Gravity (15 page)

The ominous swirl had begun to take shape over the eastern Caribbean days before. It had started as a short wave trough aloft, a gentle undulation of clouds formed from the evaporated waters of the sun-baked equatorial sea. Butting up against a bank of air from the north, the clouds had begun to rotate, spinning a calm eye of dry air. Now it was a definite spiral that seemed to grow with every new image transmitted by the geostationary GOES weather satellite. The NOM National Weather Service had been tracking it since its birth, had watched as it meandered, directionless, off the eastern end of Cuba. Now the newest buoy data was coming in, with measurements of temperature, wind speed and direction. This data reinforced what the meteorologists were now seeing on their computer screens.

It was a tropical storm. And it was moving northwest, toward the tip of Florida.

This was the sort of news shuttle flight director Randy Carpenter dreaded. They could tinker with engineering problems. They could troubleshoot multiple systems failures. But against the forces of Mother Nature, they were helpless. The primary concern of this morning’s mission management team meeting was a go-no-go decision on deorbit, and they had planned for shuttle undocking and deorbit burn in six hours’ time. The weather briefing changed everything.

“NOAA Spaceflight Meteorology Group reports the tropical storm is moving north-northwest, bearing toward the Florida Keys,” said the forecaster.

“Radar from Patrick Air Force Base Nexrad Doppler from the National Weather Service in Melbourne show radial wind velocities of up to sixty-five knots, with intensifying rain. Rawinsonde balloon and Jimsphere balloon both confirm. Also, both the Field Mill network around Canaveral as well as LDAR show increasing lightning activity. These conditions will probably continue for the next forty-eight hours.

Possibly longer.”

“In other words,” said Carpenter, “we’re not landing at Kennedy.”

“Kennedy is definitely out. At least for the next three to four days.” Carpenter sighed. “Okay, we sorta guessed that was coming. Let’s hear about Edwards.” Edwards Air Force Base, tucked into a valley east of the Sierra Nevada in California, was not their first choice. A landing at Edwards delayed shuttle processing and turnaround for the next mission because the shuttle would have to be transported back to Kennedy, piggybacked to a 747.

“Unfortunately,” said the forecaster, “there’s a problem with Edwards as well.” A knot had formed in Carpenter’s stomach. A premonition that this was the beginning of a bad chain of events. As lead shuttle flight director, he had made it his personal mission to review any mishap on record and analyze what had gone wrong. With the advantage of hindsight, he could usually trace the problem backward, through a succession of bad but seemingly innocuous decisions. Sometimes it started back at the factory with a technician, a miswired panel. Hell, even something as big and expensive as the Hubble Telescope lens had started off screwed up from the very beginning.

Now he could not shake off the feeling that he would later think back to this very meeting and ask himself, What should I have done differently?

What could I have done to prevent a catastrophe?

He asked, “What are the conditions at Edwards?”

“Currently they’re looking at a cloud ceiling at seven thousand feet.”

“That’s an automatic no-go.”

“Right. So much for sunny California. But there’s the possibility of partial clearing within the next twenty-four to thirty-six hours. We might have reasonable landing conditions if we just wait it out. Otherwise, it’s off to New Mexico we go. I just checked MIDDS, and White Sands looks good. Clear skies, head winds at five to ten knots. No adverse weather forecast.”

“So it’s down to a choice,” said Carpenter. “Wait till Edwards clears up. Or go for White Sands.” He looked around the room at the rest of the team, seeking opinions.

One of the program managers said, “They’re fine up there right now. We could leave them docked to ISS as long as we need to, until the weather cooperates. I don’t see the necessity of rushing them home to a less than optimal site.” Less than optimal was an understatement. White Sands was little more than an isolated landing strip equipped with heading alignment cylinders.

“There’s the matter of getting the corpse back as soon as possible,” said Todd Cutler. “While an autopsy’s still useful.”

