The Fated Sky

by Mary Robinette Kowal

  Special to The National Times

  MIAMI, FL, May 7, 1963—A strong weather disturbance last week near the French Antilles, 1,500 miles from Miami, brought the attention of the people of Florida once again to the operations of the United States Weather Bureau in watching for hurricanes. In conjunction with the observatory on the space station Lunetta, the forecasters are able to accurately predict and monitor the behavior of this unusually early hurricane.

  No one panicked. That was the beautiful thing about working with astronauts, and for the IAC. We had spent so much time in simulations learning to work the problem that the moment one appeared, all the interpersonal stuff just dropped away.

  I sat at the kitchen table, paper and pencils ready, with a stack of reference books piled in front of me. Rafael, Leonard, and Parker stood at the whiteboard with a diagram of the coolant system taped to the board and notes scrawled alongside it. In the comm module, Florence listened to us over the intercom, transcribing the conversations for Mission Control and reporting back on what they said. She also kept the lines open to the Pinta, where our counterparts listened in.

  Terrazas sat in the command module in case we needed to roll the ship in or out of sunlight. And Kam prepped a set of EVA suits. Fortunately, we kept the Mars Expedition ships at 4.9 psi, just like the moon colony and our EVA suits, so our spacewalkers wouldn’t have to spend hours decompressing.

  “I think we’ll need to replace that section of pipe.” Rafael pointed at the spot where I’d seen the leak. “Patching it is going to be unreliable at these temperatures.”

  Leonard nodded, then tapped the same section of the diagram. “But as a stopgap measure, that might be preferable until we know specifically what the problem is. If it’s a puncture from a micrometeorite, that’s a different issue than a material failure.”

  “Different how?” Parker hadn’t spoken in a while, letting the two scientists hash things out.

  “A micrometeorite is a one-shot deal. Sure, we might get hit again, but it’s random chance. A material failure is likely to occur again in the same way, and points to a larger systemic problem.”

  The words “larger systemic problem” sent a chill down my neck. If we had a failure point in the coolant system, we would probably have to scrap the mission and limp home. Only … from where we were, we might have to keep going to Mars to slingshot home anyway. I hissed and started scribbling down notes to work those calculations, in case they asked.

  “What is it, York?” Parker’s ears were annoyingly astute for a man who’d spent his life around airplanes and rockets.

  “Just working the worst-case scenario of needing to scrub.” I looked up from my paper, even though my equations were still half formed. “Slingshot.”

  He gave one quick nod to indicate that he understood. We’d worked that scenario in more than one simulation. “Pinta, Niña. Your systems all still look good?”

  “Affirmative.” Benkoski’s voice crackled over the ship-to-ship line. “My vote is for the micrometeorite scenario.”

  The Pinta had rotated to aim its telescope at us, but really they couldn’t see any more than I had. It was all guesswork until we got someone out there for an in-person look.

  “Prep for both.” Parker studied the board with his hands on his hips. “Avelino, you get the material together that you need to replace the pipe. Flannery, I want you to prep a patch in case you get out there and find something unexpected. Grey? Tell Mission Control that we’re planning an emergency EVA.”

  “Been typing as you talk.” Her snort popped in the microphone. “Can’t believe I got a PhD to do transcription.”

  “And laundry.” Parker grinned at the speaker. “Let me know as soon as they reply.”

  “Do you think everyone but you is an idiot?”

  “Yep.” Parker turned to face me. “York, prep a flight plan in case of worst-case scenario.”

  I could have made a joke here, but we were on the clock, so I just nodded and kept working. It was fine that I could feel my way through calculations, but for this, I wanted the comfort of warm, solid numbers on the page.

  On Earth, they would be about fifteen minutes behind us. By now, Nathaniel would be on the floor of Mission Control, working with his team on solutions. He’d have his pencil gripped tight in one hand, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbow. The cloud of Clemons’s cigar smoke would billow around my husband as he paced, working the problem at their end.

  I kept my pencil moving across the page, working course corrections, and could almost imagine that he was pacing behind me. The places our minds go for comfort are odd sometimes.

