Boca Chica Launch Fever
CHRISTINA CARÈ
When it hits the bleached sand, the metal shell chimes like an old church bell. Vibration rips down the length of shoreline; pebbles tremble, the chain-link fence rattles. Smoothly breaking waves are momentarily repelled. The machine body digs down, an instant lighthouse. A splinter in flat earth. Vacated homes are set back from the water, like evenly spaced teeth. The glass of one bay window is now broken. Typical collateral.
Waves resume their lap of the shore.
The wife’s finger trembles over the shutter button. She clicks. Once, twice. The flash makes a crude and inelegant thumb of what is a magnificent feat of human engineering. Those are not simply the words of her husband; she believes them. She turns off the flash. Lines up the shot again. Shutter clicks like confetti in the air.
Satisfied, she returns to her car. In the overhead mirror, she checks her hair. Fresh dark chocolate, neat behind the ears. The trucks are arriving now, men like ants swarming the horizon. They carry off the great creature whose torso was intended for outer orbit. She checks her phone; the rest of it didn’t make it. Here lies its buckled kneecaps.
But she got what she came for. A photo of a possible future. At a US$9.99 per month subscription fee for each follower, it’s a bargain.
She blasts throwbacks full volume down the six-lane stretch, then pulls into the driveway. Her neighbor waves, golf bag slung over a shoulder.
Hello, darlin’. Any good ones, today?
Fingers crossed, the wife says.
Y’all should come by after church on Sunday.
My husband would love that.
Great. Take care now, God bless!
The wife shuts a grateful door. Lights twitch on, down the length of a perfect rectangle. Serene and cold despite the day’s heat, thanks to a high-tech envelope. Back windows survey the desert.
Toto!
The little grey mutt pads over to lick the exposed skin of her ankle. She carries him upstairs. Each request she receives triggers another hollow ding from her pocket. She plugs her camera into her computer. Not bad, she thinks. A real vision of the future. My pictures are getting better.
More than could be said for her stint at Gino’s, where she dropped as many plates as she delivered to table. Or the gas station, mother’s ring stolen at gunpoint.
I’m a nurturer, she’d said, by way of explanation. A lover, not a fighter.
She posts a few pictures to whet the appetite. Good sheen, one of her regulars says. Only a millimeter’s difference between photo 20 and 21, but it doesn’t matter. Every millimeter counts. The form is regaled in final glory. Rigidly upright.
Yes, that’s it. More, more, more!
The sun has set. Flat black earth beyond the glass. She stands, and Toto snorts awake. He follows her into the kitchen.
We’ll make him his favourite tonight—lasagne!
Toto tilts his head to one side in reply. Settles on a cushion.
Husband is late. Cheese bubbles and hardens, a crispy surface. At last, the garage door clatters shut. Ten minutes later, he enters the kitchen and places one wet kiss on her forehead.
How was your day?
Long, he says.
But worth it?
Always.
She takes his dropped coat and hangs it. Places discarded car keys carefully on the hook. Drops his socks into the basket.
Toto, say hello to daddy!
Toto sneezes. The television is on, a low hum soundtrack.
Did you see it?
Just the beach. I got photos of the—
The whole thing went up in smoke, he says. You didn’t get the launch?
No, she says. But the collateral was very shiny. Very good light.
Good work, babe.
So, tell me?
Handles, he begins, are very important. It is both an art and a science as the big man always tells us, and I have conjured fifteen possible solutions, though they must be redrawn for thirty-odd permutations each, and then rendered in 3D before approval. This is vital! A man—or, I suppose, a woman—upside down, against gravity, must still be able to hold firmly, with good friction, and pull. Then, the process repeats, you see, in the other direction. A push, a firm close.
Yes, the wife says, of course.
No, darling. Not ‘of course.’ Nothing about it is natural. Every drawer, its own ecosystem. Can’t be too stiff! The lubrication of drawer tracks must be adequate. A delicate problem to be solved.
Men and women have different grip strengths, don’t they?
He looks stricken: I hadn’t thought of that.
Babe, dinner’s almost—
He’s off, upstairs, door closing. Half an hour later, she reheats a slice of lasagne in the microwave.
Honey, you need strength. To do your best work.
You’re right, you’re right.
Later, in bed, she turns to him and says, Tomorrow?
After the launch report, he says and kisses her. We’ll celebrate.
The drive to San Antonio is clear of traffic. Past the golf course, Home Depot, and Massey’s Gun Shop and Range. A new primary school was promised by the big man to appease locals, but enrolments are too low. They’ve turned the would-be assembly hall into a bowling alley instead. Slot machines wheeled in through the double doors.
She orders shrimp served with rich garlic sauce, and she orders for three. A cupcake to finish, blue icing sugar with pink stars.
