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  All Clare could feel, however, was a dull ache, a powerful sense of failure that she was here flying the tanker, instead of piloting the spaceplane behind her. In her mind’s eye, she was in the spaceplane’s cockpit, running through the pre-climb checklist, waiting for the last few tonnes of fuel to flow into the brimming tanks. Her hands rested on the thrust levers, ready to unleash the torrent of thrust that would hurl the spaceplane up and away, into the deep blue of the outer stratosphere.

  She sighed. No. She was flying a tanker.

  It had all started out so well, she thought, as she gazed into the blue haze where the sea met the sky, her mind wandering.

  A year ago (was it a year already?) she had been on the way up the promotion ladder in the Astronautics Corps. She had been among the best of the best, a captain in an interceptor squadron, commanding huge vessels right at the limits of their performance, until her self-confidence was put into question on a difficult rendezvous with a carbonaceous asteroid out past Mars.

  She had frozen with indecision at a critical point, aborted the manoeuvre too late, and very nearly crashed a spacecraft filled with several thousand tonnes of fuel into the rock. The review panel had investigated her actions and, while not finding her guilty of any wrongdoing, had criticised her for not taking prompter action.

  She still woke up some nights, sweating at how close it had been, the collision alarms sounding, the ship responding too slowly, too slowly. Sometimes, in the worst dreams, she crashed into the asteroid, and the tanks split, and the cold ammonia fuel splashed out over the surface, bubbling and boiling in the vacuum.

  Clare never told anyone about the dreams, not even the people she trusted. If any of that got back to the review panel, she would be out of the Corps, and to Clare, that was like being out of life. She lived and breathed her work as a pilot; it had been her driving ambition ever since she had been a young girl.

  She had gone against the advice of her school and her parents when she entered the Corps, advice that said her talents would be wasted. She had endured the long, hard years of training, first in atmospheric flight and then in low Earth orbit, and spent all her spare time studying for the compulsory master’s degree in astronautics, to get the coveted astronaut’s badge over her name.

  Yet, here she was, flying tankers and training rookie pilots, while others soared into orbit ahead of her. She thought she looked younger than her 34 years, but inside she felt much older. Decades older, coming to the end of her useful working life.

  How she longed for something to do, for something that needed split-second decisions, on the edge of fuel margins, while a huge asteroid turned by above you, and alien mountains and valleys flashed past just above your head, billions of years old, waiting to claw you from the sky. How she longed for that again, the bonds she had forged with the crews, the times they had had, the risks they had run, how she longed for it, how she wanted it, wanted it, wanted it.

  Now they had offered her something: a routine trip to Mercury, ferrying some engineers to some huge tomb of a mine and back again. It was getting back into space, she thought, but not the way she had envisaged. She had an uncomfortable feeling that, once she took this ‘temporary secondment’, it would become permanent, and she would be stuck in Transportation forever, on board space tugs, hauling the huge fuel tankers back and forth across the Solar System until she couldn’t take the boredom any longer.

  She felt like she was being sidelined, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

  Helligan had said not to get excited, and to wait until she received her orders. Knowing Helligan, he probably wanted to make her endure as much waiting as he could contrive, so it could be weeks, or more likely months, before the SAIB would be in touch.

  Before long, she would be desperate even to get the chance in Transportation, and that was probably just what Helligan had in mind. She just had to play the game and try to keep her options open.

  Behind the tanker, the refuelling was complete.

  ‘Orbital Five Two Seven, tanks full, breaking contact. Report when clear of the launch area.’

  ‘Tanker Seven Four, roger,’ Clare’s copilot responded.

  The tanker shuddered slightly as the spaceplane broke free of the refuelling boom, and dropped astern. Clare disengaged the autopilot with a flick of her left thumb, and banked the tanker to the left. Her other hand moved the thrust levers forward, to take the tanker quickly out and away, far away from the dwindling patch of sky where the spaceplane was preparing to leave on its climb into orbit.

