Lost in Space, Page 3

  "Do you know Professor Robinson?" the General asked, not even seeming to register West's agitation.

  West stood blinking for a moment, nonplussed. He pulled himself together with an effort that was obvious to John, and said evenly, "By reputation only." He met John's gaze, and admiration shone in his eyes. "Your father's battle strategies were required reading at the Academy."

  John bent his head in acknowledgment, and felt a bemused smile turn up the corners of his mouth. There was a time—a long time—when he had resented the reach of his father's inescapable shadow. But now, after the unrelenting media blitz of recent months, it was almost a relief to meet someone who only thought of him as his father's son.

  "What can you tell me about the Jupiter Mission, Major?" Hess asked.

  West barely controlled a frown. "The ]upiter is an oversized robot. Everything's automatic. It's a babysitting job, sir." He took a deep breath. "Any monkey in a flight suit can pilot the ship out of the solar system and set her down on Alpha Prime. No offense." He glanced at John again.

  "Major," Hess said, with a touch of annoyance, "you are aware Earth's resources are severely limited."

  West's forehead creased. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"

  "Granted," the General said.

  "Every schoolchild knows our recycling technologies will cure the environment." His hands rose from his sides, gesturing with barely controlled frustration. "Sending a family across the galaxy is a publicity stunt to sell soda to people of all ages!"

  "Every schoolchild has been lied to," John said quietly. "Our really effective recycling technologies came too late. All fossil fuels are virtually exhausted. Fusion power may never be affordable enough for widespread use, and overreliance on solar power creates unpredictable atmospheric conditions. The ozone layer is down to forty percent. In two decades Earth will be unable to support human life."

  West stared at him.

  "The Global Sedition knows the truth as well as we do," the General said heavily. "They are building their own hypergate, and hope to colonize Alpha Prime first. If they are successful, they will not be inviting the world's population to join them across the galaxy. 'Western Demons' like you and I will be left on Earth to die."

  John studied the floor. He'd heard that speech too often around here; had heard ones too much like it endlessly from his father, back during the millennial wars. It had never made sense to him. But over time he had come to recognize it as a kind of bigotry; and bigotry was never rational…

  The hypergate he had envisioned was being built to serve all of Earth, and no one had ever even implied otherwise. It seemed to him that only the kind of shortsighted profiteers who had ruined the Earth's ecosystem would see sabotaging this mission as a good idea. And only a cartel of multinationals would have the resources to build a hypergate of its own… He glanced up again, into a lengthening silence.

  "… Captain Daniels doesn't have the flu, does he?" West said, at last.

  Hess shook his head. "Daniels was murdered in his apartment last night. The flu story is a cover we fed the press."

  West looked stunned. "I knew Daniels…" His blue eyes turned glacial. "We should pulse-blast their bases. A decisive strike—"

  'Tour rescue stunt in orbit was foolhardy." The General verbally cut him off at the knees. "Explain yourself, Major."

  West straightened his shoulders, and there was no uncertainty in his voice as he said, "I had a friend in trouble."

  "You endangered a ten-billion-dollar spacecraft, disobeyed a direct order, because of a friend?" Hess demanded.

  "Yes, sir," West said, clearly unrepentant. "I did. Sir."

  "He'll do," John said, and his own smile surprised him.

  Hess smiled, just as suddenly. "Congratulations, Major, you're the new pilot of the Jupiter Mission."

  West's face flushed with betrayal, not pleasure. "But, sir," his voice veered dangerously close to real anger, "the fight is here—"

  "You go tomorrow," the General said, as oblivious to West's protest as he was to anything that did not fit neatly into his own preset vision. "Before the Sedition has a chance to ground this mission permanently. Let's go take a look at your ship."

  Chapter Four

  Dr. ZacharLj Smith stood at the peak of a windswept dune, gazing outward. Desert surrounded him on every side, for as far as he could see; the sand sea rippled with waves of heat under a ceramic blue dome of sky. A small, precise man with a neatly trimmed goatee, he was the kind of person others tended to see as competent but unremarkable. They could not have been more wrong.

