“Of course! Maybe I can take you up in my plane?”
“Oh.” He blinked, because flying with me had become a coveted distinction in the Kansas City circles. Oh, the Secret Service hated it every time I went up, but I changed more minds by getting them above the cloud layer and into sunshine than with all of my rhetorical power. It had been worth every penny I’d spent on the modified controls. And for this climber … Private time with the president? How could he turn that down? But I also knew for a fact he was afraid of heights and I had a reputation for doing stunt flying. Senator Mason cleared his throat. “That’s very … very kind.”
“Wonderful. I look forward to having that conversation with you. Now, you’re a family man so you’ll understand as few others can.” I gestured to Nathaniel without slopping gin over the edge of my martini glass thanks to years at an actual Swiss finishing school. “This man has not seen his wife for three years and she only got home days ago. So, I’m going to use my presidential powers and escort him to her.”
“But of course.”
My private secretary trailed my left shoulder at these events and would set something up with his people. I’d used the code phrase “having that conversation” so she would not set up a flight with him and would limit it to a fifteen-minute meeting. He’d be grateful to get out of flying and wouldn’t push for more.
If I looked over my right shoulder, I would see one of the bodyguards who followed me everywhere public, even when we were, technically, in my own home. The ballroom was part of the public areas of the New White House and I was a new president with people who demonstrably did not like my policies of expanding the space program.
Nathaniel sighed with relief as we walked away. “Thank you.” The pinch of worry that had gripped his features for the past three years was not quite gone. “I would thank you for inviting us, but I can’t get to my wife.”
“Sorry. I worried about that.” I tried to peer through the crowd, but could really only make out her hair. Why the IAC didn’t give her a handler, I would never understand. We would have to talk. “Watch this.”
I approached the crowd and formed my flight plan as I went, marking out the terrain and where the hot air was likely to be gustiest. “Ambassador Ferdowsi. Such a pleasure. Have you met Dr. York? I’m just taking him through to his wife. Oh, hello, General Tanii. Have you met Dr. York? I’m just taking him through to his wife. And Mrs. Henson. Tell your husband I loved the show! Have you met Dr. York? I’m just taking him through to his wife.” The floor cleared. “Elma! Darling.”
“Nico—Madame President.” Elma turned with such palpable relief I could almost see the numbers of the Fibonacci sequence forming over her head.
“Lady Astronaut! I’ve barely seen you tonight.” I embraced her and whispered, “My staff have instructions to show you to the Washington bedroom if you need to make an escape.”
“Thank you.”
Pulling back, I drew Nathaniel forward. “I’ve brought you your husband.”
“Nathaniel! I was wondering where you’d gotten to.”
Stetson Parker, the commander of the First Mars Expedition, stood near her with that ferociously charming smile of his. He’d lost most of his hair while away. Stress, solar radiation, or male pattern balding. Hard to tell. He was still a handsome son of a bitch. “Madame President! Sure we can’t tempt you back into space?”
“My place is here, doing the work my husband started.” I turned to the assembled group who were still vying for time with the famous Lady Astronaut and the First Man in Space. None of them were paying attention to the fact that I’d booked Ella Fitzgerald for this event. “Friends … There’s a wonderful band, and these lovebirds haven’t seen each other for three years. Shall we let them sneak off to the dance floor?”
“Oh yes!” Elma’s anxiety looked like bubbling enthusiasm if you didn’t know her. “I haven’t danced in years—so don’t watch too closely.”
Nathaniel led her away without a backward glance.
Parker winked at the crowd. “We’re used to one-third of your gravity so … tripping the light fantastic will not happen tonight. Except maybe the tripping part.” He held out his hand to me. “May I have this dance, Madame President?”
“Of course.” I tucked my arm in his and handed the martini off to my secretary. Parker had a line of tension in his shoulders I wasn’t used to seeing. I lowered my voice and murmured, “Gravity giving you trouble?”