  Clare watched a full minute go past on the mission clock.

  ‘That should do it,’ she said, checking their distance from the spaceplane on the navigation display.

  ‘Yeah, we’re clear. Shall I let them know?’

  ‘No, I’ll do it.’ Clare thumbed the transmit button on her sidestick and spoke into the slender microphone of her headset. Her softer voice was a contrast to the clipped words of the copilot, and the crew of the spaceplane might have paused for a moment in their pre-climb checks, as they tried to place the familiar voice.

  ‘Tanker Seven Four, clear of launch area. Contact Guam Centre for orbital climb clearance. Goodbye – and Godspeed.’

  The huge bulk of the tanker swayed from side to side as it mashed its way through the last few hundred metres of humid air towards the runway at Andersen Base. It tilted its nose slightly at the sky, and then sank onto the runway, spurts of smoke springing from its tyres.

  The spoilers deployed, and Clare lowered the nose to the ground. She braked the tanker to a brisk roll and let the runway trundle past, as their allocated taxiway drew towards them.

  Keeping a careful lookout, she steered the tanker off the runway, towards the domes and spheres of the fuel storage area. There was another launch tonight, and the fuel tanks needed to be chilled down and reloaded in preparation. The voice of Andersen Ground Control came and went in her headset, directing her through the maze of turns and taxiways towards the fuelling apron.

  A ground handler on the tarmac ahead waited for her, and as the tanker approached he motioned with one bat, signalling her to turn. She turned the giant aircraft round and moved it forwards slowly into its assigned position, until the handler made the ‘stop’ sign, and finally signalled to cut the engines.

  ‘Been a good mission, ma’am,’ her copilot remarked as the whine of the turbofans faded.

  ‘Yeah – we did a good job,’ Clare muttered, as they ran through the post-flight checklist, returning various switches and controls to the proper settings.

  For a moment, she almost believed it. It had been a good mission; they had carried it out faultlessly, the spaceplane had gone on its way without a hitch, and they were back where they should be, when they should be.

  A good mission. Only …

  Clare felt that soft, grey feeling inside that only those who have tasted success and achievement can know, the little voice inside you that tells you that you aren’t being stretched, that you aren’t learning anything, that you’re sinking into routine. In a few short years you’ll just be looking on it as a job, a means to make money, you’ll never be back up there again, up there where you wanted to be, where—

  ‘Ma’am?’ The copilot was looking at her.

  Clare looked back, blankly.

  ‘It’s the duty controller on ground control. He wants to speak to you.’

  Clare pressed the transmit. ‘This is Captain Foster.’

  ‘Duty Controller here. I have a message for you from the group commander. You’ve been assigned to Deep Space Transportation with immediate effect. You’re to report to the training centre at zero nine hundred hours tomorrow for a mission briefing. That’s it.’

  ‘Roger that, sir. Out,’ Clare responded, and pushed her seat back. A half-smile played on her face.

  Perhaps today was going to be a better day, after all.

  PART II

  Mission to Mercury

  CHAPTER NINE

  Matt C
rawford and Clare Foster met for the first time the following morning, in a nondescript lecture room in the training centre at Andersen Base. Matt had arrived early, and he was sitting at one of the desks, sipping coffee and reading some of the posters on the wall.

  Events had moved at a whirlwind pace for Matt since the investigation board’s decision last December; it had felt like an endless round of travel, work and meetings, but he had relished the work and the sense of purpose. There had been lengthy discussions to decide detailed priorities for the mission, as well as sombre meetings with the various relatives’ groups and their legal representatives. A good deal of impassioned argument had taken place over the composition of the rest of the team, and the SAIB had had to step in twice to resolve disputes. While all this was going on, detailed technical decisions had to be taken on suitable launch dates and equipment manifests for the mission.

