Winter World

by A. G. Riddle

  For a long moment, I don’t move. I float there, holding my crewmate’s suit, my fingers wrapped around their forearm. It’s as if my mind can’t process this. When I saw the suit… I was so sure of what would happen. I saw myself rescuing this person. Having someone else in the capsule. The two of us strapping ourselves in, gritting our teeth during reentry, and hugging and crying when the capsule touched down.

  None of that will happen.

  It’s as if I’ve entered a new reality, and I can’t accept it.

  An impact on the module snaps me out of it. There’s another. Then another, like hail on a metal roof. Another debris field is colliding with this one.

  My eyes flash to the hole in my crewmate’s suit. I have to move. Right now.

  I know I should break for the airlock and leave the Russian suit and whoever’s inside it. But I can’t. I just… can’t.

  I untether the suit and drag it toward the capsule. The hail of debris gains cadence, trumpets beating, an orchestra of destruction all around me. I’m through the airlock. The beating is a hailstorm now.

  In rapid sequence, I disconnect from the ISS, close the airlock, and increase thrust away from the oncoming debris.

  As the capsule zooms away, the thumping sounds grow quieter. It sounds like rain, and then a sandstorm, and then nothing. Through the window, I see the pieces of debris bouncing off the remains of the station, the larger pieces getting lodged, and a few perfectly sized shards going right through.

  If I’d been in contact with the ground, they would have told me about the debris field. I should have gotten in and out faster. I need to get it together.

  Focus, Emma.

  I turn my eyes to the Orlan suit. The pressure here in the capsule is the same as it is out there. No harm in finding out who’s inside.

  I disconnect the helmet.

  Sergei.

  It was a smart move getting in the suit. I bet he did it when the array went down. I should have ordered everyone to get into suits—or to evacuate to the Soyuz capsules then.

  That thought lingers in my mind, haunting me. I know if I let it stay there long enough, it will destroy me, like a cancer untreated. If we let it, guilt has a way of growing.

  I have to focus on the task at hand. Take one step at a time. Then the next. My mind—my ability to think—may be the only thing that will keep me alive out here.

  With the stylus I type a message to the ground.

  A few hours later, I finish the search.

  I found no survivors. No other space suits. No remains.

  I appear to be the sole survivor of the ISS catastrophe.

  I type my report into the terminal and send it. I’m over North America again, which has several ground stations with line of sight on me. As expected, the response comes quickly.

  Understood. We are pressurizing the capsule. Stand by.

  Why are they pressurizing? I assumed they’d start the reentry sequence and bring me home by now. Do they think my decompression sickness is bad enough for urgent attention? I’d rather be on the ground. I’m about to type a message when one appears on the screen.

  Atmosphere in capsule is suit-equivalent. Please remove your helmet and we’ll start DCI treatment.

  I unsnap the helmet and breathe in the air, which I can tell is pure oxygen, or pretty close. (For reference, the air on Earth is only about twenty-one percent oxygen.) Taking the nitrogen out of the air helps treat decompression sickness. They’re also going to bring the pressure up gradually, which will force the air bubbles in my body to dissolve back into my blood. I’ll be flat soda again.

  For some reason, I suddenly feel so thirsty and hungry. I’ve been so scared since the station broke up I haven’t even realized how hungry I was. Constant fear of death has to be the best weight loss program ever.

  I eat and chug water. I should probably slow down on the water. There’s not exactly a convenient bathroom around. They included a package of diapers in the capsule, and I quickly slip out of the space suit and put one on before getting back into the suit—just in case.

  I exhale deeply. The pressure is coming up. It’s getting easier to breathe. I’m taking longer breaths. And I’m so tired.

  All I want right now is to go home. I was overjoyed the day I went into space. Now I crave the feeling of putting my feet on the ground and breathing in real air, not this sterile, recycled space air.

  A speaker echoes in the small, still space—a man’s voice, with a Massachusetts accent, which always reminds me of JFK.