“We’re all aware of that,” said the program manager. “But weigh it against the negatives. White Sands is limited. Civilian medical backup just isn’t there, if we have any problems on landing. In fact, all things considered, I’d suggest we wait it longer, till Kennedy’s clear. Logistically, it’s the best thing program. Quicker orbiter turnaround, get her right back on the pad for the next mission. In the meantime, the flight crew can stay as a hotel for the next few days.”

Several other program managers nodded. They were all taking the most conservative approach. The crew was safe where they were, the urgency of bringing home Hirai’s corpse paled in light of all the problems of a White Sands landing. Carpenter thought of the ways he could be second-guessed should there, God forbid, be a catastrophic landing at White Sands. He thought of the questions he would ask, were he reviewing the decisions of another flight director.

Why didn’t you wait out the weather? Why did you hurry them home?

The right decision was the one that minimized risk, yet met mission goals.

He decided to choose the middle ground.

“Three days is stretching it out too long,” he said. “So Kennedy’s out. Let’s go for Edwards. Maybe we’ll get clear skies tomorrow.” He looked at the forecaster. “Make those clouds go away.”

“Sure. I’ll just do a reverse rain dance.” Carpenter glanced at the wall clock. “Okay, crew’s wake-up call is in four hours. We’ll give ‘em the news then. They can’t come home quite yet.”

Jill Hewitt woke up gasping. Her first conscious thought was that she was drowning, that with every breath, she was inhaling water.

She opened her eyes, and with her first panicked glance saw what looked like a swarm of jellyfish drifting around her. She coughed, at last managed to draw in a deep breath, and coughed again. The sharply expelled air sent all the jellyfish tumbling away.

She scrambled out of her restraint bag and turned up the cabin lights.

In amazement she stared at the shimmering air.

“Bob!” she yelled. “We’ve got a spill!” She heard O’Leary say, up on flight deck, “Jesus, what the hell is this?”

“Get out the masks!” ordered Kittredge. “Until we know this isn’t toxic.” Jill opened the emergency locker, pulled out the contaminant-protection kit, and tossed masks and goggles to Kittredge, O’Leary, and Mercer as they came diving down the access opening into middeck. There’d been no time to get dressed, everyone was still their underwear, still shaking off sleep.

Now, with their masks on, they stared at the blue-green globules drifting around them.

Mercer reached out and captured one in his hand. “Weird,” he said, rubbing it between his fingers. “It feels thick. Slimy. some sort of mucus.” Now O’Leary, the medical officer, caught one and held it up to his goggles for a closer look. “It’s not even liquid.”

“Looks to me like a liquid,” said Jill. “It behaves like one.”

“But it’s more gelatinous. Almost like—” They all gave a start as loud music abruptly blared out. It was Elvis Presley’s velvet voice singing “Blue Suede Shoes.” Their morning wake-up call from Mission Control.

“And a good mornin’ to you, Discovery,” came Capcom’s cheery voice.

“Time to rise and shine, folks!” Kittredge responded, “Capcom, we’re already awake. We’ve, uh, got ourselves a strange situation up here.”

“Situation?”

“We have some sort of spill in the cabin. We’re trying to identify it. It’s a viscous substance. Sort of a milky blue-green. It looks like little opals floating around. It’s already spread to decks.”

“You guys wearing your masks?”

“Affirmative.”

“You know where it’s coming from?”

“Not a clue.”

“Okay, we’re consulting ECLSS right now. They may have an idea what it is.”

“Whatever it is, it doesn’t seem to be toxic. We’ve all been asleep with this stuff hanging in the air. None of us seems to be sick.” Kittredge glanced around at his masked crew, and they all shook their heads.

“Is there any odor to the spill?” asked Capcom. “ECLSS wants to know if it could be from the waste collection system.” Suddenly Jill felt queasy. Was this stuff they’d been breathing in, swimming in, leaked toilet waste?

“Uh—I guess one of us has to take a sniff,” said Kittredge. He looked around at his crew, who merely stared back. “Gee, guys, don’t all volunteer at once,” he muttered, and finally lifted his mask. He smeared a globule between his fingers and took a whiff.

“I don’t think this is sewage. It doesn’t smell chemical, either. At least, not petroleum-based.”

