She wanted to say something, to tell him how much this meant to her. Nicole's near-adoration for Lila Cheney had been a running joke between them ever since they met, forever at odds with Paul's equally passionate reverence for classic rock and roll. Instead, she left the soup container to float in midair while she pulled herself onto his chair and gave Paul the biggest, strongest hug she could.
"Well worth the price," he said as she disengaged.
"It must have cost..."
"A favor. Nothing monstrous, nothing lasting. Danno and I grew up together. Actually, the way he tells it, Lila thought it was neat. I figure she figures doing you a good turn'll help her get a gig on the Moon."
"Sounds great to me."
"My way of saying thanks for all the kindness you and your folks showed me over the years."
"Goddamn, Paolo, how'm I ever going to repay... ?"
"I could be soppy, boss, and say the sparkle in your eyes is more than enough."
"I wouldn't believe it."
"Tough. Someday, someway, the scales will balance, I have faith. What'cha got?"
"A gift from the galley."
"Can I pass? I've eaten there before."
"Give it a shot, you won't be sorry."
He tried a hesitant taste, and wasn't. "How's the bus?" she asked.
"Nominal. Housekeeping traffic, mostly. Assuming the mail is uploaded on schedule, it'll be here in about fifteen minutes. I think the Bear's expecting some results from the experimental data we sent Houston yesterday." He frowned, setting his soup aside, and pointing a thumb towards her bandaged wrist. "Ciari?" he asked. And when she nodded. "I'd punch his lights out if I thought I had even a ghost of a chance."
"My knight in shining armor. Better watch yourself; he's teaching me how to kill in full pressure suit."
"Jesus, he's putting you through the wringer."
"No less than you, hotshot."
Paul shook his head. "He's teaching you a lot more, and pushing a lot harder. I wouldn't last a minute against you."
"You never could."
A wry smile. "True enough. Which is why I'm here and you're...." He finished with his thumb again, gesturing towards Nicole's left-hand pilot's chair.
"Someday, my son," she responded in mock solemnity, "this, too, shall be yours."
"Not my ambition."
"That's a change. The Paul DaCuhna I remember..."
"...was going to set the stars afire. Imagine my surprise when I learned they were already burning."
"Very funny."
"Not really. Not the way I mean. I'm good, Nicole—real good—but I've learned some limitations. Mostly that I'm lots better with you than without you."
"You're crazy."
"Of course. Look who I take after. Hey, boss, Hana down below?"
"Stuck cleaning up the mess, I suspect."
"Think she'd object to some help?"
"Worth a shot. I'll mind the store. Just don't be too long!"
As Paul left, Nicole turned off the music and rewound the tape, preferring to sit in silence for a while. She'd enjoy Lila later, in private. Automatically, she ran a systems check on Wanderer. All readings were precisely where they should be. She snuggled deeper into her chair, cinching the safety harness tighter so she'd stay put. She pulled her jacket close, absently stroking the silver astronaut's wings embossed on its left breast. The temperature hadn't changed—it was as comfortable here as in the Carousel—but she felt a chill. The jacket was a memento of her stay at Edwards, marking her as one of a select band of fliers; it was given by the senior test pilots to those they considered their peers. The honor had nothing to do with rank or seniority, it was a recognition of courage and skill and talent, of all the myriad elements that go into making a great flier. Harry Macon slung it over her shoulders the day after she'd co-piloted the XSR-5 Controlled ReEntry Vehicle—basically a shuttle craft designed to transport passengers and cargo from orbit to a planetary surface and, more important, back up again—through a perfect mission. Her first and the SR-5's as well. A week later, she was flying the Number 4 aircraft of the memorial flight over Harry's grave. In its own way, as signal an honor. Just short of the cemetery, she pulled her fighter into a steep climb, so that, when the flight passed overhead, there was a missing aircraft, symbolic of the lost airman. She waited while the others headed home, watching from on high as the mourners followed in their cars, and then dropped for the deck, pushing her engines beyond their limits. This was her own private tribute, a Valkyrie dive that broke the sound barrier as she crossed his gravesite, thunder whip-cracking across the still, high desert as it had for decades, ever since Yeager's landmark flight. She'd roared towards the setting sun, eyes blinded by its light and her own tears.