  “Phoenix capsule, this is Goddard, do you read?”

  “I copy, Goddard. It’s nice to hear your voice.”

  “Likewise, Commander.”

  I finish off the bottle of water, then ask the question burning in my mind. “So. What’s the plan?”

  “We’re working on it. For right now, we need you to tether your suit to the capsule. The oxygen and power are compatible with the ISS. There’s also a spare tank in the capsule. Recommend you swap out any depleted tanks.”

  Why? It’s as if they think I’m not coming home soon.

  “Will do. Any idea on timeline for reentry?”

  “Yeah, that’s unknown at the moment.”

  “Why? What’s going on? Did the storm that hit the ISS impact the Earth?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Is there something wrong with the capsule?”

  “No, Commander. Nothing like that. We’ve, ah, got our hands full down here.”

  Hands full with what? Is it other launches? It has to be. I’m sure they don’t want to bring me back until they have the personnel to monitor the capsule and respond if anything goes wrong. If they’re working on a launch that’s time-sensitive, they would want to delay bringing me back. And treating the decompression sickness would need to be done either way—here or down there—and it’s best done quickly to avoid permanent damage. It starts to make sense—if my theory is correct.

  “We’ll get you home, Commander. We’re doing all we can.”

  “I know. Thank you. I should have said that earlier. I mean it. Thank you for everything. Before I saw the capsule, I thought I was finished. I knew it.”

  “Just doing our jobs, ma’am.”

  There’s a long pause. The food is making me sleepy. Or the thicker air. My speech is almost slurred when I speak.

  “What can I do?”

  “Just rest, Commander Matthews. And hang in there.”

  I float down beside Sergei and close my eyes.

  Sleep comes quickly.

  Chapter 14

  James

  The scale of the Kennedy Space Center is beyond my expectations. The complex has over seven hundred buildings spread across almost a hundred and fifty thousand acres. It’s like a city of the future, an oasis of technological marvels here on the Florida coast. The campus is swarming with people: military, NASA personnel, private contractors, you name it. This launch is an all-hands-on-deck event, and everyone is hustling to make it happen.

  Fowler hands me off to a group of handlers who give me a crash course on what to expect up there. A different group runs a series of tests on me in rapid succession—everything from blood work to a vision check to urine tests. The results must be okay, because I never hear any more about it.

  Lunch is a surprise, because the entire twelve-person mission crew is there. We gather in what feels like a college classroom: there are seven rows of desks arranged in a semicircle, rising up like stadium seating around a pit with a lectern and a large screen. A few of the crew know each other. They shake hands and make small talk.

  I only recognize one of my crewmates: Dr. Richard Chandler. He’s twenty years older than I am. We met at Stanford, when I was getting my doctorate in bioengineering. He was a professor. A really good one. I excelled in his classes. And he liked me… for a time. I can’t put my finger on exactly when he stopped liking me. At the time, I didn’t understand why. We lost contact. But when I had my trouble—legal trouble—and when it hit
the news, he was the first to denounce me. That got him on TV and raised his profile, which led to a book deal. Tearing me down became part of his identity.

  I know why now: he was the leading bioengineering expert before I came along. At first, he saw a promising student, perhaps a collaborator. Then he saw a rival whose ideas and skill quickly surpassed his own. He stopped supporting me then—and went a step further. He committed to taking me down to reclaim his own glory.

  I think that says a lot about a person: how they handle being second best. Do they work on themselves? Or attack the person ahead of them?

  One thing’s certain: time hasn’t changed Chandler’s opinion of me. He stares daggers at me from across the room. He’s lost a little hair, and the crow’s-feet radiating from his eyes have gotten longer and deeper, but he’s the same Rich Chandler I truly came to know… after the world turned against me.

  “Hi.”

  I turn to find an Asian man holding out his hand. I’d guess he’s a little younger than I am, early thirties, and fit, with calm, intense green eyes.

