This time the Home Team room fell into silence. Everyone present, or on-screen, looked directly at Harley. “What?”
“Look at this.” Sasha Blaine turned her laptop screen toward him.
Until this moment, Harley had convinced himself that the events on Keanu would have some geological explanation—indeed, the likely trigger for the increased eruptions was tidal stress caused by the NEO’s close encounter with Earth. It might even explain the change in the object’s rotation.
But no longer. Harley looked at the figures for Keanu’s trajectory and said, “This sucker’s in orbit now, isn’t it?”
“Correct,” Williams said. “Today’s eruptions were much more powerful than any seen earlier . . . strong enough to act like rocket burns.”
As Harley let that info-bomb detonate inside his brain, he heard Weldon: “We’re all waiting, Home Team. Do you have something? Anything?”
Harley looked at the faces around him, especially Sasha Blaine, who gestured as if to say, What are you waiting for?
“Okay, flight. New data shows that Keanu is not a Near-Earth Object. It just burned into orbit, perigee 470,000 clicks, apogee five hundred, inclination seventy-eight degrees, new period circa twenty hours.”
“What does that mean, Harley?”
“It means that Keanu is an autonomous, powered vehicle of some kind. Until we come up with a better word, I’d call it a starship.”
Does anyone else think it’s suspicious that Destiny has all these Ku-band problems just when the EVA started? Coincidence? I don’t think so.
POSTED BY CESSNA MAN AT NASA.JSC.GOV @ 83:42 MET
DELETED @ 83:44 MET
“Where is she?” Zack said. “Someone speak!”
He had a general idea . . . he had seen Yvonne flying away from him, away from Vesuvius Vent toward Brahma. But the combination of short horizon, residual vapor, undulating ground, and restricted helmet vision made it impossible for him to know where she had landed.
Or, for that matter, if. The gravity on Keanu was so low that a human could reach escape velocity by running. The eruption that had caught Yvonne might have been strong enough to launch her into orbit.
Assuming, or hoping, that that hadn’t happened, Zack turned his back on Vesuvius and, keeping the Venture lander to his left, began hopping, sliding, and shuffling in the same direction Yvonne had flown.
There were voices on the control loop—Tea and Pogo as well as the capcom—but no information.
“Quiet down, everybody!” Zack snapped, using what Rachel would have called his grown-up voice. “Yvonne, do you read?”
He waited, afraid he would hear more screaming, but just as afraid he would hear nothing. “Yvonne . . .”
Then he heard harsh breathing, the sound of a mouth literally on a microphone. And a moan. “Copy. Zack?” Yvonne, alive!
“Can you tell me where you are?” And please don’t say halfway around Keanu.
“Ah . . .” She was clearly in pain. “Down, somewhere.” Another moan. She was probably shifting to look at her surroundings. “Beyond Brahma. I can see the top of it.”
“Then I can reach you in a few minutes.” He tried to pick up the pace and fell flat.
Aboard Venture, Tea heard him. “Zack, what’s up?”
He managed to push himself upright. Fortunately his suit was so rugged that he had few worries of damaging it. “Me, again. Yvonne,” he called, “are you hurt?”
“Feel like I fell off a building.” She was trying for astronaut cool but sounded terrible. In fact, she sounded as though she might be going into shock.
“I’m almost there,” Zack said, hoping that was true; the silvery stub of Brahma was now only half-visible above the horizon. “Tea, I need Pogo—”
“He’s already in the lock, about to depress.”
“Is Houston in the loop?”
“Listening,” Tea said. “They’re talking to me and Pogo on B.”
“Okay.” Shuffle, slide. It was like cross-country skiing, but with no time to enjoy the scenery, which reminded him of the long-lost Arctic ice cap and its jagged, untouched mounds of snow. But all under a black sky and the huge blue sphere of the Earth.
To his right—was that a wisp? Vapor! Outgassing from Yvonne’s backpack, or possibly a leak. “Yvonne, I’ve got you in sight!”
