The Relentless Moon Read online

  Across from me, Myrtle offered the toast again, raising her voice over the sound of the rocket. “Don’t let this go to waste.”

  Eugene reached for the toast. “Happy to help.”

  She smacked his hand away. “Was I talking to you?”

  “See, don’t complain next time that I don’t help around the house enough.” Eugene lowered his plate with a comically loud mournful sigh.

  Myrtle rolled her eyes at him and held the plate toward me. “Nicole?”

  “Oh, I’m fine.” I picked up a slice of bacon and waved it like a magic wand. “And I still have eggs.”

  Kenneth looked up from the paper and I could feel him study my plate to see if I was eating. I took a bite of bacon and let it fill my mouth with salt and fat. Beside me, he thumped the paper with the back of one knuckle. “Two people died last night.”

  Eugene winced. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  I didn’t want anyone to be dead, but I was terrified that it would be some of our guests. “Earth Firsters or…?”

  “A bystander who got trampled and a store owner who was trying to keep looters out.”

  “That’s horrible.” Sighing, I set my bacon down. “They say that they’re protesting your policies, and then go after an innocent shopkeeper. It’s just an excuse for looting.”

  “Earth First will deny involvement with the looting.” Kenneth picked up his fork. “Now, Eugene … when you make your bid for lunar mayor, you’ll have to be ready to talk about this. How would you respond to last night?”

  Eugene lowered his toast and wiped his hands on his napkin. When he concentrated, you could still see the fighter pilot that he used to be, especially with his hair cropped so short you could see the gleam of his dark skin through the tight curls. His brows came together in a way that made him look concerned, rather than worried, which was a fine line and a good feature for a politician.

  “I’d probably say something about how we grieve for the loss of life and are listening to the cries of help from our homeworld.”

  I tilted my head. “That sounds like you’re sympathetic to the rioters.”

  “That’s because I’m sympathetic. Not to their methods, but to their fears.” He pointed to a fork rattling on his plate from the ongoing sound of the Sirius IV. “Most people see this as a disruption. A reminder that they aren’t going into space.”

  “Good point.” Kenneth speared his last bite of eggs. “Sure I can’t pry you out of the space program to be on my staff?”

  Myrtle shook her head, pushing her chair back from the table. “Not a chance. I’m still not sure I should welcome you in my house after you talked him into running for mayor.”

  “Dr. King talked him into it. I just offered coaching.” Kenneth passed his plate to her and looked pointedly at the eggs I still had left. “Your cooking sure is wonderful, Myrtle. No danger of anyone wasting food at your house.”

  I loved him and hated him all at the same time, but I picked up my fork so I could be a good guest and present her with a clean and empty plate. I said, “I still think you have to be careful about sounding sympathetic to rioters. It might be a good line for using on Earth, but when the Moon starts being self-governing, the people who vote for you will be the ones who have the least patience with Earth First.”

  Eugene nodded. “I know. But I also know that all my speeches will get transmitted downplanet. And, to be honest, I think it would be a mistake to ignore the Earth Firster fears. The number of applicants to the IAC has dropped.”

  Myrtle snorted and picked up Eugene’s plate. “We’ve got more applicants than we have spots.”

  “Eugene’s right. It’s about the trend.” Kenneth leaned back in his chair and settled his hands over his paunch. “Declining application numbers give us an indicator that the larger population is losing interest in the space…”

  I lost the rest, because the sound of the rocket stopped. It shouldn’t do that.

  An explosion cracked the air.

  I was out of my chair and halfway to the kitchen door before the rumble ended. Eugene was behind me, moving slower after months spent in lunar gravity. Myrtle reached for the radio, leaving Kenneth frozen at the table.

  “How long?” I ran across the living room to the front door, while Eugene dove for the phone.

  How long had we been talking while the rocket rose from the Earth? Two minutes? Three?