  “Got an answer.” Behind Florence’s voice, the teletype rattled with commands. “Ready?”

  I looked up from the page as if I could see her. At some point while I had been working, Leonard and Rafael had left the room, leaving just me and Parker. He stood at parade rest, watching the speaker. “Go ahead.”

  “Bobienski suggests an EVA with two primary goals: to diagnose the cause of the rupture, and, if possible, to patch it. If that isn’t possible, then the spacewalkers should attempt to replace the failed section. We want to limit the EVA span, hence attempting to patch first.”

  I frowned, listening to her. Clarence “Bubbles” Bobienski was Nathaniel’s assistant. Why wasn’t Nathaniel the one answering? I mean, I know that Clemons didn’t want him to work my flights, but this was different. This was his design, and he was still the lead engineer.

  “Well, that’s what we’d settled on, so that’s reassuring.” Parker wheeled around to grab his clipboard. “I’ll tell Avelino and Flannery to suit up.”

  “Better hold on that. I’m not finished reading.”

  Parker cocked an eyebrow at that, as if Florence could see him. “Go on.”

  “Mission Control says that Rafael and Terrazas should do the EVA. They want Kam standing by in the MedMod, you on flight, with Leonard and Elma to help them suit up.”

  “What does Nathaniel say?” The question was out of my mouth before I had a chance to register that it wasn’t a good idea. Mission Control sent up the orders through the CAPCOM, and second-guessing them was just going to annoy everyone. “Sorry. Never mind.”

  “No…” Parker turned and looked at me, his free hand resting on one hip. The other drummed the clipboard against his thigh in an uneven tattoo. “Flannery should be going out, not Terrazas. Ask them for clarification on that staffing choice, and tell them I want Dr. York’s opinion specifically. Also tell them that Flannery has more experience with EVAs and adhesives than Terrazas, and my opinion is that he should be the one to go.”

  That was the thing about communicating with a time lag: You had to include everything you could think of, because the delay meant that any sort of back and forth was useless.

  “Oh, hell.” Parker shook his head. “I’ll come up and send it myself. It’ll be faster.”

  “Glad you realized that. Come on up.”

  He headed out of the kitchen and left me alone with my numbers.

  * * *

  Kam walked into the kitchen with her hands shoved in her doctor’s coat. “How are the numbers going?

  “Just about finished double-checking them…” I ran my pencil down the long equations that described the path to Mars and back to Earth. Buck Rogers would have been able to just reverse course, but real gravity meant that the fastest return would be a slingshot around the planet. The problem was with how long it would take.

  “Coffee?” she asked.

  “Thanks.” Even at best rate of return, we were still close to a year from home. Scrubbing was a worst-case scenario, but if the cooling system failed, we’d have to move over to the Pinta and abandon the Niña. And if anything went wrong with the Pinta, we wouldn’t have any redundancy to save us. The Santa Maria was filled with things for the surface of Mars and had no living quarters. Maybe Rafael and Mission Control could figure out a way to keep Niña limping along so we could at least use her for storage.

&n
bsp; Kam set the steaming cup of coffee in front of me with a clatter of plastic on metal. It smelled deceptively good, with all the rich bitterness you could want. I pulled the cup closer to myself, enjoying the aroma.

  “Elma … Parker asked me to come talk to you.” Kam turned her own mug in her hands.

  I lifted my gaze from the equations to her face. She had a line between her brows, and her eyes were tight with concern. I set my pencil down. “About?”

  “First, I want you to know that everything is all right.” Her lips pressed together. “But Mission Control says that Nathaniel is in the hospital. He had an ulcer and ignored it, and they had to do surgery. He’s fine—he’s just taking some time off from work, as he should. But he’s fine.”

  2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13, 17, 23 …

  “Elma? Do you hear me? He’s fine.”

  “He is such a … a man.” His last letters suddenly made sense. I now understood why Hershel had come out. Why Nicole and Myrtle had been restocking his pantry. Why he hadn’t been home. “Why do you know?”

  “Because Parker asked Mission Control about Nathaniel and they sent this answer back with, I should add, instructions not to tell you.” Kam kept her hands loosely folded around her mug.

