by Bonnie Doran
Keeping his palm flat, Chet distributed the treats. None of the lab animals ever bit him, but their sharp teeth could easily puncture his gloves. Bad idea.
Chet lingered at the cage of his favorite primate, a brown rhesus weighing twelve pounds. Minnie’s eyes were solemn as she took the cereal. She’d survived the Ebola virus. All of them were survivors. They should be allowed to live the rest of their days in peace, but they would never leave Level 4 except in body bags destined for the autoclave.
Francine came in and offered treats as well. When she turned to face Chet, she raised an eyebrow and smirked. Chet fumed. Everyone in the lab got attached to the monkeys. So did he. Why was it such a big surprise?
“Did you finish the slides?” He slammed the cereal box on the counter.
“Yes.” She spat the word.
Francine should be fired for her sullenness. He hoped he never worked with her again.
“I’m leaving.” Chet beat her to the airlock. He cycled through and entered the men’s suiting area. After he finished the decontamination procedure and pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, he strode through the final doors of the level. Francine’s back retreated ahead of him in the hallway. She must have dressed in record time.
Chet passed his badge in front of the security scanner, nodded at the guard, and left the building. A cool April day greeted him outside, and he donned his jacket for the short walk home. He pounded toward Shepherd’s Lane, his stomach tightening as he seethed about the unfairness of it all. While he’d been sweating in Sierra Leone, working to identify and contain an unknown virus, perfect little Hildi nabbed the opportunity of a lifetime—experimenting with viruses in space. He usually ignored her ambition as long as it didn’t trample his own objectives, but enough was enough. She’d mirrored his every professional move. They even looked alike.
Their work on vital vaccines—Hildi with Lassa fever, Chet with Ebola—could revolutionize the African continent already ravaged by AIDS. Whoever won the race would get all the accolades. Last one in was a rotten egg. And he’d never win if the director kept giving him such stupid assignments.
That Nobel Prize is mine, dear sister.
He stopped as his elderly neighbor shuffled out her front door. “Hi, Edna. Let me get your paper for you.” The news carrier had tossed it on the roof of her aging Cadillac, the jerk. Edna nodded her thanks and shuffled back.
Chet stepped into the sparseness of his house—gray blinds, modern couch and chair in red, a large-screen television in basic black, a small dinette. A metal-and-glass display case showed off his origami creations, with his beloved full-rigged sailing ship in a prominent place. Baker’s racks in the kitchen sagged under the weight of appliances and alphabetized gourmet ingredients.
He set his briefcase near the door and strode to the kitchen. Peering into the refrigerator, he pulled out a bottle of Riesling and poured a glass into stemmed crystal. A perfect pairing with his Szechuan chicken.
He marinated the chicken and chopped vegetables. Waiting for the brown rice to finish steaming, he sat in the chair, sipped his wine, and read a bit from his e-reader.
A blinking light on the phone near his elbow indicated a voice mail. He punched the button.
“Hi, honey. It’s your mom. Hope you’re having a good day. We’re praying—”
He erased the message. He should switch to cell phone only. She didn’t know the number.
When the timer chimed, Chet pulled himself out of the chair, heated his wok, and stir fried his dinner. The dish needed more crushed red pepper but otherwise was perfect. He ate it with ivory chopsticks and chased his meal with another glass of wine.
After cleaning up, he turned on the news and pulled his latest origami project toward him. Events hadn’t changed since yesterday—war, economic woes, tsunami damage. Someday they’d announce real news like a vaccine for AIDS, and he wanted to be a part of it.
The anchor paused, apparently waiting for the teleprompter to switch to another story. His dark hair had just the right touch of gray to lend him authority. “In Houston’s Johnson Space Center, the crew of the first manned Rigel capsule is training for its mission to the International Space Station. Among the astronauts returning America to space is Dr. Evangeline Hildi Hildebrandt, a renowned vaccinologist with the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. She’ll be testing her theory that microgravity, which causes certain microbes to flourish, can also aid in the development of vaccines. For more, we switch to Gary Nelson. Gary?”
Gary the reporter appeared with Chet’s sister standing by his side. “So Dr. Hildebrandt, any Nobel Prizes in the works?”
