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En route to the cargo warehouse, Caleb realized that he wasn't going to be "right back" like he'd told Zara. He hoped she would do the right thing. His failure to return would mean that she'd go on with the mission. He was saddened about not saying goodbye, but then again, he shouldn't feel that way. There was no need for a goodbye.
Though the deputies and mayors had taken away his right to board the rocket, they hadn't taken away the I.D. tag, and that got him past the guards posted at one of the warehouse's north side doors.
Inside, he stopped to make a quick survey of the hangar-like facility. Row after row of white polymer crates were being loaded onto the flatbeds of cargo vehicles by techs in clean suits. The crates would be taken out past the two great open doors on the west side of the warehouse and delivered to the launch tower. Judging from the cargo vehicles' present positions, Caleb figured that the last row of crates to be loaded was the one that paralleled the south wall, and that was a coincidence in his favor. The crate he wanted was in that very row.
Keeping his head low, Caleb strode into the warehouse. The internal lights were mounted so high on the walls that they cast a weak glow over everything, and Caleb's passage was hidden mostly in shadow. He reached his destination without incident, for the techs were hustling to load crates and were much too intent on their work to notice a passerby.
Moving up the row, Caleb scanned the cargo. About midway up, he found it. The box was a perfect cube, with a wide, wide length, and a depth of about 2 and 1 half meters. Its I.D. plate read:
TAMMUZ COLONY: 96860559##-78965316Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfEF465atVh
Docket 458-90-890***316Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSLxs9sUmXV
MOBILE WEATHER STATION 316Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtTCCUgwWm9
AND BALLOON ASSEMBLY
Caleb pulled his journal from his breast pocket and opened it to the back page. There he had written two sets of 6 numbers that Dayan had given him. He knelt before the crate's access panel, then looked up at the little keypad on the crate. As he keyed each number, it was digitally displayed above the pad. The crate's seal blew, and Caleb put his journal away and pulled the panel back towards him, revealing the small weather station and balloon assembly. His original idea had been to squeeze between the sampling rods of the station and rest his head on the silk pile of the balloon. But his memory had painted the space between the two as much larger than it truly was. In any case, there was no other option, so he would have to contort himself to get into the craft, shove an arm here, a leg there, perhaps a knee up his earlobe.
And, indeed, once he was inside the box, his knee was flirting with his ear. He nearly screamed as he leaned forward, seized the panel, and slammed it shut. The lock beeped twice: an alarming signal. Now, one thing stood between the crate and dying in it. Caleb set the little acid bomb's magnetic base onto the rear casing of the crate's lock. He slid his finger over the destruct button, getting a feel for it. That done, he fell back into the darkness and breathed deeply.
After a moment, already bored and his pulse still on the rapid side, Caleb fingered the light on his watch. He'd synchronized it with the launch clock and now saw that there were 2 hours and 41 minutes remaining until blastoff. He guessed he would have to stay in the crate for another 2 hours (at least!), and that prospect made the walls seem to move in a little tighter, the weather station and balloon assembly press on him a little harder.
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Caleb swam nude at the foot of a great waterfall. He went under the water, and when he came up, Zara stood before him in the thigh-high water. She was pure, unrestrained by a bathing suit, her golden locks wet and glistening in the alien sun. He went to her, and her skin was soft and warm and her hand fit perfectly on his shoulder.
"Don't you ever leave me," she said.
"This one's a bitch. Get Rube over here and we'll triple-team 'er."
Caleb snapped awake, tried to move, and then remembered where he was.
"All right, here we go."
Suddenly, Caleb felt he was in the air, but only for just one moment. The techs set the crate gently onto the flatbed. Caleb was jerked forward as he heard the muted sound of the cargo vehicle's engine race, and then the motor fell back into a steady whine.
I'm on my way. I'm on my way. System bypassed!
He forgot all about his confined space and reveled in what he had done and what he was doing.
The techs brought his crate to the launch tower, placed it on the elevator, and then rolled it into the access arm towards the hatch of the launch vehicle's supply deck on level 8. He wasn't sure when they moved the crate into the vehicle, but the sound of the techs locking it into position on the floor confirmed that he had arrived.
How long must I wait? Will I be able to hear them seal the supply deck hatch? Listen....
Sure enough, he heard the harsh slam of a hatch.
One.....two.....three.....
He hit the acid bomb's destruct button, then shut his eyes and tucked his head into his chest. There was a hissing sound, a horrifying acrid smell, and then a JUNK! Sensing that the lock had been disengaged, the seal broken, Caleb placed his palm on the crate's panel and pushed. The panel dropped outward.
