Chapter 11
THE THOMPSON HAD beaten them into the space station by almost twelve hours. They’d been greeted by a large crowd, and the pictures of the ecstatic homecoming had been relayed to the Copperhead. Now, they were docking, and the crowd had returned. It appeared to be even louder and more enthusiastic. Priscilla opened the air lock, looked out at them, and waved. People cheered and waved back. Cameras locked in on her. Shahlah and Johara and Drake Peifer were in the crowd. She retreated back inside to make room for the girls. “Just follow the tube,” she said. “Stop when you get to the concourse but don’t leave the area.”
Each of them took a moment to say good-bye to Jake, who stood off to one side. They thanked Priscilla and hurried away, delighted to be home. When the last of them had gone, a staff assistant appeared, carrying a small cage. “You wanted this?” she said.
Priscilla took the cage back to her cabin, collected Tawny, and put her inside. The cat didn’t exactly approve, but Priscilla had owned two of the animals when she was growing up and knew precisely how to do it. When she came back out, carrying the cat, Jake was still waiting. “Turn her over to General Services,” he said. “They’ll take care of her.”
Priscilla shook her head. “I’m not going to do that.”
“What are you going to do? Keep her?”
“Yes.”
“And how will you manage that? You won’t be around here very much.”
“I can take her home. Back to New Jersey. I’m pretty sure my mom would be willing to take her in.”
“Well,” he said, “your call.”
She looked across at Jake. His bag was secured to one of the seats. “However it works out, I’ll see that she gets a good home.”
He let her see that he’d have expected nothing less. “Here, Priscilla, why don’t you let me take the cage?”
“That’s all right. I can handle it. But thanks.” He stood aside, and she led the way out. “So what are you going to do now?” she asked.
“Take some time off. I think I’m just going to relax for a while.” He still looked distracted.
She wanted to tell him again it hadn’t been his fault. But she thought she’d probably only make things worse. “Well,” she said, “have a big time.”
They passed through the connecting tube and came out into the concourse, and the place erupted. Whistles, cheers, shouts of Shukran! and Thank you! She recognized the senator from New Jersey, and the House Speaker, who was from Ontario. Nadia and Adara waved. The reporters moved in close, shouting questions. “How does it feel to be back home?”
“How well did you know Captain Miller?”
“Are space missions so dangerous that we shouldn’t be sending children?”
Cameras followed them. Lana and Sakeena showed up, embraced them, and said how glad they were to see them again. Everybody was taking pictures.
A few people paused to shake her hand or get their picture taken with her. But Jake was engulfed. They crowded around him, clapped him on the back. Some had tears in their eyes. He tried to explain that the credit for the rescue should go to Joshua Miller, who’d given his life to ensure everyone else survived. But they weren’t really listening. There was too much noise, too much excitement.
A woman in Arab garb appeared out of nowhere and thanked Priscilla for saving her daughter. She slipped away before Priscilla could identify her. Another woman wanted to give her money, and a reporter asked how it had felt to rescue the kids off a ship that was about to go down. Dumb question. How the hell did he think it had felt? But Priscilla knew the sacred principle about not irritating the press, so she explained that it felt very good.
Shahlah greeted her with a large smile. “Priscilla,” she said, “if there’s ever anything I can do, don’t hesitate—”
“Thank you, Shahlah. Let’s stay in touch.”
“By all means.” Then: “One other thing—”
“What’s that?”
“Jake.”
“What about him?”
“He went through a lot out there. Keep an eye on him. He’s going to need help.” She left as a staff assistant approached.
“Ms. Hutchins?” he said.
“Yes?”
He was about twenty, a good-looking kid, in a work uniform. “We’ve set up a room for you at the Starlight. The information has been sent to your link. Are you planning on leaving the Wheel?”
“Eventually.”
“I mean like tomorrow? The director wants you to stay on for a bit. She’ll be in touch.”
“Okay. What about the girls? Have we provided for them?”
“We’ve set aside a couple of rooms. But I don’t think you need be concerned. They all had relatives waiting for them.”
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure, ma’am.”
Ma’am? Priscilla stared after him. She felt about ten years older.
* * *
JAKE HAD SEEN Matt Carstairs waiting for him the moment he’d come out of the tube. Then the crowd had closed in, and Jake lost track of him. But in the end he was still there, tall and well dressed, wearing his standard pensive expression, with a trace of a smile. Matt was retired Marines, and of course, as they say, once a Marine—
“Boss wants to see you, Jake,” he said.
“Okay.”
He reached for one of the bags. “Can I give you a hand?” said Matt.
“Sure.” They started toward the elevators.
“Tough flight,” he said.
“Yeah, Matt. I’ve seen better.”
They got into the elevator, and Matt pressed the button for the third level. Cleared his throat once or twice as an uncomfortable silence took over. He finally asked Jake if he was okay.
“Yeah. I’m good.”
“You must be glad to be back.”
“I’m just glad it’s over, pal.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I guess I would be, too.”
* * *
MATT TURNED HIM over to a secretary, who informed the director of operations that Captain Loomis had arrived. She listened to a response that Jake couldn’t hear, nodded, and asked him to have a seat. “Director McCoy will be with you shortly.”
Jake sat down. The secretary went back to her view screen. He suspected that elsewhere, Priscilla and Shahlah were in similar situations.
He waited a couple of minutes, took out his link, and brought up Worldwide News. A Christian church had been bombed in Senegal. Japan was still trying to recover from a tsunami. Off-season hurricanes continued to ravage the American coast. A nitwit trying to create a biobomb in Scandinavia apparently activated the thing prematurely and killed himself in an otherwise empty corridor at a hotel that was serving as the site of an international law-enforcement convention. And the nominations for the year’s film awards had been released.
The secretary pressed her fingers to an earpod, looked across at Jake, then at the director’s door. The door opened. “Go right in, Captain,” she said.
Jake had known Patricia McCoy for twenty years, from the days when they were still testing robotic versions of alternate jump systems, none of which had ever worked without killing the test animals or disappearing into Barber space, never to be heard from again. Patricia had been a flight engineer then, and they had orchestrated a couple of missions together. She was, he thought, one of the few managers he’d seen who wasn’t in over her head.
She stood just inside her office, wearing a wistful smile. “Jake,” she said, “how are you doing?” She was still trim, still looked good. She had thick chestnut hair, dark brown eyes, and a methodical manner that never left him in doubt who was in charge.