She knew she was playing a dangerous game. If her suspicions were correct, then someone had already assumed full control of the Clarke. She did not know exactly what their motives were, but the inflamed rhetoric that poured so easily from the American on board, Dr Richardson, gave her a pretty good idea. In her experience, Westerners were usually extremely emotional and headstrong.
However, since the beginning of the Mars mission training Su Ning had grown to like one: Captain Montreaux. With his calm, reflected manner he had always been able to manage difficult situations, and she had been glad that it had been he who had appeared the previous night in the Lounge.
She was certain that he was the right person to confide in.
Captain Yves Montreaux sat in the Lounge and looked at his watch for the fifth time. Still another hour to Nightmode, he noted impatiently.
The poker game had been over for more than two hours, Marchenko finally winning all the chips with a pair of twos. They had then eaten together at the table, before watching the daily news feed on the Lounge’s television. As usual, NASA hadn’t selected anything particularly interesting for them to see that evening; they were all fully aware that the television broadcasts were carefully screened and selected by a team of psychologists back at Mission Control. This meant that most of what they saw revolved around financials, funny stories and weather. It had been alright for the first few weeks, but by now they all craved something more tangible. It was a sad fact that the news just wasn’t exciting if it didn’t show you the suffering and plight of others. The psychologists would probably pick up on that fact, so any day now they could expect to see some additional flavour added to the broadcasts.
After dinner, Marchenko and Su Ning had both retired to their quarters, and Dr Richardson had busied herself with disassembling her experiments and returning the laboratory to its compartments inside the walls of the Lounge. He had decided to stay on the sofa to read.
“Waiting for someone?” Dr Richardson said from behind him.
He looked over his shoulder at the scientist, who was looking at him with a grin. “No, Dr Richardson,” he said casually. “I was just checking the time.”
“What are you reading?” She closed the final compartment and pushed towards the sofa. “Is it good?”
He showed her the cover of the book. “The Martian Chronicles, and I don’t know yet, because I’ve only just started it.”
“Essential reading for a mission to Mars, I think,” she looked at him keenly and cocked her head to one side. “But surely you, Captain Yves Montreaux, obsessed with Mars, would have read everything there is to know about the planet. How could you get this far without reading Bradbury’s classic?”
“I was never as much into Science Fiction as I was into Science,” he replied, closing the book and placing it on his lap. “From what I have read so far, Bradbury was the other way around.”
Dr Richardson looked at him and smiled. “I am sure that he knew Mars was not as he described it. But the purpose of Science Fiction is not to relate life as it is, but life as it could be. I heard somewhere that Science Fiction is able to tell us about all the possible mistakes we can make in the future, so that with effort, we can avoid them. When you get to the end of that book, you will understand what I mean.”
He looked at her with interest. Dr Richardson had always come across to him as hot-headed and impetuous, particularly with her heated debates about flags and national identity. But hearing her talk about Bradbury’s book forced a rethink. “I hadn’t put you down as a sentimental person,” he said lightly.
“As the commanding officer of the Clarke you must have read my psych report, so I can only imagine that either you didn’t believe it, or that the analyst shared your opinion.”
Her reply was good natured, but as always he sensed an edge to her voice, sign enough that to go any further on the subject may take him somewhere he was not keen on going. Just one more question, he told himself, just not about flags. “I prefer to judge people from what I see, not from what somebody with a computer thinks.”
She laughed. “I’m screwed then, aren’t I?”
The scientist had a cavalier attitude to the conversation, he thought, as if her non-military background excluded her from the formalities of protocol. He chose his words carefully in the front of his mind and then asked her his question. “Dr Richardson, has anything been bothering you recently?” As the commanding officer, he had to ask the difficult questions, but he hated putting people on the spot. Especially Dr Richardson.
“Why do you say that?” She sounded hurt.
The officer in him suddenly took over, changing the tone of the conversation completely. “I have my reasons. Now is there anything you would like to tell me?”
She looked at him in surprise. “Like what?”
“Anything.”
“Not really, to be honest.”
He sensed that she was holding back on something. “I would rather know, Dr Richardson. Your behaviour lately has been erratic.”
She had not yet clipped herself in to the sofa, and had been floating several inches above its cushions. Suddenly, she propelled herself towards the door of the Lounge with a kick. As she reached it, she spun round quickly and stopped herself just inside the mouth of the tunnel.
“If you must know, Captain Montreaux, I’m menstruating, and in zero gravity it’s not particularly pleasant.” Her voice was bitter and defiant. “Read that book, Captain. I recommend it.”
And with that, she was gone, leaving him sitting dumbstruck on the sofa, still holding the book to his lap.
Chapter 20
Martín could sense day approaching in Paris. He had left his desk to refill his Styrofoam cup and had been surprised by the crispness of the air. It was still dark outside and he was filled with a sensation that took him back to his days at university; he would typically have been late handing in his assignments, and would regularly have worked all night long in order to hand them in the following morning.
But it had been a long time since his last nuit blanche.
Larue had asked for haste, though maybe even he wouldn’t have expected such commitment on the first night. But after having witnessed Jacqueline’s discovery he didn’t need orders. He wanted to find out what NASA were trying to cover up, and find out now.
After more endless hours of watching old feeds from the Clarke, the night had started to catch up with him, and as he returned with his hot drink, he felt like he was wading through treacle.
Sitting down at his desk once more, he clicked lazily on his computer screen with his mouse. The feed he was now looking at was also from the previous night, but slightly earlier than the muffled conversation between Su Ning and Montreaux. One part of the video had been bugging him.
Su Ning had been alternating her gaze between her wristwatch and space for about five minutes. At the same time her lips had been moving silently, as if reciting some personal prayer, pausing occasionally to remember a word caught on the tip of the tongue. Eventually, she stopped and looked at her watch one final time, before giving a satisfied nod. Smiling, she turned and disappeared through the door to her quarters.
When she returned she was different, the smile gone, her shoulders dropped. He could not see her face properly in the faint glow of Nightmode, but it was obvious to Martín from nearly forty million miles away that something was deeply wrong.
Something to do with her watch, and the time. Maybe the time delay was on Clarke as well, maybe they had been accelerated by an hour and a quarter, so the time output by the mission was in sync with the delayed transmission from NASA.