Outward Bound

by Juanita Coulson

  The medics were so elated with Tumaini Beno's condition that they made plans to transfer the FTL pilot to a Mars-side hospital by early the following week, if he continued improving at the present rate. In a planetary gravity he would have fewer problems during rehabilitation. Tumaini looked forward to the prospect, no matter how painful the actual transfer might be. Anything to get out of the stera-gel fishbowl, as he put it!

  Nobody said anything about moving Morgan out of the free-fall burn ward or about possible future rehabilitation therapy for him. "Let's wait and see," Dr. Ives temporized.

  Inevitably, Tumaini asked about his crewmates. At first Brenna lied to him, afraid the truth would cause a relapse. But he wasn't fooled. Nor was he too surprised when they told him what had happened. He had anticipated Rue's death while the accident was taking place, knowing how brutally she'd been hurled into the walls. Through burn-puffed lips, Tumaini said, "The Spirit of Humanity will receive her soul and give her eternal peace."

  The others seconded him, even those who didn't share Tumaini's strong religious faith. Rue—and Joe Habich—had. Brenna was grateful for that. She hoped that had been some solace to Rue during her last horrible moments of consciousness, and that the same faith would comfort Joe, the man who had loved her. Rue's will—they had all made them out, just in case—stipulated that she be buried in space. The ceremony would be held in the hospital's meditation hall the following day. Tumaini wanted to attend the service, but that was out of the question. Dr. Ives agreed to set up a monitor between the hall and ICU, even though some of her colleagues disapproved of that much stress on their patient.

  They told Tumaini about Morgan. He was silent for a long while, his eyes closed. Then his beliefs sustained him again. He would pray for his badly hurt friend. Soon Tumaini was the one doing the encouraging, trying to cheer up the other pilots by recounting anecdotes to underline just how tough Morgan McKelvey was. Brenna smiled for the first time in days. That crazy Rift Affiliation optimist! He made her believe, too. Morgan McKelvey, done for? Not damned likely! Not with friends like Tumaini Beno rooting for his recovery!

  As the fifth day rolled up on the chronometers, a group of mourners gathered in the meditation hall. Todd Saunder, very much more himself now, joined the others. Carmelita Obregon and Aluna Beno stood side by side, though Aluna still wouldn't be in the same part of the room as the pilots, even at a funeral. She was going through the expected social forms, but that was it.

  Pilot Rue Polk had no living relatives, and her separation from her ex-husband hadn't been amicable, so no one had pressured him to attend this service. There were just Rue's fellow pilots, Dr. Ives and some sympathetic med staffers, and various Saunder Enterprises aides. No newshunters.

  Joe Habich and Adele Zyto had arrived at the hospital just hours before. What everyone had hoped would be a reunion for a victory celebration was now a reunion to say good-bye to their dead comrade. Joe was bearing up well under his grief, but the strain showed on him, as it did on all of them.

  As the senior ranking pilot with Breakthrough Unlimited, it was Brenna's job to deliver the eulogy. She had offered the privilege to Joe Habich, but he'd declined. He wasn't sure he could handle that ordeal. The pilots stood at parade rest, though none was now with Space Fleet. Brenna hoped she would do this right. She hadn't had to after the previous FTL failure. Her father and older contemporaries of Mariette Saunder, Kevin McKelvey, and Cesare Loezzi had said the necessary things then.

  The memorial service was carried by ComLink and TeleCom to a large, curious audience on Earth, Mars, and the satellites. Brenna kept the words simple. Rue Polk had been a gutsy, no-nonsense woman who admired straight dealing. Brenna reminded the audience of that, in euphemistic terms. She told them the rest of Rue Polk's story as well, not the obituary stuff, but what made Rue Polk's life important.

  "She believed in what she was doing. Rue Polk knew how to dream, and to make those dreams into reality. She taught her friends to trust in those dreams, too. She was there to encourage us whenever we doubted. She came to Breakthrough Unlimited after a highly distinguished career as a Terran Worlds Council shuttle pilot. She remained loyal to the goals of T.W.C. —peace and prosperity for all the worlds humans inhabit, now and in the future. For Rue Polk, those goals led straight to the stars. She wanted to be part of the team that took the first giant leap outward into the galaxy. And she was part of that team—a vital, irreplaceable part. Our lives all are richer for knowing Rue. And her spirit lives on in the work we have to do. That's the highest accolade we can give her—that she's a permanent member of our crew. Rue Polk will never die. She believed that a human being lives on, after death, in the Spirit of Humanity, and in the memories of her friends. She is remembered, with respect and with love. Go in peace, Rue."