“What does it smell like?” asked Capcom.

“Sort of … fishy. Like the slime off a trout. Something the galley, maybe?”

“Or it could be leakage from one of the life-science payloads. You’re carrying a few experiments back from ISS. Aren’t there aquarium enclosures onboard?”

“This stuff does sort of remind me of frog eggs. We’ll inspect the enclosures,” said Kittredge. He looked around the cabin, at glistening clumps adhering to the walls. “It’s landing on now. We’re gonna be cleaning up the splatters for a while. It’ll set back our reentry.”

“Uh, Discovery, I hate to break the news,” said Capcom. “But reentry’s going to be delayed in any event. You’ll have to sit tight.”

“What’s the problem?”

“We’ve got some weather down here. Kennedy’s looking at crosswinds of up to forty knots, with thunderstorm anvils in the vicinity. Tropical storm’s moving in from the southeast. She’s already made a mess of the Dominican Republic, and she’s headed for the Keys.”

“What about Edwards?”

“They’re currently reporting a seven-thousand-foot cloud ceiling. It should clear up in the next two days. So unless you guys are anxious to land at White Sands, we’re looking at a delay of at thirty-six hours. We may have you reopen the hatches and join the crew on ISS again.” Kittredge eyed the globules drifting by. “Negative on that, Capcom. We’d contaminate the station with this spill. We’ve gotta things cleaned up.”

“Roger that. Surgeon is standing by here, wants to confirm that your crew is experiencing no adverse effects. Is that correct?”

“The spill appears harmless. No one’s showing any signs of illness.” He batted away a clump of globules, and they went off like scattered pearls. “They’re really kind of pretty. But I hate to think of them gunking up our electronics, so we’d better get cracking on cleanup detail.”

“We’ll update you on the weather as it changes, Discovery. Now get out those mops and buckets.”

“Yeah,” laughed Kittredge. “Just call us the sky-high cleaning service. We even do windows.” He pulled off his mask. “I guess it’s safe to take ‘em off.” Jill took off her mask and goggles and glided across to the emergency locker. She had just stowed the equipment when she found Mercer staring at her.

“What?” she said.

“Your eye—what happened to it?”

“What’s wrong with my eye?”

“You’d better take a look.” She floated across to the hygiene station.

Her first glimpse in the mirror was shocking. The sclera of one of her eyes was bloodred. Not merely streaked, but a solid crimson.

“Jesus,” she murmured, horrified by her own reflection. I’m a pilot. I need my eyes. And one of them looks like a bag of blood.

O’Leary turned her around by the shoulders and examined her eye. “It’s nothing to worry about, okay?” he said. “It’s just hemorrhage.”

“Just?”

“A small bleed into the white of your eye. It looks more serious than it is. It’ll clear up without any effect on your vision.”

“How did I get it?”

“Sudden changes in intracranial pressure can do it. Sometimes a violent cough or heavy vomiting is all it takes to pop a tiny vessel.”

She gave a relieved sigh. “That must be it. I woke up coughing on one of those floating goombahs.”

“See? Nothing to worry about.” He gave her a pat. “That’ll be fifty bucks. Next patient!”

Reassured, Jill turned back to the mirror. It’s merely a small bleed, she thought. Nothing to worry about. But the image back horrified her. One normal eye, one eye an evil and brilliant red.

Something alien. Satanic.

“They’re the houseguests from hell,” said Luther. “We shut the door on ‘em and they still refuse to leave.” Every one in the galley laughed, even Emma. In the last few days there had not been much in the way of humor aboard ISS, and it was a relief to hear people joking again. Since they’d transferred Kenichi’s corpse to Discovery, everyone’s mood seemed brighter.

His shrouded body had been a grim and constant reminder of death, and Emma was relieved she no longer had to confront the evidence of her own failure. She could focus, once again, on her work.

