Myrtle raised her voice to cut through the buzz on the comms. “Folks, this is a pretty routine alarm during prelaunch.”
“Sorry about that…” Eugene sounded utterly calm. Of course, I’ve also heard him sound that calm when he was flying a plane literally on fire, so take that as you will. “The alarm looks good.”
Which meant our cabin pressure was acceptable. Clemons had flown down for this launch and I knew he was in the Firing Room. Even if no one else in the launch center knew about the larger concerns, he wouldn’t let us fly if anything was off-nominal.
“Ullage pressures are up.” Curtis Frye’s voice carried over the comm from the copilot seat. “And the right engine helium tank is just a little bit low.”
“It was yesterday, too…” Under normal circumstances, being a little low on helium wouldn’t slow us at all. “Can we get confirmation that we’re Go for launch?”
The comms were silent for a moment. Then our CAPCOM said, “We’re stopping the clock at forty-three seconds.”
A groan went through the cabin. Beside me, Imelda said, “My kid asked me what time our scrub was today.”
From somewhere else in the cabin, a British man said, “Bloody hell. Starting to wonder if we’ll ever launch.”
“No kidding,” a woman replied—Midwestern American, so maybe Sarah Holtermann or Vicky Hsu. “If my husband had this much trouble getting it up, I’d have left him years ago.”
“Makes me understand the Earth Firsters.” That voice was low and male and American and could have been one of a handful of people. If we had stuck with our original team, I would know everyone’s voice, but some of these people I’d only met when we arrived in Brazil.
“We were scrubbed six times on my first mission.” I stretched as much as I could in my seat, but the pace of my heart would have given the flight surgeon some concern back in the old days when we’d all worn telemetry hookups for vital signs. “Everyone can calm down. This isn’t a scrub; they’re just pausing the clock.”
“Thanks, Mamãe.” Faustino was lucky that he was right behind me, because if I could reach that man, he would not have appreciated the consequences.
“Just let me know if you need help with your diap—”
The comm crackled and I shut up as our CAPCOM said, “The right helium tank looks good. Restarting the clock at forty-three seconds.”
Across the aisle, Luther crossed his fingers in his lap. Aahana leaned toward the window, lower lip between her teeth. I closed my eyes, wondering if Kenneth was listening to the squawk box in his office.
What was I thinking? I know my husband. Of course he was. I opened my eyes and said, as clearly as I could, to the colonists, to him, “Everything will be fine. Don’t worry.”
Faustino said, “Thank you, Mamãe.”
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t make me come back there.”
“Thirty seconds downstairs.”
Inside my boots, my toes curled as if I could get better traction and do something. I tucked my arms in by my sides, and stared straight up, past three rows of helmets and launch couches.
“Fifteen.”
From somewhere in the cabin, one of the new kids started the chant and a few others joined in like they were tourists. “Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six—”
The main engines ignited and the entire ship shuddered. It swayed back as the engines began to push against the bolts tethering us to the ground. The chant faltered into nervous laughter.
“Three at a hundred.” Eugene reported that we had one hundred percent thrust level for all three engines.
Curtis Frye said, “Here we go.”
And we had liftoff. Nothing went wrong. All systems nominal.
FOURTEEN
TOWARD 1964
TOPEKA, Kan., April 12, 1963—Gov. Kenneth T. Wargin’s unavowed campaign for the 1964 Democratic Presidential nomination seemed to be moving into higher gear last week. He met in Kansas City with Elbert Simmons, the head of the party, who called him the “front-running” contender. To this, Mr. Wargin replied, “The important thing now is to create unity. It is still too early to crystallize on a single candidate.”
I floated near the ceiling of the translunar shuttle with a foot hooked under one of the guide rails and glanced over my magnetic cards again. Imelda sat to my left in the “south” chair—even though there’s neither “north” nor a “chair” when playing bridge in zero-g. From the “east” chair, I had a good view of my seat and my crew preference kit. My CPK had a package from Clemons to the Lunar Colony Administrator. I would much rather have had it on my person, but when we’d tried it on Earth, it had interfered with closing my suit. That is not nominal in space.
