by John Olson
Valkerie struggled to her feet, ignoring the bright lights that flashed in her brain. Her samples. She couldn’t go without her bacteria. “Get back to the chopper! I’ve got to get my samples.”
The men stared. Mouths open, eyes wide, they stood watching her—like imbeciles.
Good grief, she didn’t have time for this. The volcano could erupt any minute. “Get to the helicopter. Now!” She turned and ran for the cabin.
“Valerie Jansen?”
Valkerie glanced back. The taller one was jogging after her.
“They’re in the cabin. It’ll only take a minute.” Valkerie flung open the sheet of plywood that served as a door and stepped inside. The interior still reeked of SO2. She fell to her knees in front of the portable sample heater and checked the dial.
“Are you Valerie Jansen?”
Valkerie picked up the oven and turned slowly. “Yeah, I’m the only one here. Gina-Marie left two days ago.” She stepped toward the man, but he made no move to let her pass. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t leave without my samples. It took me five days to collect them. I ...”
Valkerie bit her lower lip. Something was wrong. The man was in his late forties. Tall. Well-groomed. Good-looking. What was he doing on a rescue helicopter? And why was his face so familiar?
The short man appeared behind his companion, peering at her through thick, eye-shrinking lenses. “May I ask what you were doing up in that tree?” His voice was an annoying whine.
“Don’t we need to get out of here? Aren’t you here to rescue me?”
“Rescue you?” The tall man took a step backward.
“Trident’s about to erupt. Right?”
The tall man shrugged. “We just came from your central research station. They didn’t say anything about an eruption. I assume they’ve been monitoring.”
“But it was venting all night. The whole valley was filled with SO2. If I hadn’t found a sealed plastic bag to breathe from, I wouldn’t have survived to reach the tree.”
“Venting?” The tall man stepped away from the cabin and cast a worried glance up at the overshadowing peak.
“Trident isn’t known for venting. It could signal a major eruption.”
“Why didn’t you evacuate? You’ve got a jeep.” The small man’s voice carried an accusing tone.
“In an SO2 blanket? Who are you guys? You’re not from the research station.”
“I’m sorry,” said the tall man. “I’m Steven Perez and this is Roger Abrams. We’re from NASA. We’ve reviewed your Astronaut Candidate Application and were hoping for an informal interview. We’ve been trying to get in touch with you for weeks.”
Valkerie dropped the sample heater. Blood surged into her face and throbbed with a pressure that made her nauseous. Her ASCAN application? Steven Perez? The director of the Johnson Space Center, Steven Perez? An interview? She looked down at herself. Dirty and bleeding. Barefoot and wearing a flimsy nightgown—for an interview. Not just any interview—the most important interview of her life.
* * *
Wednesday, August 15, Year One, 10:55 A.M.
Bob
Bob checked his watch again. 10:55. Almost showtime. He walked out of the elevator onto the fourth floor of Building 1 and headed for the drinking fountain, mentally cursing every flight surgeon who’d ever lived.
Flight surgeons had trashed the lives of more astronauts than he cared to remember. Jim Lovell’s bilirubin. Deke Slayton’s heart arrhythmia. Al Shepard’s inner ear. Now they were coming for him.
Tell ‘em what they want to hear.
Right. But what did they want to hear?
It was easy to guess what they didn’t want to hear. Bob had spent the last six months going over the Ares 10 flight hardware with a microscope. That was his job. If anything went wrong on the mission, it’d be his neck in the noose. But some of the contractors had complained that he was too picky about safety.
Bob snorted. Too picky about safety? An oxymoron. Or it would have been in the old days. But modern NASA had a new mantra. “Faster, cheaper, better.” What about “safer”? If you forgot that, you got an Apollo 1 fire. A Challenger explosion. A Mir collision. The smart guy didn’t trust his safety to anyone. Anyone. Trust yourself first, last, and only.
Bob swigged some water at the drinking fountain and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Now go. Relax. Be cool. Amble in. Act nonchalant. Don’t give them anything to grab hold of.
And tell ‘em what they want to hear.
He ambled down the hall, his gut knotting up. How would Josh handle this? With cool.
