EMERGENCE (36 page)

Which left rosy-cheeked grammar-school refugee (big-time ultralight jockey) sitting in simulator's right-hand chair, reading off checklists, updating on-board computers, responding to CRTs, flipping switches right and left, watching gauges—trying to ignore fact that eminently qualified engineer/computer-scientist/jet-pilot cooling heels in deactivated mission specialist's chair just aft: patently so much dead weight.

Bothered me so much at first, finally took Kyril aside at break, planted foot squarely in mouth trying to apologize for being promoted over him. However, Russian promptly set mind at ease, using charming, sideways-fractured social English (love listening to him, though sometimes wonder if deliberate [technical syntax flawless]).

Kyril completely in agreement with assignments as posted; understood hominems' reservations about sincerity—would insist upon same precautions were positions reversed. Bore absolutely no resentment toward me for "usurping" role, nor anyone else for that matter. Suggested I forget disparity in ages, backgrounds; concentrate on job—predicted would find quite enough to occupy attention without manufacturing needless concerns.

Might have had trouble buying sincerity even then had not he broken off pep talk midword, startled me by impulsively taking my hands in his, expression desperately earnest, saying, "Candy, Harris is being ex-Marine pilot fighter: chubby-hearted, compellsive hero. He goes consequencely he knows he is best; could not be living with himself should mission boom out through flub of one less adequate sitting in his shoes. My justify are resembling: My proficiency of bomb is excelling. And I am at culp.

"But
you
. . ." Swept me into brief, intense hug; then released, holding at arms' length, gazing intensely into eyes. "I am astonish of you! I say without exacerbation: Inside little-girl window-condiment is most prodigal woman have ever had glad accident to meeting."

Now, emotions running pretty close to surface these days, as can imagine; I vacillate between forced cheerfulness, depths of despair. Naked admiration shining from Kyril's eyes at that moment far exceeded stimulus threshold necessary to loose floods.

Instead, horrified to detect genuine giggle born deep inside; growing, gaining impetus with each passing second, working inexorable way upward despite every effort to suppress—because didn't
want
to laugh: Kyril sure to take wrong—no; there lay problem: Sure to take right; and laughing at accent in class with poking fun at physical defect. Kyril really nice person; last thing wanted to do was hurt feelings. So forced features into rapt, wide-eyed smile; bit lip, tried to weather storm.

But Russian's enthusiasm still gaining momentum: "I think what I regret most-secondly about this kettle of grubs is not knowing you ten years awayer—hell's jingles, I would accommodate for meeting you four, even
three
years subsequentially. What you looking like then isn't mattering; outside would being old enough for getting to know you without raising flatulent vibes of moral torpitude. Would never want you predicate of false scandal . . ."

At that, final vestige of restraint popped like soap bubble: Sputtered first, noble intentions to contrary; then whooped uncontrollably, noises moderating thereafter to helpless belly laughing—situation made even funnier somehow by heartfelt guilt over puzzled expression momentarily overspreading Kyril's face.

But as I held aching ribs, puffing for semblance of restraint, he grinned wickedly, said, "That's better. To beginning, I despond you turning up to be humorless. And you don't
looking
Russian." Which, of course, added fuel to laughter.

Grin turned to warm smile. "Telling me: Did you really thinking I have noisy intestines over such applesoup as who sits where? We have imperative jobs to do; I do mine, you do yours."

Then smile faded. Brushed my cheek with gentle fingertips; said tenderly, "But making no misconstruings: I meant exactly how I said: I
proudly
to being sat alonghind you."

That did it, of course: Dissolved wetly into Russian's arms; useless for next 20 minutes.

Been truly frantic week; busy every second. Spent ten hours every day practicing on shuttle simulator, employing hypnotically augmented concentration to absorb duties—greatly reduced, fortunately, from load normally carried by right seat's occupant, due to elimination of systems, related controls, instruments. But Kyril correct: Still plenty left to keep me out of trouble!

