Into the New Millennium: Trailblazing Tales From Analog Science Fiction and Fact, 2000 - 2010 (42 page)

Director? Of what?

"I'm okay, Harry," Ms. Pressa insisted, smoothing her suit jacket. "There's just been a misunderstanding." Dr. Winkler handed her phone to Harry. "Escort me to the door, please."

"Whatever you say, ma'am," the big guy replied, glaring at Mr. Smith.

"Paparazzi," Mr. Smith cursed.

Dr. Winkler poured Mr. Smith a glass of water from a pitcher on a nearby table. He handed it to him and assured him that everything was under control. I'd never seen the doctor so rattled. Having a patient almost flatten his great-granddaughter was rather upsetting!

The doctor met my eyes and then darted his glance to and from the water glass. I understood that he had added something to the water. Then he said, "Sir, I suggest that you rest your feet while we wait for communications to come back."

"Are they in blackout?" Mr. Smith asked.

"Yes," I agreed, holding the plugs to his headset and the speaker out of view. All of Mission Control had heard his outburst at Ms. Pressa. I hoped they didn't realize that she really was his great-granddaughter. Even though Pressa was probably her married name, some enterprising person could use it to figure out Mr. Smith's identity.

Mr. Smith gulped the water like he was taking a shot of scotch. He settled onto the stool, glancing down at his feet. "Man, I hate these stiff military shoes. When I retire, I'm only going to wear slippers!"

"Your mother won't like that," I quipped.

He smiled. "No, she won't!" he agreed. "And that's another reason I'm going to wear slippers!" He laughed.

I was dying to know what was going on with Ms. Phillips. The trajectory display on the TV was blinking. In all the commotion, the maneuver had come and gone. He couldn't do any harm now.

"We're getting the signal back," I said, and plugged Mr. Smith and the speaker back in. Guidance reported that he was waiting for Lunar Ops to confirm target acquisition.

Mr. Smith surprised me when he calmly said, "Ms. Phillips, quit worrying about the trajectory for a minute. Look out the window. You owe it to yourself."

I wasn't sure if Mission Control had let this message through until Ms. Phillips said, "Seeing the Earth above the desolate Moon reminds me of just how precious life is. I'll never forget this moment."

"Me either," Mr. Smith said.

"Me either," I whispered.

Lunar Ops reported target acquired! I sagged onto my stool, suddenly realizing how tired I was. Some fancy remote flying on the part of Lunar Ops completed the rendezvous. The cargo ship scooped the LM into its wide bay, and cheers erupted in Mission Control. I gave Mr. Smith a high five, and Dr. Winkler patted him firmly on the back. "Where are the cigars?" Mr. Smith asked.

"Sorry, but this is a no-smoking area," Dr. Winkler said.

"Oh," Mr. Smith said, obviously disappointed.

A text appeared on my laptop. "Good call on the nautical miles—you saved two lives. Sorry about the photo. Forgot blackmail incident still upsets him. I'll be in touch. Thanks again." She signed it, "R. E. Pressa, Director of Knowledge Capture, Department of Homeland Security. Knowledge Capture?

After the cargo hold was pressurized, Ms. Phillips was able to take off her spacesuit and help Dr. Canterbury out of his. The flight surgeon did a remote exam. Turned out that Dr. Canterbury didn't have a concussion. His suit had been damaged and he was suffering from carbon-dioxide poisoning. If they hadn't done the direct ascent, he would have died. Ms. Phillips hooked him up to oxygen and settled in to wait for the Russian rescue ship to rendezvous with them. Mr. Smith's advice no longer needed, Mission Control cut our connection. We were now in listen-only mode.

Dr. Winkler escorted a sleepy Mr. Smith to the men's room while I moved the chairs back to their proper places in the lounge.

Just before I unplugged the speaker box, I heard Ms. Phillips thank the team in Houston for sending the cargo ship and especially for recruiting Mr. Smith to help her. "I have dedicated my life to preserving the history of space," she said. "Yet today when I was faced with having to recreate that history, I realized just how little I actually know. I now have a new level of understanding and respect for the courage and skill of the
Apollo
astronauts. I hope that I'll have the opportunity to thank Mr. Smith in person when I get back."

I knew that wasn't going to happen. By the time she got back, he'd already have forgotten all about this day.

