The terrorist fired.
The faceplate of the astronauts helmet cracked like safety glass. Jobs was upside down now. He kicked at the overhead and hit the gunman from above and behind.
The gun flew and banged loudly around. The terrorist slammed into the deck with Jobs now clinging to him, a monkey on his back.
The gunman was yelling, yelling, and now, in direct contact, Jobs could understand. Its a mistake! Its a mistake! I didnt mean to shoot! I didnt mean to shoot!
A kids voice! Just the same, whoever he was, he was writhing, squirming, trying to throw off his tackler. But the suit was far too big for him. It was like trying to fight from inside a big canvas bag.
And all at once there was another set of powerful arms added to the struggle. The other astronaut. Jobs caught a flash of the name stenciled on his suit: col. j.w. willett.
Between them the commander and Jobs pried off the helmet. The two of them blinked in surprise.
I didnt mean to do it, the kid cried. I didnt want to hurt anyone.
You shot him in the face, you lying little Jobs yelled. You shot him!
I was scared, I didnt mean to shoot!
A floating balloon of blood splashed greasily across the young killers face. The copilots, the Marines, or the other bad guys, no way to know.
The commander left the sobbing kid in Jobss hands and went to check on his copilot. When he came back his face was dark and murderous.
Hes dead, he grated.
Jobs noticed a hole in the commanders right hand. Stray bullet? They shot someone else, too, Jobs said. The Marine. The sergeant, I think she was. I dont know what happened to her. This guy was in one suit, someone else was in the other suit. It was the other guy who shot the Marine.
The commander removed his own helmet. He ripped off his gloves and looked at a round, red hole right in the center of his palm. I have to contact Houston. I dont have authority to deal with this. Theres nothing about this in the mission plan.
Jobs nodded. He was completely ready to let the commander decide. And if Colonel Willett said call Houston, that was fine.
Whats your name? Willett demanded of the blubbering killer.
D-Caf. Its D-Caf. You can call me Harlin if you want to, though, he answered. Thats my brother over there. Mark. Mark Melman. He wasnt trying to hurt anyone.
You show up with a gun, youre trying to hurt someone! Jobs snapped. Theres one, maybe two people dead. Not trying to hurt anyone?
It was the Rock, not us, D-Caf moaned.
First, we get you out of that suit, Willett ordered D-Caf. Therell be air pressure in here for the next few hours. A little less with the hole you managed to shoot in the hull. And after that you can breathe vacuum.
CHAPTER TWENTY
GET ME HIS BERTH NUMBER. ILL THAW HIM OUT.
The shuttle carrying the Mayflower Project orbited Earth. Those humans below on the planet who knew about them were few. Those that cared, fewer still. Sliding across the day-night barrier into the shadow of Earth, Willett and Jobs could see the lights of a thousand cities and towns. Some were made extra bright by the raging fires of uncontrolled rioting.
The man and the boy were exhausted. They had tied D-Caf up to a support beam. They had maneuvered the unconscious but still breathing Tamara Hoyle into the berth once assigned to the man whod died on the ground. Theyd bandaged the hole in her shoulder. A Band-Aid for a bullet wound.
They had contacted Houston. Houston had said it was up to them. Houston, most of it, most of the men and women who manned the consoles and stood by at the ready, most of them had gone home to family to wait for the end.
Earth was done with the Mayflower. Good luck, Mayflower. Leave us.
The woman may live, Willett said. For a while, anyway. At least we got the tube in her. Maybe the hibernation will help somehow. I dont know what to do with the kid.
Jobs shrugged. He didnt know, either.
One thing I know: Im not a jury or a judge, the astronaut said.
No, Jobs agreed.
Ill put him in Toms berth. Not that it matters much. See this? He pointed to a readout on the overhead console.
Jobs had been surveying the cockpit with some interest. It was his kind of place: hundreds of knobs and dials and LED readouts.
Thats the solar sails.
The readouts blank, Jobs said.
Yeah. Nothing. No feedback. Could be the readout is just malfunctioning. Could be the processor. Could be a software glitch. My guess? Wires been severed. Which means they dont deploy. Which means we drift out of this solar system of ours at a very leisurely pace.