Chewing her lower lip, Imelda stared at her cards. It was a bad tell that she needed to break if she was going to keep playing bridge. And she should avoid poker completely.
Her partner, Vicky, floated to my right in the “north” chair. “No, seriously—Angora rabbits are the way to go.”
I raised my eyebrows. “You know there are other hobbies besides knitting.”
“At some point, we’re going to have to make our own clothes on the Moon. Growing cotton isn’t an option.” The petite botanist wrinkled her nose as Imelda bid three hearts. “Angora rabbits are a food source and their fur is a dream to spin.”
The last member of our group, Myrtle, sat in the “west” chair opposite me. “What about goats? Mohair is a great fiber and then we’d have dairy.”
Vicky tilted her head, considering. “Transporting them would be a challenge, though.”
We get some work done on the three-day transit to the Moon, but for the most part, it is the closest thing we get to a vacation. The transfer at Lunetta exists so we can switch from a launch vehicle to a lunar shuttle, designed to fly only in vacuum. One of the nice side effects was that it gave the rookies time to acclimate to microgravity and learn to use a zero-g toilet, so we didn’t get a lot of vomiting and floating poop on the flight to the Moon. Down the length of the ship, people read, or played cards, or chatted as if they had always been in space. I doubled Imelda’s preempt. “What about bringing baby goats up?”
“Kids.” Myrtle glanced at the choice I had made and reconsidered her cards. “Baby goats are called ‘kids,’ city girl.”
I stuck my tongue out at her like the grownup I am.
Vicky made an SOS redouble. “Oo! Have you seen Cameroon dwarf goats? So tiny! Better for composting, too. Although I don’t know about their fur as a fiber source…”
Aahana floated up to our group, grabbing a handrail to stop herself by Myrtle. She leaned in and whispered something that made Myrtle look sharply toward the command module. “Thank you.” She swallowed and then turned to us. “Ladies, if you’ll excuse me.”
I’ve played bridge with Myrtle and Eugene long enough to know their subtle reactions, and this was not a subtle reaction. Something was wrong with Eugene.
* * *
An hour later, I hung in my couch, pretending to read while I watched the activity at the front of the ship. Ana Teresa floated in and out of the command module, so I could safely guess that Eugene was ill. He’d seemed fine at breakfast. But based on the number of cleaning supplies that I saw Helen and Myrtle haul into the CM, I could also make a guess that he’d vomited.
I wanted to help, and it took enormous restraint to stay put and out of the way.
But … but I couldn’t stop thinking about Nathaniel.
Mind you, I couldn’t imagine how someone could get rat poison into a dehydrated meal, but that didn’t mean it was impossible. I also didn’t know if the symptoms of that sort of poison would show up immediately, or if Nathaniel had vomited because of the ulcer.
None of that kept me from fretting. I worried the inside of my cheek and read the same page over and over.
Curt emerged from the CM, guiding the feet of a sleeping bag. Everyone in the main cabin stilled, watching as Ana Teresa followed, guiding Eugene’s head. Inside the sleeping bag, he
was half-curled into a fetal position. One arm was out, clutching an emesis bag, so I’d been right about the vomit. His eyes were closed and his brow creased with concentration as if he were working very hard not to throw up again.
Myrtle followed after them as they pulled him into a corner. She glanced down the length of the main cabin and found me with her gaze, beckoning. I released my couch’s footrail, stowing my book in the net bag attached to the chairback in front of me. It only took two pushes to “superman” up to the front, where I snagged a guiderail and stopped by Myrtle.
“What can I do?”
“Honestly … I don’t know.” She rested a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “He’s going to lie to you and tell you he’s fine.”
“No.” Eugene cracked an eye. “But I promise I can manage an emesis bag. Just tether me here and—”
His face twisted and he yanked the bag up to his mouth. The fact that he was vomiting was bad. The fact that a pilot had just admitted he was ill was terrifying.
Ana Teresa put a hand on Eugene’s shoulders to steady him, while Curt braced his feet. I turned and grabbed some tethers from one of the stowage bags. Here was one small thing I could do.
