Gravity Page 25

  Jack said nothing for a moment, his thoughts focused on why Helen Koenig would abruptly order her own experiment incinerated. He remembered what Gordon Obie had said at their meeting. Perhaps this was not an act of sabotage at all, but something just as frightening. A mistake.

  “There’s more,” said Liz. “Something else about this experiment that raises the red flag for me.”

  “What?”

  “How it got funded. Experiments that come from outside NASA have to compete for room aboard the station. The scientist fills out the OLMSA application, explaining the possible commercial uses for the experiment. It gets reviewed by us and goes through various committees before we prioritize which ones get launched. The process takes a long time—at least a year or more.”

  “How long did the Archaeon application take?”

  “Six months.”

  He frowned. “It was rushed through that quickly?”

  Liz nodded. “Fast track. It didn’t have to compete for NASA funding, like most experiments do. It was a commercial reimbursable. Someone paid to send up that experiment.”

  That was, in fact, one of the ways NASA kept ISS financially viable—by selling payload space aboard the station to commercial users.

  “So why would a company spend big bucks—and I do mean big bucks—to grow a test tube of essentially worthless organisms? Scientific curiosity?” She gave a skeptical snort. “I don’t think so.”

  “Which company paid for it?”

  “The firm Dr. Koenig worked for. SeaScience in La Jolla, California. They develop commercial products from the sea.”

  The despair Jack had felt earlier was finally lifting. Now he had information to work with. A plan of action. At last he could do something.

  He said, “I need the address and phone number of SeaScience. And the name of that employee you spoke to.”

  Liz gave a brisk nod. “You got it, Jack.”

  August 17

  Diana awakened from a restless sleep, her head aching, the dreams still clouding her mind. Dreams of England, of her childhood home in Cornwall. Of the neat brick pathway leading to the front door, overhung by climbing roses. In her dream, she had pushed open the little gate and heard it squeal as it always did, the hinges in need of oil. She had started up the walkway to the stone cottage. Only half a dozen paces and she would be on the front stoop, opening the door. Calling out that she was home, at last home. She wanted her mother’s hugs, her mother’s forgiveness. But the half dozen paces became a dozen. Two dozen. And still the cottage was out of reach, the pathway stretching longer and longer until the house had receded to the size of a doll’s.

  Diana awakened with both arms reaching out, a cry of despair bursting from her throat.

  She opened her eyes and saw Michael Griggs staring at her. Though his face was partly obscured by a protective filter mask and goggles, she could see his expression of horror.

  She unzipped her sleep restraint and floated across the Russian service module. Even before she looked in the mirror at her own reflection, she knew what she would see.

  A flame of brilliant red was splashed across the white of her left eye.

  Emma and Luther spoke in hushed voices as they floated together in the dimly lit hab. Most of the station was still in power down; only the Russian segment, which had its own self-contained electrical supply, was operating at full power. The U.S. end of the station was reduced to an eerie maze of shadowy tunnels, and in the gloom of the hab, the brightest source of light was the computer screen, on which the Environmental Control and Life Support System diagrams were currently displayed. Emma and Luther were already familiar with the ECLS system, had memorized its components and subsystems during their training on earth. Now they had an urgent reason to review the system. They had a contagion on board, and they could not be certain if the entire station was contaminated. When Nicolai had coughed, spraying eggs throughout the Russian service module, the hatch had been open. Within seconds, the station’s circulation system, designed to keep pockets of dead air from building up, had swirled the airborne droplets into other parts of the station. Had the environmental-control system filtered out and trapped the airborne particles, as it was designed to do? Or was the contagion everywhere now, in every module?

  On the computer screen were diagrams of airflow into and out of the station’s atmosphere. Oxygen was supplied by several independent sources. The primary source was the Russian Elektron generator, which electrolyzed water into hydrogen and oxygen. A solid-fuel generator using chemical cartridges was one of the backup sources, as were the oxygen storage tanks, which were recharged by the shuttle. A plumbed system distributed the oxygen, mixed with nitrogen, throughout the station, and fans kept the air circulating between modules. Fans also drew in air through various scrubbers and filters, removing carbon dioxide, water, and airborne particles.