Happy birthday, husband says. Look, here’s the report!
She smiles and blows out her candle.
Handles, her husband says when they get home, are an ever-evolving reality. One wrong move could compromise everything. I would sooner die—
Don’t, she says. Don’t talk like that. You’re doing great, honey.
I don’t know, he says, head in his hands. I just wish I could see it all more clearly, the way the big man does.
You will, she says. We’ll live to see that future.
Yeah?
Yeah.
They fuck on the couch to the sound of the TV replaying the live launch coverage. The two Texan commentators wear T-shirts bearing cartoon drawings of the great and hopeful machines. This is very promising, they’re saying. Very promising indeed!
At lunch after church service, her husband takes seconds from their neighbor, Mrs. Hernandez.
I find myself praying, Mrs. Hernandez is saying, for God to guide all those clever minds. Guide us all to the heavens someday.
That’s beautiful, husband says. Truly beautiful.
Wife asks them: What keeps you two here? I mean you won’t even get to—
Husband looks at her like she’s mad.
It’s true, we’re old, Mr. Hernandez says and chuckles. Not like you two.
I’d never leave Boca Chica, Mrs. Hernandez adds. No matter how much the big man offers us. We want to say we were here.
Yes—it’s about legacy, husband agrees. And you’ve got a front row seat!
I always explain that to the grandkids, Mrs. Hernandez says. They love it here.
I bet.
Mr. Hernandez leans over and whispers: Some wine?
No, thank you, the wife says. Not for me.
Two weeks later, underwear at her ankles, she takes four squares of paper and folds. Poppies bloom there against the white surface. She marks her calendar with a small red dot. Offers herself a second lump of sugar in her coffee.
Toto barks at the postman. A card rattles through the door. The wife smooths the soft pad of a finger over the glossy words: Please remember to vacate your home next Wednesday . . .
Again? So soon?
Important work requires sacrifice, husband says.
I suppose.
The world seems to be shaking from within its very core. The wife wakes; Toto barks. From the table, a glass shudders and falls. Smashed to pieces on grey tile. She scoops Toto up and coos: Careful, darling.
A minute later, it’s over. The doorbell rings. It’s a woman from across the road, her hair in rollers.
She says: I thought the world was ending! Wasn’t the launch on Wednesday?
Who knows, the wife says, and vacuums up the debris.
Were you asleep? In the middle of the day?
Wife presses her hair down with one hand. I’m not feeling well, she says.
And no wonder, her neighbor says. I swear, one more year and then I’m telling Robert we’re leaving. You’ll be the only ones left!
No, the wife says. Mrs. Hernandez—
That woman is an idiot, her neighbor says. A real dumb bitch. I started saying no to her fucking Sunday lunches years ago. Best decision I ever made. That, and Botox.
Well, you look great, the wife says.
I’ll give you the number of my girl. She does wonders.
Okay, the wife says. Thanks.
A soft roadblock a few days later catches her off guard. She’s in her yoga gear, with Toto in the passenger seat. The priapic outline on the horizon awaits ignition. That vigilant, otherworldly machine is permanently carved into her retinas; she checks online in case it’s a mirage. But no, it’s real. The livestream is two hours deep.
They have said nothing, and so we are left to speculate, based on wind direction and—
Our devoted forecasters say conditions look ideal, but—
Any blessed findings from this static fire could reveal—
Do you perceive vents on the tower or—
It’s not a launch, she realises, just one of those controlled blazes they like to do; an urge dating back to the cavemen to set stuff on fire. The subscribers will want to see it. Her camera is in the trunk. She decides she might as well try.
She pulls up to the beach again, one of the few places she can go with the roadblock in effect.
Mummy won’t be long, she says, and kisses Toto’s blank face.
She settles in the sand, though it’s not quite the right angle. Only the top ridge of the ship is visible by eye. But she zooms right in, finds a gap between all the cranes and trucks to shoot through. Before long, billowing flames begin. A quick ejection of heat into the early evening air, the performance lasting no more than sixty seconds, before dissolving to a limp close.
She’s home in good time to make dinner.
Beautiful, husband says later. Some of your very best work.
All instinct, she replies. Pure and simple.
Good woman, he says. The big man would be proud.
The next day she goes for a run, lapping the two main streets of Boca Chica. Most houses are boarded up, just a handful of cars still in the driveways. She completes fifteen minutes of yoga and gives Toto his bath. She feels better. Then she logs in. Scrolls down to the last launch feed. Despite its failure, the devotees are not disappointed.
I AM HAVING A BLAST! Hah!
Can I get a hurtling meteor shower for my birthday????
Amen, halleluiah!
Turns out, debris was scattered all the way to Florida. There’s jagged video of fiery fragments landing in the Atlantic. Amateur stuff, she thinks. People pay her for quality, and their hunger is insatiable. She clicks over to her own page.
