6

TIME IN TRAINING HAS been slow. Time in quarantine has been slow. The walk-out, the elevator ride, the insertion, all slow. But as those last earthbound minutes begin, time speeds up.

In her helmet—too loud, and Gwendy can’t remember how to turn it down—she hears Eileen Braddock in Mission Control say, “T-minus five minutes, terminal countdown begins.”

Kathy Lundgren: “Roger that, Mission Control, terminal countdown.”

Use your iPad, Gwendy thinks. It controls everything in your suit.

She touches the suit icon, finds the volume control, and uses her finger to decrease the blare. See how much you remember? she thinks. He’d be proud.

Who would be proud?

My handsome hubby. She has to fish for his name, which is appalling.

Ryan, of course. Ryan Brown is her handsome hubby.

Sam Drinkwater: “Eagle is in auto idle. All fuel is on.”

On her iPad and on the screen above her, T-minus 3:00 gives way to 2:59 and 2:58 and 2:57.

A gloved hand grips hers, making Gwendy startle. She looks around and sees Jafari. His eyes ask her if it’s okay or if she’d like him to let go. She nods, smiles, and tightens her grip. His lips form the words All will be well. Winston has his bought-and-paid-for porthole, but it’s going to waste, at least for now. He’s staring straight ahead, his lips pressed so tightly together that they’re almost not there, and Gwendy knows what he’s thinking: Why did this seem like a good idea? I must have been crazy.

Kathy: “Arm for launch?”

Sam: “Roger that, armed for launch. Eleven minutes from stars in the daytime, folks.”

Seemingly only seconds later, Eileen from Mission Control: “Crew okay? Let me hear you roger.”

One by one they reply. Gareth Winston is last, his roger a dry croak.

Kathy Lundgren, sounding as cool as the other side of the pillow: “Flight termination armed. T-minus one minute. Are we go for launch?”

Sam Drinkwater and Eileen Braddock answer together: “Go for launch.”

With the hand not holding Jafari’s, Gwendy feels for the steel box. It’s there, it’s safe. Only the box inside it is not safe. The box inside is the most dangerous thing on earth. Which is why it must leave earth.

Eileen Braddock: “First Ops Commander Lundgren, you have the bird.”

“Roger that, I have the bird.”

On the screen above Gwendy, the final ten seconds begin to count off.

She thinks: What is my name?

Gwendy. My father wanted a Gwendolyn and my mother wanted a Wendy, like in Peter Pan. They compromised. Hence, I am Gwendy Peterson.

Gwendy thinks: Where am I?

Playalinda, Florida, the Tet Corporation’s launch complex. At least for a few more seconds.

Why am I here?

Before she can answer that question, a vast rumble begins 450 feet below where she sits reclined in her ergonomic chair. Eagle’s cabin begins to vibrate—gently, at first, then more strongly. Gwendy has a fragmentary memory of being five or six and sitting on top of their washing machine as it goes into its final spin cycle.

“We are firing green,” Sam Drinkwater says.

A second or two later Kathy says, “Liftoff!”

The roar is louder, the vibration more intense. Gwendy wonders if that’s normal or if something has gone wrong. On the center screen above her she now sees Mission Control and the rest of the complex through a red-orange bloom of fire. How far below is it? Fifty feet? A hundred? A shudder runs through the craft. Jafari’s grip tightens.

This isn’t right. This can’t be right.

Gwendy closes her eyes, asking herself again why she’s here.

The short answer is because a man—if he is a man—told her that she had to be. At this moment, waiting for her life and all the others to end in a vast explosion of cryogenic liquid oxygen and rocket-grade kerosene, she can’t remember the man’s name. A crack has opened in the bottom of her brain and everything she has ever known has started to leak into the darkness below it. All she can remember is that he wore a hat. Small and round.

Black.