by Ben Bova
Vicki was impatient for the new technology to become universal, although she was certain that Thad barely noticed the change. The transition to AutoDrive had occurred during his childhood and he’d grown just as accustomed to it as she had to the electric car revolution of her youth.
But Thad was not entirely in favor of it.
“It’s not really a motorcycle, Mom,” he was saying as they dove toward the freeway. “It’s a motor bike. A Honda CBR. It’s really neat.”
“It has a gasoline engine and isn’t equipped to drive for you?”
“You don’t ‘drive’ a motorcycle, Mom. You ride a motorcycle. And, yes, it has a gasoline engine: single cylinder, four stroke, liquid cooled, fuel injected two hundred forty-nine cubic centimeter engine. It gets about sixty to seventy miles per gallon.”
Thad was smart enough not to mention it could go from to zero to sixty miles per hour in six and a half seconds.
Visions of fatal accidents filling her thoughts, Vicki replied, “It’s awfully dangerous, though.”
“Mom, I’m a good driver! I’m careful!”
“It’s not you, honey. It’s all those other idiots on the road.”
“I can stay off the freeways, if that’s what’s bothering you.”
“I don’t know. Let me talk it over with your father.”
“Jeez, he’s a zillion miles away!”
“I’ll ask him about it the next time he calls.”
Thad slumped back in his seat, pouting teenagedly. “You asked me what I wanted for my birthday,” he grumbled. “I want a motor bike.”
“Thad—”
The driver of the truck approaching them on the opposite side of the road was distracted by the submarine sandwich that was sliding out of his hand. Had his truck been able to use AutoDrive, it wouldn’t have been an issue. Vicki, still talking with her son, didn’t see the rear of semi-trailer swerve into her lane until it suddenly loomed right in front of her. She did what any driver would do: she mashed on the brakes and turned hard right in a vain attempt to avoid a head-on collision.
The quiet of the drive was shattered by the shriek of tires on the pavement and the sickening crunch of her car’s Fiberglas frame impacting against the aluminum and steel truck at a closing velocity of seventy miles per hour. The frame of Vicki Connover’s car shattered, as it was designed to do, to absorb as much of the energy of the collision as possible. Airbags deployed to cushion the occupants’ impact against the plastic dashboard and steering wheel.
Unfortunately, the laws of physics have no pity. The more massive truck kept coming forward after the impact, tipping over in less than a second and completely flattening the car beneath it.
Vicki Connover and her son Thad scarcely knew what hit them before they were crushed to death by the errant truck.
The truck driver hardly received a scratch.
June 12, 2035
Earth Departure Plus 59 Days
12:30 Universal Time
Johnson Space Center
“So who the hell’s going to tell him?”
Nathan Brice, normally as impassive as a Zen guru, nearly shouted the question. The Arrow’s flight director, Brice had once been saber-slim, but years of desk work had given him a noticeable belly and thinned his light brown hair. A veteran of three missions to the International Space Station and one to the Moon, he sat at his desk in rolled-up shirtsleeves as he glared at Bart Saxby’s image on his office’s wall screen.
Saxby, in his own Washington office, looked equally distraught. “What about other family members?” he asked.
“There’s no other immediate family,” answered Pat Church, sitting in front of Brice’s paper-strewn desk. “Vicki and Thad were all he had.”
Church was Ted Connover’s personal physician; he had known and worked with the Connover family ever since Thad had been an infant. He felt more like an uncle to the boy than simply the family’s doctor. Church had been an aspiring astronaut who had failed to make the cut when he’d applied at the end of his residency at Baylor. Nearly six feet tall with buzz-cut black hair that was just starting to show flecks of gray, Church had often been mistaken for the astronaut he’d aspired to become as he strode through the halls of the Johnson Space Center.
Saxby looked at the two of them from the wall screen. “Well,” he said, “it will have to be one of you two. Your call, Nate.”
Brice grimaced and turned to Church. “You know him better than anybody else, Pat.”
Church nodded grimly. “Yeah. I ought to be the one to tell him. Poor guy.”
Saxby said, “Tell Benson about it first. He’s the commander up there. Let him decide if he wants to do it or if he wants you to do it.”
“Good thinking,” Brice said.
Church repeated, “Poor guy.”
The news hit Bee like a kick in the gut. To him, the Arrow’s crew was like family. He remembered the day, just a week or so before they’d left Earth, that Ted had told him his son had passed his driver’s test and was soon to be “unleashed” on the unsuspecting drivers of Texas. Ted loved his wife deeply and was very, very proud of his son.
“So you think you should be the one to tell him?” Bee asked Pat Church’s image on the comm screen. He was sitting in the command center, and glanced nervously over his shoulder, worried that someone might come in.
In his head he counted one thousand, two thousand, three thousand, four thousand . . .
The time lag in messages to and from Earth was getting longer each day. Arrow was hurtling outbound from Earth at more than 25,000 miles per hour; the ship had covered so much distance that communications were plagued by unnatural pauses at the end of each transmission, even though the messages moved with the speed of light. Normally, it was a pain in the butt. Now, with this news, it was torture.
