by Allen Steele
“Glad you asked. Saves us a lot of time.” The smile disappears. “We’ve received word that there may be a conspiracy against this mission.”
Dana feels her left eyelid involuntarily twitch. “A conspiracy? Where have you heard…?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss the details, ma’am. All I can say is that my orders come from the top. My people are to remain aboard the Alabama until its entire complement has arrived and prevent any unauthorized personnel from entering the ship.” Reese never looks away from her. “I hope you don’t mind, considering the circumstances.”
It takes all of her willpower to keep her voice even. “Yes, sir, I do mind. These people coming aboard have been under strict quarantine since 0600, with no outside contact permitted with anyone. Your men haven’t been sterilized, have they?”
Reese’s face stiffens. The soldiers aren’t chuckling now. “Chief, my orders…”
“And my orders are to get the Alabama safely under way, on time, on schedule. This entire ship has just undergone a twenty-four-hour decontamination procedure. No one except the flight crew has been permitted through that hatch. The moment your men came aboard, they broke quarantine.” Despite her fear, Dana is surprised to find a thin current of anger rising from deep within her. “You want authorization? Let’s get authorization. Put a call through to Houston and talk to the Flight Director. Or better yet, let’s call Atlanta and get the President on the phone.”
Dana can’t believe she’s doing this. For all she knows, Reese’s orders could be coming straight from Peachtree House. Yet even as she throws the challenge at the colonel, she knows the bluff worked; Reese stares at her in mute surprise, and his squad has become dead silent. For a moment he doesn’t say anything; when he does, his voice is low. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary. But my orders…”
“Fine. I understand.” All at once, a new thought occurs to her. “I respect your concerns, Colonel,” she says, softening her tone a little. “Really, I do…just as I hope you respect mine.”
As if on cue, there’s another dull impact against the outer hull. She doesn’t have to look around to know that the Helms has just hard-docked with the Alabama. Good. “Your guys can remain here until 1500,” she continues. “That’s when we close the hatches. But they can’t leave this deck, and they can’t make physical contact with anyone coming aboard. Agreed?”
Dana knows what Reese really wants to do: place his men throughout the Alabama and not remove them until a few minutes before the ship is ready to launch. Indeed, whatever information he’s received may justify that course of action. Yet she has to gamble on his unwillingness to be officially reprimanded by someone further up the chain of command.
“All right,” Reese says, “we’ll play it your way.” He turns to his men. “Boone, Schmidt, remain here. Carruthers, Lucchesi, go over to the other hatch. Stay at arm’s length from anyone coming aboard and don’t leave this deck unless I give a direct order.” The soldiers salute him as they move into position, and Reese looks back at Dana. “Okay?”
“Yes, sir, it is. Thanks for your cooperation.” Reese gives her a perfunctory nod and pushes himself over to join Boone and Schmidt by the airlock.
A minute passes, then the inner hatch cycles open again; a figure wearing an isolation suit pushes himself through. He’s already removed his helmet: Tom Shapiro, the Alabama’s first officer. Tom grins when he sees Dana, but his expression changes when he sees the soldiers.
“Welcome aboard, sir,” Dana says. “Hope you had a good ride.”
“We did, thanks.” Tom’s gaze moves across the troopers. Behind him, Jud Tinsley has already poked his head and shoulders through the hatch; his eyes widen as he catches sight of the soldiers. “What’s this, an honor guard?”
“I think we should take it that way.” Dana stares him square in the eye. “Apparently Colonel Reese here has just received word that there’s someone who wants to sabotage the launch.”
“Really?” The first officer turns to Reese. “Colonel, would you like to explain what you’re doing aboard my ship?” Before he can answer, Shapiro raises his hand to Tinsley. “Hold the line, Jud. We’ve got a problem.”
The executive officer nods and remains where he is, half-in and half-out of the hatch. It’s Reese’s turn to look uncomfortable: now that he’s aboard the Alabama, Shapiro outranks him. “My apologies, sir,” Reese says, giving Shapiro an untidy salute. “We’ve received word from the ground that the ISA have arrested some D.I.s who they believe are linked to a plot to sabotage this mission.”