His gaze shot my way and he shook his head. “My world mostly consisted of a handful of people in a tin can until three days ago.” He nodded to Elma and Nathaniel, who were gliding through a slow foxtrot to “Blue Skies.” “She’s weathering it better than I am.”
“She’s got years of practice.” We moved into dance position, my left hand not quite settling into the correct frame on his shoulder, and I was aware of the crowd taking note that the First Man in Space was dancing with the President of the United States. This would be in all the papers tomorrow. I’d have to make sure I danced with at least two of the other male astronauts or the papers would romantically link me with Parker, which was a headache I did not need. “But do let me know what I can do for you and your team now that you’re back.”
“Actually…” He swung us in a three-point pivot. “I did want to pick your brain. I’m … I’m going to retire from the IAC and was thinking about politics as a next step.”
I raised my eyebrows. “I didn’t think anything could pry you out of space.”
“I’ve got two teenage boys.” He promenaded us slow-slow-quick-quick across the dance floor. “So … any tips?”
“Well … what’s your platform?”
“Er…”
I threw my head back and laughed. “Sorry. It’s just so delightful to actually stump you.” I squeezed his shoulder. “You need a platform that helps people understand why they should vote for you.”
“What was yours?” He smiled wryly as he turned us in another pivot step. “Our news was…”
“Censored. I know. I told them I thought that was wrong.” I sighed, thinking about the world the Mars Expedition had left versus the one they’d come back to. “Okay. Platforms. For instance, I linked job creation and economic growth to the space industry, coupled with increasing accessibility to reduce people’s fears about being abandoned on Earth. The fact that I was nearly killed—”
“What?!” He did not actually stop dancing, because Parker is still a pilot, but it was close.
“Oh. Right.” I shrugged. “Terrorist on the Moon. Lost environmental controls. Got shocked.”
“You were electrocuted?”
“No. I was shocked. If I’d been electrocuted, I’d be dead.” Which brought us to the other part of my platform. “The point is, your platform has two prongs. The policy and the person. My policy focused on space, but I sold it based on how it would benefit people on the ground. For the person … I rode the coattails of a martyred husband. It sold well.”
Parker guided me to the edge of the dance floor and stopped. “I was sorry to hear about Kenneth.”
Two years, two weeks, and three days and it still hurt. “Thank you, that’s very kind.”
“They didn’t tell us … Damn it. He was a good man.”
“Yes, he was the love of my life.” I put my hand on his upper arm, belatedly realizing why the fact that he had teenage boys was different now than when he’d left. His wife had died during the Earth First blackout. “And how are you holding up?”
Parker covered his mouth and turned abruptly so his back was to the dance floor. A moment later, he cleared his throat. “I … I was doing okay until we got back. The house is…”
“I know.” I squeezed his arm, knowing exactly how empty his home felt. “I’m going to stand here and babble about nothing while you pull yourself together.”
He nodded. I caught my secretary’s eye and flashed two fingers. In a moment, we would each have a martini, and in the meantime, I launched into a highly embellis
hed version of being shocked. He laughed at the right moments, but I think it was a while before Parker actually heard me.
Outside the velvet drapes that framed the tall windows, the clouds broke for a moment and the ballroom filled with long shafts of blue light. Conversation stumbled to a halt as people turned like moths to the flame at the rare sight of a waxing three-quarters moon. My gaze went automatically to the right “eye” of the Man in the Moon. Dawn would just be breaking over Artemis Base. Wisps slid across her face, and the Moon drew her veil back around her, leaving only a glow in the sky to mark her location.
How many places do you call home?
The party went on longer than any of the astronauts would have liked. At some point, Elma and Nathaniel disappeared. The moment the other members of the First Mars Expedition were safely out of the ballroom and escorted to their guest rooms in the New White House, I made my own escape.
The door to the ballroom shut behind me. The hangers-on would continue to schmooze for a while before realizing the influential guests had left. The reporters would be the last to go, leaving only when the last canapé had been consumed.
