BERN STAPLETON HANDS THE iPad back to Jafari Bankole. The astronomer looks at the screen and shakes his head in disbelief. “I swear I tried that. Twice.”
“Probably you did,” Stapleton says. “These gadgets are fancy as hell, but they’re not perfect.” He glances over at Senator Peterson, who’s strapped in her flight chair, busy tapping away at her own mini computer. “Let me know if you need anything else, Jaff.”
“Thank you,” Bankole says, already engrossed in the seemingly endless rows of shifting numbers.
This is Stapleton’s third trip to the up-above, which is why he’s currently making his rounds on level three of Eagle Heavy. All four crew members on the lower deck are first-timers, what the veterans call Greenies. Stapleton knows from experience that four weeks of training, no matter how rigidly organized, just isn’t enough time.
“How’re tricks, Senator?”
Gwendy looks up from her iPad screen. “Just finished performing my assigned duties as Weather Girl, and now I’m checking my emails. Pretty typical afternoon. What are you up to?” Despite her sassy tone, she’s genuinely curious. She’d noticed Stapleton speaking quietly with Adesh Patel a few minutes earlier, their heads mere inches apart, and it worried her. Were they discussing her little episode from earlier? Sneaking glances at her when she wasn’t looking? She doesn’t think that’s the case, but even the possibility makes her uneasy.
“Thought I’d make sure the rookies were pulling their weight,” Bern says. “Speaking of that …” He looks around. “Where’s Winston?”
Gwendy hooks a thumb toward level four. “Either in the bathroom again or hiding in his cabin. I think he’s already grown bored with the view from his precious porthole.”
“How about you?” Stapleton asks. “You bored yet?”
Gwendy’s entire face brightens—and the years fall away. Stapleton stares in amazement, thinking: This is what Gwendy Peterson looked like as a little girl. “You’re kidding, right?” She holds up her iPad for him to see. “The interior temperature of our current destination, specifically Spoke One of the Many Flags Space Station, is a comfortable seventy-three degrees Fahrenheit. I was curious, so I checked.” She taps the screen—once, twice, three times. “TetCorp plans to take a ship very much like the one we’re presently flying on to Mars in the next couple of years. Do you know what the current temperature on the surface of Mars is at this exact moment?”
Stapleton actually does know, but he doesn’t dream of saying so. Not with Senator Gwendy Peterson looking at him with the cheery (and wonder-filled) eyes of a twelve-year-old. Instead, he shakes his head.
“It’s the middle of the night on Mars, and almost 200 degrees below zero.” She lowers the iPad to her lap. “Makes Maine feel like a beach in the Bahamas.”
He laughs and gives a gentle kick of his legs to remain in place. “So what was all the commotion about earlier? I heard Kathy had to shut the party down.”
“That was my fault. Winston was over there snoring like a banshee, and it got me to laughing.” She shrugs her shoulders. “Once I started, I couldn’t stop.”
“Sometimes first impressions are correct ones,” he says, glancing at the billionaire’s empty flight seat.
Gwendy nods, recalling Winston’s booming voice and obnoxious behavior during their four weeks of close-quarters training. “I keep reminding myself to give the man the benefit of the doubt, but it’s not been easy.”
“Maybe this will help.” He lowers his voice. “Kathy told me that Winston is responsible for more than half of Saint Jude’s annual funding, but the press doesn’t print a word about it, because he doesn’t want them to know. Shocking, huh?”
“Well, if in fact that’s true,” she says, wondering why the information was missing from her dossier, “then God bless Gareth Winston, and he certainly deserves the benefit of my doubt. May heavenly choirs sing his name.”
“Hopefully, you’ll still feel that way after spending nineteen days with him on MF-1.” He grins. “If you’re really lucky, you and Winston might even get partnered up to take a space walk together.”
Gwendy flashes her training partner a scorching look—but doesn’t say anything. She’s thinking about Richard Farris’s plan for the button box at that moment, and praying she can pull it off.
“I better head back. Reggie and Dale get upset if I leave them alone for too long.” He begins to drift slowly upward, then stops himself by grabbing hold of one of the ship’s support beams. “Almost forgot to ask. You ready for your video chat?”