“Really?” Shapiro frowns. “And how do they intend to do that?”
Reese hesitates. “We’re…I mean, they’re not certain, sir. It seems that they may try to smuggle someone aboard this ship. Possibly more than one person.”
“And you’ve been sent to make sure no one gets aboard.” The colonel nods, and Tom slowly shakes his head. “I respect your concern, Colonel, but I find that highly unlikely. When I left GSC only ninety minutes ago, it was under strict lockdown…just as this ship is supposed to be.” He glares at Dana. “Why have you let these people aboard, Chief?”
“Sorry, sir. I was trying to accommodate the colonel.”
“Well, keep ’em here. I don’t want to scrub the launch just because we have to sterilize the ship again.” Then he looks back at Tinsley. “Jud, tell everyone behind you to put their helmets back on. They can take ’em off once they’re through this compartment.”
“Aye, sir.” The XO disappears from the hatchway.
“Pain in the ass,” Shapiro mutters angrily as pushes himself toward the access shaft. “Sorry if I don’t shake your hand, Colonel, but I don’t want to catch whatever it is you’re carrying.” He pauses by the ceiling hatch. “I know you’re just doing your job, and I appreciate it. But don’t touch my people, okay?”
“Yes, sir.” Again, Reese salutes him. “Sorry.”
“Very good. Carry on.” Shapiro returns the salute, then looks back at Dana. “Chief…?”
“Yes, sir.” Dana lets Tom lead her through the manhole leading upward into the ship. Once they’re out of earshot, she taps his ankle. “Nice catch,” she whispers.
“We’re not out of it yet.” Shapiro glances up and down the shaft to make sure they’re not being overheard. “Get in touch with the skipper, let him know what’s going on.”
Dana glances at her watch: 1229 EST. “Too late,” she murmurs. “They’re on their way.”
MERRITT ISLAND 7.5.70 / T-11.31.43
The roadsides along the causeway crossing the Banana River are jammed with coupes and midis of every make and color; tens of thousands of people have crowded themselves onto the narrow sandbars linking the bridges. Tents are scattered all across the narrow beaches, and the aroma of hamburgers and hot dogs rising from barbecue braziers mixes with the salt breeze.
Unimpeded by traffic, the government maxvee cruises straight down the causeway, the swirling red-and-blue lights on its roof rack clearing the way. The driver ignores the bystanders, who stare curiously at the vehicle as it sweeps past them. In the back of the max, though, no one can see any of the outside activity. Crammed together on the hard plastic benches, they silently stare at one another, beads of sweat rolling down their faces. Most of their perspiration comes from the stifling heat within the vehicle, but Jorge can’t help but wonder if much of it is due to fear.
Everyone’s suddenly jostled as the maxvee begins to slow down. The nameless Prefect at the back of the van cups his hand over his earpiece. “Okay, we’re coming up on the checkpoint,” he says loudly. “Everyone, helmets on. People with children, lean forward a little to hide them. No matter what happens, don’t say anything. Just keep your mouths shut.” He reaches beneath his seat, picks up his uniform cap. “Don’t worry. It’ll all be over and done with in a minute.”
Jorge glances at Rita and the kids one last time, then pulls the loose hood over his head. Now he perceives the world only through a curved pane of t
ransparent plastic; every time he exhales, the bottom of the faceplate fogs up. Next to Rita, Marie begins to protest—“Mama, I can’t breathe!”—until her mother quickly shushes her. Beside him, Carlos sits up a little straighter, trying to make himself look more like an adult. With his hood on, he could almost pass for a grown-up, but Jorge isn’t taking any chances; as the vehicle glides to a halt, he gently pushes his son back against the bench, then he moves forward on his hips to hide him as best as he can.
Time passes. How long, Jorge can’t tell; perhaps it’s only a minute, but it seems much longer. Muffled voices from the front, but he can’t make out any words. The driver talking with the guards at the gatehouse, showing him his I.D. Something that sounds like laughter. Then, all of a sudden, the rear hatch suddenly opens, and he squints against the midday sun to see an armed soldier staring at them.