Bob pushed open the door and smiled. “Hey, docs! Ready to shrink some heads?” It sounded stupid the instant he said it.
A severe-looking fiftyish blond woman stood up and extended a hand. “I’m Dr. Hartmann.” She introduced her two colleagues. Dr. Avery, an African-American guy in his forties, very no-nonsense. And a pink-faced kid who looked fresh out of psycho school, clutching a fat notebook. Bob didn’t catch his name.
“Sign this consent form.” Dr. Hartmann held out a three-page document.
Bob studied it. “You’re going to video this?” So that’s why the side wall had a big mirror.
“Standard practice. Dr. Perez wants an objective record.”
Right. Bob hadn’t heard much that he liked about Perez, but he was The Man now, so you had to live with it. Bob read the entire release form slowly, including the fine print on the last page. He didn’t like it, but this seemed a bad time to argue. He signed.
“Have a seat, Mr. Kaganovski.”
“Thanks, Ms. Hartmann.”
“That’s Dr. Hartmann.”
“Oops ... sorry.” Bob felt his ears turning hot. Great start, Kaggo. Just put that other foot on the banana peel and try for a split. He slumped into the chair. Be cool. There’s still time to recover.
“Dr. Perez has asked us to evaluate various relationships among the team members of the Ares 10 prime crew. Please relax and answer the questions as quickly as you can. We’re interested in your first reactions to these questions. Is that clear?”
A smoke screen. Shrinks never, ever told you what it was really about. Bob tried to relax. “Sure thing. No problemo.”
“Please tell us about Dr. Alexis Ohta. Does it bother you that a woman is on the team?”
For crying out loud, did anyone still think that mattered? “Hey, she’s just one of the guys, you know?” One of the most gorgeous guys you’ve ever seen in your life. “I think she’s the best man on the team.”
Dr. Hartmann gave him an incredulous stare. “Best man?”
“Um, you know what I mean.” Great, Bob. Kick your tonsils while you’re at it. “Lex is just a ... regular person. We kind of forget she’s a girl.”
“Girl.” Dr. Hartmann scribbled in her notebook.
“Lady. Woman. Y-chromosome-challenged person.” Bob rolled his eyes. Oh, give it up. “Girl.” Good grief! Lex called herself a grrrl. Wasn’t that the same thing?
Hartmann kept writing. Dr. Avery just looked at Bob. The kid studied his notebook intently, his tongue poking a knob out of his cheek.
“Fine, Mr. Kaganovski. Could you tell us about Mr. Kennedy Hampton? How do you feel about his privileged background?”
“We kind of kid him about his name.” Bob leaned back in his chair. “You know, about how the only good Kennedy is—” Oops, bad idea. Bob cleared his throat. “Actually, Josh and I like to call him Hampster. He thinks that’s funny, you know?”
“I’m sure it is.” Dr. Hartmann pursed her lips and wrote for half a minute, scratching her pen noisily on the brittle paper. Dr. Avery studied Bob, his smile chilly. The kid licked his lips and kept his eyes fixed on his notebook.
Finally, Hartmann looked up from her notes. “And don’t they call you Choir Boy? What’s that about?”
“Just jealous of my boyish good looks, I guess.”
Hartmann began writing again furiously. “Very good. Now could you please evaluate the religious dive
rsity of the crew?”
Bob’s palms started to sweat. What could that possibly have to do with anything? Here’s where they’d try to separate him from the herd. “Actually we’re pretty cohesive on that issue. No problems there.”
“But aren’t you Catholic?”
“Like I said, no problems.” Bob waited out the silence. That’s all they were going to get out of him. If they wanted a branding iron, they’d have to find it themselves.
“Excellent, Mr. Kaganovski.” Dr. Hartmann looked at her clipboard. “I’m sorry, it’s Dr. Kaganovski, isn’t it?”
“It’s Bob.”
“Fine. Dr. Bob, could you tell us about Mr. Joshua Bennett? Do you have any question about following his orders, considering that he doesn’t have a Ph.D.?”
Bob shrugged. “Josh is a terrific pilot and the best leader I’ve ever known. He’s good at making decisions and it’s his job to give the orders. If you can do that, you don’t need a fancy-shmancy degree.”
