Grounded!

by Claremont, Chris

  She wasn’t sure she liked that, either way. She preferred standing alone. It was how she sailed, and why she flew. To define and dictate her own destiny. Of course, objectively, she knew that was a crock. Nobody, especially pilots, especially spacers, was an island unto themselves. Your life depended on a small army, starting with the team that designed the vehicle and its attendant systems, moving on through the ones who built it to those who maintained it, ending with the crew who shared its operation. You trusted everybody to do their job, so you could do yours. Your life depended on that. A failure anywhere along that line, the consequences could be catastrophic. But there always came a point where you could take matters into your own hands, meld your skill and smarts and whatever else went into the mix with the moment to win or lose, survive or die.

  Now, suddenly, her life felt cut to pieces and scattered across the floor. And even though she felt ready and willing to gather them up and fit them together into a new mosaic, there were all these people trying to help. And while she was grateful, because she knew she needed it—and flattered beyond words to know as well that they cared—it hurt to realize that they might not only be able to do a better job than Nicole herself, but that without them she might not even succeed.

  Kymri had no use for transport; he considered the run out across the flight line his warm-up and the return, a fair cool-down. Twice, he broke out in sprints that forced Nicole and Amy to pedal for all they were worth just to keep up—hard enough on a decent road surface, absolute murder on open country. Your way of demonstrating Hal superiority, you fuzzy son of a bitch, she snarled grimly to herself, or maybe determining what I’m capable of? Whichever, she hated him for it, shards of fire sizzling up and down the long muscles of her thighs, with equivalent aches at the knees and hips. Keep it up, buster, she cried silently, and I guarantee you’ll find out! And then chanting a privately profane mantra to goad herself to an even greater effort, one word to a breath: “Helluva. Fucking. Way. To. Start. The. Goddamn. Fucking. Morning!”

  Dirt became asphalt as they crossed onto one of the taxi-ways leading from the South Complex to the field proper, and almost immediately a light flashed on the com unit clipped to her handlebars. She pulled up, calling to Amy and Kymri to do the same, while she slipped a headset over one ear and acknowledged the transmission.

  “Remote Nine”—that was the ident tag given them by the Tower when they’d originally crossed the field—“hold position for arriving aircraft. HighJump inbound, direct approach off the Curve. ETA, less than five.”

  “Shit,” she muttered, pulling a pair of full-size headsets from her saddlebags, shading her eyes with her free hand while she swept the horizon for any sign of the approaching aircraft.

  “A problem,” Kymri asked.

  “Took us longer to get off that ridge than I thought,” she told him, “we’re stuck here ’til Kinsella lands. And for a few minutes after, to allow any toxics off her exhaust to dissipate. Better take one of these”—handing him a ’set and Amy the other—“coming straight in off its suborbital trajectory, the pig’s a screamer.”

  The headsets had built-in transceivers, so everyone could still converse—with each other and the Tower. Nicole had only brought two, so when the time came, she’d have to improvise. But she didn’t see that as being much of a problem. The flight wasn’t supposed to touch down anywhere near them, this hold was simply a standard precaution.

  “As well as being the fastest way of getting from point to point on the globe,” she explained to Kymri, “the hypersonic ScramJets are our primary transportation system up to low orbit. Which means, since they fly above the eighty-kilometer line—the official boundary between atmosphere and true space—their flight crews have to be rated astronauts. Public and private sector both. NASA handles Ground School in Texas, then the crews come here for flight training. Cost and expertise being what they are, Edwards also happens to be the only place on Earth equipped to do the job.” She smiled, but not altogether with humor. “Of course, we charge the commercial carriers for the privilege, helps NASA and Systems Command write off some operating expenses—no small consideration these days, seems like the whole government’s semiprivatized, one way and another. Trouble is, too many bods, on both sides of the desk, seem to have problems remembering who we blue suits are supposed to be working for. That’s what I like about space, those lines are still clearly drawn.”

  “There,” Amy cried excitedly, “just above the sun, and to the right.”

