Winter World (The Long Winter #1)(18)

Why? It’s as if they think I’m not coming home soon.

“Will do. Any idea on timeline for reentry?”

“Yeah, that’s unknown at the moment.”

“Why? What’s going on? Did the storm that hit the ISS impact the Earth?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Is there something wrong with the capsule?”

“No, Commander. Nothing like that. We’ve, ah, got our hands full down here.”

Hands full with what? Is it other launches? It has to be. I’m sure they don’t want to bring me back until they have the personnel to monitor the capsule and respond if anything goes wrong. If they’re working on a launch that’s time-sensitive, they would want to delay bringing me back. And treating the decompression sickness would need to be done either way—here or down there—and it’s best done quickly to avoid permanent damage. It starts to make sense—if my theory is correct.

“We’ll get you home, Commander. We’re doing all we can.”

“I know. Thank you. I should have said that earlier. I mean it. Thank you for everything. Before I saw the capsule, I thought I was finished. I knew it.”

“Just doing our jobs, ma’am.”

There’s a long pause. The food is making me sleepy. Or the thicker air. My speech is almost slurred when I speak.

“What can I do?”

“Just rest, Commander Matthews. And hang in there.”

I float down beside Sergei and close my eyes.

Sleep comes quickly.





Chapter 14





James





The scale of the Kennedy Space Center is beyond my expectations. The complex has over seven hundred buildings spread across almost a hundred and fifty thousand acres. It’s like a city of the future, an oasis of technological marvels here on the Florida coast. The campus is swarming with people: military, NASA personnel, private contractors, you name it. This launch is an all-hands-on-deck event, and everyone is hustling to make it happen.

Fowler hands me off to a group of handlers who give me a crash course on what to expect up there. A different group runs a series of tests on me in rapid succession—everything from blood work to a vision check to urine tests. The results must be okay, because I never hear any more about it.

Lunch is a surprise, because the entire twelve-person mission crew is there. We gather in what feels like a college classroom: there are seven rows of desks arranged in a semicircle, rising up like stadium seating around a pit with a lectern and a large screen. A few of the crew know each other. They shake hands and make small talk.

I only recognize one of my crewmates: Dr. Richard Chandler. He’s twenty years older than I am. We met at Stanford, when I was getting my doctorate in bioengineering. He was a professor. A really good one. I excelled in his classes. And he liked me… for a time. I can’t put my finger on exactly when he stopped liking me. At the time, I didn’t understand why. We lost contact. But when I had my trouble—legal trouble—and when it hit the news, he was the first to denounce me. That got him on TV and raised his profile, which led to a book deal. Tearing me down became part of his identity.

I know why now: he was the leading bioengineering expert before I came along. At first, he saw a promising student, perhaps a collaborator. Then he saw a rival whose ideas and skill quickly surpassed his own. He stopped supporting me then—and went a step further. He committed to taking me down to reclaim his own glory.

I think that says a lot about a person: how they handle being second best. Do they work on themselves? Or attack the person ahead of them?

One thing’s certain: time hasn’t changed Chandler’s opinion of me. He stares daggers at me from across the room. He’s lost a little hair, and the crow’s-feet radiating from his eyes have gotten longer and deeper, but he’s the same Rich Chandler I truly came to know… after the world turned against me.

“Hi.”

I turn to find an Asian man holding out his hand. I’d guess he’s a little younger than I am, early thirties, and fit, with calm, intense green eyes.

“Hi. I’m James Sinclair.”

He nods and does a double-take. The reaction is ever so slight, a person recognizing a name they’ve read before, or heard before. His voice is less enthusiastic when he continues.

“I’m Min Zhao. Pilot. Navigation and extensive experience in ship repair. Two tours on ISS. Forty-four EVAs.”

“Impressive. Very nice to meet you.”

He doesn’t ask my field. So he does recognize me.

Another man wedges between us and holds his hand out to me, then Min. “Grigory Sokolov. Astronautics and electrical engineer. Propulsion and solar power specialist.”

He focuses on me, silently prompting me.

“James Sinclair. Medical doctor. Bioengineer.”

He squints. “Robotics?”

“Among other things. I’ll be investigating the artifact.”

“Figuring out how to kill it?”

“If need be.”

“There is need. There is no if.”

Min introduces himself to Grigory, this time with a little more detail. I can’t help but pick up on the other intros taking place all around us. The fields are varied. Most members have training in two fields, usually in adjacent disciplines. There’s a computer scientist with expertise in computer engineering and hardware design. I’ll likely be working with him. A linguistics expert with a degree in archeology. Another physician with a specialty in brain trauma and psychology.