First Flight
Page 3
"DaVinci is a comparatively young community," she continued, "and very much a frontier one; however, we've begun a few traditions. Among the nicer ones is dinner here, to celebrate the assignment of an astronaut's First Flight." As the realization of what Canfield was telling them sank in, Nicole sagged in her chair, she didn't know whether to grin or tremble and found, to her surprise, that she was doing both.
"It doesn't seem possible," she murmured.
"You mean, in light of the Evaluation Board's recommendation?" Canfield asked. Nicole flushed. I can't have spoken that loudly, she thought desperately, can I?! "Dr. Elias said they bounced me."
Canfield nodded. "One of the problems of being among the best is that you're held to a higher standard than most. As a matter of fact, Nicole, your performance in that simulation astounded the examiners. And rightly so. You came as close as anyone—perhaps as close as humanly possible—to beating the computer."
"Way to go, boss," Paul grinned. She wished she could share his good cheer, but all she could think about were the mistakes she made.
"The Board and David recommend, but I decide," Canfield finished, with a deliberately pointed glance at Elias. "I trust my people, but I trust my instincts more."
"I won't let you down, ma'am," Nicole said softly.
"Just do your best, Lieutenant." She smiled. "It's the least we ever ask.
"We're giving you a 'milkrun,' a minimal hassle, minimal risk profile—but also a mission of maximum importance—from Da Vinci to Cocytus Station on Pluto and back again. En route, you'll lay a series of marker beacons—navigational benchmarks—essentially, mapping a chunk of the Solar System. On board will be a NASA science team, who you'll assist in the execution of various research experiments. Transit time should be eighteen weeks Outbound, two weeks in Pluto orbit while your passengers pull the data packs from the automatic monitors at Cocytus, another eighteen Inbound."
"Plenty of time to get bored," Elias noted almost absently, allowing himself the smallest of smiles as Nicole glared at him.
"That isn't a joke," Canfield said. "More than one mission has been lost due to crew incompatibility and the mistakes that come from a small number of people living in a comparatively confined space for an extended period of time. It's all very well to speak of traveling in hibernation but someone has to be conscious to deal with the unexpected. You do get bored, you do get cabin fever, you do get squirrelly. And yet, as I'm sure David has told you, your life depends on never losing your edge."
"Excuse me, ma'am," Paul asked, a slight hesitation in his voice, "but it sounds like you're trying to get us to pull out."
"We offer every opportunity to withdraw from the program," Elias replied, "without prejudice to your career, Mr. DaCuhna, right up to the moment of primary ignition."
"People have flaked at launch?"
"Yup. It's a shitload cheaper having it happen there than a megaklick into the mission. Once you go, there's no practical way we can bring you back quickly; if anything goes wrong, with personnel or equipment, you're on your own. That amuses you, Miss Shea?" he questioned sharply, making his words an accusation.
"We've got starships that can fly to Alpha Centauri in a couple of weeks..."
"...but in our own back yard," Elias finished, nodding his head in agreement, "we're essentially fucked, that's right. Only two kinds of vehicles on our road: Ferraris and Volkswagens. That's why the Wanderer missions are so important. You're building a highway and traffic-control system that can handle both."
"Before the turn of the century," Canfield said, "it was assumed that a century, or more, would pass before we spread out across the galaxy and, at that, only aboard sublight starcraft such as Bussard RamScoops. Nobody foresaw JeanClaude Baumier stumbling across a practical, efficient, feasible means of traveling faster than light, or that Manny Cobri would then figure out how to build the damn thing. As a direct consequence, here we are, today, barely three generations after Neil Armstrong first set foot on Tranquility Base, exploring neighboring star systems. Literally overnight, we made a quantum leap in our ability to move about the Cosmos.