  “Got it. Good eyes, kiddo, gold star for you.” Out of the corner of her eye, Nicole caught a grin of shy delight, and answered it with one of her own. “Downwind leg, about to turn onto base. Nominal profile.”

  “A magnificent sight,” Kymri commented.

  “Boeing-seven, state of the art. Only two companies produce commercial ScramJets, Boeing and the Europeans. They’re not ferociously profitable, less than a half-dozen airlines operate ’em. And not that many more airports can handle the traffic—New York, Los Angeles, London, Tokyo, Singapore, Sydney. Most everybody else still loafs along in the wide-bodies, same as they have for the better part of a century.”

  “The eternal, inescapable paradox—we fly to the stars with an ease that beggars the imagination, yet find it infinitely harder to traverse our local system, or the world of our birth.”

  “You have the same problem?”

  She heard the scratchy, subvocalized rumble of Kymri’s laughter. “Is it not the hope that we two species are more alike than apart? We are all bound by the same laws of physics.”

  “In entertainment, it’s so much easier. Teleportation beams, or power systems that allow a vessel of any mass and configuration to make planet-fall, and boost with ease back to vacuum.”

  “Still, Nicole, in your own literature, this very conversation would be considered total fiction barely a generation ago.”

  Now it was her turn to grin, which turned into a yawn as she absently scratched a bit of dry skin by her elbow. “Good point.”

  “I believe Kinsella-Colonel’s work in the simulator was exemplary,” noted in a tone of voice so dry it was positively arid.

  “Yup,” she nodded.

  “You have no faith?” he asked. “In the simulator?”

  “Love the beast. Finest toy ever invented. Probably saved my ass, more’n once, certainly damn near cost me my career.”

  “I recall, from your dossier. Elias-Doctor—the Chief Astronaut—almost separated you from the astronaut program after you failed a simulation flight.”

  She looked at him, wondering what he didn’t know about her.

  “Got cocky,” she said, “got careless, made a stupid mistake. Learned, I hope, my lesson. But that’s the thing about a simulator, Kym, you can make mistakes. It’s also the greatest danger. Because there’s a different feel to reality. Not the sense of the vehicle, or the flight conditions—they can duplicate that so perfectly now, it beggars belief. But nothing’s at risk there. You screw the pooch, the operator simply recycles the simulation and starts again. Not an option on a live approach. Here, bang, you’re mortal. And very aware of it. Some folks can’t make the adjustment. By the same token, some magnificent natural fliers can’t hack the simulator; they can’t surrender to the illusion, they don’t take the moment seriously. They’ll never make a mistake outside, but in the box, they simply don’t care, it’s all a game.” Off to the side, Amy was nodding sagely, probably because Nicole’s feelings echoed her own about her brother. Nicole had always faced a healthy rivalry with her younger siblings, especially the twins, but there was something in Amy’s undertone—the faintest yet sharpest of edges—that bothered her.

  “How was it with you?”

  “Little of both.” She stiffened, eyes narrowing fractionally. “Edwards Ground, Remote Nine.”

  “Nine, go.”

  “Reference one-one-Delta-Bravo, am I wrong or didn’t the Master Plot sked the flight out on the dirt, over?”

  Fractional pause, whi
le the duty controller called up the file. “Ay-firm, Remote Nine,” he told her, “Aircraft Commander made an in-flight request to change over to a runway approach, three-five left. That’s why you gotta hold. Sorry about that. We tried to alert you, but you didn’t have your ‘ears’ on, over.”

  “Appreciate the thought. We’ll know better next time. Nine, out.”

  “Is something wrong with that?” Kymri asked.

  Nicole shrugged. “First approach, you generally come down on the lake. Kilometers of flat hardpan, plenty of room to correct any mistakes. Runway, even with the overrun beyond, isn’t as forgiving. Which is probably precisely why a hotshot fast-tracker like Grace chose the option. Couldn’t be satisfied with simply executing a manual proficiency reentry, the lady just has to strut her stuff.”

  “Nicole... ”

  “Shit!”

  “ ...the approach is off.”