She could even laugh at Luther’s crack, although the subject of his humor—the orbiter’s failure to depart—was not, in fact, funny. It complicated their day. They had expected Discovery to undock early yesterday morning. Now it was a day later, and she was still mated and could not leave for at least the next twelve hours. Her uncertain departure time threw the station’s work schedule into uncertainty as well. Undocking was more than just a simple matter of the orbiter detaching itself and flying away. It a delicate dance between two massive objects hurtling at 17,500 miles per hour, and it required the cooperation of both the Discovery and ISS crews. During undocking, the space station’s control software had to be temporarily reconfigured for proximity operations, and its crew suspended many of its research activities. Every one had to be focused on the orbiter’s departure.

On avoiding calamity.

Now a cloudy day over an air force base in California had delayed everything, wreaking havoc on the space station’s work schedule. But this was the nature of spaceflight, the only thing predictable about it was the unpredictable.

An alarming blob of grape juice came floating by Emma’s head.

And here was more unpredictability, she thought, laughing, as a sheepish Luther went chasing after it with a straw. You let your attention wander for just an instant, and there goes a vital tool or a sip’s worth of juice drifting away. Without gravity, an object could end up anywhere.

This was something the crew of Discovery was now confronting. “We had glops of this stuff land all over our aft DAP controls,” she heard Kittredge say over the radio. Discovery’s commander was conversing with Griggs on the space-to-space subsystem. “We’re still trying to clean off the toggle switches, it’s like thick mucus when it dries. I just hope it hasn’t plugged up data ports.”

“You find out where it’s coming from?” asked Griggs.

“We found a small crack in the toadfish enclosure. But it doesn’t look like much leaked out—not enough to account for what’s flying around the cabin.”

“Where else could it be coming from?”

“We’re checking the galley and commode now. We’ve been so busy cleaning up, we haven’t had a chance to identify the source. We just can’t figure out what this stuff is. It sort of reminds me of eggs. Round clumps, in this sticky green mass. You should see my crew—it’s like they’ve been slimed on Ghostbusters. And then Hewitt’s got this evil red eye. Man, we’re scary looking.”

Evil red eye? Emma turned to Griggs. “What’s wrong with Hewitt’s eye?” she said. “I didn’t hear about it.” Griggs relayed the question to Discovery.

“It’s just a scleral bleed,” answered Kittredge. “Nothing serious, according to O’Leary.”

“Let me talk to Kittredge,” said Emma.

“Go ahead.”

“Bob, this is Emma,” she said. “How did Jill get that scleral bleed?”

“She woke up coughing yesterday. We think that’s what did it.”

“Is she having any abdominal pains? Headaches?”

“She did complain of a headache a little while ago. And we’ve all got muscle aches. But we’ve been working like dogs here.”

“Nausea? Vomiting?”

“Mercer’s got an upset stomach. Why?”

“Kenichi had a scleral bleed too.”

“But that’s not a serious condition,” said Kittredge. “That’s what O’Leary says.”

“No, it’s the cluster of symptoms that concerns me,” said Emma.

“Kenichi’s illness started with vomiting and a scleral hemorrhage. Abdominal pains. A headache.”

“Are you saying this is some sort of contagion? Then why aren’t you sick? You took care of him.” A good question. She couldn’t answer that.

“What disease are we talking about?” asked Kittredge.

“I don’t know. I do know Kenichi was incapacitated within a day of his first symptoms. You guys need to undock and go home now. Before anyone on Discovery gets sick.”

“No can do. Edwards is still under clouds.”

“Then White Sands.”

“Not a good option right now. They’ve got a problem with one of their TACANS. Hey, we’re doing fine. We’ll just wait out the weather. It shouldn’t be more than another twenty-four hours.”

Emma looked at Griggs. “I want to talk to Houston.”

“They’re not going to head for White Sands just because Hewitt’s got a red eye.”

“It could be more than just a scleral hemorrhage.”

“How would they catch Kenichi’s illness? They weren’t exposed to him.” The corpse, she thought. His corpse is on the orbiter.

“Bob,” she said. “This is Emma again. I want you to check the shroud.”

“What?”

“Check Kenichi’s shroud for a breach.”

“You saw for yourself it’s sealed tight.”

“Are you sure it still is?”

