Winter World (The Long Winter #1)(21)

Chandler’s eyes bore into me.

“And where has your imagination led you? What did the world think of those possibilities?”

I shrug. “Who cares? This isn’t about me. Or you. This is about this mission and doing our best. Look, what we take up there is all we have to work with. If we get up there and find we can’t catch the artifact, we won’t be able to just order up a few more engines or more fuel. We’re sunk. The whole mission fails if we can’t reach that artifact.”

I turn to Grigory and Min. “Look, all I’m saying is that we should run some simulations on what this thing’s acceleration curve might look like and do the math on rendezvous feasibility. Consider adding more acceleration capability.”

Grigory nods vigorously. “I agree with this.”

“So do I,” says Min.

Chandler’s eyes flash at me.

To Fowler, I say what I’ve wanted to since I saw the first picture of the artifact. “And we need to know what else is on the board.”

He cocks his head at me.

“Here’s what we know for certain: solar output is falling, but disproportionately throughout the solar system. Earth is in a band that’s affected. There’s an alien vessel on a direct course for the Sun. These two facts lend themselves to more conclusions than we have time for. I’m not asking us to explore them. I just want to know one thing: have you found another artifact?”

Fowler’s eyes snap to a man sitting off to one side. He’s late middle age, with wire-rimmed glasses and short hair. Up to now, he hasn’t said a word. He still doesn’t. He just studies me with cold gray eyes, then nods curtly at Fowler.

“Yes,” says Fowler. “Fifteen minutes ago, we found another one.”





Chapter 15





Emma





The alarm wakens me. For a moment I flash back to the ISS yesterday morning. It already feels like another life and time. A time when I had a crew. And—

A message flashes on the screen:

Proximity Alert





The pitter-patter of the leading edge of a debris field hits the capsule like firecrackers going off.

A voice sounds over the speaker. Goddard mission control.

“Get your helmet on, Commander. We’ll drive.”

The capsule jerks wildly as I pull the helmet on. I tumble across the small space. Sergei’s body slams into me. The impact sends pain through my battered body.

Through the window, I glimpse the debris: a module that has broken up. I bet it was close to my capsule when it came apart. Mission control would have alerted me or changed my course if the debris were heading for me. This is a recent event, and there’s no way to accurately predict changes in the debris field.

The din of pelting debris subsides, followed by a collision, a sledge hammer into the side of the capsule. I stare and listen and wait. The wrapper for a Meal Ready-to-Eat, or MRE, floats by. It’s a beautiful sight—it means the debris didn’t breach the capsule.

A new message flashes on the screen. I lean over to read it, but I never get the chance.

The capsule shudders and jerks, tossing me side to side and end over end, like a mouse in a tin can shaken by a child. I throw up. I brace against the walls, but Sergei’s body slams into me and breaks my hold. I hear another crash, larger this time. I collide with another wall, and the air goes out of me. My vision spots.

Atmosphere rushes out of the capsule like a balloon popped. I see the puncture. It’s about the size of a fist, vacuuming everything out. Sergei’s body reaches it first and plugs it. And saves me.

I float in the middle of the capsule, in utter silence. Blinking. Trying to stay conscious. The capsule is adrift.

A new message appears on the screen. One line after another. Comms still work.

I try to read the message, but my visions blurs and the letters dissolve like text on a printed page in the rain. The black spots get bigger until they’re all I see.





Chapter 16





James





In the briefing room, the crew stops eating. Those flipping through the binders let the pages fall away from their hands. No one speaks. We’re all trying to process this revelation: there’s a second artifact out there.

In the pit below, the staff around Fowler stops typing. All eyes are on him. And, I realize, me. The crew is waiting for me to ask the next question.

Then it feels as if it’s just Fowler and me in the room, rapid-firing questions and answers like two brains effortlessly connecting and sharing data.

“Location?”

“Ten million miles beyond Mars.”

“Size? Composition?”

“Believed to be the same as the other artifact. Or vessel, if they are in fact under their own power.”

“Vector? Velocity?”

“Unknown.”

“How’d you find it? Probe?”

“Ground-based telescope.”

“How?” I realize the answer as soon as I ask, and offer it: “You traced the first artifact’s course—Alpha’s course? You reversed it.”

“Yes.”

“The implication is that both objects share the same launch point.”