  “Hi. I’m James Sinclair.”

  He nods and does a double-take. The reaction is ever so slight, a person recognizing a name they’ve read before, or heard before. His voice is less enthusiastic when he continues.

  “I’m Min Zhao. Pilot. Navigation and extensive experience in ship repair. Two tours on ISS. Forty-four EVAs.”

  “Impressive. Very nice to meet you.”

  He doesn’t ask my field. So he does recognize me.

  Another man wedges between us and holds his hand out to me, then Min. “Grigory Sokolov. Astronautics and electrical engineer. Propulsion and solar power specialist.”

  He focuses on me, silently prompting me.

  “James Sinclair. Medical doctor. Bioengineer.”

  He squints. “Robotics?”

  “Among other things. I’ll be investigating the artifact.”

  “Figuring out how to kill it?”

  “If need be.”

  “There is need. There is no if.”

  Min introduces himself to Grigory, this time with a little more detail. I can’t help but pick up on the other intros taking place all around us. The fields are varied. Most members have training in two fields, usually in adjacent disciplines. There’s a computer scientist with expertise in computer engineering and hardware design. I’ll likely be working with him. A linguistics expert with a degree in archeology. Another physician with a specialty in brain trauma and psychology.

  There’s clear redundancy in five roles: two pilots, two aeronautics engineers, two physicians, two computer scientists, and two roboticists. But the last crewmembers of each ship seem quite different from each other, in appearance at least. The archaeologist with a linguistics background is an Australian named Charlotte Lewis. I bet she’ll be on the Pax. Her counterpart has yet to identify himself. He’s hung back, near Chandler, watching the group with steely eyes. His face is lean, muscular, and sun-damaged. It’s hard to tell how old he is; his hair is close-cropped and graying at the temples. He’s wearing a navy suit that doesn’t fit well, as if it were given to him for this occasion. My guess is he’s military.

  The Asian physician-psychologist approaches him and introduces herself, her English nearly flawless.

  “Hello, I’m Izumi Tanaka.”

  “Dan Hampstead. Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

  His accent is Southern. Texas is my guess.

  “I’m a physician with a specialty in brain injury and other acute trauma. I also have a PhD in psychology. My work focuses on small group dynamics, especially high-stress situations and PTSD.”

  Hampstead nods and looks away. “Good. Might come in handy on this trip.”

  “And your field?”

  “I’m with the United States Air Force.”

  The other conversations are dwindling. Everyone is eavesdropping on this one, wondering who the standoffish twelfth crewmember is.

  “You’ll be helping with helm and navigation?”

  “I’ll be doing whatever needs to be done, ma’am.”

  The words hang in the air, a sort of impromptu declaration.

  Dr. Tanaka doesn’t miss a beat. “So will we all. Very nice to meet you, Mr. Hampstead.”

  It’s clear Hampstead will be on the Fornax. He’s the pointy end of the stick.

  I wonder which ship I’ll be on. I hope it’s the Pax. It will be in the lead—the ship that makes first contact. That’s my guess. It will be more dangerous there, but it’s where I want to be. I can put my skills to the best use on the Pax. I can make the biggest difference there.

  Fowler enters the room, accompanied by a cadre of mission personnel and assistants who crowd around two long tables in the pit. Lunch is passed out. For me, a Waldorf salad. It’s the best thing I’ve eaten in years. It’s all I can do to remember my manners and eat slowly.

  Binders arrive next. The title page reads: FIRST CONTACT - MISSION BRIEFING – CONFIDENTIAL, and below that, “James Sinclair, MD, PhD.” I throw the binder open and scan the pages as I chew my food. Full crew bios are first. Everyone has a doctorate, with two exceptions.

  Lina Vogel, the computer scientist on the Pax, has little formal education, but she has two dozen patents and has created a software program I recognize, one that went viral a few years ago. I count that as a good sign. Whoever put this crew together picked people with the skills to pull off the mission—not just people with impressive pedigrees who would play well with a committee or on the news.

