by Jeff Carlson
"Ben, shush," she said.
He wouldn't leave her alone. He was excited to see her, which was sweet, but, like a boy, he shared details that were unnecessarily lurid. He whispered, "We only located four bodies for the six dead on Europa. Even some of them aren't much to look at. Alvaréz was incinerated from the chest down and Pereira is a lump of armor and bones. I threw up when we found 'em."
Vonnie leaned away from him. Jesus, Ben, she thought. The condition of the bodies didn't matter. No one was actually going to be buried. The remains had been stored for transport to their home countries.
Some weren't even that fortunate. In orbit and in space, the FNEE and the EUSD had suffered thirteen more deaths. Just two of those bodies had been recovered.
Ben liked to pretend he was cool and untouchable. Vonnie wanted to feel her pain. For today, she needed to dwell on their losses and pay tribute to everyone who'd survived.
So many of them were strangers to me, but we'll always be connected. I'll always be grateful. If the Jyväskylä and the FNEE hadn't joined the battle, more of us would have died. They saved my life.
The alarm bars turned green.
Peter stepped out of formation, positioning himself between the oversized display and the flesh-and-blood astronauts. "Brothers and sisters," Peter said, "comrades, friends, thank you for joining us."
Ribeiro stepped forward, too. "Thank you, Administrator," he said. "I look and I see the people of many nations united. We are bound by our common cause."
"Fuck. Even this is politics," Ben muttered.
Vonnie shook her head almost without moving. Quiet! If he didn't shut up, she would... what? Hit him? Step away? They were trapped by the cameras.
They remained trapped as Peter recited a vague, non-denominational prayer. Her father would have been outraged. She knew exactly what he'd say. Without religion, there is no God. Our civilization was founded on faith. By pandering to the liberal secularists, we've lost our heritage. We've lost our direction and we've lost our souls.
Reflecting on her childhood, she wondered if she wasn't closer to her father than she'd ever realized. She worried that she'd learned her anger from him, changing the reasons why she felt angry but not the anger itself.
She worried that she loved Ben -- and Ash -- and Peter -- because they were so obstinate like her father. It was why she responded to Jan. It was why she couldn't help herself from engaging in her fights with Dawson.
It was also why she felt disdain for quiet, submissive crewmembers like Tony or Claudia. All of the astronauts were capable. Not all of them were leaders. They couldn't be, but, Christ, she'd even viewed the PSSC major with a flash of respect for his iron will.
She'd bonded with the matriarchs and independent males like Tom for the same reason. She had grown up hating her mother's weakness while hoping to emulate her father's authority.
I guess I've always wanted to be him -- a better him -- right but not righteous -- followed but not feared. He's partly why I'm attracted to Ben, my ugly know-it-all bear. I haven't tamed Ben. If anything, the two of us grew louder and more assertive after we were together.
I should ask Ben to describe his parents. What does he really see in me?
Weighted by these thoughts, her head had dipped as if to pray. It must have looked good for the cameras. Now she raised her chin. The prayer was done.
Peter and Ribeiro pinned nineteen holo flags on a virtual field of grass like a cemetery. The field was lush and green, utterly unlike the bleak, filthy ice.
Each man spoke a name as he placed the national flag of each casualty, French for Henri, Irish for O'Neal. The two EUSD crewmembers received military banners. The rest were given Brazilian flags. The imbalance seemed especially cruel because Peter went first. He spoke four names. When he was done, Ribeiro spoke fifteen names. The cost paid by Brazil had been steep.
Next the cameras turned outside. Claudia and Araújo fired their weapons at the stars. The FNEE ritual was a ten-gun salute. In the silence of the near vacuum on Europa, the gunfire was pathetic and small and very, very human.
It was valiant and beautiful.
Vonnie wept. So did one of the American women, the round-hipped, chesty brunette named Mississippi.
