Winter World (The Long Winter #1)(13)

DCS. Mild. Bruises.





And then I ask what I really want to know.

Crew?





No response comes. Not a good sign. I’m too nervous to wait.

Soyuz capsules?





Sorry. None were recovered.





The words are a gut punch. For a moment, I can’t focus on anything else. The pain vanishes. I feel tears welling up again. I float back from the screen, the stylus my only tether to the wall. I stare at the words. None were recovered. They’re all dead. Except for me. I should have—

Nothing you could have done, Commander. Nothing. Station broke up in seconds. It was a no-escape scenario. We’re proud you’re alive.





I don’t know how to respond to that. I can’t. I simply ask the next question.

The image. From probe. Received?





Yes.





What is it?





Another long pause. Why? I type out five letters that seemed unimaginable yesterday.

Alien?





Unknown at this time. Will discuss when able.





What does that mean?

Plan?





Still working on it. You need to remain in orbit for now.





Why?





Need to assure safe return.





That’s another mystery. If they’re scared of the capsule being compromised—like the ISS—they would be bringing it back as soon as possible. What’s going on down there?

The decompression sickness is starting to wane, but my head is still foggy. I try to focus. What’s the next step? Can’t go home. Station is gone. Soyuz capsules weren’t used for evac. What’s next?

Other survivors. I’ve got to look for them. Just in case. I return to the keyboard and type furiously.

Have you scanned wreckage for other survivors?





Yes. We haven’t identified any as of yet.





I want to search.





Another long wait. I type again:

Please.





On the ground, someone is calculating the risk versus reward for the maneuver.

Not possible.





Why?





Space weather event compromised satellites.





Without the satellites, they can only control the capsule when it’s in line of sight with one of the ground stations. They must have programmed it to hang here in geosynchronous orbit with this ground station, which, based on the view out the window, is in North America.

I’ll drive when you can’t. Please. I need to do this.





Stand by, Commander.





This wait is the longest yet. In my mind, I mentally prepare my counterarguments for when they say no. I’ve got it all laid out when the message pops onto the screen.

You are a go for ISS wreckage search. Sending map of debris and schedule for remote and local control.





The screen switches to an image of Earth, ringed by its layers of atmosphere. Small objects in orbit are highlighted—the pieces of the ISS. They’re scattered around maybe half the globe. Some are close to the atmosphere, others farther up. Whoever made the search plan did it correctly: the capsule will maneuver to the pieces in the lowest orbit first, the ones that will burn up sooner.

A countdown starts on the screen:

MANUAL CONTROL IN:

15:28

15:27

15:26





Another line appears in the chat:

Good luck, Commander.





I float to the window and watch as the capsule maneuvers toward the first piece of wreckage.





We’ve searched three quarters of the wreckage. I’ve covered most of what’s in a decaying orbit.

Nothing.

The capsule is out of ground contact now, so I’m maneuvering it, which is awkward with the gloves, but doable. It’s not like I need a huge amount of precision.

The next debris field is the largest of all the wreckage. It grows larger in the window by the second. I can make out the European Robotic Arm, still attached to the Nauka Multipurpose Laboratory Module. Farther out, disconnected, I see the Zvezda Service Module and Poisk. They were connected to the Nauka by Pirs, but there’s no sign of it.

I bring the capsule around in a long arc, scanning the pieces, which look like soda cans shot up with a BB gun. Through one of the holes, I catch a glimpse of what I think is a human arm.

I stop cold, wondering if I’ve been awake too long, if I’m finally hallucinating. Or if it was simply another piece of debris that looked like an arm.

I maneuver the capsule back and float closer to the debris, aligning the capsule’s window with a jagged hole.

I can’t tell if I’m laughing or crying or both, but I know what I’m seeing: it’s not only an arm, it’s a body, in a Russian Orlan space suit, tethered to the station, looking out at me, silently saying, I’m ready to be rescued.