  “I see it. She cut the corner too tight turning onto base, that doesn’t leave her a whole helluva lot of margin to set down. Not a major problem, though, especially since the Scrammer’s maneuvering under power; she simply hangs a right, goes out a few klicks at altitude before pulling a one-eighty and resuming the approach. Wouldn’t be the first time—had to do it myself, once—matter of fact, the maneuver’s programmed into the flight control system.” Nicole’s mouth twisted slightly. “Probably piss Grace off no end, though.”

  “She is turning towards us,” Kymri noted quietly.

  “Oboy. Time to pray, Colonel, you’re as good as you like to think you are, and dump some sky.” And the ScramJet did precisely that, going into a dive that resembled the kamikaze approaches used by the first-generation Rockwell shuttles in the previous century. In what seemed like an eyeblink, the dot in the distance took on discernible shape and size.

  “Shit,” Nicole breathed, and her body was taut with sympathetic tension, “she’s way off-line.”

  “Is there danger?” Kymri asked.

  “On the lake, you can land pretty much along any vector. Although generally it’s safer—certainly easier—to touch down where there are marked-off runways. That isn’t an option here. Got no choice now, she’ll have to abort and go around for a second try. Grace, don’t!” she cried as the hypersonic transport suddenly slipped sideways through the air.

  By slicing across the line of attack, the smooth flow of air over the wings was instantly and violently disrupted. Deprived of the lift that kept it airborne, the plane dropped like a stone. Behind her, in the distance, in the direction of the main field, Nicole registered the hooting of the alarm klaxon, scrambling the crash crews. But her attention was focused on the ScramJet.

  “C’mon, Gracie, quit screwing around, you’re almost out of sky, let’s see some smarts, slap those throttles, Kinsella, boost it boost it what’re you waiting for a bloody invitation boost it! Yes!” Her voice building to a yell even as a distant rumble swelled past them to crash against the hillsides like a cresting wave. The great needle of an aircraft, impossibly long and slender, with wings that seemed hardly able to support the fuselage, much less the monster engines slung beneath, flattened out its descent, skimming the desert at barely a hundred meters while Kinsella dropped both flaps and gear. Then it flashed off the lake and over the concrete of the base’s main runway, the banshee shriek of its engines stabbing through the hands she’d cupped over her ears. Nicole saw smoke as the main gear touched, contact friction burning off the wheels’ outer layer in the split second before they started spinning; then a second roar—louder and more impossibly punishing than the first—shook the air around them as the thrust reversers kicked in, gateways opening in the engine nacelles to direct the airflow forward instead of back and slow the ScramJet almost to a stop.

  “Edwards Ground,” Nicole called, watching the distant aircraft clear onto the taxiway with surprising daintiness, perched atop its stalklike landing gear. In this instance, that appearance was mightily deceptive, because those struts were thicker in diameter than she was. “Remote Nine requesting clearance to cross the active, over.”

  “Nine, Tower,” came the immediate reply, “you take it slow for about five minutes, you should have no problem. Next scheduled traffic in fifteen, over.”

  “No prob, we’re rolling.”

  “You would prefer to run, I think,” Kymri said as they started on their way. She didn’t trust herself to reply. “A successful landing makes you so angry?”

  “She should have known better.” His turn to play the mute, forcing her to fill the silence. Her rage allowed her no alternative. “That’s a stunt you pull—Christ, you think twice about it in a piston plane, something like my Baron. Rupture positive airflow on a jet—any jet, but especially that beauty—and you’re flying a brick.”

  “She succeeded.”

  “She got lucky.”

  “You do not allow for her obvious skills? Are you so sure of yourself, Nicole?”

  “No, I’m not sure, and maybe she is God’s Gift, I dunno. But that was pudknocker flying”—throwing out an arm for emphasis in the general direction of the ScramJet—“she was showing off. She made a mistake—hey, it happens, that’s why Edwards exists—but she didn’t acknowledge it. She fought it. Sod, the buggers only cost upward of a bil apiece, who cares if you splatter one? ’Course, there is the small matter of her crew.”

  “Are you jealous, Nicole... ”

  “Gimme a break!”