Within moments he could see her, sprawled on her back facing away from him, one leg bent horribly. As Zack approached, he noticed the first sign of real color he had seen on the surface of Keanu . . . a bloodred mist rising from Yvonne’s injured leg and quickly freezing.
“Tell Pogo to pick it up!” he said.
Dear Lord, let me not fuck up.
THE ASTRONAUT’S PRAYER
Yvonne Hall was having a dream.
It had started out so beautifully, stepping down to the surface of Keanu. She felt snug, secure, strong in her suit . . . true, the surface had been icy and treacherous. But after a few steps, she had learned to move without feeling as if she would fall over.
She had managed to raise her head enough to see Earth in the black sky and wonder just how many of the invisible billions there were watching her steps here.
Then the dream had gone into nightmare territory. So strange! She had felt nothing beyond a sense that the snow beneath her feet had melted.
Her faceplate went white, and she felt herself lifted.
Twenty-two years ago, just before her parents split up, the family had taken a last-chance vacation in Mexico, where Yvonne had allowed herself to be strapped into a parachute harness, then hauled into the air behind a speedboat. After a moment of terror, she had enjoyed the feeling of nothing beneath her feet—
This experience started just like that, but within seconds had gone bad, bad, bad, as she tumbled through the fog and steam.
She could see the ground turning crazily, ten or more meters below. And through her confusion, she wondered, How long before I smash? and Oh my God did I fuck up? and I’m sorry!
But all through that long arc she felt nothing! The suit protected her from the steam, isolated her from temperatures, kept her alive—as long as it held.
She descended slowly—and here the experience was exactly like dropping to that beach in Mexico—but was unable to turn herself at all. She fell like a doll thrown onto the snow and rock, face first.
She tried to raise her arms, too late. Her nose smashed into her faceplate. Her leg bent under her so viciously she could feel cartilage tear and bones break.
As she slid to a stop, she tasted blood and blinked tears.
But she was alive. What about her suit? If it tore she would hear hissing, start feeling cold—but only for a few minutes.
She realized the only sound was her own harsh breathing. Okay, that was good.
Someone was calling her. Zack!
Then she did hear a small hiss. She could feel a chill.
Her suit had been breached! In pain, she rolled over . . . she could not feel her left leg.
No wonder. It was bent in a way that couldn’t possibly be good. And just above the knee there was a mist of pink.
Okay, okay. Training. When in doubt—What the hell did astronauts tell themselves again?
She fumbled for the equipment bag on her chest. She was getting colder, breathing faster. How long? Where was Zack? Goddammit, why wasn’t he here?
A bungee cord. There. Fumbling, she managed to get it—fuck, only halfway!
She rolled again. God, that hurt.
Zack: “Yvonne, can you tell me where you are?”
Got it! Around the leg. Pull it. Tight. Tight! Seal it. “Uh, down.”
That was all she could do.
Time passed. Might have been seconds, might have been ten minutes. She began to think about Tea and Pogo, and the nasty little secret within her personal kit, the Item that actually filled the container—
She felt herself being lifted. “I’ve got you.” Zack! Zack had found her!
“Careful!” she begged. Or, at
least, that was what she thought she said.
She realized he was carrying her! Of course, though human-sized, she probably only weighed a couple of kilograms—
They both fell over. “Shit! Sorry!” Zack again. Yvonne couldn’t feel her leg anymore.
She was picked up again, but this time it wasn’t just Zack; someone else helped. Another astronaut, not Pogo Downey. The suit was blue, not white—
From Brahma, veteran cosmonaut Dennis Chertok and Brazilian Lucas Munaretto, the handsome, self-styled World’s Greatest Astronaut. “Okay, we’ve got some help here,” Zack told her. “You’ll be back in Venture in a few minutes.”
She still felt dreamy.
The only thing she kept telling herself, over and over again, was, Don’t mention your PPK.
If information is received or it is discovered that the personnel of a spacecraft have alighted on the high seas or in any other place not under the jurisdiction of any State, those Contracting Parties which are in a position to do so shall, if necessary, extend assistance in search and rescue operations for such personnel. . . .
