Frontier

by Patrick Chiles

“So you just leapt into the void, hell for leather?” The twinkle in his eyes signaled that he wasn’t that upset. “Never mind. You can tell me the details later, and I promise it stays between us. Your mother doesn’t need to know.”

  Marshall heaved out a relieved sigh. “I appreciate that.” He waited for Ryan’s copilot and loadmaster to follow him through the airlock. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”

  Rumors, valid or otherwise, spread quickly among such a small crew and in fact Marshall was beginning to wonder if he’d been the only person aboard who hadn’t known his father would be piloting the Clipper that was taking Riley and the others back to Earth. By the time they’d made their rounds, everyone aboard had met their civilian guests and heard at least one threat to relate embarrassing stories from his childhood. That didn’t end when they arrived at their last stop, the command deck. “Skipper’s in the cupola,” Marshall said, pointing to a pair of feet clad in sneakers dangling out of the opening.

  “I can tell,” Ryan said, and raised his voice. “He’s still the only astro I know who wears shoes in orbit.”

  The sneakers disappeared as Poole tucked and rolled, his ballcap-covered head emerging from the dome. “I’m a clumsy S.O.B. and it hurts less when I bang my toes against a bulkhead.” He flew down from the cupola to give Ryan a firm handshake and a slap on the shoulder. “Good to see you.” He looked past him to Marshall and handed him a slip of paper from the command deck’s small thermal printer. “That’ll be all, Mister Hunter. I’ll take it from here. I believe you’re needed back in medical.”

  Marshall quickly read the message. “Aye, sir, that I am,” he said, and headed back down into the gangway tunnel after giving his dad a wink.

  Ryan inclined his head back in his son’s direction. “I was telling your young ensign here there was no way I wasn’t going to take this trip.” He lowered his voice, keeping the rest between them. “How’s he handling not being in a flight billet?”

  “Somehow I just knew you’d ask that.” Simon looked away, turning pensive. “You know, I once had a former aviator assigned to my boat. Lost his medical and thought submarines sounded interesting. Aced the school, but he never could break his old habits when he got to the fleet. Too used to being in charge of his own machine, I guess. That doesn’t work on a crewed vessel, under water or in space.” He turned back to Ryan. “I haven’t seen that so far, maybe because he hasn’t been on his own yet. If he’s bitching, he’s keeping it to himself. No less than I’d expect from any of my officers.”

  Ryan beamed. “Appreciate that, Simon. And thanks for looking out for him.”

  “Oh, I’m not done. Clearly there’s been a parenting failure,” Simon taunted. “The kid keeps trying to get himself killed.”

  Ryan sighed. “He’s always been like that. His mother didn’t think he’d make it to first grade.”

  “And how is Marcy?”

  “Excited. Worried sick. Everything in between.” His tone suggested she wasn’t alone. “You guys are going an awfully long way, you know. On really short notice.”

  Simon shrugged. “Part of the job. We expected something like this would happen eventually. Hell, I started running mission scenarios as soon as the Jiangs announced their wild-ass expedition. Already had a plan in my back pocket that Fleet HQ approved because they didn’t have anything better.”

  “Sounds like they’re swamped down there. There’s already talk of Congress funding more ships like this one.”

  Simon nodded. If that was news to him, he didn’t show it. “We have to be prepared. It’s only a matter of time before somebody thinks it’s in their interest to get aggressive up here. There’s already enough people with plenty of money and big ideas, and trouble seems to always follow.” His eyes bored in on Ryan’s. “Speaking of which, have you met your passenger yet?”

  Ryan knew he wasn’t talking about the crewmembers he was taking earthward. “Lesko? Saw him in the med module, along with that spacer Marshall went after.”

  Simon arched an eyebrow, looking for a reaction: And?

  “Little squirrely, isn’t he? I mean, he went through some pretty hairy times up here.” He gave Simon a knowing look. “But then, so have we.”

  “We’re trained for it, though. You know their story, right? This kid got a few weeks of total-immersion training, then he’s strapped into a capsule and shot up into GEO to revive a dead satellite. Ended up getting three other people killed and nearly did himself in, too.”

