fiercer. All her life she had been fierce, but never more so than with herself.
I made mistakes. And now my patient's dead.
Sweat soaked through her shirt, a big wet blotch spreading between her breasts. Her calves and thighs were beyond the burn stage. The muscles were twitching, on the verge of collapse from the constant tension of the restraints.
A hand reached over and flicked off the TVIS power switch.
The running belt abruptly shuddered to a halt. She glanced up and met Luther's gaze.
'I think that's more than enough, Watson,' he said quietly.
'Not yet.'
'You've been at it for more than three hours.'
'I'm just getting started,' she muttered grimly. She switched on the power, and once again her shoes pounded on the moving belt.
Luther watched her for a moment, his body floating at her eye level, his gaze unavoidable. She hated being studied, even hated him at that instant, because she thought he could see right to her pain, her self-disgust.
'Wouldn't it be quicker just to smash your head against a wall?' he said.
'Quicker. But not painful enough.'
'I get it. To be punishment, it's gotta hurt, huh?'
'Right.'
'Would it make a difference if I told you this is bullshit? Because it is. It's a waste of energy. Kenichi died because he got sick.'
'That's where I'm supposed to come in.'
'And you couldn't save him. So now you're the corps fuckup.
'That's right.'
'Well, you're wrong. Because I claimed that title before you.'
'Is this some sort of contest?' Again, he shut off the TVIS power. Again the treadmill belt ground to a halt. He was staring her right in the eye, his gaze angry.
As fierce as hers.
'Remember my fuckup? On Columbia?' She said nothing, she didn't have to.
Every one at NASA remembered it. It had happened four years ago, during a mission repair an orbiting comm satellite. Luther had been the mission specialist responsible for redeploying the satellite after repairs completed. The crew had ejected it from its cradle in the payload bay and watched it drift away. The rockets had ignited right on schedule, sending the satellite into its correct altitude.
Where it failed to respond to any commands. It was dead in orbit, a multimillion-dollar piece of junk uselessly circling the earth.
Who was responsible for this calamity?
Almost immediately, the blame fell on the shoulders of Luther Ames. In his haste to deploy, he had forgotten to key in vital software codes -- or so the private contractor claimed. Luther said he had keyed in the codes, that he was the scapegoat for mistakes made by the satellite's manufacturer. Though the public heard very little about the controversy, within NASA, the story was known by all. Luther's flight assignments dried up. He was condemned to status of astronaut ghost, still in the corps, but invisible to who chose shuttle crews.
Complicating the mess was the fact Luther was black.
For three years, he suffered in obscurity, his resentment mounting. Only the support of close friends among the other astronauts-Emma most of all -- had kept him in the corps. He knew he'd made no mistakes, but few at NASA believed him. He knew people talked behind his back. Luther was the man the bigots pointed to as evidence minorities didn't have the 'right stuff.' He'd struggled to maintain his dignity, even as he'd felt despair closing in.
Then the truth came out. The satellite had been flawed. Luther Ames was officially absolved of blame. Within a week, Gordon offered him a flight assignment, a four-month mission aboard ISS. But even now, Luther felt the lingering stain on his reputation.
He knew, only too painfully, what Emma was now going through.
He stuck his face right in front of hers, forcing her to look at him.
'You're not perfect, okay? We're all human.' He paused, added dryly, 'With the possible exception of Diana Estes.' Against her will, she laughed.
'Punishment over. Time to move on, Watson.' Her respirations had returned to normal, even though her heart continued pounding, because she was still angry at herself. But Luther was right, she had to move on. It was time to deal with the aftermath of her mistakes. A final report still needed to be transmitted to Houston. Medical summary, clinical course.
Diagnosis.
Cause of death.
Doctor fuckup.
'Discovery docks in two hours,' said Luther. 'You've got work to do.' After a moment, she nodded and unclipped the TVIS restraints.
Time to get on with the job, the hearse was on its way.
The tethered corpse, sealed in its shroud, slowly spun in the gloom.
Surrounded by the clutter of excess equipment and spare lithium canisters, Kenichi's body was like one more unneeded station part stowed away in the old Soyuz capsule. Soyuz had not been operational in over a year, and the station crew used its service compartment as excess storage space. It seemed a terrible indignity to Kenichi in here, but the crew had been shaken badly by his death.
To be confronted repeatedly with his corpse, floating in one of the modules where they worked or slept, would have been too upsetting.
Emma turned to Commander Kittredge and Medical Officer O'Leary of the shuttle Discovery. 'I sealed the remains after death,' she said. 'It hasn't been touched since.' She paused, her gaze returning to the corpse. The shroud was black, and small pouches of plastic billowed out, obscuring the human form within.
'The tubes are still in?' asked O'Leary.
'Yes. Two IVS, the endotracheal, and the NG.' She had disturbed nothing, she knew the pathologists performing the autopsy would want everything left in place. 'You have all the blood cultures, all the specimens we collected from him. Everything.' Kittredge gave a grim nod of the head.
'Let's do it.' Emma unhooked the tether and reached for the corpse. It felt stiff, bloated, as though its tissues were already undergoing anaerobic decomposition. She refused to think about what Kenichi look like beneath the layer of dark plastic.
It was a silent procession, as grim as a funeral cortege, the mourners floating like wraiths as they escorted the corpse through the long tunnel of modules. Kittredge and O'Leary led the way, gently guiding the body through hatchways. They were followed by Jill Hewitt and Andy Mercer, no one saying a word. When the orbiter had docked a day and a half ago, Kittredge and his crew brought smiles and hugs, fresh apples and lemons, and a long-awaited copy of the Sunday New York Times. This was Emma's old team, the people she had trained with for a year, and seeing them again had been like having a bittersweet family reunion. Now the reunion was over, and the last item to be moved aboard Discovery was making its ghostly passage toward the docking module.
Kittredge and O'Leary floated the corpse through the hatchway and into Discovery's middeck. Here, where the shuttle crew slept and ate, was where the body would be stowed until landing.
O'Leary maneuvered it into one of the horizontal sleep pallets.
Prior to launch, the pallet had been reconfigured to serve as a medical station for the ailing patient. Now it would be used as a temporary coffin for the returning corpse.
'It's not going in,' said O'Leary. 'I think the body's too distended. Was it exposed to heat?' He looked at Emma.
'No. Soyuz temperature was maintained.'
'Here's your problem,' said Jill. 'The shroud's snagged on the vent.' She reached in and freed the plastic. 'Try it now.' This time the corpse fit. O'Leary slid the panel shut so no one would have to look at the pallet's occupant.
There followed a solemn ceremony of farewell between the two crews.
