We live on a crowded planet, beset by widespread famine and plagued by the environmental meltdown caused by ancestors who ignored the problem until it got out of control. And we are still charging around bombing each other.
There is no intent here to belittle the accomplishment of those who gave us the means to reach out and conquer the vast distances that separate us from other worlds. But the hard reality is that the resources being used to send vehicles to the stars are desperately needed at home. Let’s take care of our own world before we go looking for others. Let’s not repeat old mistakes.
—Gregory MacAllister, Baltimore Sun,
November 26, 2195
Chapter 14
IF YOU SPEND twenty-seven years in space, nineteen of them piloting interstellars, you tend to lose contact with the bonds of Earth. Friends wander away, your family dissipates until only a few cousins and nephews remain, and the neighborhood in which you grew up changes so much that it’s no longer recognizable. Visit, and you’re a stranger. Consequently, Jake had no reason to return to Pittsburgh. Instead, he’d always liked remote places. Growing up, he’d thought that one day he’d like to live on an island. Or a mountaintop. It was probably the same drive that took him to the stars.
The Blue Ridge was a natural place for him to settle. His cabin was located halfway up a mountain, near Radford, Virginia, with a spectacular view of Claytor Lake. He had a few acquaintances but no friends in the area. It was his kind of country—rugged, beautiful, a place where you could expect to be left alone. It had never occurred to him that when the day came on which he actually settled into the cabin, he might not want to be left alone.
He’d visualized a different sort of retirement, one in which his colleagues, over the course of his last few months, would tell him how much they’d miss him, in which his bosses would acknowledge his work with a certificate, which he’d frame and hang over the sofa. There’d be a farewell party at the end. He’d expected to come to it with a sense of satisfaction, knowing that he’d done exactly what he’d wished with his life and with the knowledge that it had counted for something. He would arrive on the Blue Ridge bearing the respect of the professionals with whom he’d worked. Of people who’d been around a while. And of people like Priscilla, who were just starting and would form the next generation. Instead, he couldn’t even look into the eyes of those whom he’d known all these years. Least of all, into Priscilla’s.
She’d pretended everything was okay. But she knew what he’d done. And God help him, if he were put in the same situation today, he’d probably do the same thing. Stall and pretend he didn’t know what Joshua was really saying until he went below and shut off the air.
It was raining when he arrived at the cabin. He’d never been here before for more than a couple of weeks at a time. But it had officially been his home for nine years. He dropped his bags on the front deck, listening to the downpour and the wind while the lock clicked open. No other building was visible although at night, a few places across the slopes would light up. And, of course, if he was watching at the right moment, he’d be able to see the maglev going through the valley on its way to Roanoke.
He went inside and closed the door. A sudden rush of rain swept across one of the windows. Jake crossed to the liquor cabinet, opened it, and poured himself a glass of rum. Then he settled into a chair, sipped his drink, put the glass down on a side table, and let his head sink back. It’s not always a good thing, he thought, when you run into desperate circumstances and find yourself in the presence of a hero. You may come out alive, but it was possible nothing else that mattered would survive.
He was a different person now than he had been when he was called to go out and take over Priscilla’s certification flight. He knew more about himself than he had then. He’d been tested and found wanting. And he’d have to live with it.
Well, okay. How many other guys would have been willing to step up in that kind of situation?
He showered and got into fresh clothes. There was nothing in the refrigerator, but he didn’t want to have dinner alone anyhow. Not today. So he went down to Earl’s, where he routinely ate when he was in town.
* * *
IT WAS EARLY, and there were only three or four other customers in the place. He knew the waitresses, and David the bartender. David was a heavyset African-American who knew what Jake did for a living and consequently treated him like a VIP. Earl himself was an invisible presence, a guy who lived in Richmond and owned a chain of bistros.
“What’ll you have, Jake?” asked David. “Been a while.”
“Hi, David.” He sat down at the bar. “A light beer would be good. How’ve you been?”
David gave him a big smile. “Pretty good, actually.” He picked up a glass, filled it, and set it down in front of him. “I’m opening my own business.”
“Really? You’re not leaving here, are you?”
“Yes. This is my last week.”
“Well, congratulations,” said Jake. “You bought a bar?”
“A restaurant. In Charlottesville. I’ll be moving down there next week.” He was muscular, a guy who might have been a linebacker in his earlier days. And he looked happy.
“Good luck with it, David.” He picked up the beer and took a swallow. “What kind of restaurant is it?”
“It’s going to be a Bumpers.” He handed Jake a flyer. “It opens the weekend after next.”
“Knockout waitresses,” said Jake.
David laughed. “Just like here.”
“I hope you make a million up there, David.”
“I hope so, too.” He glanced at the overhead. “How’s life on the space station? I see you helped rescue some girls last week.”
“More or less.”
He had to break off to pour drinks for a couple of customers. Then he was back: “How long you going to be here this time, Jake?”
“I’m home permanently. I’ve retired.”
“Really? You’re pretty young to be doing that, aren’t you?”
“I wish.”
“Are you going to be living here?”
“For a while, anyhow.”
“Well, good. I hope you’ll come over to Charlottesville to see me occasionally.”
“I’ll do that, David.”
“I’ll tell you something, though. If I could fly one of those things that you do, I don’t think I’d ever quit.”
* * *
WHEN HE’D FINISHED his dinner, Jake went back up to the cabin and turned on the HV. He needed to get a couple of women in his life. Maybe that would help him break out of this mood. There were a few places in the area he could try. But not tonight.
He settled onto his sofa and looked for something to watch. He skimmed over cooking shows, talking heads going on about the presidential campaign, more talking heads discussing a woman who’d gotten dumped and responded by murdering her boyfriend, the boyfriend’s father, and a pizza-delivery guy who’d gotten seriously unlucky. He found an Ed Brisbane comedy, but he’d seen it. And a science-fiction thriller with a man and woman crawling through a pipe pursued by a spidery beast.
Yuk.
He was still looking when his link sounded. He lowered the volume on the HV. “Hello?”
“Mr. Loomis? This is Sheila Pascal. I’m calling for ITI.” Interstellar Transport, Inc. “We understand you’ve retired.”