by A. G. Riddle
A countdown starts on the screen:
MANUAL CONTROL IN:
15:28
15:27
15:26
Another line appears in the chat:
Good luck, Commander.
I float to the window and watch as the capsule maneuvers toward the first piece of wreckage.
We’ve searched three quarters of the wreckage. I’ve covered most of what’s in a decaying orbit.
Nothing.
The capsule is out of ground contact now, so I’m maneuvering it, which is awkward with the gloves, but doable. It’s not like I need a huge amount of precision.
The next debris field is the largest of all the wreckage. It grows larger in the window by the second. I can make out the European Robotic Arm, still attached to the Nauka Multipurpose Laboratory Module. Farther out, disconnected, I see the Zvezda Service Module and Poisk. They were connected to the Nauka by Pirs, but there’s no sign of it.
I bring the capsule around in a long arc, scanning the pieces, which look like soda cans shot up with a BB gun. Through one of the holes, I catch a glimpse of what I think is a human arm.
I stop cold, wondering if I’ve been awake too long, if I’m finally hallucinating. Or if it was simply another piece of debris that looked like an arm.
I maneuver the capsule back and float closer to the debris, aligning the capsule’s window with a jagged hole.
I can’t tell if I’m laughing or crying or both, but I know what I’m seeing: it’s not only an arm, it’s a body, in a Russian Orlan space suit, tethered to the station, looking out at me, silently saying, I’m ready to be rescued.
And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
Chapter 12
James
For a long moment, I actually expect Larson to faint. The color drains from his face. He wavers, props himself up with an arm against the van’s wall, and looks around as if he’s hearing things.
While he tries to wrap his head around it, I wonder about another mystery: why I’m here.
In college, I double-majored in biology and mechanical engineering. I got a PhD in biomedical engineering the same day I received my medical doctorate. I never did a residency and never practiced medicine. I started building things. A few years ago, I built something that landed me here, in prison, shunned by the whole human race. And by a strange twist of fate, when humanity is facing extinction, they call me up. Probably because they want me to build something.
Fowler is staring at me. The NASA administrator has been quiet since my exchange with Larson.
“You want me to build something.”
“Possibly.” His voice is barely above a whisper.
“But you need more data before you decide what to do.”
“Precisely.”
“You’re going out there, aren’t you?”
“We are. You are, James. You and the best we have.”
“You want me to figure out what it is, what it’s made of, its capabilities and vulnerabilities. You want to know how to stop it.”
“That’s the mission.”
My head is spinning. “When? What’s the plan?”
“Launch is in less than thirty hours.”
“You’re kidding. Wait. You’re serious? You want to launch me into space in thirty hours?”
“Yes. The people around you will handle all of the space aspects of your mission. Your focus will be the artifact. We’ve been planning this mission for some time. We just didn’t know exactly where we were going—or what we were looking for.”
My eyes dart side to side as I try to imagine the details, the questions I want to ask, issues to address. The first is the most urgent.
“If whatever is out there downed the ISS, it’ll hit us the second we clear the atmosphere.”
“We’re assuming that.” Fowler hits a key, and a simulation plays on his laptop’s screen. It shows rockets taking off from four locations around the world. Then a second group of rockets. A third, a fourth, a fifth. I count seven launches total: twenty-eight payloads. The simulation shows the payloads disconnecting from their rockets and trying to maneuver into varying altitudes of Earth orbit. An invisible force swats them away, like dust motes in a strong wind. They drift in space as Earth continues its orbit around the Sun, leaving them behind.
Earth gets smaller and smaller, but the simulation focuses on the payloads. They drift closer together, attach to each other, until they’ve created two ships. They’re ugly ships, each formed of a long central cylinder with modules pointing out in all directions, like a medieval spiked club.
The two clubs move away, toward the Sun, and rendezvous with the artifact.
The simulation says what a thousand words could, but I want to make sure I understand. My life depends on it.
“So you make the launches look like you’re reestablishing an orbital satellite network.”
Fowler nods once.
“You let the artifact—that is what you’re calling it, correct?”
“Correct.”
“You let the artifact take out the satellites, and you assume it forgets about them after that. They do some kind of space-Transformer-Voltron-like deal and make two ships that go and check out the artifact.”
“The pop culture references notwithstanding, that is accurate.”
It’s an interesting plan. But it has one very big problem.
“The artifact took out the probe on sight. What makes you think it can’t knock out these ships?”
Fowler leans back like a teacher studying a student. “Did it take out the probe on sight?”
I shake my head. “No. You’re right. It took out the probe when it transmitted data. It’s like it couldn’t see it before then. A space predator that can only see at night. Or in this case, when its prey emits some form of radiation or transmission. Light. Energy.” The implication is clear: “The ships will run silent.”
“Yes.”
“Data relay?”
Fowler hands me a device about the size of my hand. Its surface is matte black and completely non-reflective. I can’t find any ports or openings anywhere.
