by S. K. Vaughn
Stephen watched as Robert worked the room, clearly one of his favorite pastimes. Everything about him was a front, a gilded facade with glad hands at the gates. In addition to appearing to have recently undergone yet another unnamed plastic surgery procedure, which had turned his face into a bronzed bullet with a permanent white grin, he was speaking to people at a volume loud enough to reach the entire room. Typical politician behavior, Stephen thought, forcing the world to take a whiff of you, even if they were holding their noses. For all the brilliant people surrounding him, he was really nothing more than a glorified carnival barker, selling tickets to one of the biggest scientific spectacles in history.
Henry Warren, Robert’s iconic father, had played a similar role. As an industrialist and career politician, he’d served on and chaired several committees that had been responsible for the advancement of space exploration. NASA might have drowned in its own archaic culture if it hadn’t been for Iron Hank, and that was something the Warren family, especially Robert, would never let anyone forget. Fortunately for Stephen, Robert’s sole purpose in life was to crawl out from under dear old Dad’s formidable shadow. He carved out a niche for himself early on by focusing on the often unpopular area of deep-space exploration. When he’d seen that Stephen was poised to redefine humanity’s past and future with his work, Robert felt as though he’d found his Apollo 11.
Stephen heard the clink of silver on glass. “Oh shit,” he said, knowing what that meant.
Robert had moved back to his VIP table and was holding up his wine glass, tapping it with a spoon. Others followed suit, tapping to beat the band and please their master.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to propose a toast,” he called out.
The crowd cheered, and some started to drink.
“Hold on just a moment. You’re not going to get off that easy,” he joked, alluding to his propensity for long-winded speeches, and got a murmur of laughter. “I just want to say how excited I am to be a part of the Europa Mission—although I can’t fully discuss it because most of you don’t have a security clearance. . . .”
More good-natured laughter from the crowd.
“I am willing to go out on a limb and make a modest prediction: Life as we know it will probably be changed forever.”
Robert did so love to work a room.
“Since some of you will soon be departing for Europa, and you won’t be seeing real food like what has been lavishly thrust at you tonight for a very long time, I’ll try to be brief. Someone once said that for every brilliant advance in science, there is someone on whom the world must bestow the glory . . . and the blame. The Europa Mission would be nothing without the man whose life’s work has brought all of us here, and that will take us further than we’ve ever gone before. Ladies and gentlemen, Dr. Stephen Knox. Where are you, Stephen?”
He knew exactly where Stephen was. Feigning a search of the room was how he got people settled and quiet. Stephen’s date clapped giddily and nudged Stephen to stand up. When he did, Robert looked at him and smiled proudly, like the owner of a prize thoroughbred taking home the roses on Derby day.
“Stephen Knox, maker of worlds, this is for you.”
Stephen cringed so hard he thought maybe he pulled a muscle. Robert raised his glass higher, whipping the crowd into a healthy lather.
“Now you may drink, you animals.”
Drinks were downed, hands shaken. Stephen received so many pats on the back that he thought his chicken cordon bleu was going to come back up. When it was over, he did what any self-respecting scientist with narrow social skills and a venomous hatred of small talk would have done: he got the hell out of there. Having spied a balcony the size of a football field when he arrived earlier, he made a break for it, relishing the idea of getting some fresh air and then totally destroying it with a cigarette. He slipped through the heavily draped doors and into the sultry evening air, found a shadowed corner to hide in, and admired the stars while he puffed away. Orion’s head was in view, but the rest of him was obscured by high clouds.
“Leave it to me to run over the boss.”
A woman’s voice rose from a nearby cocktail table. It was May. At first, he didn’t recognize her, dressed to the nines in a snug, knee-length cocktail dress that made her look like a movie star or a superhero. When he did, he felt a twinge in the wound that was still healing on his wrist. He thought about being nice, but the food, booze, and bad date were not agreeing with him. So why be agreeable?
“Just when I thought the night couldn’t get any worse,” he said, stubbing out his cigarette and looking for an exit.
May must have sensed his desire to retreat, because she got out of her chair and walked over to him before he could even think about getting out of his. “I know it’s out of line for me to ask, but could I bum a cigarette? I’m a closet smoker. It’s kind of an occupational hazard. Plus, there’s barely room for lipstick in my tiny rental purse.”
At least she was amusing, which was more than Stephen could say about pretty much everyone in the ballroom. He thought about giving her a flat no, but he had already reached his limit on confrontational behavior and never really got to enjoy his first smoke.
“Sure,” he said baldly.
Ignoring his body language and tone, May sat across from him. He’d been hoping she would take the cigarette and slink away again, but it appeared she was all about colliding with either his body or his mood. She even waited for him to light the damn thing.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve,” he said, lighting it.
“Am I fired?” she asked, blowing just enough smoke in his face to make it intentional.
Her eyes were sharp and predatory, sizing him up. May’s sheer boldness was fascinating and made him forget he was grumpy. He had never possessed the audacity to behave in such a way—confident, assertive, and with an air of not giving a damn. The wound on his wrist itched. He pulled back his sleeve and examined the bandage. A little blood had seeped through. May eyed it, and her swagger turned to empathy.
