It hadn’t. The moment of stark terror had lasted perhaps five seconds.
Of course, the insidious nature of death on space missions was that it either got you almost instantly—Challenger, Columbia, Soyuz 11—or not at all. The truth was, near-disasters like Apollo 13, with its five-day nail-biter of a loop around the Moon with three astronauts huddled in the lunar module “lifeboat,” or the 1997 collision between an uncrewed supply vehicle and the Mir space station, had given flight controllers and crews the confidence to feel that, given time, they could salvage any situation.
Tea hoped she was in one of those situations now. But just because no astronauts had died some hideous slow death until now didn’t mean it couldn’t happen.
Look at where they were—parked on the exterior of some kind of gigantic alien spacecraft. One crew member was already dead! Another one had been seriously injured.
Two more were . . . where? Alien captives? Dead?
One of the missing was a man she had come to love. Poor Zack! So sweet, so smart, so handsome! He had turned out to be the most stable relationship Tea had had since grade school. Until the past two months, when her Destiny-7 mission turned into his, she had looked forward to taking the next step with him, to get married. It was time; Megan’s death was two years past. Zack wouldn’t forget her, and Tea didn’t want that. The tragedy had shaped him, made him somehow more human, less the brilliant super-astronaut.
Besides, Zack’s astronaut career had seemed to be over. And with two lunar landings, one as commander, behind her, Tea would have no reason to risk another rocket ride, either.
But now? Lucas was recharging his suit from rover Buzz supplies, but where were Zack and Natalia? Tea could read consumables status; they were at or beyond the redlines for their suits.
And what had happened to Pogo? One hour he was here in Venture, his big, goofy self . . . the next he was some kind of space-age statistic! A snap of the finger—gone!
Killed by something inside Keanu.
It was suddenly okay that Houston had interrupted her private moment. Tea needed to know what was going on. “So, what did I miss?”
Jasmine seemed relieved to have her talking. “Josh is asking Lucas if he can drive Buzz through the membrane.”
“Why would he do that? Zack and Natalia need to be out of there!” Too much frank emotion, but if the flight director was talking to Brahma, it would be overlooked.
“Believe that’s what’s driving the drive-through option,” the capcom said. “If they can’t come to recharging, we take it to them.”
“If that’s the only option, then I like it better.”
“Flight wants you to talk to Home Team.”
For one moment—God, she was getting tired!—Tea wasn’t sure what or who the Home Team was. “Sure, put Harley on.”
“Harley is out of pocket at the moment. The next voice you hear will be Dr. Sasha Blaine.”
Tea had some vague picture in mind—Blaine was another bright young woman, much like capcom Jasmine Trieu, in fact. Smart, sure, pretty, but socially awkward. Too wide-eyed. “Copy. Hello, Sasha. Please catch me up.”
“I hardly know where to start,” Blaine said, then disproved her statement by quickly recounting the latest thoughts on Keanu’s artificiality and on the markers. “We’re torn about what message or messages they carry.”
“They might just be signage. Close Before Striking kind of stuff.”
“That’s high on the list. They also seem to be transmitting a set of beeps and clicks.”
“What band?”
“Several, from high to low. Something we detected, obviously.”
There was more, none of it particularly informed. Rather, Sasha Blaine just seemed to be giving Tea the latest notions and gossip . . . which was not typical NASA policy with crews in flight.
She wondered why. What was Houston hiding from her?
As soon as Sasha Blaine clicked off, flight director Josh Kennedy was on the line. “Tea, Josh. You should get some sleep.”
“Knowing it and doing it, not so easy.”
“Take a sleeping pill.”
“Hard to play nurse that way.”
“We’re monitoring Yvonne. And Dennis is preparing to come back when you wake up.”
Here it came: “What’s the plan, Josh?”
“Brahma has agreed to another tag-team EVA. You and Taj. Rescue and retrieval.”
She felt sick. Oh God, no! But she forced herself to sound calm, she hoped. “It’s usually one or the other.”
“The mission is to rescue Zack and Natalia, retrieve Pogo’s body. While you grab a couple of hours sack time, we’ll upload a timeline and map.”
Tea realized she had been crouching. She straightened up, looked around the cabin. Uncomfortable, yes. Time to go out for a walk.
In her mind, however, this would be rescue only. Pogo was beyond her ability to help.
Her priority was Zack.
The horror that this mission has become is further proof that NASA can’t handle ANYTHING more complicated than a weekend barbecue, and maybe not even that. One crew member DEAD, others out of touch, spotty communications, rumors running rampant. They should have let one of the commercial teams do it. GO SPACEX!
POSTER ALMAZ AT NEOMISSION.COM
The Megan-thing was still thrashing.
Zack Stewart held on to it for what seemed like minutes. He knew it was probably a few seconds. “Natalia!” he called, his voice little more than a croak.
Natalia pulled herself away from her own private horror show and rushed to Zack. “What is it?”
“I don’t—” Zack couldn’t answer; he didn’t know what this thing was, and it was taking all his strength to keep it—her—from tearing both of them apart. “Just . . . grab hold!”
Natalia hesitated for several seconds. Then she grabbed the Megan-thing’s legs. But one of them slipped free and a foot smacked Natalia’s face. “Shit!” She was bleeding, but regained control.
Zack had a death grip on the creature’s upper half, pinning its arms to the torso and trying to keep clear of the head, which jerked so violently he half-expected to see it snap off.
Then, as suddenly as if a switch had been thrown, the Megan-thing went limp. Natalia felt it, too. With blood covering her face, making her look like a flesh-eater from a horror movie, she said, “Can I let go?”
Exhausted, Zack nodded, relaxing his own grip on the Megan-thing.
It was resting against the wall below its cell, legs out, arms open as if in welcome.
Then it opened its eyes. “Took you,” it said, still wheezing, “long enough.”
“Jesus!” Zack couldn’t help it. Natalia let out a screech, too.
The Megan-thing whispered, “Don’t shout.”
“Sorry.” Sorry? What the hell was this? He was treating this creature like a human being! “Uh,” he said, struggling to find the right tone—the beheading of Pogo Downey still fresh in his memory—“who or what are you?”
“My name is Megan Doyle Stewart.”
That was impossible, of course. Megan Stewart was two years dead, buried in a muddy grave south of Houston.
This was . . . some construct, some machine, some . . . thing.
Zack glanced over at Natalia. Still bloody-mouthed, she was on her feet, walking away from them. Zack wanted to shout at her, Stay here! But not with this creature identifying herself as his late wife.
All right, he thought. Take a breath. Play the cards you’re dealt. This thing claimed to be Megan. Nothing to lose by acting as if it were. “Shouldn’t you be asking, ‘Where am I?’ And maybe a few hundred other questions.”
“Yes.” She closed her eyes briefly. In their years together, Zack had nursed Megan through several cases of the flu. That was what she looked like now: weak, pale, with flashes of life. She seemed to gather herself. “But . . . I already know where I am. I’m inside Keanu.” She smiled then.