“We’re calling them comm bricks. They have a data storage medium and a wireless transmitter. The Fornax and Pax, the two ships, will fire them toward Earth.” Fowler takes the brick back from me. “They don’t start transmitting data until they touch down. We’ll monitor with ground stations, naval vessels, and drones.”
It’s a good plan to the get the data back.
However, in my view, there are still issues with the mission. And some open questions.
First, the artifact isn’t large enough to block out enough solar radiation to cause the Long Winter. The implication is that it’s part of a larger entity or is causing the process in a way we don’t understand. Or perhaps the artifact isn’t even related. Either way, I do agree that it needs to be investigated. It’s our best lead at the moment.
It’s clear from the timeline and simulation that the launch needs to happen soon—while Earth is still close to the artifact. That will cut down the distance the two ships have to travel and the fuel requirements.
“And how does the crew get back?”
Fowler breaks eye contact. “We’re still running simulations.” He taps the keyboard. “This is our best idea.”
The simulation shows the ships floating beyond the artifact, then breaking up once again. Two small modules jettison from the bottom of each ship. Escape modules? They must be. The view zooms in on the pods, which show three passengers each. So there’s a crew of six on each ship. Splitting the crew on the return voyage has the advantage of increasing the survival rate.
The pods don’t move at first. But slowly, they begin to accelerate away from the artifact. My guess is they’re solar powered.
I study the two ships—the Fornax and Pax. Fornax was the Roman god of fire (specifically, the god of the oven, but fire fits the analogy better). I bet the ship’s loaded with nukes. Or a rail gun. Both, probably. Pax was
the Roman goddess of peace. They’re going to try to communicate first. If the probe is any indication, the artifact will blow Pax away. Then Fornax will send a brick to Earth with the result before firing its guns. Those of us in the escape modules will see the results and report back.
I’m betting the artifact will destroy Fornax too.
It’s a good plan. One that might even get me home alive. It’s a long shot. And as far as I can tell, it’s our best shot.
Fowler’s voice is somber. “What’s described here is how we anticipate the mission going. That is far from certain. The risks are—”
“I know what the risks are. I knew them the moment I saw the artifact. And I know what you’re asking of me. I’m in.”
Fowler nods, studies the floor of the van, then stands.
“Well. We should get down to KSC.” He shakes his head. “That’s Kennedy Space Center. Your module will launch from there.”
“One question.”
Fowler cocks an eyebrow.
“Why me?”
Fowler’s eyes meet mine. “In truth, you weren’t our first choice. Or second, third, fourth, or fifth.”
That hurts a little, but I don’t react.
“When we presented what you just saw to our first-line candidates, three of our choices declined the job. They wanted you to go. Said they would only support the mission if you were on it.”
“Why?”
“The broad consensus is that you have more imagination and technical skill than any person alive. That you think fast and act fast—sometimes too quickly—and if anyone could pull this mission off, it’s you. When they knew their own lives, and their families’ lives, were on the line, they wanted you.”
“What about the other two?”
“Our second-choice candidate accepted the job. He’ll be on one of the ships, you’ll be on the other.”
“And the last candidate?”
Fowler glances at Larson, who has assumed a vapid expression like a man who has just had a lobotomy. “He was unable to adequately process the information provided.”
“Not surprising. That’s going to happen to a lot of people. And worse.” Now it’s my turn to glance at Larson. He’s sort of a case study in what the entire human race is going to go through when news breaks. “This secret… it’s too big. It won’t keep.”
“I agree. That’s the other reason we have to hurry.”
The helicopter that takes us away from Edgefield is filled with military, but they’re not National Guard. Special ops would be my guess. They’re all business, and when they look at me, they don’t blink or glance away. Glad they’re on our side.
As we fly south, the helicopter’s rotors pounding, I glance up at the sun. I’ll never see it the same way. I’ll never see the world the same way. Life. The solar system, the universe. I feel I’ve crossed a Rubicon. Nothing will ever be the same.
And for reasons I can’t explain, I only want one thing: to make peace with the only person who matters to me in this world. My brother.
I activate my headset. “Fowler, I have a request.”
Larson spins and adjusts his mouthpiece. Since exiting the van, his lobotomized state has receded. He’s back to normal pit-bull status. “You don’t get to make requests. That was part of the d—”
“What is it, James?”
“I have a brother. He has a wife and son.”
Fowler nods, waiting, then looks up. “And a daughter now. Ten months old.”
“Right. I’d like for them to have a place in one of the habitable zones.”
“Impossible,” Larson barks.
“Done,” Fowler says quietly.
“He lives in Atlanta.”
“They moved six months ago, to a suburb of Charleston. Mount Pleasant.” The NASA administrator seems to have memorized the file. I’m impressed.
“Which is on the way to Canaveral.”
Fowler nods slowly.
Larson glares at me. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
I stare back. “Hey, I know you weren’t picking up a lot of what was thrown down in the van, but odds are, I’m punching a one-way ticket tomorrow night. He’s the only family I have left. I just want to see him. For two minutes. To say I’m sorry. That’s it.”
