Skyfall

“I always have.” On impulse he reached out and took the big Russian's hand. “This has been no joyride until now so maybe it will have to get better. Whatever happens working with you, Nadya and the Colonel, it's been worthwhile. Hands across the sea, hey? A little cooperation in this mixed-up world.” He shook his head. “Sorry, I'm going on too much, just tired.”

“No, I understand, tovarich. It has been the same for me as well.”

“Right, then. Your pressure suit's in that locker there. Coretta, can you help him into it? Or should I?”

“No, it's all right,” she looked at Ely. “There's nothing to be done for him at the moment, I'll help him.”

“Okay. Suit up and join us, Gregor. I'm afraid we're going to have to lock you in again, Coretta. You'll be on your own.”

“That's fine. I'm the only one who can take care of Ely in any case. Now fix those damn-engines and get us out of here.” She smiled as she said it, softening her words.

“Will do.”

He kicked off into the flight cabin and pulled himself down into his couch. “Mission Control,” he said into his microphone.

“Come in, Prometheus.”

“Flax. You know what's happened to Ely. It doesn't look good.”

“I know, Patrick.”

“Listen, even if we do manage to kick into the higher orbit, it's not going to help him. He has to get back to Earth, to a hospital. When's the soonest a shuttle can rendezvous?”

“Two weeks on the resupply.”

“What about the Air Force?”

“I'm looking into that now. I'll let you know as soon as I have a report.”

“Can you impress upon them how urgent it is.”

“I think they know, Patrick. I think everyone knows…”

“Out.” Patrick disconnected and looked over at Nadya on the next couch. She looked exhausted. “Can anyone possibly know?” he asked.

“I think they do. I'm sure everyone is doing everything possible. There's just so little they can do. We will just have to do it ourselves, won't we?”

“How right you are.” He smiled, crookedly and tiredly, but still smiled. “We do it ourselves. As consolation we have the fact that it certainly can't get any worse.”

Searing light, incredibly bright, a quick stab of burning light outside where only the blackness of space had been a millisecond before.

Light that was pain. Nadya screamed, over and over, pressing her hands to her tortured eyes, screamed without stopping at the endless agony.

In the crew compartment the light came from behind, through the half-closed hatch, like the beam of an intensely bright searchlight swept suddenly across the opening. Coretta was bent over, closing a fastening on Gregor's boot and she straightened up, blinking, shocked.

“What was that…” she said and the screaming cut off her words.

They moved together towards the hatch, but he was clumsy in the massive pressure suit and she reached the opening first, pushed through. Darkness and night outside, the stars as always, and Nadya still screaming and clutching her eyes. Patrick was pulling himself blindly towards her couch, his eyes closed and streaming with tears, his face drawn with pain. His breath came in great gasps and Coretta knew that he should be screaming too. She pushed off towards them and as she did something white and obscene swam into view outside.

It was a disc of ghostly pale light below them, changing and moving, slipping away behind them even as she watched. There was no way to judge its size or distance against the emptiness of space. But it was large. And streamers of fire arched overhead. She could make no sense of it all.

“Boshemoi…”

Gregor was beside her, breathing the words in a prayer, transfixed just as she was.

“What is it… what is happening?” she asked.

“It's the atmosphere, stimulated air glow emission, the streams of light, like the Northern Lights. It could only be caused by, but it cannot be, an atomic explosion in space. We are moving away from it now.”

“But how… I mean here… what?”

“What?” Patrick roared the words, roaring with pain and anger, holding the sobbing Nadya. “A bomb, that's what it was. A missile with an atomic warhead!

“Someone has just tried to blow us out of space!”

33

GET 23:27

Simon Dillwater clutched the sheaf of papers tightly and stared at the large photograph of the sun. Then he riffled the sheets of computations before looking up.

“I assume that you have checked all of your figures most thoroughly, Professor Weisman?” he said.

Weisman nodded. “A thing like this, you don't like to make mistakes. I ran them through the computer many times. Backwards and forwards, up and down. There's no mistake.”

“Might I ask if you have any idea why our people did not come up with this?”

“Why should they? It's a small field, a new one. There aren't that many solar astronomers in any case. And those interested in the interaction with the upper atmosphere, who really know their business, a handful. Not even a handful. In fact just two. Me and Moish.”

“Moish?”

“I just call him that, to myself, we have never met. But we correspond all the time. Academician Moshkin.”

“A Russian?”

“Of course.”