Stephen Baxter - Time

Best of all, when he turned off the generator and ran on batteries, there was no engine noise, no exhaust gases that might give away his position to any thermal sensors deployed by those guys on the fence.

Art loved this Rusty. But it wasn’t his, of course. The only personal touch Art allowed himself was the snapshot of his daughter, Leanne, taped to the dash.

The Rusty had been borrowed for him for the occasion by his good friend Willy Butts, who was still in the Marine Corps. Art’s first idea had just been to walk up to the compound and start blasting, but Willy had talked him out of it. You won’t get past the gate, man. Think about it. And you ‘II still be a couple miles from the rocket. What you need is a little transport. Leave it tome.

And Willy, as he always did, had come through, and here was Art, and there was the rocket, waiting for him.

He touched the ignition button. The Rusty’s engine started up with the quietest of coughs. He rolled forward, the big adjustable suspension smoothing out the ride for him over the hummocky ground.

No more yellow babies, Malenfant. He tapped his photo. His little girl blew her candles one more time.

Art switched over to silent running.

Emma Stoney:

Mary Howell stepped forward. “This is a joke. Malenfant, I could ground you under child-protection legislation if I didn’t already have this” She waved a piece of paper in his face. “You are in breach of federal aviation regulations parts twenty-three, twenty-five, twenty-seven, twenty-nine, and thirty-one, which govern airworthiness certification. I also have clear evidence that your maintenance program does not follow the procedures spelled out in FAA advisory circular AC 120-17 A. Furthermore—”

Malenfant glared at Howell. “Representative, this has nothing to do with FAA regulations or any of that bullshit. This is personally vindictive.”

George Hench, a headset clamped to his ears, growled to Malenfant. “If we’re going to stand down I have to know now.”

Somehow the sight of Malenfant and Cornelius and a child, for God’s sake, trussed up in these astronaut suits, surrounded by the clamor of this out-of-control situation, summed up for Emma how far into lunacy Malenfant had slipped. “Malenfant, are you crazy?”

“We’re going to fly, Emma. We have to. It’s become a duty.”

“What about the four astronauts we trained up, at vast

expense?”

“They were training me,” Malenfant said. He smiled, looking

almost wistful.

Cornelius Taine shrugged. “That was always the plan. Who is

better qualified?”

“Another blind, Malenfant?”

“Yeah … All but one. Jay. The girl. She had the right

training.”

“What for?”

“To care for Michael.”

George Hench was picking up something on his headset. He grimaced at Malenfant. “More inspectors incoming.”

“Who is it this time?”

“Nuclear Regulatory Commission.”

Howell’s gaze flicked from George to Malenfant. “NRC? What’s this about the NRC?”

“Scottish uranium,” Emma said grimly. “If they’re here it’s all unraveling. We’ll be lucky to avoid jail.”

“But I’ve no choice.” Malenfant stared at her, as if trying to force her to agree with him through sheer power of personality. “Don’t you see that? I’ve had no choice since the moment Cornelius talked his way into your office.”

“This isn’t about mining the asteroids any more. Is it, Malenfant?”

“No. It’s about whatever is waiting for us on Cruithne.”

Cornelius grinned coldly. “And who knows ‘what that might

be? The answers to everything, perhaps. The purpose of life.

Who can say?”

Malenfant said desperately, “The logic of my whole life has led me to this point, Emma. I’m trapped. And so is Michael. He’s been trapped ever since he was born, with that damn blue circle turning in his head. And I need you.”

She felt oddly dizzy, and the colors leached from the world, as if she was about to faint. “What are you saying?”

“Come with me.”

“To Cruithne? “

“It’s the only way. Michael is terrified of me. And Cornelius, come to that. But you—”

“For God’s sake, I’m no astronaut. The launch would kill me.”

“No, it won’t. It’s no worse than a roller coaster. And once we’re gone, we’re gone. These assholes from the FAA can’t reach us in outer space. Anyhow, at least you’ll be out of the country when they prosecute.”

She sensed the great divergent possibilities, of past and future — for herself, Malenfant, perhaps the species itself — that flowed through this moment, as if her awareness were smeared across multiple realities, dimly lit.

She said, “You’re frightened, aren’t you?”

“Damn right. I’m terrified. I just wanted to go mine the asteroids. And now, this.” He looked down at Michael’s round eyes. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here, Emma. But I can’t get off the ride. I need you with me. Please.”

But now the others were crowding around Malenfant again. Here was Mary Howell, yammering about her FAA regulations. Cornelius had picked up a headset and was shouting about how the gate guards were going to have trouble stalling the NRC inspectors. And George Hench, his face twisted, was watching the clock and following his endless prelaunch checks.

Michael was crying.

Howell stepped forward. “Face it, Colonel Malenfant. You’re beaten.”

Malenfant seemed to come to a decision. “Sure I am. George, get her out of here. We have a spaceship to fly.”

George Hench grinned. “About time.” He wrapped his big arms around Howell and lifted her bodily off the floor. She screamed in frustration and kicked at his legs and swung her head back. She succeeded in knocking his headset off, but he just thrust her out of the room and slammed the door.

Emma was glaring at Malenfant. “Malenfant, have you any idea—”

George said, “Enough. You can debate it in space. Get out of here. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Malenfant clasped George’s beefy shoulder. “Thank you, my friend.”

George pushed him away. “Send me a postcard from Alcatraz.” He snatched another headset and started to yell at the technicians at their improvised consoles.

Malenfant faced Emma. He reached out and took her hand and gave it the gentlest of tugs.

As if in a dream, she followed him, as she always had, as she knew she always would.

As they walked out of the blockhouse into the gray of the Mo-jave dawn, she heard screaming, a remote crackle.

Gunfire.

Art Morris:

The Rusty performed beautifully. It was built to reach seventy on regular roads and maybe forty on anything, from sand dunes to peat bogs. Meanwhile he was sitting inside a shell of carbon-fiber composite and ceramic plating that was tough enough to stop a rifle bullet. Art didn’t have to do much more than point and hope.

He drove hell for leather at the fence. In his IR viewer he saw company guards running along inside the fence, pointing to where he was coming from, then getting the hell out of the way.

He laughed.

He hit the fence. He barely noticed it as it smashed open around him.

Guards scattered before him. He heard the hollow slam of bullets hitting the armor. He hit the ignition and powered up the diesel; there was no point in running silent now. The engine roared and he surged forward, exhilarated.

“Look what you did, Malenfant!”

He saw the pad ahead of him, the booster lit up like a Disney-land tower. He gunned the engine and headed straight for it.

Emma Stoney: