The Last Second (A Brit in the FBI #6)(55)
The anger continued to rise, but she managed to keep her voice low and calm. “Those records are confidential.”
“Nevaeh, your mental health is tied to your security clearance. You know that. You sought treatment outside the program. It sent the wrong message.”
“But the doctor told me I wasn’t schizophrenic. She didn’t treat me, didn’t give me meds. Nothing.”
“You went to her because you were still hearing voices, yes?”
She didn’t answer, and he reached across the table, took her hand.
“Nevaeh, I want to help you. Come back to work for us. We’ll get you the best care, the best medication therapies, and you will have a hand in shaping the future of space as we know it. We can work around the hallucinations.”
She stood, knocking the food wrappings onto the floor. “I am not hallucinating. And if you won’t strap me to a rocket and get me back up there, I have nothing to offer NASA.”
Norgate spread his hands in front of him, looked helpless, “I’m sorry, Nevaeh. It’s out of my hands.”
She left the restaurant at a near run. She ignored Norgate’s calls.
She could no longer contain her fury. She kicked the side of her car, again and again, causing a massive, boot-shaped dent.
It wasn’t fair, what they were doing to her. Not fair at all. She wanted to tell the world. She’d never felt such anger, such hatred, toward another creature. It almost surprised her, but at the same time, she understood her emotions. She was being stripped of her status, her livelihood, her mission in life. It was natural to feel violent loathing toward the person standing in her way. One person had destroyed her: Rebecca Holloway.
No, there was another, too. Dr. Fontaine in New York had sold her out.
She got in the car, turned the air-conditioning on high, slammed the car into gear, tried to breathe, to think.
As she drove away, she knew she was going to have to find a way to put herself back in space. And she had no idea how to make that happen. Maybe the Russians? Perhaps they’d take her on, allow her to fly with their cosmonaut program. Would she have to become a Russian agent? Spy for them on the United States, give away the secrets of the American space program, and more, get them access to everything her clearance gave her? Maybe. And she would do it happily, if they could give her what she needed.
She knew she’d have to tell the Numen she’d failed. Would they desert her? Would they find another astronaut who was more capable? When she next went into the chamber, she knew she had no choice, they were her partners, they had a right to know.
CHAPTER FORTY
Nevaeh found a sensory deprivation tank at the University of Houston. Here, she didn’t have to disguise herself, she used an old teacher ID from a summer class she’d taught once upon a time, and let herself into the psych building. A little sweet-talking, a hundred-dollar bill, and she was into the technician’s good graces, with assurances she could use the sensory deprivation tank anytime she wanted.
In the tank, she tried to clear her mind. It took longer than usual to find her calm; she was consumed with thoughts of Rebecca Holloway’s perfidy.
When she finally felt herself relax into a theta state, she found the Numen were waiting for her.
She couldn’t keep the desolation from her voice. “NASA isn’t going to let me come back. It’s that bitch, Holloway, she’s always been jealous of me.”
We know of her behavior, her jealousy of you, you who are a bright light and honest, who only want good for the Earth. NASA deserted you, believed her, and look what you achieved, and you brought them news of us and yet they were too afraid to listen. You will find another way, you must find another way.
And they went silent.
Yes, Nevaeh thought, I will find another way. It came to her suddenly and she believed she heard the Numen humming in agreement.
Neveah emailed Jean-Pierre Broussard the next day.
The next day, her phone rang. A man, clearly French, introduced himself as Jean-Pierre Broussard. She closed her eyes and thanked the Numen, for she knew it was they who’d pushed him to her. She knew all about him, of course, a brilliant aeronautical engineer, published in respected scientific journals. He currently worked for Arianespace in France, ah, but he had plans, big plans, and she wanted to be part of them. He was also known as a playboy, but to Nevaeh, he was a contradiction in terms—as much as he loved the center stage, none knew about his private life and he never spoke of it.
Nevaeh clutched her cell. “Yes, Monsieur Broussard, thank you for calling me back.”
“I look at your email like a sign from God. Dr. Patel, I need your brain.”
Her heart began to pound, slow heavy strokes. “My brain?”
“You brain. As I said, I hadn’t known what I needed, then—an email from the exactly right person. I’d like to make you an offer. I’m starting my own aerospace firm, and I want to put you back into space.”
And they talked and talked. He told her he wanted to revolutionize space travel—“starting with dropping the cost to get a rocket into space. It shouldn’t cost billions, and it shouldn’t have to go through government approval hoops, not if we bring in the raw materials and build them ourselves. And these rockets are going to be reusable, further driving down costs. We will undercut the prices of our competitors, and send rockets up weekly. I would say, if we’re successful, we will be able to start shipping supplies to the ISS within five years, and put a manned pod into orbit to dock with the ISS within the decade. And you would be first in line to man the mission. Of course,” he continued cheerfully, “this will probably take us ten years, but that’s nothing, given my goals.”