The Last Dance

by Martin L Shoemaker

  “No problem. You woke up even without a call.”

  “I woke up fifteen minutes late without a call!”

  A door slammed, and Smitty heard Nick’s running feet in the corridor outside. She says that morning’s report showed Nick at his post on time—but out of uniform in three particulars, a record for Nick.

  Outside of official duties, Nick and Rosalia didn’t speak to each other for five weeks after that.

  And Nick was miserable! You’d have to know him well to tell the difference between Nick’s usual acerbic manner and his new bitterness, but Smitty said it was unmistakable if you knew the signs. It was the difference between a gleam in his eye as he pounced on a mistake, versus a frown and a tone in his voice that indicated despair that anything would ever be right. He even stopped talking about L2.

  Finally Smitty and some of the other trainees took matters into their own hands. A brash move, perhaps, but they hoped to get Nick to let up on them just a little. Plus I’ve always suspected Smitty was a closet romantic under her party-girl exterior. She showed up at Nick’s hotel room one night, dressed for a night on the town. When Nick answered the door, she smiled and asked, “Join us for liberty, Lieutenant?”

  Nick shook his head, face turned down. “Not in the mood, Smith. Pass.”

  Nick moved to shut the door, but Smitty held it open. “Come on, Lieutenant. It would be good for you to bond with your team a bit. You know the L2 selection committee puts a high value on unit cohesion.”

  Nick glowered. “Who cares what the selection committee thinks?”

  “Begging your pardon, but you do, Lieutenant. You’ve just forgotten for a bit.”

  Maybe Smitty was convincing, or maybe Nick was just in a mood to be convinced, but he went along. Once at Porco Cego, she wheedled Nick out onto the dance floor for a few numbers; but he was sulky and unenthusiastic, just going through the motions. Finally Smitty made her move: when a new song started, she grabbed Nick’s arm and spun him around. Behind him stood Rosalia, equally trapped by Ensign Matsuura. “Sorry, Lieutenants,” Smitty said, “but you two need to talk. For the sake of unit cohesion.” And she backed away, sure that Nick and Rosalia couldn’t avoid their overdue confrontation.

  And if you believe that, you don’t know Nick Aames. Without a word, he stalked off the floor, through the bar, and out into the warm Brazilian night.

  But as stubborn as Nick is, he had met his match in Rosalia. While he pulled away, she determined to draw back together, whatever it took. She chased after Nick. Smitty and the others had the good sense not to follow, but they heard the shouts from outside, even over the music. They were sure Nick would be an absolute terror in the morning, and they wondered how they had screwed up so badly.

  Then, just as they were imagining the horrors of their next duty shift, they noticed the shouting had stopped. And the music had stopped. Rosalia was crossing the dance floor, storming for the exit and her home; but Nick was up at the DJ stand, handing over a credit chip as the DJ swapped songs. Rosalia slowed when she heard the opening guitar notes of “Brigas Nunca Mais,” pausing just long enough for Nick to dash across the floor, grab her hand, tug her back to his arms, and twirl her into a blur of hair and skirt and flashing limbs. They spun around each other, pulling closer and closer until they clung together as one. As the song trailed off, they leaned in for a kiss. The song meant “fight no more,” and that was the effect it had. That dance, their song—those always drew Nick and Rosalia back together.

  “But Anson, what about the wedding? I still don’t see Nick’s problem here.”

  I had a panic impulse to hush Tracy—probably not the smartest move on our own wedding day. I looked around, and was grateful that Nick was nowhere within earshot. We were in the passageway outside the assembly deck, waiting for Bosun Smith to formally announce us to our reception within.

  I lowered my voice and hoped Tracy would follow my example. “You can’t really understand what went wrong with the wedding without understanding how they got there. Trust me, Nick and Rosalia’s relationship was a tangled knot from the start; and the wedding disaster was a consequence of that.

  “But for a while, things were knot-free. After making up on the dance floor, Nick did lighten up. Smitty says you wouldn’t recognize him. Instead of his cynicism being locked on all the time, it was like a rheostat that he only dialed up when he needed it to make a point. The rest of the time, he almost gave up his snide remarks, as if the world suddenly measured up to his expectations. Smitty even saw him smile at odd times for no reason at all, something Nick rarely does. Rosalia made him a different man, she said, a complete man like he never was before. Or since.”