You’re not reliable, one comment reads. Unsubscribed!
MORE, says another. I want every ridge and divot. I want to picture it Under. My. Skin.
Stay tuned, the wife types back. Tomorrow’s going to be a doozy!
She’s ready. Camera charged; flash turned off. Light’s good; shame about the fence. She must push her lens through the chain-link. A man approaches her with a bright red cap on. He takes it off, revealing a shiny surface beneath.
LaunchLover35?
That’s me, the wife says.
Love your work.
Gee, thanks.
Mind if I . . . ?
Prefer to remain anonymous, she says. It’s not about me, after all. It’s about the future.
Amen, he says. Your husband is a lucky man.
She’d staked out early this time. Wearing her ski glasses. The countdown is hummed by the gathered crowd like it’s New Year’s Eve. None are local, obviously. They’ve just come for the launch. She blocks them out with ear defenders. Eyes fixed to the action. Four, three, two . . .
The blast radius fills. She holds the fence with one hand, snapping wild with the other. The object lifts, ejaculated from its spidery cage, heavy with all these hopes and wishes. A fierce purple tail trails behind. A moment later, the sound hits, a great roar. A grand fuck-you and goodbye to the home planet. Defying God, and nature, to win.
Thirty more seconds before she can lift her head above the viewfinder. Light traces the faces of the gathered crowd and turns the air to shimmer. All transformed into tiny, reflected suns. A little boy on his father’s shoulders has a weepy, contorted face. She removes the ear defenders now that it’s safe.
Don’t be frightened, the father is saying. You’re watching history, my boy!
No! the boy wails, burying his face into his father’s hair.
Hush now, the father says.
No!
Above them, the air rips open again, exponential sound eliminating all else. The wife’s hands pin flat over her ears; her camera hangs loose at her neck. Ash rains down, turning every surface soft and dreary. Luckily, she closes her mouth in time. High pitched ringing fills her brain. Pieces of metal splash into the water.
There goes 100 metric tons of stainless steel. The equivalent of more than 7000 vehicle exhaust systems. Or somewhere in the order of 2.5 million spoons. And what else?
What else might they have built with it all?
Hush, she thinks, the photos are good. A sleek yet ample bosom contained in a flushed skirt of fire and glory.
Oh boy, a comment reads later. This is the good shit.
Fuck me, another says. Take my money.
Later, husband and wife watch the explosion replay in slow motion. Toto won’t come when he’s called. He sits by the back doors, watching the dark horizon.
I think we should try again, the wife says.
Right now?
Sure.
Honey, please.
His flat hand gestures to the screen where the oversized bullet hits the sky and shatters into a billion dust sprinkles. Icing sugar dashed over a cake.
Terrible luck to conceive under these circumstances, he says.
But—
You must understand the value of good timing.
She runs a bath, fixing a collagen mask carefully over the pits of her eyes. Resisting the urge to lick butylene glycol from her lips, a compound first detected in red bell peppers. From humble beginnings, it has been reformed, now slathered on her skin. Is this the future?
Is it?
She does her grocery shopping in San Antonio because their local suffered a power surge, cutting all refrigeration. Picking up milk, eggs, and a fresh box of tampons, she recognises Leila, a former neighbor.
Fancy seeing you! Where did y’all end up?
Not too far, Leila says. But far enough that it’s quiet. I’m four and a half months along.
Oh, the wife says. Congratulations.
Finally! I knew all we needed was a fresh start.
Yeah?
There are rumors, she says, in a mock whisper. About the water supply, and all that?
The wife furrows a brow.
Well, it’s just a rumor. Anyway, you’ve got that front row seat and all!
Leila takes the wife by the forearm, whispers: What’s the offer from the big man, these days? It must be getting good.
Yes, well—
Don’t tell my husband, Leila says. I never had your godly patience to stay. A saint, a martyr! That’s you.
Sure, the wife says. Guess so.
They watch more footage of the debris, white shapes moving through the sky over games of lacrosse, over highway traffic, over lives lived elsewhere.
So cool, husband says.
I saw Leila, the wife says. She’s pregnant.
Makes sense. They only ever wanted one thing.
Is that bad?
Husband points to the debris, an ectoplasm shifting over the skyline. There’s so much more they could be doing, he says. Her husband was really talented. But hey, it’s not for everyone, building the future! We’re taking matters into our own hands, not just sitting here, waiting for the end.
You know it’s going to be years before—
It takes as long as it takes, he says. One day, my name will be on the list of people who really did something. A higher purpose.
Handles?
Handles, he says.
And me?
Oh honey, he says. I know it’s harder for you. You don’t see it from the inside, like I do. You haven’t heard the big man talk. He believes in the future. Populate and disperse—
So why don’t we populate?