  Smith looked back at his companion impatiently; he was growing parched. "I was contracted to provide Daniels's apartment code," he said. "Nothing more. My work is done."

  The anonymous well-dressed businessman at his side frowned. "They found a replacement pilot. The mission is going ahead on schedule. We require more direct intervention on your part."

  A replacement. Really. Smith suppressed a sigh. "I see," he said. He knew these interchangeable corporate lackeys were simply ambulatory cash machines. But it depressed him to think that even the nameless board members who sent them to him had no idea of how the military actually functioned. There seemed to be noth-ing but pilots anymore; pilots were as plentiful as cockroaches. "Well, more direct intervention will cost you," he said pleasantly. "And I'm afraid my price has just become… astronomical."

  The sound of knocking reached him from somewhere beyond the sky; as if its deep and perfect blue really was a ceramic bowl. Smith reached out, feeling in the air for something he couldn't see. He pressed a button.

  The virtual businessman and the holographic desert scene vanished like a dream. "Room lights," Smith said wearily. The sudden return of brightness revealed his familiar laboratory at Mission Control, and the door across the room, on which someone had actually knocked. "Come in."

  The door hissed open and a technician entered. "Control hasn't received the results of your preflight exams, Dr. Smith."

  Smith crossed the room to the circular overhead light board, around which were displayed the faces of the Jupiter's crew. Like targets, he thought. He smiled as he removed the microfiles and handed them to the technician. "The Robinsons are checked out at one hundred percent. They are in perfect condition, and ready to save the world." His smile widened, and the technician smiled happily back at him, never suspecting. "Wish them luck for me."

  Don West followed the general and the professor along the gantryway that gave access to the Jupiter's interior. Its vast saucer form loomed above him, making him feel even smaller and more powerless than the General's words already had. Its entry hatch lay waiting to swallow him up like a gaping mouth. He estimated that the Jupiter's holds could accommodate a hundred ships like the Eagle One easily.

  "The mission protocols are simple," Hess was saying. "Professor Robinson is in command, unless you encounter a combat situation. In that case, Major West, you will assume command."

  That civilian—? Don looked up, stricken. The only space Robinson had ever flown through was the space between his ears. He swallowed a fresh lump of his pride and tried again to get the General to listen to him. "I'm a fighter pilot, sir. There must be better candidates—"

  They had reached the entry hatch. Hess turned to him and said, "Welcome aboard, Major." He and Robinson went on in without hesitation.

  Why didn't they just court-martial me? Don thought, following glumly. They walked along a corridor that glowed with recessed lighting until they reached the closed blast doors at its far end. Don faced the others as they waited for the doors to open, and tried one last time to make them listen.

  "Jeb Walker is a far better pilot, sir," he said. Well, maybe not; but probably as good a pilot… And Walker would jump at the chance to do something like this; Jeb thought the hypergate was the greatest thing since wings. "He'd be perfect for this mis—"

  He broke off as the doors parted behind him. He turned, looking through them. His eyes widened. "Wow!" he breathed
, suddenly ten years old again.

  He entered the Jupiter's bridge unthinkingly, reverently; the way he would have entered heaven. That was what this was, he thought: high-tech heaven. Two pilot seats with state-of-the-art cyberware faced an enormous expanse of viewport; its flawless curve was made of the same transparent alloy as his ship's cockpit, he supposed, although his mind persisted in imagining it was window glass. Technicians moved here and there around the room, performing systems checks.

  He scoped out the helm; appraised the working CPU; studied the displays on the navigation pedestal in the center of the room. He checked monitors and equipment and screens. He was definitely impressed.

  "Looks like somebody sprung for the full extras package on this baby," he murmured, more to himself than to the two men observing him.

  "If you have to baby-sit, it's not such a bad nursery; wouldn't you agree, Major?" Robinson asked encouragingly.

