The Johnson Space Center was a hive of buzzing reporters by the time we arrived from Ellington Field, where the Vomit Comet had mercifully touched down without incident. I’d been whisked away from the plane—and, thankfully, Alec Loughlin—by Steve Richards, the distinguished older PR representative who was my on-the-ground handler for the day. Alec had been driven back to the Center by his assistant, in their work van, so he could edit the footage he’d taken into an acceptable digital video to be shown at the press conference. It’s amazing what you can do in a short time with a powerful laptop and the right software.
The screening for the reporters, which began with random, fun scenes of the ASCANs and me performing our floating gymnastics and ended with my rather startling announcement, had been like throwing a lit firecracker into the middle of the press corps. The questions continued, rapid-fire. I’d already responded to umpteen inquiries about the why, when, where, and for-God’s-sake-how of the mission (and one statement expressing disappointment that the big announcement didn’t concern irrefutable proof of aliens among us). The newshounds persisted like they hadn’t been fed for a week and I was prime rib on a platter.
An incongruous image of slavering hybrid bee-dog with an Uzi in one hand and microphone in the other sprang into my head. I ignored it, and continued projecting the calm, cool, and collected persona of my client.
“Dr. Carson … Dr. Carson! Won’t you be taking a huge risk with your future unborn child?”
I smiled and shook my head at the thirty-something, heavily pregnant reporter. I sympathized with her concern, but I’d already answered the question at least fifteen different ways. Did she think I was going to tell her something different this time?
“We are certain the risk is minimal. I will either conceive or I won’t. If I do, there is nothing in our data to show a statistically significant likelihood of harm to the developing blastocyst, or later to the embryo. Again, I refer you to the press packet you were handed as you arrived. You’ll find the essential parameters of the experiment laid out for you there,” I said, hoping I sounded sufficiently like a brainy scientist trying her best not to talk down to the public. Of course, if anyone asked me what a blastocyst was, I was screwed. Biology hadn’t exactly been my favorite subject in school.
“Dr. Carson … over here!” came a male voice, young and demanding. I ignored it.
“Dr. Carson—hey, Dr. Phil!” a woman’s voice called out from the other side of the room.
Ha. Guess I wasn’t the only one to note the name similarity to the celebrity talk show host. I scanned the crowd of curious faces, and nodded at the newshound with the sense of humor—a woman who looked like she’d been working the beat since the Apollo 11 moon landing.
“Are you sure you won’t be sneaking your husband along on the mission with you?” she asked, a prurient gleam in her ancient eyes.
I refrained from rolling my own, not wanting to put a blemish on Dr. Phil’s PR skills. What was it with the repeat questions? Only thing I could figure was, it must take at least ten times before the answer sticks.
“Only the essential parts of him, I’m afraid,” I said, keeping it light. I was tempted to elaborate with “you know, his wigglies” or “his swimmers” this time, but I was going to assume the grownups present knew which parts were essential to conception.
Another reporter—the demanding young man—called out, “But your husband is a cosmonaut, right? He’s qualified to go along, isn’t he?”
I swallowed a sigh and revived Phil’s smile. “Retired cosmonaut…”
It was true. Dr. Phil and her husband, Mikhail Yurgevich, had met and fallen in love when both were speaking at a European Space Agency symposium in Paris. Yurgevich owned a private U.S.-based company, where he concentrated on research and development of twenty-first-century cargo transport. Spaceward Ho was starting to give Virgin Galactic a run for its money. Most people thought the company’s name—the “Ho” part, anyway—was poking fun at the competition, though the founder claimed it was merely a play on the old “Westward Ho” pioneer spirit. Personally, I suspected it was a bit of both.
Mikhail being Russian had probably tipped the scales in favor of Phil as the human guinea pig. The Russians might not be at the point of testing human conception in zero-G themselves, but they sure didn’t mind having a fifty-percent PR stake in any future little half-Russian possibly arising from the U.S.’s research. Mikhail wasn’t a Russian citizen anymore, but they still laid claim to his heritage.
