“No, but I'll take it. I'm fresher, for one. Gather your controllers, take auditorium C, I'll take A. I'll coordinate with Gayatri via mobile phone. Dividing line is DC. You take everyone south of there, I'll take everyone north of there. Coast Guard, too. Call the local stations, I'll handle the brass.”
They split up, herding their forces into the two auditoriums.
Sub Analysis
UNSOC Space Station Roger B. Chaffee, June 17 2082, 1315 hrs
“So, we're staying behind?” Celine's eyes were troubled as they sought Lisa's on the Main Deck.
“Nope!” retorted Lisa.
“Then we're going on schedule?”
“You bet your sweet ass we are.” A quick indrawn breath from Celine caused Lisa to smile over to her. “Sorry. Figure of speech. Call up Roque and patch your panel over to his, then get back to your sled.”
“Yes, Commander.” Celine worked the controls. She dimpled briefly. “I never thought I'd have to chew out my boss about sexual comments.”
“Scat!” Lisa said, as Celine slipped out of her perch, patted her board one last time, and sailed out of the Main Deck. Lisa went around the room, closing off boards, powering down stations. Back in her ready room, she powered down the screen where the background image of her family lingered for seconds afterwards. “Coming home a bit sooner than you guessed, Shep. I hope it's not a disappointment for you.” She scanned the room for any memento that she wanted to bring back, but found nothing especially memorable. The Apollo patch, of course, was required to remain onboard. She shook her head and returned to the Bridge. One final sweep of the space and she left the Bridge for the last time, dogging the door tightly. Maybe Roque would live one more orbit because of that.
***
The scene around the sleds was chaotic only to the untrained eye. The staff swiftly handed in crew, stowing precious cargo and batting away the unshippable excess. The floating tangle of people, bags, boxes, and, worse, the sheer noise of all this activity made her faintly queasy. Hoping she was not one of the ones affected with radiation sickness, she turned and headed up the corridor to Roque's laboratory.
“Ah, Commander Daniels. I was expecting one last appeal.”
Lisa was hurrying, worried, and abashed at the same time. “Roque, my friend, I would not dishonor you by making you resist another impassioned plea. That is, unless you are changing your mind?” Peering up at his face, she could tell the answer remained no. “Then we will get right to it.”
Roque put down a small YAG crystal and focused on her. “Ah, you have found something useful for me to do instead of waiting in dread for Der Tag, eh?”
“Our Dear Leader, Director-General Herr Doctor Subramanyan Venderchanergee has ordered me to stay onboard. Therefore, I am leaving. I need you to delay any inquiries into my whereabouts until it becomes impossible for us to return to the station. Then they will have to help us land.” Lisa drummed her fingers on a workbench tabletop until she caught Roque looking at her hand; she stopped the drumming immediately.
Roque shook his head sadly. “I think not.”
“You won't help me?” Lisa's eyes began to harden.
“Of course I will help you. I just don't think he will allow UNSOC to help you.” Roque shifted on his perch, a kind of half pushup. “Let me guess, he made the announcement in the Control Room, yes?”
“Yeeees......” she admitted.
“Then he cannot back down. It would be an admission that he was wrong, and that cannot be borne.” Roque spread his hands wide.
Lisa pushed herself back and forth between two workbenches—the freefall equivalent of pacing. “Wait, let me get this straight. He'd rather see us all die than admit he was wrong?”
Roque shrugged in apology. “Essentially. I've made a study of the Dear Leader. He is of high caste in his homeland - that much can be told from his name. Such high caste people are born to rule. Errors always are due to the failure of subordinates, never from the ruler's faulty mental processes. That is theory, at least. Mr. Venderchanergee appears to follow the theory to an astounding degree.”
Lisa grabbed the underside of a workbench with one hand, slapping it with the other. “This is madness. How did he get put in charge if he is so incompetent?”