  “These HEPA filters should’ve trapped every egg or larva within fifteen minutes,” said Luther, pointing to the high-efficiency particulate air filters in the diagram. “The system’s ninety-nine point nine percent efficient. Everything bigger than a third of a micron should’ve been filtered out.”

  “Assuming the eggs stayed airborne,” said Emma. “The problem is, they adhere to surfaces. And I’ve seen them move. They could crawl into crevices, hide behind panels where we can’t see them.”

  “It’d take months for us to rip out every panel and look for them. Even then, we’d probably miss a few.”

  “Forget ripping out the panels. That’s hopeless. I’ll change out the rest of the HEPA filters. Recheck the microbial air samplers tomorrow. We have to assume that’ll do it. But if those larvae have crawled into the electrical conduits, we’ll never find them.” She sighed, her fatigue so heavy she had to struggle to think. “Whatever we do, it may not make a difference. It may be too late.”

  “It’s definitely too late for Diana,” Luther said softly.

  Today, the scleral hemorrhages had appeared in Diana’s eyes. She was now confined to the Russian service module. A plastic sheet had been draped over the hatchway, and no one was allowed in without a respiratory mask and goggles. A useless exercise, thought Emma. They had all breathed the same air; they had all touched Nicolai. Perhaps they were all infected.

  “We have to assume the Russian service module is now hopelessly contaminated,” said Emma.

  “That’s the only livable module with full power. We can’t close it off entirely.”

  “Then I guess you know what we have to do.”

  Luther gave a weary sigh. “Another EVA.”

  “We need to restore full power to this end,” she said. “You’ve got to finish those repairs on the beta gimbal assembly, or we’ll be on the edge of catastrophe. If anything else goes wrong with our remaining power supply, we could lose Environmental Control next. Or the Guidance and Nav computers.” It was what the Russians used to call the coffin scenario. Without the power to orient itself, the station would begin to spin out of control.

  “Even if we do restore power,” said Luther, “it doesn’t address our real problem. The biocontamination.”

  “If we can contain it to the Russian end—”

  “But she’s incubating larvae right now! She’s like a bomb, waiting to go off.”

  “We jettison her body as soon as she dies,” said Emma. “Before she sheds any eggs or larvae.”

  “That may not be soon enough. Nicolai coughed up those eggs when he was still alive. If we wait till Diana dies…”

  “What are you suggesting, Luther?” Griggs’s voice startled them both, and they turned to look at him. He was staring at them from the hatchway, his face gleaming in the shadows. “Are you saying we shove her out while she’s still alive?”

  Luther drifted deeper into the gloom, as though retreating from attack. “Jesus, that’s not what I was saying.”

  “Then what were you saying?”

  “Just that the larvae—we know they’re inside her. We know it’s a matter of time.�
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  “Maybe they’re inside all of us. Maybe they’re inside you. Growing, developing right now. Should we jettison your body?”

  “If that’s what it takes to stop it from spreading. Look, we all know she’s going to die. There’s nothing we can do about it. We’ve got to think ahead—”

  “Shut up!” Griggs shot across the hab and grabbed Luther by his shirt. Both men slammed into the far wall and bounced off again. They twisted around and around in midair, Luther trying to pry off Griggs’s hands, Griggs refusing to release him.

  “Stop it!” yelled Emma. “Griggs, let him go!”

  Griggs released his hold. The two men drifted apart, still breathing hard. Emma positioned herself like a referee between them.

  “Luther’s right,” she said to Griggs. “We have to think ahead. We may not want to do it, but we have no choice.”

  “And if it was you, Watson?” Griggs shot back. “How would you like us discussing what to do with your body? How quickly we can bag you up, dispose of you?”

  “I’d expect you to be making those plans! There are three other lives at stake, and Diana knows it. I’m trying my best to keep her alive, but right now, I don’t have a clue what will work. All I can do is pump her full of antibiotics and wait for Houston to give us some answers. As far as I’m concerned, we’re on our own up here. We have to plan for the worst!”