  “ ...that she took a gamble, that perhaps to her was a calculated risk, and won? What would you have done in her position?”

  “Gone around, of course. I’m not paid to be a hero, Kymri, just to fly airplanes. And that doesn’t include turning them into wrecks.”

  “Perhaps then, you see her as someone who is what you no longer dare to be.”

  She swung her leg over the bike, and settled herself on the seat, face set as she glared at him, belatedly aware of Amelia on her own bike a little beyond him. “My apologies, sir, but I think it’s past time we got back to where we’re supposed to be. We’ve a full day’s work ahead and standing here won’t get it done. Sir.”

  She rode hard, pushing herself past the aircraft parked on the flight line and out the main gate, almost daring the sentries to challenge her as she flashed her ID at them on the way past. That they didn’t was more due to the sight of Kymri pacing along a couple of short steps right behind her than any recognition of who she was. Up Popson Avenue, along the bike path out to Housing Sector Bravo, she hung a louie at Kincheloe, didn’t stop, didn’t slow, until she pulled into her own driveway. And then, without a word, or even a backward glance, she hefted the bike onto her shoulder and strode inside.

  Her heart was hammering as she climbed into the tub, setting off an icy trembling that reached from the base of her throat down to deep within her belly. For a moment, she just stood, resting hands on the cool tile, mind off-line in a soft fugue—aware of where she was and what she should be doing, she knew what came next, it’s that she found herself unable to bring it into being. A flash of total inertia, here I stand, here I’ll stay. She was panting, but it had nothing to do with physical exertion. Kymri’s words kept bouncing in her head, like a squash ball in perpetual motion, coming at her from every conceivable dimension, with her always reacting a split second out of phase, turning as it ripped past. She thrust an arm blindly towards the tap, slapping the shower full on, gasping at the shock of the first burst of spray, intensely cold from sitting in the pipes all night. Warmed up fast, though, and she let it cascade off her head, down her back, hoping it would soothe her out of her panic.

  Panic, it was. A tidal wall of primal terror that she hadn’t felt since her first deep-space EVA, in those first, fateful, make-or-break seconds after stepping out of the spacecraft, when she realized there was nothing around her in any direction but empty space for as far as the eye could see. Which was forever. And the ancient animal in the bottom of her brain, conditioned by millions of years of evolution, reared up and shrieked its fear—bec
ause as far as it was concerned, if there was nothing (like the ground) to hold you up, then you fell.

  It wasn’t a common response in local Earth space, because astronauts had the Earth and the Moon as reference points, subconscious reassurance that there was indeed something to hold on to. A top and bottom to the Universe. No such luck in the Beyond.

  But she’d worked her way through it. Training, common sense, her rational intelligence and the character mated to it ganged up on the animal, put it back where it belonged.

  Here, though, none of that seemed to help. Kymri’s voice became Elias’s and suddenly her head was crowding with the trio that formed the Flight Review Board; it wasn’t so much an examination, not that part of her evaluation, the traditional tests were behind her and she knew she’d aced them. There was no sense even of it being a formal interrogation. They met five times, which she knew now was way out of line. Standard procedure was two sessions, three max, and each of her last two ran longer than the first three combined. They sat and talked, pilot to pilot, every one a spacer as well as a shrink.

  And when they were done, so was she. And she wasn’t even sure why. That was the most awful part, sensing instinctively that something was wrong, but unable to lock it down.

  Is this it, she wondered, folding at the knees and hips into a corner of the tub, face twisting with pain even though every part of her was numb, telling herself that all the water on her face came from the showerhead and that the taste of salt was just sweat. A loss of nerve?

  But a pilot had to be careful—playing the flash-ass was the surest way to getting your picture mounted on the Hotshots’s memorial wall. No, she told herself, resting her head forward on her hands as though it had become a weight too intolerable to bear. “No,” and this time, she spoke aloud, with a flat, rough finality that wouldn’t be denied. A pilot has to know the capabilities of her craft, when to push, when to back off, what’s the gamble, what’s the calculated risk. And the ultimate craft of course, the core key without which all the rest was essentially bullshit, was the pilot herself.