  The other non-doctorate is Dan Hampstead. He’s a major in the US Air Force. Twenty years’ service. Six hundred combat hours spread over a hundred and eight combat missions. It doesn’t list his number of kills, only his medals: four Distinguished Flying Crosses with Valor, eight Air Medals with Valor, five Meritorious Service medals, two Purple Hearts. He grew up in a suburb of El Paso, and graduated from Texas A&M and the USAF’s Fighter Weapons School. He’s unmarried. No kids. Same for all the rest of the crew.

  I hold my breath as I check the manifests. I’m pleased to find I’m on the Pax. I glance up. Chandler is staring at me from across the semicircle. He’s on the Fornax, and he’s definitely not pleased about it.

  I scan the rest of the binder. There are schematics for every module of the ships. They were made at different times by different agencies and subcontractors. Some were clearly finished months ago, maybe even a year ago. Fowler told me they have been working on the plan for some time, but one thing’s clear: they’ve rushed to finish it. Some of the pages are out of order. A few sections of the binder are even blank.

  Like the crew, the modules of the ships are a mish-mash from around the world, all with different specialties, thrown together in a desperate hope of saving humanity. And like the crew, they’re the best we have to send up there right now.

  When I saw Fowler’s initial presentation, I had a lot of questions. I asked some of the major ones at the time, but there are still smaller questions, issues that could doom this mission. The binder has answers to a few of those questions, but not all of them. Maybe they’ll be addressed in the Q&A. And maybe there are no answers to some questions.

  Still, I’ll learn as much as I can. This is humanity’s last roll of the dice, and I’m going to make sure we maximize the odds.

  In the pit, Fowler activates the screen, which reads, OPERATION FIRST CONTACT.

  “Hello, and welcome to the Kennedy Space Center. I’m Lawrence Fowler, director of NASA. First, be aware that this will be the last time all of you are together before launch. We have a lot to talk about, and plan for, in a short amount of time. In a few hours, most of you will be flown on ultra high-speed jets to your launch sites around the world—Russia, Guiana, Japan, and China. The four American crewmembers—Doctors Chandler and Sinclair, Mr. Watts, and Major Hampstead—will remain here.

  “Within sixteen hours, we’ll begin launching the components of the Pax and Fornax. The first modules will be unmanned. They’ll contain food an
d some redundant equipment. We want to see how the entity reacts to the launches. Based on what we see, we may adjust our plan.

  “I’m not going to go through the entire mission at this briefing. You all know the plan. And the risks. We’re going to talk about the unknowns, and plan for as many as we can.”

  Fowler clicks a key, and the screen shows the same simulation he showed me back at Edgefield: the ships assembling while Earth floats away, then traveling to the alien artifact.

  “Since the probe identified the artifact, ground-based telescopes have been monitoring it. It’s currently about midway between the orbits of Venus and Earth, roughly twenty million miles from Earth, or one and a half light-minutes away from Earth.”

  Fowler moves to the next animation, which shows the two ships rendezvousing with the artifact.

  “Okay. Our best guess is that it will take roughly four months to reach the artifact, which we’re calling Alpha. Once you get there…”

  He just skipped over several of my questions. I raise my hand. I feel like a kid on the first day of class, but I have to ask.

  “Dr. Sinclair?”

  “Just curious. Is the artifact—Alpha—moving?”

  “Yes.”

  “Vector?”

  “We only have twenty-four hours of data, but it looks as though it’s moving toward the Sun.”

  “Is the object’s velocity increasing?”

  Fowler nods slowly. “Slightly. But again, we don’t have much data.”

  “Point taken. But let’s say for a moment you extrapolated that data. Where does the probe’s route take it? Does it rendezvous with Venus? Mercury?”

  “No. Our estimates have it reaching the Sun, though we don’t know when.”

  You could hear a pin drop in the room. Min eyes me. I think he’s figured out where I’m going with this.