“Oh dear, that’s going to leave a mark. I am fired, aren’t I?”
“Maryam, right?”
“Yeah, but my victims call me May. And of course your name is Dr. Stephen Knox, the elegant genius behind all this.”
“You can call me Stephen. Or elegant genius. Whatever works.”
“I like Stephen. Especially since it’s spelled correctly.”
“That’s what I tried to tell those assholes back in middle school.”
May laughed. Seeing her smile made him realize how beautiful she was, which made him feel self-conscious, then annoyed. He slipped his jacket sleeve back down over the bandage and put his guard back up.
“So, what’s your role in this monster I’ve helped to create?” he asked.
“Oh, nothing special. I’m just the commander.”
His turn to laugh. “Oh, that’s perfect,” he said.
“I know, right?” May agreed. “The age-old, hackneyed conflict between scientists and astronauts embodied in a low-speed accident with ice-cream-cone casualties.”
“Actually, I was thinking how ironic it was that a highly skilled pilot could be such a menace behind the wheel of a car.”
He was embarrassed that he’d said something so rude but relieved that she didn’t care.
“I’m also pretty bad at apologies,” she said. “I am very sorry for hitting you, gashing your arm, ruining your ice cream . . .”
“. . . ridiculing me in the street in front of a pack of gawkers.”
“Especially for that. I’m really not an awful person . . . most of the time.”
“I’m pretty awful all the time,” Stephen conceded.
“You seem all right to me. Trust me; my asshole detector is top-shelf. Never fails. You’re not even moving the needle.”
“Thanks. I think,” he said. He tried to suck down the last drop of his manhattan and spilled ice all over his jacket. “I meant to do that.”
“Can I get you
a drink?” she offered.
“I don’t know if I can stomach another maraschino cherry,” he said.
“Yeah, those will kill you. Try this.”
May offered him her mother’s dented silver flask. Stephen took a sip and fell into a coughing fit.
“Paint thinner?” he asked hoarsely. “Breakfast of champions.”
May took a long drink. “Scottish road tar remover, actually. Another throat punch, good sir?” she asked, offering the flask.
“Don’t mind if I do. I need something to dissolve the meal they apparently thawed out from 1950.” Stephen drank some more and felt the fire run down his throat. The heat of it spread through his limbs and made his eyes feel heavy. “You came prepared. You must love affairs like this as much as I do,” he said.
“Almost as much as funerals. But at least at those the food is decent.”
“And the booze,” Stephen added.
“Can’t let down the dead with rubber chicken and warm sauvignon blanc. That would just be wrong.”
“Agreed,” Stephen said, looking around pensively.
“Worried your date is looking for you?”
“No, she came with the tuxedo. I was hoping to get out of here before Robert decides to parade me around like livestock. What about you? Tell me you didn’t come alone to the dance of the living dead.”
“I’m married to my job, but she’s not a very good kisser.”
“What a coincidence. Me too. My job never wants me to have any fun. Always nagging me and telling me what to do. Weekend honey-do lists, light beer . . .” Stephen started to loosen his bow tie.
“Don’t do that,” May said, smiling. “That’s the best part of the suit. Besides, Robert will have a fit if you appear to be uncomfortable with the sacrifices of modern fashion.”
“You know him well,” Stephen said, trying to retie his tie.
“Who do you think told me to wear this sequined sausage casing?”
Stephen finished the tie, but it was ridiculously crooked. “How’s that?” he asked.
“Disastrous. Allow me.”
She leaned in and retied it in a few neat movements. Stephen tried to look away, but her eyes and strong hands reeled him back in. “Mind your top knot, that’s what I always say.” When she was done, she helped herself to another of his cigarettes and sat back down.
“Thank you,” Stephen said. “I feel like a gentleman again.”
“Oh no. Perhaps more whiskey will take care of that,” she said, handing him the flask.
Stephen took a long drink.
“Easy there,” May said. “I still need some for the drive home.” She winked.
Stephen was shocked at how at ease he felt with her, even though they couldn’t possibly have been more different in every way. He was simultaneously talking himself into and out of asking her to go have a drink with him somewhere else when Robert walked out to the balcony, searching for him.
“Uh-oh,” May said, quickly stubbing out her smoke. “Looks like Dad wants the car keys back.”
Robert strolled up to them, a knowing grin on his face.
“Robert,” Stephen said cheerfully. “You know May, of course.”
“Of course.” Robert smiled tightly. “Nice to see you, Commander Crosley.”
Robert enjoyed politely reminding people of their so-called station as a passive-aggressive way of keeping them in line. May got the message.
“Evening, sir,” she said, standing formally.
“Stephen, would you mind coming inside for a bit? I’d like to introduce you to some of NASA’s top policymakers. They’re dying to meet you and your stunning intellect.”
Stephen glanced at May. She smiled as if to release him.
“Nice talking to you, Dr. Knox,” she said, politely mocking Robert’s formality.
“You too . . . Commander,” Stephen said, grinning.