However, shuttle training only part of schedule; followed each day by further drilling: getting to know bomb inside out; acquiring basic smattering of Russian, sufficient command of appropriate software assembly language (turned out both hard-, software started life American), requisite programming skills. And really had to knuckle down; both computerese, Russian lots harder than Pitman shorthand—
and so little time
!

AAs concluded long ago bomb too dangerous to have around, defused or not. But daren't risk setting off in orbit. Warhead
magnitudes
bigger than anything ever detonated on Earth, and strontium 90 really nasty stuff. While preliminary figures suggest only small fraction of fission byproducts likely to make it into atmosphere during next 200 years, sheer volume of output guarantees borderline-hazardous level of fallout. Further, one school of thought amongst AA astrophysicists suggests possibility that blast on that scale could have adverse effect on Van Allen belt.

Wherefore, AAs came up with complicated, but hopefully effective, procedure which should eliminate problem for good, while avoiding side effects. Vehicle's own awesome power, fuel reserves, form heart of disposal scheme.

Bratstvo
anticipated possible need for all-out departure from orbit, minimum-time reentry. Designed, constructed vehicle with ample fuel, power to do job. If attack detected, brakes go on at ten gees. Takes slightly more than 30 seconds to kill orbital velocity, but engines scheduled to operate for full minute, thrust alignment shifting throughout: Acceleration at burn's conclusion almost straight down; massé shot with only slight easterly vector, producing high-speed cometary graze. Engines fire again just before perigee: Remaining fuel blunts awesome velocity; adjusts speed, course, to dead-center reentry window.

Pointed in proper direction, however, vehicle capable of delta-V boost ample to leave Earth's gravity well entirely. Which amounts to pretty thorough disposal.

First step is physically disarming warhead (very first step, lest something go awry during succeeding stages; result in unscheduled reentry with live warhead, or, almost as bad, detonation in orbit). Suitcase-sized terminal with liquid-crystal display screen then unfolded, plugged into on-board computer's umbilicus; ballistics program wiped, new one loaded; engines fire up on schedule, end of problem.

But AAs didn't feel right about merely pitching ghastly device out into space for someone else to bump into sometime in unguessable future; destination of new ballistics program is Sol's interior—programmed for dive into sun: When AAs get rid of something, stays got!

(Obviously my people intrinsically tidy bunch: I like that.)

Well, this pretty well wraps up journal, I guess; not a lot more to say. We launch tomorrow morning. Find prospect of shuttle flight thrilling, if narrow perspective sufficiently; view carefully, without thinking beyond.

But made interesting discovery during course of week: Oddly enough, am
not
afraid to die.

Oh, apprehensive, of course. And perfectly willing to hold off for century or two. But not really, truly, personally frightened of death per se. Not sure why, but true. Perhaps partial consequence of horrendous weeks immediately following attack. Possibly that, coupled with subsequent episodes, has toughened psyche. Maybe fear of death something to which, through repeated exposure, one can acquire degree of immunity.

Don't know. But thinking back, can remember several previous occasions where prospect of trying something new, unknown, brought on appreciably higher anxiety levels. For instance, present attitude toward death nothing compared to heebie-jeebies briefly inspired by decision to accept Rollo's bargain. (Never would have admitted it to him, but contemplated prospect of initial session with same enthusiasm as root canal without anesthesia.)

Hmm . . . Thinking of Rollo makes me wonder if should have said "yes" to Adam. Feel sort of guilty about dying with issue unresolved. Viewed in retrospect—maybe.

Once heard "love" defined as condition in which own happiness dependent upon happiness of other. Makes sense, except literal interpretation covers parent/child, sibling/sibling, etc.; relationships which usually don't lead to sex. And while feelings toward Adam surely different from those for Daddy . . .

Hold on there. Oh, really?
Adopted
father, after all: No genetic bar; no reason shouldn't. Just never crossed mind before; never viewed Daddy from "female" perspective; never thought of him as "male."

Perhaps
should
have gone ahead with Adam. Then at least wouldn't be dying as virgin (I know, I know—wouldn't be dying as virgin if went ahead with
anybody
). But only 11, after all. Had expected to become functional, function
ing
female in own good time; derive same enjoyment books all prate about—but haven't
wanted
to yet, with Adam or anyone else.