“Okay,” he sighed. “I have to admit, we haven’t checked the body since it came aboard. I guess we were all a little creeped-out about it. We’ve kept the pallet panel closed so we wouldn’t have to look at him.”

“How does the shroud look?”

“I’m trying to get the panel open now. It seems to be sticking a little, but…” There was a silence. Then a murmured

“Jesus.”

“Bob?”

“The spill’s coming from the shroud!”

“What is it? Blood, serum?”

“There’s a tear in the plastic. I can see it leaking out!”

What was leaking out?

She heard other voices in the background. Loud groans of disgust, and the sound of someone retching.

“Seal it off. Seal it off!” said Emma. But they didn’t answer.

Jill Hewitt said, “His body feels like mush. As if he’s … dissolving. We should find out what’s happening to it.”

“No!” cried Emma. “Discovery, do not open the shroud!” To her relief, Kittredge finally responded, “Roger that, Watson. O’Leary, seal it up. We’re not going to let any more of … that stuff … leak out.”

“Maybe we should jettison the body,” said Jill.

“No,” Kittredge answered. “They want it for autopsy.”

“What sort of fluid is it?” asked Emma. “Bob, answer me!”

There was a silence. Then he said, “I don’t know. But whatever it is, I hope it’s not infectious. Because we’ve all been exposed.”

Twenty-eight pounds of flab and fur. That was Humphrey, sprawled like a fat pasha on Jack’s chest. This cat is trying to murder me, thought Jack, staring up into Humphrey’s malevolent green eyes.

He’d fallen asleep on the couch, and the next thing he knew, a ton of kitty lard was crushing his ribs, squeezing the air out of his lungs.

Purring, Humphrey sank a claw into Jack’s chest.

With a yelp, Jack shoved him away, and Humphrey landed on all fours with a ponderous thump.

“Go catch a mouse,” Jack muttered, and turned on his side to resume his nap, but it was hopeless. Humphrey was yowling to be fed. Again.

Yawning, Jack dragged himself off the couch and stumbled into the kitchen. As soon as he opened the cupboard where the cat food was stored, Humphrey began to yowl louder. Jack filled the cat bowl with Little Friskies and stood watching in disgust as his nemesis chowed down. It was only three in the afternoon, and Jack had not yet caught up on his sleep. He’d been awake all night, manning the surgeon’s console in the space control room, and then had come home and settled on the couch to review the ECLSS subsystems for the space station. He was back in the game, and it felt good. It even felt good to wade through a bone-dry MOD training manual. But fatigue had finally caught up with him, and he’d dropped off to sleep around noon, surrounded by stacks of flight manuals.

Humphrey’s bowl was already half empty. Unbelievable.

As Jack turned to leave the kitchen, the phone rang.

It was Todd Cutler. “We’re rounding up medical personnel to meet Discovery at White Sands,” he said. “The plane’s leaving Ellington in thirty minutes.”

“Why White Sands? I thought Discovery was going to wait for Edwards to clear up.”

“We’ve got a medical situation on board, and we can’t wait for the weather to clear. They’re going to deorbit in an hour. Plan infectious precautions.”

“What’s the infection?”

“Not yet identified. We’re just playing it safe. Are you with us?”

“Yeah, I’m with you,” said Jack, without an instant’s hesitation.

“Then you’d better get moving or you’ll miss the plane.”

“Wait. Who’s the patient? Which one’s sick?”

“They all are,” said Cutler. “The entire crew.”

Infectious precautions. Emergency deorbit. What are we dealing with?

The wind was blowing, kicking up dust as Jack trotted across the tarmac toward the waiting jet. Squinting against flying grit, climbed the steps and ducked into the aircraft. It was a IV seating fifteen passengers, one of a fleet of sturdy and workhorses that NASA used to shuttle personnel between its many far-flung centers of operation. There were already a dozen people aboard, including a number of nurses and doctors from the Flight Medicine Clinic. Several of them gave Jack waves of greeting.

“We’ve got to get going, sir,” said the copilot. “So if you buckle right in.” Jack took a window seat near the front of the plane.