Dr. Hartmann nodded and scrawled something. “But you have quite a fancy degree—a Ph.D. in physics from Berkeley.”
“Um, yeah, well, it’s not like I’m using it or anything. I do engineering physics, not the real stuff like cosmology or quantum field theory. I’m basically a glorified mechanic.”
“But suppose Mr. Bennett gave you an order on a matter where he lacked expertise? Suppose you considered it wrong, even dangerous?”
Bingo. It was safety after all. Here’s where they’d try to nail him. Tell ‘em what they want to hear. Bob cleared his throat and sat up straight in his chair. “That’s a very good question, but the fact is ...” He scratched his nose and then gave her his best smile. “The fact is that Josh is a pretty smart guy, and he’s just not going to ask me to do something dangerous. I trust the guy.” Which was mostly true.
“You’d obey his orders, then? You seem a bit hesitant.”
“It’s my job to obey the commander. He’s not going to send me into harm’s way, I’ll tell you that. He’s John Glenn, Captain Picard, and Chuck Norris, all in one.” Bob tugged at his chin. “So, yeah, I’d obey his orders.” Unless he was wrong.
“Thank you.” Dr. Hartmann wrote something and circled it several times. Dr. Avery leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes. And the kid closed his notebook.
Closed his notebook. Bob went tense in every muscle.
Dr. Hartmann stood up. “Have a pleasant day, Dr. Kaganovski. I’m sure the mission will be very successful.” She gave him a stiff smile and walked out. Dr. Avery followed her, his expression blank. The kid nodded to Bob on the way out. “Good luck, guy.”
Bob’s mouth hung open for a long moment. That was it? The whole interview? He’d come prepared for a one-hour dog-and-pony show, and they walk out after ten minutes? Yow!
Then he remembered that some technician on the other side of the mirror was probably still running the videocam. He stood up, trying to look unconcerned, and ambled out the door.
The shrinks had already disappeared. Bob suddenly needed fresh air. He headed down the hall toward the elevator.
One thing was for sure. They had come looking for dirt on him. And they’d found it, big time.
But how? What had he said?
* * *
Wednesday, August 15, Year One, 6:20 A.M.
Valkerie
“Interview? Me? Now?” Valkerie backed away from the NASA director, looking wildly around the cabin for something big enough to hide behind. “I’m not dressed, I just—” She ran her fingers through her hair, trying to press down the tangled mass of frizz and twigs. “You’ve got to leave. I mean—the volcano. It could go anytime.”
“Are you sure?”
Valkerie hugged her arms to her chest and nodded. “It was belching SO2—” Her lungs tightened, and she doubled over, coughing. Her throat was raw and her chest was full of fluid. Dark spots moved across her eyes.
“Roger, run back and tell the pilot we’re leaving right away. I’ll help Dr. Jansen with her equipment.”
Valkerie listened to the short man’s retreating steps with a growing sense of panic. The director wasn’t moving. He wanted her to go with them.
She dropped to her knees and pulled the bulky thermal suit toward her, holding it against her body as she went through the motion of folding it. Her head surged with pain. He was still looking at her. Why didn’t he leave?
Perez stepped toward her and stooped to pick up the sample oven. “What else do you need? One of those backpacks?”
Valkerie followed his gaze and blushed. Her bra hung from a loop on the pack frame, and a pile of dirty underwear and socks lay in front of it on the floor. “No. Please. Just the oven. I need to change, and I ... I won’t take long.” She rose unsteadily to her feet and moved to block Perez’s view of her underwear. “Tell the pilot I’ll be ready in a few minutes.” Valkerie held her breath and waited, forcing herself to look him in the eyes.
“Of course.” Perez pointed toward the door. “Pile anything you need out there.” He stepped outside and struggled to shut the plywood door behind him.
“Just leave it. It doesn’t close all the way.” Valkerie shoved the pile of underwear into her pack and crept to the doorway to peer through the gap. Good! Perez was on his way back to the helicopter.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Valkerie hurried to a small pile of dirty clothes at the foot of the cot. Great. They reeked. She had stretched the three-day field trip to five, and all her clothes were covered with sulfur-saturated mud. It wasn’t fair. Why did this have to happen now?
