Launch Pad (30 page)

“Which memory am I plugging into?”

“We’ll start with the test firing.”

Unease darted through me. “What do you mean, start?”

He straightened, smoothing the lines of his shirt. “I’m hoping we can resolve this by revisiting the experience. But if not, we may have to go deeper.” He gestured to his handheld. “I’ve been poring over your readout since last night. First I had to locate the print of your experience on board Eclipse I. Then I had to find similar patterns, which in your case was no easy task.”

“I’ll bet. I told you nothing like that had ever happened to me.”

“Perhaps not. But the reason it happened is inside you, and that reason is buried somewhere in your memory. The patterns are there, if you know what to look for.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“You will. But listen carefully.” His voice dropped a notch. “I could only find one other pattern that met my search criteria. That means we only have two chances at this. So don’t let anything slip by you.”

“You won’t see it at all?”

He shook his head. “It’s up to you to interpret the memory. I’m only your guide.”

“Will I feel anything?”

“Everything you remember. It will seem completely real, but your conscious mind will know the difference. Try not to let that distract you. Are you ready?” He held the headset out to me.

I was silent for a moment. I didn’t relish the idea of revisiting that strange day of the test firing. In fact, the thought terrified me. But I couldn’t back down now; I was the big space hero, after all. I took the headset from him and donned it carefully. “Plug me in,” I said.

He began pushing buttons on his console. “Remember, watch everything carefully.…”

O O O

“Four minutes, Schaeffer.”

“Roger, control.” He leaned over and thumbed the com switch. “You catch that, Mel?”

Her voice came back sounding tired. “Yeah. Be right there.”

The readouts and displays glowed out at him in the low light of the cockpit. He leaned back in the pilot’s seat and closed his eyes, resting them. Ghost images of symbols and numbers danced in the moment’s darkness.

A strange disorientation clouded his thoughts, as if he’d just joined a conversation in progress. Stranger still, he became aware of another presence, another self. This other was nowhere to be seen, causing him a moment of panic. Where was he? Who—

Understanding came. The other was him, too. It was his memory-self, the one who experienced. He was the watcher-self, the one who observed. He remembered a warning about distractions, and his panic receded.

The hatch behind him hissed open, and Commander Melanie Morsi floated into the cockpit. Her features were flushed. Sweat beaded on her crew cut. “Goddamn system diagnostics,” she said under her breath, taking her seat next to him. “They’d be a lot easier to run if we had more space on this ship.”

He grinned. “I think the engineers designed them that way, sweetheart. Just to piss you off.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Her voice was grim.

“Why bother running those diagnostics anyway? We’ve got a test firing going on here, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

She ignored him. She usually did when she was in one of those moods. “Control, give me a reading on the primaries.”

Control, in the voice of an operator named Benny, could not keep his amusement from showing. “Primaries are holding steady, Mel. And Schaeffer’s right, you know. We don’t need to worry about the reactor for another two weeks yet.”

Schaeffer tried to hide his smile, without much success.

“Listen, Benny,” Mel said, “I don’t see you in here flying this can. Don’t you tell me what not to worry about.”

“Uh … roger, Eclipse I. Three minutes.”

“Gotcha.” She swung around to face me. “You going to help me out here, or do I have to fire this thing myself?”

Schaeffer bent to his console and began punching in commands. “Yeah. Starting pressurization sequence.” His instruments told him that the primary coolant was pressurizing nicely. “Mel, lock us down.”

“Check.” Mel pressed a row of buttons, and the hatchway behind them slid closed. A short, loud buzz confirmed it was sealed. “All stations secured, boss.”

Benny’s voice came over the com again. “Two minutes, Eclipse I.”

“Roger, control.” Schaeffer flicked the generator switches above his head. “I’m starting her up.”

“Roger, Eclipse I.”

That’s when it started. The deck beneath his feet began vibrating as the generators whirred into life. Nothing unusual about that. But Schaeffer froze, his hand hanging out in front of him as if he had been turned off.

Mel glanced over her own readouts. “Pressurization complete,” she said without looking up.

