Aaron fell silent. Kirsten waited, perhaps expecting more, but then said herself, “I’m surprised that she passed the psychological exams for this mission. I mean, if she was predisposed to—you know—to killing herself, I’m surprised they didn’t detect that.”
“Their testing left a lot to be desired. They let Wall Chang come, after all.”
“What’s wrong with Wall?”
“He’s building bombs down in his workshop.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m serious. He’s gone off the deep end. Two years of being—trapped—here seems to have been too much for him.”
“God.”
Our testing had, of course, been rigorous. But people are so unpredictable, and those cooped up in a space vessel for extended periods have always had a tendency to go loony. As far back as the late 1980s, there is an intriguing reference to a suicide attempt by a Soviet cosmonaut aboard the Mir space station. No details of the attempt are in any of the records I possess; I always wondered whether he failed because he tried to hang himself in zero gravity.
“I’ll tell you something else,” continued Aaron. “I’m surprised that they let me come on this mission, too.”
“What?” Kirsten stared at his dark form. “Why?”
“Well, look at me. I’m not a Ph.D., or a promising grad student. I don’t even have a bachelor’s degree. I was just a maintenance tech for Spar Aerospace in Toronto, and everybody knew I got that job because of my dad’s connections through the Thunder Bay Spaceport. Hardly the kind of guy I’d expect them to chose, let alone to put in charge of the landing fleet.”
“All of your superiors were probably too old for this mission. As is, you’ll be forty-nine when we get back.”
“Nope. Just forty-eight. You will be forty-nine.”
“A gentleman never reminds a lady of her age, Aaron.”
“Sorry. But what you say is right, I guess. Hell, my supervisor, Brock, was thirty-nine. He’d be—well, with the way he looked after himself, he’d probably be dead by the time the mission got back.”
“Exactly,” said Kirsten. “Besides, in some fields practical knowledge is a hell of a lot more valuable than theoretical training. I mean, I was a first-year resident when they chose me for this mission. There are times down on the hospital level that I’d kill for another five years of experience, for having, just once, set a real broken leg, or performed real surgery, or even counseled somebody who was dying, not that I’ve had to deal with that yet. I feel so, so ill prepared for most of what I have to do. I guess I’m in over my head.”
Aaron’s reply was soft. “Maybe we all are.” They were both silent for two minutes, then Aaron turned on his side and pulled her to him. His hands touched her shoulder, her breast, her thigh—familiar movements, gestures tried and true. This wasn’t a time for exploration or heady passion. No, it was a time for closeness, togetherness, comfort. Their bodies intertwined, their vital signs danced. They joined, released, but continued to hold on to each other for almost an hour afterward.
Humans spend close to a third of their lives asleep. It seems a pity that such time should be wasted. I had tried to make the most of it for Diana Chandler when she first started to get obsessive about what her research seemed to indicate. Initially it had seemed to work—she practically gave up on her calculations at one point, dismissing her findings as insignificant or attributing them to problems with her equipment. But eventually she came back to them and I was left with no choice.
It seemed again worth trying. I truly did only want to use violence as a last resort, and maybe, just maybe, this would be enough to save the situation. Besides, I wouldn’t be attempting to alter Aaron’s thoughts. Rather, I’d just be reinforcing what he was already feeling.
Kirsten and Aaron had nodded off within five minutes of each other. The fact that Kirsten was there made the timing more difficult—I had to monitor two EEGs and work only during the periods in which both were deep in REM sleep. Still, enough opportunities presented themselves during the course of the night. Aaron slept on the right side of the bed, sprawled on his stomach like a lizard lying on a rock. Kirsten, taking what remained of the left side, lay in a semifetal position, her knees tucked toward her chest. At 02:07:33, I began to talk through the headboard speakers, my voice low. Not quite a whisper—I lacked the ability to communicate essentially with breath alone and no vibration of my speaker cords—but in a minimal volume, hardly discernible above the gentle sighing of the air conditioner. I changed my vocal characteristics to resemble Aaron’s nasal asperity and spoke slowly, quietly, right at the threshold of perception: “Diana committed suicide. She took her own life in despair. Di was crushed by the breakup of the marriage. It’s your fault—your fault—your fault. Diana committed suicide. She took—” Over and over again, quietly, attenuated, a chant.
Aaron tossed in his sleep as I spoke. Kirsten drew her knees more tightly to her chest. “Diana committed suicide …”
Kirsten’s pulse rate increased; Aaron’s breathing grew more ragged. Eyes rolled rapidly beneath clenched lids. “She took her own life in despair …”
He flailed an arm; her brow beaded with sweat. “Di was crushed by the breakup of the marriage …”
From deep in Aaron’s throat, a single syllable, the word “No,” dry and raw and faint, broke out from his dream world.
“It’s your fault—your fault—your fault…”
Suddenly Kirsten’s EEG did a flip-flop: she was moving out of REM sleep into a state of only shallow unconsciousness. I stopped speaking at once.
But I would be back.
NINETEEN
MASTER CALENDAR DISPLAY • CENTRAL CONTROL ROOM
STARCOLOGY DATE: SATURDAY 11 OCTOBER 2177
EARTH DATE: FRIDAY 7 MAY 2179
DAYS SINCE LAUNCH: 744 ▲
DAYS TO PLANETFALL: 2.224 ▼
It’s hard to believe he’s gone. That thought echoed over and over again through my Aaron Rossman neural net, repeating like the first simple program that each human learns in grade school—a handful of instructions that endlessly listed his or her name to screen. It’s hard to believe he’s gone. It’s hard to believe he’s gone.
But he was gone. Dead. People didn’t die of heart attacks anymore. Cancer was almost always curable if caught early. Routine brain scans detected potential trouble sites long before a stroke could occur. Diabetes. AIDS. Most of the other big killers of the past, cured. But no one—not doctor, not naturopath, not shaman—could do anything about a snapped neck. Benjamin Rossman, forty-eight, had died instantly, under a two hundred-kilogram steel girder that had fallen from a crane.
The phone call had come three nights before. Aaron, at his father’s home in Thunder Bay for the Passover holidays, answered. He’d been surprised to see Peter Oonark’s face fade in on the screen. “Hiya, Petey,” Aaron said, grinning broadly at the smooth, round visage he hadn’t seen for six years.
Petey, wearing a silver hard hat, looked grim. Grease smeared his face, and sweat beaded on his brow. “By, Jesus, Aaron—is that you?” He sounded surprised. “Don’t nearly recognize you with that forest.”