David Palmer - Emergence

Bothered me so much at first, finally took Kyril aside at break, planted foot squarely in mouth trying to apologize for being promoted over him. However, Russian promptly set mind at ease, using charming, sideways-fractured social English (love listening to him, though sometimes wonder if deliberate [technical syntax flawless]).

Kyril completely in agreement with assignments as posted; understood hominems’ reservations about sincerity — would insist upon same precautions were positions reversed. Bore absolutely no resentment toward me for “usurping” role, nor anyone else for that matter. Suggested I forget disparity in ages, backgrounds; concentrate on job — predicted would find quite enough to occupy attention without manufacturing needless concerns.

Might have had trouble buying sincerity even then had not he broken off pep talk midword, startled me by impulsively taking my hands in his, expression desperately earnest, saying, “Candy, Harris is being ex-Marine pilot fighter: chubby-hearted, compellsive hero. He goes consequencely he knows he is best; could not be living with himself should mission boom out through flub of one less adequate sitting in his shoes. My justify are resembling: My proficiency of bomb is excelling. And I am at culp.

“But you …” Swept me into brief, intense hug; then released, holding at arms’ length, gazing intensely into eyes. “I am astonish of you! I say without exacerbation: Inside little-girl window-condiment is most prodigal woman have ever had glad accident to meeting.”

Now, emotions running pretty close to surface these days, as can imagine; I vacillate between forced cheerfulness, depths of despair. Naked admiration shining from Kyril’s eyes at that moment far exceeded stimulus threshold necessary to loose floods.

Instead, horrified to detect genuine giggle born deep inside; growing, gaining impetus with each passing second, working inexorable way upward despite every effort to suppress — because didn’t want to laugh: Kyril sure to take wrong — no; there lay problem: Sure to take right; and laughing at accent in class with poking fun at physical defect. Kyril really nice person; last thing wanted to do was hurt feelings. So forced features into rapt, wide-eyed smile; bit lip, tried to weather storm.

But Russian’s enthusiasm still gaining momentum: “I think what I regret most-secondly about this kettle of grubs is not knowing you ten years awayer — hell’s jingles, I would accommodate for meeting you four, even three years subsequentially. What you looking like then isn’t mattering; outside would being old enough for getting to know you without raising flatulent vibes of moral torpitude. Would never want you predicate of false scandal…”

At that, final vestige of restraint popped like soap bubble: Sputtered first, noble intentions to contrary; then whooped uncontrollably, noises moderating thereafter to helpless belly laughing — situation made even funnier somehow by heartfelt guilt over puzzled expression momentarily overspreading Kyril’s face.

But as I held aching ribs, puffing for semblance of restraint, he grinned wickedly, said, “That’s better. To beginning, I despond you turning up to be humorless. And you don’t looking Russian.” Which, of course, added fuel to laughter.

Grin turned to warm smile. “Telling me: Did you really thinking I have noisy intestines over such applesoup as who sits where? We have imperative jobs to do; I do mine, you do yours.”

Then smile faded. Brushed my cheek with gentle fingertips; said tenderly, “But making no misconstruings: I meant exactly how I said: I proudly to being sat alonghind you.”

That did it, of course: Dissolved wetly into Russian’s arms; useless for next 20 minutes.

Been truly frantic week; busy every second. Spent ten hours every day practicing on shuttle simulator, employing hypnotically augmented concentration to absorb duties — greatly reduced, fortunately, from load normally carried by right seat’s occupant, due to elimination of systems, related controls, instruments. But Kyril correct: Still plenty left to keep me out of trouble!

However, shuttle training only part of schedule; followed each day by further drilling: getting to know bomb inside out; acquiring basic smattering of Russian, sufficient command of appropriate software assembly language (turned out both hard-, software started life American), requisite programming skills. And really had to knuckle down; both computerese, Russian lots harder than Pitman shorthand — and so little time !

AAs concluded long ago bomb too dangerous to have around, defused or not. But daren’t risk setting off in orbit. Warhead magnitudes bigger than anything ever detonated on Earth, and strontium 90 really nasty stuff. While preliminary figures suggest only small fraction of fission byproducts likely to make it into atmosphere during next 200 years, sheer volume of output guarantees borderline-hazardous level of fallout. Further, one school of thought amongst AA astrophysicists suggests possibility that blast on that scale could have adverse effect on Van Allen belt.

Wherefore, AAs came up with complicated, but hopefully effective, procedure which should eliminate problem for good, while avoiding side effects. Vehicle’s own awesome power, fuel reserves, form heart of disposal scheme.

Bratstvo anticipated possible need for all-out departure from orbit, minimum-time reentry. Designed, constructed vehicle with ample fuel, power to do job. If attack detected, brakes go on at ten gees. Takes slightly more than 30 seconds to kill orbital velocity, but engines scheduled to operate for full minute, thrust alignment shifting throughout: Acceleration at burn’s conclusion almost straight down; massé shot with only slight easterly vector, producing high-speed cometary graze. Engines fire again just before perigee: Remaining fuel blunts awesome velocity; adjusts speed, course, to dead-center reentry window.

Pointed in proper direction, however, vehicle capable of delta-V boost ample to leave Earth’s gravity well entirely. Which amounts to pretty thorough disposal.

First step is physically disarming warhead (very first step, lest something go awry during succeeding stages; result in unscheduled reentry with live warhead, or, almost as bad, detonation in orbit). Suitcase-sized terminal with liquid-crystal display screen then unfolded, plugged into on-board computer’s umbilicus; ballistics program wiped, new one loaded; engines fire up on schedule, end of problem.

But AAs didn’t feel right about merely pitching ghastly device out into space for someone else to bump into sometime in unguessable future; destination of new ballistics program is Sol’s interior — programmed for dive into sun: When AAs get rid of something, stays got!

(Obviously my people intrinsically tidy bunch: I like that.)

Well, this pretty well wraps up journal, I guess; not a lot more to say. We launch tomorrow morning. Find prospect of shuttle flight thrilling, if narrow perspective sufficiently; view carefully, without thinking beyond.

But made interesting discovery during course of week: Oddly enough, am not afraid to die.

Oh, apprehensive, of course. And perfectly willing to hold off for century or two. But not really, truly, personally frightened of death per se. Not sure why, but true. Perhaps partial consequence of horrendous weeks immediately following attack. Possibly that, coupled with subsequent episodes, has toughened psyche. Maybe fear of death something to which, through repeated exposure, one can acquire degree of immunity.

Don’t know. But thinking back, can remember several previous occasions where prospect of trying something new, unknown, brought on appreciably higher anxiety levels. For instance, present attitude toward death nothing compared to heebie-jeebies briefly inspired by decision to accept Rollo’s bargain. (Never would have admitted it to him, but contemplated prospect of initial session with same enthusiasm as root canal without anesthesia.)