But I wouldn't. I would remember for him. And tomorrow, I'd check out every e-book and disk I could find at the library and read all about the
Apollo
program and the amazing men who first walked on the Moon. We'd watch that
Apollo
movie with Tom Hanks, and fly simulations together. Though Mr. Smith might soon forget even his real name, and wouldn't remember Ms. Phillips next week, my memories of this time with him would be as long lasting as his footprints on the Moon.

Dedicated to the victims of Alzheimer's and their caregivers, with special remembrance of the first director of Johnson Space Center, Dr. Robert Gilruth, my father-in-law, Ralph Dyson, and my grandfather, George Canterbury.

John G. Hemry

Frost rimmed the large, thick windows looking out over a cliff and down to dark water flecked by whitecaps. Sleet rattled against heavy stone walls as an erratic wind swept by. Low on the horizon, a reddish sun glowed through a rare small rent in the clouds that otherwise covered the sky, casting long shadows across the room where Garvis Skein lay abed, snoring heavily under the pile of blankets he favored for warmth.

Francesa walked quietly into the room, her uncovered feet making almost no sound, ignoring with the stoicism of years of experience the searing cold on the soles of her feet whenever she had to leave the comparative comfort of a rug's surface and cross bare stone. Working silently and swiftly, she pulled tinder and coal from the bag she carried and, kneeling in front of the stone fireplace in one corner, got a fire going with efficiency born of long practice.

Garvis stirred under his covers. Francesa froze, her breathing as shallow and quiet as possible. The fire popped, and Garvis' eyes opened, frowning at the ornate designs carved into the ceiling. The eyes slowly pivoted, coming to rest on Francesa. The man's eyes narrowed in annoyance. "You have broken a rule," he muttered. "Noisemaking during sleep period. Inform the duty Officer so he may order the appropriate punishment."

Francesa bowed her head silently, then brought her right hand up to touch her forehead. "Aye."

"Go away." Garvis turned to settle under his blankets.

Francesa snarled at his back, knowing the man wouldn't move again until the fire had warmed the room. Then she left as silently as possible.

Officer Varasan was lingering over breakfast when Francesa found him. One look at her expression and he sighed heavily. "Now what?"

Francesa stood before him, trying not to notice the crumbs on the shirt that stretched over his belly. Her stomach threatened to rumble, something she tried to silence with every fiber of her being. On those few occasions when she and her like were granted good bread, their sunken stomachs offered no purchase for any crumb. "I made a sound, Officer," she stated tonelessly. "Before call to work."

Varasan sighed again. As Officers went, he wasn't so bad, Francesa thought. But he was an Officer. "Where?"

"The chamber of the First Officer."

This time Officer Varasan flinched. "Stars, girl, couldn't you have picked a less important place?" He let out a long breath of air, a gust the warmth of which actually brushed against Francesa. "Though as you well know every place is less important than that." He toyed with a remnant of pastry, oblivious to the way Francesa couldn't avoid staring toward it. "Two lashes. After the morning Report."

Francesa's body tensed, then she nodded, once again bringing her right hand to her brow. "Two lashes. After the morning Report."

Varasan flipped his own hand into the general vicinity of his brow in response, then went back to his meal, ignoring her as she left.

She veered through the kitchen, coming to a halt near one of the cooks. The cook glanced down at her and smiled. "Francesa. What brings you here?"

"Are there any leftovers?" she asked, trying to keep the neediness from her voice.

The cook's smile turned rueful. "Before most of the Officers and Crew have even eaten? Not likely." He turned away, hesitated, then shoved something toward her. "This bit was ruined by a new apprentice. Get rid of it, will you?"

Francesa took the roll, her hands shaking. "Aye."

The cook glanced at her for a moment. "The harvest isn't too good, I hear."

Francesa nodded. "My friend Ivry works the fields." As bad as working around the Officers and Crew could be, at least most of the time Francesa was sheltered inside. Those in the fields took the brunt of the weather for their entire work shifts. "She says the weather went cold too early."

"The weather's always cold," the cook remarked gloomily, his eyes straying toward a high slit window where a small patch of pale sky could be seen. "Though it seems colder now, in truth. Will there be enough food this year?"