“Absolutely,” came Church’s reply at last. “Although there’s a part of me that would love to chicken out and let somebody else give him the bad news.” He let out a sigh. “But it’s part of my job, I guess. Anyway, who’d be better to assess its potential impact on Ted’s performance?”
“Okay,” Benson agreed. “Let’s do it like this. I’ll tell him that you’re going to call in ten minutes for a private consult. In the meantime, I’ll let everyone else know what’s happened. I want to know how he took it as soon as the two of you are finished talking. And I’ll want to know what we should be doing, saying, watching for, on our end.”
One thousand, two thousand, three thousand . . .
“Sounds good.”
Shaking his head, Bee muttered, “They’ll have been buried for damned near two years by the time he gets to visit their graves. That really sucks.”
One thousand, two thousand, three thousand . . .
“That’s an understatement,” Church finally said. “Okay. I’ll call back in ten minutes.”
Bee clicked off the comm set. Good Lord, he thought. We all knew the risks we were taking. But this . . . this is awful. How’s Ted going to take it?
One look at Pat Church’s face and Ted knew the news from home was bad.
Bee had told him Church wanted to talk with him one-on-one. Now Ted sat alone in the comm shack and felt his whole body turn to ice.
“Both dead?” he heard himself ask.
After the interminable delay, Church nodded solemnly. “It was instantaneous. They didn’t suffer.”
“That’s good.” But in Ted’s mind, he was raging, Didn’t suffer? They’re dead, for Christ’s sake! Dead!
“I’m sorry, Ted.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
One thousand, two thousand . . .
It was as if he were disembodied, floating miles away and watching this poor slob sitting there with his guts ripped out.
“If there’s anything I can do,” Church said, looking miserable.
Bring them back, Ted replied silently. Aloud, he said only, “Thanks, Pat. I appreciate it.”
Church ended the transmission and the comm screen went blank. T
ed sat there thinking, If I’d been with them, if I’d been driving, I could’ve avoided the accident. I could’ve reacted faster than Vicki did.
And then he realized, Even if I didn’t, at least I’d be dead, too. I’d be with them.
When he finally came out of the comm shack and walked into the galley, the whole crew was standing there, somber, subdued. All of them staring at him, waiting for him to come apart at the seams.
Bee put a hand on his shoulder. “Ted, we’re all so sorry about the accident. Thad was a great kid and I know you were very proud of him.”
Ted looked into Bee’s eyes and saw genuine sorrow there. He looked past Benson to the others, all tense with grief.
“I appreciate your support,” he heard himself mouth the words. “I . . . I don’t know what to say. It was just a simple, stupid traffic accident and now they’re dead.” Suddenly the enormity of it hit him. The finality. The utter, implacable finality of it.
“They’re dead,” he repeated. “Oh my God, Vicki’s dead!” He broke into racking sobs and buried his face in his hands.
Instantly, every eye in the room went teary. Amanda and Catherine pushed past Bee and wrapped their arms around Ted, sobbing openly.
Benson pawed at his own eyes and fought down the ache in his gut. Straighten up, mister, he growled to himself. You’re the commander here, you can’t go to pieces like the rest of them. Yet he was proud of his crew, his little family, and how they were showing their concern and compassion for one of their own.
And beyond that, he was also considering how this tragedy might affect the success or failure of their mission. Would it bring them all closer together, or would it drive a wedge between Ted and the rest of them?
Should we abort the mission and return home? If Ted becomes dysfunctional, maybe that’s what we’ll have to do.
Bee blinked his eyes dry and headed for the control center, leaving the others to commiserate with Ted.
We’re seventy-three days into the trip, he was thinking. A sizeable distance from Earth. Aborts early in the mission, seven to fifteen days out, were the easiest. But as they moved further out the Earth continued on its march around the Sun—and so did Mars. The orbital mechanics would allow an abort up to ninety days out—another two weeks, plus. I’ve got sixteen days to make the decision, Benson knew.
The return flight won’t be very quick. It’ll take the better part of a year before we’re back on terra firma. But that’s faster than going on to Mars and certainly less risky. We need Ted. We need him fully functional. Getting home in a year is a lot better than the mission’s planned two-year duration, especially if Ted’s in an emotional crisis and cracks up the landing on Mars.
Home in a year, Benson thought as he stepped into the command center. But that will mean we’ve failed. The whole mission would be a complete bust.
He’d have to talk over the options with Nate Brice and the rest of the mission control team. But not now. Later. Now’s the time for the crew to help Ted, to be his surrogate family, to see him past this crisis if we can.
Benson sat there, surrounded by the dials and screens of the control panel, their soft hums and beeps somehow soothing him. He wanted to cry, for once in his life to let it all out and show Ted that he cared.
But he couldn’t do it.
June 12, 2035
Earth Departure Plus 59 Days
23:00 Universal Time
New York City
Looking properly somber, Steven Treadway stood in front of a computer-generated image of the Arrow against a background of stars.