  Don looked up at him, glanced away again as a tech emerged from behind the cryo sleep array he hadn't even gotten to yet: a doctor of some kind, dressed in pragmatic maroon coveralls and carrying a clipboard. A woman doctor. An extremely attractive woman doctor. Don stared, as nature hit the reset button in his brain for the second time in as many minutes.

  "I don't get it." Her attention was on Robinson and the General, as if she hadn't even noticed him. "I can't get the cryo sleep systems up over ninety-six percent."

  "Doctor Smith approved the specs—" General Hess began.

  "Doctor Smith is base physician," she snapped, cutting him off. "I am responsible, once this ship is in flight. These tubes will be perfect or this ship will not launch. Is that clear?"

  "Absolutely, Doctor," Hess said, chastened.

  Oh, my God, Don thought, I think I'm in love.

  "Judy," Robinson said, as she began to turn away, "I'd like you to meet Major West. He's taking Mike's place."

  The doctor—Judy—turned back, seeming actually to notice him for the first time. She put out her hand, and Don shook it. Her blond hair was pulled back in a simple knot that only accented her perfect cheekbones, and her eyes were green. They widened slightly as she looked him up and down and up again; she seemed to be enjoying the view. Her gaze rose to his face, lingered on his mouth… met his own eyes staring back at her.

  Her cheeks reddened as she realized he'd caught her checking him out. He grinned, letting her know the admiration was mutual.

  "He's heavier than Mike," she said, abruptly turning back to Robinson. "We'll have to recalibrate."

  "I'd be happy to discuss my dimensions, Doctor…" Don put on his best roguish smile, the one that invariably worked. "Say, over dinner?"

  "West…" Judy looked at him again. "I've read about you. You're a war hero, aren't you?"

  "Well, yes, actually," he said, preening.

  She folded her arms, resting her chin on her palm. "Who was it who said, Those who can't think, fight'?… Oh. Me." Her smile turned to cryo freeze. "Well, nice to have met you." She walked away, heading back toward the cryo units.

  "That's one cold fish Yd love to thaw." Don glanced knowingly at the other two men, trying to disguise his embarrassment with a smirk.

  Across the room, Judy looked up again. Her gaze grazed him, and then settled pointedly on Robinson. "I'm not going to make it over for dinner, Dad," she said.

  Don turned to stare at Robinson: Dad—? Robinson raised his eyebrows; shrugged, smiling.

  This had to be a bad dream. Don shut his eyes, wondering when he was going to wake up. He opened them, and everyone was looking at him. He swore under his breath. "It's going to be a long flight," he muttered.

  Chapter Five

  It was so late by the time John got home that he couldn't bring himself to look at his watch. As he got out of the car, he saw the lights still on everywhere in the house. They were like a beacon in the darkness as he started up the front path, reminding him of why everything he'd done, everything he'd given up in the way of a normal life, mattered so much.

  He entered the house, glancing right and left. Everyone must have gone to bed long ago, he supposed. He went into the dining room; stopped, as he saw the remains of an elegant dinner on the table—the candles unlit, the food never eaten. Their last dinner, on their last night on Earth… and he hadn't been home for it.

  John crossed the room slowly to look at something else sitting on the table. Will's science project. Another gold-plated first prize star hung from a ribbon around its base. He smiled. Will was so much like he'd been when he was a boy…

  Maureen got up out of bed as she heard her husband enter the house. She had been lying awake waiting for that sound for far too long, after getting to bed far too late. Her first response was relief that he was finally home; but she knew that wouldn't last. It never did.

  She put on her robe and started down the stairs, reminding herself to stay calm, to discuss things logically, to try not to— She saw John standing beside the dining room table, looking at Will's science project.

  Behind him she saw the beautiful dinner she had prepared so stubbornly and lovingly, giving in to her fantasy that the whole family would sit down together for once, this one last time, to eat their last meal in their own home, on their own planet… She hadn't had the time, she hadn't had the energy to spare; but she had done it anyway, because what it symbolized had been so important to her.

