The Calculating Stars (Lady Astronaut, #1)(25)

I waited in the shade of one of our canvas triage tents as the plane taxied to a stop. Uniformed men ran the stairs out to the plane, and the doctors and nurses waited at the ready. We had a good system down now.

The door opened and the first of the refugees stepped out, gaunt as a rake. And black. I inhaled and turned, automatically, to look for Myrtle. In the entire month, this was the first black man who had gotten off one of the refugee planes.

She had her back to the plane, squaring bandages on a table.

“Myrtle?” Behind me, a murmur of surprise came from the doctors and nurses.

“Hm?” She looked over her shoulder. Her knees buckled, but she caught herself on the table. “Oh God. Praise God, it worked. Thank you, God, for your mercy.”

When I turned back, there was a line of black men, women, and children coming down the stairs. There were white people mixed in, and we saw more as the refugees kept deplaning. First in, last out. The black people had been the last ones they’d let on the plane.

As they came closer, their features were easier to make out. Thin, yes. But also pocked with tiny pink sores. Someone moaned—it might have been me. We’d seen the sores from acid rain before, but the damage was so much more apparent on darker skin.

I shook myself and picked up my tray of paper cups of electrolytes. Hydration. Someone else would be standing by with sandwiches. Glancing back at Myrtle, I said, “So I guess Eugene finally talked someone into changing the location of the rescue missions, huh?”

“No.” The smile on her face died away. “No. We used your plane to drop fliers on the black neighborhoods, telling them where to go to be picked up by the refugee planes. But they’re here now, and there will be more, and we’ll thank God for that.”

She picked up a packet of swabs and prepared to meet the incoming wave.

*

Two weeks later, I’d had ample opportunity to feel guilty for ditching the first meeting about the climate problem like it was a plane on fire. So, feeling the total lack of a parachute, I followed Nathaniel into the meeting with the president, his staff, some cabinet members, and half a dozen other men who served goodness knows what function.

I tried to focus on the mundane details to get past the fear. For instance, whoever had decorated this conference room had gone to great lengths to mask the fact that it was an underground bunker. The wood-paneled walls and green carpet evoked a forest glade. Curtains hung over faux windows, which were lit from the back with a warm golden light.

I clutched my portfolio of papers against my chest and followed Nathaniel into the room. Men in ties and dark suits sat or stood around the room in little knots of conversation. Some stood in front of a chalkboard, where my calculations had been transferred. They stopped talking and turned to stare when Acting President Brannan stood to greet us.

He was sunburnt, and had wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, as though he usually smiled a lot. Not today, though. Lines of strain turned his mouth down, and his hoary gray eyebrows were drawn together with concern.

“Dr. York. Mrs. York.” He gestured to the man next to him, who was rotund and balding, but had a splendidly tailored suit. “This is M. Scherzinger from the United Nations. I’ve asked him to sit in on our conversation.”

“Charmed.” He bent over my hand with a click of his heels, but his eyes strayed to the small scar my hairline.

Or, at least, I thought they did. I might have been a little paranoid about my appearance. I had tried to find the line between professional and dowdy, but it likely didn’t matter. I was the only woman in the room.

Another man, with red hair and no chin, approached and said, “Should we get started, Mr. President? We don’t want to waste Dr. York’s time.” By which he meant that the president was very busy.

“Of course. Thank you, Mr. O’Neill.” President Brannan gestured to the front of the conference room.

I kept my gaze fixed upon the chalkboards, scanning the numbers to see if everything had been transferred accurately. It was easier than thinking about the fact that we were about to give a presentation to the president. Or, at least, the acting president.

Around us, the men took their seats and stared at the front of the room expectantly. My heart was racing, and my palms stuck to the portfolio with sweat. To look at me, you wouldn’t think that it was snowing outside.

At least I was only there as backup, in case Nathaniel needed additional calculations to explain the situation. Give me an unpowered landing and I was fine. Addressing a roomful of people? Thank you, but no.

At the moment, all I wanted to do was get through the afternoon without vomiting. Besides, there was a disturbing consistency to how data presented by pretty young women was treated. It was better all around if it was Nathaniel doing the talking.

I set my portfolio down on a little table between the chalkboards. One of them was blank and there was plenty of chalk, in a variety of colors, waiting for me. I picked up a piece so I’d have something to do with my hands. The cool white cylinder soaked up the sweat from my skin.

My husband faced the room and waited until he had everyone’s attention. “Gentlemen. In the weeks since the Meteor, we have been focused on recovery efforts. Hundreds of thousands of people in countries around the At lantic have been rendered homeless. In some places, the social order has collapsed, leading to rioting, looting, and other atrocities as people compete for scarce resources. My duty today is to tell you that this is not the worst of our problems.”