Vonnie approved of Mississippi's emotions. She wasn't so sure about her own people. Standing at attention, Ash had screwed her expression into a mask. Ever fatalistic, Harmeet nodded her head to a cadence that only she could hear. Dawson looked sick. Vonnie thought he was perturbed by how close he'd come to his own death. Ben and Tony were solemn -- and Peter had been masterful, well-spoken, and eloquent. He refused to let Vonnie catch his gaze.
The proxies wanted to deliver speeches from twenty-eight nations on four continents. The self-serving blather could have lasted for hours.
Peter listened to three presidents give their eulogies. Then he cut the local feed.
"Thank you," he told Ribeiro, shaking hands. "Thank you," he told Jan, shaking hands. He glanced among the astronauts and said, "Let's get back to work."
They answered him with simple words of assent. "Roger that." "Yes, sir." "We're on it."
To Vonnie, their responses sounded like the ten gun salute, small, yet crisp and meaningful. Their words were affirmations. Despite such hardship, they would go on.
Specialists like Harmeet, Dawson, Gehb and Assaf went to the labs. DeBrun, Wester and Araújo had jobs to attend such as overseeing their grid. Jan led the engineering teams outside. She took Ash with her. Ribeiro collected everyone with a background in ROM, including Ben.
Vonnie's assignment was -- at last -- to meet with the media, but Peter did more than send her to data/comm. He said, "I'm going with you."
They'd obviously decided she needed a chaperone. Berlin wouldn't let her speak to the media by herself.
Ben kissed her before she left and a look passed between the two men, a look as old as time. Ben portrayed suspicion. Peter portrayed envy. Neither of them tried to comfort her except for Ben's kiss, which was more possessive than affectionate.
"We'll talk later?" she asked.
"You bet," he said -- but when he spoke, he looked at Peter, not her.
They separated. Vonnie dutifully followed Peter to the American command module. As they walked through the air locks, Peter said, "I'm going to come right out and say it. There are rules for your behavior."
He sounded like he was mad. He sounded like it hurt him to be with her, so she murmured, "I know what you want. I'll be a good girl."
"You'll be more than that. You'll be above reproach."
"Yes, sir," she said, putting as much disgust as possible into sir.
How had this sour resentment destroyed their relationship? Could she really say that everything had gone wrong because they hadn't had sex? Harmeet talked as if they were slaves to their biochemistry, but it wasn't Vonnie's body that ached for him, it was her mind. They'd accomplished great things together. Yes, there had been catastrophes -- but after their failures, they should have felt closer to each other, not farther apart.
Weren't they on the same side?
Maybe not. Peter was a bureaucrat. He shared his crew's sense of wonder, but he was beholden to the politics that overshadowed everything they did.
Managing people was his true passion. When he missed his goals, when he lost assets, when they had the nerve to die, somehow he regarded each loss as a personal affront. He was a bean-counting, number-crunching, report-loving desk jockey.
I've been waiting to fight with him, she realized. I didn't think I could describe him in so many nasty ways, but I can. We always fight. I almost want it now.
Arguing had always been part of the attraction, the magnetism, the heightened sense of pushing and pulling with him. The truth was that he was right. She could be a tease because she had trouble allowing herself to be vulnerable.
She wanted to be a better person. She stopped him at the door and said, "Peter, I'm sorry."
He shook his head. "Let's go," he said, gest
uring for her to step aside. He wanted to walk into data/comm. He wanted to move away from her, so she blocked the door.
Their friendship might have been platonic, but their relationship wasn't. She'd lied to herself when she thought she wasn't physically drawn to him. He had a good body. With his wide torso and the ruddy health of his square face, Peter was good-looking and her body was coming alive again after major traumas.
Listening to Gould and Cook the night before, Vonnie had touched herself in her narrow bunk, tracing her hands over her belly. She was not a woman who masturbated frequently and she'd done nothing more than ignite a slick heat in herself. She hadn't worked herself to an orgasm. She'd been too self-conscious, but she'd listened to them and she'd fantasized and she'd savored her own vitality.
Every breath was precious. Every muscle. Every nerve. Her body wanted a man's touch. She knew Peter's hands would feel very differently than Ben's. So would his size and weight. The two of them were like counterpoints in her life. They complemented each other. She could be the glue.