She stepped into a pair of stiff jeans, bracing herself against the wall. The jeans felt rough and cold, like dirty clay pots. Valkerie chose a gray sweatshirt that camouflaged the mud and changed quickly with her back to the door.
Ridiculous to interview looking like this. They’d have to go back without her. Maybe she could tell them she had to drive the jeep out.
The helicopter roared to life. Seconds later she heard a loud knock.
Valkerie stumbled to the door and poked her head through the gap. “Go ahead and fly out. I’ve got to drive the jeep.” Her shout ground gravel into her raw throat.
Perez shook his head. “What happened to the tires?”
“Oh yeah.” Valkerie looked down at her feet. “I needed the air—to breathe.”
“To breathe? How did ... ? Oh, I see. Very clever.” Perez squinted up at Mount Trident and frowned. Valkerie dragged her two packs outside, and Perez followed her with the thermal suit and air tanks. She could feel the weight of his eyes on her back. Great first impression she was making. First a nightgown and now clothes that weren’t fit for a mud wrestler.
They stepped across the bodies of two dead birds. “See? Ravens!” she shouted over the helicopter’s engines. “Killed by the SO2.”
Perez nodded and kept on walking past her. Valkerie stumbled behind him, feeling like an idiot. She pushed her way through the helicopter-generated storm, shielding her face with her free arm. Someone took her packs and disappeared. She waited, staring at a chip of olive drab paint on the helicopter door. What if Trident didn’t erupt? Some volcanoes vented for decades without erupting.
Perez appeared at the door and shouted, but she couldn’t make out his words. Grabbing the doorframe, she tried to pull herself up into the bay, but her head exploded in nauseating pain. The world went black, and she tottered backward. Unseen hands grabbed her. Lifting. Pulling. Setting her on her feet. She tried to pull away, but her legs buckled, and she collapsed into an expensive silk tie and the smell of men’s cologne. Stetson. Just like her father wore. Tears welled in her eyes. Her father loved NASA. NASA and football. She had to get the job.
Valkerie opened her eyes and found herself sitting on a bench with Perez crouched before her, looking up into her face. She braced herself with her arms and forced herself to sit up straight. Feet apart, lean slightly forward, make eye contact. It wasn’t too late. She could still salvage the interview.
“Is she
all right?” The short man shouted above the roar. Was his name Roger? Panic surged through her. This was an interview. She was supposed to remember. Sit up straight. Eye contact. Lots of eye contact.
“Dr. Jansen? Are you okay? Can you hear me?” Perez held her by the arms, searching her face.
“What, me?” The force of her words throbbed in her head. “I’m fine. I love flying. I’m just tired. I’ve been collecting samples around the clock. I think I found a new bacteria that can survive 125C. It could be a really important discovery, if—”
“The bump on your head—did you fall?”
Valkerie reached to her forehead. A huge welt felt hot beneath her hand. Her face was crusty and tight. Blood? “I guess I must have scratched it.”
Perez tilted her head back. “I don’t like the looks of this. We’ll get you to a doctor soon. Think you can make it?”
Valkerie nodded. “I’m really sorry. I know I must look a mess. If I’d known I had an interview I would at least have worn a blazer to match the mud.” She forced a smile and brushed at the crust that covered her jeans.
Perez frowned. “Try not to move.”
Valkerie sat rigid, afraid to relax under the scrutiny of the two men. “This was a long way to fly—just for an interview. You must have some pretty important questions to ask.”
“Actually we just wanted to meet the woman Dr. Romanov keeps talking about.”
“I didn’t know you knew Leonid.”
“Everybody knows Leonid.” Perez searched Valkerie’s face with a worried expression.
Why wasn’t he questioning her? Had he already made up his mind? “Um, did Leonid tell you I build my own equipment? I don’t have an E.E. degree, but I grew up building robotic sensors. My father—”
“Dr. Jansen. Are you sure you feel up to talking?”
“I’m fine. Go ahead. Ask your questions.” Eye contact. Lean forward. Valkerie’s chest constricted, doubling her over in a fit of coughing.