Two of Gwen's aunts, one cousin, and one of her grandmother's sisters had died in childbirth. Poor rural medical facilities were partly to blame, but that wasn't the whole story. Genetics had loaded the decks against them. The family had a history of large, late infants, which, when combined with the tight-hipped boyish build of most of its women, made for high-risk pregnancies. It was the first baby that was usually the killer. After that, the anatomical changes brought about by the first birth made things a lot easier. But, though she might be able to deny her fears, Gwen was in for a nightmare.
Abortion was now out of the question. Rebecca would not even consider bringing it up. Tears of shame fogged her eyes when she recalled her previous disgraceful behavior on that matter. Oh, Gwen, how could I have been so cruel as to try to trample on you like that? I was so arrogant, so sure I was right. All I thought about was saving the program. I never thought of you. Forgive me. Forgive me.
And whose program had she really been trying to save? NASA's. Send a crew to Mars and return them safely to Earth. For what purpose? For the purpose of gratifying the political needs of some Washington windbags? Was that a cause worth destroying Gwen for? Was that the cause to which she had dedicated her life?
Hardly. Nor was it exobiology. As important as such research was, Rebecca knew it was just a respectable cover for her deeper passion.
No, the real cause was—
Life to Mars, and Mars to Life.
The old Mars Society slogan had stirred her soul as a youth and recruited her to the movement. It was for that she had braved the freezing winds and falling scaffolds of Devon Island. It was for that she had poured out her spirit in a decade-long campaign to move a nation to reach for Mars. It was for that she had given up a life of security and privilege to take on the tough and risky career of an astronaut.
But when the chips were down, she had acted as if it were all a lot of hot air. It was Gwen—poor, uneducated Gwen—who had really accepted the challenge.
For the reality of the poetic-sounding slogan would be harsh. It would be a pain-ripped woman facing death on a blood-soaked table in an inadequate delivery room.
Gwen, forgive me. I betrayed you. I betrayed myself.
I'll do anything to help you now.
Alone in her bunk, the proud doctor cried.
OPHIR PLANUM
JUNE 28, 2013 21:23 MLT
"What's her status?" Townsend asked Rebecca.
In private conference with the colonel in the Beagle's galley at night, Rebecca surveyed her charts. "Almost due. I'd say she has about three or four weeks to go."
"No sooner?" He gritted his teeth, as if hoping for a reprieve.
Rebecca had no choice but to disappoint him. "Two weeks at the earliest," she said with certainty.
The colonel slammed his fist down on the table. "Dammit!"
The doctor was taken aback by the violence of his reaction. "What's the problem?"
With effort, Townsend calmed himself. "Today is June 28. Our window for a fast-transfer trajectory return to Earth closes on July 6."
Rebecca shook her head. "She won't have given birth by then. And there's nothing I can do to induce labor. Those kind of drugs weren't in the standard medical kit for a Mars mission, you know. And as it is, first deliveries are notoriously late."
Townsend walked over to contemplate the wall calendar. "So, either we leave her here in the midst of labor, or stay to help out and miss our launch window."
Rebecca stared in silence for several significant moments. "Colonel," she said firmly, "we've got to stay."
His face a turmoil of despair and indecision, Townsend whirled on her. "Why? McGee will be here with her. You can instruct him on what to do. And Gwen is as tough and healthy a girl as ever was. If anyone can handle a natural childbirth, she can."
"Wrong," Rebecca was firm. "Tough's the problem. That tomboy build of hers will cause trouble when it comes to getting the baby out. I'm medically certain this is going to be a rough delivery, Colonel. She'll need professional assistance."
Townsend looked about the room as if seeking help. "Can you do a C-section and deliver the kid early?" he said, a hint of desperation in his tone.
The doctor was emphatic. "No way. The equipment for surgery here is completely inadequate, to say nothing of the problem of caring for a premature infant."
For several moments, Townsend remained silent. She could see something unspoken going on in his mind. She locked her eyes on him and waited, silently commanding him to come forth with the truth.
A few seconds later, Townsend offered in a quiet but tortured voice, "Mission Control wants us to take both of them with us by force."
"What!" Rebecca was shocked.
"That's right." Townsend lowered his furious eyes. "And I have orders directly from General Winters himself, representing both the Joint Chiefs and the White House. They can't afford having us abandon those two here, even if Gwen wasn't in labor. And under present circumstances..."
Rebecca cut him off. "Taking them is absolutely out of the question. Trying to deal with a birth in the zero-gravity environment of the ERV would be a disaster. And spending the first five months of its life in zero g would leave the child hideously crippled, if it survived at all."
Townsend looked at her. "I thought you were the one who wanted the baby aborted."
"That was then, this is now. That was abortion, this is infanticide. Ethically I can't allow it." Rebecca crossed her arms and returned the colonel's look with a level gaze.
"You realize what you're saying?" said Townsend, totally flustered. "After the sixth, the only way home is a slow transfer orbit that gets us home in May instead of January. Ten months in that little ERV cabin instead of six. It's only designed to provide life support for two hundred days at most."
"But there'll only be three of us instead of all five. We can make it."
"Maybe, except for one thing. Even the slow return window closes after July 21. What would you have us do if the baby hasn't arrived by then?"
"If that happens, Colonel, you do what you think best."
"And you?"
"I'll do what I have to do," the doctor said softly.
OPHIR PLANUM
JUNE 29–JULY 16, 2013
The concept of "launch window" in astronautics is a relative term. In principle, it is always possible to get from one place to another—if one has sufficient propulsive capabilities and sufficient time. However, if the propulsive system is fixed, and the flight time allowable is limited by available consumables, then the otherwise vague edges of the launch window during which it is possible to get from one planet to another can become very sharp.
Luke Johnson marked the calendar hanging in the galley with two important dates. On July 8 he wrote in green, "End of fast transfer window." On July 21 he marked in red, "Last chance to launch."
The first of these days was somewhat arbitrary; it was the last date during which the dynamics of the solar system would allow the ERV Retriever to make the transit from Mars back to Earth within the limits of the two-hundred-day flight it was rated for. A day later, the required trip time grew to 209 days; while outside specs, the returning crew might risk that much without too much fear. But if launch were delayed even one more day after that, they would need 218 days, and so on, until July 21, when a risky 306-day transfer was still possible.
But after July 21, no amount of time would do. The Earth would simply have moved too far for the ERV to make the trip.