Winter World (The Long Winter #1)(79)

Abby places her hands on the table and gazes at them as if the answer is somewhere in the wrinkles.

“If Alex had known that,” she says, shaking her head, “he might not have even come here. We’d probably be buried under ten feet of snow.”

“James can be equally stubborn.” I lean closer to her. “That’s all the more reason why it’s important for families to stick together right now. So the voices of reason can cut through the old grudges and hatred. We need each other. And I know he cares so much about you all.”

Abby takes a look around the cramped room where the four of them live. “You mentioned a new habitat?”

“Yes. Next to the one I share with James and Oscar.”

The mention of Oscar’s name draws a sneer, and she glances in his direction. Yes, she knows him.

“I’m sensing there’s a catch,” she says.

“There’s not. I know that James wants the best for you all. And I know that if he asked for the habitat for you, you might learn that he had done it—and refuse to accept it. So I did it instead. It’s yours. No strings attached. You can move whenever you’re ready. The transfer has already been approved.”

“Thank you,” she says quietly.

“I ask only one thing, and it’s not a requirement. Only a request.”

“Which is?”

“That you come and visit James. If Alex doesn’t want to come, then simply drop off the kids, or you and the kids can come by. That’s all.”





Chapter 40





James





It’s been two days since I gave the presentation to the Atlantic Union Congress. There’s been no decision yet. I count that as a bad sign. I feel like a trial lawyer who has made his case, as best he could, for an innocent client facing the death penalty—and now that client’s fate is in the hands of people who don’t understand the case and may act irrationally or selfishly. It’s driving me crazy.

I’m sitting in Fowler’s office at NASA headquarters, talking with him about the mission, when his assistant, a Marine lieutenant, knocks and enters.

“Sir, the Executive Council is asking for you. Both of you.”

This time, we meet with the leaders of the Atlantic Union in a smaller room: a situation room at the executive office building. The elected leaders of all of the union’s preeminent nations are seated at a long conference table. The president of the United States speaks first.

“Gentlemen, you are a go for your mission.”

Relief floods through me. I can actually feel the stress draining from my body.

The feeling doesn’t last long.

“But there are two conditions,” the president says, his gruff voice getting rougher with each passing word, like a chainsaw cranking. “First, the launch will not take place until we’ve recovered and retrofitted at least two hundred nuclear warheads.”

“Retrofitted for what?” I ask.

“Deployment in space. I’m sure the two of you can arrive at the reason, but I’ll say it so there’s no ambiguity: we believe your mission could antagonize our enemy and cause them to respond with force. We want to be ready to defend ourselves.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

“That could take years.” I practically shout the words.

“Maybe.” The president fixes me with a hard stare. “But I hear you’re pretty good with robotics. Perhaps you could assist in the recovery and redesign efforts.”

Fowler shoots me a look that says, Let me handle this.

“And the second condition?” Fowler asks.

“Before you inform the Caspians or the Pac, we need to be ready here on the ground.”

“Ready how?” Fowler asks softly.

“For war.”

I can’t hold my tongue anymore. “What does that mean?”

“It means, Dr. Sinclair, that we need to secure our new borders, build up our military presence on those borders, and strengthen our spy network abroad so that we can be ready and able to respond to any act of aggression.”

“That works against everything we’re trying to do! A military buildup will siphon resources from the nuclear refitting—as well as the mission, not to mention putting the other nations on guard. You know they have spies here in the AU. They’ll know about the military buildup the moment it starts. They’ll respond in kind.”

The president looks me directly in the eye. “Those are the conditions, gentlemen.”

His message is clear; the decision has been made. And it won’t be unmade.





In Fowler’s office, I pace, fit to be tied.

“This is ludicrous. They’re talking about fortifying borders for this habitable zone that we can’t possibly defend against either the Caspians or the Pac, not to mention that huge solar array out there. Offense is our only chance of survival.”

Fowler leans back in his office chair, reflecting. His voice is barely above a whisper.

“There’s nothing we can do about it, James. Our job is science. This is politics. These are people—irrational, frightened, angry people—who sometimes make bad decisions. We have our orders.”