But out of the car stepped chief astronaut Shane Weldon and Zack’s newly former Destiny-5 crewmates: Tea Nowinski, Geoff Lyle, and Mark Koskinen.
And Zack’s replacement, Travis Buell. The new Destiny-5 commander—Zack’s backup these past two years—was a slight, almost scholarly-looking man of forty. Crew trainers used to joke that Zack looked like an Army helicopter pilot, while Buell seemed more professorial. And Zack had been willing to accept the observation. Buell seemed to live in the realm of ideas rather than physical action. In Buell’s eyes you could see the light of true belief, whether in the biblical Jehovah, the perfection of the United States of America, or the necessity of making a manually controlled landing at Shackleton as opposed to one flown by computer. These all happened to be issues he and Zack had sparred over for two years. Even at this distance, in these circumstances, Zack could see the righteous fire in the man.
A step behind the Destiny crew came Taj Radhakrishnan, dapper in a London Fog while the astronauts wore hideous yellow plastic raincoats over NASA flight suits. Tea broke from the others and went directly to Zack. “Sorry we’re late,” she said. “They almost waved us off.” Of course . . . the storm that marred Megan’s funeral would affect air travel in the area, especially for small NASA jets coming into nearby Ellington Field.
They had not seen each other since the press conference. Now Tea wrapped her surprisingly muscular arms around him. “God, Zack, I am so sorry.”
On her best days, Tea Nowinski was the astronaut equivalent of a movie star—blond, blue-eyed, terrific figure—the all-American girl. Half the astronauts in the office thought that she and Zack were having an affair. Not that the idea hadn’t crossed his mind. They were indeed attracted to each other. But there were several reasons why the relationship remained professional and platonic. For one, the intimacy required of Destiny crews destroyed any vestige of romance. As Harley Drake used to say, “Once you’ve seen your buddy use the toilet on the ceiling, you never look at him the same again.” That went double for any male astronaut lusting after a female colleague.
For another, Tea had a history of passionate, troubled involvements with men, including a recent fling with an Air Force weather officer she had met at the Cape. Watching her dial through an unusually broad range of emotions—from pure joy to hysterical fury—thanks to some petty error on the part of Major Right Now was another disincentive.
And, truly, chasing other women was simply not in Zack’s personal tool kit, crowded out by genuine affection for his family and the sheer overwhelming, all-consuming responsibility for the first crewed lunar landing of the twenty-first century.
At this moment, Tea was simply a mess . . . runny nose, blotchy skin, streaming tears. “Hey,” Zack said, knowing how forced he sounded, “doesn’t this violate your quarantine?” The Destiny-5 crew should have been locked down, isolated from stray germs.
Instead of snapping a profane reply—her normal response to any facetious question—Tea simply blinked back more tears and knelt to embrace Rachel, who was several steps behind Zack, flanked by James and Diane. Zack noted that although Rachel’s expression remained blank, her posture snapped rigid. Was that caused by annoyance at being hugged by a relative stranger?
Or annoyance at being hugged by Tea Nowinski? Zack had neither the time nor energy to ponder the matter. Weldon and Koskinen arrived to escort Tea into the crowd while Taj touched a silent hand to Zack’s shoulder.
They had shared an amazingly intense experience—two years of training in Houston, Russia, Japan, followed by six months on the space station. Always cordial, always able to work together, but never close. They had shared no personal conversations, rarely socialized . . . until the mission was over. When they saw each other now, there were smiles, jokes, exchanges of family pictures. It was as if the worse the relations between their nations, the better they got along.
Zack and Rachel took their assigned places.
The mourners remained largely silent through the brief graveside prayer by Father Tony, a young Irish-born priest who had come to St. Bernadette’s near the space center because he was a spaceflight fanatic. The poor man surely never expected to be presiding at a ceremony quite like this. He was heartfelt, and mercifully brief.
Then Rachel, finally showing some emotion, blinking back tears and swallowing hard, stepped forward. “This was my mom’s favorite poem,” she announced. “It’s by Sara Teasdale.”
