Lifeline

McLaris rubbed the heavy stubble on his chin—about five days’ worth—and wondered if he should attempt to shave, to make himself more presentable. He decided against it. He wanted to keep the beard; he didn’t think he’d want to feel clean and slick for a long time. He stepped away from the bed, giddy and disoriented in the low lunar gravity. He looked toward the narrow slit window at ceiling height. A sudden memory sliced through him: What star is that, Diddy?

The voice in his memory echoed so clearly that he caught himself from turning to see if Jessie stood by him again.

McLaris had delighted in watching her learn things, in seeing the amazed look on her face when she discovered something new. She always wanted him to explain things to her.

Explain things, such as how a competent division leader and a skilled pilot could manage to crash a shuttle and kill a little girl?

He heard someone else enter the room, but forced himself not to turn around. It was probably someone he didn’t want to see anyway. He tried to catch a reflection in the window, but couldn’t see the door from where he stood.

“Mr. McLaris, I am to inform you that Chief Administrator Tomkins wants to see you.” The soft, controlled voice belonged to Kim Berenger. “Whenever you think you can face him.”

For a moment, the name meant nothing to McLaris, but then he remembered—Philip Tomkins was the head of Clavius Base. Well, he had known it was going to happen sooner or later. He let out a long sigh.

“Dr. Berenger,” he said, turning to face the woman. McLaris knew from his reflection how haggard he looked—the half-grown beard, the red eyes. “I was wondering if we might have some kind of—” he searched for a better word, a euphemism, “—service, for my daughter? And for Stephanie Garland?”

Berenger’s face remained expressionless. “We decided it was unwise to wait for you to heal. Your daughter and the pilot were interred in a cairn outside after the first day. Chief Administrator Tomkins himself gave a little eulogy.”

McLaris drew himself up in sudden anger. The doctor ignored him, instead acknowledging the medical record with her thumbprint. He fixed a haunted gaze at her. “You decided not to wait? What possible difference—”

“Dr. Tomkins insisted on holotaping the service for you. We can rig up a tank and let you watch it at your leisure.”

McLaris made his way back to the bed, feeling like the wind had been knocked out of him. He collapsed on the sheets.

“I had reasons for what I did,” he muttered.

Guilt rose up in front of him like a mirror, an echo chamber to reflect his thoughts back at him. Yes, it’s my fault. Yes, I killed my daughter.

Each time he admitted it to himself, he thought the words louder, more forcefully. Reality began to eat its way through the haze of shock and disbelief. Tomkins wants to see you. Whenever you think you can face him.

McLaris knew how to handle his own problems. He needed a focus—something to work toward, some goal to achieve. With that as a crutch, he could see himself through this. He lay back on the sheets, the pain in his body insignificant compared to the pain in his mind.

Yes, it’s my fault. Yes, I killed my daughter. But no, I didn’t intend for it to happen. And, no, I didn’t do it for selfish reasons. I did it with the best of intentions. For Jessie.

He would come out of this experience galvanized, a stronger person.

He would make it up to Jessie … somehow.

Chapter 10

KIBALCHICH—Day 10

All the tension on the Soviet research station Kibalchich had been covered up with an artificial levity, a sense of camaraderie. They held an “end of the world” party to say good-bye to everything that had been lost on Earth—all their friends, all their pasts.

Commander Stepan Rurik leaned back against the wall in the rec room. People came up to talk to him, and he responded with as much interest and encouragement as he could muster. But he focused his attention on the group in general, trying to interpret how they would react.

A day from now all of them were going to leap over a cliff blindfolded, trusting in the skills of their biochemist, Anna Tripolk. They might as well be committing suicide.

Brilliant Anna, lovely Anna—she was so hard and so driven, completely focused on her own goal, and yet so naïve about other things. That was part of her charm for Rurik.

Together, all the people had gathered to talk, to party, to reminisce, to say good-bye to each other. They had drunk up all the remaining alcohol in the stores, then bottle after bottle of illegally brewed vodka and substitute dark beer.