  Tracy smiled wistfully. “I think I’d like to meet that Nick.”

  “So would I, my love, so would I. But I fear that Nick is dead.”

  Just then, I heard Smitty’s voice boom through the door: “Chief Anson Carver and Dr. Tracy Wells-Carver!” And the door opened with a roar of polite applause. We entered our reception; but throughout the night, whenever a private moment presented itself, Tracy pressed me for the rest of Nick and Rosalia’s story, starting with how they went to orbit.

  The reporting game continued in earnest, and it had one more side effect: it brought up the performance of their entire unit. You’ve seen how Nick is: He drives away or breaks or pisses off anyone who can’t measure up to his standards; but the ones who remain, even if they don’t like him, are prepared for any challenge. The entire unit got better, with individual and unit commendations far above the norm. They supervised preintegration testing of the L2 environment units; and they found and diagnosed so many problems, they practically bankrupted the supplier. That caused a construction delay, but it also saved lives and the schedule in the long run.

  So it was natural that, when the time came to staff the construction team for the L2 Farport, a large contingent was selected from the São Paulo Spaceport. Smitty made the cut—even though she was more junior than command was looking for—because of recommendations from both Nick and Rosalia. Anyone who thinks that was a matter of personal bias doesn’t know Nick.

  What followed was eight months of mission training in simulators and neutral buoyancy tanks. Nick and Rosalia both drove the team to the highest marks on record. Then came the blastoff to orbit, transfer to Luna, and then finally a transport out to LaGrange Point 2. When the transport delivered them to the L2 construction site, those demanding standards really began to bear fruit. Sixty-thousand kilometers beyond Luna, with nothing around but temporary habitats and the growing shell of Farport, the team had to rely on each astronaut getting each thing right. Captain Leeds was one hard-nosed son of a bitch, as bad as Nick in a lot of ways, although for him schedule and budget were as important as safety and detail. He had a timetable, he had a spending target, and by damn, he was going to hit them. He drove the construction team harder than any earthbound, downside officer ever had; but he seemed to have an internal micrometer that could measure precisely where the team’s breaking point was, and then he stopped just short of it, before stress would make them sloppy. Accidents would cost him valuable, trained personnel and untold lost time and money. Though Nick was never as concerned about the budget, he worked well with Leeds. Soon he had a promotion to lieutenant commander, and he was on Leeds’s advisory staff. They often clashed—this is Nick we’re talking about—but Captain Leeds appreciated Nick’s independent voice and his focus on the mission. Nick also got command of one of the four construction shifts.

  Farport then was just a hint of what it is today. The Prime Module was there, of course, the original construction platform that served as their habitat and base of operations. It had the massive engines they used for occasional orbit corrections. The Prime was mated to the long docking axis; but the axis was still only a framework, not closed in yet, and they were just starting to assemble the first habitat ring. You would need a lot of imagination to look at that skeleton and see Farport today, with its growing stack of ha
bitat rings and the new extensions added every year. But even then you would see a lot of traffic: suited astronauts, one-person construction hoppers, and the larger mobile platforms that served as ferries and transports between the docking and assembly points and the port itself. A lot of modules were assembled far from the port, so that stray parts or any other problem couldn’t threaten the port itself. Then the hoppers would grapple and tug the modules to dock with a mobile platform, and the MP would ferry it and maneuver it to attach to the port’s skeleton.

  Soon Rosalia had command of another construction shift. She got along with Captain Leeds, of course. She was always more in touch with the human side of the Corps. When Leeds wanted an opinion on whether he was pushing the crew too hard, it was Rosalia he asked. He knew she would have a better read on crew morale, which mattered to him because it could affect their performance and his timetables.

