Zack waited until she had disappeared around the corner of the Temple. “Maybe Camilla survived because she’s younger, stronger,” Zack said. “Being the receiver...I think it was a real strain on Megan. Camilla didn’t have to do that.”
“Not yet,” Harley said.
“Nope, not yet, as far as we know.” With Rachel gone, Zack was more willing to let his anger and frustration show. “You don’t seem to be buying anything I’m telling you.”
“I’m just trying to figure out the difference between what we know and what we think.”
“Okay.” But now Harley wondered. Was he motivated by pure curiosity? Or by a vague resentment that somehow, something Zack had done had brought him here.... “Look,” Zack was saying. “I’m not hitting on all eight here. I can hardly believe what happened or the fact that I’m still here, and what’s really shaking me is that you and Rachel and a hundred and eighty other people are here, too.”
“I know.”
Zack was leaning back now, eyes closed. “I wonder where Tea and the others are right now? I still don’t see how they could really make it home....”
Harley Drake still wore his watch. It was a typical fighter jock’s toy, a Chase-Durer Warhawk Chronograph that had cost him seven hundred dollars. It would run for months on its battery, though Harley wondered how useful it would be in a world without a true night. “How long has it been since Bynum’s shooting?”
He knew that Zack was one of those people who carried a fairly accurate internal clock—he rarely needed to set an alarm—whereas Harley never went anywhere on time no matter how connected he was.
Zack shrugged. “Six hours,” he said, then, as was often the case, added, “and forty-five minutes.”
Harley just shook his head. “Fuck you,” and held out the watch. “Six hours and fifty minutes, and, frankly, I’m not sure my watch isn’t wrong.”
“Chase-Durer has been claiming for years that its watches can stand the stress of launch. Given that you came through it, I think the watch is okay.”
“That I came through it? Is there something about my physical condition that strikes you as nonoptimal?”
It was the first normal conversation he’d had in...what, ten days? Two weeks?
Two years?
“Maybe it will come in useful.”
“Like so much of what I know.”
“Sarcasm, darling. The children are listening.” Harley did some calculations. It was painful to put himself back in Houston mission control, even as a mental exercise.
But it allowed him to remember the last status report on the Destiny spacecraft that had carried NASA’s Tea Nowinski and three members of the Brahma crew—Taj Radhakrishnan, Natalia Yorkina, and Lucas—off the surface of Keanu and onto an Earth-return trajectory.
That flight would have taken fifty hours, not much different from the two-day journey the Objects had taken to carry Harley and the Houston group and the Bangalores to Keanu. (Harley wondered briefly if the vehicles had all passed each other....)
“Tea and the others were off Keanu safely, systems were working. They had enough prop to make the right burns. They should be down,” Harley said. “Sometime in the last two hours.”
He could barely imagine what kind of media freak show that landing was. “Four surviving astronauts splash down after insane adventures!” It was like Apollo 13 crossed with aliens.
“You miss Tea?” After Megan’s death, Zack had developed a relationship with fellow astronaut and Destiny-7 crewmember Tea Nowinski. What must it have been like to deal with his current lover and his late, now resurrected, wife...Harley had heard of, and been involved in, tricky love triangles, but this one was so unusual it stressed that word to the breaking point.
“Yeah. Given what happened, I’m not sure she misses me too much.” He suddenly sat forward. “These Objects that brought you. What was Nayar calling them? ‘Vesicles’?”
“What about them?”
“Where are they?”
“Back at the north end of the habitat, through a couple of tunnels, one for each of us.”
“I want to go there first thing tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“They got you guys here. Maybe they can get us home.”
ARRIVAL DAY: DALE
Dale Scott had lingered at the edge of the “picnic” crowd, eating his fill of vege-fruit while watching Valya Makarova and her new little friend.
He had learned that the girl’s name was Camilla, and she had not come to Keanu on either Object. She had been...grown here.
She was, in Dale’s mind, a fucking alien.
And it appeared that the only person here who could communicate with the fucking alien was his psychotic ex, Valya. Well, if exes could manage to work together on matters like child custody or division of property in the blessedly benign environment of planet Earth, Dale and Valya ought to be able to submerge their bad feelings in face of the common challenges of survival on a fucking alien planet.
Especially if Valya’s linguistic skills opened up an inside track. And who better to help her...distribute and possibly exploit her hard-earned knowledge than the man with whom she had spent so many hours in bed?
Dale Scott loved having the inside track. The idea of it, anyway. He had rarely been able to get it.
So, from a distance, he watched, waiting for an opportunity to slide over to Valya and Camilla.
Meanwhile, from a different angle, he could watch Zack Stewart and Harley Drake at the far edge of an arm of the sullen crowd—Houston people, mostly, with a few Bangalores thrown in. They were talking about something important.
But what? And why wouldn’t they share it?
Well, he knew the answer to that.
Dale Scott had come to NASA in the same astronaut candidate class as Harley Drake, but from the Navy. He had flown F/A-18s off carriers and was a solid aviator and even a test pilot, but not a spectacular one.
Nevertheless, he had not only made it into NASA, but had snagged an assignment as a pilot on one of the last shuttle missions. Then he had been faced with this decision: Go back to the Navy, or become a space station astronaut.
