Heaven's Shadow Page 20

  “Only the deceased?”

  “No! Everyone. Everything. People, animals, rivers, even planets! The Sun! I was . . . connected. Which is why disembodied is the wrong word, so there. Your fire’s out,” she told Zack, pointing to the pathetic pile of coals. “And I’m going to find . . .”

  Zack pointed directly away from the rover, which was at his back. “There are some tall trees that way.”

  “You’re such a dang Boy Scout.”

  Like any human, from time to time, Megan had wondered about her own death. Would it be some long, slow fade-out with cancer or pneumonia—or perhaps worst of all, dementia? Or a violent lurch from this world to the next?

  The real issue had always been, Would you want to know it was coming? She had had mixed feelings about that. The long, slow fade-out, dying in bed in the fullness of years, great-grandchildren gathered around . . . knowing you were slipping away, feeling, if not exactly eager, then at least accepting of the inevitable . . . that had its attractions.

  Well, now she had some hard data. She knew that a person didn’t just switch off. That old line about not knowing what hit you? Total bullshit. She felt the impact of her face on the window of the car. The sounds! Metal. The snap of bone—her neck? God! It made her sick to think about it.

  Camilla was up now, too, chattering in Portuguese. Lucas and Natalia must have heard her, because they suddenly appeared from the rover with water and food.

  As the two Brahma astronauts tended to their charge, Megan asked again about Rachel. “You have to tell me everything, baby. If you ever want to hear about the Architects, that is.”

  So, as they ate what appeared to be oatmeal from a bag and sipped orange juice from drink boxes, Zack spoke about Rachel, her struggles after Megan’s death . . . her smile, the joy he took in rediscovering his favorite movies with her . . . her moodiness . . . her refusal to play the piano; it all bubbled out of him almost too easily, without censorship or structure. “I can’t believe you did that.”

  “What?”

  “You let her give up the piano! I’d have screamed at her to stick with it.”

  “You mean, screamed more.” Zack smiled. Megan liked that. It meant that he was relaxing. “So, what happened to my video?”

  “Oh, it was aired on GoogleSpace, won a posthumous Peabody, and is now required viewing for every spouse in the space program.”

  “Good!” She picked up the camera from its spot atop Zack’s discarded space suit and handed it to him. “Make sure you record the sequel.”

  Zack aimed the camera at her. “Any time you’re ready . . . why not tell the world about the Architects?”

  She realized that she did know something about them—as if she’d learned it in her sleep. “Well, they’re millions of years older than we are . . . the human race, I mean. Even their sense of time is totally different. A day for them is like a whole week for us.”

  “Compared to the Architects, we’re mayflies?”

  “Something like that.”

  He thought. “They’re powerful enough to raise the dead.”

  “So it would seem, but don’t ask me how.” She nodded to Camilla. “Maybe she’ll know. Maybe each of us has a different piece of the puzzle.”

  “Where are they from? How far away? How did Keanu get here?”

  “I don’t know where they’re from—obviously a star system at least ten light-years away, maybe more. But that’s just me, Megan, doing the math. As for Keanu, all I can say is they don’t have any faster-than-light warp drive. The Keanu trip took thousands of years.”

  “What do the Architects look like?”

  Megan tried to picture them, but failed. But—“Post-organic is the phrase or image that comes into my head. They used to have bodies, but over time, as they made genetic improvements, they became more and more like machines.”

  It was like reading a book. Every one of Zack’s questions triggered some kind of response—either an image and a set of terms, or a blank page. “Something happened a few tens of thousands of years ago and they realized they needed to devolve, to be organic again. Which is what they were looking for with Keanu. They found other races, including the . . . the Sentries. But none of them seems to have worked out.” She could feel herself getting excited, speaking too fast, as always.

  “‘Worked out’ how?”

  “I don’t know. I just get images of other beings and a feeling of failure.” In fact, it made her uncomfortable. “You asked about the resurrectees. Keanu isn’t just a ship or a transport, it’s also a space probe. It gathers data wherever it goes. It gathered us as soon as it came within range. . . .”