So long ago, and yet she still wept.
She wiped her face, and deliberately turned her thoughts to Hana, wondering how deeply Paul felt for her and what implications that might have for the mission. She'd seen Hana's dossier; she'd left Stanford for the NASA training center in Houston over two years ago, but the ache in her voice when she spoke of Beth was eloquent testament to the depth of her feelings. And loss. What, Nicole asked herself, would it be like to care so much for someone? Could I make that kind of sacrifice, the person I loved for a dream? Or for duty? And suppose it happened in reverse? Could I endure being left behind?
Her thoughts turned to Ciari and she jumped as she heard his voice.
"You wanted me, Cat?"
He was on the deck below, where the Mission Specialist consoles were located; presumably, Major Garcia was with him. They must have believed themselves alone—perhaps because they'd seen Paul descend to the Carousel—because they were speaking freely, and as the conversation progressed Nicole realized that the last thing she wanted to do was reveal her presence.
"What are you playing at with Shea?" Garcia demanded, a hard, angry edge to her voice.
"My job."
"Crap, Ciari, you're teaching her your own personal bag of tricks, moves you wouldn't even show me!"
"Jealous?"
"I want an explanation. She's not Law, she's not Ranger, you're giving her more than she'll ever need."
"Doubtful."
"You're not teaching it to DaCuhna."
"It's wasted on him. And to his credit, the boy knows it."
"Why?"
"He doesn't have the knack."
"Not a born killer, you mean?" Ciari sighed. "If you like."
"That apply to me?"
"Retrofire, Cat—I'm not in the mood for this scene, I'm too tired."
"Nicole score some points?"
"Not as many as you're trying to."
"How would you rate her?"
"One of the best I've seen."
"That's what they said dirtside at Edwards. And Houston. Yet in the shuttle simulator, she made the most elementary, classically stupid mistake."
"I thought that was what simulators were for."
"What about against me, Ben? Where does she stand?"
There was a pause, and Nicole could sense a flaring anger in Ciari's voice that matched Cat's; she'd pushed him too far. "Your edge is experience," he said, "but she'll live longer."
"Oh?"
"You're careless, Major. You don't always think things through. You react from the gut, emotionally. As you're doing now, goading me."
"I'm getting results."
"Bully for you. I don't know what you feel you have to prove, or why you see Nicole as a threat..."
"Come on, Ben, you've heard the stories about her and Canfield. And before that, on Earth, with Harry Macon."
Nicole almost gave herself away, a murmur of pain almost escaping her tightened lips as she reflexively clenched her injured hand.
"Are you suggesting it's my turn?" The woman's silence was her answer.
"You're but of line, Cat. And even if it were true, all the juice in creation doesn't matter a damn now; the kid's on her own, just like the rest of us. And she's given you no reason to doubt her
competence."
"I'm not reassured."
"Now that you mention it, Major, neither am I."
"I don't want you giving her special treatment."
"I'm teaching her to the fullest extent of her capabilities, that's part of my job."
"I draw the line, Marshal, when it interferes with ship operations. The Medex says that because of her hand, Nicole will be out of action for the better part of a week; that puts more pressure on the rest of us. I want a perfect mission, and I won't tolerate anything that jeopardizes it. So, Mister Ciari, moderate your enthusiasm for your protege. That's an order."
Ciari didn't reply as Cat stormed out of the compartment. The silence stretched on about Nicole, while she sat quietly, deep in thought: Jesus, where the hell did that come from?!
"You didn't hear a thing," Ciari's voice hissed next to her ear.
"Jesus!" she cried—and would have leapt from her chair in surprise had it not been for her harness holding her in place. Her heart was hammering against her ribs and she clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering; he'd caught her completely by surprise. Absurdly, the first thought to pop into her head, once she calmed enough to have coherent thoughts, was, I guess I do have a lot more to learn; I wonder if I'll get the chance. And, to her surprise, she realized that she wanted that chance, very badly.
