by Issui Ogawa
“What is it?”
“Turn the stack end-on to the debris cloud. Use the second stage as a shield. There’s no safety lock on the attitude thrusters, so I can do that right now. Here we go—better hold on to something.”
The rest of the crew each took hold of a grip support. A few seconds later there was a jolt. White propellant gas from lateral thrusters at each end of the eighteen-meter-long stack began pushing in opposite directions. Eve’s second-stage main engine moved until it was almost directly oriented toward the North Star. The thrusters continued firing in short bursts as Apple 7 settled into its new attitude.
“I’m venting the second-stage tanks now in case they get hit. We won’t be able to go to the moon, but that’s all right. We wouldn’t have been able to go even if I’d figured out the ignition override.”
Sohya and the others watched as a huge cloud of vapor escaped from the far end of the stack. Shinji was venting the liquid hydrogen and oxygen into space.
“Shinji, is this going to work?” Sohya wasn’t sure.
His friend sounded almost cheerful. “Leave it to me. I’ve got the main engine, the second stage, and the descent module between me and the debris. You’re even safer where you are. The main engine is coated in my cermet. A machine gun couldn’t punch a hole in it.”
“But the debris has a lot more kinetic energy than a bullet—”
“The satellite is in polar orbit, heading south. We’re orbiting at right angles to the equator. You guys are facing the south pole. It’s the safest place to be. Besides, look at it this way. If a thousand ping-pong balls spread out in a bubble eight thousand meters across were heading for you, what’re the chances you’d stop one? If we panic now, they’ll have a good laugh at our expense when this is over.”
“But those ‘ping-pong balls’ are tangled in a web of carbon fibers.”
“Don’t be so pessimistic, Sohya. It doesn’t suit you.” Shinji paused. “Remember what I said? Even blunders are valuable. Here’s the proof. Whether we make it back or not, we’ll be helping whoever comes after us. I don’t think we need to get too worked up.”
For the next minute or so, the only sound in their headsets was Shinji’s labored breathing. Then he spoke again. “I’m going to rotate her just a bit more. I want to get a view of Earth.”
The stack rolled slightly. Suddenly they heard him calling like an excited child.
“It’s her! I can see her! See there, on the northern horizon? Here she comes!”
“It’s Eve XIX,” said Tae. Everyone crowded around the window. Below them, Japan extended over the northern horizon and out of sight. Out of the blue haze, from the southern tip of the archipelago, a tiny column of white was climbing into the atmosphere. The column quickly toppled over toward the horizontal, growing larger and longer above the Pacific.
“It looks like a dragon!” Shinji yelled, ecstatic. “Fly! Fly faster. To the stars!”
Eve XIX surged through the atmosphere with astonishing speed, trailing its white cloud. Even the atmospheric conditions were special; the dragon kept its tail even after the first stage separation. Eve soared over the equator and rose to meet them on an immense, sharply defined pillar of steam spawned by the combustion of liquid hydrogen and oxygen.
“Don’t stop! Keep going! Come on !”
There was a sharp bang! and the habitat module shuddered violently. A sheet of orange fire flashed past the window. The stack started yawing slowly.
“Shinji! Shinji!” Sohya screamed.
No warning lights lit up. No buzzers sounded. In the habitat module, everything was quiet and secure.
In the core, there was only silence.
“SECOND-STAGE TELEMETRY lost. Descent module nominal, core telemetry out. Habitat pressure and power normal, no signs of combustion. Life-support systems nominal.”
“Are they still in their suits? Tell them to stay suited up and stand by,” said Hibiki. He turned to the INCO officer. “The only way the debris could reach the core is through the descent module. Why is the core not responding if the descent module is undamaged?”
“The main engine was hit first. We lost telemetry from the core three one-hundredths of a second later. Maybe it was hit by secondary debris.”
“The second stage was head-on to the debris. There’s no way the core could have sustained a lateral strike. The impact probably knocked out the core’s instrumentation. Keep hailing Tai!”