  “GEO sats still aren’t cheap,” Ryan said. “A lot of awfully expensive birds have been going dark lately. If they’ve found a way to bring some of them back, there could be a lot of money in it.”

  “I always thought that most of the dead ones could be serviced remotely by other satellites. Getting to geosynch takes almost as much delta-v as going to the Moon. Plus you have more exposure to the nasty parts of the Van Allen belts, which they just had a hard lesson in.” Simon crossed his arms. “You know the commercial side of this better than I. Who the hell takes that kind of risk?”

  “That’s the downside of all this becoming part of the landscape,” Ryan said, circling his hands for emphasis. “More people come up here thinking they’ve invented the next killer app. Some of them are occasionally right.”

  “Not everyone is an Elon Musk or Art Hammond,” Simon agreed. “But there’s a boatload of P. T. Barnums.”

  * * *

  Floating down the connecting tunnel, Marshall stopped at the medical module and began to pull himself inside when he saw Garver hovering in front of their passenger, Nick Lesko, in what appeared to be a tense conversation.

  Lesko was agitated, turning his body back and forth in an awkward imitation of pacing in zero g. “You’ve already been giving me radiation meds. I’m telling you, I can’t spend two weeks in the hospital! That’s not going to happen!”

  Garver waved his hands in a “calm down” motion. “Petty Officer Rosado already explained, Mr. Lesko. The potassium iodide treatments were precautionary, and your body may react differently once you’re back in gravity. We’re not equipped to provide a full assessment of your exposure, particularly your bone marrow.”

  “I’ll worry about that with my own doctor when I’m back on Earth and have time.”

  “You need testing and treatment right away, Mr. Lesko, by the same protocols our spacewalkers will have to go through. You need to make time. Schriever’s base hospital has access to all kinds of specialists in radiation sickness.”

  “Lots of people do lots of things, like me. My . . . sponsors . . . need me back on the job as soon as my feet touch dirt. Why should I listen to you?”

  “Because you really don’t want leukemia,” Marshall interjected. “Before you closed up your storm shelter, you were exposed to dangerously high doses of ionizing radiation, as was our crewmen who went after you.”

  “I’m not sick,” he protested.

  “Of course you’re not. Yet. Let’s see how you feel when you’re back in gravity. If you start feeling dizzy or nauseated, then let the medics take you to the base hospital. Until we can treat you for radiation exposure, you’re potentially a hazard to others.” Which wasn’t exactly true, but he was banking on Lesko’s ignorance.

  “What, are you saying I’m radioactive?”

  “Just your stool,” Marshall said. “That’s how the treatments will pass contaminants out of your body. The docs will want to check that to see how you’re progressing.”

  “I’m supposed to believe they’re going to test my turds?”

  “You can believe whatever you want,” Marshall shrugged. “I’m just telling you how this is going to go. Now, you have one choice: you ride back to Earth on that Clipper, or you’re stuck with us for the next couple of months.”

  “You mean back to a military base,” Lesko sneered.

  “I also meant it wasn’t really a choice. We won’t have the resources to keep a passenger onboard with us for that long. You’ll be a literal waste of oxygen while
you just sit here dying, either of boredom or cancer.”

  “So where does that leave me?”

  “It leaves you in the first-class cabin of a chartered Clipper back to Earth, which is pretty much all first class. Uncle Sam just bought you a six-figure ticket home, and you’re taking it. If that comes with strings attached, then I suggest you remember how you got here.” He paused to let that sink in. “So let me break this down for you, Mr. Lesko: You’re going back to Earth on the ride we’re providing. You can either do that willingly, or we will sedate you right now and strap you in. Personally, I’d rather be able to look out the window instead of drooling all over myself.”

  Lesko steamed, his eyes darting between Marshall and the master chief. “Damned sailors . . . spacers . . . whatever, I don’t even know what to call you people.”

  “Rescuers would be a good start,” Marshall said. “You could still be stuck in that docking tunnel up in GEO instead of getting ready to go home.”

