When the climb slowed, Orem turned on a guidance beam for the dipper, stuck a mini comm on his armor suit, then joined the others in the very bottom of the cradle. Packed in insulating foam, the four cocoons were held together by a metal frame. They looked almost festive with ten-meter long strips of white and orange fabric tied around their necks, waists, and feet. The rest of the crew, all in armor, had gathered every bit of equipment, supplies, and furniture they could tear loose from the cradle into one great junkpile.
“You guys ready?” Orem asked over the comm.
“As much as we’ll ever be,” Mara said. The others gave him a thumbs-up. In their armor, they looked more like machines than humans. Orem wished he could see their faces, shake their hands, exchange hugs.
Better just think about the transfer.
Orem opened a hatch on the bottom of the cradle. Far below, he could see the heavy reactor swinging from its long cable. Perfect ballast. On the mini-comm, Orem checked the mother ship for the position of the dipper. All full go.
“Orem, we’ve got you on radar. You’re climbing too slow.”
Orem looked down at the ground. They needed 4,000 meters for the midair transfer, and 5,000 would be better.
They weren’t getting it.
“Everybody! Lighten ship. Throw everything out. I mean everything.”
Working bucket brigade fashion, they dumped the junk, leaving a long trail of garbage behind. Just like tourists.
The cradle climbed faster.
“OK, this is, I think, it.” Orem said to the cradle team. “We want as much altitude as possible. The hydrogen lift will take us so far, but if we climb fast, the momentum we gain will carry us higher. We’ll meet the dipper at the top of the curve. Questions?”
For a few seconds, no one said anything. Then Mara spoke. “OK for that. Let’s have no sentimental slobbering. Orem, what’s next?”
“We tie on our superman capes.” Quickly all seven crew members tied on long orange and white ribbons.
“Orem, you’re slowing. You need another 2,000 meters,” said upstairs.
Orem cursed under his breath. The cradle leaked like a sieve. He’d underestimated the storm damage. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“Everyone hang on. I’m dropping the reactor.”
“Orem,” Mara said. “We need power to keep the patients cold and to recycle our oxygen. You’ve dropped our supplies already, but we could still drift out of the bug area. If you drop the reactor, you’re committing us to the midair transfer. No choice.”
Orem’s mind whirled. Mara was asking, not telling. He had to choose.
Far below through the open hatch, he could see thin wisps of clouds and below them, the jungle floor. He took a deep breath, held it to calm his nerves, then let it out.
Clear your mind. Above all, don’t think about red highlights in brown hair, smooth skin, fingers tracing a line across your chest. Maybe they could drift and land in a river, float until the shuttles came. Did he have a right to risk seven healthy lives to save four dying ones? Maybe... No. No more maybes.
“Hang on, all!” He pushed button one on the mini comm, signaling the dipper upstairs. Then he pressed two, blowing the explosive bolts holding the reactor.
The cradle leaped for the sky so fast the wind whistled around it. Up, up, through the gleaming white wetness of clouds and into the blue.
Pain stabbed at Orem’s ears. Too bad they didn’t have pressure suits. The air was freezing.
For perhaps five minutes, the balloon climbed, then it slowed, and, fabric sagging like wet paper, drifted lazily.
“Still too low, Orem. Suggest you abort and land,” upstairs said.
“No. No choice now. We’re jumping.” In a way, Orem felt relief. No more decisions.
“OK, everybody,” he shouted. “Patients first, but we’re getting out.” He yanked the handle on the metal frame holding the cocoons. The frame flipped over, shooting the first cocoon down through the hatchway. Orem counted three seconds, then hit the handle again, repeating the procedure until all four cocoons were gone.
Then the six others jumped. Orem counted them off, then counted three seconds for himself. For a split second he paused. Far below he could see the mass of jungle. Here and there, wisps of white cloud blocked the view. On the far horizon, he could see mountains tipped with white, nearly invisible from the ground, but looking startingly near from up here. Just like Utah, he thought, and a sudden homesickness stabbed his heart. He wanted to show Suze the Great Salt Lake, take her hiking in the high Uintas, sit with her near Orem at sundown when the land darkened and the snow-capped peak of Mt. Timpanogas gleamed in the dying sunlight. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want Suze to die, or anyone else.
He gritted his teeth, let go of his grip and stepped through the hatchway on to the open air.
Lightened, the cradle shot upwards, getting lots of altitude now that it did them no good.
He reached out, clutching the air with his hands like a sky diver, the long ribbons behind him flapping in his ears, hopefully slowing his fall. Far below, the four cocoons and the other crew hurtled down.
He twisted around to look at the western sky. Nothing. He looked the other way. Clouds, and lots more nothing.
“Where is the rocket?” he shouted.
Then he saw it, an arrowhead scratching a white line on the blue sky, intake scoop gaping open underneath.
“Hope you guys got those modifications right.”
The dipper screamed by, too fast. It circled, lifting its nose and extending its wings, throttling back, hanging on the air, getting every gram of lift.
It swept by underneath, catching the first cocoon in its intake scoop.
One down. Ten to go. Orem felt like shouting, singing. Now he wished they had labeled the cocoons. He had no idea which one was Suze.
The dipper flipped on its side, cutting a wide curve into the sky. Then it swooped back, snatching up cocoon number two.
It missed three, fluttering the long ribbons as it passed.
But it had the idea, now. Turning, it caught number three. Then it flew back and forth like a tractor plowing a field, collecting the other cocoon and the crew one by one.
Orem’s turn. A whirring sound. He glanced back just in time to see a needle bug glide by. Rather he glided by the needle bug, for he was going faster. He looked down, then froze. He could see each tree, each leaf, even the glittering little windows left by the leaf eaters.
“God, hurry, hurry.”
Lazily, the dipper flipped over, skidding through the sky like a skater on ice.
“Please, please.” Now Orem could see the pattern of the bark on the tree trunks. The dipper finished its turn and started a leisurely approach. The wind screamed by his armored suit.
“Faster, faster,” Orem pleaded as the dipper crawled around and vanished behind him.
Then a deafening bellow, and the lights went out. He smashed into a crash pad so hard it snapped his teeth together. An automatic door opened and a steel arm snatched him inside the dipper.
“You OK?” Mara kneeled over him. He was flat on his back and unable to speak.
For a second, he gasped for breath. Then the air came.
“Suze?”
“Good chance. They have a complete blood refresh ready upstairs. Everyone’s OK. Thanks to you.”
He closed his eyes. The dipper’s engines roared, lifting them away from Amaterasu.
“Orem, I was wondering?” said Mara, touching his glove.
“Yes?” Was even Mara getting sentimental?
“When the shuttles are ready, how long will it take you to get the cradle back in operation?”
Kent Patterson
1941–1995
Kent Patterson died following a heart attack at his home on March 14, 1995. Despite more than his fair share of hardships in his life, Kent always retained an upbeat attitude and sense of fun that might well inspire many with less cause for complaint. He enjoyed lighter-than-air craft, wheelchair basketball, chess, and beachcombing, and an impish sense of humor brightened his stories in