All the while Gerry felt Mitch was on a big river, and that he was getting further and further away. His face tensed into a mask of anxiety; he liked Mitch, and couldn’t believe they might lose him.
“Around one in twenty-five million,” said Mitch, because Mitch was always a man for statistics. Gerry heard the AviOrbit technician’s breath coming and going quickly. “It’s them,” he said, his voice going lower, dipping, like hanging onto the edge of a cliff and finally letting go. “They’ve done something.” Then a pause, accompanied by a little rough static from the radio. “You guys need redundancy procedures.”
Mitch might have spoken a foreign language. Redundancy procedures? Gerry was nonplussed. The man was going to
“That’s it.” Ian had gone into reckless mode, the damn-the-torpedoes Hamilton of old. “I’m getting on the sled. Just hang on, little guy. I’ll be there in a minute.”
“No! Listen to me! The two of you! My suit tells me I’ve broken orbit. There’s nothing you can do. If the rescue software is deleted, that’s…” Then, softer: “That’s it. Let’s face it, the delete is another Tarsalan trick. Ian, if you come after me in the sled, that’s two of us gone. You’re at work, Ian.
Remember? The first job you’ve had in five years. Let’s stay professional. Gerry?”
Gerry felt miserable, but managed to get the words out. “I’m here, Mitch.”
“Have you confirmed the delete? Let’s stick to procedure. Can you confirm?”
“It’s a no go on all fronts.”
“Then that’s it. There’s nothing we can do.”
“I’m sorry, Mitch.”
“I’ve got eighteen hours of life support.”
“Mitch, we could still…” This from Ian, but the words came out in the defeated tone of a man who had reached that cusp where hope and hopelessness merge, and, balancing for an instance on the possibility of last- ditch efforts, the pilot finally teetered into the territory of lost causes. He gave the console a petulant smack with a half-closed fist and turned to Gerry. He shook his head.
“There’s nothing we can do?” asked Gerry.
“There’s zero chance of getting him back, and we risk the whole mission if we try.”
Through his yellow-tinted visor, Gerry discerned his old friend’s face. Here they were again; not the first time they’d been in extreme circumstances—though riding an asteroid bronco-style while a friend drifted to his death was perhaps the most extreme circumstance of all. Ian’s lips had a curious curl, and his eyes had narrowed with resentment. Gerry, on the other hand, felt shocked into a kind of mild catatonia.
Mitch had guts of steel, though, because he was already on to the next thing, miles ahead of either of them. “There’s only two of you now.”
“Mitch, we’re sorry,” said Gerry.
“Think of the phytosphere.”
The dark, ugly thing that was suffocating Earth.
“Right… right. Go ahead, Mitch.”
“With me out of the picture, it means a lot more work for the two of you. Which in turn means new procedures. And if this virus thing keeps evolving, the framework for those procedures will constantly change.” His voice was high, tremulous. “You’ve got to work the procedures up fast, because this thing might balloon exponentially.”
And Gerry had to hand it to Mitch, because he went out like a hero, detailing the kinds of things they would have to do if they were going to get the mission accomplished against this increasingly growing threat, giving them guidelines and new timetables, interfacing with the PCV’s main computer to model fresh mission dynamics, and at last logging the whole thing into the mainframe. Only then did Mitch get weepy. Only then did Gerry and Ian loosen their hold on their own grief.
Gerry asked Mitch if he could still see Gaspra.
“I’m facing away.”
“Buddy, we’re going to miss you.” Ian’s voice was rough.
And it was true. Mitch was one of a kind.
They covered a few more technical possibilities, contingencies, and what-if scenarios, then Mitch’s voice got quiet. It was if the small man could already see the end of his life, was watching hours turn into minutes, minutes into seconds—those finite units of time that everyone had to measure eventually.
“You guys… make it count… that’s all I ask. And if you see Norbert… if he’s still alive… just tell him… you know.”
“We’ll tell him,” said Gerry.
And rather than drift toward Jupiter for the next seventeen hours—the remaining extent and breadth of his current life support—Mitch had his med-pak deliver an untenable dose of barbiturates to him intravenously, even as the Tarsalan infection in the PCV and its external components ballooned—as the small man had feared it would— exponentially.
35
As Glenda and her children ventured onto the final stretch of Marblehill Road, Hanna’s breathing grew more labored. Her coughing exploded into the still, hot air like small pneumatic reports. The trees in the forest loomed over them on either side, dead brown things. No cars, trucks, or people, just the awful silence. Glenda could barely see her kids in the dark. She looked up at the sky. No stars, Moon, or clouds—just the blackness of the phytosphere.
Hanna sank to the ground and coughed more violently. Jake kept looking down the road, gun held loosely in his hand. Glenda knelt next to Hanna. The perpetual darkness felt like something evil inside her body, a tumor she wanted to remove but couldn’t.
“Hanna, we’ve got to keep going.”
“I’m too weak, Mom. It’s never been like this before. I’m going to die. I know I am.”
“You’re not going to die. We just have to get to Uncle Neil’s. He has medicine.”
“Yes, but I can’t make it. I can’t get enough breath.”
“Get between me and Jake. We’ll help you along.”
“I can’t, Mom.”
“You’ve got to, Hanna. Buzz is going to come along.”
Hanna coughed some more, then choked out the words, “Just give me a minute.”
While Hanna rested, Glenda stood up and turned on her flashlight. She shone it up the road toward Marblehill, but its beam was weak and could barely penetrate the gloom. Still, it was strong enough to brighten a big tree that had fallen across the road. As the beam brought the tree’s spidery brown branches into relief, she had the distinct impression of something darting by overhead in the darkness.
She looked up just in time to see a large shadow, maybe twenty-five times the size of her car, disappear above the trees on the left-hand side, rustling above the uppermost branches.
“Did you see that?” she asked Jake.
“Yeah.”
“What was it?”
“I have no idea.”
But Glenda knew what it was, and didn’t want to say because her children were already scared enough as it was. She switched off the flashlight. She looked around at the dark forest with a sudden sense that they weren’t alone. That’s when she heard the bump and rattle of Buzz’s truck far down the road.
“Goddamn him,” moaned Hanna between coughs.
“Come on, sweetie. Let’s get up. Jake, give me a hand.”
“Maybe we should go into the forest,” suggested Jake.
“I’m not sure it’s safe.”
“Why?”
“Just give me a hand.”