“Will Spaceward Ho transport you to the space station? Maybe he could go along for the ride. Er, so to speak.” The demanding young man couldn’t have infused more innuendo if he’d waggled his eyebrows. Hmm. Maybe he was Billy.
I looked at him sternly, resisting the urge to slap him down—verbally, of course—for his impertinence. “As far as I know, the transport arrangements haven’t yet been finalized. And, as I already explained, the International Space Station is quite small. This experiment will be centered around the viability of human conception, not sex. One step at a time. Some day, in the future, once we’re certain conception itself is a feasible prospect, then the various methods of achieving it might be explored further.”
Then, thinking to lighten the moment, I added, “Hopefully when there’s more room available and, you know, some privacy. Maybe some Norah Jones”—Norah was listed under Music Favorites in Phil’s dossier—“and a little champagne.”
During the ensuing laughter, the PR spokesperson for NASA took my place at the microphone and told a disappointed crowd, “That’s all for now, folks. We’ll keep you updated.”
I rode a wave of shockingly personal questions out of the room, thankful I’d be handing the reins back to the real Dr. Phil soon. Let her figure out a polite answer to whether her husband was upset about being replaced by a turkey baster. Me, I just smiled, waved, and pretended to be deaf.
Once we were out of the press’s earshot, I ditched my handler on the pretext of needing to use the restroom, and found a quiet stall to make a phone call. Billy answered on the third ring.
“Where are you?” I said, using my own voice so he’d recognize me.
“Gee, I was hoping for ‘What are you wearing?’ Assuming you miss me as much as I miss you, and this is phone sex, which I’m afraid is our only option until my job is over.” There was laughter in his voice, which almost always calmed me down, but not this time.
“Billy, you didn’t happen to ride along with me on my job today, did you?” Please say yes, please say yes, please …
“Sorry, sweetheart. Much as I love me some zero-G, I’m in the middle of something that can’t wait. Well, not if I want to collect a sum hefty enough to maintain my lifestyle for the next year or so.”
“So you’re honestly not here in Houston?” I said, trying my best to keep the panic out of my voice.
His voice got serious. “Ciel, what’s wrong? Tell me. Now.”
I sighed. “It’s the photographer. He knows I’m not the client. He knows it, Billy! What am I supposed to do?”
“First of all, breathe. Slowly. Don’t hyperventilate. You’re probably feeling paranoid from the seesawing altitudes. Blood rushing in and out of your head can’t be good for rational thought.”
“He told me flat out. Asked me what I was. Not who. What.”
There was a pause. “Strange. What’d you tell him?”
“I ditched the subject entirely by pretending to feel airsick. Kept my face buried in a barf bag, dry-heaving for the entire descent”—there hadn’t been much pretending involved, the possibility of discovery having made me queasy in spite of the behind-the-ear patch, something Billy didn’t need to know—“and we were taken back to the Space Center for the presser as soon as we landed. Alec—the photographer—was there, in the back, taking pictures of me the whole time. I’m afraid he’s going to come looking for me any second. What if he knows something for real?”
“Well, taking pictures is his job, isn’t it? Of course he wants as many pictures as possible of your client—she’s the rock star of the day.” There was a short pause, presumably him evaluating. “Maybe he meant ‘what kind of woman are you to do this.’ He could be, I don’t know, a ‘natural conception’ fanatic or something.”
“No. The way he looked at me … it was creepy. He knew I wasn’t Dr. Carson, I’d swear to it.”
“Could your client have spilled the beans herself? If this guy knows her, maybe she told him.”
“No, she wouldn’t have. Her mission is too important to her. I’m certain she wouldn’t risk it.”
“Okay, if you say so. I think you’re probably overreacting, but it’s obvious you’re spooked. Speaking of which, have you talked to the boss spook yet? Maybe Mark knows something about the guy.”
I bit my—well, Phil’s—lip. I didn’t want to involve Mark if I didn’t absolutely have to. How would it look if I couldn’t make it through the first assignment he’d given me without his help?