I let the first piece of my public armor fall away and tugged off my long kid gloves, exposing the bulge in my left arm. One hallway, a set of stairs, and a door were between me and the private areas of the New White House. I exercised my presidential powers and kicked off my heels—would that my power extended to the fashion industry. Sighing, I let my aching feet sink into the thick pile carpet for a moment. Bending, I scooped the shoes up and headed for the stairs.
At the bottom, I paused outside the door to my private suite. Glancing over my right shoulder, I nodded to the Secret Service agent. “Thank you for your work tonight.”
“Good night, Madame President.”
I stepped through the door and let the second layer of public face drop away. Tu Guanyu Chu, now my New White House chief of staff, waited in the hall to take my gloves and shoes. “Good evening, Madame President. Your dinner is waiting in your sitting room.”
“Very good, thank you, Chu.” He was the only person on my staff who knew. He kept a log, and on nights like this where an hors d’oeuvres reception gave me an easy excuse to not eat, he had a carefully calibrated plate waiting for me. Food is fuel and I had a job to do.
From the inner recesses, a small gray streak bounded across the room, fluffy tail held high. Maggie the Cat billowed as she hurried to me and rubbed against my legs. Her fur was like a thundercloud and, as Kenneth had promised, her eyes were iridescent. She was the most beautiful cat and had a voice like a dying sheep. “Miaaaaaah.”
I crouched to greet my cat. “Well hello, beautiful.”
She bleated again and twined around me.
“Yes, I know. The state of the world is worrisome.” I scooped her up. “What should we do?”
“Mah. Mrah. Ma-a-a-aaah.” She twisted on her back in my arms and let me rub the soft fluff of her belly. Unlike every cat I have ever known, she will stretch out to give better access and go limp in my arms.
“That’s a very sound plan.” I rubbed the lighter gray fluff of her belly as her green-blue eyes squinted shut and then I looked up at Chu. “Sorry. Is there anything I should attend to before dinner?”
“No, Madame President.” He would say that regardless, except under very specific parameters. “The correspondence that requires your personal attention is on your desk. Per your instructions, I’ve confirmed breakfast with the Yorks in the morning before they depart on the European tour.”
“Thank you. Good night and good work.” I sighed and carried Maggie partway across the room. She squirmed in my arms and I let her down to scamper away still full of kitten energy in an adult cat body.
The light in my little sitting room was on and the curtains were drawn to shield me from the outside world. I closed the door, leaning on it for a moment. Kenneth’s portrait hung over the mantle and I waved at him. “It was a good soirée. Parker wants to go into politics.”
On the table in the middle of the room, a covered dish sat on a starched white tablecloth. I walked over and pulled the lid off. Caesar salad and a bowl of mwei, rice still steaming from the kitchens below.
From my chair, a dark fuzzy head poked out from under the tablecloth and meeped at me.
“Well hello, sir.” I bent down and scooped up my old man cat. He shoved his head into my chin. Marlowe was ancient and rickety, but scratching under his chin still made him purr like a Sirius IV rocket escaping Earth’s gravity. “Hey, sweet boy. I’m home.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
We say that writing is a solitary act, but I have found that it is much more like staging on a one-person show. There’s one person in the spotlight, but there’s a lighting designer that allows them to be seen, there’s a stage manager, a costumer, a director … A book is similar. I get the credit, but I am supported by a wealth of people. This book, in particular, would not be in your hands without a vast crew of people. While I was writing it, my life was disrupted by a series of family illnesses and a move from Chicago to Nashville. It’s the first time I’ve blown a novel deadline, turning it in two months late. I limped through writing this, supported by people that are only visible to those of you who have stayed to read the program notes.
My agent, Seth Fishman, helped me find the core of the story before I even started writing. He’s my advocate, yes, but some days the person who he is advocating to is me, reminding me why I write. Eileen Cook, C. J. Hunt, and Jared Hunt let me ignore them to write. Kathy Chung listened to me ramble at length. The Whiskey Chicks, Elizabeth, Suzanna, Nephele, Eileen, and Crystal, keep me steady.