Scott was already forty-three the day Atlantis made its final touchdown. He had a master’s in aero engineering, but had never attended other schools; he was never going to get back on the fast track to admiral, not that the Navy would ever promote an astronaut to flag rank. The Navy wasn’t going to let him stay in a cockpit, either; hell, with all the uncrewed vehicles coming on line, even for carrier ops, the service was actively pushing pilots into jobs where the only flying was done with a video game joystick from some bunker in Virginia.
NASA not only still let him fly jets, it required him to log twenty hours a month!
No, going back to the Navy was a quick ticket to oblivion. (A casual inquiry to the Pentagon confirmed it: The best job he could hope for was “war-fighting staff” at some base in Afghanistan while waiting for retirement.)
So, stay at NASA. Problem with that was, the only choice was to qualify for space station duty. Which meant (a) more time learning to operate the station’s remote manipulator arms, (b) hours of work in the Neutral Buoyancy Lab’s water tank qualifying for EVA, and, worst of all, (c) getting conversational, if not actually fluent, in Russian.
Oh, yeah, and committing to almost three years of mission-specific training in such garden spots as Moscow; Tsukuba, Japan; and West Germany.
It was the most miserable time of his life, worse than when his parents split up; worse than his second operational tour flying F/A-18s off the USS America, where he’d had to fly a whole shitload of post-9/11 intercepts and at one point was convinced he was going to have to bring down an American airliner; worse than his first marriage; even worse than his association with AGC Engineering.
For example, NASA had told him that of his two-and-a-half-year ISS assignment, he would be spending twelve percent of his time in airports. He had misunderstood; he had believed that to mean “in transi
t.” No, flying time was separate! He spent hundreds of hours just sitting in fucking airports!
Which meant he was exhausted whenever he moved from Houston—where he began to have zero life, losing a succession of girlfriends—to Moscow, where he found himself drinking a bit too heavily.
In the old days, he would have essentially flunked out; some trainer would have tattled to management. One of his colleagues would have dropped the right word in the right ear—bang. Dale Scott would have developed a “medical condition,” likely good old “cumulative radiation exposure,” and been quietly moved out of the ISS flow into a less stressful job.
But that hadn’t happened. Maybe it was due to the fact that NASA was having a tough time finding volunteers for ISS missions—two dozen astronauts left around 2011 rather than make the transition.
In any case, Dale got his training done. He had great hand-eye coordination and was a fast learner, and better yet, had mastered the art of smiling when what he really wanted was to punch someone in the face.
Which was his first impulse when he learned that he’d been assigned to serve under a thirty-five-year-old Russian who wasn’t even a fucking pilot.
Dale had been launched to ISS on a Soyuz with his Russian commander and an engineer from Japan. They joined another crew of three—two Russians and a NASA astronaut named Zack Stewart to form what was known as Expedition 31/32.
Shit—literally and figuratively—immediately began to go wrong. First of all, the toilet in the American segment of the station failed, forcing Dale to work with Zack on tedious, smelly repairs.
No sooner had they finished that project than an ammonia line on the outside of the station sprung a leak, meaning that Zack and Dale had to do repairs on that, too.
Dale had proven himself in the EVA pool and did a creditable job on the work, which required three space walks over the course of ten days and left him exhausted, his hands clutched like an old lady’s.
And in a bad mood. He noticed that, as Zack’s Expedition 31 was winding down, preparing to give way to a new crew and Expedition 33 and then go home, that no one was talking to him.
Now, life aboard the ISS was a bit like what Dale imagined life aboard a Navy vessel might be, allowing for smaller crew. There was scheduled work, some of it science, most of it station “operations,” which generally meant maintenance.
There was mandatory exercise, over an hour per day for each crew member.
There was the lack of female companionship. Dale had not realized what a challenge that would be—hell, he had soldiered through two longish stretches in Russia living the life of a monk, and together they almost added up to the ISS tour. (He had not been celibate during his first visit to Russia; for his pleasures he had had to worry about disease and missing money.) There had been some slight chance that one of his crewmates might be female—not that he had any expectation of enrollment in the Hundred-Mile-High Club with a female astronaut or cosmonaut; he only hoped to find a whiff of estrogen in the dull ISS atmosphere.
There was damned little privacy, with each crew member allotted a coffin-sized “stateroom.”
Then there was the noise, the constant drone of fans and motors. In the Russian segment the decibel level was frankly unacceptable; it would have earned NASA a fine from OSHA.
It all made him uncomfortable, unhappy, unproductive. ISS crews worked on the “job jar” method...the various control centers in Houston, Korolev, Europe, and Japan would uplink daily lists of activities that contained, in addition to the usual operational tasks, a good number of mundane chores that usually got divided up by the crew.
Dale quit volunteering for those. He decided he was going to do his work; if Houston wanted him to handle something else, Houston could tell him.
The larger problem was that he lacked motivation. He didn’t care about the mission. He would have happily piloted the shuttle through half a dozen missions, or landed on the Moon. But six months in orbit? It was nothing but looking at stars, pissing in jars.