“No,” I said. “I’m sure he’s got his own job to worry about. Probably something of national importance. I don’t want to bother him.”
“He’s not on a job right now—he took a few days off.”
“What? I mean … good. Really good. He could use a break.” Geez, he didn’t trust me. He probably left his schedule open in case I screwed up and he had to fix it.
Billy’s amusement was palpable. “Afraid you’re gonna flunk?”
Yes. “Of course not. Shut up.”
His laughter filled my ears. “It’s not a test, cuz. Mark wouldn’t have asked you to do the job in the first place if he wasn’t sure you could handle it. You won’t blow it if you call him with some questions.”
Maybe. Maybe not. I didn’t want to risk it. “Look, I already have you on the phone, and I don’t have much time. Are you going to help me think of something or not?” I said, laying on the exasperation.
“Will you still sleep with me if I don’t?”
“No. In fact, if you even approach me in a sexual manner, I will immediately project your mother’s aura. Think your libido could handle that?”
“Harsh, sweetheart.”
“I have your father’s aura, too.”
“Okay, okay. Look, all you have to do is get away from the guy and lie low until you hand off to your client, right? Where are you now?”
“In a bathroom. I figure I can hang out here five more minutes, tops, before someone comes looking for me.”
“Are you wearing the same NASA-issued jumpsuit as the ASCANs?”
“Yeah.”
“Any of them about the same size as your client?”
“Yeah … all right, I get it. I can probably get past the photographer, if I use the one with hair long enough to cover my name patch, and I’m careful to keep my ID badge flipped. But it’s risky. What if I run into the ASCAN I’m impersonating?”
“What can I say? Risky”—I could almost see him giving one of his insouciant shrugs—“is how my mind operates. Anyway, you’ll only be wearing the aura long enough to get to Phil’s car. If you see the ASCAN, walk the other way. Call me back when you’re clear. And next time use a breathy voice and moan a little. It makes phone sex way more fun.”
* * *
The aura I was projecting was a few inches shorter and ten or so pounds heavier than Dr. Phil, but that didn’t matter in a flight suit. Long brown hair, pale complexion. The shoes had pinched at first, nothing a minor adjustment of my feet hadn’t fixed. I hoped I didn’t run into anyone I’d have to introduce myself to, because hell if I could remember her name. The important thing was, I’d automatically snatched some of her energy when I’d shaken her hand before the flight. You never know when an extra aura will be useful.
The hall outside the restroom was deserted except for my elderly handler, Steve. Darn. I’d thought he’d leave Phil alone once the reporters had been shown the door. Not that it mattered, since I wasn’t Phil at the moment.
I nodded pleasantly, hoping to whiz by him without having to talk. No such luck.
“Excuse me, Major, but did you happen to notice if Dr. Carson was okay? I hate to bother her if she’s, um, indisposed, but there’s some paperwork we should take care of before she leaves today.”
“Gosh, I think she’s already gone—she told me she had an appointment she had to get to. Maybe you can catch her if you call her cell phone?” I said.
Of course, the call would be routed to the voice mail of Dr. Phil’s cell phone, which I was carrying. I’d deal with it later.
“Sure. Thanks, I’ll give it a try,” he said, pulling his phone out of his pocket as he hurried toward the door leading to the parking lot. Phil’s phone vibrated in my pocket. I ignored it and hurried around the corner … and ran straight into Alec Loughlin.
Shit.
“Um, sorry,” I said, not meeting his eye, and tried to keep moving. He wasn’t looking for the ASCAN I was projecting.
He stepped sideways at the same time I did, and we found ourselves doing the awkward people-in-a-rush-trying-to-pass-each-other dance. I shrugged, and laughed in the sheepish way the situation called for, waiting for him to get out of my way.
He didn’t.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I have someplace I need to be.”
His eyes sharpened as he grabbed me by the wrist. “I don’t think so, ‘Phil.’ You’re coming with me.”