The controllers frantically began analyzing the telemetry. The one thing no one in space or on the ground could do was visually inspect Apple’s exterior, which forced the controllers to try to divine its condition from a jigsaw puzzle of data.
Then the network officer stood up. “Flight, Bangalore says they have a visual!”
“Bangalore?”
“Vardhana was within visual range. They had their cameras on Apple !”
“Tell them we’re grateful. Main screen.”
The Vardhana Orbital Experimental Facility’s images were beamed from India’s ISTRAC satellite via the Indian space agency’s Bangalore uplink facility. Vardhana was several hundred kilometers from Apple, but the Indians had used the station’s astronomical telescope. The images coming up on the screen were sharp and detailed.
The video showed bright flashes of light from the second stage and the core module. Then the entire stack began revolving slowly. Frame-by-frame playback did not yield any additional detail. Each second of video contained thirty frames, but the flashes were visible on only two. One frame was probably an afterimage. No debris was visible; even with unlimited resolution, imaging a small object moving at close to eight kilometers a second was impossible. Still, the images told them everything they needed to know.
“That’s a lateral strike,” said the Flight Dynamics officer. “That means the object was moving along a curved path, like a man rappelling down a cliff. The tether material must have snagged on the main engine. That could’ve swung a debris fragment into the core, like a tetherball. It would explain why the descent module was bypassed. But Dr. Tai—”
“He might be alive,” said Hibiki.
Which meant he was probably dead.
“The habitat module was spared. Tell the crew to depressurize, open the core hatch, and see if they can locate Dr. Tai. And tell Tanegashima to get Eve XX on the pad as soon as possible. Apple 8 is their only way home now.”
“Flight…the media…” The PAO pointed to the observation booth. A knot of reporters was staring into the control room like vultures, armed with microphones and cameras.
“Tell them we confirm five crew safe.” Hibiki spoke quietly. “We’re working on number six. Nothing more.”
“What do I tell them about the mission?”
“We’re working on it!” Hibiki roared.
ONCE THE HABITAT module was depressurized, the interlock disengaged automatically. The top hatch opened. Sohya wedged himself headfirst into the opening, as far as his suit would allow.
“Shinji!”
The interior of the core was roughly the size of a minibus, with two couches forward and four more in a row behind. Now it was wrapped in darkness. As Sohya’s eyes adjusted, he could see faint blue light suffusing the cabin—earthlight. He felt a wave of horror. A ragged breach, about the size of the hatch, yawned in the hull to his right.
“Shinji…where are you?”
Sohya’s shoulders were jammed in the hatch. No one had considered it might be necessary to pass through the top hatch in a space suit. He craned his neck, peering around the cabin.
He saw what he was searching for floating next to the window, opposite the breach. Shinji’s eyes were visible through his visor, narrowed as if looking into the distance. He was smiling faintly. This was how he must have watched Eve XIX climbing into space. It was a look full of hope.
But the side of his suit had a sandblasted appearance, riddled with tiny holes. Whatever had hit Apple had vaporized on impact, and the plasma jet had caught Shinji full on.
He was dead.<
br />
Sohya reached out, but it was too far. He felt his strength draining away. “Shinji…goddamn it…”
“Sohya? Can you see him?” It was Tae.
“Why did this have to happen? He had so much left to do…”
“He didn’t make it?” Tae’s voice was maddeningly serene. Sohya slowly extricated himself from the hatch. He choked back his fury and radioed Capcom.
“Gotenba, Apple 7. Dr. Tai is dead. Tell his family he saved our lives.”
“I’m so sorry.” Tae bowed her head and placed a hand on Sohya’s arm, but he felt nothing through his suit. Her next words were unfathomable.
“Gotenba, Apple 7. Please don’t disclose this yet.”
“Apple 7, say again?”
“The core module is crippled. Please launch Apple 8 and advise ETA immediately.”
“Tae, what are you saying?” Shinji stared down at her. She was furiously weighing her next move, eyes tightly shut.
