Rescue Mode - eARC (9 page)

“No!”

“Yes. I expect I will have the time to finish the first draft on the outbound leg of our mission. I probably won’t have time to work on it during the trip home, though. I will be too busy examining the rocks we collect on Mars.”

“A novel,” Treadway said. “May I ask what it’s about?”

Her smile turning impish, Clermont said, “It is a love story about a field geologist who becomes an astronaut and a handsome news reporter, of course.” Arching an eyebrow, she asked, “Any more questions?”

Treadway swallowed visibly, then answered, “No, I think that’ll wrap up this session. Good luck with your, er, novel. This is Steven Treadway, reporting virtually from the
Arrow
.”

All eight of the crew got together in the galley at the end of the work day. It was a tight squeeze: although the galley had been designed to seat all of them, there was scant room to spare. Lanky Hi McPherson had to pull himself up over the chair’s back and slide his long legs under the table.

“We ought to just float,” he complained, “while we’re still in zero-g. Take advantage of the weightlessness instead of wedging ourselves around the table.”

Virginia Gonzalez started to shake her head, but caught herself in time. “I’m having a tough enough time keeping from tossing my cookies, Hi. If you were floating over my head, I think I’d lose it.”

McPherson cinched his seat belt. “Sorry, Jinny. I wouldn’t want to upset you.”

Though the inflated habitat module was less luxurious than the tourist hotels in low Earth orbit, it was still a big improvement over the more Spartan accommodations of the earlier space shuttles and space stations built by governments. The
Arrow
’s habitat had been built by a non-traditional contractor, Harris Space Corporation, which had made its mark by constructing the Earth-orbiting hotel getaways for the uber-rich tourists eager to “go where no one has gone before”—and pay for the privilege.

The orbiting Harris hotels had entertainment options that the
Arrow
did not, such as three-D virtual reality couches and gourmet meals. Plus acrobatic weightless “play” areas that some tourists used to join the ‘Zero-G Club.’ Harris himself often attributed his corporation’s profits to the thirst of millionaires who were quite willing to part with their money for the excitement of sex in orbit.

The space agencies that funded the Mars mission officially frowned on the idea of their crew enjoying sex during their mission to Mars and back. But they knew that eight healthy, intelligent men and women cooped up together for nearly two years were bound to make their own arrangements. “I just hope they’re discreet about it,” NASA chief Saxby said with a resigned tone.

Benson looked around the table at his seven crewmates. They all looked expectantly at their commander.

“Ginny, your troubles will be over in about an hour,” he said, “when we start spinning up the ship. We’ll have a one-third g the rest of the way to Mars, so we won’t be invalids when we get there.”

Taki Nomura closed her eyes for a moment. She had seen the results of long-term exposure to microgravity: loss of muscle tone, including the heart muscle. Loss of bone mass, making the bones so brittle a man could not stand on his own feet without danger of snapping a bone. Spinning the ship was necessary, a prudent solution to the problem of long-term weightlessness. Should they for some reason have to make the journey to Mars without artificial gravity, the ship had a pair of treadmills stowed on the ceiling just above the galley—complete with a gyroscope to keep it stabilized and a harness to keep the person using it from simply floating away with each step, a stationary bike and even a bench press that used tensioned cables instead of weights. The whole setup could be used where it was, if they were in zero gravity, or lowered to the deck in the space now occupied by the dining table in artificial gee. Both were modular and easily repositioned. But spinning the ship to simulate gravity was much the preferable solution. They would arrive at Mars fully conditioned to walk and work on the planet’s surface.

“Ted will fire the minithrusters that will spin us up,” Benson went on, as if reading from the mission manual. “Before he does that, though, I need for each of you to check that all your equipment and belongings are properly stowed or tied down. We don’t want loose stuff flying around and hurting somebody once gravity comes on.”

Nods and murmurs around the table.

“Like we rehearsed, the spin-up will take only a few minutes. We’ll need to be back in our launch seats and strapped in while Ted gets us moving. I’ll go around the comm with each of you and get your ‘all clear’ before we start the procedure. Okay?”

More nods.

“All right, let’s make it happen.”