ARTICLE 3, AGREEMENT ON THE RESCUE OF ASTRONAUTS,
THE RETURN OF ASTRONAUTS AND THE RETURN OF OBJECTS
LAUNCHED INTO OUTER SPACE (1968)
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Just two hours after the eruption and rescue of Yvonne Hall, Zack Stewart stared at the bland panel of the Venture workstation. Shane Weldon had just told him something he could not believe. Rather, something he could not accept.
Dennis and Lucas had helped Zack carry Yvonne back to Venture, meeting Pogo on the way. Since Dennis was a medical doctor, Zack allowed him into his spacecraft to attend to the injured astronaut. The impact on consumables was negligible, for now. “You two play nicely, okay?” he told Pogo and Lucas.
“Maybe we’ll try to get to step one of the checklist,” Pogo said.
“Both checklists,” Lucas added.
“If you can, but stay very close to the lander.” He feared another eruption.
Wedging three suited spacewalkers into the airlock had been tricky, especially with one of them immobilized. But it had worked. Still wearing his suit, sans helmet, Zack had wormed his way into the main cabin, leaving Tea to assist Dennis with Yvonne.
He grabbed a headset, where he heard Pogo patiently updating Houston on the situation.
“Zack is online,” he announced. Without waiting, he delivered a brief update on Yvonne: alive, badly injured, being attended to by Russian doctor-cosmonaut.
All Weldon could say was, “Copy.” Which surprised Zack, until he heard, “Channel B.”
Switching over to the encrypted link, he expected a torrent of questions from his flight director, not just about Yvonne’s physical condition but also her mental state. But Weldon had another surprise. “We’ve got news from the Home Team. It appears you didn’t land on a NEO.”
Shane Weldon had a dry, deadly sense of humor. No doubt it had come in handy in bars and the grab-ass sessions that were mission operations meetings, but right now it just bugged Zack. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
Weldon got serious. “Home Team analyzed the eruptions, which affected Keanu’s traj. It’s now in orbit around Earth. Short version, you landed on a spacecraft.”
Zack’s mind quickly cycled through a whole set of images triggered by that word. Star Wars. Star Trek. All kinds of weird metallic beasts from books and movies and comics, none of them resembling this stark but peaceful snowy landscape.
None of them anything he expected to encounter in his own life. “Good to know,” he said, sounding far more casual and flippant than he felt. “This wasn’t in the mission plans.”
“Copy that. We’re all in uncharted waters.”
“What do you want us to do?” He knew what he wanted to do . . . but Venture didn’t belong to him.
Then Weldon uttered more words Zack never expected to hear from Houston. “Knock on the door. See if anyone’s home.”
Again, Weldon didn’t wait for a response, speaking right through the lag. “You can say no. There’s a lot of sentiment here for packing up and coming home. Flight rules require a mission abort if a crew member becomes incapacitated.
“Our recommendation is, if she’s dying, you come back. If she’s stable, exploration takes priority . . .” The rest of the message, if anything, was lost in a wash of static.
“Wait one.”
Zack turned in time to see Yvonne—out of her suit now, wearing her suit undergarment with the legging cut away—being carried into the cabin by Tea. “Good timing,” Tea said. “How about a hand?”
Together the two of them easily lifted Yvonne up to a hammock. Zack got a look at the leg, and it was not pretty: a combination of bad break and exposure to vacuum . . . the worst frostbite imaginable.
She was conscious, at least. And she gamely offered a thumbs-up. Zack patted her shoulder, then slipped back into the airlock, where a tired-looking Dennis was leaning against the curving wall of the chamber. “What’s the prognosis?”
“She’s alive, but her leg—she will probably lose it.”
“So she should be returned to Earth.”
Dennis smiled and spread his hands. “Yes, by all means, lift off at the first opportunity. Just be sure to let me out before you do... .”
“Come on, Dennis!” Though they had never flown a mission together, Zack had trained with the doctor-cosmonaut in years past. He was well aware that Dennis was fatalistic even by Russian standards.