  Morale building was actually a line item in Leeds’s schedule and budget. So as soon as the first habitat ring was spun up to one-quarter G, he announced a gala in celebration. It wasn’t much of a gala by Earth standards, not even by the standards of our wedding here on the Aldrin; but for a weary crew of astronauts stationed at humanity’s farthest outpost (at the time), it was a much-needed chance to unwind and cut loose. And to explore the possibilities of dance in low gravity. That was something only old Luna hands had experienced before then. Rosalia hadn’t served there (and Nick’s Lunar Survival School stint had left no time for dancing), so this was a new challenge for them. You know the Coriolis catch, that move we can never get right? You can’t do that move on Luna, can’t do it anywhere but a spinning habitat. I’m supposed to toss you so high that the Coriolis effect takes over, so you’ll land somewhere downspin; and then I slide across the deck on my knees and catch you when I land. My knees still ache from the last time we tried. Well, Smitty claims Nick and Rosalia invented the move at that gala, Nick catching her and wrapping her in his arms as if they’d practiced it all their lives. Then they would hold that embrace through the end of the song, as if trying to make that moment last forever.

  The gala wasn’t the only place that Nick and Rosalia danced. With habitat ring 1 spun up, Leeds was able to accommodate a larger construction crew, so all the schedules and assignments got reshuffled. Rosalia was assigned as lead hopper pilot on mobile platform 1; and as second-in-command of the construction project, Nick was the pilot on MP1. If it had been the other way around, it would’ve never worked. Nick wouldn’t have been happy going from a shift commander to command of just a hopper squad. But Rosalia loved to pilot above all her other duties, and lead hopper pilot was enough command to satisfy her. When they worked together, she and Nick turned her hopper and the mobile platform into a delicate duet, each anticipating the other’s moves, launching and rendezvousing with unparalleled elegance. Given their relationship, a few in the Corps grumbled about the two of them working so closely together and in two such prime positions; but their efficiency ratings were absolutely top-notch, so Leeds left them where they were. Later he would come to question that decision.

  Working the same shifts and in a small, remote station, Nick and Rosalia became closer than ever. Smitty didn’t think that was possible, but they became almost of one mind on most things. Oh, they still clashed sometimes, and some of their shouting matches were legendary; but it was always about the safest, most effective way to perform the mission. And once one of them was clearly proven right, they united again to carry out their decision with utmost precision, as if the shouting had never happened. They never really reached “fight no more,” like they did on the dance floor; but they had found a way to fight only over what mattered, without losing what mattered.

  So no one was too surprised when Nick and Rosalia showed up one day wearing matching gold rings, each on the right hand in the Brazilian engagement tradition. With boost costs as high as they were, it had probably cost Nick as much to lift those rings up from Earth as the rings themselves had cost, a few months’ pay altogether. But Smitty says the sparkle of the gold matched the sparkle in Rosalia’s eyes. Like I said, Smitty’s a closet romantic. She really believed Nick and Rosalia were fated to be together. If only she had been right.

  “Anson, don’t you dare think you’re going to stop there.”

  “Tracy!” I whispered, putting down my napkin. “They’re about to call us out for our first dance.”

  “Good! It’s a long, slow song. You can whisper in my ear, and no one will be the wiser.”

  “But . . .” I hesitated. “You know I’m a lousy dancer, I don’t have Nick’s moves. I have to concentrate, or I’ll be all over your feet.”

  Tracy giggled. “Sorry, hon, but you’re all over my feet even when you concentrate. It’s okay, it’s a quarter G. My feet can take it. Now tell me about the wedding.”

  I glanced over at the officers’ table. Nick seemed to be in some argument with Admiral Morais—a polite argument, but I could see fire in his eyes again—and I figured he wouldn’t hear. So I continued, “Rosalia chose a wedding date to fall within the grand opening ceremonies for Farport. The System Initiative had scheduled a week of celebrations to mark the port’s opening to civilian personnel, researchers, and tourists. The wedding wouldn’t be the opening night, of course, nor the closing night. Those were slated for massive diplomatic and public relations parties. But Captain Leeds had grown quite fond of Rosalia. He said she reminded him of his daughter. He also said she was an excellent officer and too good for Nick; but the captain pulled some strings, and he arranged for the wedding to take place on the second-to-last night, when there would be plenty of brass and friends to attend. He even agreed to officiate.