The crew got up at once, taking off in all directions. McPherson slid his long legs out from under the table, bounced off the cushiony ceiling, and bumped into Clermont. His face turned red.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“
C’est rien
,” she replied, with a smile.

Gonzales and Amanda Lynn swam through the hatch together, heading for their privacy cubicles. Benson headed for the control center, almost regretting that within a few minutes gravity would return to their little self-contained world. There’d be a definite up and down. He’d miss the ease and joy of floating weightlessly.

May 14, 2035

Earth Departure Plus 31 Days

15:30 Universal Time

Galley

Hi McPherson’s normal pleasant grin was gone. He stood staring at the chessboard, scratching at his beard and scowling.

“Something’s not right. Your rook wasn’t there when I left.”

Looking up at him from his chair at the galley table, Mikhail Prokhorov smiled innocently. “Are you saying I cheated?”

McPherson didn’t reply. He simply stood there, slightly stooped over the table, staring intently at the board. When he’d left the table for one of the ship’s three toilets he had memorized the positions of the pieces on the board. He was certain that Prokhorov’s white rook was not where it had been when he’d left.

Sitting down slowly, McPherson said, “I’m not saying you cheated, Mikhail, but something’s wrong. I don’t claim to have a photographic memory, but I’m reasonably good at keeping up with the pieces during a game and I know your rook wasn’t there when I left. I had my next move planned and now it’ll be impossible.” Looking into Prokhorov’s face, McPherson suggested, “Are you sure you didn’t accidentally bump the table or something?”

Still smiling, Prokhorov said, “I did not bump the table and I most certainly did not cheat.”

“I say you did,” McPherson said, more in sorrow than in anger. “I can’t believe you’d cheat at a game of chess! What’s the point of it?”

Prokhorov pointed a finger at McPherson’s chest. “I don’t need to cheat, and I certainly don’t need to cheat to beat a player as poor as you are. I think you owe me an apology.”

Catherine Clermont and Taki Nomura were watching them from the refrigerator/freezer and microwave oven on the other side of the galley. Clermont felt particularly disturbed by the rising heat of their exchange.

“Gentlemen,” she said, “there is no need to become angry. I am sure it’s just a misunderstanding. And after all, it is only a game.”

McPherson got up from the table. “It’s only a game, sure. But we’ve got to be able to trust each other and right now I don’t think I feel like trusting or believing anything about this guy.”

“It is only a game,” Clermont repeated, a little more strongly. “Now get your testosterone in check, Hi. Walk away and get over it.”

McPherson’s face was reddening, but not from anger. He felt embarrassed.
This isn’t the way to impress Catherine, he told himself. Gotta cool down. Show her I’m a better man than he is. Cool down.

He backed away from the table, turned and headed for the hatch. Over his shoulder he said, “I know what I saw, but Catherine’s right: it’s only a game.”

Prokhorov, still grinning, scooped up the chess pieces and put them back into their box. Then he got to his feet, made a little bow to the two women, and sauntered out of the galley.

Clermont turned to Nomura. “Taki, I’m going to talk with Hi. I hate to see him so upset.”

Nomura replied absently, “Sure. You do that. Hi could use some TLC right now.”

The French geologist hurried out of the galley, leaving Nomura standing by the microwave, alone with her thoughts.

Mikhail did move the rook while Hi was out of the room, she knew.
I saw him. And he saw me watching him. He even winked at me!

Is this his idea of a joke? Some elaborate Russian prank? Is he sore at Hi for some reason?

As the ship’s psychologist I’ve got to look into this. We’re going to be living together for a long time, and we can’t afford to have personality clashes. I’ll have to talk to Mikhail, see what’s motivating him. And Hi, get him to relax more.

Then she wondered,
Should I tell Bee about this? He’s the commander, he ought to know if something’s afoot that could endanger the crew’s morale. But he’s got enough to think about. Maybe I ought to keep this to myself until I’ve talked with Mikhail and Hi. Separately, of course. Those two shouldn’t be in the same room for a while.

* * *

Two days later, Taki Nomura approached the hatch of the command center, after making certain that Bee Benson would be alone in there.

“Commander Benson, may I have a moment of your time?” Nomura asked, before stepping through the hatch.

Benson was in his chair, looking perfectly at ease among the dials and screens that showed the performance of all the
Arrow
’s systems.

“Sure, Taki, come on in.” He jabbed a thumb at the empty seat beside him. “And don’t be so formal. We’re all team members, shipmates.”

Nomura slid into the right-hand seat. “I know. But sometimes it’s difficult for me to overcome a lifetime’s training.”

Benson nodded understandingly. But he said, “Taki, I’m not a samurai. We’ve known each other for more than two years now and we’ve got another two to go.”

“Yes,” she said. “Of course.”

“So what’s on your mind?”

Feeling more than a little uncomfortable despite Benson’s reassurance, Nomura began, “I feel I have to make a report about the crew’s psychological condition.”

Benson’s brows hiked up. “We’ve got problems? Already?”

“Not problems, really. But there are some troubling indicators that might be pointing to problems in the future.”

“Like what?”

“Well, for instance, this morning at breakfast Jinny Gonzalez got very upset when her food was decanted. She actually cursed at it and threw it directly into the recycle slot.”

Benson said, “Go on.”

“Two days ago McPherson and Prokhorov had an incident over a chess game and—”

“An incident?”

“Prokhorov moved one of the chess pieces while Hi was off in the lavatory. When Hi accused him of it, Mikhail lied to his face. Hi stormed off and Mikhail laughed about it.”

“How do you know that Mikhail—”

“I was there. I saw him do it. He cheated, and then denied it all to Hi’s face.”

“And Hi got ticked off about it.”

“Catherine calmed him down afterward. I think she could talk that man into walking out through the airlock without a spacesuit on.” Nomura smiled at the thought. “She might even go with him.”

Benson’s right eyebrow rose. “They’re both geologists,” Benson said. “They should work closely together. They have a lot in common.”

“It’s more than geology.”

“You think so?”

“I’m a psychologist, Bee, so yes, I think so. Catherine likes Hi, a lot. And I think he likes her, too, but he doesn’t know what to do about it.”

“Maybe I should talk to him about that.”

With a slight shrug, Taki said, “Maybe. But I think Hi would just shut down tighter than a clam. Sometimes men are like little boys.”

“So Hi and Catherine are hooking up? That’s hard to believe. He’s a top-flight geologist, but Catherine’s way out of his league, romantically.”

“Love is blind.”

“Have you asked Mikhail why he cheated at the chess game?” Benson asked, changing the topic.

Forcing herself not to bite her lip, Nomura answered, “Not yet. I wanted to talk to you about it first.”

“Okay. You’ve talked to me. Now talk to Mikhail.”

“I will.”

“Anything else?”

Nomura closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath.

“Well?” Benson prodded.

“Please forgive me for bringing it up, but yesterday you and Mr. Connover had that shouting match. I don’t know what the nature of the disagreement was, but the whole crew knows you and Ted were yelling at each other.”

Benson nodded. “It was over nothing, really. I apologized to Ted and we shook hands. Lots of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”

Nomura felt far from reassured.

“Frankly, Taki, what you’re talking about sounds suspiciously to me like a small group of people locked in an isolation chamber for two years, separated from instant death in vacuum by a few centimeters of aluminum, all trying to keep their cool and get along together until the isolation is over. We were warned this would happen.”

“Yes, that is true,” Nomura replied, “but I wasn’t expecting it to reach this level until we’d been underway or at least two or three months.”

Benson rubbed his temple with his right hand, a gesture Nomura knew he did when he was trying to solve a problem or was troubled by something.

Finally he asked, “We aren’t heading toward anything like the Mir incident, are we?”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “I hope not.”

Nomura understood Benson’s concern. She shared it. The effects of being isolated in space for long durations could be devastating. That’s why crews of space stations were rotated regularly: to avoid the mental health issues that inevitably arise when a small group of people are confined together for an extended period of time. It was rumored, but never officially confirmed, that back in the 1980s, personal relations aboard the old Russian space station Mir became so tense that one of the crew members actually stabbed another.