SEVENTY-TWO

 

 

THE AUTHORITIES DIDN’T show up to bother Émile. The Causapscal-des-Vents was lost. Investigators could draw their own conclusions from the initial information. They would interview him soon enough. His suit was beat up but had no leaks. He traded in Marthe’s old cracked helmet for a used one and signed out an upper-atmosphere wing-pack until Ressources could get him a new one.

He flew from the busy landing deck of the Baie-Comeau at night. His arms and legs ached as he stretched them out. Everything felt unreal. The air was too thin, the stars too bright. The clouds felt like they ought to be surrounding him with menace, but instead lay somber beneath him, partly lit by sunshine scattered through the atmosphere from the other side of the planet.

He had no place to go—really no place—so he went to the Phocas habitat. The old lady and the old man had lots of questions about the loss of the Causapscal-des-Vents. He got away quick enough on the excuse of getting the Marais-des-Nuages back to top shape. It seemed remarkable that he’d only been gone eighty hours. The two kids, especially Louise, had been doing the routine work. And he needed a drink. Or better yet, two. He had left some of his own stuff but found Gabriel-Antoine’s too. It felt good, but after a time, he ended up crying instead.

He was waiting not just for the Phocas family to go to bed, but for the Causapscal-des-Profondeurs to come into maser range. The flotilla and the Marais-des-Nuages had nearly circled the planet in eighty hours, while down at forty-fifth, the family’s two habitats plodded along on their two-week cycle. When the Phocas family was all asleep, he went out the airlock on the roof of the envelope and patched himself into the maser comms system.

“Marais-des-Nuages to Causapscal-des-Profondeurs,” he said.

After a few moments, Pascal’s voice came on.

“Causapscal-des-Profondeurs here.”

“Are you all okay?” Émile asked.

“Yes.”

“Put Pa on.”

Silence. Long. Maybe awkward. He hadn’t spoken to his father in five years. Amid the crackling, Pa’s voice finally came on.

“You sober?” Pa grunted.

“Marthe is dead, you bastard.”

Crackling was all he heard on the radio. The tears spilled again.

“Quoi?” Pa said. The single syllable was pinched, like he’d sprung a leak and was deflating.

“You killed her. You got greedy. You were only thinking about you again, and someone else we loved paid for it.”

Émile blinked at the stinging tears. He couldn’t wipe them away in his helmet. The crackling continued for so long that he wondered if Pa was going to answer.

“What happened?” Pa said. His voice cracked.

Out of spite, Émile briefly considered not telling him. But it would probably hurt more if he knew.

“A storm caught her, shook her up bad,” he said. “Cracked her faceplate and her wing-pack. I got to her. We were rising on emergency balloons. I traded helmets with her so she’d have enough oxygen. She never woke up and the storm caught us again. Snapped her harness.”

The maser line was all crackle now.

“Marais-des-Nuages out,” he said after a minute.

He shut off the comms and stood on the gently swaying roof of the habitat, above the entire world, out of reach of Venus, under naked stars he could not reach either. His little sister was gone. Her goddamn, pain-in-the-ass, nagging voice was gone. Her judging, no-bullshit stare was gone. And her tough caring for every stupid person around her was gone. He had no more family, not really. Pascal was in Pa’s pocket. Jean-Eudes would be too. Émile’s knees folded and he was kneeling, and then crying like he’d never cried before.