  The launch date decision had been taken only two days ago, and Matt barely had enough time to pack before yesterday’s flight out from Los Angeles, ready to start the intensive training programme for the mission. Just twelve weeks away, the launch date left the bare minimum time for preparation, so the pressure was on. Matt hoped he was up to the training – there were plenty of people who would like to see him fail. At that thought, Matt’s resolve hardened. They weren’t going to get rid of him that easily.

  The door opened and a slim, blonde woman in her thirties walked in, wearing the dark blue service dress uniform of the Astronautics Corps. The severe, masculine cut of the uniform suited her figure well. Her eyes assessed Matt as she closed the door behind her and came over. She walked with the easy confidence of an experienced pilot, but Matt sensed a faint hesitation beneath the surface, as if she was less sure of herself than she appeared.

  ‘I guess you’re Captain Foster,’ Matt began, standing up and holding out his hand. ‘I’m Matt Crawford, the representative for the relatives.’

  They shook hands briefly. Her hand was cool and slender, and she was tall; her dark blue eyes were on a level with his. She had no makeup on, and there were lines round her eyes, suggesting a broken night’s sleep.

  ‘Hi. Welcome to Andersen.’ She didn’t smile. ‘You’re early. Didn’t you want to come with the others?’

  ‘Uh, I was travelling yesterday, and I woke early. I guess they’ll be here in the next few minutes. Do you want some coffee? They’ve just brought some in.’ Matt indicated a table at the back of the room.

  Clare shook her head, and glanced round the room, before perching on the edge of one of the tables, facing Matt. The table leg scraped against the floor as she sat down.

  Matt wondered what to say. He had read her profile on the long flight here, and he was sure that she would have read his as well. He was realistic enough to know that she was pretty much washed-up after her suspension, and that this mission had been tossed to her to see if she was still up to command. She looked a little older than the picture of her in her profile, but prettier; she had high cheekbones and neat features that complemented her narrow jaw line.

  ‘What have they told you about the mission?’ Matt asked.

  ‘Just what’s in the briefing pack – it’s a mission to investigate that big mining accident that happened in forty-two, and you need a flight crew to get you there and back.’

  Matt nodded. ‘Yeah. That’s about it.’

  ‘How far are you on with the planning?’

  ‘Well, I’m hoping we get to see the latest mission plan today. The plans for when we’re on the surface – we’ve managed to agree the main priorities, but most of the detail still needs to be done. It’s tricky when we’re not sure exactly what we’ll find.’

  ‘Sure.’ She didn’t look convinced.

  ‘This is the first time the whole team’s met up together.’

  Clare nodded, and glanced round the room. Matt was saved from finding something else to say, when the door opened again and three men came in. The first, a young man, was dressed in the blue flight duty overalls of the Corps, and the other two were older, in civilian clothes.

  The man in flight overalls stood to attention in front of Clare, and after a few brief words with her, introduced himself to Matt.

  ‘First Lieutenant Steve Wilson. I’m the copilot for the mission.’

  They shook hands. Wilson was 27, fresh-faced with short black parted hair, and seemed to be keen to make a good impression. There had been several alternative copilots in the briefing file; Wilson had obviously won the selection process.

  The two other newcomers introduced themselves as Dr Martin Elliott, the representative from PMI, and Peter Abrams, from the Space Accident Investigation Board.

  Abrams was a 52-year-old veteran of many accident investigations, and had worked for the FSAA’s own accident investigation branch for many years before it became part of the SAIB. His hair was grey and he had crinkles round his eyes, an easy and relaxed manner and a warm, dry handshake that instilled confidence. Matt liked him at once.

  Elliott was slightly built and shorter than Matt; he seemed stiff and reserved as they shook hands. Matt had a vague sense of trouble ahead, but he put it down to the inevitable prejudice that the other man would have from PMI’s briefing. Elliott was a specialist in control systems, which pretty much told Matt where PMI would be looking to prove their case.

  Abrams returned from the coffee pots at the back of the room, and handed a full cup to Elliott.