  Griggs shook his head. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face haggard with grief. He said softly, “How can it get any worse?”

  She didn’t answer. She looked at Luther and read her own thoughts in his eyes. The worst is yet to come.

  “ISS, we have Surgeon standing by,” said Capcom. “Go ahead, ISS.”

  “Jack?” said Emma.

  She was disappointed to hear Todd Cutler’s voice instead. “It’s me, Emma. I’m afraid Jack’s left JSC for the day. He and Gordon took off for California.”

  Damn you, Jack, she thought. I need you.

  “We’re all in agreement down here about the EVA,” said Todd. “It needs to be done, and soon. My first question to you is, how is Luther Ames? Both physically and mentally? Is he up to it?”

  “He’s tired. We’re all tired. We’ve hardly slept in the last twenty-four hours. The cleanup is keeping us busy.”

  “If we give him a day to rest, could he manage the EVA?”

  “Right now, a day of rest seems like an impossible dream.”

  “But would it be enough time?”

  She considered it for a moment. “I think so. He just needs to catch up on his sleep.”

  “Okay. Then here’s my second question. Are you up to an EVA?”

  Emma paused in surprise. “You want me to be his partner?”

  “We don’t think Griggs is up to it. He’s withdrawn from all communication with the ground. Our psychologist feels he’s too unstable at this point.”

  “He’s grieving, Todd. And very bitter that you won’t let us come home. You may not be aware of this, but he and Diana are . . .” She paused.

  “We know. And these emotions seriously undercut his effectiveness. It makes an EVA dangerous. That’s why you need to be Luther’s partner.”

  “What about a suit? The other EMU is too big for me.”

  “There’s an Orlan-M suit stored in the old Soyuz. It was tailored for Elena Savitskaya and was left on board several missions ago. Elena was about your height and weight. It should fit.”

  “It’s my first EVA.”

  “You’ve gone through WET-F training. You can handle it. Luther just needs you out there to assist.”

  “What about my patient? If I’m outside doing the EVA, who’s going to attend to her?”

  “Griggs can change her IVs, see to her needs.”

  “And if there’s a medical crisis? What if she starts to convulse?”

  Todd said quietly, “She’s dying, Emma. We don’t think there’s anything you can do to change that fact.”

  “That’s because you haven’t given me any useful information to work with! You’re more interested in keeping this station alive! It seems you care more about the goddamn solar arrays than the crew. We need a cure, Todd, or we’re all going to die up here.”

  “We don’t have a cure. Not yet—”

  “Then get us the fuck home!”

  “You think we want to leave you stranded up there? You think we have a choice? It’s like the Nazi high command down here! They’ve got Air Force assholes posted all over Mission Control, and—”

  There was sudden silence.

  “Surgeon?” said Emma. “Todd?”

  Still no answer.

  “Capcom, I’ve lost Surgeon,” she said. “I need comm link restored.”

  A pause. Then, “Stand by, ISS.”

  She waited for what seemed like an eternity. When Todd’s voice finally came back on, it was subdued. Cowed, thought Emma.

  “They’re listening, aren’t they?” she said.

  “That’s affirmative.”

  “This is supposed to be a PMC! A private loop!”

  “Nothing’s private anymore. Remember that.”

  She swallowed hard, suppressing her anger. “Okay. Okay, I’ll dispense with the ranting. Just tell me what you’ve got on this organism. Tell me what I can use against it.”

  “I’m afraid there’s not much to tell you. I just spoke to USAMRIID. To a Dr. Isaac Roman, who’s in charge of the Chimera project. His news isn’t good. All their antibiotic and antihelminth trials have failed. He says Chimera has so much foreign DNA it’s now closer to a mammalian genome than anything else. Which means any drug we use against it kills our tissues as well.”

  “Have they tried cancer drugs? This thing multiplies so fast, it’s behaving like a tumor. Could we attack it that way?”

  “USAMRIID tried antimitotics, hoping they could kill it during the cell-division phase. Unfortunately, the doses they needed were so high they ended up killing the hosts as well. The entire gastrointestinal mucosa sloughed off. The host animals bled out.”