“What the hell are you doing?” The Prefect stands up, blocks the hatch. “Shut the door, you idiot! These people are in quarantine!”
The soldier stares back at him, then he hastily reaches up to close the hatch. Jorge lets out his breath as it bangs shut, briefly closes his eyes in a silent prayer of thanks. A few people around him start to murmur, but the Prefect hastily gestures for everyone to remain quiet. A few seconds pass, then they’re thrown against each other once more as the max surges forward again.
“Okay, they bought it.” The Prefect looks as relieved as anyone else. “We’re in.”
Cheers ring through the vehicle; all around him, people start to remove their helmets. “Keep ’em on!” Henry shouts. “We’ll be there in just a couple of minutes.”
Jorge reluctantly leave his helmet in place. The cover story worked: the people in the maxvee are members of the backup crew, being brought in at the last minute from a remote location just in case the Wallace suffers a catastrophic launch failure.
Minutes pass, then the maxvee downshifts again. It makes an abrupt turn to the right, slows to a crawl, then coasts to a stop. People shift nervously in their seats, but the Prefect holds up his hand, silently gesturing for everyone to remain where they are. One hand cupped over his earpiece, he keeps an eye on his watch, as if waiting for something. Another minute goes by, then he looks up at them.
“Okay, we’re ready,” he says. “Remember, do just as you were told. Don’t stop for anything, don’t talk to anyone. Just keep moving.”
The rear hatch opens; just outside are two men in white FSA coveralls. They quickly lower the ramp, then urgently motion everyone to get out. The passengers rise, start shuffling down the ramp. Jorge picks up his bag, pulls it over his shoulder, glances back to make sure his family is with him. Carlos is directly behind him, leading Marie by the hand, with Rita bringing up the rear.
Their vehicle is stopped in a garage. Another max, this one painted white with FSA markings, is parked nearby, yet the area is vacant save for the two workmen helping them out of the max and a third standing at the top of a short flight of steps leading to a closed metal door. “Hurry up, hurry up,” the Prefect snaps. “C’mon, folks, we’re running out of time! Go, go, go…!”
Now they’re heading up the steps to the landing, where the third workman is waiting for them. The Prefect trots past them to the front of the line; a quick look back, then he nods to the workman, who swings open the door and steps aside to hold it. The Prefect ushers them into a narrow corridor.
A lone figure wearing an isolation suit comes out of a doorway halfway down the hall. He and the Prefect exchange a hand signal, then the Prefect steps away, holding open the door and motioning for everyone to follow the man he’s just met. “Keep going, keep going,” he says quietly as they file past him. “Don’t stop, just keep going…”
Another short corridor, then a left turn through the double doors of an airlock. Jorge passes through the door, finds himself in a long room lined with chairs and tables. A thin yellowish haze hangs in the air, floating a couple of feet above the tile floor, yet that isn’t what he notices first.
Throughout the room, men, women, and children dressed in isolation suits are sprawled everywhere: lying across tables, collapsed in chairs, fallen facedown on the floor. None of them wear helmets.
They were gassed, Jorge realizes with horror. Whatever was introduced into the quarantine facility’s air system knocked these people down so quickly, they didn’t have a chance to reach their helmets lying nearby. The Alabama’s colonization team: fifty URS officers and their families, bowled over within seconds. Jorge sincerely hopes they’re not dead. They’re so still, it’s hard to tell…but no, they’re still breathing; he can see their chests moving, their eyelids twitching ever so slightly.
The figure at the head of the line turns, makes a hasty gesture: come on, come on, don’t stop, keep moving! Jorge follows the procession down the center aisle. His faceplate fogs up and he feels light-headed; he has an impulse to drop the bag, turn around, and run for the door. Too late. For the sake of his wife and children, he has to keep going…
At the far end of the room is a second airlock. The figure at the head of the line stops to twist open the lockwheel, then quickly gestures for someone behind him to grab a chair and prop it open. Caught by a draft of fresh air moving between the two open doors, the yellow haze drifts toward the second hatch. The line starts moving again, heading toward the exit.