  “Of course they did.” Beneath my flight suit, my arms were tight with the effort of not slapping the table … 29, 31, 37, 41, 43 … I swallowed hard, trying to keep my voice calm and level. “I’m surprised Parker did it anyway.”

  Kam lifted one hand and waggled a finger. “Mm-mm … Parker did not disobey an order. He most definitely did not tell you.”

  I snorted, which my mother would have been mortified by. “Well, I won’t thank him, then.” Sliding my hands off the table, I tried to keep my spine straight, when what I wanted to do was lean forward and hide my head in my arms. “He should have told me. Nathaniel, I mean.”

  “Why? What could you have done from here?”

  “I—I’m his wife.” Under the table, I pressed my hands flat against my knees. If I had been home, I would have noticed that he wasn’t eating. In fact, he would have been eating regular meals. And I certainly wouldn’t have let it get so bad that he needed surgery. “I can nag him from anywhere in the galaxy.”

  “Well, he’s fine. He’s supposed to be back at work in another week or so. On half days for a bit.” She reached across the table for me, one strand of her dark hair falling forward over her brow. “Do you need anything?”

  From Kam—or rather, from Kam to me—that meant a Miltown. And, oh God, yes, I wanted that comforting cotton batting to muffle the anxiety that was swarming under my skin. Wetting my lips, I let out a breath as slowly as I could. “No. It slows down the numbers.” I put a hand on the equations I’d been working on. “I can’t be slow right now. And I’m fine. Thank you. But I’m fine.”

  * * *

  Sometime during hour two of the EVA, after Terrazas and Rafael had gotten the lights set up so they could see the breach, but before they’d begun replacing the broken piece of tubing, Parker cleared his throat.

  “Terrazas is doing okay out there.” He nodded toward the viewport—not that we could see either man. “I don’t … It’s why I don’t second-guess Mission Control often.”

  “Oh.” Brilliant response, I know, but I was so surprised by Parker opening up what sounded like an actual conversation that I was afraid to, I dunno, spook him. Or something.

  “Sometimes you get so close to a problem that you can’t see all the pieces.” He fiddled with the volume knob on the speaker, even though the sounds of Terrazas’s and Rafael’s breathing were coming in perfectly. “Did Shamoun talk to you?”

  I nodded, then realized he wasn’t looking at me. “She did.” Saying something more felt like a risk, but it also felt necessary. “Thank you.”

  “I would have killed Clemons if he’d tried a stunt like that about Mimi.”

  “How is—” I caught myself before I could say more than that. Just because he was talking about his wife didn’t mean he had given me permission to do the same. “Well. I appreciate it.”

  “Good. She’s good … Out of the lung for about an hour a day now.”

  “That’s great.” What strange reality had I wandered into? Parker was voluntarily talking to me. About his wife. I presume because Nathaniel was in the hospital. “It’s hard … knowing he’s sick and there’s nothing I can do.”

  “Yeah.” Parker compressed his lips and gave this weird stiff twitch of his neck. “Yeah. But the IAC has access to world-class medical treatment. They’ll take good care of him.”

  So, here’s a question … Was Parker on the mission because he wanted to make sure his wife had the best possible care? Or was that the story he told himself to feel good about being out here and leaving her behind?

  For that matter, was the story that I told myself any more believable? Or true? “My brother is visiting to take care of him.”

  That caused Parker to turn and look at me. “The one from California?”

  See, these moments of kindness leave me so confused. Though I guess someone with a wife in an iron lung wouldn’t identify Hershel as “the one with polio.” I nodded, trying to keep the conversation going, as if it could somehow spread out into the rest of the trip. “Yeah … Nathaniel mentioned that Hershel was coming out. I just didn’t understand why.”

  Parker snorted. “Sounds about right. Mimi once mentioned that she was ‘sleeping better.’ Only after I asked did it turn out that there’d been a squeaky bolt on the lung that had been keeping her awake. Did she mention it while it was actually a problem? Not a chance.”