After a long pause, Capcom came back. “Apple 7, Gotenba. It will take at least six days to prepare Apple 8 for launch. You’ll have to wait in orbit. What’s this about a news blackout?”
“Six days. Understood.” Tae opened her eyes. Her voice was firm. “Eve XIX will rendezvous with us soon. We’ll jettison the return module and our damaged second stage. We’ll dock the other end of the habitat module with Eve XIX’s second stage.”
“What are you talking about?” said Sohya.
“While we wait for Apple 8, we’ll use a free return trajectory to go around the moon and back to Earth. You can announce Dr. Tai’s death once we’re on our way.”
The communication circuits were silent. Those who were listening doubted their ears. Several seconds later a new voice spoke up.
“Apple 7, Gotenba. This is Flight Control. Ms. Toenji, your concept has a major flaw. Without the return module, you can’t land on the moon.”
“Understood. Even if we land using the descent module, it can’t get us back to Earth. But we’re not going to land. All we’re going to do is loop around the moon. We just need the free return trajectory.”
“Free return. Yes, you could do that.” With the right trajectory, one second-stage burn would send Apple around the moon and back to Earth. Until Apple 8 arrived, all they would require was Eve XIX’s second stage and the habitat module. But Hibiki was still doubtful.
“What would that prove? We already did it with Apple 6.”
“We’re going to take Dr. Tai to the moon.”
“You’re not serious!” said Sohya.
“I am serious.” Tae looked at him sadly. “We can’t take him back. He’s never going home. We can’t pressurize the core, and we can’t get inside with our suits on. Apple 8 can’t bring him back. The only thing we can do is undock the core and leave him behind. It should be somewhere fitting.”
“But why the moon?”
“Didn’t you hear him calling to Eve XIX? The stars were always his destination.” Tae’s eyes welled with tears. She clenched her fists. “We won’t give up, just as he wished. We’ll all go together.”
Suddenly another voice crackled in their ears—trembling, but full of resolve. It was Ryuichi.
“I second that. Do it for him. He’ll be happy, I’m sure. I just…I wish—” He broke off.
“Please carry out Xiwangmu’s TLI as planned,” said Tae. “We won’t need it. We’ll rendezvous with Eve XIX and take the next window.”
“Tae, wait.” Sohya grasped her shoulder. She looked away.
“Let me go.”
“Is this more PR?”
Yamagiwa broke in. “Aomine, you don’t have to—”
“Sorry. I do. I don’t want to say it, but I’m the only one who will. Answer me, Tae. Is this really for Shinji? Or are you just trying to put the best face you can on this?”
“Well, what if I am?” Her gaze was unrelenting. “Is it wrong to try to accomplish something? If I cried, and felt terrible, and threw the whole project out the window, would that help Shinji?”
“You don’t feel responsible? A few minutes ago you wouldn’t put your suit on. Was that just for show too?”
“Would you please just stop talking?” She raised her hands halfway to her ears, as if she wished she could shut out his voice. She was trembling. “It was my fault. Transferring to Xiwangmu. This risky orbit. Everything was my idea. Could you please let me do something right for once?”
“Look, that’s enough,” said Yamagiwa firmly. He drew Sohya away from the girl. “She’s right. We’re spending millions of yen every second up here. Even with the accident—no, because of the accident—we’ve got to salvage something from this mission. I know how you feel, but don’t take it out on her.”
“I don’t believe it. You too!”
“Think, Aomine. Think of the reception waiting for her when she gets back. We can’t just stand by and let them tear her apart. We have responsibilities too.”
Sohya was silent. A headstrong girl, a fatal accident—it was the kind of story the media would beat to death.
Yamagiwa crossed over to the core hatch. “I’m closing this now. We have to start getting ready.”
“Wait,” said Sohya. “I’ll do it.” Sohya put his hand on the hatch lever. He looked into the core for the last time.
“You’re going ahead of us all, Shinji.” He closed the hatch.
He turned back to the crew. Tae wasn’t watching him. She was staring out a window, the one facing away from Earth.