Heat surged through Chet’s body. He slammed the off button on his remote but not before Hildi’s laugh penetrated the airwaves.
Spoiled brat.
He’d show her. He’d show everyone.
3
“I” Minus Five Months
Hildi took a deep breath. The McDonnell Douglas C9B Skytrain II mocked her from the tarmac of Ellington Field. She and the other astronauts waited to board the infamous Vomit Comet. They all wore blue jumpsuits with their names embroidered above their left pocket and the Rigel patch on their short sleeves. The members of her crew were there: Larry the commander, Jasper the mission specialist, and Frank the pilot. Her mouth tightened. She could be civil with Frank, couldn’t she? She was a professional. She breathed a prayer she’d act like one.
The crew of the next mission joined them—Dave, Jim, Shorty, and Dan, her…what? Boyfriend, friend, Frank’s ex-best-bud? Or just a casual no-commitment date? She wished she knew.
“Beautiful plane, isn’t it?” Larry planted his hands on his hips. “Until it climbs over the hill.”
“You’re right about that.” Dan grimaced. “I’m glad we don’t ride the thing often.”
Over the hill. Astronaut-speak for the high point of the parabolic flight path, when she’d experience weightlessness for the first time. Hildi had heard the stories. She hoped they were the result of astronaut bravado. It couldn’t be that bad.
They boarded and sat in the main compartment. A faint, sour odor clung to the padded walls.
“I think it’ll be a giggle.” Hildi had enjoyed every other practice session thrown at her. Why should this be any different? She buckled herself into a seat against the wall.
Dan winked at her.
Frank stared at him briefly before turning his attention to Larry. “Piece of cake.”
Shorty laughed. “I hear the other astronauts loved it. For the first few dips, that is.”
“At least we won’t have this roller coaster on the space station.” Larry shook his head. “Hard to believe the actors and film crew for Apollo 13 did it voluntarily just to make a movie.”
“You mean we don’t have to volunteer?” Jasper slapped his forehead with Oscar-winning melodrama. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
Dan glanced at Frank. Frank scowled back at him.
Hildi examined her cuticles. She hoped someday the men would give up their infantile behavior and act like friends again.
Small talk dominated the cabin as the plane taxied. It seemed like any other plane at takeoff. Then it started climbing at a forty-five-degree angle, weighing them down with twice the force of gravity. Hildi’s stomach twisted her light breakfast into knots.
Her body leaned toward the tail of the plane. Her memory intruded. She was spinning on an amusement-park ride, sliding into her brother as they got dizzy together. The memory faded with a pang.
The jet accelerated and leveled off. Just before it went over the hill, Hildi started floating in the induced weightlessness. “Whee!”
Jasper grinned as he somersaulted in the air. “Yahoo!”
“Enjoy it while you can, kids.” Larry propelled himself from one wall to the other.
Ten seconds of microgravity…Twenty…Thirty…
Hildi floated down to the padded floor as the plane dove at a thirty-degree angle, leveled off, and started another steep ascent. Two g�
��s returned as the plane followed a precise parabola to counteract gravity, thirty seconds at a time.
Weightless returned. Hildi floated up and drifted down.
Dive, climb, over the hill, dive, climb…
On the eighth parabolic cycle, Dan retreated to his seat, looking a bit green and clutching a sick bag. By the tenth cycle, Jasper and Shorty joined him. By the twelfth, Dan retched.
Hildi wrinkled her nose. The smell and sounds of vomiting created a chain reaction. She survived until cycle thirty. When the plane finished the fiftieth parabola and descended for landing, she could only groan in relief. Her tummy would never be the same.
Frank alone remained unscathed. He’d always bragged about his cast-iron stomach. Handy thing to have in space. He turned to her and flashed a lopsided grin.
Her insides lurched, but it wasn’t due to excess stomach acid. Was he thinking she could forget about his indiscretions and resume their relationship?
Buddy, that rocket launched a long time ago. Get over it.
4
“I” Minus Four Months
Whee!