In just over two hours, Gwendy has a video conference scheduled with top high school and middle school students from all fifty states, as well as select members of the media. She’s not looking forward to it. In fact, she’s dreading it. All she can think is: what if I have one of my Brain Freezes on live television? What then? That’s one question she knows the answer to—it would be an unmitigated disaster and most likely signal the end of her journey.
“As ready as I’m going to be, I guess,” she says, craning her neck to look up at him. “I just wish it could wait until we got settled in at the space station. Like Adesh and Jafari are doing with their students.”
“No can do. You’re a sitting U.S. senator and the VIP on this expedition. The world demands a bigger piece of you.”
That’s what I’m afraid of, Gwendy thinks.
Gareth Winston emerges from the lower level, a sour look on his face, and passes within a couple feet of Gwendy’s flight chair. He doesn’t make eye contact with her or any of the other crew members and doesn’t say a word. His lower lip is sticking out. Once he’s strapped into his seat, he turns his head and stares silently out the porthole.
Wonder what that’s all about, Gwendy thinks. And then it comes to her. Winston must’ve overheard Stapleton calling her a VIP, and now he’s in major pout mode. What a baby! She’s about to lower her voice and say as much to Stapleton, when the Com-Mic attached to the front of his jumpsuit gives out a loud squawk and Kathy Lundgren’s voice inquires: “Bern, are you in the middle of something?”
“Just about to head back to level two. What do you need?”
“Can you accompany Senator Peterson to the flight deck? Immediately.”
“Roger that. On our way.” He clicks off and looks at Gwendy. “Wonder what that’s all about.”
Gwendy swallows, her throat suddenly sandpaper dry. “You’re not the only one.”
It takes them less than a minute to make their way up to the flight deck, but it’s long enough for Gwendy to convince herself that the worst is about to happen: Mission Control has somehow discovered her deteriorating condition and they’re canceling the scheduled landing at MF-1. There will be no space walk. No disposal of the button box. It’s over. She’s failed.
When they arrive at level one, Operation Commander Kathy Lundgren and two male crew members—Gwendy can’t recall their names for the life of her and is too unsettled to try Dr. Ambrose’s technique—are buckled into their flight seats surrounded by a u-shaped bank of touch screen monitors. Directly in front of them is the long, narrow viewing window Kathy had invited Gwendy to look out of a little more than twenty-four hours earlier. Beyond the window, lies one of the world’s great oceans. Kathy swivels in her chair to face them, her expression unreadable.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news, Gwendy.”
Here it comes …
“There’s been a mishap back in Castle Rock.”
“It’s not my father, is it?” she asks, all her breath leaving her at once. Please, he’s all I have left.
Kathy’s eyes widen in alarm. “No, no, as far as I know, your father is fine. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
Oh, it’s a little too late for that.
“There was a fire at your house, Gwendy. Your neighbor spotted the smoke and called 911. The fire department was able to catch it early. The majority of the damage was limited to your garage and back porch. There was some additional water damage to the kitchen and family room.”
“A fire. At my house.” Gwendy feels like she’s dreaming again. “Does anyone know how it started?”
“You’ll be receiving a number of emails—one from someone at your insurance company, another from a retired policeman named Norris Ridgewick—explaining everything they know.” Kathy looks at her with sincere regret. “I’m very sorry, Senator.”
Gwendy waves a hand in front of her face. “I’m just glad no one was hurt. The rest are just … things. They can be replaced.”
“Under the circumstances, we didn’t know whether we should tell you right away or wait until we docked at MF-1, or even if we should wait until you were back on the ground. But we were concerned that someone in the media might alert you, so we decided you needed to hear it from us first.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Gwendy … would you like me to reschedule the video conference for another time? I’m sure everyone will understand.”
She pauses before answering, purposely giving the impression that she’s thinking about it. “I’ll be okay,” she finally says. “The last thing I want to do is disappoint all those children.”
Despite being called “one of public education’s fiercest advocates” by a reporter from The Washington Post two years earlier, Gwendy’s true motivation for going ahead with the video chat has little to do with not wanting to disappoint honor roll students from all fifty states. As desperately as she would like to avoid appearing on live television, she believes that cancelling at the last minute would be a very bad idea. It would send the wrong message—one of weakness—to whomever it was searching for the button box. And that’s the last thing she wants to do.
It’s not a coincidence, she thinks on her way back down to level three. The fire started in the garage and it spread from there. After all these years, they’re getting closer.