“A day will not make her condition worse. You should consult with Houston. Or have me come back tomorrow for a house call.”
“Is there something you could do here and now?”
Dennis considered this. “I could set her broken bones. I could also trim the damaged tissue . . .” Without waiting for a request from Zack, the cosmonaut began undoing his suit. “It might take some time.”
“I’ll tell Taj.”
Zack returned to the cabin, almost colliding with Tea, who had just finished attaching medical leads all over Yvonne. “Anytime you want to catch me up on whatever the fuck is going on . . .”
“Watch and learn.” Finding that the communications problem had cleared up, he got back on the line to Weldon, relaying Dennis’s diagnosis and the emergency treatment to come. “Assuming medical gives a go,” Weldon said, “you’re confirmed for one sortie, into the vent.”
“What length?” On the two Venture lunar missions, astronauts had demonstrated the ability to do overnight and even three-day sorties using the rover. It was a vital tool in the box; it was impossible to cover much territory—to literally get more than a couple of kilometers away from your landing site—to do any worthwhile science or engineering, then pack up and return, all in the standard eight-hour limit for suits.
“Overnight. Meanwhile, we’ll start working ascent trajectories for tomorrow.”
So now he was going to be camping out overnight on an alien starship! The fun never stopped. “So, to recap, with an injured crew member and a rival vehicle next door, with no sims or specific prep, we’re supposed to explore an alien starship.”
“Good summary.”
Zack turned to Tea, who was hearing this for the first time. “You’re second in command. Any objections?”
Tea blinked. “You’re not asking me, you’re telling me.” Zack could only nod. “Besides,” she said. “Brahma’s going in, right?”
Zack picked up the headset. “Houston, Venture. We’re go for First Contact.”
Superhuman effort isn’t worth a damn unless it achieves results.
ERNEST SHACKLETON (1916)
While Zack was dealing with Yvonne’s situation and the larger issues, Pogo Downey had followed Lucas back to the Brahma lander. “Your guy’s giving up his time to help us. Consider it payback.”
It was also a chance to get a close-up look at the Coalition craft and its “harpoon.” Zack’s conclusion turned out to be right: The thing wasn’t a weapon, at least not
in any way Pogo could see. It actually gave Brahma an anchor to the slippery, low-gravity surface.
Pogo had conflicted views about Zack Stewart. The man was smart, that was clear. He knew science and engineering. He knew systems and procedures. Unlike just about everyone else, he knew the history of same, the how and the why some systems had evolved.
Even better, he was smart in a smart way; he knew his strengths and his weaknesses. He never pretended to be a pilot, unlike a few other civilian science types in the astronaut office, who started dropping terms like shithot and ops tempo into conversations that previously featured latte and Chardonnay.
He worked hard and led by example. He’d get his hands dirty, and when he played Mr. Goodwrench (an increasingly vital role on space missions), he was good with tools.
He liked science, but kept it in its place. And he had a glib way of making even the most idiotic experiments—the kinds astronauts usually described as “looking at stars, pissing in jars”—seem relevant.
Which got to another point: Zack was savvy, too. He had built effective, long-term relationships with science and medical folks—though that was to be expected for an astronaut from what Pogo called the “pencil-necked geek” world.
But to have made friends with the puppet masters in mission ops, the flight controllers? That took skills worthy of a K Street lobbyist, the kind Pogo had watched in horror during a tour at the Pentagon.
Stewart even seemed to have administrative folks on his side—the secretaries and IT types. Of course, tragic widowerhood didn’t hurt with the gals.
But, shit, he had to have had something going for him, for NASA to have given him command of the first lunar landing of the twenty-first century.
And yet . . .
Pogo had known quite a few special operators, Navy SEALs and Air Force pararescue guys, who had a cold-eyed ability to jump into icy water or fly a mountain pass on a moonless night, to cap an insurgent with a sniper rifle or slit one’s throat with a knife—and never question the order or worry about the consequences.
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