Jerome Blackwell glanced at the monitor while SpaceShip One rattled through the last layers of the atmosphere. The “Ship” part of his ride’s name was best described as an euphemism for the cramped vehicle he was currently stuck in. But “SpaceDingy” or “SpaceCan” did not sound grand enough, even though it would have been much more appropriate.

  His knee had been jammed against the control panel for the past few hours, and his left boot felt like it was filled with sweat. He shifted uneasily.

  This was way better, he decided, after another look at the monitor mirroring his live stream: Centered in the picture again, which made him relax a bit.

  “So, I’ll become the first self-made astronaut in three, two, one,” he tried to force a smile against the pull of gravity. His head-up display stoically counted the numbers and finally flashed green: One million live viewers. Jerome balled his fist as much as possible in his clumsy gloves: Yes, he had done it. Setting a new personal record was just one of the first milestones of his journey to the Moon and to become Earth’s one and only #StarInfluencer. But it was a far cry from his great goal: Having more viewers on his livestream than Prince William and Kate’s wedding, which was the pinnacle of online attendance.

  But he kept that to himself. Jerome would always tell the carefully crafted story of his dream as a boy—the telescope he had bought at a garage sale with his first saved money. The undying wish of going to the stars he watched from his parents’ rooftop. Well, this was bullshit, cooked up by his public relations staff, based on market research. But perhaps he should have sought out something more comfortable, or at least with better seating.

  Anyway, his true obsession was becoming the GOAT influencer, the greatest of all time. All eyes on him. To what end, he wasn’t sure. But it was important, wasn’t it? Or was your whole world built on a lie, Jerome? He looked distractedly out of the small viewport.

  “How are you keeping up, Jerome?” Sarah asked through his earpiece. His therapist, Dr. Sarah Chen, maintained constant contact with him.

  Jerome switched the livestream to the bow camera, thankful for the interruption.

  “I’m not sure. How does it look?”

  “Awesome,” Sarah answered in a tone that barely betrayed her boredom. Having a Silicon Valley billionaire as a client made for a very healthy revenue stream, but it wasn’t what you would call sustainable for the therapist’s personal well-being. Being available 24/7 for Jerome was only manageable by putting up an emotional firewall between them. But even that wasn’t working anymore. When this was over and Jerome returned to Earth, she would quit, no matter what.

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  “I feel like I can’t see where I am going anymore,” Jerome said, closing his eyes.

  “Uh, look up,” Sarah sounded distracted.

  “No, I mean, what’s the sense in all of this?” Jerome sighed, eyes still shut.

  “Jerome, watch out!” Sarah yelled.

  His muscles tensed, eyes flicking back to the screen. He barely registered the sudden peak in view count before—BOOM.

  A white flash. Then nothing.

  The void engulfed a very irritated self-made astronaut.

  ----

  Jerome had no idea what had happened. When he opened his eyes again, he lay flat on a white cube in a white room, wearing a white gown. So much white.

  He squinted into the glaring light. He hadn’t had such a headache since that party at Caltech a few years ago. One of the boys, what was his name now? Ken. Kenny. He had concocted some kind of synthetic drug that he mixed into Jerome’s beer. The last thing he heard about Kenny was that he was still serving time for another failed experiment of his.

  Jerome lifted his hand. His fingers looked oddly clean, like they had been polished, with a bit of clear gel still dripping from them. The sight gave Jerome a fuzzy, warm feeling despite the mystifying circumstances. Clean hands. That was… good?

  His mind struggled to catch up. What had happened?

  Talking to Sarah. Explosion. Now this. His stomach dropped.

  “Am I dead?” Jerome asked, not necessarily expecting an answer.

  All the more reason to be surprised when a grabber shot down from the ceiling, seized his leg with unsettling efficiency, and yanked.

  “Ouch!” Jerome cried out.

  “Negative,” a disembodied voice filled the room.

  “What?”

  “98.7% of all species I encounter display negative reactions to sudden force application. This is commonly associated with ‘being alive.’ Ergo, you are likely alive. Dumb? Pending further analysis. Additional trials required to determine status with sufficient confidence.”

  Jerome stared at the ceiling. “Fantastic.”

  He decided to close his eyes again.