  “In the end, maybe that was the mistake. Maybe they tried to cram too much celebration and too much work into too little time. Maybe if Nick and Rosalia had scheduled their wedding for later, everything wouldn’t have gone so horribly wrong . . .”

  Or maybe not. So many small things had to go wrong to create the disaster. Afterward, despite his pain, Nick dispassionately documented every one of them, defining causes and assigning blame in an incident report that is still taught in the academy today as an ideal after-action report. But even Nick couldn’t have foreseen everything that went wrong.

  It had started nearly sixteen months earlier, at Darwin Spaceport, when a technician transposed two digits while setting up a test for a fuel injector. The injector was tested at more than twice maximum pressure, and it developed a hairline crack; but because the readings all fit with the transposed digits, the test “passed.” So the injector was certified and placed into inventory on superorbital transport DeMarco, and there it sat in a parts locker for sixteen months. But when the DeMarco was bringing a contingent of System Initiative bigwigs and other civilians up to Farport, there was a fault in the starboard engine. The DeMarco’s engineer, showing admirable caution under ordinary circumstances, chose to overhaul the entire starboard engine while they were coasting to their next burn. She was absolutely correct per maintenance protocols; but in the process, they installed the faulty injector. The unit lasted through initial testing and course correction burns; but when the DeMarco went to a full burn to settle into a matching orbit with Farport, the vibrations caused the cracked valve to break wide open. The ignition chamber flooded with far too much fuel, and with a horrifying whump, the entire starboard engine blew out, venting gasses and causing the ship to spin. The port engine automatically adjusted to compensate, but not enough. The DeMarco, crippled and tumbling, sped ahead on an altered trajectory. They couldn’t make orbit, and they couldn’t return to Earth. All they could do was fly deeper into space and hope someone was in position for a rescue.

  And fortunately, someone was. Even though they had a wedding scheduled in less than twenty-four hours, Nick and Rosalia and their MP1 crew were on duty, picking up modules that had been dropped by a cargo rocket. They had insisted on keeping up with their work right up to their final shift before the ceremony. So when the SOS went
out from the DeMarco, Nick got on the comm. “Transport DeMarco, Farport mobile platform 1, Lieutenant Commander Aames commanding. We’re in your neighborhood. What’s your vector?”

  The comm screen lit up, and a young, blonde female astronaut appeared. “Mobile platform 1, transport DeMarco, Captain Austin commanding. Our vector is still changing. We’re trying to use our remaining engine to get control. Sending our control feed now.”

  A blinking light on Nick’s console told him the feed was connected. He looked at his navigation screen and nodded. “DeMarco, MP1. Affirmative, we have your feed. Nav comp says it’s tight, but we can catch you if we start immediately. My computer and yours will work out the approach maneuvers. What’s your situation, Austin?”

  “MP1, DeMarco. We’re shaken, Aames, but surviving. We have six crew, ten passengers. No casualties, but the erratic boost led to some injuries. Our chief engineer suffered some nasty burns while ejecting the damaged engine. And I think the engine may have ruptured our O2 lines. We’re losing pressure, not fast, but steady. The assistant engineer’s suiting up for an outside inspection, but he doesn’t sound very confident.”

  Nick took his thumb off the comm switch long enough for a quick, “Damn.” Then he thumbed the switch again. “DeMarco, MP1. Understood. I’ll tell the computer to prefer a fast pickup. MP1 out.” By that time, the nav comps of the two vessels had worked out a solution. Without a load to haul, the mobile platform had power to spare. It wasn’t graceful, but it was fast. Nick punched the “Execute” button, and MP1 started boosting for the DeMarco.

  Then he switched over to his command circuit. His hopper team was deployed, and he didn’t have time to wait for them. “All hoppers, MP1. As you’ve heard, we have to make an emergency rendezvous and pickup with the DeMarco. I’ve already started a low-thrust course for them. As soon as you all dock, I’ll switch to high thrust and catch that transport. So if you don’t want to get stranded in the cold, boys and girls, vector on me and haul ass. Burn your tanks to empty if you have to, but I can’t wait around for you. You’re going to have to catch me. Signal your approach solutions.”