John Nance - Orbit

Some of Bill Campbell’s words return, something he said just before dying about their being in an orbit so stable they could stay up here for fifty or sixty years.

My God, Kip thinks, Jerrod will be almost eighty before this spacecraft falls into the atmosphere and my long-dead body burns up on reentry. How awful for Jerrod and the girls to know their dead father is flying by overhead every ninety minutes your entire life.

Or maybe it won’t happen that way. Surely some spacecraft will eventually be assigned to come open the hatch and see what happened, retrieve any data files from the computers and deal with the dead. Maybe then all they’ll do is give it a push toward Earth.

Or maybe he should just save everyone the trouble and when the air is all but unbreathable, just shoot himself out of the airlock with Bill’s body. The two of them would hardly be a flash in the sky on reentry… or would they just be floating alongside Intrepid for decades?

Strange, he thinks, that even death should be so meticulously planned.

Every couple of minutes he looks around as if rediscovering where he really is, and with each such moment the wave of depression breaks over him again, a rising tide drowning all hopes. He pushes the images of Sharon and his children out of his mind for now. The need to decide his own fate is far too strong, and he finds himself facing it with an unexpected equanimity.

Do I have any chance at all?

No rescue flight. They made that clear, but doesn’t ASA have another spacecraft? He remembers their talking about it—and the fact that it was damaged. Which is probably why the last-minute warning that there was no rescue potential if anything went wrong.

So the cavalry won’t be on the way.

Is there anything I can do?

He already knows the answer. He’s punched every button, read and reread the checklists ad nauseam, and it’s inescapable that the meteorite that killed Bill also took out the engine, or at least the ability to fire it.

No, face it, kiddo. We’re dead in five days. Period.

So, he wonders, how does one spend five remaining days on—or in his case, high above—the Earth? Not that the choices aren’t severely limited, but his mind is sharp, even if saddened and stressed and panicked.

He remembers the notes he was starting to write in the laptop. But no one’s going to read it… for at least a bunch of years. Maybe even sixty.

But surely someone will eventually find and download and study everything he puts on that hard drive. So maybe he should write a narrative and copyright it to his kids and grandkids, just in case the story could bring some money.

Who knows? he thinks . They pay ridiculous sums to read the stories of criminals and the seriously disgraced. Why not a dead dad from half a century before?

He remembers a fantasy he’s nurtured his entire life in which he owns a beautiful wooden-hulled sailing ship at least a hundred feet long with an incredible master cabin, several guest rooms, and a small, ornate, walnut-trimmed captain’s office. He sees himself every evening repairing to his little office to open a big, bound, blank notebook to write in a clear and ornate hand beautifully phrased passages about the day, his feelings, the state of the ship, and his life.

Every night, without fail! How wonderful that would be. Like being his own Greek chorus and his own reflective, calm, and intelligent critic.

But the image is too ludicrous a contrast to the reality of an overscheduled dad who has been known to fall asleep from exhaustion before even having a chance to brush his teeth.

Kip looks around, aware there’s not a scrap of wood aboard Intrepid, but finding sudden similarities between where he is and that mythical ship’s office—and his nightly journal. His imagination could panel the walls, especially now. And maybe he could even imagine the creak of heavy ropes and the slap of waves on the hull.

There’s no bound, blank book, but there is a laptop aboard.

And there will be an audience someday.

And there are five days left, which is a lot more than would be available to some poor soul T-boned to death at an intersection on the planet below.

The word “epitaph” comes to mind.

Cadet Jerrod Dawson has never been summoned to the commandant’s office before, let alone in the middle of the evening and immediately on return from a field trip. He’s already reported, saluted, and waited for an explanation from a major and a lieutenant colonel in the room when one of the academy chaplains comes through the door, raising his level of alarm.

“Sir, may I ask what this is about?” Jerrod can feel his stomach contracting in fear. He’s purposely avoided watching or reading any news reports during the day, not wanting to even seem to be endorsing his father’s self-indulgent flight. But now…

“Is something wrong?”

“Sit down, please, Mr. Dawson,” the colonel directs, and Jerrod sinks into the nearest chair, his eyes darting among each of them.

“Is this about my dad?”

The glances among the three confirm that much, and the colonel finally finishes fidgeting long enough to speak.

“Cadet, you are aware your father was participating in a civilian spaceflight today, correct?”

“Yes, sir. Please tell me. Has something happened?”

“We don’t know if he’s all right or not, but we got a call from your mother…”

“My mother’s dead, sir. That would be my stepmother.”

“Right. Well, let me tell you in as much detail as we have it what we know.”

It’s late evening in the Beltway, past 11 P.M., and the black tie reception and dinner, attended at the last minute by the head of NASA, is winding down. The guests are taking their leave, winding beneath the amazing displays of space and aeronautics, past the suspended Spirit of St. Louis, Burt Rutan’s SpaceShipOne, the Wright Flyer, and the Mercury Project capsule. The men look sharp in their tuxedoes, their wives and girlfriends mostly stunning in their expensive evening gowns—some featuring necklines which plunge giddily.

Geoff Shear is uninterested in both the pomp and purpose, though he’s made nice and uttered the appropriate comments—especially to those who’ve fawned over his presence. His purpose for being there is waiting just ahead in a semi-private alcove.

She turns, elegant but appropriately conservative, her last-minute invite a puzzling request to the museum since her apparent mid-level position with the Agency would hardly put her in the same league as the mainstream crowd.

“Dorothy?”

“Mr. Administrator.”

“Thanks for responding at the last minute. Anybody, ah, keeping track of you?”

She’s smiling, considering her answer as she glances back toward the thinning crowd. “There is one young Senate staffer who keeps trying to strike up a conversation and get lucky, but otherwise, no.”

Geoff smiles and follows her glance, seeing no one in particular.

“Sorry to spoil the possibilities of the evening.”

“It was yours to begin with, considering the source of the invitation. What can I do for you, sir?”

He motions her into a side room where the displays of the evolving history of rocketry are arranged in the form of an open maze. He turns, his wineglass still tightly gripped and only half drained.

“Dorothy, I have a mission for you. I’ve been ordered by the President to do everything NASA can to mount a rescue launch for ASA’s apparently stranded spacecraft. You know this?”