He pawed at the air, trying to push Peters away. She, however, was too practiced, too far ahead of him, and she evaded his telegraphed efforts, maintaining her calming contact. Weir closed his eyes for a moment as his body began to relax.
He looked up at DJ, tried to push himself into at least a sitting position.
“I’m all right now,” he said, knowing it to be a magnificent lie. Stubbornly, not willing to admit that the truth fell far short of the statement, he repeated his assertion: “I’m all right.”
To prove the point to those of the crew who doubted this assertion—everyone, as far as he could tell—he tried to push himself to his feet. His legs shook violently as he tried to stand, and his knees buckled, the muscles refusing to have anything to do with his intended course of action. DJ caught him before he could tumble back to the deck, helping him to stay upright. Peters stepped away now, and he found that he missed the contact, the support. DJ was a cold monolith.
“Move slowly,” DJ said, staring at him without flinching. “You’ve been in stasis for fifty-six days. You’re going to experience a little disorientation.”
A little. Something dark had crawled into his dreams in the tank, and he was not quite back in the real world now. Reality had not spun around him as confusedly as this since the first time he had ridden to orbit, taking an ill-advised window seat in the big elevator car on Skyhook One. In his experience, perspectives changed enormously and abruptly, following long periods of ennui. During that journey along the length of Skyhook One he had seen his world unfold and refold beneath him, a great blue and white flower afloat in a bottomless sea. By the end of the journey, he had come to an intuitive understanding of the geometry of space-time that had complemented his technical knowledge. He wondered what insights and visions awaited him now.
DJ quickly looked Weir over before letting him go. Weir wobbled for a moment, unsteady and queasy, but finally managed to keep his balance. There was a faint sense of embarrassment at standing there in nothing more than bikini briefs, the center of attention for the entire crew, but there was nothing to be done about that.
At least there was Cooper, still bare-ass naked and utterly free of all concern, leaning in to Weir and saying, “Damn, Dr. Weir, don’t scare us like that!” Weir gave him a sickly smile. Cooper seemed, on their short acquaintance, to be Peters’ counterpart, a humorous’ male spirit, a dark Pan.
“Coffee?”
“What?” Weir said.
Cooper trotted over to the wall, pulling out a large metal cylinder. He held this up for Weir to see. “Coffee.”
Weir frowned in understanding, an expression that made his face hurt. “No, thank you.” Cooper shrugged and turned away.
The crew had returned to purposeful movement, leaving Weir standing, confused and disconsolate, in the middle of the room. Miller was already into his flight suit, while Smith, in a corner, did stretching exercises, limbering himself up.
Cooper, still showing no concern about dressing, had opened the metal cylinder and was pouring coffee into a mug he had retrieved from one cubbyhole or another. DJ had stowed his emergency kit and quickly pulled on a flight suit. Starck was climbing into her flight suit, drawing an admiring glance from Cooper who, Weir noted, was mainly admiring Starck’s backside.
Without looking around, Starck flipped Cooper the bird. Cooper’s eyes lit up as he smiled. “Is that an offer?”
“It is not,” was Starck’s growled reply.
Weir went in search of his own clothes, trying to understand how anyone could get used to the effects of long-term Gravity Couch suspension. His entire body felt toxic and his mind was sluggish, drained of energy and knowledge. He felt unwilling and unable to accommodate anyone’s needs right now—he was not sure that he could even manage to dress.
At least they were close to their—his—goal. The Event Horizon was waiting, full of truths that were rightfully his. He had sent the Event Horizon and her crew down the rabbit hole. Whatever knowledge she had gleaned about Wonderland was his to hold first.
Miller pulled on his boots, quickly lacing them up, then zipped up his flight suit. There was no sign of playfulness about him, only an economy of movement that Weir envied and a fierce energy that left him apprehensive.
Miller turned towards Starck, who was pulling on her boots. “Starck,” he barked, “why aren’t you on the bridge?”
Starck gave him an acidic look, but it was not enough to make Miller relent. Still, she was not about to be bullied. Lacing up a boot, she growled back, “Do you mind if I get dressed first?”
“Yes I do,” Miller said. He bunched his hands into fists, put those on his hips, planted his feet apart, turning his head, surveying his crew, his domain. Weir honestly did not want to cross this man. “Come on, people, let’s go!”
Smith was the first one through the exit, followed closely by Starck, Justin, and DJ. Miller turned to follow, then swung back, his face a study in thunder. “And, Coop,” the Captain added, giving Cooper’s crotch a withering glance, “put some pants on.”
Chapter Eight
It seemed to Weir as though activity aboard the Lewis and Clark, once begun, never paused for a moment. Miller, Starck, and Smith went forward, into the bridge, to do whatever it was that spaceship bridge crews did at times like these.
Somewhere along the way, Peters had handed him a big warm blanket and he had wrapped himself in this, hoping to combat the shivering. He knew he was suffering from some kind of shock related to the time he had spent suspended in the Gravity Couch, but at the moment he would have preferred not to have any kind of ability to think. Either sleep or a nice warm corner would have done just as well. Neither Peters nor Cooper had been able to convince him that the ship’s interior temperature was reasonable—he felt cold.
Justin, Cooper, and Peters had set to in the crew’s quarters, turning them into a place to spend time, opening bunks, unfolding tables, taking out chairs. The Lewis and Clark was a fine example of environmental engineering, Weir thought, with just about everything aboard designed to fit into a niche Or fold away. It was easy for the crew to make room or ready the ship for the powerful thrust from the ion drive.
At the moment, DJ was moving around in the cabin, checking radiation badges, apparently for something to do while he avoided talking to Weir. For the moment, Weir found it hard to care—if anything, he would rather be left alone, huddled on a chair at the side of the cabin. This particular misery was not something he had anticipated. Scribbling equations all over reams of paper did not prepare a man for the realities of deep-space travel.
Cooper, Justin, and Peters had finished setting up the crew’s quarters and were now comfortable on bunks, Peters watching a video unit. The two men were engaged in pitching a small ball back and forth across the cabin, their expressions gradually easing into mock display of contempt for each other.
Cooper once again snatched the ball out of the air, sneering at Justin.
“When are you gonna put some heat on that?” He snapped the ball back at Justin.
Justin caught it, staring into Cooper’s eyes, challenging. “You can’t handle my junk, Papa Bear, don’t ask for the heat.” The ball sailed back again, straight for Cooper’s head.
“Don’t play ball in the house,” Peters said, not looking up from the video unit she was watching. Both Cooper and Justin ignored this automatic response from her, continuing to toss the ball between them, somehow managing to avoid DJ.
Weir leaned forward, tilting his head, curious about the video she was watching. She had taken out a handheld unit, rather than using the Lewis and Clark’s main vid system, and the sounds he had been hearing confirmed his suspicion—this was something of a more private nature rather than a professional production of some kind.