Hildi hovered like a seagull on an air current. She hung suspended underwater in the Neutral Buoyancy Laboratory at the space center. Divers surrounded her for safety, their bubbles racing each other to the surface. Two hundred feet long and forty feet deep, the training pool was an exotic playpen.
“Still doing OK?” The crew trainer’s voice sounded tinny in her helmet.
“Sure. I’ve scuba-dived at twice this depth.”
“Yeah, but I bet you weren’t wearing an Extra Vehicular Activity suit.”
She snorted. The bulky outfit didn’t feel much different than a biosuit.
Hildi’s mind wandered to her first scuba dive with Frank. A blue-and-green queen angelfish had swum just inches from her mask. She seized that pleasant memory as less pleasant ones intruded.
A six-inch flash of gray zipped past her. Hildi gasped. What was that? The theme music to Jaws played in her headset just as she noticed the wind-up invader’s tail movements. She chuckled. “Hey, who let the shark out?”
“Wasn’t me,” the trainer said, all innocence.
Practical jokes ran rampant at NASA. Humor helped to ease the tension from intense training, so the brass ignored most of the antics. She suspected Jasper.
Hildi sank toward a mockup of the space capsule. Jasper followed.
Larry hovered near the capsule with a tool in his hand. “Ready to bolt a few panels into place?”
Jasper signaled OK. “Sure, Larry. Are we using oak or pine panels?”
Hildi rolled her eyes. “Where’s Frank?” With another bimbo? If only she could believe he’d given up his indiscretions.
“Pilot training,” Larry said.
Fine. Hildi’s conscience said her attitude wasn’t fine. The dagger of Frank’s betrayal had sliced deep, but God had healed those wounds.
Hadn’t He?
She wanted to treat Frank as a friend.
Didn’t she?
Now NASA had thrown them together for ten months of training and a flight to the station. Determination filled her. So be it. She’d act like a professional. It disturbed her, however, that he seemed to trail her like a bloodhound. She was through with romance. At least with him.
Hildi concentrated on the job at hand. She wouldn’t let Frank ruin her fun.
****
Dan surveyed the three stepped levels inside Mission Control and stared at the fifteen curved desks with their clusters of computer monitors. In just a few months, the place would be alive with controllers—flight director, mission operations director, flight surgeon, and his own position as CAPCOM.
A smile rose to his lips as he anticipated the job as capsule communicator. He took pride in his work as the only one who talked directly with the spacecraft.
The flight director entered the room. Dan had never met anyone more intense. With Steve Walters’s unruly blond hair and the kind of looks that attracted women like children to ice cream, people often underestimated the man. Dan would never do that again.
“Reminiscing?” Steve’s blue eyes pierced through Dan’s thoughts.
“Yeah, boss.” Dan touched his own station in the row of desks. “I enjoyed being CAPCOM for the shuttle missions. This will be a lot different.”
“Not so different. You know the Rigel’s instruments just as well as the shuttle’s. The equipment’s changed, but astronauts stay the same, eh?” Steve winked.
Dan grimaced at the old joke. “Not exactly.”
“See you here at takeoff minus ninety-six hours.” The director left.
Dan saluted his retreating back, thankful Steve would be flight director during his own shift. Only a fellow astronaut knew the subtleties of space flight, and Steve had logged enough missions to fill bookshelves.
The public affairs officer, Barry Stokes, hurried past the desk, and Dan shook his head. Dealing with the press wasn’t his idea of fun, although the media would pay little attention except for the occasional human-interest story. Even with the first-flight status of the Rigel series, space was too ho-hum.
Unless something went terribly wrong.
He thought about Hildi’s work today in the pool, the closest thing on Earth to a weightless environment except for the Vomit Comet. If he knew Hildi, she’d love the launch. She was a born adrenaline junkie.
His jaw clenched. Working in space with all its dangers had never bothered him. Now someone he cared about deeply would be at risk. He gnawed his lower lip. His real concern should be Hildi’s work in Biosafety Level 4 here on Earth. The constant threat of exposure to lethal bugs gave him the willies.
He shrugged at his overactive worry gland. The other astronauts were all veterans, and he knew she’d be in good hands. He just wished he could enjoy Hildi’s reaction to space. And monitor Frank’s behavior. His old friend still pined for her.