  “Two years ago?” She was nodding. “So it has some kind of . . . soul catcher. Which means humans do have souls and consciousness does go on after death . . .”

  “You’re getting ahead of yourself,” Megan said, holding up her hand. “I have to stop.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  She had a terrific headache. “I think I may have overdone it,” she said, forcing a smile. “Not enough bandwidth.”

  It was a good moment to break: Taj and Tea were returning, and after scattered greetings, the talk turned to the discovery of the Temple. Taj held up his camera. “Let me find the footage and I’ll play it for you.”

  Zack turned to Megan. “Do you know anything about a Temple?”

  Her headache had subsided the instant she stopped trying to answer questions. “Not sure. The word temple doesn’t mean anything to me—”

  She stopped in midsentence because she saw Tea Nowinski shuffling past Zack and sliding her hand across his shoulder. She might as well have kissed him, because that brief tell was enough to convince Megan that her former husband and Tea were lovers.

  Zack knew Megan had seen it. The instant Tea was around the rover and momentarily out of sight and earshot, he came to her. “I’m sorry.”

  Megan was surprised at how annoyed she was at the thought of Zack and Tea together. “Feel free to tell me this didn’t start until after I was dead.”

  “You know me better than that.”

  Fortunately the burst of jealousy was as short-lived as it was bizarre. She had been dead, right? Was this second chance at life—thank you to the Almighty or these Architects or some combination of the two—a real second chance?

  Was she still married? Her Mormon friend Robin had believed that she and her husband were “sealed for eternity” . . . right up to the time they got divorced. By her own much looser standards, Megan had no claim on Zack, legal or moral.

  She had to ask herself, was she still in love with him? But she would also have to ask, what difference did that make? What possible life could they share? What could she expect from her own, under the circumstances?

  Was Zack convinced he had discovered the real Megan Doyle Stewart? His actions and words gave that impression, though Megan felt he wasn’t fully committed to the idea. (For that matter, was she sure? How would she know?)

  One thing Megan felt with great certainty was that she was still a mother. “Zack,” she said. “I want to talk to Rachel.”

  Zack got that worried look on his face, one she had come to know. “Wish we both could, but we don’t have real-time communication here.”

  Taj said, “I can do it.”

  Zack seemed surprised. “You can do what? We’re in LOS for hours yet.”

  “I can communicate with Earth in real time as soon as I can get close enough to punch a signal through the membrane.” He held up the Zeiss unit. “This will transmit to Brahma and then to a relay satellite.”

  Zack considered this. “Being able to do it doesn’t mean it’s a good idea—”

  Megan knew that voice; Zack was about to dig in. “Look,” she said, “I realize you aren’t quite ready to accept me. Fine. So let’s put it in terms everyone can understand.

  “Unless I talk to my daughter, I’m not telling you another damn thing.”

  . . . The Destiny flight director is the operations ag
ent for the NASA Launch Package Manager and Mission Manager. He or she is a member of the board responsible for assuring that the mission-specific operations document meets the defined requirements, and that associated operational risks have been adequately addressed. He or she is also responsible for arranging necessary Mission Operations Directorate expertise and support. . . .

  FLIGHT DIRECTOR TASKS, JSC MOD, JANUARY 2019, REV. G (EXCERPT)

  “If her father says it’s okay, then it’s okay.” Josh Kennedy delivered his judgment, then turned away.

  After returning Rachel to the family room, Harley had headed directly for mission control. Wanting to avoid any immediate contact with the great minds of the Home Team, he made sure to go around the building, rolling up to Josh Kennedy, who was preparing to hand flight director duties to the Stay-3 leader, Lee Shimora. “Got a sec?” Harley had said.

  Kennedy looked at Shimora, then back to Harley. “Do you see any activity here? We’re just warming chairs until we get data.”

  Harley showed him Rachel’s Slate. “Someone’s got data.”

  That gesture triggered an energetic response from Kennedy and Shimora. Both men began e-mailing and phoning their counterparts in Bangalore.