The mere sound of her voice triggered audible sobbing from some of the attendees. Rachel unfolded her text and, clearly and more grown-up than Zack had ever heard her—dear God, she sounded exactly like Megan, proclaimed:
Perhaps if death is kind, and there can be returning,
We will come back to earth some fragrant night,
And take these lanes to find the sea, and bending,
Breathe the same honeysuckle, low and white—
She stopped and lowered her head—or so it seemed to Zack, who could barely see through his own tears.
We will come down at night to these resounding beaches,
And the long, gentle thunder of the sea,
Here for a single hour in the wide starlight,
We shall be happy, for the dead are free.
Megan’s family took a separate car to the Meyer house, where they would help serve as hosts for the wake and reception.
Weldon joined Zack and Rachel in the limo. To Zack’s relief—what in God’s name were they supposed to say to each other?—Rachel submerged herself in her Slate, leaving Zack to make a first attempt to reboot his former life. “Thanks for letting them come,” he said, “they” being the Destiny-5 astronauts.
“I couldn’t have stopped them.”
Well, yes, he could have. But Zack appreciated the sentiment. “What’s the latest on Harley?”
“He’s better than he was.”
Even in his grief, Zack was still attuned to the NASA voice, equal parts condescension and denial. “Will he walk again?”
“Doubtful.”
Zack felt ill. For someone as physically active as Harley, to face forty, fifty years in a wheelchair? On crutches? Dependent? Impotent? Death might have been more merciful.
Weldon had lapsed into minimal responses. Zack knew that the chief astronaut still felt guilt about the timing and content of their conversation the night of Megan’s death, when Zack—having overseen the horrific business of consigning his wife’s body to be shipped back to Houston—found Weldon in the hospital waiting room.
“Well,” Zack had said, “I’m not in great shape for a flight to the Moon, am I?”
Of course, they both knew that Zack was off Destiny-5 the moment Scott Shawler delivered the news. “God, Zack. If we were talking about a sixty-day delay, that would be one thing. But you and I know we aren’t.” A phone call had interrupted the conversation at that point. Zack and Weldon had not been in contact since.
Now Zack knew who his replacement was, not that there had been much doubt. “So you went for Buell.”
“He was the backup.”
“Well,” Zack said, forcing a smile, “it will silence a few of your critics.” A vocal minority within the space blogging community had been outraged at the selection of a non–test pilot as commander of the first lunar landing mission of the twenty-first century—forget the fact that landing Venture was nothing like any kind of flying, even helicopter flying. And that it would be mostly, if not entirely, automatic.
“You’ll get another chance, Zack. Deke’s rules still apply.” Deke Slayton had been in charge of astronaut crew selections during Gemini and Apollo fifty years earlier, and his style still shaped the way the office was managed. “If you’re assigned to a mission and get knocked out by an act of God, you get the next opening.” Slayton had come up with the ruling for reasons of his own—he had been scheduled to make the second orbital Mercury flight, the one after John Glenn’s, when a medical condition grounded him for a decade. “Just let me know when you’re ready.”
“If I ever am.” Fortunately, as a NASA civil servant, Zack would not have to find a different line of work. There were sixty astronauts in the agency, but only a dozen actually assigned to flight crews. Others filled administrative or support jobs or worked elsewhere in the government. If Zack never stepped inside a simulator again, he would be kept busy. Indeed, before this past week he had wondered about his career after the lunar mission—he’d thought it might be useful to join the team studying new lunar samples for future manufacturing.
Postaccident, it still sounded like a good option, especially as Zack began confronting the practical challenges of life after Megan. He was now a single parent to a tween daughter. He would be solely responsible for her upbringing, for meals, for advice about boys and clothes and periods.
“You don’t think so today. Six months from now, you might feel differently. The opportunity will be there.”
My first proposed name was “Jurdu.” It was from one of the Aboriginal languages and means “Big Sister.” But some overly sensitive idiots argued that it was (a) sexist and (b) inaccurate and (c) just because I discovered the frakking thing, who was I to name it?