  ‘Did you want milk or sugar? I don’t know how you take it,’ Abrams said apologetically. Elliott muttered something about sugar and took the opportunity to move away.

  Abrams raised his cup to Matt.

  ‘Congratulations. I know how long your side has been fighting to get this mission. It’s quite an achievement, getting this reopened.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s not been an easy ride.’ Matt smiled at his own understatement. ‘Were you on the original investigation?’

  ‘Me? No.’ He drawled the ‘o’. ‘I read the report when it came out, though. Seemed to me the team did a good job, given what they had to work on.’

  ‘Yeah, well that’s where we have the advantage, being able to – oh, hold on, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.’ Matt raised his hand to another man who had just come in, and beckoned him to come over. Rick Bergman threaded his way through the tables towards Matt, smiling broadly.

  ‘Matt. It’s been too long.’

  ‘It certainly has.’ Matt shook his old friend’s hand warmly, and cast an appraising eye over the changes that the years had brought. Bergman was about Matt’s age, and a little taller – almost too tall to fit into a spaceplane ejection seat. His jet black hair was shot through now with the occasional strand of white, and his aquiline features and large nose gave him a faintly Roman look.

  He looks older, but then we all do, Matt thought. ‘I’m really glad you could join the mission – even though you did your best to get out of it!’

  ‘Yes, well, I wasn’t too keen, with my son so young and everything, but with a bit of luck I’ll be back by Christmas. They said I wouldn’t have to go away for at least another year if I took this mission, and that swung it in the end.’

  Matt nodded. One of the problems of space travel for people with families was the length of time spent away from home. There was always a shortage of older, more experienced people willing to take postings, particularly to those in the Outer Solar System, where journey times could be a year or more. Going to Mercury was different, however; it had the shortest journey time of any planet, and Matt reckoned on being home for Christmas himself.

  ‘So, you guys know each other, huh?’ Abrams observed.

  ‘Sorry Peter, this is Rick Bergman, from the Space Mines Inspectorate – Peter Abrams, from the SAIB.’

  ‘Good to meet you,’ Bergman said, extending a hand to Abrams. ‘You’re right, Matt and I go back a long way. We met on Mars on our first space assignment – working for PMI, would you believe. Matt stayed with PMI, but I ended up working for the Mines
Inspectorate. Did you know PMI tried to keep me off this team?’

  Abrams inclined his head fractionally.

  ‘I don’t think they’ve forgotten some of my inspection reports, have they, Matt?’

  ‘Er, no. That one on the operating procedures at Elysium caused quite a few heads to roll.’

  ‘Oh yes, I remember that,’ Abrams said with interest. ‘So you wrote the report, did you? I’m not surprised PMI didn’t want you along. You must have some powerful friends at the Inspectorate.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ Bergman laughed, ‘I just didn’t move quickly enough when they were looking for volunteers.’ He glanced across the room, and dropped his voice slightly. ‘Is that our captain?’ He nodded towards Clare, who was talking with Elliott.

  Clare was aware that she was being scrutinised, and she turned her body slightly to ignore it. She focused instead on Wilson answering a question from Elliott about stasis on deep space journeys, and why they wouldn’t be needing it on this mission. She listened at first, but as Elliott delved into more and more detail, her mind wandered.

  She wondered how Wilson would perform once they were out there. This was going to be his first deep space mission out of training. She had been hoping to get someone more experienced, but Wilson was the best of the three who were available for this mission, so she had circled his name, and Helligan had endorsed the choice.

  It was a good mission from Wilson’s point of view, she thought. He would log flight hours as a copilot on a space tug, a chance that he normally wouldn’t get for a few more years, and he’d be on full space pay like she was. No wonder he was so keen.

  Her thoughts wandered on to Matt; she could hear his voice behind her as he talked with the others. Matt had too much personal involvement with the original accident for her liking, but he was the only one of them that had been to the mine before. That kind of knowledge counted highly on Clare’s score sheet for mission success; if he could keep it together, he would be a very useful guide to have.