Solar sails?
Willett nodded. Yeah. Microthin sheets of some new composite. Supposed to be incredibly strong. And supposedly more efficient, much more efficient. When they were first looking at solar sails as a means of propulsion, most guesses were theyd give us 150,000 miles per hour maximum before we left the solar system. But these are supposed to be different. Dont ask me how.
What kind of speed can we achieve with these new sails?
The contractor claims we can loop around the sun and come out the other side doing just under a million miles per hour. Pretty slow, still, considering youre using light for your wind and the light is moving 186,000 miles per second. And pretty slow if youre talking about traveling light-years through space. But better than orbital speed by a long shot. Of course, thats if they were spread. And right now theyre snug in their pods and not going anywhere.
Isnt there some way to fix them?
Willett smiled. The standard NASA answer is can do. But NASA . . . Well, they hung in there pretty good, you know. They stuck it out till we were off. But they have wives and husbands. They got kids and grandkids they want to spend their last hours with.
Yeah.
For a long while neither of them spoke. Through the windows Jobs could see the sun come up, peeking around the rim of the planet. Daylight somewhere over West Africa. Sunrise, but everyone onboard was fast, fast asleep. They were the only two people awake, aside from D-Caf.
Then Willett said, We would need an EVA. Someone would have to go out there and literally pry open those pods. Theres supposed to be a manual release there. Supposed to be a crank you can turn, cranks em right out. So they tell me.
Jobs said, Maybe we should try that.
Willett held up his bandaged hand.
Jobs held up his own hand. I could do it.
Its a two-man job. Worse than that, its a tight space, no room. Youre small enough, maybe, but wed need a second man, small as you.
I have a friend, Jobs said.
Willett looked intrigued. Would he do it? Go outside, I mean?
Jobs smiled. If I didnt take him hed kill me.
Willett hesitated. Then, Get me his berth number. Ill thaw him out.
IMPACT
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THATS THE ROCK.
Mo. Wake up.
MoSteel opened one eye. Then the other. Jobs was leaning right over him. Are we there?
Jobs shook his head. No. Youve only been under for a couple hours.
Huh. He snorted, rubbed his nose, and sat up. Whats it about, Duck?
Bad stuff, Mo. People getting shot. Some crazy kid and his big brother got in, shot that Marine sergeant.
That hot-looking black fem?
Jobs cocked an eyebrow. I didnt really think about whether she was hot, Mo.
Mmm. You wouldnt. So things are screwed up and were gonna auger into the sun or whatever and you woke me up so I wouldnt miss it?
Kind of. Heres the thing: One of the pilots is dead. The other is injured. Some kind of solar sails or whatever wont deploy. Unless someone goes outside.
MoSteel blinked. Then his eyes lit up. Outside? Ride the big rocket from the outside?
For a moment Jobs thought his friend might cry. MoSteel grabbed his arm and squeezed. Youre the best, man.
The commander wanted to know if youd do it. Its dangerous. Very dangerous. The suits wont fit us,
the jetpacks are hard to control, we screw up at all and we could end up being separated from the ship. Thatd mean wed probably orbit till we entered the atmosphere and burned up.
MoSteel sat bolt upright. Lets go!
Youre a dangerously disturbed person, Mo. But one more thing before you say yes: the Rock. Its coming. We have a very small window for an escape burn to push us out of orbit. The calculations are all based on the sails being deployed before the burn. Colonel Willett may have to light the rockets while were still out there.
Very woolly, MoSteel agreed, nodding with approval, as though this particular ride had been worked out just for his amusement. Hey! Were weightless.
Yes. You can thank me later.
They suited up as quickly as they could with one-armed help from Willett. Slipping into a suit to hide as D-Caf had done was one thing. Actually donning the suit properly so that it would work out in the vacuum of space was another.
Willett walked them through the procedure as well as he could while simultaneously prepping the ship for a burn with his one good hand. Jobs noticed that he had Marks revolver on his lap. Jobs wondered how many rounds were left.