  Within half an hour, prodded by Harley’s disclosure of the Brahma-dropped relay satellite, Bangalore mission control managed to acknowledge that they (a) did indeed have a relay satellite and (b) would be willing to bring Houston into the communications loop. “Generous of them,” Harley said acidly, “given that they leaked everything to the planet, anyway.”

  To the surprise of the Houston team, Bangalore was in the process of reestablishing contact with Taj and his crew inside Keanu. Bangalore leader Vikram Nayar—who apparently never slept or left the center—claimed that Bangalore had not had contact for the last six hours, that this was a new and welcome resumption. “Whatever,” Shimora snapped, “their default setting is lies and bullshit. Nayar hates us. As long as they’ll give us comm, I don’t care if they claim to have seen the Easter Bunny.” He was even younger than Kennedy, who often struck Harley as an undergraduate, but considerably more worldly.

  Most of the immediate take from the session was data and imagery. “They’re gonna go apeshit back in your cave, Harls,” Shimora said.

  “I’m going a little ape-like myself here.”

  The team at the Keanu end of the link was Taj and Zack . . . to Harley’s horror, neither one in pressure suit. They had apparently taken up position just inside the so-called membrane, feeding communications through its cable up to Brahma, thence to satellite, Bangalore, and Houston.

  There was a third person with them, too.

  Even knowing about the so-called resurrected ones—what the Home Team called Revenants—and having seen the initial image of Megan Stewart, Harley was still stunned senseless at seeing her “alive,” hearing her voice.

  She had even waved at them. Had called out for Harley by name!

  In spite of the confusion—Taj was talking to Nayar in Bangalore while Zack was trying to get word directly to Houston—Megan had made a public request: “Harley Drake, get my daughter on the line!”

  Shimora said, “That’s way up the list of terrible fucking ideas.” He pointed to the screen. “We don’t know who or what that is!”

  But Kennedy stepped in. “Josh for Zack,” he said, “this is your call.”

  After five seconds, all three could see Zack nodding, his verbal assent following: “Do it!”

  Harley rolled out to fetch Rachel for the strangest conversation any human being had ever had.

  He had returned Rachel to the family room, now almost empty, since Pogo Downey’s family had departed, and other relatives and friends had dispersed rather than ride out the long silence from Destiny.

  With the flexibility of youth, Amy was asleep across three folding chairs when Harley arrived. Rachel looked up from a new Slate—obviously Amy’s—when the door opened.

  The girl acted as though she wanted to run. “Fuck you, Harley, you better not be here to tell me bad news.”

  He grabbed her hand and pulled her close. “Far from it, kiddo. You saw that picture of your mom?”

  “This won’t be HD quality,” Kennedy said. “Don’t freak out if we lose contact, either. Comm is ratty in the extreme.”

  “As if I care,” Rachel snapped. Her face held a perfect mix of fury and terror. She looked over at Harley, who could only nod with a reassurance he most certainly didn’t feel. “Will she be able to see me?”

  Kennedy pointed to one of the cameras that gave the public a live feed of mission control. “We’ve linked that camera to Bangalore.”

  Rachel put on the headset, and walked toward the screen. “And there’ll be a lag,” Kennedy said.

  But no one cared, because the screen came alive.

  The camera angle on Megan was looking up, too close and definitely low-def, but still Harley could see the moment when mother recognized daughter. Signal quality be damned, the woman’s eyes went wide and her hand suddenly covered her mouth. Then: “Daddy was right,” the voice from the screen said. “You got bigger.”

  Rachel’s eyes filled with tears. Harley knew what the girl was thinking . . . the last words she’d exchanged with her mother were angry ones. “Oh my God, Mommy!” She could barely get the words out.

  At that moment, Harley’s lingering doubts about this “Megan” vanished. Let the girl be the judge. If she believes this is her mother, then so be it.

  “It’s all right, sweetie. The circle of life.”

  “You always said that was crap, Mom. You said life was harsh.”