  One by one, the pilots stepped forward to lay their tokens on the sealed capsule bearing Rue's corpse. Breakthrough Unlimited always stressed its civilian background. This ritual, though, had been around a long time. They gave Rue the Prototype II test-flight patches they had worn so proudly, to go with her into eternal darkness. The starburst emblems nestled together, looking too fresh and new to be part of an awful failure. The pilots stepped back, heads high. Per Rue's request, there was no music. Instead, there was a profound silence, a space for private thoughts. Then a small sighing noise caused the capsule to drop through the jettison lock. Exterior scan screens showed the coffin riding its mini-jets, leaving the hospital. Eventually, the capsule would assume orbit around Mars.

  "Good-bye, Rue," Brenna whispered, the others echoing her. Despite the brave words, it hurt, deeply, to think that Rue wouldn't see the final triumph—the triumph that had to come, someday.

  A few more words were spoken in praise of the dead woman. Nothing fancy. It wasn't a wake, but Brenna and her fellow pilots had to remain until everyone had a chance to express regrets. Brenna's father held her hands for so long that Brenna grew uneasy. She feared another breakdown. But Todd Saunder was past that stage. He finally left, as did everyone else but the Breakthrough Unlimited crews.

  They held an impromptu decision-session in an anteroom. The ceremony seemed to put everything in focus for the pilots, after days of aimlessly marking time.

  "We ... I do not think there is much I can do here," Hector Obregon said. "The visitors' quarters are limited. I would do more good if I went back to FTL Station. I do not like this idleness." Joe Habich, Nagata, and Zyto looked tempted by that thought. Brenna nodded. Joe, especially, shouldn't be allowed to brood. And the junior pilots would get rusty if they didn't get back to work soon.

  But there was an unhappy kicker to Hector's suggestion. "You know we'll have to put FTL Station on skeleton operations, at least temporarily." The others looked as if they would argue, until Brenna nodded. "I don't like it any better than you do, but we've got to face facts. It's going to be weeks, at best, before we know what fouled up. We can't even begin to correct the flaws till then. And whether anyone believes it or not, we Saunders do not have an inexhaustible supply of funds." They dropped their eyes, chagrined by the reminder. Morgan and Brenna were so much a part of the team, it was sometimes easy to forget they were also scions of a quasi-nation, and the sole source of Breakthrough Unlimited's financing. "Okay. I'll keep everybody on the payroll as long as I possibly can. Once Salvage completes the job and brings Prototype II in, we'll have to pull our people back to Mars, except for Maintenance. Yeah, sure, that cuts flight time. But that's the way it is."

  Hector shrugged. "That seems wise."

  "We'll go with Hector," Nagata said, speaking for the three junior pilots. "Don't worry, Brenna. We'll assist on salvage and pick up every molecule. We won't miss anything. Then we can do a good analysis." Now that he had selected his assignment— and knew he would be flying spacecraft regularly for a while— Nagata, as well as Joe and Adele, was eager to get to it.

  "I, too, feel useless here," Yuri said. "I will go to Mars Base. I can set up things for George Li and the support teams
. And I will coordinate with Dr. Ives and your mother's staff. Everything must be ready when they transport Tumaini and Morgan planetside."

  The others eyed him guiltily. Scut work. Necessary, but not very exciting.

  Nicholaiev mistook their expressions for pity. "I do not mind," he said with some heat. Then he added with a tolerant smile at the younger pilots, "This goes with the crowds ripping your clothes off and all the I-was-there contracts with the media."

  That touched off a round of laughter. "Anybody torn your clothes off, Zyto?" "No!" "If they do, let me know, sweetie. You or Brenna—I want to be there to watch!" "Shut up, hormone-crazy...!"