Youll need to loosen all the bolts holding the sheathing in place. Cast the sheath off. This is important: Dont throw it forward or back, throw it away from the ship. He made a motion with both hands and winced at the pain. And remember your basic physics: equal and opposite reaction, right?
Under the sheathing youll find the sails coiled up. Itll look like a big wad of Mylar. Crumpled-up foil. Supposedly this stuff, though, has a shape memory. Meaning, once you crank the mast all the way out, the sail should snap into place and spread out on its own. Should. No ones ever tested this. Like I told you, the calculations such as they are call for the sails to be fully deployed prior to escaping orbit. I dont know how critical that is. Figure we should do our best.
MoSteel nodded. Dont worry, Captain. My boys got the tech chops.
Willett looked at Jobs with a flicker more interest. Steven Jobs, huh? Thats the name you chose? Not Gates or Boole or Eckert or Shastri?
Jobs smiled. Steve Jobs made a revolution in a garage.
Fair enough, Willett said with a sigh. One of my own boys is pretty good at . . . He fell silent. He glanced at the revolver. Okay. I punch up the burn in twenty-five minutes. The Rock . . . its going to happen soon. Ill call you in at the five-minute point. Thats just maybe enough time to get into the airlock and brace yourself.
Mmmm. MoSteel rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, anticipating the rush.
No time for more. No time for anything like the usual NASA care and caution and endless preparation.
Jobs caught sight of a small framed picture wedged into one of the control panels. It showed a middle-aged woman, a girl, and two boys, all in their early twenties or late teens.
He wondered if he should say something. But here, now, more than at any time in his life, Jobs found the right words would not come. He wondered if he should take the gun. But how could he explain it?
Watching a wreck, watching a slow-motion disaster, unable to do anything, anything at all to stop it. Unable even to think of comforting words. Powerless . . .
Jobs turned away. MoSteel slapped his shoulder, oblivious, of course, to his friends particular concern.
They sealed each others helmets and stepped into the miniscule airlock. Waited while the air was sucked away, drawn back into the ship.
The indicator light was green.
MoSteel threw the latch and levered the hatch open.
Earth was right there, right there, filling the frame. MoSteel pushed off very slowly and drifted up through the hatch, or down through the hatch, or left or right or whatever. It was all the same, he thought happily.
He drifted through and arrested his movement by reaching down to grab the hatch threshold. He extended outward, legs pointing at Earth. He reached down to lift his friend up/down after him.
Jobs floated out into space, held MoSteels hand, and they both looked back along the orbiters back. The tall tail just touched the rim of the planet. The disorientation was extreme and impossible to resist. The ship was above, below, Earth was down or up, impossible.
Hard not to feel like that big old ball, that blue and green and brown ball in the black sky was going to fall on them and crush them. At the same time, it was hard not to feel like you were falling, like you ought to be screaming.
It was impossible to make any sense of it. At least it would be to Jobs, MoSteel realized. Funny how you could see tension even through a space suit. It was the way Jobs held himself, all clenched up. Clenched up and hanging upside down above the big ball.
Dont think it, Duck, he advised. Gotta just do, not think. Follow me.
Jobs closed his eyes, tried to dispel the sense that he was falling. Opened his eyes again, and this time narrowed his gaze, focused on his friend. This was Mos thing, follow Mo.
MoSteel held Jobss shoulder, got behind him, and keyed his maneuvering jets. The two of them eased forward, Jobs balanced like a clumsy but insignificant weight.
They flew at a snails pace. Willett had emphasized conserving the maneuvering jets. So they flew very slowly above the orbiter, passing along the long, tight-closed seam of the payload bay, within which slept the Eighty, oblivious, unaware.
There are the pods, Jobs said.
Left or right?
Left.
MoSteel keyed his thrusters and they changed vector to intercept the pod on the left wing.
I think I can land right on it, Jobs said and stuck his feet out.
I dont think so, Duck. Gotta kill momentum with the jets. Youd just bounce off.
