Jason Frost - Badlands

Paige shook her finger at the screen. "If Sister Theresa could see your fibbing little butt now. Christ."

"… All wish you good luck."

Paige clicked the Mute button again. The best part was over. The lying.

She flicked the Play button to start the VCR. A bunch of the guys at NASA had given her this tape as a good luck gift. A blue movie called Insatiable starring Marilyn Chambers. She had started watching it alone that afternoon. Steve had already called twice, as he did every day, begging to come over. She'd refused. She was halfway through the movie when he'd called again. This time she'd said OK. Just for a while.

Now she couldn't get rid of him.

She looked around her dark Washington, D.C. bedroom. She studied it in the light of the flickering TV while Marilyn Chambers romped in the pool with another naked woman. The room, like the entire two-bedroom condominium, was perfect. It had taken her years to get everything just right, the wallpaper, the paintings, the furniture. Every detail was carefully planned, from the shape and color of the soap bars to the type of plants. Not a speck of dust or slipper out of place. The place was like her life. In perfect order.

The cat slinked back in, sniffed the wine glass by the bed, pawed at it. Paige leaned over the bed and snagged the glass, setting it back on the nightstand.

No, it was more than orderly. It was luxurious. Satin sheets, down bedding, solid brass bathroom fixtures, skylight over the extra-large tub. Now that was the right stuff.

The only thing out of place was Naval Capt. Steve Connors, also scheduled for the Columbia's flight in two days. She looked at him and frowned. He was like a dirty dish or a full ash tray. He threw off the whole balance of the decor. She wished she could somehow vacuum him away.

She shook him roughly. "C'mon, Steve. Time to haul ass."

He stirred, opened one groggy eye. Christ, now he was smacking his lips. "Huh?"

"Get up, get dressed."

"Huh?" He sat up, scratched his head.

Paige shook her head. He'll scratch his crotch next, I swear. "You've got to go."

He scratched his crotch.

"I knew it," she said.

"Knew what? What time is it?"

"Time for you to get in your little red Porsche and get back to your own pad. Don't you miss those lovely posters of Tina Turner?"

"Quit it, Paige. You know I haven't had that one for years."

"That's always been one of your problems. No loyalty." She shoved his shoulder. "Go on. Scoot."

"Gee, Paige." She saw the hurt expression on his face as he climbed out of bed, standing there naked, a man's muscular body with a little boy's emotions. She felt a little guilty.

"Sorry, Steve. But you know how the reporters are keeping a watch on us. If the gang at NASA knew we were doing this, they'd can our asses. This is just the kind of publicity they don't want."

"That the real reason?" Christ, now he was pouting.

"Yeah, sure."

He smiled. "You weren't too worried about publicity two years, three months and eighteen days ago."

Here it comes, she thought. That's just the reason she'd kept him away from her for the past six months. He always came back to the same thing. Damn. "Look, Steve, we've been through all that. It was a mistake, we both agreed."

"I've changed my mind. I liked being married to you. Even if it was a secret between just us."

"That's the point, Steve. That's why we got divorced just as quietly. You know how they feel about relationships between people in the program. They'd boot us out in a minute. It's better this way."

Most of that was the truth. NASA used to discourage personal relationships between the sexes with their astronauts, but they stopped short of condemning a marriage once it occurred. That is until Tina Rydell and Phil Stewart got married. Phil was photographed in bed with a female NASA technician and an ugly divorce ensued, played out every night on national news. The publicity damaged the whole image of the astronauts and ever since, NASA lived in fear of the same thing happening again. Resulting, as such things often do, in a budget cut. NASA would fire them both if they knew. The press would hound them for months, not to mention women's groups who'd accuse her of single-handedly setting back the women's movement by a decade. Thing is, they'd be right. Oh God, why'd she let him come over?

"When do you want to get together again?" he asked as he pulled his jogging pants over his narrow waist. "Tomorrow?"

"It is tomorrow, Steve. I think we'd better just cool it for now. What with the mission and everything."

"Yeah, maybe you're right."

That was easy.

"But afterwards," he said, zipping his jacket over his bare chest. "Then we try again, OK? Make it work this time. You drop out of the program."

"We'll see, Steve. Right now, we've got enough to think about with this mission. This is no routine flight."

"Yeah." He glanced at the TV screen, watched Marilyn Chambers hike up her white skirt and lie back on the pool table while the chauffeur unzipped his pants.

"Bye, Steve." Paige stood up and held the bedroom door open. She placed a hand on her slender hip. He looked at her, grinned. She liked the reaction she got from men when they looked at her naked body. Surprise mostly the first time. It was even better than they'd imagined it to be. Lean, yet curvy too. Muscular, yet smooth. She never needed to stand on a scale; she always knew her exact weight. "See you in a few hours at the briefing."

"Right. Later." He marched down the stairs and out the front door.

She sighed with relief when the door closed. Steve was pretty easy to handle, like most men. She had yet to meet one who was more important to her than her career. OK, she'd made a mistake a couple years ago. At a moment when she'd had some doubts and fears about her future. Marriage seemed a good idea. At least she'd been smart enough to keep it a secret.

She climbed back in bed. Her cat had taken Steve's place under the covers. Paige leaned back against the slippery satin pillows and watched Marilyn Chambers's contortions. Anything to take her mind off the mission.

"Do you understand why you're here, Dr. Lyons?"

"Of course," Paige said.

"Good." The CIA man had said his name was Plummer, but Paige had been around Washington enough not to believe any information that was offered free. Plummer was about sixty with dark black hair. Not a single gray hair. They must all be using the president's barber, she thought. "You've already gone through the special training, as has your crew, Connors, Budd, La Porte and Piedmont. You should be able to handle the assortment of weapons we've stored in the craft."

"Yes, sir. I've been shooting since I was a kid."

Plummer glanced at the open file on the desk in front of him. "Yes. I see you even won a couple NRA trophies."

"Yeah, when I was twelve and fifteen. I stopped shooting competitively after I discovered boys."

"Twelve and fourteen," he corrected her, tapping the file in front of him. "Ever kill a man, Dr. Lyons?"

She thought of a dirty answer and laughed. "No."

"Don't hunt."

"Nope."

"Well." He looked disappointed. He closed the folder and pushed it aside as if to display that what came next was off the record. "I know your instructors have told you this before, but let me reaffirm their teaching. Shooting a person is not the same as shooting a target. The fact that you haven't even hunted disturbs me. If it were up to me, I'd pull you from this assignment right now."

"Because I'm a woman?"

"Because the nature of your mission is such that you are guaranteed to have to kill. It's not just a possibility. You will have to blow some people's brains out. Some people who used to be pillars of their communities, people with children, with grandchildren. Even women. I don't think you're up to it."