  I laughed and his eyes widened. That might have been the first time I’d laughed in front of Parker. It was so tempting to say, See, I do have a sense of humor, but I’m a grown-up and didn’t. Also, a chicken, because I was afraid that I’d lose what little rapport we had. “I wonder what they say to complain about us.”

  “Well.” Parker leaned over the armrest of his seat. “One thing I can tell you is that your husband hates—”

  “Niña. EV1. We have a problem.” Rafael’s voice cut in, tight and professional.

  Like a machine, Parker snapped back to attention, slapping the control to pipe Rafael through to the whole ship, even as he answered him. “Go ahead, EV1.”

  “Estevan’s suit is caught on the ammonia lines. As far as I can tell, the sizing ring bracket between the lower right leg and boot has gotten snagged by the 4F.37 ammonia line bracket. I’m taking a look at it and I can’t for the life of me figure out how it’s connected. It’s solid. So, I’d love to hear the ideas you have.”

  I grabbed the reference book on the ammonia lines that we’d brought up from the engineering library with us. The large-format schematics were still in engineering and I was willing to bet that Leonard already had it open.

  “Copy that, Avelino. We’ll start looking for solutions from in here.” Parker glanced at me, giving a nod as he saw me leafing through the book for the right page. “Can you confirm for me what your current consummables are?”

  “With CO2 scrubbers, O2, and batteries … I have about three hours left.”

  “Terrazas?”

  There was a staticky pause. I looked up to the viewport, but all it showed were the hard light of stars and the distant blue dot of Earth.

  Terrazas cleared his throat. “Closer to two hours for me.”

  “Understood.” Though Parker didn’t say it, I’ll bet the same thought went through his head as went through mine: The accelerated consumption was a sign of an inexperienced spacewalker. They exerted more effort just staying still. Parker, though, just kept his calm captain’s voice on. “What have you tried so far?”

  “Rotating. Shaking. Pulling. Twisting. Cursing.”

  “Excellent technique. How many languages?” He toggled off his mic and switched over to talk to the lab. “Flannery, give me some options.”

  On one channel, we had Leonard saying, “Can he get in to cut the t-clamp?”

  On
the other channel, Terrazas was saying, “English, Spanish, and Portuguese. Any further recommendations?”

  Parker switched back to Terrazas while Leonard was still talking. “Latin is always good for science cursing. You have your emergency shears … Flannery is asking if you can cut the t-clamp.”

  Rafael said, “To be utterly honest, I cannot even get a good sense of how the hardware is connected. I’m concerned about putting a hole in Estevan’s suit. Can we disconnect the line?”

  “Understood. Stand by.” Parker flipped back to Leonard. “Flannery. You heard that?”

  “Yeah … That section is permanently attached. Unfortunately, the best bet is to cut the line. It’s depressurized right now, so we wouldn’t have to worry about losing more ammonia.”

  “Tell me how hard the repair will be.”

  “Not … great. But doable.” Leonard sighed. “Rafael will have a better idea.”

  Which made sense. Rafael was our engineer so knew the Niña better than anyone. I kept looking through the manual, but everything I saw confirmed Leonard’s assessment that they’d probably have to cut the line.

  “Copy.” Parker rubbed his hand across his face once and turned to me. “You said we’ll have to abandon the Niña if the ammonia system doesn’t come back online? No way around that?”

  “If we lose cooling, the ship will overheat before we reach Mars on even our best-case trajectory.” I shifted inside my shoulder straps, drifting in a tiny circuit within those restraints. “But I don’t know all the contingencies for getting the ammonia system back online.”

  He leaned back over to the mic. “Flannery, if they have to cut the line to get Terrazas free, what does that do to our options for cooling?”

  “We’ve got the ammonia shut down, so we won’t vent anything. There should … Yeah, there should be enough to replace what we’ve already lost between us, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria. Give me a minute to run some stuff past Wilburt Schnöhaus over on the Pinta.”

  “Roger. We should work this to the bingo time of thirty minutes before we call it.” Parker leaned back in the command seat and rubbed his forehead again. “Hell. York, start working course corrections for if we’re all on the Pinta.”