"Unfortunately, we lacked a technological infrastructure capable of supporting that new and marvelous potential. We were charting the galaxy, while we still knew virtually nothing about our home system. We learned very quickly and... not without cost—" Nicole wondered if the General's slight hesitation had to do with memories of her own tragedy or whether they involved someone she knew. "—that traveling to Faraway was child's play compared to a trip from Earth to Mars or the Outer Planets. A fair analogy would be to take a modern, hydrogen-powered, hypersonic jumbo jet and dump it into the air traffic environment of a hundred years ago. In 1960, the fastest commercial airliners flew at five hundred knots and ten thousand meters, carrying perhaps a hundred passengers. Most aircraft didn't even achieve those performance levels. Now, introduce a Boeing triple-seven, cruising at Mach 4—almost two thousand knots—and fifty thousand meters, with six hundred people aboard. How does Air Traffic Control cope with that? In those days, most civil radar didn't reach that high and if the HST was traveling at full throttle, it would be on and off the scope before the controller knew it was there. How would airports handle the logistics? It would be chaos."
"That fantasy's come true, for us," Elias said. "The Baurnier starships are just too friggin' efficient for their own good. We want, desperately, to use 'em, but we're hamstrung because we can't maneuver with similar ease through our own system. Or any system, till it's fully plotted. Your benchmarks, your sighting reports on whatever astral bodies you come across, added to data already gathered, are enabling us to evolve the workable inertia plot we need."
"David," Canfield interrupted, "our other guests..."
For the next few minutes, greetings were exchanged, seats taken, drink and meal orders given. Nicole found herself sitting across from a short, raven-haired, olive-skinned woman whose eyes flicked over Paul once before locking on to her. She was a Major and the star mounted on her wings marked her as a Senior Pilot. The General introduced them: "Catherine Garcia, your Mission Commander," she said, the Major acknowledging this with a slight bow of the head. "Her responsibility relates to the strategic, overall aspects of the mission; she won't interfere in the day-to-day function of the vessel unless she deems it necessary for the continued safety of it and the crew.
"You, Nicole, are Spacecraft Commander. As the term implies, you're in complete charge of the spacecraft, with full authority and responsibility." Even after I fucked up, Nicole thought desperately, they're not only giving me a mission but pretty near the top slot! Only this won't be a simulator, this is for real!
Caught up in her own apprehensions, she was only vaguely aware of Canfield stating that Paul would wear two hats as Astrogator and Electronics Systems Officer. His job would be looking after the hardware and laying the benchmarks. They'd be carrying a trio of Mission Specialists: two men and a woman. Hie woman who took the seat beside Nicole's was Japanese, the same age as her, a fraction taller, and staggeringly beautiful.
"You're staring," she said quietly, with a smile, and Nicole grabbed for her wine in embarrassment.
"Jesus," she muttered, straightening in her chair, eyes widening and tearing as the massive gulp she'd taken roared down her throat. She let out her breath slowly, taking the roll the other woman offered, desperately scared of what a large amount of liquor might do to her semi-starved, emotionally and physically exhausted system; all she needed—icing on the fucking cake—would be to make a fool of herself in front of the General. Suddenly, she was painfully aware that she hadn't pulled all that far back from the abyss; it still gaped, she could still pitch over the edge. "I'm sorry," she said, afraid to look around to see how many others noticed.
"I'm used to it." She leaned forward and continued in a conspiratorial tone that seemed to Nicole as much a joke as serious. "I think you got away clean, Lieutenant. If there was a faux pas, it was just between us, and I'll never tell."
"Blame my grandfather." The woman had a great smile, too, and looked like she loved to laugh; Nicole wished she could be so relaxed and easy with strangers. "Your basic man-mountain Swede out of Minnesota, swept my Gran off her feet like a tsunami. Just like her grandad had a blond and blue-eyed embassy gal, way back. Scandalous, iconoclastic, polyglot bunch'a mongrels, my Japanese family. You think I'm something, though, you should see my Aunt Brigit."
"You're American?"
"Nope. I just speak the language and have a raft of relatives scattered from the Great Lakes to the Rockies."
"I'm East Coast, myself, Massachusetts."
"Really? I did a summer at MIT, working on my doctorate."
They compared notes, and Nicole discovered that had been "Beast" summer, that traditionally murderous introduction to the Air Force Academy. They were reminiscing about pizza parlors they'd known and loved when she shook her head in wonderment and exclaimed, "I feel like an idiot!"