Still, he had been shocked and angered when Kondratko, the formerly jolly Russian commander, took him into the noisiest part of the Zvezda module for a private conversation the week before the arrival of Expedition 33 and Zack Stewart’s departure. “They don’t think you’re happy here.”
“Happy? Who’s happy here, Valery?”
“Your health is affecting your work.”
“What the hell are you talking about? When did this come up?”
During years of training, Dale had found Kondratko’s expressions and gestures hard to read. In microgravity, even faint clues vanished. The stocky Russian just floated a meter away, face blank, eyes dead. “It was reported to me last week. Today I received orders.”
“Orders for what?”
“Talk to Houston.”
An hour later Dale was on the radio with Bettyjane Handler, the chief of the astronaut office, who confirmed the news: “Your EKG has been out of family for the past three weeks.”
“And you’re telling me now?”
“It’s fine-line time, Dale. If it were just the EKG, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. We had you adjust your diet, remember?” True, two weeks earlier Dale had been advised to temporarily eliminate some of the saltier foods from his intake. “But even with that, your tracings are more erratic and your operational errors are rising.”
“What does Stewart say?”
There was a long pause on the link. “He’s only responded to questions from here.”
He had noticed Zack growing more distant, but assumed that was because his colleague was packing for his return to Earth.
“Okay, fine. What do you want me to do?”
“We want you to take Stewart’s place on 30S.” 30S was the Soyuz scheduled to carry Zack and his two colleagues home in two weeks’ time.
“You’re aborting my mission?”
“Not just us. All the international partners.”
“Fuck that, B.J. They don’t do anything without checking with Houston.”
“Dale, I’m sorry. Tell me...wouldn’t you rather button it up and come home now, rather than press on for another three months?”
“Shit, yes.”
“We’re in agreement, then.”
Dale Scott had been happy to come home early. But while they worked cordially and politely for the next two weeks, replacing Zack’s gear on Soyuz 30S with Dale’s, the two never discussed the matter.
Even after Zack returned and they crossed paths in debriefs or Monday morning astronaut meetings, they never had a private conversation about what Dale had done wrong.
From one of his Russian colleagues, he heard what he had always suspected, that Zack Stewart had informed Houston about Dale Scott’s unwillingness to play with the others...that after three weeks of observation, it was Stewart who had made the call to send Dale home early—incidentally giving himself the U.S. record for time in space.
Fine. Whatever. Dale knew he had underperformed. Had circumstances been reversed, he would have dropped the hammer on Stewart, too.
But what was unforgivable was this: Zack Stewart had been too fucking cowardly to tell Dale face-to-face.
Besides, it was clear that Dale’s problems extended beyond Zack Stewart. Chief astronaut Handler was notably cool toward him...and when, after eight months, Dale realized he had no new assignment, not as an instructor or even as a loanee to one of the new commercial companies, he made plans to get out of Houston.
He was drinking too much. From his childhood experiences with an alcoholic father, he knew that was a bad sign—
His postflight public relations tour gave him the opportunity...he had learned that ISRO, the Indian space agency, was looking for people who knew the Soyuz to help with their version of the venerable Russian craft.
He had gotten a résumé to them, been hired at twice the money he could have expected in a comparable job in the United States (assuming any space-related company would hire a NASA dropout), and the rest, as Dale
liked to say, was history.
Now, well, shit had happened, and here he was, once again dealing with the same dynamics that had so frustrated him on earth. Not only Zack Stewart, but Shane Weldon, Gabriel Jones. Bad enough that Indian baggage like Vikram Nayar and Valentina Makarova had come along, but these guys from Houston! For Dale it was like being sent back to junior high school—
Things were going to be different now. He wasn’t going to smile and play the game.... There was no game. There were no rules.
If he wanted something, he was going to get it.
With Valya’s help.
Number one...punch that self-righteous fucker Zack Stewart in the face.
At the moment, however, his perpetual target was up, pushing Harley Drake and his chair toward him.
On the way, they were intercepted by Shane Weldon.
It was time for Dale Scott to declare himself.
“Hey, Shane,” he said, interrupting an intense conversation. “Just wanted to say good luck on the election tomorrow.” He offered his hand, too.
Weldon didn’t hesitate. “You, too,” he said, though it was clear that even saying that much was painful for him.
Then Dale turned to Zack. “Hey, Zack, we haven’t seen each other in a while. Strange to be here like this, huh?”
“Strange is a pretty weak word for it.”
“Sorry to hear about Megan and, well, all that.” Whatever that was; he’d had a tough time getting information on the “resurrection” from Vikram or his little pet, Makali, the so-called exospecialist. But he had the general outline.
“Thanks.”
“I’ve got to ask you one thing, though.” He put his arm around Zack’s shoulder, winking at Harley Drake, who looked as though he wanted to shoot him.
“Yeah?”
“Does this qualify as a spaceflight?”
Dead silence! Oh, it was wonderful! Neither Zack, Harley, nor Weldon had any idea what to say.
Finally Zack found his voice. “Why does it matter?”
“If it is, and you’re the commander...could you work your magic and get me sent home early again?”
Heaven's War Page 10