“The common answer to most such organizational failings: politics. The will to believe things others tell you, rather than trust the evidence of your own eyes. Let's take it a step further. This station represents the main cash cow for UNSOC. Without it, Subramanyan's operation falls into the red and he'll be removed. Therefore, he must keep this station a going concern.”
“But that can't happen. In a day at the latest, this station will cease to exist.” Lisa's cheeks were beginning to redden, and she was ready to throw something.
“I know that, you know that, but Subramanyan cannot believe that. Let me guess, he said you were faking the data, true?”
“Yes! How did you know? I had to cut off Celine before she blasted him.”
Roque folded his arms across his chest, his face set in grim lines. “It fits, it fits. Still, time grows short. In a nutshell, Subramanyan must keep you up here. If he orders you to stay and everyone dies here, he could argue that Earth-bound radars did not match what ours did, and he was being cautious, unique event, and so forth. He'll survive. If he orders you to stay, and you disobey him, anything that happens is your fault. Again, he survives.”
“It's hopeless, then. He'll survive no matter what.”
“Not so. There's more. If he authorizes you to leave and the station survives, he is incompetent and you are a coward. If he authorizes you to leave and you burn up in the sleds, he is incompetent and you are a fool. But the best thing of all is if he orders you to stay, you disobey him, AND you survive. Then you are a hero, and he is a heartless bureaucrat thinking only of himself. Then he is finished.” Roque leaned closer. “You must survive. Not only to get rid of Subramanyan. For Shep and Susan and Eddie. And for the rest of this crew.”
Lisa cupped his chin with her hand. “Roque, dear friend, I have every intention of surviving.”
“Then you must take this.” He pressed a round piece of cloth in her hand and closed her fingers over it. Holding her hand closed, he spoke with deep emotion.
“It was about fifteen years ago. There was a group of VIPs that had come up here for something or other. In the group was a lady about your age. She sought me out. And she handed me this piece of cloth. Her name was Nancy Thornton. Her name meant nothing to me then, but it means everything now.
“‘You are the one who has asked to stay up here forever?’ she asked me.
‘Only as long as I am useful, Ma'am,’ I replied.
‘Then you are the heart of this space station,’ she said.
‘Oh, I wouldn't say that.’
‘But I would. Commanders come and commanders go. Some use command here as a stepping stone to something else, or regard this as the pinnacle of their careers. In any case, command of this space station is but a period in their lives. For you, it IS your life. That is why you are the heart of this station.’”
Roque paused, eyes meeting Lisa's, but still harkening back into memory. “She gave me this piece of cloth, and told me a tale.”
“‘Mr. Zacarías, long before I was born, my great uncle climbed aboard a spaceship over one hundred meters tall. They were doing a test of some kind. His two colleagues had been in space before, but he had not. He was in the pilot's seat, on the right side, the furthest one from the hatch. When a fire broke out, he could do nothing but sit in that capsule and burn. I've been allowed to listen to the tapes. There was no panic and only exclamations of pain when flames brushed their flesh. He never made it into space.’”
“Roger Chaffee,” Lisa breathed.
“Yes. She told me that, as I was the soul of this station, it was only right that I have the only memento of his that she had.”
Roque unfolded Lisa's hand. Nestled within was a patch centered on an American flag, with the
words Apollo 1 in a gold colored ring. Above that was the iconic Command and Service Module, and the names White Grissom Chaffee at the top half of the gold ring.
“This mission patch—it was sewn on his backup spacesuit. Nancy told me that as long as there was a heart on board the Chaffee, the patch was to stay here.
“Well, Lisa, I am due to die within the day, so there will be no heart here. I give this to you for safekeeping, Commander Daniels, until another Chaffee orbits the Earth.” This time, the tears floating out of his eyes matched hers.
She reverently unzipped her skintight spacesuit and tucked it into her brasserie. Roque, ever the gentleman, pointedly looked away.
“There's one last thing, Lisa.” Roque turned away to a cabinet and withdrew two small flasks. “We must christen the sleds.”