"Okay, how so?"
"We've been talking all this time and I don't even know your name!"
"I was wondering when you'd notice."
Nicole flushed and felt her world tilt ever so slightly. "Where's the fucking food," she muttered. "I wasn't listening," she told her new friend, "when General Canfield made the intros. I was thinking about the mission."
"It's a lot of responsibility."
"Especially for someone who this morning figured she'd flunked out."
"That's the way to inspire confidence in your passengers."
"Christ, I'm drunk."
"Nowhere near, but the shots you're giving me are too tempting to resist. I'm Hanako Murai. Hana, to friends."
"Nicole Shea, but I guess you know that."
"The 'Shea' part, anyway; it's written on your nametag." And Hana tapped the plastic plate pinned to Nicole's tunic. When she groaned in dismay, Hana's smile broadened into a laugh. "Couldn't help it, Shea, you're too easy a mark."
"Who're the guys? I think I'm way over my pratfall quota for the evening: from now on, I want to play things as safe as can be."
"The distinguished scholar is Chagay Shomron, Hebrew University. He's Life Sciences, he'll be running all the biological experiments." The Israeli was built like a blockhouse, solid and unspectacular, but absolutely dependable. He looked more suited to a wilderness kibbutz, heaving rocks out of farm fields or engine blocks out of trucks with equal facility. His hair and beard were very closely cropped and much more salt than pepper in color. The first image that came to Nicole's mind when they shook hands was some great, comfortable bear, and she wasn't surprised to learn that was his nickname. "The towering troll next to him is Andrei Mikhailovitch Zhimyanov...."
" 'Troll'?"
"As in 'ugly as a...'" Nicole looked from Hana to Andrei and back again in utter disbelief. "You have got to be kidding. You're two of a kind."
Hana's response was a strange look, with a wryly ironic twist to her mouth, hinting at a perception Nicole had clearly missed. "Someone has to keep a sense of proportion about the man," she said.
"Be still my heart." Name and face clinked within Nicole's memory and she asked, "Is he—?"
"Center for the Soviet SpaceForce SkyBall team over at Gagarin, that clobbered you guys last time, that's him."
"I saw the finals, he was impressive."
"A face you'll never forget. And a body to match, damn him." "Hana! He'll hear you, for God's sake, or Canfield will!"
"No problem, he says worse about me. By the way, he seems rather taken with your Mr. DaCuhna, is that likely to be reciprocated?"
"He's gay?" Thinking, with a sigh, I should have known. "Andrei is, I'm asking about Paul."
"I don't think so. I've never asked. Is that likely to be a problem?"
Hana shook her head. "I doubt it. Andrei's been here before; this is his third long-haul. Stands to reason he knows what to expect and how to handle himself. Medically, he's as clean as any of us. Probably more than most, considering how especially careful he has to be."
Nicole looked long and hard at the Russian, easily and naturally the center of conversation on his side of the table. When he flashed her a dazzling smile, she couldn't help responding in kind. But as she did, she also couldn't help thinking of the quarantine regulations that barred male homosexuals from Earth or, possibly worse, from space should any ever decide to return home. In her father's youth, AIDS had cut too deep and terrible a swath through the populace—the after-effects were still being felt today—and no one wanted that virus, or any like it, exported off-planet. The irony was that because of the strictly monitored and controlled medical environment, mores up here were far more relaxed than downside on Earth. She was glad of that.
"Who's he?" Nicole asked, motioning towards the man sitting to Hana's left.
"You really were in another world. That, dear heart, is our hired gun. Law Officer. He's wearing a gold badge, that means he's a Senior Marshal, the best of the breed. Name's Ben Ciari."
"Doesn't look like much." He had a thick moustache and wore his shoulder-length brown hair pulled back into a queue. He slouched deep into his chair as if he was missing half the bones in his spine. His uniform was black and hung loosely on his lean, spare frame, its only decoration the gold badge of office and his nametag. He seemed more asleep than awake, bored with the people around him and uninterested in their conversation. There was silver at his temples and the lines around his eyes and mouth were carved as deeply as Canfield's, prompting Nicole to wonder how old he really was; he wasn't handsome but there was a rugged character to his face that reminded her of old Bama and Remington portraits, and some of the real-life cowhands she met while at the Academy. Their eyes met for a moment and she smiled, but he didn't respond. "Helluva guy," she whispered to Hana. "You know the stories, don't you?"
