Gravity

July 12

Aboard ISS

From the observation windows of the Node 1 cupola, Dr William Haning could see clouds swirling over the Atlantic Ocean two hundred twenty miles below. He touched the glass, his fingers skimming the barrier that protected him from the vacuum of space. It was one more obstacle that separated him from home. From his wife. He watched the earth turn beneath him, saw the Atlantic Ocean slip away as North Africa and then the Indian Ocean slowly spun by, the darkness of night approaching. Though his body was weightless and floating, the burden of grief seemed to squeeze down on his chest, making it difficult for him to breathe.

At that moment, in a Houston hospital, his wife was fighting for her life, and he could do nothing to help her. For the next two weeks he would be trapped here, able to gaze down at the very city where Debbie might be dying, yet unable to reach her, touch her. The best he could do was close his eyes and try to imagine he was at her side, that their fingers were entwined.

You have to hang on. You have to fight. I’m coming home to you.

‘Bill? Are you okay?’

He turned and saw Diana Estes float from the U.S. lab module into the node. He was surprised she was the one inquiring as to his well-being. Even after a month of living together in close quarters, he had not warmed up to the Englishwoman. She was too cool, too clinical. Despite her icy blond good looks, she was not a woman he’d ever feel attracted to, and she had certainly never favored him with the least hint of interest. But then, her attention was usually focused on Michael Griggs. The fact that Griggs had a wife waiting for him down on earth seemed irrelevant to them both. Up here on ISS, Diana and Griggs were like the two halves of a double star, orbiting each other, linked by some powerful gravitational pull.

This was one of the unfortunate realities of being one of six human beings from four different countries trapped in close quarters. There were always shifting alliances and schisms, a changing sense of us versus them. The stress of living so long in confinement had affected each of them in different ways. Russian Nicolai Rudenko, who had been living aboard ISS the longest, had lately turned sullen and irritable. Kenichi Hirai, from Japan’s NASDA, was so frustrated by his poor command of English, he often lapsed into uneasy silence. Only Luther Ames had remained everyone’s friend. When Houston broke the bad news about Debbie, Luther was the one who had known instinctively what to say to Bill, the one who had spoken from his heart, from the human part of him. Luther was the Alabama-born son of a well-loved black minister, and he had inherited his father’s gift for bestowing comfort.

‘There’s no question about it, Bill,’ Luther had said. ‘You gotta go home to your wife. You tell Houston they’d better send the limo to get you, or they’ll have to deal with me.’

How different from the way Diana had reacted. Ever logical, she had calmly pointed out that there was nothing Bill could do to speed his wife’s recovery. Debbie was comatose; she wouldn’t even know he was there. As cold and brittle as the crystals she grows in her lab, was what Bill thought of Diana.

That’s why he was puzzled that she was now asking about him. She hung back in the node, as remote as always. Her long blond hair waved about her face like drifting sea grass.

He turned to look out the window again. ‘I’m waiting for Houston to come into view,’ he said.

‘You’ve got a new batch of E-mail from Payloads.’

He said nothing. He just stared down at the twinkling lights of Tokyo, now poised at the knife edge of dawn.

‘Bill, there are items that require your attention. If you don’t feel up to it, we’ll have to split up your duties among the rest of us.’

Duties. So that’s what she had come to discuss. Not the pain he was feeling, but whether she could count on him to perform his assigned tasks in the lab. Every day aboard ISS was tightly scheduled, with little time to spare for reflection or grief. If one crew member was incapacitated, the others had to pick up the slack, or experiments went untended.

‘Sometimes,’ said Diana with crisp logic, ‘work is the best thing to keep grief at bay.’

He touched his finger to the blur of light that was Tokyo. ‘Don’t pretend to have a heart, Diana. It doesn’t fool anyone.’

For a moment she said nothing. He heard only the continuous background hum of the space station, a sound he’d grown so accustomed to he was scarcely aware of it now.

She said, unruffled, ‘I do understand you’re having a hard time. I know it’s not easy to be trapped up here, with no way to get home. But there’s nothing you can do about it. You just have to wait for the shuttle.’

He gave a bitter laugh. ‘Why wait? When I could be home in four hours.’

