Cristiana tolerated his odd hours, his occasional forays to distant places, his abrupt changes of plans. But the galactic core was a bit much, even for her. “It’s the opportunity of a lifetime,” he told her. “It’s like being on the Santa Maria.”
“I know, Antonio,” she said. “I understand that. But seven or eight months? Maybe more?”
“After this, I’ll be up there with Clay Huston and Monica Wright.” They were the premier journalists of the age, courted by the networks, drifting on and off the big shows.
She didn’t care. She got weepy and wished he would reconsider. He’d be out there in the dark, nobody really knew where, out of touch. She wondered how many of Columbus’s crew had made it back to Spain. If something happened, she complained, she’d never know except that he wouldn’t come home. Let somebody else do it. “You don’t need to be Clay Huston,” she said. In the end, she hugged him, and the kids told him to be careful and said they’d miss him.
Antonio had spent thirty years as a journalist. He’d been a beat reporter in his early days, covering trials in Naples, and later in Palermo, and eventually the political circuit in Rome. He hadn’t been very good at it, and they’d shunted him off to the side, where he’d begun writing an occasional science column for Rome International. That was supposedly a dead end, an indication he was headed downhill, next stop the obituaries. But he’d shown a talent for explaining quantum physics in language people could actually understand. He began appearing on the networks, and quickly became “Dr. Science.” During that period he’d written Science for Soccer Fans, his only book, which was an effort to make the more arcane aspects of physics, chemistry, and biology accessible to the ordinary reader. The book had sold reasonably well and helped his reputation. Now he did the major science stories for Worldwide, and he was pleased with the way his career was going.
Why, then, was he making this flight to God knew where? To enhance his status? To be part of the science story of the decade? To collect material for a book that would jump off the shelves?
He wasn’t sure of the answer. To some extent, probably all of those reasons. But mostly he wanted to get serious meaning into his life. To get beyond the old boundaries. As a kid he’d been fascinated by the omega clouds, by the sheer malevolence behind a mechanism that seemed literally diabolical, a force that targeted not nature as a whole, but civilizations. An action that bestowed no imaginable benefit to whatever power had designed and unleashed the things.
It was commonly believed that intelligence was equated with civilized behavior and empathy. With compassion. Only idiots were wantonly cruel. But the clouds, powered by an advanced nanotechnology, had given the lie to all that. (As if six thousand years of history hadn’t.)
With luck, the mission of the Preston and the McAdams would at long last provide an answer. And how could he not want to be there when that happened?
DEPARTURE WAS SCHEDULED for 1600 hours. Antonio loved that kind of talk. Cristiana inevitably smiled at him when he dropped into jargon, whether it was journalistic, military, or scientific. She didn’t take him seriously because she knew he didn’t take himself seriously. And that was probably another reason she was so worried about this assignment. He’d become intense. Did not seem to recognize the danger. The little kid who’d wondered about the omegas was riding high in the saddle.
Cristiana had traveled to the NAU to be with him during the days prior to departure. They’d ridden the shuttle up to the station. It was the first time she had been off-world. She had put on a brave front, but she’d been close to tears.
Jon and Matt had shown up when he’d most needed them. They’d wandered into the departure area, exuding confidence and reassurance. Everything is going to be fine, Cristiana. Have no fear. We’ll bring your husband back with the story of his life. Well, maybe that last was a bit unsettling, but Jon had winked and looked as if they were all going out on a Saturday afternoon picnic. “We’ll take good care of him,” Matt had promised. Then, finally, it was time to go.
They’d never been separated more than a month. Cristiana had magnetic brown eyes, chestnut-colored hair, a figure that was still pretty good, and he realized he hadn’t really looked at her, taken her in, for years. She’d become part of his everyday life, like the kids, like the furniture. Something he took for granted. She was a bit taller than he was. There’d been a time when it embarrassed him, when he’d tried to stand straighter in her presence, reaching for the extra inch. But that was all long ago. He’d gone through their courtship convinced she would come to her senses and break it off, walk away, that the day would come when he’d look back longingly on his time with her. But it had never happened. She’d signed on for the long haul.
She’d known he had work to do during those last hours, other journalists to deal with, and she didn’t want to be in the way, so she settled for looking at the two ships. Antonio had seen pictures of them with their newly acquired shielding, so he knew what to expect. It was nevertheless something of a shock to look through the viewport and see the McAdams and the Preston. They looked like long metal crates with engines and attitude thrusters. Most of the gear one normally sees on a hull—sensors, antennas, dishes—had been moved onto the armor.
He showed her through the Preston, the ship on which he’d be riding. “Nice quarters,” she said. Then it was time to go. He embraced her, suddenly aware how fortunate he had been and how long it would be before he’d see her again.
THEY MET WITH the journalists in a briefing room. Hutch strolled in, queen of the world, shook hands with many of them who, by now, had become friends. Or at least, acquaintances. A woman waiting at the door wished Antonio luck, adding, “Don’t bring anything back,” a not-quite-joking reference to the widely held fears that the Mordecai mission was not a good idea.
Everybody was there, Goldman from the Black Cat, Shaw from Worldwide, Messenger from the London Times. All the biggies. And a lot of people he didn’t know.
Rudy moderated the press conference, fielding questions, standing aside for his colleagues. Some were even directed at Antonio. He’d violated the cardinal rule of journalism, had gone from covering the story to being the story. What do you expect to find out there, Antonio? How does it feel, making the ultimate trip? Do you have anything you’d like to say to the world before you leave?
They were the usual dumb questions, like the ones he’d been asking for years, but what else was there? He told them he was proud to be going, that he’d get everything down on the chip and bring it all back. “Don’t know yet what it’ll be,” he told them, “but it’ll be big.”
When they went down to the launch area, everybody followed.
Rudy was already there. He invited the newsmen inside the Preston. Goldman asked a couple of questions about the galactic core, then wondered who was riding in which ship.
“Antonio and I are on this one,” Rudy said. “Hutch is the pilot.”
She came in from somewhere, posed for pictures, then excused herself. “Have to do an inventory.”
“What do you have to inventory?” Messenger asked. “Doesn’t the AI take care of all that?”
Hutch flashed that luminous smile. “We’re talking about food, water, and air,” she said. “I feel more comfortable when I’ve checked it myself.”
“Is it true,” asked Shaw, “that you’ve got weapons on board?” He was a huge man, thick mustache, gray hair, and a world-weariness that lent gravitas to his questions.
“Hand weapons, yes. We also have extra go-packs and e-suits. And some lightbenders.”
Lightbenders made people invisible. Shaw sniffed and rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. “Why?”