"I . . ." Francesa looked down at the roll in her hand. "I don't know."

"Not enough, maybe," the cook murmured. "Third year in a row. Not that there's ever been enough, not since I was younger than you, but it's worse lately. The Officers say the Captain's angry with us. And the Officers and Crew must be fed before workers like us. Captain's orders." He touched his brow with his right hand.

Francesa kept her face calm despite the anger that surged inside. Nodding politely, she hastened from the kitchen and wolfed down half the roll. She managed to pause after that, staring down at the bread and thinking of a little brother with a belly as thin as her own. Biting her lip, she wrapped the other half carefully in a scrap of rag and stuffed it into a nearby hiding place where it would be safe until her work shift finished.

The morning bells sounded, calling them to Report. Francesa joined a slowly growing column of workers like herself as they shuffled toward the Bridge. Once inside, she shoved her way toward the back, finally leaning against the cold stone and looking upward. Carvings rioted across the stone above, telling the story of the Wreck and the Survival, the Ordeal and the prophesized Rescue. Francesa felt the cold reaching through the thin cloth of her shirt, sinking into her back, and forced herself to stand away from the stone wall. She'd have to do it soon, anyway.

The lower area filled with workers, some of them casting wary eyes on the members of the Watch who also entered to stand lining one side of the room, while other workers steadfastly pretended to ignore the Watch's presence. With security assured by the Watch, the members of the Crew filed in, proceeding to their seats on long benches set on a platform raised a few feet higher than the floor on which Francesa and her peers stood. Francesa rested her eyes on the seated backsides of the Crew and remembered for a moment that she'd once been able to find humor in that view.

After the Crew came most of the Officers, going to individual chairs placed in front of the Crew benches.

Then the Third Officer entered, standing and looking around to ensure everyone was ready. "Attention!" he yelled.

The Officers and Crew came to their feet, standing rigid, while the workers around Francesa shuffled into more erect postures.

First Officer Garvis Skein entered and walked slowly to the third level of the Bridge, set a few feet higher than that on which the Officers' chairs and Crew's benches rested. The third level was much smaller than the other two, bounded along the back by a semicircular shelf of stone. On the stone shelf, which had been polished smooth and shiny, were set many polished stones of various sizes and colors, their settings forming patterns on the slab of stone.

Garvis stood before the small shelf of stone, waiting until the Third Officer handed a lighted lamp to him. He waved his light over the shelf, making the flame dance and causing the polished stones to wink rhythmically in time. "All systems report errors," he intoned, then paused.

His audience chorused the reply, the Officers and Crew loudly and enthusiastically while the workers spoke the words with varying degrees of emotion. "Corrective action required."

"All systems failing!"

"Corrective action required," the reply came again.

"Our actions have failed! The Captain orders us to leave the ship!" Garvis thundered.

"Show mercy, Captain!" the audience cried.

"Rescue will come!"

This time the chorus held the note of finality. "For those who trust in the Captain!"

Garvis sat down the lamp, turning to face the crowd full on. "Those who trust in the Captain will be rescued! They will be taken up to the stars from whence we came and live in a place of plenty with the Captain just as our ancestors did. Those who do not follow will be left behind to toil in this world of pain to which our ancestors were banished for their failures to serve the Captain well."

Francesa had heard it all so many times she could have recited it in her sleep. She tuned out the droning voice of First Officer Garvis, thinking of the cold, the poor harvest, and the thin bodies of those in her family. When the call to duty was made and everyone bowed their heads as Garvis intoned thanks to the Captain along with promises of obedience in all things, Francesa couldn't help wishing the Captain would send them something better than a promise of eventual rescue. After well over two hundred "standard" years, as carefully measured and recorded by the Second Officer, she didn't see rescue coming with nearly the certainty of hunger and cold.

But she didn't say such thoughts out loud. Two lashes today would be bad enough.

First Officer Garvis eventually finished his instructions, holding up a copy of the writings with reverence. "Here are the rules, set forth by the Captain. Heed them. Always ask your Officers for what the rules say and what they mean. Do not attempt to read them yourself and spurn those who offer what they claim to be true copies. They are only seeking to mislead you. Only the copies of the rules kept on the Bridge are the true words of the Captain, and only the Officers may read those rules, by order of the Captain."