We will, honey. When the time is right.
When’s that?
When the ship is ready, he says. When things are working out.
But the big man’s—
Don’t, husband warns, you’ll say something you’ll regret. Listen, there’s a big launch this week. We should watch together. I’ve got a good feeling. It could be the one.
Really? But—
Come on, darling, he says. Do it for me, this one time.
The footage continues, awed faces and fiery debris. They watch a field burnt, a red sky, a factory at work, great chunks of metal thrown into a furnace. Then the feed flicks to a serene beach view. A man in a black T-shirt explains the next launch. Behind him, the waves go on; the sand goes on. Families gather, laying out towels and umbrellas. Putting on sunscreen. Playing Frisbee.
It’s easy to forget they’re out there, she says.
Who?
Other people.
Yeah, they have no idea, husband says. No idea what they’re missing.
She puts out the spread: popcorn, nachos, deep-fried cheese-filled pastry. Toto whines for most of the morning.
What’s wrong with this dog? husband says. I can’t hear!
She tries to pick Toto up, but he struggles, insists on sitting right by the front door. Come on darling, she coos. But he won’t.
On screen, the man in a black T-shirt explains the flight’s importance. The last ship was lost, he says, due to a harmonic response several times stronger in flight than during testing. Never fear. They’ve added a new nitrogen purge system—by the big man’s grace—and this changes everything.
The wife asks: What’s that mean?
More vents.
That’s it?
Rome wasn’t built in a day! Sure, we won’t be out there in a year, or even two, maybe it will take another decade or more, but the vision—it’s clear. The future is underway!
The wife is silent. On screen there’s smoke, great big pale clouds filling the feed.
Don’t worry, honey, husband says, they’re just preparing the engines. Normal venting, under the flaps—
Did you know that the average brain has seven milligrams of microplastics in it?
What?
The equivalent of a plastic spoon.
What’s that to do with—
When do you think our brains will be more plastic than brain? One year? Ten?
Honey, please. The countdown is starting. The propellant load, this time—
Is that our future?
The numbers tick down to zero and the feed crescendos with it, words coming in over the video, manic and earnest:
We’re at forty seconds, forty seconds—
Next milestone, ten seconds—
Through MAX Q!
Laughing, crying—
Beautiful!
Looking ripe as hell folks.
Hot staging, up next—
Fierce booster back flip there—Wonderful!
Fuck yes, that’s the stuff.
Watch for that reentry glow—
That ass end, excuse me, aft end—
She glows, baby.
Catch! Welcome back booster!
All eyes on the ship now. All eyes.
Toto whines loudly. Husband takes off his slipper and throws it hard. Toto skids away, tucking his slight body under the side table by the door. The wife crouches, takes him into her arms. Toto trembles, looking at her with gloomy eyes. Roaring on screen continues, then cuts to the silent turn of the ship in space. It’s got further than it ever has. One minute and counting.
Husband stands and cheers and starts clapping. He shouts: More! More! More!
And her phone is dinging. She catches the flash of one message: You’d better have it, I swear to the big man I’ll—
The ship wobbles. Once, twice. The feed goes black.
Oh, one commentator says. It seems we’ve lost contact. Yes, it appears the ship has exploded—
Wow, husband says, incredible. Worth every single one of those ninety seconds.
The wife leaves her phone on the kitchen counter. Takes up her car keys and Toto’s cushion.
Oh, darling, husband is saying, just look! Like the big man said—just like he promised! See how beautiful the future will be? It will take sacrifice. It will take many, many more launches, just like this one. But you get it now, right? We have our part to play. The future is ours, it’s in our hands, it’s—
Honey?
Wind picks up and batters the sides of the car. Clouds move quickly overhead. Across the landscape, all is calm. The launch is over.
She stops at a gas station and places the camera bag on the counter. The teenaged attendant picks it up. He’s wearing the black T-shirt, the familiar cartoon stretched thin over his chest.
This is for you, she says.
Okay, he says. Thanks?
She drives into the afternoon glow. Waitress. Gas station attendant. LaunchLover35. Wife. And now?
The future, she thinks. Here it is.
CHRISTINA CARÈ is an Australian-Italian-British writer, and co-editor in chief of Glut Press. She studied Architecture and Philosophy before earning an MA in Creative Writing from Royal Holloway. She has been a Genesis Emerging Writers Programme recipient and will be a Kenyon Review Writer Resident in 2026. Previously, she was an Arteles Artist Resident in Finland, won first runner up in the Evening Standard short story competition and a London Writers Award in Literary Fiction. Her stories have been published in Litro, City of Stories Anthology, and the Mechanics Institute Review. She is working on her debut novel.
