“It means that the people who designed the station saw the movie,” Sam says. “Maybe as children. To them, this is how space stations are supposed to look.”
“Ridiculous,” Gareth snaps. “It was built as it was simply because form always follows function. Not because some space architect saw a movie when he was five.”
Sam doesn’t argue the point, maybe because Gareth is the paying passenger (in certain confidential preflight files, Gwendy has seen Gareth—and herself—referred to as “the geese,” an old airline term for passengers). Or maybe Sam’s just bored with the subject. Either way, Gwendy thinks he’s right. When looking at her Apple Watch, she often thinks that some gearhead designer was enchanted by Dick Tracey’s wrist radio when he or she was a kid.
In any case, the MF station is huge. The actual specs have left her mind, but she does remember that the endlessly curving outer corridor circling its rim is two and a half miles in length. Even with the Great Pyramid gone, she thinks, there are still seven wonders in the world. Except the new seventh is actually above the world. And for the next 19 days, it’s going to be their home. Assuming the next couple of hours go well, that is; docking is the most delicate and dangerous part of the entire mission, even more dangerous than their eventual landing on a floating pad off Malta.
Kathy Lundgren comes on GENERAL COMM and tells them to don their pressure suits. For a moment Gwendy is bewildered. She knows what the suit is, of course she does, the question is where did she put it?
She sees Adesh and Jafari pulling their storage cases from beneath their seats and almost slaps her forehead. Duh. Get it together, Gwendy. Is her memory worse since the last chocolate wore off? She thinks it probably is. The box always exacts a price.
She gets her suit out and slips into it. For a moment she’s distracted by the portside porthole. Did a bird just fly by out there? On the way to the feeder by the picnic table in their—
“Zip up, Senator Gwendy,” Dale Glen says, pointing at her open suit.
“Yes. I was just thinking about …” Is she going to tell him she thought a bird just flew past, 260 miles above the earth? Or that for just a moment she lost her place in time? “It doesn’t matter.”
She zips her suit and gets her helmet on and locked, putting her increasingly unreliable mind on hold and letting muscle memory take over. Click, click, snap, and done. Easy as pie, she tells herself, and connects to her iPad and the screens ahead of her seat. At first there’s nothing to see in the forward view, and then that huge and improbable wheel comes over the rim of the earth. It’s a majestic, almost heart-stopping sight, revolving slowly and revealing the flags of the 61 nations that took part and have the right—theoretically, at least—to use it. All it needs, she thinks, is the soundtrack music from 2001. Thus Spake … somebody. Can’t remember, just that it starts with a Z.
In the center is a white bubble containing the telescopic equipment Jafari Bankole probably can’t wait to get his hands on. Above the bubble is something that looks like a stainless-steel masthead topped with a gray cup lined with glittering gold mesh. It is sending messages to the stars … and hoping for a response.
Kathy Lundgren: “Mission Control, are we go for docking?”
Eileen Braddock: “Go for dock, Eagle Heavy, we are green across the board.”
David Graves: “Visors down, campers. We’ve got …”
“Seventeen minutes,” Kathy finishes. “Crew, roger your visors.”
They do.
“Give it to Becky,” Eileen says.
“Giving it to Becky, roger,” Kathy replies. “No commands, all computer. What do you say, Becky?”
“That I have the bus,” the voice of Becky the computer replies.
Dave says, “And what kind of bus is it, Becky?”
“It is a magic bus,” Becky says, and actually plays a few bars of the Who song.
“This hardly seems the time for stupid computer tricks,” Gareth says. He sounds wound up and pissed off, that amiable tone of voice from earlier outside of the lavatory a distant memory. “Next you’ll be asking it to tell knock-knock jokes while our lives are at risk!”
“No one’s life is at risk,” Kathy says. “This is a walk in the park.”
If only, Gwendy thinks.
Now there’s a touch of gravity again as Becky fires the aiming rockets in small, feathery bursts.
“Ops, do you want to go around another couple of times?” Eileen asks. “Sunset in twenty minutes, your location.”
“Negative, Ground, all good with us, and Becky can see in the dark.”
But Kathy and Sam can’t, Gwendy thinks, and computer-directed docking only works if Becky’s programming is flawless, and if there’s no dreaded holy-shit moment.
“Roger, Eagle Heavy.” This time it’s a male voice, Eileen’s superior, not a rocket jockey but some political appointee. Gwendy should be able to remember his name—she was the one who appointed him, for Christ’s sake—but she can’t. She tries some of Dr. Ambrose’s tricks, but none of them work.
A sudden brilliant thought strokes across her mind, as scary as a stroke of lightning hitting just feet away: Where is the button box? Is it in her tiny capsule of a cabin, or the storage compartment beneath her seat? Oh God, is it sitting home on the high shelf in the garage? What if she forgot to bring it?
She has enough wit to change her comm to private and then select the Bug Man’s setting on her iPad. “Adesh, do you know what I did with the steel case I brought on board? The one with—”
“Yes, the one with CLASSIFIED stamped on it.” He points down. She looks and sees it’s beneath her leg, just as it was on liftoff.
“Thank you,” she says. “Forgive the flightiness. I’m a little nervous about the docking.”
“Totally understood.” He smiles at her through his visor, but there’s no smile in his eyes. What she sees there is consideration. Maybe evaluation. She doesn’t like it. They must not know what’s wrong with me until the mission is accomplished. After that it won’t matter what they know.
There’s a thud from above them as Eagle Heavy’s docking hatch slides open on its servomotors.
“IDA is in place and green across the board,” Becky says. Gwendy has no trouble with that. IDA is the international docking adapter, so called because every nation that can send rockets to MF uses the same system. She can remember that, but for the time being her own middle name escapes her.
“Locking hinges in place,” Becky says.
The cabin rocks port; rocks starboard; comes steady. Little jerks accompany each movement, as if an inexperienced driver is goosing the gas pedal, releasing it, then goosing it again. A metaphor Gwendy could have done without.
“Ten meters,” Becky says.
All at once a huge shadow darkens the cabin, causing the interior lights to come on. Gwendy cranes her neck and sees they are passing under one of the MF station’s huge spokes, clearing it by what looks like only feet. She can make out every seal and rivet.
“Jesus, too close!” Gareth cries. “Too fucking cl—”
Then his voice is gone. Someone—probably Dave Graves—has cut him out of the general comm. Which is a good thing, Gwendy thinks. No one needs to listen to him bellow. Nevertheless, she braces herself for a collision that seems almost inevitable. A gloved hand takes hers. It’s Jaff. She turns to him and winks. He looks scared to death, but he manages to wink back.
“Five meters,” Becky says.
Seconds later there’s a bump—not hard but plenty solid. Gwendy has a moment of vertigo and realizes her body hasn’t been fully aware of Eagle Heavy’s constant motion until it stopped.