"Not one fucking word," he continued in the same flat tone, as if she hadn't responded. "As far as you're concerned, young lady, you weren't even here, understood?"
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak until he turned to go, and then she called out: "Ciari!"
"Yes?"
"What was that all about?"
"Private business."
"The hell it is. My name came up, that involves me!"
"Let it ride, Nicole."
She loosened her harness, pulled herself up and over the seat to face him. "We've barely started this goddamn mission, how can I be expected to function—how the hell do I even survive—with a commanding officer who hates my guts?"
"She doesn't Nicole, not really."
"Cold fucking comfort, Marshal."
He shrugged. "Is there an alternative?"
"Don't patronize me! It's not as if she and I were the only women in the Air Force, or in space, or even on this bucket. Why's she on my case, what makes me so frigging special? We could at least stand each other until you started these special training sessions!"
"I know."
"Helluva lot of good that does."
"Depends on your perspective, doesn't it? The transitory grief and rage you're experiencing now versus permanent death later on. I'm not playing games, Lieutenant. I'm trying to give you an edge that'll save your life. And maybe ours in the bargain."
"First that clown Morgan, back on the Moon, makes a reference to me and Canfield. Now Cat—what's the big secret that everybody seems to know but me?"
"You'll have to ask the General."
"I'm asking you!"
"Let it ride, Nicole. Please."
"I don't like being jacked around, Ciari; you have no right to do this!"
He smiled, without humor. "If you want to take your frustrations out on anyone, Nicole, you know where to find me."
"You may regret that."
The console beeped and Nicole accepted the incoming signal from Luna.
"Mail call, people," she announced over the ALL HANDS circuit. "Computer's sorting it now and should have everything distributed to your private datastacks directly." She switched to a local line to the C2 Lab Ring. "Chagay, looks like bad news."
"Damnation bloody hell," he growled. "I shall need time, Miss Shea."
She popped the computer's schedule onto her screen. "Looks pretty light for the next ten hours; can you take what you need from that?"
"It should be sufficient."
"If not, let me know, we'll work things out." She punched access to C-l. "Paolo, old chum, you're needed."
Without waiting for an acknowledgment, she cleared her circuit and glanced over her shoulder. As expected, Ciari was nowhere to be seen. Her wrist was aching and she absently started stroking it—a frown on her face, worry deep in her eyes—trying to wish more than pain away.
Chapter Five
Four weeks out of DaVinci, just inside the fringes of the Asteroid Belt, they sighted the derelict. It was morning, ShipTime, and Nicole was running her before-breakfast laps around the C-l Carousel. She was still working out with Ciari, though the matches were nowhere near as one-sided as they'd been, and if Cat resented the fact, she masked it well.
"What'cha got?" Nicole asked, as she swam out of the DropShaft and onto the flight deck, in response to Paul's summons.
"Contact," he told her, gesturing towards the holo tank. "Relative bearing zero-three-eight horizontal by three-four-three vertical, ballistic trajectory; range, roughly three hundred thousand kilometers, closing slowly. Forward velocity, a constant one-six-one meters per second."
"Any sort of transponder squawk?"
"Yup," he muttered, gently twisting the gain control of the communications panel. "On the Mayday frequency—probably an automatic distress beacon. Signal's weak, though—hear it?"
"Yah."
"I'm boosting our reception to the max and we're still barely picking it up."
"Hang on, I'll run the numbers for an ident." Almost immediately, the answers flashed on a secondary scanscreen. "Transponder code identifies her as the DSV Rockhound—original name, that—Ceres registry. Miner base ship. Privately owned."
"I know her," Cat Garcia said quietly, startling both Nicole and Paul; they hadn't heard her enter the flight deck. She was floating a little above and behind them, scanning the consoles as intently as they were.
"Wait a minute," Paul said, "something makes no sense." He activated another screen and brought a SKYSCAN program on-line. Halfway down the main frame of the spacecraft, an array of telescopes and sensors swung towards their contact. "There's a regular, radical shift in Rockhound's albedo," he announced, as data flashed before him.