“Today a personal tragedy unfolded aboard the Mars-bound spaceship Arrow, now millions of miles from the crew’s homes and families.
“The ship’s pilot, American astronaut Ted Connover, learned that his wife and only son were killed in an automobile accident near their home in Clear Lake, Texas.
“Arrow’s crew is now the most remote group of humans in the history of the human race, and there is absolutely nothing that can be done to help this grieving father to deal with the reality that his wife and son are dead and will have been dead for nearly two years before he returns from Mars.
“Ted Connover’s crewmates are supporting him as best they can, of course, and messages of support are pouring in to the Johnson Space Center from all around the globe, including personal condolences from President Harper and heads of state as diverse as the prime minister of Japan and the president of the Maldives.”
Looking toward the image of the Arrow, Treadway pronounced solemnly, “Ted, the world grieves with you. Though you are millions of miles away from home, you are not alone.
“Steven Treadway, reporting.”
June 14, 2035
Earth Departure plus 61 Days
17:22 Universal Time
The Galley
Her eyes wide with disbelief, Amanda Lynn watched the whole thing happening. She and Taki Nomura were sitting at a table in the galley enjoying one of those rare moments when people open up, really open up, about their families, their lives, their personal joys and sorrows. Taki was talking about her parents, both deceased, and how their passion for education drove her early life and her decision to become a physician. They were so engaged in the conversation that they might have missed what was going on at the table across the way if Mikhail Prokhorov hadn’t raised his voice so brazenly.
The Russian had been sitting with Ted Connover, their heads bent together over a pair of sodas as they talked together quietly.
But then Prokhorov’s voice rose. “As you Americans say, shit happens. You’re not the only one with troubles. Get over it.”
Connover straightened up as if someone had slapped him in the face.
“I knew a man in Magnitogorsk,” Prokhorov went on, “who was hit by a train on a country road one night. He’d been out drinking and for some stupid reason he stopped his car on the railroad tracks and passed out. He never knew what hit him. Wham! He was gone. Three weeks later I saw his wife out on a date with a guy she’d met at the funeral.”
Through gritted teeth, Ted asked, “What’s your point, Mikhail?”
“Shit happens, my friend. I know you loved your wife and it won’t be easy for you, but at least we have a few good-looking women here you can match up with.”
Connover stood up so suddenly his chair toppled over backwards. “This conversation is over!”
Prokhorov got to his feet, too. “You think you’re the only one with troubles? My wife’s left me! You don’t see me moping about it. Be a man, Ted.”
Amanda forgot her conversation with Taki. She felt her pulse thumping in her ears. She’d met insensitive jerks like Prokhorov before, but she never expected the Russian to be so blatant about it. How’d he ever get selected for this mission? He’s a trainwreck himself.
As Ted stormed out of the galley, leaving Prokhorov standing at the table, she called to him:
“Hey, Mikhail, what rock did you crawl out from under? You think any of the women on this ship would hook up with an asshole like you? Ted’s wife’s been gone less than a week and you’re acting Attila the Hun. Why don’t you just shut up and show some sensitivity? If you can’t do that, just shut up.”
Prokhorov stared at her for a moment, then broke into a smile that showed no trace of guilt. “I love you too, dark lady,” he said, with a gracious little bow.
Then he sauntered out of the galley, leaving the two unfinished sodas on the table instead of putting them in the recycler.
Amanda stared after him, then turned back to Nomura. “How in hell did he get through the psychological tests? Somebody that obnoxious must have showed signs of it during the training period.”
Nomura hesitated before replying, “He has his own problems, Mandy. He was fine during training, but then his wife left him. I think that’s hit him a lot harder than he’s willing to admit.”
“We ought to stuff him out an airlock,” Amanda growled.
“I’ll talk to Bee about it. Maybe he needs some a
dvice from a man.”
“I’m sure going to stay as far away from him as I can.”
With a wry smile, Taki said, “Aboard this ship? That won’t be very far, will it?”
“Not far enough,” said Amanda.
June 15, 2035
Earth Departure Plus 62 Days
03:17 Universal Time
Communications Center
Ted Connover realized he was spending most of his free time in the comm shack, sending messages to his dead wife.
He woke up with the vague memory of a dream that had racked his troubled sleep: he’d been back in college, trying to find the classroom where he was supposed to be taking a final exam. He awoke still looking for it.
Wearing only his shorts and a sleeveless undershirt, Ted tiptoed through the sleeping area, barely aware of the light snores and mumbles of his crew mates. He slipped into the comm shack, sat in its only chair, and turned on the audio recorder.
Keeping his voice low, he began, “Vicki, I miss you. There are so many things I want to tell you about the trip, about how much I love you, how much I miss you, and now I can’t. I don’t even know why I’m recording this. You’ll never hear it and I know I’ll never play it back, but for some reason I’ve got to send you one more message.”
He hesitated, thinking, Maybe this is therapy. Maybe this is how I’m trying to work my way through this.