This moronic dispute consumed weeks. By then people were calling X2016 K1 “Keanu,” and that was okay with me. It sounds Aboriginal, and hey, starts with a K like its catalog number.
KEANU DISCOVERER COLIN EDGELY, COMMENT POSTED AT NEOMISSION.COM
KEANU STAY
Even before the switch from the Moon to Keanu, the Destiny-7 flight plan showed Yvonne as the lead EVA astronaut, meaning that the first steps on the NEO would be made by an African American woman. To NASA’s woefully third-rate public affairs apparatus, this was a major public relations boost. Zack knew better—he doubted that one in a thousand Americans could name a single member of the Destiny-7 crew, much less care which member of what ethnic group took the first crunchy footsteps. But the timeline had been ripped apart and rearranged in so many other ways, he was happy to let this original sequence stand.
Besides, it gave Zack the second steps. Tired as he was, and painfully aware of the stress he would be facing, he still wanted to go outside and stand on the surface. It was a lifelong dream—and he was damned if he would let a minor matter like lack of sleep get in the way.
The same timeline required the crew to rest for six hours. Looking at Brahma’s orbit and public announcements, Houston warned the crew that it might issue an early wake-up, but in any case they would have four hours to change out of their suits, eat, make use of the tiny camp toilet, and catch some sleep, either sprawled on the cabin floor (Tea and Pogo) or swinging in hammocks (Yvonne and Zack).
The microscopic gravity made the hammocks almost redundant. With a mask and earplugs (Pogo and Tea would be on watch), Zack felt as though he were floating inside the space station, or in the Destiny cabin on the climb uphill.
He was awakened by Tea’s voice. “Houston’s got imagery of Brahma. Take this.” She handed him a cup of coffee.
Pogo was already on his feet, on the radio at the forward station as Zack joined him: “—We’re seeing it now. And our steely commander is on the case, too.”
The image wasn’t much better than the one Zack and Pogo had seen from Destiny—it still showed the cylindrical Brahma half in blinding sunlight, half in shadow. But the resolution was better. “They did a good job processing this,” Zack said.
“Your tax dollars at work.”
What was clear was a tube mounted on the side of the Coalition spacecraft. “How long do you think that is?” Tea asked over his shoulder. “Five meters?” Brahma was twenty meters long; this object appeared to run a quarter its length.
“It isn’t the length that worries me,” Zack said. “It’s the purpose.”
Tea grinned. “So you’re telling me size doesn’t matter?”
“Looks like a Stinger launcher,” Pogo said, not hiding his exasperation at Tea’s playfulness.
“Houston, Destiny on Channel B,” Zack said, using the encrypted link. “We’re looking and wondering—is this some kind of space bazooka?” The idea was ridiculous, until you remembered that an early Soviet space station had carried an honest-to-God cannon in case of attack by American killer satellites.
While they waited for Houston’s answer, Yvonne asked, “Would they actually shoot at us?”
“Shit, yes!” Pogo said. It was a reflexive answer, but, to be fair, in his life he had been the target of Coalition weapons.
Yvonne didn’t seem to care. “With the whole world watching?”
“Buell claimed the good parts of the Moon with the whole world watching,” Pogo insisted. “Besides, they’ll claim we shot first—or make it look like an accident.”
The radio crackled. Zack held up a hand for silence, grateful for the interruption in the argument. “Destiny, Houston on Channel B. The team here has looked at the Brahma device, and it seems to be a modification of a Russian Z25 MPAD, a man-portable anti-aircraft device.”
“Ah, Houston,” Zack said, “any thoughts on what to expect here?”
The crew was silent through the entire eight-second lag. “Destiny, stand by.”
Tea erupted. “Stand by? That’s the best they can do?”
“There’s not a hell of a lot we can do, is there?” Yvonne said.
“It would be nice to know what they expect.” Zack said. “Has anyone been in direct contact with their mission control? It’s not as though the number’s unlisted.” Tea laughed at that. “Is the Coalition talking about having a ‘defensive system’ on Brahma? What did they say their deep-space EVA was for?”
