“Your tax dollars at work.”
What was clear was a tube mounted on the side of the Coalition spacecraft. “How long do you think that is?” Tea asked over his shoulder. “Five meters?” Brahma was twenty meters long; this object appeared to run a quarter its length.
“It isn’t the length that worries me,” Zack said. “It’s the purpose.”
Tea grinned. “So you’re telling me size doesn’t matter?”
“Looks like a Stinger launcher,” Pogo said, not hiding his exasperation at Tea’s playfulness.
“Houston, Destiny on Channel B,” Zack said, using the encrypted link. “We’re looking and wondering—is this some kind of space bazooka?” The idea was ridiculous, until you remembered that an early Soviet space station had carried an honest-to-God cannon in case of attack by American killer satellites.
While they waited for Houston’s answer, Yvonne asked, “Would they actually shoot at us?”
“Shit, yes!” Pogo said. It was a reflexive answer, but, to be fair, in his life he had been the target of Coalition weapons.
Yvonne didn’t seem to care. “With the whole world watching?”
“Buell claimed the good parts of the Moon with the whole world watching,” Pogo insisted. “Besides, they’ll claim we shot first—or make it look like an accident.”
The radio crackled. Zack held up a hand for silence, grateful for the interruption in the argument. “Destiny, Houston on Channel B. The team here has looked at the Brahma device, and it seems to be a modification of a Russian Z25 MPAD, a man-portable anti-aircraft device.”
“Ah, Houston,” Zack said, “any thoughts on what to expect here?”
The crew was silent through the entire eight-second lag. “Destiny, stand by.”
Tea erupted. “Stand by? That’s the best they can do?”
“There’s not a hell of a lot we can do, is there?” Yvonne said.
“It would be nice to know what they expect.” Zack said. “Has anyone been in direct contact with their mission control? It’s not as though the number’s unlisted.” Tea laughed at that. “Is the Coalition talking about having a ‘defensive system’ on Brahma? What did they say their deep-space EVA was for?”
“To attach an experiment package,” Yvonne said.
“Destiny, Houston on Channel B. We’re still . . . working the situation.” Zack could hear the frustration in the capcom’s voice. “Working the situation” meant that it was being discussed all the way to NASA HQ in Washington, undoubtedly with the Pentagon and White House.
Which meant there might never be an answer. Or if it came, it would be late—or wrong.
Zack made up his mind. He muted the radio and said to Yvonne, “Can you get me a direct link to Brahma?”
She smiled. “You mean, ‘open hailing frequencies, Lieutenant Uhura’?”
Zack laughed out loud. He might have misjudged Yvonne. “Exactly.”
She immediately started tapping indicators on the left display, calling up communications options. “Line of sight would be best, but I can work it through their system, I think.” Brahma’s frequencies were as accessible as their Bangalore-based control center, if you bothered to search.
Pogo turned to Zack. “Why are we doing this?”
“Timing is everything, Colonel. I can’t wait for Houston, so I’m going to ‘work the situation’ from right here.”
Before the pilot could protest, Yvonne said, “Got ’em.”
Zack took the headset. “Destiny-7 for Brahma . . . Zack Stewart for Taj.”
Pogo couldn’t look at him. He clearly wanted to stomp off in anger, but there was nowhere to go. Tea noted this, and placed a hand on his arm.
“Hello, Venture!” Taj’s voice boomed in their headsets. “Congratulations on your landing!”
“Watch that last step—it’s a doozy.”
“So we saw.” Of course! Brahma had been able to monitor Venture’s bouncy landing.
“Seriously, whatever training you did for low-gravity touchdown, it’s not enough.”
“We’ll be vigilant.”
“When are you dropping by?” It killed him to sound like a suburban dad making a playdate, but he had to keep this casual. No doubt Taj was under the same pressure.
“We expect to land on the next rev. You should be able to see us.”
“We’re standing by to offer any assistance.” That was probably as close as he could get to saying, We’re not armed! “Still offering that cup of sugar.”
“We look forward to shaking hands in a few hours.”
Zack knew he needed to prolong the contact. “It will be good to see you again. The last time was . . . two years ago.”
Taj hesitated, causing Zack to wonder if his Brahma crewmates were listening, reacting. Then: “This could be a new start for everyone. Take care, my good friend.”
The moment the link was broken, Pogo said, “You didn’t ask him about the Stinger!”
“It’s an open loop, for God’s sake! He wouldn’t tell me, and even asking would give away the fact that we can see it . . . whatever it is.”
“Noted,” Pogo said.
“Keanu’s only a NEO, but it ought to be large enough for all of us,” Zack said.
“Besides,” Yvonne added, “it’s moving out of range in a few weeks. Why fight over something that’s not even going to be here?”
Zack stepped away from the console toward the airlock, where Tea was assembling the pieces of his surface suit. “Now I know why Weldon gave you my mission,” she said.
Yes, Zack thought, but did not say: Because I am the kind of astronaut who will do anything for the mission, even expose my private grief.
All astronauts are created equal. Some are more equal than others.
DEKE SLAYTON
SEVENTY-THREE DAYS EARLIER
There were historic buildings on the campus of the NASA Johnson Space Center. Building 30 held mission control; Building 9 the Destiny and Venture simulators. Building 2 was the tall headquarters building.
And 4-South was where the astronauts had their offices, on the top floor. Where Zack had worked for a decade.
But by accepting a transfer to management status and an assignment to the planetary sciences group, Zack found it easier to make the physical move across the quad to the unremarkable Building 24.
He kept current on aircraft, logging his mandatory forty hours a year, much of it acquired while strapped into an ancient WB-57 flying high-altitude loops to acquire imagery of Keanu.
He also made sure to attend the weekly Monday morning “pilots’ meeting” in 4-South to hear the often raucous, sometimes serious, occasionally tedious presentations on technical developments with Destiny and Venture . . . on the political fallout from Travis Buell’s popular and controversial “claim” of the Moon, made all the more interesting by Buell’s physical presence.
And to hear the assignments to new missions, including that of Tea Nowinski as commander of Destiny-7.
But his days were spent in a nondescript office on the second floor of Building 24. It was early on the morning of June 9; Rachel had had a sleepover at the Meyers’, so Zack was in his office at seven A.M. when Harley Drake—another early-to-work type—rolled in and closed the door. “Seen the news?”
“Narrow it down a little for me. Are we talking budgets, politics, women, or Keanu?” Harley had taken the loss of his mobility—and his flying and astronaut careers—better than Zack would have, throwing himself into a new career as a space scientist. He was enrolled in a master’s program at Rice, and had established himself as the hardest-working member of the Keanu Group . . . all without losing any of his bawdy irreverence, sometimes shocking the more genteel, academic types in Building 24.