As Robert escorted him away, Stephen looked back and saw that May had appropriated his pack of cigarettes. She taunted him, lighting one up and blowing a massive cloud of smoke in their direction.
22
“I’m showing no collateral damage to the rest of the ship,” Eve said.
May was back in the infirmary, recovering from smoke inhalation and the battering she took from the hull breach. Luckily, Eve had been able to put out the fire that started in the labs after the biogarden was jettisoned, but not before nearly mummifying May in fire foam. She was still picking bits of it off her scalp.
“That’s good,” May sighed. “Any idea about the cause?”
“No. My only theory is stress cracks caused by recent tremulous activity.”
“It looked like someone had blown a hole in it with a bazooka.”
“According to my records, we don’t—”
“Have any bazookas on board?” May asked, smiling.
“I see. That was a joke.”
“Obviously not a very good one. If it was caused by tremors, is it possible there are other stress cracks on the ship?”
“I have not detected any.”
“But you didn’t detect the one in the biogarden.”
“Which is puzzling. I looked back at structural sensor data just prior to the breach and found nothing that would have predicted it.”
“Great. Add that to the list of unexplained phenomena waiting to bite me in the ass.”
May’s IV was finished. She pulled the needle and rolled off the gurney. When she tried to stand, the room spun, and she had to quickly lie back down. “Whoa,” she said, feeling a cold sweat break out on her skin. “Dizzy. Must have low sugar again.”
“You’ve just received a large glucose infusion.”
“I know,” May snapped, wondering where the sudden anger came from. “Sorry, Eve. I think all of this is finally getting to me. The more I remember, the more intense my emotions are. And right now, I’m approaching what we humans like to call frazzled.”
“That’s all right, May. Emotional volatility is to be expected with brain injury.”
“I wish that made me feel better, that it’s normal to be abnormal, but it doesn’t.”
“How are you feeling physically?”
“Relative to being unconscious and nearly buried alive in that dreadful foam, good. Relative to my former self, I feel like I’ve aged a decade.”
“I’m sorry this has been so difficult for you. I wish I were able to help more.”
“Stop it, Eve. You’re very helpful. And you’re keeping me sane, which might be the most important job on the ship right now.”
“I try. Cup o’ tea?”
“Oh . . . nice touch of Brit without going too far. And the answer is yes. I would love some more armpit-warm brown water with a hint of tea flavor.”
“How about another pseudo-crumpet made with wallpaper paste to go with it?”
“Excellent.”
“I’ll prepare it in the galley,” Eve said. “Are you up to the walk?”
“I can manage.”
Standing brought back a bit of wooziness, but it subsided, and May went off to the galley. When the food and beverage console spat out her “tea and crumpet,” the smell of the warm cake-like disk made her instantly nauseated.
“Um, Eve,” she said quietly, “this is making my stomach turn like a cheap carnival ride. Let’s try something else. The pot pie was decent, if memory serves.”
“One moment,” Eve replied.
The pot pie was dispensed, but it made her feel even sicker.
“Nope. Dispose of that too, please. I’ll just have some water.”
May put water in a coffee cup and turned her back to the room camera while she poured a good deal of the contents of her mom’s old flask into the mug.
“That’s the ticket,” she said after taking the first sip.
She relaxed in a chair and examined the old hunk of battered steel that stank of stale whiskey. Invariably, that smell always conjured up memories of her mother. In that moment, apropos to what May had just been through,
she was reminded of the treacherous flight the two of them had piloted back when May was thirteen.
Some things never change, eh? May thought to herself.
May had been flying one of her mother’s ancient airplanes, a twin-engine Beechcraft Baron G58, also known as the “Dashing Duke.” There were four cracked and faded leather passenger seats in the back and a crammed little cockpit up front. The plane was a far greater challenge to pilot than the single-engine puddle jumpers she was usually allowed to fly, and she had been equally excited and nervous when Eve had announced a “quick trip to Scotland” over breakfast.
Eve loved those old dinosaurs, and loved it even more when she could get May into the cockpit with her. She used to tell her that real pilots should be able to master anything with wings. But they’d run into a problem on final approach into Glasgow when the temperature plummeted dramatically during a rainstorm and the wings started taking on ice. Within minutes, they’d found themselves in a potentially deadly situation. Their altitude was around 11,500 feet and dropping quickly. The engines were sputtering into and out of stalls, and the flaps were becoming nearly impossible to move. May thought they were going to drop like a stone. She started to panic, but Eve very tersely set her straight.
“Keep your head, girl, or you will lose it. All problems are solvable when you take a breath and put your mind to them.”
“What are we going to do?” May screeched. “You take over.”
“Absolutely not. You’re the captain, and I’m authorized to take over only if you’re incapacitated. You can do this, Maryam. It’s not always going to be blue skies and lovely fluffy clouds.” Eve tapped the attitude indicator, the instrument showing the orientation of the aircraft relative to Earth’s horizon. “And to answer your question, you’re not going to do anything. Right now we’re as stable as we’re going to get with this much extra weight. If we submit to fear and try to force the aircraft into submission, we run the risk of becoming very unstable—like upside down.”