I secured the right shoulder of the sleeping bag to the corner of the cabin, aware of all the people watching us. Eugene finished and lay limp and gasping inside the restraints as if he’d just wrung out his insides. Ana Teresa gently took the bag from him and slid an empty into his hand.
From down the cabin, Faustino pulled a little closer. “What’s wrong with him?”
Ana Teresa slid the used bag into a larger trash bag. “I believe this is food poisoning contracted before departure and that he will be recovered as soon as it works its way through his system. Nothing contagious, so no need for anyone to be alarmed.”
“But he’ll be fine in time to land us. Right, doc?” Curt still held Eugene’s feet. Sweat beaded his brow and I realized that, as copilot, if Eugene wasn’t better, Curt would take over the landing. It would be his first time landing on the Moon.
“Oh…” Ana Teresa glanced past Curt to the rest of the cabin and I could see the lie form in that hesitation. “I’m sure he will be.”
I kept thinking about Nathaniel. For that matter, I was wondering if the illness that had hit the Mars Expedition was really just simple food poisoning. “Is there … are you sure it’s food poisoning?”
She snorted at me. “It is not ‘space germs,’ if that is what you are asking.”
I rolled my eyes. “Please grant me a modicum of intelligence.” The newspapers had grabbed hold of that as if it were a real thing, but no one who actually worked in the aerospace industry believed in weird mutant diseases from Outer Space. “I’m wondering if this could be an ulcer, or stomach flu, or any number of things that can cause vomiting.”
She shook her head. “There is a reason that we call medicine a ‘practice.’ I have nothing in this tube with which to do any real testing. So. Let us make him comfortable so he can recover soonest.”
I slid down to where Curt was. “I’ll finish tethering him so you can get back to the CM.”
He nodded, squeezing Eugene’s foot. “Don’t you dare leave me to land this thing solo. Sir.”
Eugene managed a smile. “The way you jockey? Wouldn’t dream of it.”
* * *
There’s really only so much you can do to contain vomit in space. Even with the most exquisite care, there’s always some liquid that gets past containment. From near the back of the cabin, Guillermo Reyes Munoz recoiled suddenly. “Gah!”
He swiped at the air and then immediately looked like he regretted his choice.
“On it.” Imelda kicked over to him with a wipe. “Who knew that having a five-year-old would be so helpful in space.”
Eugene cracked his eyes and rasped. “I’m buying everyone a beer.”
“Easy promise.” Myrtle looked up from her crochet. “No beer on the Moon.”
“Not yet. But I know for a fact that Ken Harrison packed hops in his personal allowance. There’s— Shit.” He clapped a bag to his mouth again and retched.
Ana Teresa watched him, and the line between her brows got deeper.
I floated over to hover beside her. “You look worried.”
The corner of her mouth twitched. “I don’t have any way to keep him hydrated. It is concerning.” She glanced at Eugene and spoke quietly. “I do not see any way he will be capable of flying tomorrow.”
Eugene lowered the bag. “Heard that. Ask MC for a replacement now. Even if a miracle occurs, it’s better to have a backup ready to go.”
My goddamned ambition perked up and waved its hands. Pick me! I’m the most senior astronaut on this crew. Pick me! But I kept my mouth shut, even though I had more flight time than anyone on this crew except Eugene, even though I’d landed on the Moon before, because Eugene wasn’t the one to make that call. The IAC knew my qualifications. If Clemons wanted me to fly, he would pick me.
* * *
As the deorbit burn kicked in and gave us gravity for the first time in three days, my seat slapped against my back. That was a little rougher than necessary.
I slid side to side in my seat as we oscillated around in yaw. Before I had time to tense, it settled out and then the burn vanished. I bit the inside of my lip and stared past Imelda to the window. There was nothing in view to give me a sense of pace or altitude.
It was just a subtle sense of wrong. Don’t misunderstand, the approach to the Moon is always a little different, based on where we are in orbital cycles, but there are still rhythms and patterns. An oscillation wasn’t completely out of the ordinary—in fact, Jacira’s ship had experienced severe oscillation on her first landing. It could be anything from a little debris to a cranky thruster to a gauge to pilot error.