Lisa, prepared for another painful memory, burst out laughing. “Oh, Roque, really?”
“Really! You are landing in the ocean, right?”
“That's still the plan.”
Roque looked at her steadily, his face brooking no argument. “No ship can sail the ocean unless it's christened. Bad luck!”
“But we haven't picked out the names yet.”
“Would you allow your friend one last request?”
“Certainly.”
Roque gave her one bottle. “The first sled, either one, should be named Ted Reinhart, after the crewman who died so long ago, starting this whole chain of events. The second should be named the Jim Pruett.”
“Who's Jim Pruett?” Lisa asked, puzzled.
“I love old movies, especially movies from long ago that try to imagine what life would be like up here. At the dawn of the Space Age, there was this movie called 'Marooned'. Jim Pruett was one of the astronauts. I always liked his character, and nothing has ever been named after him.”
Lisa was dubious. “Anything I should know about this character? Was he some kind of womanizer?”
“No, no, my dear, he was a clean-cut, all-American guy. Much like your Shep. Allow me this, please?”
Lisa considered, but, not having a better idea, agreed.
“Then let me give you one final hug and get down to the sled bays. I will announce from here.”
Lisa agreed. “First, though, I must canvass the station and ensure everyone is off.”
***
After her final run-through of the station, she floated into the first sled bay. Soon after, the speakers sounded.
“Attention, all personnel. This is Roque Zacarías. Some of you may be wondering where I am. I have refused to leave. Commander Daniels does not agree with me, but has been persuaded to grant my request to remain. However, you cannot leave until the sleds have been christened. Commander, if you will do the honors?”
Lisa moved to the hatch of the forward sled, grabbed a handhold, murmured to a waiting spacehand, and waited.
“Thirty-five years ago, a crewman called Ted Reinhart suddenly required medical treatment that was only available on Earth. We could not treat his condition up here. There was no ship in dock, and because of an ongoing solar storm, one was not expected for at least a week. We had no way to send Ted home. By the end of the week, Ted had died. As a result of his tragic death, and the long line of determined commanders from then until now, we have these Emergency Reentry Vehicles in our hour of need. What you thought of as solar shelters are, in reality lifeboats, ready for use if the need arose. This first sled, therefore, is christened the ERV Ted Reinhart. Commander?”
With a strong swing, Lisa broke the first flask over the entry hatch rather than the delicate nose of the craft. The spacehand she had spoken with had a towel ready to catch the flying shards of glass. Lisa moved through the corridor to the second sled. Again, she sent a spacehand to get a towel.
“This next name will mean nothing to most or, I would suspect, any of you. He was a character in a hundred-year-old movie about spaceflight called Marooned. As a point of personal privilege, I christen this vehicle the ERV Jim Pruett. Commander?”
Again, the swing, the breakage, the glittering spheres of...what was it?
“Roque?”
“Yes, Commander?”
“What was in these flasks?”
“I bet you thought it was water. No, a gentle Muscat from a friend in old España. Champagne is traditional, but alcohol is required. Don't worry, I have one more.”
“Thank you, Roque. We're all here.”
“Then you should get going.”
“Goodbye Roque. Goodbye Chaffee. You both have served us well.”
“Goodbye, Commander. Remember, you carry the Chaffee with you.”
Lisa closed the hatch on the Pruett and watched as a spacehand dogged it down from the inside. She then hurried over to the Reinhart. With a final look around the corridor, she ducked inside and closed the hatch firmly. Minutes later, a powerful ram shoved each ERV away from the Chaffee and into their own orbits. Short bursts of thrusters pushed the craft into the desired attitude for reentry. Lisa watched her command recede among the stars with a heavy heart for the gallant man she was forced to leave behind.
Public Affairs
UNSOC Control Room, New York City, June 17 2082, 1430 hrs
“Gus, we have a problem,” said the ever-lovely Moira Litwizniak said. “I left up Channel 24, and one of the infonet channels recorded the entire conversation between your boss and Commander Daniels.”