“To attach an experiment package,” Yvonne said.
“Destiny, Houston on Channel B. We’re still . . . working the situation.” Zack could hear the frustration in the capcom’s voice. “Working the situation” meant that it was being discussed all the way to NASA HQ in Washington, undoubtedly with the Pentagon and White House.
Which meant there might never be an answer. Or if it came, it would be late—or wrong.
Zack made up his mind. He muted the radio and said to Yvonne, “Can you get me a direct link to Brahma?”
She smiled. “You mean, ‘open hailing frequencies, Lieutenant Uhura’?”
Zack laughed out loud. He might have misjudged Yvonne. “Exactly.”
She immediately started tapping indicators on the left display, calling up communications options. “Line of sight would be best, but I can work it through their system, I think.” Brahma’s frequencies were as accessible as their Bangalore-based control center, if you bothered to search.
Pogo turned to Zack. “Why are we doing this?”
“Timing is everything, Colonel. I can’t wait for Houston, so I’m going to ‘work the situation’ from right here.”
Before the pilot could protest, Yvonne said, “Got ’em.”
Zack took the headset. “Destiny-7 for Brahma . . . Zack Stewart for Taj.”
Pogo couldn’t look at him. He clearly wanted to stomp off in anger, but there was nowhere to go. Tea noted this, and placed a hand on his arm.
“Hello, Venture!” Taj’s voice boomed in their headsets. “Congratulations on your landing!”
“Watch that last step—it’s a doozy.”
“So we saw.” Of course! Brahma had been able to monitor Venture’s bouncy landing.
“Seriously, whatever training you did for low-gravity touchdown, it’s not enough.”
“We’ll be vigilant.”
“When are you dropping by?” It killed him to sound like a suburban dad making a playdate, but he had to keep this casual. No doubt Taj was under the same pressure.
“We expect to land on the next rev. You should be able to see us.”
“We’re standing by to offer any assistance.” That was probably as close as he could get to saying, We’re not armed! “Still offering that cup of sugar.”
“We look forward to shaking hands in a few hours.”
Zack knew he needed to prolong the contact.
“It will be good to see you again. The last time was . . . two years ago.”
Taj hesitated, causing Zack to wonder if his Brahma crewmates were listening, reacting. Then: “This could be a new start for everyone. Take care, my good friend.”
The moment the link was broken, Pogo said, “You didn’t ask him about the Stinger!”
“It’s an open loop, for God’s sake! He wouldn’t tell me, and even asking would give away the fact that we can see it . . . whatever it is.”
“Noted,” Pogo said.
“Keanu’s only a NEO, but it ought to be large enough for all of us,” Zack said.
“Besides,” Yvonne added, “it’s moving out of range in a few weeks. Why fight over something that’s not even going to be here?”
Zack stepped away from the console toward the airlock, where Tea was assembling the pieces of his surface suit. “Now I know why Weldon gave you my mission,” she said.
Yes, Zack thought, but did not say: Because I am the kind of astronaut who will do anything for the mission, even expose my private grief.
All astronauts are created equal. Some are more equal than others.
DEKE SLAYTON
SEVENTY-THREE DAYS EARLIER
There were historic buildings on the campus of the NASA Johnson Space Center. Building 30 held mission control; Building 9 the Destiny and Venture simulators. Building 2 was the tall headquarters building.
And 4-South was where the astronauts had their offices, on the top floor. Where Zack had worked for a decade.
But by accepting a transfer to management status and an assignment to the planetary sciences group, Zack found it easier to make the physical move across the quad to the unremarkable Building 24.
He kept current on aircraft, logging his mandatory forty hours a year, much of it acquired while strapped into an ancient WB-57 flying high-altitude loops to acquire imagery of Keanu.
He also made sure to attend the weekly Monday morning “pilots’ meeting” in 4-South to hear the often raucous, sometimes serious, occasionally tedious presentations on technical developments with Destiny and Venture . . . on the political fallout from Travis Buell’s popular and controversial “claim” of the Moon, made all the more interesting by Buell’s physical presence.
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