Hamilton appeared ahead of him, floating in the void. A glittering construction of silver and gold, it seemed to be teeming with activity; another heavy-lift booster had brought more supplies into orbit. He toggled his radio and reported his position. The reply took longer than he would have expected.
“Ah, Captain Abernathy,” Sonja Whitehall said. She was the current traffic controller. “There seems to be some problem…”
“Captain, its me,” Salamander said. Abernathy, who would have recognised her voice anywhere, said nothing. “There’s been a slight problem.”
His MSV began to receive new instructions. “The Germans have placed something in orbit,” Salamander said sharply. “It’s coming our way.”
Abernathy examined the orbit and cursed. The German… whatever had entered orbit, and was moving fast enough to climb as it whirled around the Earth. In another orbit, or forty minutes, whatever it was would intersect with the station… and destroy it. Even if it were just a empty capsule, the destruction of Hamilton would be inevitable.
“Shoot it down,” he snapped. “Fire a missile at it.”
“There’s none in position to intercept,” Salamander said grimly. Most of the missiles had been placed in LEO, not in a position where they could hit a moving target in orbit. Even if they did manage to intercept, the debris might still hit the station and conceivably make the situation worse. The space station itself couldn’t fire upon it until it was very close. “You have to force it out of orbit.”
Abernathy had been a fighter pilot. Calm wasn’t a problem. “I want to update my will,” he said. “I’m ready to go.”
“Good luck,” Salamander said. “Begin boost now.”
Abernathy shuddered as the MSV triggered its boosters, propelling it slowly into a different orbit, one that should intersect with the German missile. He checked the orbital display, running the calculations; the Germans clearly hadn’t been able to boost the entire rocket at the space station – or perhaps they’d grown cautious when they’d lost a rocket.
“Should have shot that one down as well,” he muttered, and scowled. Without laser weapons, there was no quick way to replace any expanded missiles. “Moving to intercept.”
He narrowed his mind down to one thing, watching the radar display as he closed in on the German… weapon. Time seemed to fade as he closed in, and then he saw it, glinting in the light reflected from Earth. It didn’t look ultra-dangerous, more like a single hunk of metal, but that was all that would be needed to rip the station apart.
Thankfully, the station stayed off the air. He could guess at the panic as everyone was hustled into their space suits and the SSTO was cast off for duty, preparing to move everyone to Clarke if the worse happened, but he didn’t know. The German weapon came closer and closer… and with a bump he locked on to it.
Farewell, he thought, and closed his eyes. A moment later he opened them; the weapon, whatever it was, hadn’t exploded. It was still moving towards Hamilton, but it clearly wasn’t a bomb. “Fuck me,” he breathed.
“Only if you deflect that thing,” Salamander said. It was so out of character that Abernathy gaped, before realising what he had to do. Without thinking of the possible consequences, he triggered his boosters, burning through the last of his fuel for the MSV.
“I need a course projection,” he said, hoping that he’d gotten it wrong. A moment later he knew the truth; he hadn’t gotten it wrong at all. The sudden boost hadn’t been enough to deflect the German weapon from its course. Time was running out… and there was only one decision left to make.
“I think we’ll have to do it in heaven,” he said. If Salamander got mad at him – if he survived – he could live with it. Quickly, before anyone could argue, he triggered the boosters on his spacesuit’s unit, adding as much speed as he could to the weapon, pushing it down. Earth’s gravity pulled at it, pulling it down, and he boosted it as much as he could and…
“You’ve done it,” Salamander said. She didn’t even sound annoyed at his little crack at her. “Oh… Victor…”
Abernathy shook his head inside his space suit as Hamilton passed overhead. He’d burnt all of his fuel, and he was trapped on the same orbit as the weapon, an orbit spiralling down towards the Earth. He entertained a fantasy about literally riding the weapon back through the atmosphere, but he knew that it was nonsense. If by some miracle he survived the heat, he would not survive the impact.
He heard Salamander and the other crewman babbling about a rescue, but he knew that it was impossible; there was nothing short of a UFO that might be able to rescue him. He looked around hopefully, but apart from the Ministry’s space efforts, there was nothing in space, no alien space bats coming to save a doomed spaceman.
“Here’s hoping there’s a German under this orbit,” he said. “It was a honour to serve with all of you.”
He looked around hopefully for a UFO, for Q coming to save his life, but there was nothing. The weapon was spinning slightly, allowing the great green globe of Earth to appear above him as he grew closer and closer. He shut of his radio; there was nothing he wished to saw to anyone, as the heat began to rise. He wondered what burning up would feel like, as the planet swelled above it. His perspective swam – he thought for a long moment that the planet reached out and swallowed him – and the orbit degraded into the atmosphere,
“Goodbye,” he murmured. “Goodbye all of you.”
Abernathy fell forever.
Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Honoured Dead
Ten Downing Street
London, United Kingdom
7th June 1942
There had been no attempt by the Ministry of Space to cover up the first space-related death, indeed, the BBC had been more than willing to turn the brave astronaut into a hero, which Victor Abernathy deserved. The streak of light across the sky that had announced his death had been turned into a national sensation by the BBC, and a day of mourning and a collection for his family had been proposed. Abernathy had been unmarried, but he’d left an entire family behind, one that would be devastated.
“The funeral will be in a week,” he said, staring out of the window into the rain. Not a man often given to fancy, Hanover was half-convinced that the rain itself had come in mourning for Abernathy’s death. “He will receive a state funeral.”
“Thank you, sir,” Major Dashwood said. “His crewmates will appreciate it.”
Hanover nodded. “We can hold off the funeral so that all of them can attend,” he said seriously. “He was in the RAF; several dozen pilots and ground crew had already petitioned their commanders, asking permission to attend. His MP was very insistent upon it.”
“Bastard wants to ride his coattails back into Parliament,” Dashwood muttered. “Sir, what else has Parliament said?”
“They’re worried about a second attack,” Hanover said. “I confess that I share their concerns. What precautions have you taken against them trying again?”
Dashwood took a moment to gather his thoughts. “We cannot order anyone to do the same stunt again,” he said. “We have started two separate defences; we have brought over all of the remaining missiles, which will be used to hit anything that looks like its going to enter orbit, and we have started to launch more into space. Sooner or later, they’ll have to run out of missiles.”