Hands off, buddy. She’s mine now.
Or was she? He enjoyed being with her. He respected her, liked her, cherished her. But was that all?
He took a comb out of his pocket and tamed his dark hair, grateful he had an appointment with the barber.
Hildi met him in the hallway, her curls still damp from a shower. Beautiful, with or without makeup. “Hi.”
“Hi yourself.” He smiled when her stomach grumbled. “Ready to eat?”
“I’m ready to eat a Texas longhorn, tail and all.”
****
Frank eased up on the controls and peered at the full-color, flat-panel display, a startling improvement over the old shuttle’s instrument panel. Just a little more thrust…He shut down the attitude jets as the Rigel spacecraft’s nose slipped into the docking ring of the International Space Station.
“Capture complete. Nothing but net.” He grinned. He’d slam-dunked the docking simulation again.
“Third time in a row, hotshot.”
“Roger.” Frank reset the capsule for another training session. He could fly this critter blindfolded, even with the manufactured emergencies thrown at him by the guys in charge. An autopilot was always available to take over the tricky docking procedure, but no one trusted the software. He ran his fingers over his blond crew cut. “Let’s try the landing procedure, Flight. Mix it up a little.”
“Roger.”
As he waited for the computer download, Frank chewed an energy bar and chugged water from a bottle. Once more, he wished for a shuttle-style landing. Flying the shuttle had been real flying, even if it was a powerless glide to the Kennedy Space Center. For the new Rigel series, a pilot only had to point the spacecraft into the proper trajectory and deploy a parachute. Big deal.
When the simulator showed reset, he followed memorized instructions to maneuver the capsule into a tightly defined angle of descent, critical if the crew wanted to survive. When the instruments displayed a pre-calculated altitude, he pressed a button, feeling imitation yanks of the drogue parachute and then the main ones. Finally, he hit the virtual ground.
The impact jolted every joint in his body. He was home. He much preferred a water landing, but the spacecraft could handle either scenario, dependent on the whims of NASA.
“Landing complete.” Frank finished his final act—readying Reconciliation for egress. Reconciliation. What a name for the first manned flight in the series. But he didn’t have a voice in the matter. Rumors said it had something to do with the new treaty with North Korea.
Larry was all right, the kind of man everybody liked on sight. Jasper, too. Hildi…His thoughts tumbled into self-blame. Sure, he and Hildi were on amicable speaking terms, but their polite interaction didn’t assuage his unrelenting guilt. He’d really blown it, and busted balloons were impossible to patch.
When he’d gotten the new assignment, the flight director had grilled him on whether he’d have a problem working with his former fiancée. Frank assured him he could handle it. After all, he’d just be piloting a space ferry. He and Larry would drop off Hildi and Jasper then pick up Leonid and Joe. Two days together on Reconciliation and a few days on the station before heading back. He didn’t understand NASA’s concern.
Wrenching his thoughts back to the gauges, he concentrated on the next test.
After several more hours, he’d had enough. “Hey, Tom, can I call it quits for the day? I’m ready to get out of this can and grab some grub.”
“Roger that. Got a hot date tonight?” He could hear the grin in Tom’s voice.
I wish.
Frank popped the hatch and climbed out of the capsule that NASA claimed was designed to hold four people. Four little people. His knees always brushed the edge of the instrument panel as he trained. At least Hildi wouldn’t feel cramped.
He wondered about Hildi and Dan. He’d watched them during the last few months as they trained together for their mission. There was something between them, but he wasn’t sure what.
His childhood friend and rival had been cool toward him ever since the breakup. Frank didn’t know how to act around Dan, either. And Dan was the new golden boy in the eyes of NASA. He would pilot the next mission, another test of the new Rigel series. After that, a dress rehearsal for the moon launch. In low Earth orbit, the pilot would extract the lunar lander module and dock with it, a maneuver as awkward as shooting hoops while encased in Jell-O. The flight after that would be to the moon itself if Congress ever approved the funding. NASA had already been forced to reduce ISS personnel to three, a skeleton crew trying to do the work of six. Frank shook his head at the never-ending politics.