“Ruh-roh, Reorge,” replied Gus. “Subramanyan know yet?”
“If he doesn't he will soon. Just thought you'd like to know.”
“Thanks.”
“What are their chances of survival up there?”
“Zero. We finally got the explosion on Earth-bound radar. The debris cloud is so large and scattered, there is no chance that they will escape it if they stay aboard the Chaffee.”
“What do you mean, if? I thought those escape pods or whatever they kept requesting got turned down.”
“Did you listen to what Daniels and Subramanyan were talking about? No? Heh heh. If you were anyone else, I would let you twist in the wind, Moira, but you've always treated us space folks fairly. So, here's the deal.”
Gus briefly outlined the history of the sleds, as well as the consequences of staying aboard the Chaffee.
“Cross your fingers and your toes, Moira, we'll know the outcome in a couple of hours.”
“And what about Subramanyan?”
“He's ordered them to remain on board the Chaffee, as you know, and refuses to reconsider. I'm afraid that we'll be ordered not to assist them at any moment. You better work some magic if you don't want to end up explaining how UNSOC let another couple of hundred people get killed in space.” Gus gave a short wave to the pickup and punched the disconnect.
***
Celine terminated the groundside transmission to the A shift, and got on the intercom to Commander Daniels, seated with half of the crew from the Chaffee.
“Ground Control has us in an optimal path for landing on the Eastern Seaboard, Commander. We have twenty minutes to retrofire. All systems go.”
“Roger, Celine. Alert me at T minus two minutes before burn. Out.”
Celine flicked the intercom switch, glanced over at John. “So, you're going back to Tyra a little early, I guess.”
“And you're going back to the world of Garth,” he replied.
“I wish I could fake my own death up here,” she replied. “But there's going to be a circus down there when we land. There's no chance I could slip away.”
“I wouldn't worry. I bet if you asked, UNSOC would hide you somewhere.”
“I don't think so, John. You didn't hear McCrary. He told Lisa that if Lunar rock can get to Low Earth Orbit, it's going to be polluting space for decades to come. I bet we don't see a space launch again in our lifetime.”
She said, in a wondering voice, “No more space travel. No GPS. No satellite television. No weather photos from space.”
John continued. “Phone capacity shrinks, no long-latency comput
er backups. Unless the spacecraft is pretty far from Earth, no more exploratory probes, no monitoring of the Sun. It's like instant return to the 1950s.” He looked at her startled eyes. “We're screwed.”
John scanned his board, thinking. “I hope he's wrong, but I fear he's right. I hope McCrary survived. He's one tough mother. I can just see him up there, hurling debris out of the egress tunnel, going to dig out the Collins by himself.”
“I've never met the guy,” she replied. A loud bang in the rear of the ERV and a ping from her board grabbed her attention. “Acceleration burst. What the hell?”
“Don't worry. We just got whacked by a chunk of Moonrock. Check the trajectory.”
“We're still in the groove. If we drift out, then I'll give it a poke.” There were some reaction control thrusters, but Celine knew they didn't have much maneuvering thrust.
“Are you happy to be going back to Tyra?” asked Celine, her eyes intent on the crude instrument panel in front of her.
“What I want is not the problem. It's really a question of is she going to be glad to have me back early? I was on the phone with her about an hour before everything went crazy, and again, I got the distinct impression that there was someone else there.”
Celine looked over at him. John looked momentarily miserable, but the professional mask soon slipped back into place.
“None of this is getting the Reinhart down,” he said.
“We still have ten minutes until retrofire, John. We're just waiting on the clock.”
“If you ever need shelter from Garth, you can always crash with us,” replied John. “Tyra would put up with you, once she heard your story.” John smiled bleakly. “She's far more likely to shoot Garth on sight.”
Celine turned to John, her eyes dancing. “Thanks, John. I'm sure you believe it's true. But it's more likely if you bring home a blonde Ice Queen, she'll more likely shoot me.
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