  “Not sure.” This mattered because it told us which mode of abort the crew would be in. Mode one bravo got deployed between 3,000 meters and 30.5 kilometers into flight. The Launch Escape System would haul the crew module away from the main rocket. Eugene continued, “We could hear it, so they were still in atmosphere.”

  Which meant that they hadn’t gotten to a mode two abort. So the LES would have deployed. I threw the front door open and ran into the yard. You can’t see the launch site from the Lindholms’ neighborhood, but you can see the rocket trajectory. Up and down the street, people tilted their heads back to look at the smoke trail rising to disappear into the ever-present clouds. They were looking at the column as if the part of the trajectory we could see was significant.

  I was looking for parachutes.

  My fingernails dug into my palms. Clouds. Unbroken clouds.

  Kenneth came out onto the Lindholms’ front porch. “Who—?”

  “I don’t know.” My voice hurt. “I should know. I don’t know!”

  He went behind me to wrap his arms around my waist to wait.

  And wait.

  And wait.

  The clouds are constant now and it’s hit a point where you think of a high silver overcast as a beautiful day. But that damn cloud ceiling meant everything was hidden behind a layer of cotton.

  We waited.

  Eugene walked onto the front porch. “Circuits are busy. Anything?”

  “Clouds.” I realized that my hands were digging into Kenneth’s wrists. I tried to unclench them. “What’s on the radio?”

  Kenneth said, “Just that there was an explosion.”

  Eugene grimaced and jerked a thumb back to the house. “I’ll try again.”

  I don’t know why I stayed in that yard, waiting. There wasn’t a damn thing I could do. I just remember when the Meteor happened, how I had been at my parents’ Detroit home and we sat by the radio and the room had seemed to get smaller and smaller as the reports rolled in. I couldn’t bear to be inside right now.

  Someone shouted. A Black man down the street was pointing at the sky—at brilliant orange-and-white envelopes breaking through the clouds like the sun bearing a chariot. I tightened my hands on Kenneth and shouted toward the house. “Eugene! I see chutes!”

  Behind me, Kenneth bent his head. “Dear heavenly Father. Thank you for delivering these brave men and women—”

  I bit the inside of my cheek and let my husband pray. If there were a God, he would not have blown the rocket. He would not have slammed a Meteor into the Earth. But it gave Kenneth comfort and I would not deny him that, even if what had saved those people was science. Redundancies and methods and practice had saved them.

  Eugene burst out of the house, with Myrtle close behind him. “Chutes?”

  I nodded, stepping away from Kenneth, and wiped my eyes. “About twenty-five kilometers downrange.”

  “Oh, praise God.” Myrtle raised her hands and closed her eyes for a moment. “Thank you, God, for this miracle.”

  “And thank the IAC for their training.” I try not to get in the way of other people’s faith, honest, I do. “Did you get through?”

  Eugene shook his head. “Lines are busy, but we can go in.”

  So help me, I wanted to go with them. “You go on. We’ll lock up.”

  Just because there were parachutes, that didn’t mean the crew was going to make it to the ground safely. But there would have been nothing that needed me specifically. Kenneth, though, I could help prepare for the press conference. I couldn’t tell him what to say about the riots, but I could coach him o
n the rocket failure.

  I took Kenneth’s arm. “Come on, love. We need to get you cleaned up and downtown.”

  THREE

  MISFIRED ROCKET SHAKES CAPITAL AREA

  KANSAS CITY, March 29, 1963—An International Aerospace Coalition rocket exploded during a routine flight to the Lunetta orbital station early this morning. After a flawless liftoff, one of the giant engines of the Sirius IV rocket appears to have misfired, sending the spaceship tumbling off course. The emergency Launch Escape System separated the crew module from the rest of the rocket before the tanks detonated over Kansas in a stark reminder of the explosive power in the rockets that pass on a regular basis over our nation’s capital.

  In the briefing room at the U.S. Capitol downtown, I nursed a cup of coffee as Kenneth got an update from presidential staffers. Across the room, the door opened and Director Clemons from the International Aerospace Coalition strode in, trailing cigar smoke like a rocket. A little bit of the tension in my gut relaxed. They wouldn’t have been able to pry him out of the IAC if there had been any fatalities.