Thank you to the entire board of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, who were graciously understanding when I was a largely absentee president for the first month of my term as I wrestled the ending to the ground.
Alyshondra Meacham, my first reader and my assistant, is fantastic at “bespoke enthusiasm” and is so good at unpacking how a story hits her, that—in my extended theatrical metaphor—she’s invited to all of my rehearsals, as rough and ragged as some of them are. If I make her laugh or weep or cringe, then I know I have something. Beth Meacham, no relation to Alyshondra, is my editor. When I emailed her and said, “I need help” she started reading and commenting on chapters as I wrote them, brainstorming with me when I had lost my way amid the chaos of my external life. Also, she rolled with it when I turned in a 180,000 word novel. The last one in this series was 99,000. I cut it down, with her guidance, but still.
I blame the length on Brandon Sanderson.
He, Dan Wells, and Howard Taylor make up the core cast of the Writing Excuses podcast. I remember sitting around after a recording session and talking about how I couldn’t find the ending. They have a knack for asking the right questions.
There’s some specific help as well. Bobak Ferdowsi figured out the frequency of translunar shuttles departing from the Lunetta space station in low Earth orbit. Interestingly, the launch windows are tiny, but more frequent. You’re still restricted by when you want to arrive on the moon. (I’ll talk about that more in About the History.)
The airplane sequences were greatly helped by Derek Benkoski, who is an air force pilot with an interest in historical planes, and my father-in-law, Glenn Kowal, who was a fighter pilot in Vietnam, a test pilot, and a commercial pilot. When he was forced to retire from carrying passengers, he went back to being a test pilot for as long as he legally could. A lot of Nicole’s refusal to give up flying comes from him.
4thewords.com and Habitica.com are companies filled with good people who keep me writing. Seriously, it is embarrassing how much more likely I am to write to earn a pair of virtual wings than I am for an actual paycheck.
Volumes Book Cafe in Chicago was my happy writing place. If you visit, try the Shades of Oats and Honey latte. Parnassus Books in Nashville is my local indie store and filled with lovely people.
I have very smart beta readers. In particular, my
Patreon supporters and the members of the Lady Astronaut Club: Rachel Gutin caught a major, major plot hole and helped me brainstorm to plug it. Maggie Watson told me about Cameroon Dwarf Goats, which we know today as pygmy goats. Someday, I really want to write a story about someone spinning yarn in low gravity. Marzie Keifer helped me with the chemistry of how Icarus was setting up delayed reaction meltdowns of the dehumidifiers. M. Warshaw helped me with some of the mathy language that Helen uses when figuring out what Icarus is doing with the blackouts. Rebecca Kuang, Yung Chiu Wang, and Vicky Hsu helped me with Taiwanese music, language, and food questions.
Mark Zeman very graciously helped me with the Swiss German when I pounced on him at WorldCon in Dublin. I explained the scenes and he gave me the phonetic spelling of what he would say.
Brendan Minish sent me a note about radio communication in Fated Sky and got roped into helping with the communications in this book. Without him, Bill Barry, Stephen Granade, and Max Fagin, I’d have some technical holes.
Fábio M. Barreto, who is a talented Brazilian author and audiobook narrator, translated all of the Portuguese dialogue for me so that it isn’t glaringly wrong. We met when he tutored me on pronunciation for the Fated Sky audiobook.
Dr. Sheyna Gifford, Dr. Stacey Berg, and Dr. Jennifer Chu helped me with the polio outbreak, figuring out how people would respond to that and how it would spread. Dr. Chu, in particular, is my “unofficial official orthopedic surgeon” and helped me figure out how to break Nicole’s arm the right way.
I need to thank a couple of real people who lent their names, but nothing else, to the novel. Nicole Wargin gets her name from a real person. Nicole was originally a tuckerization in Calculating Stars, which is when you insert a real person’s name. I offer that as part of fundraisers sometimes. I liked the character that grew out of the name and when I asked the real Nicole if it was okay if I used her name for an entire novel, she happily said yes.
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