  They finally settled down. "It sounds good," Brenna said. "I have to stay here. The old family ties and all that. You guys take off. Hector, does Carmelita need a ride back to Mars?"

  Obregon was scornful. "Nah. She has a seat on the next regular hospital shuttle going planetside." He paused. "Aluna's going with her." Tumaini was still in ICU. It seemed coldblooded for his wife to be leaving already, even if the doctors said he was going to make it. But no one had any urge to quiz Aluna Beno about her actions.

  Yuri raised another question, though. "Brenna? Do we have a long-range plan?"

  That one had a thin hull. Brenna didn't want to consider it yet. She hid her uncertainties, playing enthusiastic team leader. "Let's just pick up the pieces. First things first. Then we talk. Okay? Okay!"

  They huddled and linked hands briefly, recapturing some of their old spirit. The others went to pick up their gear and arrange for transportation. Brenna checked in at her father's room to see how he was doing—better—then tried to restore some kind of steady routine for herself.

  What was routine in this confused situation? She couldn't hang around ICU all the time. Gloomy discussions with the doctors weren't good for her morale. There were a few things that needed doing, however, and she had been putting them off too long already. Breakthrough Unlimited's business and Brenna Saunder's personal correspondence and financial affairs. She cued her com screen and started talking to the Saunder Enterprises staffers working for her interests at Mars HQ.

  Correspondence to clear up, first on the agenda. The condolences were still coming in. Brenna asked her personal secretary to deal with all except those from close friends of the family. The latter were a strange mixture. There was a tearful vid tape from Freda Appel, Morgan's surrogate mother. Most women who had performed that function for pay had little further interest in the family they had worked for, once the "job" was done. Freda was different. For twenty-seven years she had sent Morgan birthday greetings and followed his career with pride, as if he were her own son, not the artificially conceived child of Mariette Saunder and Kevin McKelvey which she had merely carried for nine months. She had mourned his parents' deaths as she now worried over Morgan's injuries.

  Another tape was from Dian, who was en route to Mars. She spoke briskly. Her face showed tension, though. "We're running ahead of schedule. I offered some bonuses. Worked, too. Should be at the hospital about 0900 Thursday. I passed the word to some of the doctors up there. They've got to get some decent food and vitamins into your father, girl. He looks terrible! I'm paying for service at Wyoma Lee Foix Foundation, and by damn I mean to get it. You take care of yourself, hear? You don't look so hot, either."

  There was a special, diplomatic-clearance tape from Quol-Bez. Chin Jui-Sao was with him, nervously flexing her hands again and again and avoiding direct eye contact with the lens. The Vahnaj Ambassador's sideburns drooped with sorrow and his broad, flat nostrils flared with each breath. Body language showed how much he cared, this being from another star system, this friend.

  "I am ...am most distressed, Brenna. This is such a ter-ri-ble thing. Morgan has my sin-cere hopes for quick healing." Sao whispered to him, and Quol-Bez amended his words. "Our sin-cere hopes. We wish to help. But we do not perceive how this is poss-i-ble. Only human physicians are proper-ly trained to minister to your species. I could con-tri-bute nothing. This is my shame. Please, if I may speak to your father in the future, I will offer what I may. We wish very much to visit Morgan, when he is able to accept visitors."

  Brenna had to wake herself out of a momentary depression. "Of course." She spoke too softly. The audio didn't register. "Tash, tell them yes, of course." The secretary made notes and Brenna added, "They've sent a lot of messages, one every day. I appreciate it. Let them know, if you see them..."

  The next private tape had originated on Earth, at Saunderhome. Stuart basked in the Caribbean sunshine, beaming at the camera. His behavior at the gala and the way he had left the scene so hurriedly the moment any real peril threatened roused Brenna's animosity anew. What the hell did Stuart want? She almost cut off the tape, then resigned herself to sit back and watch. "Hello, there! Just landed and got the dreadful news. Sweet Mother Carissa is all atwitter, as you can imagine.