His leg came out. Then an arm. His head, shoulder, another arm, and, finally, his other leg. Though he stood, he still felt like the human pretzel he'd become. He tried to shake off the stiffness, but it would linger at least as long as the time he'd spent in that crate. He looked around the circular room. A sole work light illuminated a wall marked: THIS AREA IS NOT PRESSURIZED. He shifted back to the crates locked onto the floor and then began checking I.D. plates. 1, 2, 3.....8.....10.....14....
Come on! Come on! Where are you?
He glanced at his watch. 01:53:36.
The crate he wanted us, of course, last in the first row. But at least it wasn't the last one in the last row. Had that been the case, he would have had to examine nearly 60 crates in the subdivision of gear. Caleb opened his journal, found the right code, plugged it in, and then unlocked the regular crate, a box approximately 3 meters wide, 3 high, and 5 long. The interior was divided by shelving, the top shelf containing 20 to 30 flight helmets. Caleb went through them, pulling out and trying on several before finding one that fit. Below the helmets were the oversized silver suitcases that contained the flight suits. Above the handle of each case was an I.D. plate that supplied the model number and dimensions. Again, in this department, Stuart could not fudge. The suit had to fit him snugly. He wouldn't even entertain the idea of a pressure leak. Dayan had asked why he didn't want to just bring along his suit; but wearing it or carrying the suit and helmet, hidden or not, would have brought questions from the warehouse guards. The idea had been to make it as simple as possible to get on board. He had planned to worry about the problem of the flight suit later.
Later sucks, thought Caleb.
Then an idea hit him. Instead of going through row after row of the suitcases, checking I.D. plates, he went directly to the bottom right case, the final one.
"Son of a bitch!"
The dimensions of the suit were not just close to Caleb's requirements, they were exact!
A noise came from the other end of the supply deck: someone was opening a hatch!
Caleb snatched up the suitcase, tucked his helmet into the crook of his arm, slammed the crate shut, then scrambled towards a ladder. He mounted it, skipping every other run as he climbed. Emerging into level nine, another supply deck, Caleb shot towards the nearest row of crates and took cover behind it. The crates on this level were much larger than those below, forming rows that rose nearly 3 meters.
"This is the third check, sir."
"If we forgot anything, we're fired."
"Yeah, it's not like we can come back for it."
"All right. I've got two forty-eight."
"Check's good. We're set."
The hatch slammed shut.
Caleb threw the latches on the suitcase, pulled out the flight suit, and stepped into it. He removed his watch, dug his fingers into the attached gloves, then buckled the watch over his protected wrist. He zipped up the unit's two inner linings, then the outer. To start the pressurization system's warmup sequence required him to press three buttons located at his left breast. A soft whirring told him the sequence had been initiated. He snatched his helmet and headed up the supply deck to the next ladder. Once he reached the top of the ladder, he found the expected airlock. The code to these hatches was known to every colonist, and in a moment, he was on the next deck, sealing the airlock behind him. He straightened and stepped into the garden, glancing briefly at the wall marker.
LEVEL TEN: PRESSURIZED AREA: HYDROPONICS
Plants, vegetables, and fruit trees, all weaving vinelike through growth racks, encircled the room. Tubes of water led in and out of the holding area. Thin bands of fluorescent grow lights formed concentric circles on the ceiling and ringed the walls. The juxtaposition between every other level and the garden had always awed Caleb. Something was exciting about slapping the natural against the artificial. It made the natural look that much better and the artificial that much worse. It was the natural look that would buy him a flight to Tammuz now. His suit's pressurization unit would run only eight hours before needing a recharge. The garden was pressurized. But he would, as usual, follow safety protocols and pressurize his suit for blastoff.
He searched the garden for something he could use to restrain himself during the launch. Coming up empty, he went to the perimeter and dug his gloved hand into the crack where one of the flexible water tubes met the wall. He found another tube to his right and did the same thing. After rocking himself forward and back several times, he decided that, with a little luck, he would make it through the liftoff. He withdrew his hands, fetched his helmet, put it on, and sealed it to his flight suit; then he engaged his pressurization unit, the helmet's comlink, and the oxygen knob. Air flowed. He resumed his position on the wall.
By now he hoped Zara was boarding the rocket. Her presence would be all Mayor Briskin needed to know the decision had been made. A terrible thought occurred to him, but he dismissed it. No, she was on board. He was not stowing away only to discover that she had opted to stay on Earth. She wouldn't do that. She wouldn't!
He rolled his wrist, and checked his watch. 55 minutes to go.