  He shook hands with the president, who was a trim, handsome white man in the Clark Gable mold, with dark hair just going silver at the temples. “Director. Thank you so much for coming out.”

  “I appreciate your offer to join the press conference.” Clemons’s plummy British accent made it sound as though everything were under control, but his eyes were pinched with worry. “Although I fear I may have made a tactical error in sending my two best spokespeople off on a three-year mission to Mars.”

  Stetson Parker and Elma York. The First Man in Space and The Lady Astronaut. I was always amazed at how well Elma hid the toll that being in the spotlight took on her. It’s not a problem I ever had—other problems, yes, but anxiety was not one of them.

  Setting my coffee cup down, I slid out of my chair. The joint of my big toe twinged as weight settled on it. I’d wager no one could tell that it hurt to walk, any more than you could tell how much pain my pointe shoes used to cause. I walked toward Clemons, wishing that I’d brought my blue IAC flight suit with me so I could represent the astronaut corps, if needed, instead of the sober navy blue pencil skirt and jacket that I’d opted for as Governor Wargin’s wife. Still, I had my astronaut wings and could pin them on if the director needed me.

  I paused just outside the social arc created by the two men and waited to be noticed, which gave them the illusion of being in control of the situation. The president was still talking to Clemons and glanced briefly at me, acknowledging that I’d approached. “What does the Mars Expedition crew think about this?”

  “We aren’t telling them.” Clemons turned the cigar over in his hands. “There’s nothing they can do and I do not want to cause them undue worry.”

  “Wish that were an option for us.” The president reoriented his body, taking a step to the side to invite me in. “Ah, Mrs. Wargin. Does the governor need anything?”

  “He’s being well taken care of, thank you, Mr. President.” I smiled and took a step into their sphere of influence. “Though I thought I might offer Director Clemons my assistance.”

  “Oh?” Clemons raised his brows as if he were baffled that I might have some use.

  “If it would help, Elma and I have comparable spaceflight experience. I’m not ‘The’ Lady Astronaut, but I am ‘a’ Lady Astronaut.” I gave a smile, calibrated to be warm but also acknowledging the somberness of the situation. “I’m available to do any publicity that would be useful for the corps.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Nico—Mrs. Wargin.” Clemons looked around to the door. “But Cristiano Zambrano is arriving shortly and was CAPCOM on this launch. I know how valuable you are to Governor Wargin and don’t want you to split your attention.”

  “Of course.” That sounded entirely reasonable, but I still wanted to scream. I could be useful if he’d let me. I was good at shaping public opinion and I was very good at press conferences. “Well, I’ll let you two get back to it, then.”

  Turning, I thought that checking in with Kenneth would be the next intelligent thing. If nothing else, I could at least fetch coffee for him.

  Behind me, Clemons murmured, “Honestly, if she were a bit younger it might not have been a bad idea, but the original six are old hat now.”

  The amount of self-control it took to keep walking instead of turning around and slapping him was a testament to my finishing school education. Old hat. Old hat?! Cristiano was a year older than I was, for crying out loud. But men apparently don’t age in the same ways … Old hat.

  By the time I got to Kenneth’s side, I was able to keep most of my outrage behind my smile. I wrestled my fury back down into its usual spot, because despite the injustice of his words, the reasoning behind having the CAPCOM for the flight there was sound. I hadn’t been on the base. I didn’t have anything but the most cursory understanding of what had gone wrong. All I really knew was when it had occurred. Cristiano would have more current information.

  Of course, if he didn’t arrive, then there was still an opportunity for me. There are times when I am appallingly callous, because I was thinking about this near tragedy as an opportunity for advancement. It is hard, sometimes, to spot the line between a desire to help and ambition.

  Kenneth gave me a tight smile as I approached. “Learn anything?”

  “Cristiano Zambrano is coming in. He was CAPCOM.”

