, push, push. But I’m getting distracted. I sound like my mother, hah, may her memory be a blessing.
Where was I? The Wanderer’s record, that’s right. It was mostly chance I ended up helping to create the record. I had been working as a computer with the Administration of Aeronautics and Astronomy for a few years, starting not too long after I completed my degree. I began my work there a few years before I met Barbara. She was such a firecracker when we were young – still is. She and I met at one of the bars, very hush hush, and we hit it off when she hustled me at pool and then talked me into buying her a drink. Such a vivacious woman. She always smelled so good, like strawberries, and I would make just about every excuse to get near her. Anyways, we met, and I was a computer. She was a secretary, for another department, but still involved with the AAA. That made it a hell of a lot easier to justify moving in together a few years later. She’d just bat her eyelashes and tell everyone we were roommates, that it was easier to split rent and take the same bus to work with someone. We’d sit in the cafeteria with the other ladies, very stealthy. We weren’t the only ones, of course, but we still had to be careful. It was a different time, wasn’t it?
Anyways, the record. I wasn’t interested in the record at all, at first – I’ve always been the pragmatist, and Barbara’s the romantic. I was more occupied with the mathematics, the logistics of the Wanderer, since that was my job. We had to be precise, and we were working under these deadlines, to get everything done by launch. But I guess one of the men who was working as a sound engineer or something – his partner, I think his name was Joshua, was someone who wrote for ONE Magazine, and they had to be very, very quiet about that relationship, of course, even moreso than me and Barbara – one of the engineers sought me out and made his case to me. He had to pull me aside, put his hands on my shoulders and told me that he wanted one of us to be on the recording. Nobody would know, or course, but we would know. Our friends would know; it would be whispered, and when it launched, everyone who was family would know. And if the record ever made it out to the aliens, or whatever else was waiting out there, maybe they would know too. He got to me, honestly, and so I agreed to do it. But just because I agreed didn’t mean that they had suddenly decided what I was supposed to say.
I wasn’t the only one being recorded, of course. They were including all sorts of sounds – waves crashing on the shore, thunderstorms, whale song. A human heartbeat. Pictures too, to try and communicate the different aspects of life on earth. But the real kicker was choosing songs and speech. People were pushing for all sorts of musicians – after all, with thousands of years of people making music, how do you choose just a handful to send into space like this? If I remember correctly, they ended up including ten or fifteen songs, some classical, but also some that tickled me, like Chuck Berry and John Coltrane. They had a choir singing in one of them. And there was one spoken track that was lovely – just a lengthy clip of people sending their greetings in all these different languages that people speak in this country, languages from people all over the world that ended up here somehow. Wishes for peace and safe travels, words of welcome. It was quite moving. But it didn’t solve the question of what to have the rest of us saying. I swear, they argued for weeks straight, argued until they were blue in the face. The record was mostly complete, but they wanted more, and weren’t sure what else to include.
Barbara ended up suggesting it one night, when I was regaling her with their various arguments. “Talk about falling in love.” I thought she was angling to talk about our relationship – I thought that she hung the stars in the sky, but I was young, and didn’t always know how to tell her that. I tried to laugh it off, but she kept pushing it until I realized she was serious. It made sense, too. What’s more human than falling in love? We had been together for a while at this point – it would have been a few years, I think, and if I had been a man, we would have been talking about marriage. Of course, I wasn’t, and so we weren’t. We knew older couples who called themselves married, wore rings, and had secret ceremonies in their apartments, but nothing recognized in the eyes of the state. Whenever we talked about it, I always pretended that it didn’t hurt my feelings – the state! Who needs them! But I was also worried that something would happen to Barbara, and I wouldn’t be able to do anything to help, and I was worried that she wouldn’t ever be able to have a kid like I knew she wanted. So, this idea of hers… it seemed important. Like, I couldn’t give her that legitimacy, but I could tell the whole solar system and whatever existed beyond it just how important she was to me and what it was like to fall in love with her.
I took it in to work the next day and they agreed almost instantly, told me that they would get someone to write it up. Well, I didn’t want to read what someone else thought falling in love was like. I wanted to tell it my way. So, I told them that I could write something, “from a woman’s perspective,” and they ate it up. They were nice enough men, but they couldn’t have clocked a gal if she dressed up in drag and sang a song about her girl in front of them. Which suited me just fine. I got to work right away. It seemed urgent that I write something that was worthy of Barbara and our romance. I wanted to sing her praises for the whole galaxy to hear, even if they didn’t know that it was about her. I must have spent weeks trying to get it right. I was still doing my job as a computer during the day and agonizing about what to write at night. But it was completely worth it. We recorded it in a single take and that was that. They launched it about a month later, and I slept for about a week afterwards.
I think everyone who cares enough to seek it out has heard the record by now. They released it on the twentieth anniversary of the launch so everyone who was curious could listen to what we said. Barbara had heard it before, of course – I read it out to her the night I gave her a ring. She still teases me about extraterrestrials hearing the proposal first, but I know that she loved it. It was quite romantic, if I do say so myself. There was a resurgence in interest when they put the record out – people were saying all sorts of nice things about my words, and it just tickled me that they didn’t know that all this time, I was talking about falling in love with a woman. You’re the first person to track me down to ask about it, since I wasn’t credited on the track listing. I’m glad you did. It’s always good to meet someone else who is family, and it’s nice to have someone besides my wife who is in on the joke.
Emily Carlson is a queer writer, reader, and lover of monsters. Emily currently lives in the United States and can be found on Twitter at @emiacarlson or by saying her name three times while looking in a mirror.