Another short corridor, this one leading to a new pair of double doors. A URS soldier lies facedown just inside the doors. Someone stunned him while he was standing guard. The leader gets someone else behind him to take care of the sentry; he grabs the soldier under his shoulders, drags him back into the quarantine room. Their leader waits until the solider has been taken away and the volunteer has returned; another quick look to make sure that everyone is with him, then he turns and opens the door.
Raw sunlight, hot and blinding, floods the corridor, and now they’re walking into it, a procession of anonymous figures in isolation suits. Beyond the door, upraised voices, the staccato clicking of camera shutters, loud applause…
And now they’re striding single file past a dense crowd of journalists and cameramen, all gathered behind a red velvet rope to bear witness as the Alabama’s colonization team emerges from the Crew Training Facility.
Everything seems so surreal, as if he’s walking through a weird dream; Jorge feels his fear suddenly leave him, replaced by a strange dissonance. Somehow, it seems to him that this is the way it should be, the way it was meant to be. On the other side of those lenses are hundreds of millions of eyes, watching as he begins his journey to the future. Still remaining in step with the man just in front of him, he can’t help himself…
Jorge raises his hand to wave goodbye, and the mob straining against the rope roars its approval. Then microphones and cameras are shoved toward him, and he remembers who he really is, what he’s doing. Jorge feels his knees become weak; he drops his arm and looks away, deliberately focusing on the white maxvee parked only a few yards away.
A soldier stands in front of the max; next to him is the Prefect who has helped them get this far. He glares at Jorge as he steps onto the ramp. Embarrassed, Jorge doesn’t dare meet his angry gaze as he boards the vehicle.
He takes a seat on the bench, moves over a little to make room for Carlos. Through the faceplate, he catches a brief glimpse of his son’s face—Papa, you moron!—then he takes the bag and shoves it beneath his legs as Marie and Rita sit down next to them.
The last person aboard is the man who met them outside the quarantine facility. He turns to wave to the press, then takes a seat at the rear of the vehicle. The Prefect turns his back to them as a soldier pushes the ramp in place. The rear hatch slams shut; a few seconds later, the maxvee rises from its pads and glides away.
The man who led them through the CTF ducks his head, pulls off his helmet. When he looks up at them, his eyes are cold and hard.
“Gentlemen, ladies,” he says quietly, “I’m Captain Robert E. Lee, commanding officer of the Alabama. From this moment
on, you’ll do exactly what I tell you to do…”
URSS ALABAMA 7.5.70 / T-11.15.41
Wendy has just located her bunk when her father finds her. Making her way through the maze that is Deck C4D was hard enough; at least there were crewmen waiting to lead the new arrivals from the Helms through the ship to the hab modules. But she’s still getting used to free fall; her stomach feels like it’s made of glass, and every time she turns her head she feels another attack of nausea. Until liftoff from the Cape, she had been ravenous; now she’s glad that she hasn’t eaten since yesterday. So even under the best of circumstances, she’s not ready for any sort of family reunion.
“Well, hello, sugarplum,” a voice says from behind her as she struggles to open the storage locker next to her bunk. “Glad to see you made it.”
Wendy looks around, sees her father floating behind her, holding on to a ceiling rail. Eric Gunther looks different since the last time she saw him—his hair is shorter, his figure a little more thin—but that’s not unusual; there have been many times when months have gone past without any contact between them.
“Hi, Dad,” she says, then turns back to the locker. “Hold on a sec.” The latch should turn easily, but every time she tries to twist it, she only succeeds in rotating her own body. “Dammit,” she mutters under her breath, frustrated with herself. “Who designed this thing?”
“Here, let me give you a hand.” Before she can object, her father reaches past her, seizes the latch with his right hand. “The trick is, you’ve got to anchor yourself to something,” he adds as he grabs a rung on the bulkhead above the locker. “So once you’re not going anywhere…”
The locker springs open, revealing a space just large enough for her duffel bag. Clipped to a shelf inside is a plastic bag containing a folded jumpsuit. “You won’t need this for a while,” her father says, grasping the strap of her bag and beginning to pull it off her shoulder. “When you get a chance, you should change into…”