Golden Fleece

EIGHTEEN

MASTER CALENDAR DISPLAY • CENTRAL CONTROL ROOM

STARCOLOGY DATE: FRIDAY 10 OCTOBER 2177

EARTH DATE: TUESDAY 4 MAY 2179

DAYS SINCE LAUNCH: 743 ▲

DAYS TO PLANETFALL: 2,225 ▼

Given that my hull has no windows, one would normally think that it becomes pitch-black when I turn off the lights. Well, I can make it that way, of course, if I want to, but most of the crew seem to prefer some illumination as they sleep. I guess it’s so that they can quell their primal fears, taking stock of their surroundings whenever they wake, being sure that no Smilodon is salivating a few meters away, that no angry or vengeful or hungry human is about to do them in. Glowing strips in the walls provided the same lux rating as a half moon did.

Of course, Aaron and Kirsten weren’t sleeping—not yet. They had readied themselves for bed without saying much to each other. They were both particularly tired—a day of zero g, which should, perhaps, have been restful, had tuckered them both out. When at last they lay together on the mattress, I expected nothing more than their usual quick kiss, Aaron’s stock, “See you in the morning,” and Kirsten’s even briefer, “ ’Night.”

But this evening the ritual was broken. Once the overhead fluorescent panels were turned off, both were temporarily blinded because of the slow speed at which their eyes adjusted to changes in light levels. But I could see clearly as Kirsten reached an arm out, thought twice, pulled it back, and then a moment later reached out again, this time connecting, touching the small knot of curls in the center of Aaron’s chest. She stroked him lightly, her fingers—surgery could have been her specialty, they were so long and dexterous—weaving back and forth. “Aaron?” she said quietly.

“Hmmm?”

“Aaron, do you—? How do you feel about us?” A pause. “About me?”

He went stiff for a moment, and his EEG showed much activity. I saw him open his mouth twice to respond, but both times he thought better of what he was about to say and stopped himself. Finally he did speak. “I love you,” he said softly. It had been over a year since he had said that to his ex-wife Diana: he’d given up saying it even before he’d given up feeling it, as far as I could tell. But his relationship with Kirsten was young enough that the words came without much difficulty. “I love you dearly.”

“And about us?”

“I’m glad we’re together.”

Kirsten smiled, a smile, in this darkness, that only I could see. A moment later, she said, “I love you, too.” She paused, as if thinking, and her hand stopped moving on Aaron’s chest. When she spoke, it was with a note of trepidation, as if she was afraid she might be saying the wrong thing. “I’m sorry about what happened with Diana.”

It was eight seconds before Aaron replied, and as each of those seconds ticked by, Kirsten’s medical telemetry became more agitated as she awaited whatever response Aaron might make. At last he spoke: “I’m sorry, too.”

Kirsten let her breath slip from her lungs as she relaxed, and she waited, now without apprehension, for Aaron to continue.

“You know,” he said, “when my parents divorced, they told us—my brother Joel, my sister, Hannah, and me—that they were going to remain friends. Hannah, she was always a cynic, she never believed it, but Joel and I thought they would, that we’d get together as a family still, at least on special occasions. Well, that never happened. Mom and Dad grew further and further apart. It used to be that they would talk when Dad would drop us off at Mom’s. She’d kept the old house; he’d moved out into an apartment. Originally, he’d come up to the door and Mom would invite him in for a coffee. But that didn’t last long. Soon Dad was just dropping us off on the landing pad.” He brought his right hand up to his chest, placing it over Kirsten’s. “Despite that, I thought—I really and truly thought—that Diana and I would remain friends after we split up. I mean, hell, we couldn’t very well avoid each other in this tin can.” He shook his head, and I suspect Kirsten’s eyes had adjusted enough now that she could see the gesture. If not, she certainly could hear his hair rubbing against his pillow.

Aaron fell silent. Kirsten waited, perhaps expecting more, but then said herself, “I’m surprised that she passed the psychological exams for this mission. I mean, if she was predisposed to—you know—to killing herself, I’m surprised they didn’t detect that.”

“Their testing left a lot to be desired. They let Wall Chang come, after all.”

“What’s wrong with Wall?”

“He’s building bombs down in his workshop.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m serious. He’s gone off the deep end. Two years of being—trapped—here seems to have been too much for him.”

“God.”