She needed Peter to hold her, so she tried again. "You were fantastic during the ceremony. I hope Earth was proud."
"I'm not playing this game with you."
"Please. I don't want to play games. I..." She laid her hand on his arm.
Peter flinched, but he wouldn't relent. "Stop it." He pushed by her and opened the door. He hurried in, leaving her flushed with the awful mix of desire and rejection.
At least I tried. At least he knows he can have me. Maybe things will be better between us after some time has passed. He likes everything in its place. We're still picking up the pieces. We just said goodbye to Henri and O'Neal.
She touched her cheek, hoping she wasn't as pink as she felt. She tried to distract herself.
I'll do what he wants with the media, she thought.
Following him into data/comm, she paused in the entrance like an animal at the mouth of a cage. She decided not to close the door. There was nobody else in the room -- but if the door stayed open, they weren't quite alone. Anyone could walk by. Maybe she saw relief in Peter's eyes.
"We'll talk to Paris first, then Dublin," he said. He was all business.
She mimicked his heartless tone. "Yes, sir."
"I'll put talking points on the screen. Take as long as you need before you answer each question."
"Yes, sir."
They sat at separate display screens. She was still agitated. He was still cold. She wanted to apologize again. She knew she couldn't. They didn't look at each other as he organized his feeds.
During her interviews, Peter began to relax when she conducted herself as he'd instructed.
He reclined in his seat while she fielded five short Q-and-A’s with prominent media personalities, three from the E.U., one from America, one from Brazil.
The questions weren't live, of course, not with the radio lag between Europa and Earth. Her answers would be similarly vetted after Peter transmitted the files to Berlin, where more bureaucrats might censor or tweak what she'd said.
What had the general populace heard about their battle with the PSSC? The information war was fought in so many directions. They crafted propaganda for the enemy. They crafted propaganda for the voters at home. There were unsanctioned datastreams from other countries -- some hostile -- not to mention a widespread underground of fringe groups and individuals, but many of those voices were delusional or ignorant. They tended to drown each other out with their infighting and their conspiracy theories.
Nevertheless, the most coherent independents had respectable followings. Vonnie wanted to talk to them. They wouldn't have asked vapid questions like: "How do you feel, Miss Vonderach? Can you share with our viewers how it feels to lose your crewmates?"
When the fourth media proxy asked her the same senseless crap, she didn't need to pretend to cry. Her eyes stung and she wiped at her tears, barely attempting to hide her frustration. "How do you think it feels? My friends were killed doing the wrong thing for the right reasons."
The proxy cocked its head at her, parsing through what she'd said. Alertly, it asked, "What was the wrong thing? What are the right reasons?"
Peter sat up straight, watching her.
Vonnie stopped herself before she blamed Berlin. She said, "Our great nations need to stand against the PSSC. We can't let them take Europa. Defending ourselves and defending the sunfish are the right reasons for being here. Not having enough ships or mecha is wrong."
Peter nodded. But when she finished the interviews, he didn't compliment her and he didn't want to rehash any of the points she'd made.
He led her to the corridor. "Get some rest," he said. He went back into data/comm and closed the door.
Vonnie walked away, limping, head down, worrying about what happened next. She wished she could join Ben on the salvage teams. She wished she could leave and find the sunfish.
She went to the mess hall and ate. She returned the women's barracks and napped. She felt like the eye of the storm. Everyone else was laboring to consolidate their camp, provide options, create a future.
She did nothing. She stewed. Her thoughts returned to what she might have said.
Before dinner, Peter summoned Vonnie to data/comm again. Rested now, her limp wasn't as pronounced. I'm healing, she thought. That was good news.
Walking into data/comm felt like bad news. Waiting with Peter were Jan, Ribeiro and DeBrun. As soon as Vonnie crossed through the door, a mocking voice -- Ben's voice -- spoke in her head. Four generals, one private. I guess we know who's giving the orders.
The sarcasm was worth a smile. She needed it. She felt outnumbered.