  Lesko chewed on his bottom lip as he thought it over. “Yeah, okay. You’ve got a deal.”

  Marshall looked him in the eye. “Good. Now, follow our people down to the forward node and get yourself seated. You guys are leaving within the hour.”

  Lesko gathered what few items he had and clumsily pushed his way into the corridor.

  “Well done, sir,” Garver said quietly after Lesko made his way forward. “He’s been in space for three weeks. He’s going to feel dizzy and nauseous no matter what.” That he would think it was from radiation poisoning and not simply his body reacquainting itself with gravity would ensure he ended up in a secure wing of the base hospital. “I was wondering how we’d coerce him to not feeling, well, coerced.”

  “You already got the order from the captain, then?”

  Garver waved his tablet. “Skipper texted me a couple of minutes before you got here, sir. They’ll have that young man buttoned up nice and tight once he’s dirt-side.”

  “Did he really have that much radiation exposure?” Marshall wondered, unsure himself but it was the best card to play at the time. Lesko still seemed to have no idea of what he’d gotten himself into up here.

  Garver shook his head. “Judging by his dosimeter and what he told us, most of it came at the very beginning. He got zapped a little while their airlock was open to space and picked up some more while he was camped out with you guys on Specter. He’s at a higher risk of cancer but it’s not enough to get anyone’s panties in a twist. The powers that be just want us to keep an eye on him.”

  “Nothing came up in his background when we brought him aboard,” Marshall said. “But how deep do those manifest checks go?”

  “Not very,” Garver said. “Nothing came up on his dead crewmates with one exception. Two of them are former commercial astronauts, hired for their expertise. The pilot lost his first-class medical a few years ago so he could only fly private clients like this one. The spacewalker was a freelance contractor, former ESA astronaut.”

  “So who’s the exception?”

  “The young guy you found in Stardust, William Burns. He apparently liked to go by the hacker handle ‘Xenos.’ He had a few run-ins with cybercrime units in college, mostly nuisance stuff. Looks like he wanted legit work so Lesko’s people brought him on as a programmer.”

  “Lesko’s an odd duck,” Marshall said. “Even for this type of work.”

  “Especially for this type of work, sir. I’ve seen every variation of nerd there is, but he’s a different animal. Like he ought to be running a casino, not a space mission.”

  “On-orbit satellite repair isn’t something I’d expect for a mob front operation.”

  Marshall met his father back in the forward docking node where his Clipper was berthed. His loadmaster was finishing the grim task of placing Nick Lesko’s companions in the spaceplane’s aft cargo bay.

  “Is this a first?” Marshall asked. “Transporting human remains, I mean.”

  Ryan’s eyes grew distant, sorrowful. He shook his head. “Not at all. That’s one reason I took the trip. The precautions we follow are the ones I developed.”

  From experience, Marshall realized. As he’d grown up, he’d found his father open to answering nearly any question, but much remained unspoken. As he watched his father inspect their manifest and reentry plan, Marshall noticed his demeanor change. The gleam in his eyes when he’d first arrived was gone. His eyes turned dark, focused and intent. Already on a tight schedule, Marshall was beginning to see how working in space seemed to compress time itself—not from any weird relativistic physics, it was all just how much work even simple tasks could take. While perhaps a leftover from NASA days, activities in orbit were planned down to the minute because they’d learned whatever they did would eat up just about every minute assigned to them.

  The passengers—Marshall’s crewmates—had quietly made their way through the airlock and into the cabin. He’d expected nothing less from professionals, though he also knew none of them wanted to be rotated home right now. Even Lesko seemed more reserved than before. Had Garver or Rosie managed to sedate him somehow? He acknowledged Marshall with a curt nod and floated through the open hatchway and into his seat without protest.

  After conferring with the Clipper’s loadmaster and flight attendant, Commander Wicklund was the last to board. He swiped at his tablet, sending a file to Ryan’s. “There’s some last-minute cargo,” he explained. “Will that be a problem?”