In the time that followed, the various communications from Mission Command were a symphony building toward a final crescendo. And, when there were 45 minutes left in the countdown, the words Caleb desperately wanted to hear, the words he'd sweated over, now buzzed in his ears.
"Tammuz, you are a GO. Initiate primary launch sequence...."
"Sequence is engaged."
Then something odd happened. Mission Command went dead. No signals. Nothing. Twice the vehicle's pilot tried in vain to contact the center.
Caleb waited. And waited. His jumpsuit was soaked, his mouth dry, and his trembling grew.
A sound. A hatch blowing. He looked at the ladder, then let his gaze sweep up to the ceiling. Xenon beams poured down through the circular hole and into the garden.
No! They can't know! Dayan didn't double-cross me! Or did he? He fixed the weight. I saw him. And he gave me the codes. No, it wasn't him. Then....
He was breathing hard enough to take notice of it, and a dark awareness crawled over him. His hand went to a pack mounted at his hip. The pack, labeled OUTFLOW, the one containing three slits for the release of carbon dioxide, had given him away. Or, rather, he had failed to consider the extra carbon dioxide he would release into the garden. That was it. That was how they got him.
Tearing his wrists free from the water tubes, he looked left, then right, for someplace to hide. Boots hammered on ladder rungs. Lights flashed. He unfastened his helmet, removed it, and then unzipped his suit down to his navel. He dug out his journal, flipped through the pages and tore free the entry he'd been writing on the complex's roof. He put the free page and the journal back into his pocket.
A xenon beam hit him square in the eyes.
Blinded, he tried to move back, but the muzzle of a guard's stungun jabbed his shoulder blade. His heart fell as if it were dropping to his ankles as he raised his hands.
They said nothing as they escorted him up the ladder, one in front, one behind, and led him onto the next deck, the colonist compartment.
He spotted Zara up ahead among the rows of people to his left. She unsnapped her flight restraints and started getting up.
"No! Zara! It has to be you!"
Caleb sprang past the guard in front of him, pulling out the page he had ripped from his journal.
Zara's visor was up, and her eyes brimmed with tears. He embraced her, then pulled back and handed her the paper. "I wrote this for you. Read it when you land."
Hands came down hard on Caleb's arms, and the guards began to drag him away.
"I....I....can't leave...."
"I'll find you." He wrenched an arm free, an arm that was immediately reseized. "I will find you."
The guards jammed him into the tunnel of the hatch that led out to the white room. On the other side, Caleb shot a look back into the hatch and saw Zara; she was holding her photo I.D. tags. She thumbed the corner of her picture, activating the voice recorder, and said, "I believe in you." Then she threw the tags at him. They landed at his feet. Once more, Caleb broke free from the sentries, scooped up the tags, and held them in his fist.
"No more from you," a guard said tersely.
The man shoved him to his knees and slapped magnetic handcuffs around Caleb's wrists. Caleb looked to the hatch. Zara's tears flowed just like water, and then a tech blocked his view of her and proceeded to seal the vehicle's hatch. The guards pulled him to his feet.
"Give me what you got in your hand," one said.
"Better kill me first. That's the only way."
The access arm began to pull away from the launch vehicle. Caleb closed his eyes and tightened every muscle in his body.316Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtUnKdyAwe1
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They shoved him into a QSU 3111 escort van, made him take off the flight suit, which was colonial property, and then drove him towards the seashore road that paralleled the launch center. The hard-faced security chief, who sat on the passenger's side, spoke to Mayor Briskin on the hands-free link. Caleb could hear the mayor's voice:
"Let him go. All charges dropped. And Caleb, if you're listening. What you did was dumb. But, yes, I know why. And I might've done the same thing myself. I'm sorry."
"Sir. You're going to have to put this on the director's voice mail before launch," the chief said.
"I'll do that now."
"Thanks. And good luck."
The complex blurred by. Caleb felt nothing. They let him out at the gate, and he barely heard the vehicle leave. He dragged himself away, pebbles rolling under his feet. There was no sky, no earth, no love, life, or dreams. Just a road to nowhere. He passed in front of a sign.316Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtkENfReN9e
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TAMMUZ-POLLUX
ILAN RAMON COLONIAL LAUNCH CENTRE
JAFFA, ISREAL
Suddenly, to his right, far, far in the distance, out over the dark horizon, a brilliant white light rose swiftly, illuminating a trailing plume of smoke. He froze, and after a moment, the sound of the launch reached him, a deep thunder that rumbled across the desert.
His gaze burned as he tracked the rocket's path, higher, higher, higher....then it vanished.316Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWh2y23CfB9