  The worst death imaginable, thought Emma. Massive hemorrhage into the bowels and stomach. Blood pouring from both mouth and rectum. She had witnessed such a death on earth. In space, it would be even more horrifying, giant globules of blood filling the cabin like bright red balloons, splashing onto every surface, every crew member.

  “Then nothing has worked,” she said.

  Todd said nothing.

  “Isn’t there something? Some cure that won’t kill the host?”

  “There was only one thing they mentioned. But Roman believes it’s only a temporary effect. Not a cure.”

  “What’s the treatment?”

  “A hyperbaric chamber. It requires a minimum of ten atmospheres of pressure. The equivalent of diving to a depth of over three hundred feet. Infected animals kept at those high pressures are still alive, six days after exposure.”

  “It has to be a minimum of ten atmospheres?”

  “Anything less, and the infection runs its course. The host dies.”

  She let out a cry of frustration. “Even if we could pump our air pressure that high, ten atmospheres is more than this station can tolerate.”

  “Even two would stress the hull,” said Todd. “Plus, you’d need a heli-ox atmosphere. You can’t reproduce that on the station. That’s why I didn’t want to mention it. In your situation, it’s useless information. We’ve already looked into the possibility of flying a hyperbaric chamber up to ISS, but equipment that bulky—something capable of producing pressures that high—needs to go into Endeavour’s cargo bay. The problem is, she’s already out of horizontal processing. It would take a minimum of two weeks to get a chamber loaded up and launched. And it means docking the orbiter to ISS. Exposing Endeavour and its crew to your contamination.” He paused. “USAMRIID says that’s not an option.”

  She was silent, her frustration boiling into rage. Their only hope, a hyperbaric chamber, required their return to earth. That was not an option either.

 
“There has to be something we can do with this information,” she said. “Explain to me. Why would hyperbaric therapy work? Why did USAMRIID even think of testing it?”

  “I asked Dr. Roman that same question.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That this was a new and bizarre organism. That it requires us to consider unconventional therapy.”

  “He didn’t answer your question.”

  “It’s all he would tell me.”

  Ten atmospheres of pressure was near the upper limit of human tolerance. Emma was an avid scuba diver, but she had never dared go deeper than a hundred twenty feet. A depth of three hundred feet was only for the foolhardy. Why had USAMRIID tested such extreme pressures?

  They must have had a reason, she thought. Something they know about this organism made them think it would work.

  Something they’re not telling us.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The reason why Gordon Obie was known as the Sphinx had never been more apparent than on their flight to San Diego. They had signed out one of the T-38 jets from Ellington Field, with Obie at the controls and Jack squeezed into the single passenger seat. That they hardly said a word to each other while in the air was not surprising. A T-38 is not conducive to conversation, since passenger and pilot sit one behind the other like two peas crammed in a pod. But even during the refueling stop in El Paso, when they had both climbed out to stretch their legs after an hour and a half in cramped quarters, Obie could not be drawn into conversation. Only once, as they stood on the edge of the tarmac drinking Dr Peppers from the hangar vending machine, did he offer a spontaneous comment. He squinted up at the sun, already past its noon height, and said, “If she was my wife, I’d be scared shitless too.”

  Then he tossed his empty soda can into the trash bin and walked back to the jet.

  After landing at Lindbergh Field, Jack took the wheel of their rental car, and they headed north on Interstate 5 to La Jolla. Gordon said almost nothing, but simply stared out the window. Jack had always thought Gordon was more machine than man, and he imagined that computerlike brain registering the passing scenery like bits of data: HILL. OVERPASS. HOUSING DEVELOPMENT. Though Gordon had once been an astronaut, no one in the corps really knew him. He would dutifully show up at all their social events, but would stand off by himself, a quiet and solitary figure sipping nothing stronger than his favorite Dr Pepper. He seemed perfectly at ease with his own silence, accepted it as part of his personality, just as he’d accepted his comically protruding ears and his bad haircuts. If no one really knew Gordon Obie, it was because he saw no reason to reveal himself.