‘Come on, Bill. Get serious.’

**

‘I am serious. I should just get in the CRV and go.’

‘Leaving us with no lifeboat? You’re not thinking straight.’ She paused. ‘You know, you might feel better with some medication. Just to help you get through this period.’

He turned to face her, all his pain, all his grief, giving way to rage. ‘Take a pill and cure everything, is that it?’

‘It could help. Bill, I just need to know you won’t do something irrational.’

‘Fuck you, Diana.’ He pushed off from the cupola and floated past her, toward the lab hatchway.

‘Bill!’

‘As you so kindly pointed out, I’ve got work to do.’

‘I told you, we can divide up your duties. If you’re not feeling up to it—’

‘I’ll do my own goddamn work!’

He drifted into the U.S. lab. He was relieved she didn’t follow him. Glancing back, he saw her float toward the habitation module, no doubt to check the status of the Crew Return Vehicle. Capable of evacuating all six astronauts, the CRV was their only lifeboat home should a catastrophe befall the station. He had spooked her with his mutterings about hijacking the CRV, and he regretted it. Now she’d be watching him for signs of emotional meltdown.

It was painful enough to be trapped in this glorified sardine can two hundred twenty miles above earth. To also be watched with suspicion made the ordeal worse. He might be desperate to go home, but he was not unstable. All those years of training, the psychological screening tests, had confirmed the fact Bill Haning was a professional—certainly not a man who’d ever endanger his colleagues.

Propelling himself with a practiced push-off from one wall, he floated across the lab module to his workstation. There he checked the latest batch of E-mail. Diana was right about one thing: Work would distract him from thoughts of Debbie.

Most of the E-mail had come from NASA’s Ames Biological Research Center in California, and the messages were routine requests for data confirmation. Many of the experiments were monitored from the ground, and scientists sometimes questioned the data they received. He scrolled down the messages, grimacing at yet another request for astronaut urine and feces samples. He kept scrolling, and paused at a new message.

This one was different. It did not come from Ames, but from a private-sector payload operations center. Private industry paid for a number of experiments aboard the station, and he often received E-mail from scientists outside NASA.

This message was from SeaScience in La Jolla, California.

To: Dr William Haning, ISS Bioscience

Sender: Helen Koenig, Principal Investigator

Re: Experiment CCU#23 (Archaeon Cell Culture)

Message: Our most recent downlinked data indicates rapid and unexpected increase in cell culture mass. Please confirm with your onboard micro mass measurement device.

Another jiggle-the-handle request, he thought wearily. Many of the orbital experiments were controlled by commands from scientists on the ground. Data was recorded within the various lab racks, using video or automatic sampling devices, and the results downlinked directly to researchers on earth. With all the sophisticated equipment aboard ISS, there were bound to be occasional glitches. That’s the real reason humans were needed up here—to troubleshoot the temperamental electronics.

He called up the file for CCU#23 on the payloads computer and reviewed the protocol. The cells in the culture were Archaeons, bacterialike marine organisms collected from deep-sea thermal vents. They were harmless to humans.

He floated across the lab to the cell culture unit and slipped his stockinged feet into the holding stirrups to maintain his position. The unit was a box-shaped device with its own fluid-handling and delivery system to continuously perfuse two dozen cell cultures and tissue specimens. Most of the experiments were completely self-contained and without need of human intervention. In his four weeks aboard ISS, Bill had only once laid eyes on the tube #23.

He pulled open the cell specimen chamber tray. Inside were twenty-four culture tubes arrayed around the periphery of the unit. He identified #23 and removed it from the tray.

At once he was alarmed. The cap appeared to be bulging out, as though under pressure. Instead of a slightly turbid liquid, which was what he’d expected to see, the contents was a vivid blue-green. He tipped the tube upside down, and the culture did not shift. It was no longer liquid, but thickly viscous.

He calibrated the micro mass measurement device and slipped the tube into the specimen slot. A moment later, the data appeared on the screen.

Something is very wrong, he thought. There has been some sort of contamination. Either the original sample of cells was not pure, or another organism has found its way into the tube and has destroyed the primary culture.

He typed out his response to Dr Koenig: