Whatever Gods May Be (12 page)

"Negative, John.  JPL doesn't have a clue what it is, and the think-boys here are just as stumped."

"It'll be here in an hour," Cathy said, staring out the window.

No one said anything for a moment.  All eyes simply stared at ALC-117 merrily plowing towards Earth, wondering what, if anything, was going to happen once it arrived.

Three hundred thousand miles away and it was already killing the world; at the present rate, it could save itself the trouble from even touching the planet to destroy it completely.

"New York is gone, John.  San Francisco was flooded about half an hour ago.  Chicago, London...all gone," Scott seemed to be speaking more to himself than to the crew of Challenger.  "Hell, we don't need a war -- ALC-117 is doing just fine --"

"What's happening, Bud; what's being done?" John interrupted the directors reverie a little sharply.

Though he didn't mean to, Bud Scott sounded as if he were addressing a baby with his answer.  His voice was low, soft and infuriatingly innocent.  "What can be done?"

It was a question that John could not immediately answer.  Nor could he imagine was it one that every head of state in the world could provide a satisfactory response for.  Even if his country or Russia decided to blow ALC-117 out of space, to launch one missile skyward would be an instant interpretation of full scale attack.  There was no doubt that the ALC-117 phenomena, while remaining top secret and privy to only the top echelons of global power, was being regarded with nervous confusion by world leaders.  Yet, amidst the maddening fervor of war hysteria, both the United States and the Soviet Union were still too deeply immersed in their own ideological stalemate, to take joint action against ALC-117.  Even the worldwide reports of earthquakes, tidal waves, and volcanic eruptions, which had been directly attributable to ALC-117's approach, was insufficient to turn the heads of the warmongering nations.  Meanwhile, Earth was largely oblivious to the ALC-117 approach; however, had it even been informed, it probably wouldn't have cared.  Terrified of being drowned in what appeared to be an imminent nuclear blood bath, the major population of the world wanted only to find a nice, safe place to hide.  Consequently, ALC-117 was safe from any offensive that Earth could have offered.

John drummed his fingers on the control console in front of him.  He looked at ALC-117 once again.  It was now more or less the same size as the moon, though its shape continued to fluctuate.

"Just look at that sonofabitch," John whispered.  ALC-117 reminded Phillips of the microscopic hydra extending elastic appendages out from its body, then retracting them quickly to propel itself in any direction it pleased.  It was slow moving for a hydra; a handicap that the ALC-117 beast was obviously not burdened with, and as its lighted exterior flared malevolently, John hoped that the chills which racked his body went by unnoticed by Cathy and Scott watching him.

"Thank God we've kept this thing under wraps," Phillips heard Scott saying, "There's enough panic down here already, what with evacuating the cities and controlling the riots.  We don't need any doomsday talk going around."

Cathy laughed an ugly laugh next to John.  She rubbed her swollen stomach, wondering vaguely if the life within her would ever have a chance to see its first day.

"No, that would be catastrophic, wouldn't it?" she giggled, then turned away and began to cry softly to herself.  Both John and Scott stifled the hysterical urge to release tension and to guffaw as well, though it was only through the greatest effort that they managed to do so.

Another awkward moment elapsed as John reached out and lightly rubbed Cathy's shoulder.  Scott again chimed in from the tv screen.

"Well, frankly I'm not half as worried about ALC-117 as I am about some vodka-swilling Russian general out to make history for himself.  Besides," he said chuckling, "I prefer to deal with one disaster at a time."

What a trooper you are, Buddy, John thought admiringly to himself.  Phillips stared at the Mission Director and smiled.  Bud Scott looked downright exhausted.  The normally, fastidious Director could usually never be caught without a perfectly pressed suit and tie; John couldn't even recall when he'd last seen the man in shirtsleeves.  Today, however, Scott was a different creature.  A disheveled tie hung around the Mission Director's half-upturned collar, while shirt cuffs were rolled tightly up both arms.  And damned if John couldn't see a shirt tail creeping out of a pair of wrinkled pants.

Things must be pretty hairy below, John thought, if Buddy Scott was looking the way he did.  The outside appearance obviously didn't change the man himself; a giving, courageous sense of humor was something that Bud Scott would never be bereft of for as long as he lived - which, John thought miserably, might not be very much longer.

"I know the feeling, Buddy," John replied warmly, "I know the feeling."

John guessed that Scott, along with a majority of the skeleton Mission personnel in Houston that hadn't been evacuated, had not slept more than a few hours in the past two days.  As John stared passed Scott in the camera background, he could see other weary and frightened faces performing various duties and snatching an occasional glance his way.

A wave of gratitude tainted with guilt washed over Phillips; for in the prologue hours to an almost certain holocaust, friends and colleagues were dutifully remaining at their posts in an effort to assist Challenger II and her crew right up to the end.  If the sirens were to start now, announcing the incoming fury of a thousand ICBM's, not a man or woman would have a chance at Mission Control.

Though the shuttle was just as vulnerable to attack, Phillips couldn't help but feel more distant - and albeit - more removed from the Armageddon scenario that the Mission Control Center in Houston so bleakly portrayed.

"Buddy," John began, leaning forward to stare into the tv, "I, uh, want you to know how much Cathy and I appreciate what all you folks are doing." Cathy had recovered and nodded a tear streaked face, smiling as best she could.  "We know things are pretty hot down there right now," John continued, "And we just wanted to let you know that you're a great bunch.  When this is all over, I'm going to personally see to it that each and every one of you gets falling-down drunk," he paused here and grinned mischievously, "on the best champagne Buddy can buy!"

There was a ripple of laughter and a few claps of applause when John finished.  Scott turned to look at his staff and gave a half-hearted victory sign.  Cathy blew a kiss to the camera, which incurred another moment of mild hoots, claps, and 'give em'hell, Cathys.' Suddenly, the tension was broken -- along with the clear reception on the tvs in Houston and on board the Challenger.

Scott's face blinked on and off, and a crackle of interference hissed through the audiocom.

"You're passing out of range, Challenger," Scott said hurriedly, "We'll pick you up over Sydney in thirty minutes." The Mission Director's face beamed back into focus for a few seconds, "Kick back and relax, and we'll talk to you soon."

John fiddled with switches, as did Cathy, to enhance the camera image.

"Roger, Houston.  Going onto the dark side." John said, feeling that something more needed to be spoken.  He stared at his wife for a moment, then reached out and grabbed her hand and brought it to his lips.  Then, he spoke softly into his mouthpiece.

"God keep you all."

More static invaded the flight deck and then the camera went blank.  But Bud Scott's voice was able to slice through the electronic gurgle for the last time.

"Roger, Challenger," he said, "Same to you."

The radio sputtered then went silent.  John and Cathy Phillips were alone again.  However, as they both turned to look at the writhing black ALC-117 ahead, they realized how crowded their little section of space was rapidly becoming.

For two hundred and forty days, Colonels John and Cathy Phillips had lived within a fifty square foot enclosure known as the Space Lab.  The record for a protracted stay in orbit had still not been surpassed by the Russian cosmonaut Sergei K. Krikalev, who had spent 803 days, 9 hours and 39 minutes, or 2.2 years, in space.  Peggy A. Whitson held the record for most time in space by a woman, 377 days back in early part of the new century, but these relatively minor issues were dwarfed by the more compelling ramifications that developed out of the Phillips stay in space.  The historical significance in this mission profile, lay in the fact that they had journeyed into space as husband and wife, and had for ten months, lived happy and productive lives in orbit.

This romantic and highly publicized notion was dramatically supported with the announcement of Cathy's pregnancy only two months into the mission.