Roy Bloomfeld was the last to step aboard, his bright red hair stiff from the wind. As soon as Bloomfeld took his seat, they closed the hatch.

“Todd isn’t coming?” asked Jack.

“He’s manning the console for landing. Looks like we’re gonna be the shock troops.” The plane began to taxi out onto the runway. They could waste no time, it was an hour-and-a-half flight to White Sands.

“You know what’s going on?” Jack asked. “Cause I’m in the dark.”

“I got a brief rundown. You know that spill they had on Discovery yesterday? The one they’ve been trying to identify? Turns out it was fluids leaking from Kenichi Hirai’s body bag.”

“That bag was sealed tight. How did it leak?”

“Tear in the plastic. The crew says the contents seem to be under pressure. Some sort of advanced decomposition going on.”

“Kittredge described the fluid as green and only mildly fishy smelling. That hardly sounds like fluid from a decomposing corpse.”

“We’re all puzzled. The bag’s been resealed. We’ll have to wait till they land to find out what’s going on inside. It’s the first we’ve dealt with human remains in microgravity. Maybe there’s something different about the process of decomposition. Maybe the anaerobic bacteria die off, and that’s why it’s not giving off odors.”

“How sick is the crew?”

“Both Hewitt and Kittredge are complaining of severe headaches. Mercer’s throwing up like a dog now, and O’Leary’s got abdominal pain. We’re not sure how much of it is psychological. There’s gotta be an emotional reaction when you’ve been gulping in a decomposing colleague.”

Psychological factors certainly complicated the picture. Whenever there is an outbreak of food poisoning, a significant percentage of victims are, in fact, uninfected. The power of suggestion is so strong it can produce vomiting as severe as any real illness.

“They had to put off the undocking. White Sands has been having problems too. One of their TACANS was transmitting erroneous signals. They needed a few hours to get it up and functioning again.” The TACAN, or tactical air navigation locating system, was a series of ground transmitters that provided the orbiter with updates on its navigation-state vector. A bad TACAN signal could cause the shuttle to miss the runway entirely.

“Now they’ve decided they can’t wait,” said Bloomfeld. “In just the last hour, the crew’s gotten sicker. Kittredge and Hewitt have scleral hemorrhages. That’s how it started with Hirai.” Their plane began its takeoff roll. The roar of the engines filled their ears, and the ground dropped away.

Jack yelled over the noise, “What about ISS? Is anyone sick on the station?”

“No. They kept the hatches closed between vehicles to contain the spill.”

“So it’s confined to Discovery?”

“So far as we know.” Then Emma’s okay, he thought, releasing a deep breath.

Emma’s safe. But if a contagion had been brought aboard Discovery inside Hirai’s corpse, why wasn’t the space station crew infected as well?

“What’s the shuttle’s ETA?” he asked.

“They’re undocking now. Burn target’s in forty-five minutes, and touchdown should be around seventeen hundred.” Which didn’t give the ground crew much time to prepare. He stared out the window as they broke through the clouds into a golden bath of sunlight. Everything is working against us, he thought. An emergency landing. A broken TACAN shack. A sick crew.

And it will all come together on a runway in the middle of nowhere.

Jill Hewitt’s head hurt, and her eyeballs were aching so badly she could barely focus on the undocking checklist. In just the last hour pain had crept into every muscle of her body, and now it felt as if jagged bolts were ripping through her back, her thighs. Both her sclerae had turned red, so had Kittredge’s. His eyeballs looked like twin bags of blood. Glowing. Red. He was in pain too, she could see it in the way he moved, the slow and guarded turning of his head. They were both in agony, yet neither of them dared accept an injection of narcotics. Undocking and landing required peak alertness, and they could not risk losing even the slightest edge of performance.

Get us home. Get us home. That was the mantra that kept running through Jill’s head as she struggled to stay on task, as sweat drenched her shirt and the pain ate into her concentration.

They were racing through the departure checklist. She had plugged the IBM Thinkpad’s computer cable into the aft console data port, booted up, and opened the Rendezvous and Proximity Operations program.

“There’s no data flow,” she said.

“What?”