  “I’m better informed now.”

  The picture fuzzed out for several seconds. Rachel could only stare with teary eyes. When contact resumed, she cleared her throat and said, “Did you see angels?”

  “Only now.”

  Harley couldn’t decide which effect was more annoying, the lag or the occasional glitches in video or audio. Rachel, however, seemed not to be bothered. “How did this happen?”

  “I really don’t know, sweetie. I mean, I assume there’s some big old purpose, but no one has explained it. One moment I was with you in Florida . . . you know. Then I was here looking at Daddy.”

  “God, how’s Daddy?”

  “See for yourself.” The camera jiggled and panned to one side. Harley and Rachel could see Zack Stewart, a bit scraggly looking, but smiling and waving. Then the camera shifted back to Megan.

  “What’s going to happen?” Rachel said. “Are you coming home?” The lag stretched on to double its normal length before Megan said, “No. For one thing, there’s no room.”

  Rachel shook her head in disbelief, and suddenly Harley realized that this conversation might indeed have been a bad idea. It was one thing to see your lost mother . . . that one last look was what every sad song in history asked for.

  It was quite another level of horror to lose her a second time. “But . . . you can’t stay there!”

  Another long lag. This time “Megan” seemed to be talking to Zack or someone off camera. Then, strangely, she seemed to pull away, as if that someone had hold of her. “Listen, Rachel . . . I don’t really know the purpose to this, to my being back. But I can tell you this, my darling daughter . . . I think you’re going to get a message. I don’t know what or when. Just . . . don’t be scared, okay?”

  Confused and hurt, Rachel looked at Harley. “What is she talking about?”

  “I don’t think any of us know, Rach.” He felt stupid, but wasn’t going to compound the stupidity by giving uninformed advice.

  Rachel turned to face her mother. “I’ll try. I won’t be scared.”

  Another lag; this one ended with a smile. “You won’t know what I’m talking about until it happens.”

  The picture jiggled, as if the camera operator had to change position. Off-screen voices could be heard . . . Spanish? No, Harley realized: Portuguese. Lucas.

  Zack appeared in the frame. “We’ve got to break
off. Uh, we’re doing fine, under the circumstances.” He waved.

  Then the screen went to snow. Harley rolled as close to Rachel as he could, acutely aware that she might just collapse. He signaled Kennedy to join him.

  But the girl surprised him. She swiftly wiped her eyes and shook her head. “Well, that was pretty weird.”

  Harley took her hand. “Why don’t you stick with me for a while?”

  “That would be great.”

  To Kennedy, Harley said, “I’m taking her to the Home Team.”

  Q: How did you learn you had been selected as an astronaut?

  HALL: Oh, wow. You know how it goes . . . if you get a call from the HR guy, you didn’t make it, but if it’s the chief astronaut, good news? Well, I was actually at Houston, at JSC, for a meeting on the Saturn launcher when I ran into the HR guy. And he got this weird look on his face and said, “I need to talk to you.” And I went, “Oh, crap.” Then he said, “No, wait, not me, exactly—” So then I knew. It was kind of typical . . . I was always around NASA all my life.

  ASTRONAUT YVONNE HALL, DESTINY-7 PREFLIGHT INTERVIEW

  “Don’t touch that!”

  Dennis Chertok literally jumped so high that he bumped his head on the sloping wall of the Venture cabin. Keanu gravity at work. Yvonne had awakened and seen the cosmonaut busy opening cupboards on the rear bulkhead. Her shout startled him. He rubbed his head. “That’s a fine way to talk.”

  Emerging from the druggy sleep of several hours, she reacted without thinking, just feeling that somehow this wasn’t right. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I’m your attending physician.” He was wearing his Coalition undergarment along with, strangely, a pair of half-glasses that made the cosmonaut look very much like some old country doctor on a house call.

  “I thought you’d left!” Attuned as she was—as they all were—to the steady drone of fans and pumps, she also realized she and Dennis were alone in the cabin. “Where’s Tea?”