Stephen Baxter - Ark

So that was the scheme. As it sank in, many of the Candidates looked troubled-Susan Frasier, for instance, who often spoke of her nephews and nieces, and her desire to have kids of her own, sooner rather than later.

Holle looked appalled. “My God, what a trip that’s going to be. Just us, no grown-ups, no kids, going on and on and on.”

Wilson grinned. “Can’t face it, Mouse? You want to wash out, and stay here to teach your babies to swim?”

“Don’t be an arsehole,” Holle said, her long Scottish vowels rich.

Zane kept his own doubts to himself. Personally he couldn’t care less about having kids or not, though if he made it into the crew it would be his duty to pass on his genes. But he was concerned about the age restriction. He was among the youngest in the group. What if he washed out just because his birthday lay just on the wrong side on some arbitrarily decreed limit? It was something else to fret about, another pointless, uncontrollable worry.

Something flickered in the corner of his eye.

He turned. It had been off to the north, like a distant lightning strike, or the reflection of the sun on a tilting window. Some of the others hesitated, distracted by the flash, or by reflections in the screens of their phones.

Now the phones started ringing again. Zane dug his own phone out of his pocket.

Holle covered his hand with hers. She had her own phone clamped to the side of her head. “Wait, Zane. Don’t switch it on.”

That eternal fear chewed deep into his belly. “What’s wrong?”

“Harry Smith is coming. He’ll tell you.” She glanced around, and pushed a lock of hair from her eyes. “We need to get you back to the Center. Don, help me.”

“Sure.” Don stepped up, brisk and competent.

With Don on one side, Holle the other, both of them taller than he was, Zane found himself being marched along the street. The others watched him sympathetically. Everybody seemed to know what was happening except him. Even the heavy-handed care of Holle and Don felt like a humiliation. It was as if his worst fears were coming true. “What’s going on? Has something happened to my father?”

“Wait for Harry,” Holle said. She wouldn’t look him in the eye.

And then he heard a rumble, as of distant thunder, coming from the north.

Back at the Cultural Center, Harry Smith was waiting, dressed in black sweater and slacks. He was over forty now, a big man, strong and physically direct, and his expression was grave. As soon as Zane walked in Harry put his arm around him, and led him away from the others to an office.

It took a long time of working the TV, computers and phones for Harry and Zane to unravel the news coming out of Denver, and for the reality of it to sink into Zane’s bewildered consciousness. Through it all he kept remembering one glib phrase: one gram of antimatter can give you a Hiroshima…

The accident had happened at his father’s collider facility at Byers. There had been a failure of an antiproton trap, a magnetic bottle. The amount of antimatter released had been a lot less than a Hiroshima gram. But it had been enough to devastate city blocks, to wreck the collider facility, to kill a dozen workers and injure a score more. The explosion had been the flash Zane had glimpsed; he had even heard it, the sound following the light flash through the air after long seconds.

It took the rescue workers minutes to find Jerzy Glemp, who had been working in the facility at the time. Sitting with Harry in the Cultural Center, following the operation on computer screens, far away, too far, Zane watched the paramedics ship his father’s broken body to the hospital. Then they began the long wait for news of his condition.

After two hours Zane’s strength was gone, and with it his self-control. Harry put his arm around him again. Zane resisted, but Harry was firm, and it was a comfort to rest his face against the black warmth of Harry’s sweater.

Then he let Harry lead him to the infirmary the students had improvized, a small two-bed unit in another office, a place with more privacy than the big communal dormitories-a place where, just for tonight, Zane could weep, sleep, be alone. Harry offered him food, warm drinks. He ate only a little. When he took off his shoes and lay down on the cot he found his eyes closing, his thoughts scrambling. It was only around seven p.m. It made no sense for him to be sleepy, yet he was. He curled up, his legs against his chest. He was aware of Harry pulling a thin blanket over him, drawing the shade and turning out the light.

He dreamed, a dream in which he was very young, his father a figure that towered over him. He was in his room in the Academy building, the old Denver museum, where he felt as safe as he ever had anywhere in the world, safe with his books and toys and computers and his phone, waiting for that precious hour when his father came back from work and might play with him, if his mood wasn’t for punishment.

He didn’t know how long he slept. When he woke the room was dark.

There was somebody else on the bed, lying on top of the blanket, legs spooned behind his, a heavy, comforting arm across his hip. Somebody heavy. “Dad?” Of course it wasn’t Dad.

“It’s all right,” Harry whispered. “I just wanted to make sure you’re OK. I care for you, you know that.” His breath was warm on the back of Zane’s neck as he spoke.

“My father-”

“They’ll have more news in the morning.” Harry’s arm moved up over Zane’s hip, and his hand pressed Zane’s chest, so Zane’s body was pulled back against him.

Zane felt as if he couldn’t move, as if he was trapped in a dream of immobility.

Harry whispered, “You poor kid.”

“Why am I a poor kid?”

“Well, so much is up in the air now. Your father may not recover. Even if he does there is bound to be a rescoping of the project. People died, Zane.” His hand moved, rubbing over Zane’s chest and stomach through his shirt, tender but strong. “You can’t be sure there will be a place for you after this. None of us can know that, not yet.”

That black fear bubbled. “I hadn’t thought that far.”

Harry hushed him. “I know, I know.” He pulled at the blanket so they both lay beneath it. Now Zane could feel the length of his body through his clothes, as they lay in the bed. Harry shifted and he passed his left arm under Zane’s body, and worked that hand under his shirt. His fingers roamed over Zane’s chest and belly, pushing down toward his groin. “Hush. Don’t worry.”

“But my father-”

“He fights with Edward Kenzie, you know. I don’t think Edward ever forgave Jerzy for the way he helped the President sequester the project. What Edward wants is for Kelly to be on that ship. Now it’s out of his hands. Oh, he’s angry at your father for that. Angry at you. ” All this was whispered in Zane’s ear. Harry’s mouth was so close now that Zane could feel his stubble on the back of his neck, a soft scraping. Still he talked, steadily. “And then there’s this strange crew demography they’re planning, everybody the same age. As soon as I saw that I thought of you, Zane. You’re an outlier in the age distribution. There’s so much stacked against you, isn’t there?” The words were harder now, the breath hot and percussive against Zane’s neck.

With his right arm Harry reached over and grabbed Zane’s hand in his own. Zane resisted, just for a second, but Harry was so much stronger, and he pulled the hand behind Zane’s back, between their bodies.

“But I’m here.” He pushed Zane’s hand down. Zane felt a tangle of hair, and an erection, hot, the skin smooth. Harry made him close his fingers around the shaft, and Harry started thrusting, subtly. “I’ll defend you,” he said. “I’ll keep you safe. Without me-without me-the others will get rid of you. But I’m here, and I’ll always make sure..” It didn’t last long. The words broke up in gasps and a shudder.