  And then the only one who had even been home to eat it was Will—and Will had been angry and hurt because John had broken his promise about the science fair again. Will had refused to eat anything, saying he didn't like fried chicken, he had never liked fried chicken, before running off to his room and slamming the door. And somehow, after that, she hadn't felt like eating either.

  "He won first prize again," she said, as John looked up at her.

  "A nonworking prototype for his time machine," John said, with a cheerful smile that didn't work either. "Sharp stuff for a midget."

  She just looked at him, clutching the edges of her robe in a death grip.

  John looked away from her expression, and his pasted-on smile disappeared. "I'm sorry about dinner. The new pilot…"

  She took a deep breath. "John, the family needs you here-"

  "This mission is about our family," he said, his voice rising to drown hers out. "My only condition for taking this mission was that we could bring the children with us! So doing our job wouldn't mean leaving them behind. So future generations will have a new home—"

  "We can't compete, John!" She heard her own voice rising, unable to stop herself. "You're off saving humanity! So what does it matter that Will has to black out his school just to get his father's attention? That Penny got dragged home by security for the third night in a row. Or that Judy's become a ghost, just like her father—?"

  "Maureen, I'm trying to compensate for the new launch time—"

  "What do you think I'm doing!" she shouted. "Throwing Tupperware parties?"

  John spread his hands in useless apology. "I know you're revising the life science protocols. I meant—"

  "I'm also trying to handle two kids who are leaving an entire planet behind! There are no books on how to deal with this!" She pushed her hair back from her eyes. She'd been an Army brat, growing up: She knew how to move a family; she knew about discipline and hard work and making sacrifices. For years now she had juggled the demands of family and career; it had never been easy, but the stress had always seemed worth it, because she loved them both so much. But this— She turned away, hugging herself, her eyes brimming.

  John moved close to her, rested his hands on her shoulders. "And maybe it doesn't do any good to save a world of families, if we can't save our own?" he asked gently. "Is that it, Professor?"

  Slowly, Maureen turned back to face her husband. She smiled, tentatively at first; as she looked up into his eyes her smile grew warm and real. "I told my mother she was wrong about you," she whispered, her voice still a little shaky. Suddenly remembering her mother, missing her, Maureen looke
d away again, out the window. "Why did we make the Earth sick? John, I'm—" So afraid. Afraid to say it.

  "I know, baby," he whispered. He closed her in his arms as if they were young lovers again; he hadn't called her that in years. "I'm scared too."

  They went upstairs together, passing the children's rooms one by one. John hesitated at Will's doorway, then stepped inside. Maureen watched him move along the pathway of light from the hall to his son's bedside.

  John's hand rose to the dog tags hanging on a chain around his neck: his father's dog tags. John had kept them for his father whenever he was away, which had been most of the time, during the millennial wars. It had been the Old Man's promise to his son: that he would always come home…

  And then, one time, he didn't.

  John always wore the tags, as a reminder of his loss; as a reminder of his vow not to repeat his father's mistakes. As a reminder of how much his family meant to him. It was one of the things that she loved about him.

  He stood for a long moment looking down at Will.

  Will lay peacefully asleep, the way they all should have been. Maureen hoped that her son's dreams on this final night were sweet ones.

  At last John left Will's bedside and rejoined her in the hall. They walked on, hand in hand, to their own waiting bedroom, and she turned out the final light.

  The lights would burn all night at Space Command, as the hours until launch silently bled away. The Jupiter One stood sleepless amid its loading gantries, as the final supplies rolled into its cargo holds on automated lifts and conveyer belts.

  The human workers pulling an all-nighter were too preoccupied even to look twice at the cargo drum labeled BIOLOGICAL MATERIALS: DO NOT OPEN, let alone consider violating its warning. They hoisted it by crane, deposited it in the assigned storage area, and left it there.

  Smith waited until the space around the cargo drum was utterly silent again before he forced the lid and climbed out, cursing his cramped muscles and their inability to function without pain. He looked back at the cargo container in distaste, before he scanned the room for the access panel he knew would be here somewhere. His eyes found it, exactly where he had been told it would be.