Fowler interrupts us. “Make the arrangements, Mr. Larson.” To me, he says, “Be quick, James. Time is a commodity we don’t have.”
I know this is Alex’s neighborhood before the helo even sets down. It’s recently built, the roads laid out in a well-planned grid that utilizes every square inch of land, houses aligned in a row, yards microscopic yet immaculately kept, nothing out of order, nothing unexpected, except perhaps the expected unexpected. It’s him. Order. Cleanliness. Meeting expectations.
We were bookends growing up. Each excelling in our own ways, always taking different paths, if for no other reason than to be the opposite of the other.
I’m delighted when the massive helo sets down in the grassy, perfectly landscaped common area. That’s going to leave a mark that will come up at the HOA meeting.
At Alex’s door, I feel a surge of nerves. I haven’t seen him since… well, before the trial. I knock gently instead of ringing the bell. Waking a ten-month-old is a bad way to start this ever-so-brief reunion.
His wife, Abby, answers the door without even peering through the glass to see who it is. Apparently it’s that kind of neighborhood, and I’m glad. She, however, is not glad to see me. The smile melts off her face. She nearly drops the smiling child, who apparently senses something is wrong and begins fidgeting.
“What are you doing here?” She catches sight of the helo. “Wait, is that your helicopter? Are you crazy? Did you escape? I’m calling the—”
“I was released, Abby. For… a… work-release program.”
She stands there, stunned.
“Oh, and yeah, that is my helo, actually. Sorry about the grass. License expired while I was locked up. I mean, who even drives anymore—”
“What do you want, James? Why are you here?”
Before I can answer, a boy of about six years old barrels down the stairs with two friends in tow. Halfway down, he calls out, “Mom, can I go over to Nathan’s?” Anticipating rejection, he adds, “Pleaaase?”
At the sight of me, he stares, as if trying to place my face. Then he breaks into a grin, and so do I. “Uncle James!”
“Hey, tiger.”
“Dad said you were in prison.”
“I was. Broke out just to come hang with you.”
His eyes go wide. “Seriously?”
“Nah.”
His mother turns on him and points. “Upstairs, Jack, right now.”
“Mom.”
“Right now. I mean it.”
She spins back to me. “Don’t come back here.”
She reaches for the door with her free hand.
I put a foot on the threshold. “I want to see him. I need to, Abby. I just want to talk to him.”
“You think he wants to talk to you? You think you can say something to make everything all right? Do you have any idea what you did to him? Do you have any clue?”
“Look, he doesn’t have to talk to me. Just… to listen. I have some things I want—some things I need to say.”
She shakes her head, anger turning to annoyance. “He’s not even here.”
“Where is he?”
“Working.”
“In town?”
“At a convention.”
“Where?”
Her eyes narrow. “I wouldn’t tell you if the world were ending.”
Against my will, I let out a laugh.
Behind me, Larson calls out, the brusque condescension gone from his tone. “Dr. Sinclair, we’re overdue for that meeting.”
“Will you tell him I came by, Abby?”
“You show up here again, I’ll call the cops.”
The glass rattles when she slams the door.
Larson falls in beside me as we walk away.
“Yeah. They’re my family, Larson.”
Chapter 13
Emma
Even though I’m out of contact with the ground, I write a message notifying them that I’ve identified a potential survivor, the location, and my intention to launch a rescue. The message will send the moment the capsule comes back into contact with a ground station. At that point, I may have my hands full.
Docking the capsule to the debris is tricky. The docking connector on the piece of the ISS is still intact. That’s the good news. The bad news is that, frankly, I’m a geneticist, not a pilot, so my flying skills aren’t the greatest in ISS history. But I’ve trained for this, and I do my best, which equates to docking after three attempts.
During the sloppiest docking in ISS history, I peer through the airlock window. What I don’t see scares me: my crewmate. Surely the person in the suit—if there is a person in the suit—felt the capsule connect with the module and reverse-thrust to counteract the impact. But no one came to the connector to watch, or wave, or cheer me on.
I push that thought out of my mind. Maybe they’re pinned down. Or unconscious. There are a hundred reasons why they didn’t come to the berthing connector. I tell myself that as I open the airlock and float into the ISS module.
The Russian Orlan space suit is placid as I approach, the visor a mirror reflecting the image of me floating closer, reaching out. My hope shatters when my hand touches the suit’s arm. My fingers sink right to the center. The suit has no pressure. The arm inside is hard and slender. In my gloved hand it feels like a toothpick.
I scan the suit. On the right hip, I spot the tear. And behind the suit, I see a hole in the module, and the black of space beyond. A piece of debris punctured the station and went through the suit. The oxygen rushed out, and the vacuum of space sucked every molecule of water from my crewmate’s body. I was lucky my suit didn’t get hit with debris. I was upwind, so to speak. Everyone on the other side of the station would have been showered with projectiles.