Schaeffer remained frozen. He couldn’t even respond; it seemed his brain had forgotten how to operate his mouth.

Mel looked up at him. “Primaries are pressurized, Schaeffer. We can switch over any time now.”

He barely heard her. That rumbling beneath his feet commanded his full attention. Something about it … everything was normal, except something was wrong, all wrong.

“Mike? You okay?”

With an effort, he turned to her. A frown was set in her features. “Mike?”

Schaeffer’s throat locked. “I …”

“Eclipse I,” Benny said over the radio. “We show pressurization sequence complete. Switch over and prepare for ignition.”

The vibration intensified as the primaries readied themselves for the test firing. There was much to do yet, many switches needing to be thrown. But Schaeffer did nothing, felt nothing, even thought nothing.

“Eclipse I, switch over for final sequence.” Benny’s voice had grown strident.

“Control,” Mel said, “we may have a problem here.”

“What is it? All my indicators show green.”

“Not with the ship. With Mike.”

A prolonged silence greeted this. Finally, Benny said, “Can you be more specific, Mel?”

“Ah … stand by, Control.”

Benny’s voice cracked. “Stand by? We are less than one minute from ignition!”

Mel turned her attention back to Schaeffer. “Mike? Can you do it?”

The vibrating deck. The q-thrusters beneath his feet. And cold space pressing all around them. It was too much for him; he could do nothing.

Mel came visibly to a decision. Moving quickly, she punched in the override command. Warning bells suddenly came to life all over the ship. “Control, this is Eclipse I, requesting emergency countdown abort. Repeat, abort countdown. Emergency.”

Requests like that were not questioned. Benny’s voice immediately adopted a brisk, mechanical tone. “Roger, Eclipse I, countdown aborted. Are you able to shut down?” In the event of computer failure on board, Benny would be able to shut everything down from the control room.

“Roger, Control,” Mel said, reaching over to cut the switches to the generators. “Shutting down.”

The vibration subsided. Schaeffer began to feel control coming back to his body. The first sensation he became conscious of was a deep anger, a feeling of having been betrayed.

Benny spoke again. “Eclipse I, do you require medical assistance?”

Mel glanced at Schaeffer. He could feel her eyes, and the puzzled concern in them. “Negative, Control,” she said. “I think … we just need to get out of here.” She tentatively reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. “Mike?”

He buried his face in his hands. “Oh Christ,” he said.

O O O

I blinked, and was back in the examining room. At least, that’s what it felt like.

Without a word, Dr. Wells removed the headset and shut down his device. I looked up at him, stricken. “I—”

“Easy,” he said. “Just relax. Give yourself a moment to adjust. The disorientation will pass.”

I nodded and started taking deep breaths to calm myself. At that moment, I understood why mnemonology was so unpopular. These doctors earned their bread by making patients relive all the neurotic and psychotic moments of their lifetimes, yanking them out of their present reality, shoving them into the past, then yanking them back again. A wave of hot hatred for Dr. Wells washed over me.

I continued with the deep breathing until I was in control of myself again.

Dr. Wells pulled up a chair across from mine and sat. “How do you feel?”

“Drained.”

He nodded. “That’s normal. Are you ready to talk about it?”

Long moments passed. “I suppose.”

“Go through the memory calmly, one step at a time. Is there anything new that you noticed?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Think. Concentrate. What were you feeling?”

I rubbed my forehead absently, trying to remember. There was a dull embarrassment, as though I’d been caught posing nude before a mirror. “I was … distracted.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Distracted by what?”

“I don’t know.”

“Something in the cockpit? Something somebody said during the procedure?”

“No, nothing like that. It was something … inside me. Something was going on inside my head.”

“What was it?”

“I don’t know!” I pounded the arm of the chair. “How many times do I have to say it?”

I instantly regretted the reaction. He held his hands up in front of him. “All right. Calm down. We don’t have to go any further today, if you don’t want. It’s usually best to talk about it while it’s still fresh in your mind, but sometimes a little time for reflection—”

“No.”

“Pardon me?”