  Gibbering about how dangerous spaceflight is, as if she knew!" Stuart spoke casually, out of his "vast experience" as a seasoned traveler. As far as Brenna knew, his trip to the Martian Colony Days gala had been his first journey away from Earth's near-neighborhood in at least a year. Stuart waved his hand airily. "Doesn't understand a damned thing about what's going on how important your work is, Cuz. Well, I do." His manner grew serious, for a few seconds. "Believe it or not, Brenna, that's so. This business with Morg—too bad!" He lifted his glass. "Here's to a speedy recovery for the big kid. I'd have called sooner, but just couldn't get the time clear."

  Brenna gazed daggers at the dissipation-marked face and mousy hair and colorless eyes. Stuart wasn't dumb. And he could even act with style and grace, though he hadn't bothered, recently—not since Carissa had crushed his brief attempt to break the apron strings and run away with his mistress and child. Her illicit cloning of her late husband's genes had stopped that cold. Defeated, but not reconciled, the man seethed with hatred, radiating resentment. That much anger, and that much wealth and power, in one package! Brenna was sure this message tape was something manipulative, part of some convoluted scheme no one but Stuart could fathom.

  "They tell me Sweet Mother Carissa beat me to sending our sympathy, we Earth-based Saunders. As usual. One-upping me. Never even mentioned it to me. Rude of her, wasn't it? But I'll get her for it. I found a way to pay her back, and curdle her milk in the bargain. No need to thank me. Just a friendly cousinly helping hand, you might say. Thanks to me, Morg will no doubt be kicking sand in my face again in no time. Well, I have to get back to serious matters ... hey! Come here, gorgeous." A pretty young woman with a vacuous expression came into the camera frame. She wasn't the same hanger-on who had been following Stuart around at the gala. He changed his hired sexual partners as often as he changed his clothes. Now, after pawing the woman's breasts, he ordered her to fetch him a fresh drink. As she walked away, Stuart, licking his lips, rose and followed her. After a moment, an anonymous Saunder Enterprises employee at Saunderhome signed off the message in his master's absence.

  Brenna wondered what Stuart had meant about a "cousinly helping hand." It didn't take her long to find out, via ComLink. Stuart hadn't tried to conceal this slap at his mother. He had transferred some of his impressive financial petty cash over to Dian's medical foundation, to be used for Morgan McKelvey's cure. Brenna whistled at the amount Stuart had tossed away. The gesture looked magnanimous, but she wasn't fooled. It was an astute move on Stuart's part. Instead of squandering his allowance on women, drugs, and gambling, he had made a donation to a family charity for the sake of his cousin. Carissa wouldn't be able to chew him out for that! And he would get marvelous publicity from it, too—his idea, not hers. The media would make much of the fact. Brenna sighed and dismissed the internecine warfare. Carissa and Stuart's battles didn't concern her or Morgan. But they could use the money Stuart had thrown their way!

  She turned to the staggering accumulation of Breakthrough Unlimited business. The staff had handled a lot, but there was still plenty to be dealt with. She would have to use
her proxy and pull strings to her and Morgan's mutual benefit, if possible. She and Morgan had each inherited large fortunes. Each generation of Saunders built on the previous one's thrift and investments. It had begun with Ward Saunder's patents, which Jael Hartman Saunder had pyramided into the wealth and power of a quasi-nation. After her death there had been a public outcry, demanding some of that vast financial empire be broken up; if one Saunder had been corrupted, might not others be? But Todd had been a hero. So had his martyred brother. And Mariette Saunder had been on the winning side in that family struggle. In time, the hatred had faded somewhat, and the Saunders—and their wealth—had survived. Actually, there had been little Protectors of Earth could legally do to tear down the empire Jael had built. She might have been murderously ambitious, but she had also been the acknowledged mistress of her era when it came to wheeling and dealing. Once the family had weathered the scandal, they had done very well. Carissa Duryea Saunder and Stuart were among the richest families on Earth. Todd Saunder had diversified ComLink wisely, providing plenty of profits for Dian's endowment of W.L.F. Foundation and setting up a lucrative income for Brenna. Morgan McKelvey rode a similarly luxuriously appointed gravy train. His parents had bought asteriod mining stock before the big strikes came in. In addition, when they had died, their shares of Goddard Power Satellites went to Morgan. So Brenna Foix Saunder and Morgan Saunder McKelvey had been born with a full set of platinum spoons in their mouths. Under ordinary circumstances, they would never be pressed for funds.