  Kenneth winced and pursed his lips for a fraction of a second. “He’s a good man.”

  “But?”

  “Oh, just wondering about the pros and cons of reminding the American public that this is an international partnership. I think it’s probably the way to go, but…” He shrugged. “You know me. Always thinking about angles.”

  “Well, he’s not here, so—”

  Cristiano walked into the room. He could have been a movie star back home in Mexico, with a cleft chin and thick, glossy hair above eyes that naturally smoldered. I swear, all of the original male astronauts seemed to have been selected, at least in part, for their photogenic qualities. The same was true of us, which always bothered Elma. To me it seemed completely reasonable. We were symbols.

  “Nicole … What we talked about in the car.” Kenneth was going to ask me to stay here. In this goddamned room, doing nothing of any use. “Would you mind—” He stopped when Cristiano spotted me and made a beeline for us.

  My fellow astronaut gave a weary smile. “Thank God. I thought I’d be the only astronaut here.”

  “Clemons says he doesn’t need me.” I delivered that line with a laugh—a cheery coating around my bitterness.

  He snorted and glanced over his shoulder to where Clemons and the president were engaged in what looked like an intense conversation over a folder of papers. “That seems short-sighted, given the fact that you’re in the next launch crew.”

  Behind me, Kenneth sucked in a breath. I had known where I was in rotation, but had not thought through to the fact that I would be in the next group to ride a Sirius IV.

  I drew Cristiano away before he could say anything else that would distress my husband. I’d flown a half-dozen missions as Cristiano’s co-pilot back in the capsule days. This close, I could see the strain in the fine lines around his eyes. I murmured, “You okay?”

  “I will need a martini of significant size at the end of the day.” He glanced down and showed me his right hand. The tremor that had finally grounded him was much worse than usual, as if I needed a reminder about what happened to an astronaut who admitted that their health was less than perfect. Cristiano balled it into a fist and shoved it casually into his trouser pocket. “But everyone is alive. Search and rescue was right on top of them as they came down.”

  I heaved a sigh of relief at that confirmation. “Well, come over tonight and I’ll mix up some martinis.”

  He winked, and a dimple flashed for a moment at the corner of his mouth. “Thank you. But I should go home to Giulia and the boys. Even though I wasn’t up, she will wo
rry.”

  “Of course. Who was the crew?”

  “Randy Cleary was piloting. He had Isabel Sophia Dieppa Betancourt for Nav/Comp and—”

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” One of the staffers stood by the door to the press room. “We’re ready to begin. This way, please.”

  The press room at the Capitol building was built specifically for briefings and had a dais at one end of a square room. The walls were covered with heavy blue velvet drapes to muffle the sound in the room. They were green during Brannan’s administration, but Denley tended toward more military trappings.

  I did not go out on the dais. No, I stood in the gallery with the First Lady and some of the other politicians’ wives. All of us had our practiced “supportive and attentive” expression engaged. It came in handy as a politician’s wife and as an astronaut.

  President Denley strode up to the podium and regarded the reporters. “Thank you all for coming. Let me answer first the question that is on everyone’s mind. The Sirius IV rocket explosion this morning resulted in no loss of life. The passengers and crew aboard are now receiving medical treatment as a safety measure, but all appear to be in good health. We give thanks to God for their safe delivery. I’ve brought Director Clemons from the IAC out, and he will be available to answer your questions about that later.”

  He shifted a paper on the podium. “Of more immediate concern to most citizens in the capital are last night’s riots. Let me say, right away, that we will not be cowed by terrorists.”

  And then he began a series of one-liners about the riots and civility. He had a half-dozen variations on the line “we will not be cowed by terrorists,” which were disingenuous coming from a man who wanted to slash the United States’s contribution to the IAC. Honestly, I tuned out, paying just enough attention to be able to nod appreciatively at the right spots in case one of the cameramen wanted a B-shot of the wives.

  He droned on for a good fifteen minutes saying nothing of substance but promising an undefined “strong action” until he finally opened the floor for questions.