"She's tumbling," Cat told them.
"That fits," Nicole confirmed. "I'm registering no power readings, or fuel residue emissions, and the gross infrared scan says Rockhound is cold. No internal heat generation." She pressed the ALL HANDS button on the intercom board. "Duty stations, everyone; we may have some trouble."
When Ben Ciari sleepily acknowledged the alert, Nicole told him: "Prep a Rover for launch, Marshal. Two-man crew, active weaponry. Copy?"
"I copy, skipper. On my way."
Nicole switched circuits to Chagay Shomron, who never seemed to sleep. "Bear, would you prep the sickbay and set up a full medi-kit for the EVA team? If there are survivors, they'll probably need care; if there are bodies, you and the Marshal will have to perform autopsies."
"I understand, Lieutenant. I shall be ready."
"Thanks." Chagay was the oldest and most experienced spacer aboard; nothing fazed him, nothing took him by surprise. She had a wild feeling that he'd stay awake every moment of the voyage and then dive into a year's hibernation to restore himself the moment they returned to Luna.
She looked towards Cat and asked, "Anything to add, Major?"
"You're doing fine, Nicole. The best thing I can do for the present is stay out of your way. If you need me, I'll be at my console."
"Plot an intercept, Paolo," Nicole told him. "Get us as close as you can for as long as possible."
"Already in the works. But don't hope for much."
"How so?"
He pointed at the holo tank. " Rockhound's cutting across our course at a fairly steep angle; the best I can manage is maybe a seven-hour window. Even then, we'll be cutting things awfully tight. The Rover'11 be operating at maximum range, there won't be any room for glitches. To try for a more convenient rendezvous would entail a massive course correction and all the time we spend reorienting this bucket, Rockhound'll be opening the separation between us. We'll have to go virtually dead in space, facing a long chase
to catch her. And that, boss, will shoot our mission profile all to hell."
"They'll love that at Copernicus."
" 'Specially if we come up empty—if there are no survivors and what happened was no more than an accident."
"Notice the encouragement I'm getting from on high?" she murmured.
"Cat, you mean?" Nicole nodded. "You expected anything else?" She met his eyes and saw minimal sympathy. "Canfield said you're in command, Nicole. I guess this comes under the heading of earning the title, and the pay."
"Sod."
"True, but I'm your sod." That got him a smile, to echo his own. "ETA?"
"Window opens in fifty-three minutes."
"Better start your countdown, then. You have the Con, Paolo; I'm going to change." Nicole couldn't help grinning as she spoke, feeling a little silly giving orders in cut-off Levi shorts, an old, well-worn sweatshirt and running shoes. But within days of their departure from the Moon, none of them, Cat included, were wearing their uniforms. Comfort, as always, among even novice spacers, had become the order of the day.
Before leaving the flight deck, Nicole thumbed the intercom: "Marshal Ciari, Dr. Shomron, we estimate rendezvous with Rockhound in approximately fifty minutes."
"All hands," Paul interrupted, "stand by for main engine burn. Five seconds full thrust, plus ten seconds attitude burn—negative pitch, negative yaw." Wanderer would be moving down and to the left of her line of flight, as well as increasing her speed slightly. "All hands, we have Ignition."
Nicole felt the deck vibrate fractionally as the huge primary motors flared briefly to life, acceleration nudging her backward and to the right.
"PECO!" Paul announced. "Primary Engine Cut-Off, on its mark. Nominal track, boss," he told Nicole, in answer to her unspoken query, "we're in the groove."
"Nicole," the speaker crackled, Ciari's voice, "d'you want me in combat armor."
Kinky, she thought absurdly, but I prefer you naked. And blushed. "You, uh, think there'll be trouble?" The steadiness of her voice surprised her. How could I have thought such a thing, she wondered, and why in hell now?! "As my Zen master often said, I expect nothing. Just a thought, was all."
"It won't inhibit your movements?"
First Flight Page 8
