“Zack,” Taj said, “we still haven’t agreed on a plan.”
Zack stood and stretched. “I don’t know yet. For the moment, I want to see about Pogo. Whatever we do, I don’t just want him . . . left over there.”
Tea stood, too. “What do you say, Taj? This sounds like a job for you and me.”
She didn’t give Taj the chance to argue.
Yeah going to be stuck in frkng msn control til this is over Feel free to get me out!
RACHEL STEWART TEXT TO ETHAN LANDOLT, AUGUST 19, 2019,
WITH NO RESPONSE
“Are these girls under arrest?”
Harley had followed the guard to the ground floor of Building 1, where he found Rachel, her friend Amy, and a very distraught Jillianne Dwight, all kept company by a nervous official in a blue jacket. His contractor badge identified him as BURNETT, TOBY. He appeared to be about thirty.
“No, but they were in a restricted area—”
“Where were you?” Harley said to Rachel.
“The cafeteria.”
“Actually,” Burnett said, “they ran from the cafeteria. I suspect they were trying to get into Building Four-South.” Burnett’s tone suggested that this was some kind of temple. Well, Harley knew, to most of the starstruck JSC employees, the astronaut office was the holy of holies.
Not to Harley, however. “Her father’s an astronaut. She’s probably been in that building more than you have, Toby.” He wasn’t going to give Mr. Burnett time to argue. “Give them their phones.”
“No, Mr. Drake, I don’t think we can do that.”
Harley had never quarreled with JSC’s private security guys. But he was beyond patience now. “Think again, Toby. Unless you can hold up a document showing that these young women—minors—waived the right to personal possessions by entering this facility—at the invitation of the director, by the way, not on their initiative—you’re on thin ice. Actually, you’re on no ice at all. I don’t care what seems to be going on here, this is a civilian center. You can’t hold their phones, and you can’t hold them. So get over yourself and let them go.”
But Burnett wasn’t bending. “Mr. Bynum said to hold them.” Harley sighed. He knew Burnett’s type: impressed by power and authority, but also smug in his own.
Here was an opening. “Brent Bynum?” Burnett nodded. “Is Mr. Bynum employed by Wackenhut, which would make him one of your supervisors?”
“No, sir.”
“He’s not with NASA, or certainly not with the Johnson Space Center, either, is he?”
Burnett considered this. “I don’t believe so.”
“In fact, Mr. Bynum, with whom I’ve had several meetings already today, works for the White House. Which means he has zero authority to be ordering you around—especially zero authority to be ordering you to detain people and confiscate property.”
Burnett considered this for a moment. Then he reached into his desk and pulled out Amy’s cell phone and Rachel’s Slate. “Thank you, Toby,” Harley said, knowing it was time to let the man down easily. “I will see what I can do about keeping these young ladies where they can be found.”
Moments later the four of them were out in the muggy night, heading in the general direction of mission control. “Thank you,” Rachel said. Amy said nothing; she was already firing up her phone and going glassy-eyed.
As they reached the entrance to Building 30, then entered, Harley quickly updated Rachel on the loss of signal from the Venture crew. “We aren’t going to know anything about your dad until tomorrow.” He looked up at Jillianne Dwight, who had been notably silent until now. “Can you drive them home?”
“Love to. But . . . I’m parked behind Building Two.”
“We’ll wait right here.”
As Jillianne headed out, Amy announced that she needed to use the bathroom. Harley pointed her down the hall, then turned to Rachel . . . who suddenly looked like she’d had the shock of a lifetime.
“Something wrong?”
She held up the Slate. The headlines on the screen said, “Humans Alive in Keanu.” “Crew Finds Undead.” “Most Shocking Discovery in History.” “Space Angels!”
“May I?” Harley took the unit and tabbed his way through half a dozen sites, all of them blaring the same general stories: A Destiny astronaut had been killed (true). Destiny and Brahma crews had discovered alien civilization (truish).
They had also discovered living humans inside Keanu—at least one of them identified as a deceased Russian. “What the fuck?” Harley was usually careful about cursing in front of young people, but his guard was down.
“You don’t know anything about this?” Rachel said.
“Hell, no!”
“What do you think?”
“My first response, and my hundredth . . . garbage. Batshit crazy time. I mean, maybe the crew found a humanoid body—”
He shut up as Amy rejoined them. Rachel said, “Can’t we just go back to the family room?”
“No, you’re going home for the moment. To Amy’s.”
“Harley, come on—!”
Jillianne returned at that point. “Okay, girls, I’m parked illegally. . . .” She dangled her keys. It occurred to Harley that she might be eager to get back to her husband or whatever, too.
Rachel was in a semicrouch, her face filled with disdain. Harley decided, not for the first time, that he would not want to trade places with Zack Stewart—at least not when it came to being the father of a teenage girl. “Rachel, your father is the best person in the world to be handling this situation. Trust him. I do. The moment anything happens, the moment we have any news, I’ll be in touch. I’ll get you right back over here.”
Rachel hesitated, then reached out for her Slate. But Harley held it away. “Let me keep it for a moment. It’s better than mine. I’ll give it back to you tomorrow.”
Rachel stared, horrified. “Don’t worry, I won’t troll through your pictures.” She still wasn’t convinced, so he leaned close. “They took mine.”
Once she realized she was helping Harley in a conspiracy, Rachel gave up the argument. Even though Amy was pouting, she allowed them both to be led off by Jillianne.
Harley had not shown Rachel the last image that appeared on her Slate.
It was a dark, unclear picture of a woman who, except for short hair, looked exactly like Megan Stewart.
ALL THE HEAD SHEDS are behind closed doors ALL THE TIME. All I know is, astronauts are still alive, exploration is still proceeding. But beyond that—could be anything, from battling bug-eyed monsters to decoding meaning of big black monolith. We are twiddling our thumbs during LOS talking sci-fi scenarios, your tax dollars at work.
POSTER JSC GUY AT NEOMISSION.COM
Tea found Patrick Downey’s remains just where Zack had told her, less than two hundred meters deeper into Keanu, and in exactly the same horrific condition: flat on his back, headless, sliced from neck to toe, still more or less contained inside his blood-spattered EVA suit. She noted that pieces of Pogo’s helmet had been gathered into a small pile. Small comfort.
Zack had confessed, “I had nothing to cover him with.” And Tea had nothing, either. Human decency suggested that she should cover him with earth (a term that seemed increasingly inappropriate), but although “trees” had risen, there was nothing like loose soil here . . .
“Any suggestions?”
Taj was with her but completely distracted by the environment. “We cremate our dead,” he said.
“Yeah, well, Zack might have been able to light that one fire . . . I don’t think we’re equipped for a funeral pyre.”
“I wasn’t suggesting that. I’m more worried about how we get him back.”
Tea had not allowed herself to think that far into the future—a realization that alarmed her, since her whole career was based on her ability to project, plan, prepare. But Taj’s point was logicaclass="underline" Don’t leave your dead on the battlefield. “Then we’ll need a plastic bag.”