"C'mon, you can't be serious."
"I don't know, he's the first I've ever met, much less worked with. But I think I'm a lot more of a believer now than I was an hour ago."
Looking at him, Nicole found herself reminded of her introduction to Edwards Air Force Base, where after completing astronaut training, she'd done a brief tour at the Flight Test Center. A hundred years old, it was still Mecca for every hotshot airborne throttle-jock worth the name. The best of the best became test pilots there and some of them still were legends. She remembered Harry Macon, pushing fifty and still able to fly the pants off kids half his age and younger. In many ways, those had been the happiest days of her life; she'd never worked harder, nor had so much fun. One night in particular, a sort of impromptu celebration, they ate steak and drank beer and vintage whiskey and sang under the brilliant high mesa stars and watched the sunrise. Macon asked her to stay and join his command, but her sights were set on reaching those stars they'd seen. He withdrew into himself slightly at that and for a while the party was stiff and awkward, and now Nicole wondered if he'd been one of those pilots who Elias had said had withdrawn from the Space Program "without prejudice," the day before being bounced for cause. Then, four days later, at high-altitude and high-Mach in a Forward Swept Wing vehicle, a computer glitched and in a split second his whole aircraft disintegrated. They never found a piece of wreckage bigger than a hand and so were forced to bury an empty coffin.
"Something the matter, Nicole?"
She let out a breath and finished her glass of water before replying, "Some memories, that's all. Have I missed anything?"
"They're talking about Wolfpacks."
"Ah." From the first, Paul had hoped for a combat assignment and Nicole knew this milkrun wouldn't sit well with him. Evidently, the General had picked up on that because she was telling him, "You'll get your chance at glory, Lieutenant; everybody does, sooner or later, some to their eternal regret. But for now, you're untested. Virgin."
"Shit me, Jud, you come on strong as that, you'll scare these poor wee bairns to death!" All eyes turned towards the man who'd suddenl
y appeared by Canfield.
"How do, Cat m'love, Davy," he said as he stepped into the light. He was a head taller than Nicole, with red-blond hair and a beard, and, from what she could see, in perfect physical condition. He was elegantly dressed, but didn't carry himself like a civilian or a dirtsider, and despite his drunken air there was an inherent power to him that reminded Nicole of Canfield herself. This was someone used to command, who'd faced the ultimate test. Out of the corner of her eye, Nicole saw Marshal Ciari tense slightly. Anything could happen, none of it good.
"Been a while, General," the man brayed, waving his arm over the table as he attempted a bow. His drink spilled, some of it hitting Canfield in the face, the rest splattering across her tunic. The General said nothing, freezing Nicole in place with a basilisk glare as the young woman rose to protest the obvious insult, but merely wiped her face with a napkin while the civilian looked aghast at what he'd done.
"Oh, Jud, I am so very, very sorry," he said contritely, his apology as deliberate an insult as the spilled drink. "How terribly clumsy of me. Tres gauche! I'm afraid I'm drunk. But that's no surprise—my normal state when visiting brethren. Helps me forget what I am..." he paused deliberately. "... and what I was." Nicole saw Cat Garcia wince at the barely concealed fury in his voice.
Canfield rose to her feet, and said to Elias, "I'm going to touch up my uniform, David. I shan't be long. If you'll excuse me, gentlemen, ladies."
There was a stunned silence while she threaded her way through the restaurant, until the stranger broke the mood by flopping into her chair.
"Dear me," he said, finishing his glass with a single gulp, "have I done something wrong?"
"You're not welcome here, Morgan," Elias said quietly.
"You gonna make me leave, Davy?"
"If he doesn't..." Nicole replied, her face set, a dangerous edge to her voice; she'd eased her chair away from the table and was already instinctively gauging where she'd strike and how hard.