Peter and Jan sat together at the displays, leaving DeBrun and Ribeiro to stand near Vonnie. She couldn't tell what Ribeiro was thinking. He must have felt outnumbered, too. DeBrun was Jan's second-in-command and Peter seemed to have paired himself with her. That left Vonnie and Ribeiro unattached, and she could expect the death of the universe before the two of them became friends.
If anyone might support Vonnie, it was DeBrun, but even that seemed unlikely. In her few, brief observations, she'd characterized Gavin DeBrun as stamped from the same mold as Ash or the PSSC major, hyper-educated and hyper-motivated. He was thin and attractive with a long nose and brown eyes -- and he was barely more than a boy. He was twenty-six years old.
Like most of NASA's crew, DeBrun was spellbound by Jan. No matter what was said, he wouldn't go against her.
Maybe it was a positive sign that the four leaders of the allied crews had told Vonnie to attend this meeting. If the Americans were leaving Europa, wouldn't they announce it without consulting her? Or did they think she would agree to more interviews with prepared talking points, using her fame to mitigate their surrender?
Nervously, Vonnie waited. She couldn't stop her left hand from fidgeting.
Jan said, "I'd like to discuss Ghost Clan Thirty as well as the progress we've made gathering raw materials for probes or a submarine."
Vonnie exhaled. Oh thank God. She wanted to say We need to build a sub, but she couldn't encourage Peter in front of them. He would resist just to show that she couldn't influence him. She needed to let him reach his own conclusions.
To Ribeiro, Jan said, "I've seen your updates, Colonel. It looks like you've integrated the few remaining ESA and FNEE mecha into our grid, correct?"
"Correct."
"How would you characterize our defenses against PSSC mecha or infantry?"
"Poor."
Jan waited for Ribeiro to expand on this statement, but he let it suffice. "A realist," Jan said. "I like that." Next she turned to Vonnie and said, "Are you healthy enough to approach the matriarchs?"
"Yes. I am. I can go tomorrow."
Peter intervened. "Vonnie hasn't been cleared yet and she probably won't be, not for two or three days."
"I can do it."
"We'll ask you when you're ready," Jan said, acknowledging Peter with a nod. To DeBrun, Jan said, "Do we have enough materia
l to construct a submarine?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Then that's what we'll do."
"It's what we should have done from the beginning," Vonnie said, unable to stop herself.
Peter frowned at her, but he said nothing else -- and when Jan posted five sims on the display, Peter didn't object when Vonnie stepped past him.
Darting her fingers through the five sims, Vonnie skimmed through NASA's datastreams and reports. She left the final summary on the display. All of them studied it. Peter and Ribeirio wore stone-faced expressions, but Vonnie felt excitement. She had worried that their enemy was already in the Great Ocean.
NASA estimated the PSSC were still two days from the water.
"There's no way we can catch up," Peter said as Ribeiro asked, "How long is required to construct a submarine?"
"We've already started," DeBrun said. "The AIs drew up their designs last week. I can have mecha and people at work in five minutes."
Ribeiro wasn't impressed with DeBrun's can-do spirit. "How long?" he asked.
"Seventy-two hours," DeBrun said.
"Impossible."
"No, sir. Seventy-two hours."
That seemed like an extremely short amount of time, typically American. Vonnie's impulse was to side with him. "I can help," she said.
"You're not cleared for duty," Peter reminded her.
DeBrun grinned and said, "We'll find something easy for you to do, okay?"
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." This time, Vonnie meant every sir. She hadn't made her mind up about Jan, but DeBrun was capable and optimistic. She wanted to cheer his go-get-‘em attitude. If the allies expected to win, they had to fast track their operations, not wallow in their caution or more reports.
We need to go full speed, she thought. We'll need a 100% commitment from the Americans. Maybe it's not too late. Maybe we can blast our way into what's left of the chimney where we rescued O'Neal.
They couldn't hurt more sunfish, but Vonnie was willing to annihilate a few sections of the catacombs -- even hieroglyphics or a library -- to reach the Great Ocean ahead of the PSSC.