  “Doubtful. We’re pretty light.” Ryan added up the additional mass. “A few extra boxes and bags are no big deal. We just need time to secure the load.” He pulled up the passenger manifest. “Looks like all your people are accounted for.”

  “I lined ’em up and did a head count before they boarded. I’ll do another once I’m seated just to make sure there’s no stowaways left back here,” he said, only half joking. “There’s not a single person on your plane who wants to be there.” He shot a knowing glance at Marshall. “Except one.” And with that, he floated through the hatch, pushed off the ceiling, and twirled into the half-full cabin to land in an open seat directly behind Lesko. After a quick head count, he pulled on his shoulder and lap belts and closed his eyes, patiently awaiting their departure.

  Ryan turned back to his son. “Not very subtle.”

  “I’m still learning to read him,” Marshall said under his breath. “I’m never sure how much of it is intentional.”

  Ryan laughed. “If he’s even a halfway decent XO, it’s all intentional. But you didn’t hear that from me.”

  An awkward silence passed between them, as happens when final goodbyes are imminent. There could be no putting it off; the strictures of orbital mechanics were more pitiless than any airline schedule. Ryan Hunter and his Clipper could stay up here for days, but if Borman were to meet its schedule then they had to separate on this orbit.

  Ryan spoke first. “I was telling Simon—excuse me, the captain—your mother’s worried sick.”

  “She’s been up here enough to understand the risks, Dad.”

  “Exactly.”

  That took Marshall by surprise. “You’re worried too?”

  “Your mom’s worried. I’m apprehensive. There’s a difference. When it comes to your kids, some things stick with you forever.” Ryan looked away for a moment, as if searching for something in the distant past he could grasp to better explain the here and now. “You were still little, not long after we moved to Colorado. We were looking through that old telescope of mine, and you asked me if you could go to the Moon like I did.”

  “There’s a lot from back then I try not to remember.” Marshall had never been able to fully bury his memories of the Comet Weatherby impact off Florida. A therapist might call that healthy, but neither he nor his mother had voluntarily been back to the ocean since then. “But I do remember that scope.”

  “I was still raw from that little escapade myself,” Ryan admitted, thinking he’d lost his young family while in a fight for his own life on the far side of the Moo
n. He locked eyes with his son. “I didn’t want you going anywhere near there, not like I did. Now you’re going even farther, into who knows what.”

  “That was different,” Marshall said with the bravado of inexperienced youth. “We’re on a rescue mission. It’s what we do.”

  “I know,” Ryan said. “That’s how it started out with me, too.” He put his hands on Marshall’s shoulders. “Just keep your wits about you and listen to Simon.”

  “I kind of have to, Dad,” Marshall said glibly. “He’s the captain.”

  “I don’t mean follow orders. Pay attention to him. That man has forgotten more about spacefaring than most career astronauts think they know.” And with that, Ryan gave his son a tight hug. When he pulled away, Marshall noticed him wipe at an eye and give a silent you got this nod before pushing away for his own spacecraft.

  Marshall watched as his father curled around a corner to disappear down the tunnel. “Bye, Dad,” he whispered to himself.

  18

  Try as she might, Roberta could not stay focused on her new tasks in ROV control despite—or because of—the recent crushing workload. She kept glancing over her shoulder at the row of consoles at the opposite end of the room: Fleet Operations, which as of now worked exclusively as the Borman’s mission control team. The ship was designed to be mostly autonomous, in anticipation of a small fleet of them to eventually be in service keeping the space lanes between Earth and Moon safe. Having only one such ship in orbit allowed the team to pay an inordinate amount of attention to every detail aboard, which she suspected was steadily driving the crew nuts.

  “Something funny?” Ivey asked from behind her. “Because you’re grinning like an idiot.”

  Roberta snapped out of it, making her distraction even more obvious. “Nothing. Sorry. Let myself get sidetracked.”

  He looked past her to Fleet Ops. “Could be worse. You could be riding a console over there and imagining what it’s like aboard ship. At least here you’re getting real work done.”