NASA had expressed surprise and embarrassed joy over the news; officially, while such an occurrence was advantageous to the agency in terms of boosting popularity (as well as congressional funding), the object of sending a married couple into orbit for the exclusive purpose of showing that "it could be done up there, too", was heartily denied.  Still, Cathy's pregnancy was viewed as a major victory for NASA, and indeed, the American Way.  And while old-guard minorities in the agency, as well as in the government suggested that it was all a bid indecent - and the Russians condemned it as yet another decadent cheap shot by Western imperialism - the world in general cheered and applauded NASA and the Phillips for a job well done.

Global praise continued when John and Cathy indicated their desire to remain on board Space Lab until their baby was born.

Film rights were purchased to the John and Cathy Phillips story, and the big screen added new dimension to the astronauts giddy celebrity.  The John and Cathy doll came next, followed by John and Cathy munchies the new breakfast cereal for all boys and girls who wanted to grow up and be just like John and Cathy.  They became more than just heroes; in a matter of months, the two astronauts had evolved into cultural symbols representing the new Adam and Eve of an ultimately superior generation to come.

The unborn child itself received as much attention as the parents - though some of it was not always favorable.

Parochial designations like Antichrist or the Second Coming were tossed about rabidly in connection to the Phillips' pregnancy by radical religious parties all over the world.  These fanciful allegations found remarkable support, mainly because the general international climate of the world had deteriorated in the past few years.  Terrorism and war spotted most of the planet like a festering cancer, and such ghastly events were directly linked to the ominous forecasts depicting the end of the world.  Since many of these fanatical factions espousing such beliefs benefited from the promotional wonders of radio and television, whole new controversies spawned around the Phillips, which further skyrocketed them into high public visibility.  Even though the Papacy, as well as other major episcopacies, took a definitively neutral position on whether the space-baby would be a fulfillment of biblical prophecy, the propaganda generated by remaining denominations was sufficient to further illuminate the Phillips' name in the fires of notoriety.

But generally, the two astronauts were still regarded benevolently despite the dark theological aspersions cast their way.  Surprisingly, John and Cathy maintained a remarkably low profile; though the world was practically deifying them, they were still highly trained personnel that had full days of duties aboard Space Lab and the connected Challenger.  Rarely did they actually have time for network interviews or statement-making and these amenities were mainly left for Agency publicists.

Personal appearances were largely unnecessary.  Thanks to the wonders of the electronic age and the Internet, the faces and voices of John and Cathy were kept alive and well in perpetuity.  If they were seldom seen, the two astronauts were at least well represented by either NASA press agents, newspapers, movies, tee-shirts - or cereal box tops boasting the Phillips nomer.

The Phillips enjoyed their fame immensely, mainly because they were not directly affected by it.  This would change, they knew, once they returned home.  There would be countless interviews to attend, speeches to be made, and of course baby displaying for the hundreds of millions of people who had become personally involved in what had come to be known as the Phillips Great Adventure.  Major publishing houses had already approached NASA requesting the astronauts to write a book on their ten-month sojourn in space.  Their itinerary would be crammed for at least a year upon touchdown.

Ah, well, the Phillips' had sighed together more than once ...  such was the price of Earthly fame.

Since their marriage ten years earlier, John and Cathy had seen each other a total of fifteen months during that time.  There had been no way around it; their respective assignments and professions only allowed them a minimum of time devoted to their marriage.

John was the senior pilot in the NASA fleet, and indeed the oldest astronaut still on active duty.  At age fifty, when he wasn't actually on a mission, he was traveling around the country conducting training or shuttle orientation seminars.  As for Cathy, she was Co-chairman on the Astrobiology and Physics division at Cal Tech.  She was also the only female shuttle pilot in the astronaut service, and her time was shamelessly devoured in a typical eighteen hour day of lecturing, training, and administrating.

For ten years, most moments of intimacy between the Phillips were spent in rushed phone calls, hastily gobbled lunches and Christmas dinners that had to be postponed until January 1st due to hectic complications of some kind or another that were totally unforeseeable.