(Still don't, actually.)

But mighty curious, and time running out. Well, too late now—unless perhaps vamp Harris or Kyril (or both?) on way out to rendezvous, or after completing mission, before life-support runs out.

But no, not Harris; regards me as likely prospect for sainthood. Apparently feels my age somehow makes my sacrifice more creditworthy than his. Don't understand reasoning myself, but he means it. Also thinks I would have made good Marine.

Besides, considers me cutest thing since invention of puppies. "Fathers" me for all he's worth—half the time absent-mindedly calls me first by one of several daughters' names. Even if managed to convince him offer not irrational behavior brought on by approaching end, would never take advantage.

In fact, as ponder matter further, probably be mortally offended that anyone would think for second
he
could be interested in someone my age. No; much too fond of him to take risk.

And Kyril—uh-uh, don't think him either. Granted, genuinely beautiful man, and quite fond of him, but—well, don't
know
why; somehow notion makes me uncomfortable. Hate to admit it after contributions—giving life same as we, after all—but somewhere down in deepest, darkest corner of soul, perhaps share AAs' unresolved doubts about Russian's ultimate sincerity.

And apart from that, is so incredibly intelligent, perceptive (along with sweet), would probably deduce real motive; cooperate out of desire to satisfy childish scientific curiosity, acting as one friend helping another. Doesn't sound much like formula for making Earth Move.

Never mind; maybe have better luck next time around.

Speaking of which, would be nice to know for sure What Comes Next. Suspect main reason not afraid of death is Momma Foster's attitude as own end approached. Things like that stick with five-year-olds; settle into, become part of basic makeup, foundations. No doubt in my mind whatsoever Momma went to Heaven; and find myself looking forward to reunion—maybe with Daddy, too? Hope so . . . .

If
get there myself, of course. . . . Whole life has yet to "flash before my eyes," but difficult to resist occasional furtive glance over shoulder as time approaches. Have attempted to live "good" life: Always tried to help where could; never hurt anyone on purpose when could avoid it.

But occasionally good intentions didn't pan out.

Wonder how killing Rollo looks on Record in Big Book.

Accident? Yes. Unavoidable? Under circumstances, yes.

But as Kim pointed out, if had known in advance that that's what would take to save twin's life . . .

There. Now getting down to real pain locus—never suggested facing imminent death easy; or knowing manner, hour of arrival, fun.

No. Hurts. Hurts lots. Hurts
awful!

Thinking about loved ones' pain. Counting own losses—never again holding serious "grown-up" philosophical discussions with Lisa; no more whispered, giggly huddles with Kim on subject of Men, Women & Life; never again holding nose over one of Adam's puns, or watching him glow with pride as I wax lyrical over product of culinary genius. Never again to learn from Teacher; or dig up own data, make own discoveries—and
so
much to learn . . . !

And nevermore to chat, play, share contented silences with Terry . . . .

That
may be most distressing thought of all—everyone else rational, intelligent; understands circumstances, reasons; will grieve, heal, remember me, go on.

But innocent birdbrain incapable of understanding circumstances; doesn't reason. Only knows is happy with me, miserable without. Only knows I left him, never returned. May recover, may not. But will hurt for long, long time and
never
know reason why.

No. Nothing fun about knowledge of impending death. For first time in months have experienced resurgence of bleak, terrible loneliness; horror, nightmares; depression that so paralyzed me during weeks following attack: Feelings of helplessness, futility; cornered feelings. Granted, predicament voluntary—but circumstances leading to stepping forward
not.

(And homilies about spilt milk may be apt, but sure not very comforting.)

Well, might as well wrap it up, go to bed. Launch scheduled for 6:00 A. M.; means 3:30 reveille: Must be aboard
Hale
by T minus one hour 50 minutes; lots to do before lighting fuse.

Plus big breakfast scheduled first; traditional astronauts' steak-and-eggs pig-out—especially critical this time because weight considerations preclude taking much in way of consumables with us: Every ounce left behind frees that much more fuel for maneuvering as we rendezvous with bomb—promises to be near thing as is.