If Eugene had been flying, I wouldn’t have worried.
But he was strapped into a couch at the front of the cabin, with cracked lips and an unhealthy gray pallor.
The IAC bumped Curt up to pilot and tapped Michael Lin to copilot. Two rookies to bring us in, because God forbid that they let me fly it.
At least Helen had stayed put in the Nav/Comp seat so they had a veteran up there. She’d keep them on course and could compensate for burn errors.
“Artemis. Translunar Shuttle 1093.” Curt’s call to Lunar Mission Control sounded as calm as if this weren’t his first landing.
“TLS-1093, Artemis. This is Deana Whitney on CAPCOM.” Good. I liked her. She was level-headed and wicked smart—and then I remembered that her husband had been at the Astronauts’ Husbands Club the night that Nathaniel was poisoned. “How do you read?”
“Loud and clear. Horizon checklist right on time. Our radar checks indicate 15200 meters perilune. Our visual altitude checks steadying out at about 16100.”
“TLS-1093, your state vector is good. Perfect ground track. You are Go to proceed with landing.”
“Roger. Downstairs, we’re making our final approach,” Curt said. “Flight attendants, stop your beverage service and prepare for landing.”
No one laughed. I wanted to yell at him to concentrate on flying. Eugene cracked jokes when we were sitting on the launchpad waiting, not during actual flight. I tightened my grip on my harness. Curt was so young.
A moment later, Mikey said, “AELD control circuit breakers. DECA GIMBAL AC—closed. GIMBAL enabled. RATE SCALE—25.”
I shifted in my seat, picturing the cockpit. I’d done five moon missions back when the corps was small enough that they had to let women fly sometimes. It would be fine. Everything would be fine. On my first landing, we’d had no problems and there was no reason to think the new kids would either.
Helen said, “Your alignment is Go on the AGS. On my mark, 3:30 until ignition.”
Curt responded, “Roger.”
“Mark.”
Those three minutes and thirty seconds stretched out to fill the black void of space. Across the aisle, Aahana had her fingers dug into the knees of he
r spacesuit and I couldn’t think of anything to reassure her. I kept finding myself pointing my toes, like I was about to go on pointe, and had to force my feet to relax over and over.
It felt like longer than three minutes and thirty seconds. It always feels like longer.
“Thrust translation—four jets—Balance couple—ON. TTCA throttle—MINIMUM. Throttle—AUTO CDR. Standing by for…”
The engines kicked the seats against us. Somewhere in the cabin, one of the Algerian contingent murmured a string of Arabic that sounded like prayer.
Helen said, “Pitch 212, yaw 37.”
I waited for the sideways thrust of the yaw maneuver and it didn’t come.
Her voice sounded a little more urgent. “Curt—pitch 212, yaw 37.”
“TLS-1093, we’re showing you coming in high.”
“I’m … The controller is not responding.” His voice still sounded dead calm. “I’ve lost attitude hold. I’m having to manually maintain all of my rotational input.”
Even the rookies understood enough that the cabin filled with tension. None of us spoke. Even though we weren’t in the CM, keeping lines of communication clear was paramount. The control failure meant a lot more mental overhead in keeping the vehicle aligned.
Up at the front, Eugene reached for his shoulder straps and stopped, clinging to the webbing. I knew the feeling. I wanted to unbuckle and superman to the front to help. There were ways to compensate for failures in the control system. Curt and Michael had both been pilots before joining the IAC. They’d had the years of additional astronaut training that our colonists hadn’t. They could handle this.
Assuming the ship hadn’t been sabotaged, of course. Assuming this was a recoverable error.
From the front of the ship, Eugene’s voice was ragged, but calm. “Crew, seal helmets and check your restraints.”
Around me, dozens of helmets clicked shut. I slid my visor down, sealing me into suit air. If there was a breach, we’d be protected from vacuum. If there was an explosion, well …
The Relentless Moon Page 13