“I said no. I don’t want reflection. I want answers.”

“Mr. Schaeffer, you’re becoming tense. Angry. That’s not the best frame of mind for therapy. Tomorrow, we can—”

“What about the other memory?”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You said you found another memory in my printout. One that was similar to what happened on board Eclipse I.”

“Yes …” he said hesitantly. “But I don’t think you—”

“Cue it up.” I nodded toward the mnemonograph.

“That’s not a good idea, Mr. Schaeffer.”

“Why not?”

“Look at yourself. Look at the state of agitation the treatment has put you into. I just don’t think it would do any good at this point, psychologically speaking.”

“I can handle it.”

“Mr. Schaeffer, I—”

“Do it.”

He stood and crossed his arms. “We’ll take a break, at least,” he said. “Half an hour. If you still want to try the other memory then, we will. Deal?”

“Deal.”

O O O

He sat in some kind of lecture hall, as though he were in class. He had sat in many, God knew, but this one was special, even if he couldn’t place it right away. Once again, he felt the unnerving sense of presence, of being two selves, but this time he handled it better, ignoring the feeling and concentrating on getting his bearings. He had a job to do here. The watcher-self that was him groped for purchase, for anything recognizable.

The seats were contoured plastic, not terribly comfortable, formed row upon row into an amphitheater that looked capable of holding a few hundred people. He looked around. The other students in the class appeared to be in their early twenties, so he could assume he was among their age group. The instructor, speaking from an onstage podium, was a round man with a wiry beard.…

Recognition came to him. The Academy. First year physics, with Dr. Kennedy. He was talking about Einstein.

“Einstein’s genius was in his acceptance of the facts,” he said. “He simply accepted what observation and experimentation told him was so—the speed of light is a constant, regardless of the velocity of the observer.”

Dr. Kennedy’s eyes gleamed. “But in order for this to be true, Einstein realized, our concept of velocity must be wrong. And what is velocity? It’s a measure of distance and time, so those concepts had to be incorrect, too. The result, the conclusion other scientists were afraid to reach, was that Newtonian physics had to be wrong. So forget everything you’ve been taught. There is no such thing as a master reference frame. It’s all relative, people.”

Puzzled looks abounded throughout the classroom, but Schaeffer understood. And with that understanding came a feeling, one which was at once alien and familiar, a feeling he recognized.

It was vague, stirring somewhere in the darkened corners of his mind. A faint echo, something like a train whistle, rang out of the darkness. Schaeffer strained, but it would not come in clearer. Time was slipping; his memory-self was passing on to some new thought. Schaeffer-who-watched was powerless to stop it, but stared even harder into his mind shadows anyway, trying to prod that hidden shape into the light.

It would not come. And time was slipping, time was gone.

Wait—

O O O

The examining room again. The bright lights hurt my eyes.

Dr. Wells powered down his machine once more. I was more than drained this time; I was exhausted. I could have fallen asleep, then and there.

“Do you need help standing?”

I started at the sound of his voice.

He looked down at me, his mouth set in a line. “I think you’d be more comfortable in my office. Do you need help?”

Wearily, I shook my head, forcing myself to my feet.

O O O

“So what happened?”

I told him. “What does it mean?”

“You tell me.”

“Don’t you know?”

“How should I know? It’s your memory.”

I hung my head. “It was over too soon,” I said in a low voice. “Whatever it was, I didn’t get it.”

“Don’t punish yourself. Many patients go through this. And you’ve pushed yourself harder than most. You need time to sort it out.”

“I know what it was. But I couldn’t … get it.”

“Don’t try so hard. Sometimes that makes it worse.”

I drew in a few breaths and closed my eyes, concentrating. I looked into the dark space inside me, waiting for some hint of movement, some glint of reflected light, anything that would show me the shape. Again I heard an echo like a train whistle, miles away. The office grew quiet, watchful.

After a few minutes I gave up. “Nothing,” I said.

I expected to see disappointment on his face, but instead he smiled. “All right. Let’s try to look at it in context. The missing piece is defined by the rest of the puzzle. You were in class, correct?”