Something about Tae had always eluded Sohya’s understanding. He had worked hard to bridge that gulf. But now he knew that whatever it was that drove her was beyond his comprehension.
THE CORE MODULE carrying Shinji’s body was released before Apple 7 looped around the moon. The habitat module swung around the moon and back toward Earth, but the core with its descent module braked into orbit and dropped toward the surface. Like Xiwangmu 6’s descent module, the module carrying Shinji in the damaged core had its own guidance system. On the way to the moon, GGS programmed it to touch down atop the rim of Eden Crater. Shinji would be the first of his species to bask in sunlight for unbroken eons.
Once back in low earth orbit, the crew docked with the waiting Apple 8 core module. After that, there was nothing to do but transfer to the core and go home.
As they expected, their reception was anything but cordial.
[3]
THE MORING AFTER touchdown, Sohya woke in the support center’s dormitory to find himself in the eye of the storm. First came an emergency call from Iwaki, ordering him back to headquarters immediately. The agenda: begin investigating the cause of the accident. Prepare for a memorial service for Shinji. Draft a public statement explaining the sacrifice of two Apple spacecraft and three Eve launch vehicles. Revise the project schedule. Media strategy. And on and on.
Sohya rousted his two colleagues and told them to get ready to leave. Then he went looking for Tae, but she’d already boarded a tilt-rotor for Nagoya. As he rushed through breakfast with Yamagiwa, he had a feeling he’d been left in the lurch. And then there she was, on the television in the commissary.
The footage appeared to have been taped inside the tilt-rotor. First came her apology and condolences to Shinji’s family, segueing into a crisp statement of determination to continue, “as Shinji would have wished.” Next she emphasized that the mission had been hit by a chain of unfortunate accidents that would never be repeated and that she was ready to ride into space again at the next opportunity. Then she laid ultimate responsibility for the accident at the feet of the Russian government. She closed with a promise to add space safety and debris cleanup measures to her plan.
Sohya’s openmouthed amazement at this assured performance was interrupted by another call from Iwaki. Sohya didn’t wait for him to speak. “Did you see the TV just now? Tae’s already gone to work.”
“Already? She’s late. While you guys were out there, the media was wall-to-wall Shinji Tai.”
“We saw it. But I di
dn’t think the coverage was that critical.”
“They were focusing on his achievements and waiting for you to come back. The fact that Sixth Continent isn’t using taxpayer money made it a little harder for them to find a hook. But now she’s back. The fun’s just starting.”
“Great. And what should I do?”
“Listen, Aomine. Things have gotten a little complicated. Don’t go to the airport. Come back by ferry and train. Stay away from headquarters, and don’t go home. One of our subcontractors has an inn at Hakoné. You like hot springs, don’t you? Get yourself up there. I’ll rendezvous with you.”
“What is this? What’s going on?”
“The police paid us a visit today. They want a statement from you.”
“The police?”
“Concerning a case of professional negligence resulting in death. They want to question you about Shinji’s accident. Don’t worry. It wasn’t your fault, but we want you to stay out of sight till things cool down a bit.”
“If it wasn’t my fault, why do I have to lie low?”
“You idiot—do you think the police know anything about orbital physics or Apple’s design? If they get their hooks into you, you’ll be testifying for years.”
Yamagiwa cut in. “He’s right, Aomine. I’d do what he says. You have too much on your plate. If you get mixed up with an investigation, you’ll only be throwing fuel on the fire for the media. Get out of here while you can.” Yamagiwa glanced out the window. A siren sounded faintly in the distance.
“And there they are.” Yamagiwa held out a set of car keys to Sohya. “Here. Head for the car pool. They won’t stop you in one of our cars.”
Sohya hesitated. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m stuck either way. Either I land in jail or I’m on Apple 9. Pilots are useless in hiding.”
“Good luck!” Sohya dashed out of the commissary, his two colleagues on his heels.
At first they drove toward the hydrofoil pier but thought better of it; too many tourists. Instead they doubled back to a small harbor, where they found a fisherman with a fast boat willing to take them to the southern tip of Kyushu, about four hours away.