Moments later they were stopped dead relative to the shuttle. In reality they were traveling at 18,000 miles per hour, give or take. But the elongated pod now appeared to be hanging vertically in front of them, hanging on a long, curved, white wall.
Wrench, Jobs said. He felt more comfortable now. This was man and machine. He could do that.
Forgot the wrench, MoSteel said.
What?
Joke. Untie the gut-knots there, migo.
Jobs cursed MoSteel under his breath, took the wrench, and began loosening bolts. There were twelve, all around the edge of the thin sheathing. He took each bolt and stuffed them into a net bag hanging or floating from his waist.
On the seventh bolt he noticed the small round hole.
Theres what did it, theres what cut the wire. Bullet hole. Must have been a stray round from the fight on the ground.
Hey, look, MoSteel said.
What?
Is that it? MoSteel tapped Jobss shoulder and pointed.
Jobs looked. A small, tumbling, moving object that caught and reflected the suns light. Small at least compared to the immensity of the planet. How could that rock possibly hurt this beautiful planet? Surely somehow it would stop, or miss, or not really do the damage everyone said.
Surely not.
People wouldnt die. No. Continents would not be shattered. No. Something would stop it, something, someone would not let it happen.
Yeah, Mo. Thats it, Jobs said. Thats the Rock.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
TWO WHOLE SECONDS TO SIT HERE AND CHAT.
They pushed the sheath away. Jobs squeezed his arm and shoulder and part of his upper body into the tight gap between the folded mast and the outer shell of the shuttle. MoSteel had to squeeze in beside him to hold down a latch-pawl to allow the crank to turn.
Jobs turned the small hand crank once. Twice. Almost impossible to get any kind of leverage. He was eating up time and knew it. But the gloves were bulky and way too big, the space too tight.
He turned again and again and nothing happened.
The Rock was in view. Coming. Coming. No drama, no tail of sparks, no swooshing sound. It occurred to Jobs that it was a pretty lame special effect.
The mast began to lift. Now there was more room, and now he could get leverage, with MoSteel anchoring him.
The crank turned quickly. The mast rose, as thin as a kids fishing rod. The crumpled foil sail rose, too, like wadded-up tinfoil.
Up and up.
Slow. Too slow.
Boys, this is Colonel Willett. I see youre making progress, but were ten minutes to burn.
Jobs keyed his intercom. Right. Almost have the left sail extended. Mo, Im wearing out: Take a turn.
They traded places and MoSteel spun the crank as fast as he could. Each working till he was sweating and gasping, then handing it off. At last the crank stopped. The sail was extended.
They jetted as quickly as they could over the hump of the shuttles back to the right wing. Removing the sheathing was easier this time.
They squeezed themselves into place and started to turn the crank.
Gotta call time, gentlemen, Willett said. Maybe one sail deployed is enough.
Jobs said, Commander Willett, Im not an astrophysicist, but arent we talking about calculations for escaping solar orbit? I mean, we can burn our way out of Earths orbit, but then we have to loop the sun and head out without being captured by the suns gravity, right? If we mess with the formula we could end up in orbit forever. Or worse.
Son, these calculations are half guesswork anyway. You have to understand, this isnt the usual NASA mission. No one knows anything for sure.
Jobs looked at MoSteel, caught his attention. He lifted his gold visor and pressed his helmet into contact so they could talk without using the mike and being overheard.
Mo. I think maybe we gotta do this. But he has to fire the rockets. Maybe we can use our tethers, stay alive, hold on . . .
Ride the big rocket and Mother G trying to kill us real hard? You asking or telling?
You in?
What, like youre going to take a ride while I bunny? MoSteel laughed, but not happily. He knew the difference between wild risks and sheer suicide. Ill ride along with you, Jobs.
Jobs keyed his mike. Commander, were staying out here. He began cranking again, winding as hard and fast as he could.
Three minutes to burn, was Willetts only answer.
Jobs and MoSteel cranked wildly, spelling each other every minute to keep the speed up, smooth now, practiced. The mast extended languidly. The sails grew. Not fast enough. Not fast enough.
The Mayflower Project Page 9