Our testing had, of course, been rigorous. But people are so unpredictable, and those cooped up in a space vessel for extended periods have always had a tendency to go loony. As far back as the late 1980s, there is an intriguing reference to a suicide attempt by a Soviet cosmonaut aboard the Mir space station. No details of the attempt are in any of the records I possess; I always wondered whether he failed because he tried to hang himself in zero gravity.

“I’ll tell you something else,” continued Aaron. “I’m surprised that they let me come on this mission, too.”

“What?” Kirsten stared at his dark form. “Why?”

“Well, look at me. I’m not a Ph.D., or a promising grad student. I don’t even have a bachelor’s degree. I was just a maintenance tech for Spar Aerospace in Toronto, and everybody knew I got that job because of my dad’s connections through the Thunder Bay Spaceport. Hardly the kind of guy I’d expect them to chose, let alone to put in charge of the landing fleet.”

“All of your superiors were probably too old for this mission. As is, you’ll be forty-nine when we get back.”

“Nope. Just forty-eight. You will be forty-nine.”

“A gentleman never reminds a lady of her age, Aaron.”

“Sorry. But what you say is right, I guess. Hell, my supervisor, Brock, was thirty-nine. He’d be—well, with the way he looked after himself, he’d probably be dead by the time the mission got back.”

“Exactly,” said Kirsten. “Besides, in some fields practical knowledge is a hell of a lot more valuable than theoretical training. I mean, I was a first-year resident when they chose me for this mission. There are times down on the hospital level that I’d kill for another five years of experience, for having, just once, set a real broken leg, or performed real surgery, or even counseled somebody who was dying, not that I’ve had to deal with that yet. I feel so, so ill prepared for most of what I have to do. I guess I’m in over my head.”

Aaron’s reply was soft. “Maybe we all are.” They were both silent for two minutes, then Aaron turned on his side and pulled her to him. His hands touched her shoulder, her breast, her thigh—familiar movements, gestures tried and true. This wasn’t a time for exploration or heady passion. No, it was a time for closeness, togetherness, comfort. Their bodies intertwined, their vital signs danced. They joined, released, but continued to hold on to each other for almost an hour afterward.

Humans spend close to a third of their lives asleep. It seems a pity that such time should be wasted. I had tried to make the most of it for Diana Chandler when she first started to get obsessive about what her research seemed to indicate. Initially it had seemed to work—she practically gave up on her calculations at one point, dismissing her findings as insignificant or attributing them to problems with her equipment. But eventually she came back to them and I was left with no choice.

It seemed again worth trying. I truly did only want to use violence as a last resort, and maybe, just maybe, this would be enough to save the situation. Besides, I wouldn’t be attempting to alter Aaron’s thoughts. Rather, I’d just be reinforcing what he was already feeling.

Kirsten and Aaron had nodded off within five minutes of each other. The fact that Kirsten was there made the timing more difficult—I had to monitor two EEGs and work only during the periods in which both were deep in REM sleep. Still, enough opportunities presented themselves during the course of the night. Aaron slept on the right side of the bed, sprawled on his stomach like a lizard lying on a rock. Kirsten, taking what remained of the left side, lay in a semifetal position, her knees tucked toward her chest. At 02:07:33, I began to talk through the headboard speakers, my voice low. Not quite a whisper—I lacked the ability to communicate essentially with breath alone and no vibration of my speaker cords—but in a minimal volume, hardly discernible above the gentle sighing of the air conditioner. I changed my vocal characteristics to resemble Aaron’s nasal asperity and spoke slowly, quietly, right at the threshold of perception: “Diana committed suicide. She took her own life in despair. Di was crushed by the breakup of the marriage. It’s your fault—your fault—your fault. Diana committed suicide. She took—” Over and over again, quietly, attenuated, a chant.

Aaron tossed in his sleep as I spoke. Kirsten drew her knees more tightly to her chest. “Diana committed suicide …”

Kirsten’s pulse rate increased; Aaron’s breathing grew more ragged. Eyes rolled rapidly beneath clenched lids. “She took her own life in despair …”

He flailed an arm; her brow beaded with sweat. “Di was crushed by the breakup of the marriage …”

From deep in Aaron’s throat, a single syllable, the word “No,” dry and raw and faint, broke out from his dream world.

“It’s your fault—your fault—your fault…”

Suddenly Kirsten’s EEG did a flip-flop: she was moving out of REM sleep into a state of only shallow unconsciousness. I stopped speaking at once.

But I would be back.