17
She fell out of a dream and clutched at the narrow hospital bed with her good hand and the awkward club of her cast, digging at the mattress, pressing into it with her bare heels.
The dark wood ceiling was no part of the ISS. Ruth breathed in and took stock of herself.
Strange, how the mind persisted in making sense of things, even unconscious. Her body would be a long time adjusting to gravity again and as she rested her brain had worked furiously, whirling up on uneven tornados of fear.
Voices buzzed at her door, which was probably what had woken her. Not the noise itself — the ceiling creaked regularly, and a woman coughed and coughed in the room behind her— but even asleep Ruth had been waiting.
She needed to see a friendly face. She just hoped James hadn’t brought too much of a welcoming party with him. She would be a long time adjusting to crowds again, too.
What took you so long? Ruth glanced left and right to see if it was night or even morning already, thinking to impress him with a cavalier remark. Unfortunately this room had been divided in two with raw sheets of plywood, and the window was on the other side. No clock. One sixty-watt bulb in a ceiling fixture meant to hold four. She knew she was lucky to get any privacy at all, but a touch of claustrophobia made her feel like she was still caught in that falling dream. She might have slept for an hour or for a hundred years.
Her bladder was full, a heavy boulder pressing hard. They’d made her drink as much as she could hold. But this divided space had been the living room in one of the hotel’s business suites, dark walls, light trim, and there was no toilet. All she had was a bedpan, and the men at the door seemed to be coming in.
“—telling you.”
“And I’m telling you, Doc. Not a chance.”
The bedpan! Her nurse had left it in full view, on a blue patio chair that was this cubby’s only other furniture. Ruth half lunged for the pan but there was only one hiding place — under the sheets with her, where it would form an obvious lump. Better to leave the damn thing out as a conversation piece.
They were still at the door, maybe trying to wake her. That would be like James. He was very sly, and very polite, though she didn’t think she’d heard him yet.
“I said no. Now get out of my way.”
“It’s for your benefit as well.”
Maybe that was how he sounded off the radio. Ruth almost called out, I’m awake, but touched her hair and frowned. She must look awful, dirty and dazed and puffy with sleep, her short curls matted into spaghetti. Lord knew they should be beyond anything so trite as appearances — except that she was the new girl, after all, and those dynamics would play a part in her success or failure. She needed to establish herself correctly.
There was a lot going in her favor, a reputation of past achievements, the mystique of being from the space station, the fact that the science teams here had hit a wall.
Some people would resent her for those exact same reasons, of course. She was used to that. Some people would want any excuse to distance themselves from her, to spread doubt, to keep or increase their own support, and a bad first impression might be all they required to begin their little campaigns. These were brilliant minds. No one was capable of more cutting ridicule.
She was practically naked, damn it, clad only in a T-shirt and undies. James should have known better than to bring anybody before she was ready!
Ruth tried to heave herself into a sitting position. Her broken arm made a lousy stilt, though, locked into an L-shape by the thick plaster, and a shiver of pain shot all the way up through her shoulder.
It would have been so much better to endure three or five hours of parades, speeches, medals, baking inside her photogenic orange pressure suit up at the podium with the astronauts and every big cheese in town. After that she would have been the undisputed king. Queen. Whatever.
Swooning, Ruth swept her good hand over her legs and smoothed her blankets like a dress.
She had asked four times for painkillers but they refused, afraid to make her heart or respiratory system work any harder. Now she was glad. She had grayed out again when they reset her bones, spasming away from her own arm, but this meeting would be hard enough to pull off looking like an abused mouse. At least she wasn’t dull with morphine.
Ruth looked up and smiled as footsteps came into her cubby, but it wasn’t James. It couldn’t be James. She’d only met him in person once, years ago, and the man in front seemed about the right age, mid-fifties…but James was originally from Seattle. This guy had decked himself out like a cowboy, hat, jeans, string tie on a chambray work shirt. He was clean-shaven.
The second man was too young to be James, and Arabic, apparently a doctor. He wore a surgical mask and held an extra one. They had been arguing at the door about whether or not the cowboy would also cover his nose and mouth.
The cowboy stuck out a small hand. “Miz Goldman. Glad to see you’re awake.”
Ruth looked at the doctor first. She couldn’t afford to get sick. His brown skin looked stained around his eyes, bruised by exhaustion. “Do you feel up for this?” he asked.
No. “Absolutely.”
“Not a germ on me, Miz Goldman,” the cowboy said easily. “I came straight to your room here and didn’t touch a thing.”
She took his small hand, regretting the care that had made her hesitate. He was unquestionably someone in power. “I just like to follow the rules,” she said. A soft pitch, to see how big of a whack he’d take at it.
“Good.” He smiled without showing teeth. “Always good.”
The young doctor said, “Five minutes?”
“Might be longer,” the cowboy answered. “Don’t you worry.”
Ruth made sure to agree with him, half-consciously matching his clipped way of talking. “Really. We’re fine.” Except I’m going to pee myself. She hoped they couldn’t see that her thighs were tight together but felt like she was on display up on the raised bed.
“Go on, Doc,” the cowboy said. “I can find my way out.”
The doctor glanced once at the mask in his hand, then shook his head and left. They had taken blood from her, and urine and mucus, to test her immune system among a hundred other things like kidney function and protein and calcium levels, and Ruth worried that the results had been poor.
She turned back to the cowboy. He glanced at the plastic chair but remained standing. She didn’t think a bedpan would deter him. He just didn’t want to sit lower than her.
“I’m Larry Kendricks,” he said.
“Wonderful to meet you.” She was sincere.
Senator Lawrence N. Kendricks, Republican, Colorado, occupied one of seven prized seats on the president’s council. Ruth had been scheduled to appear before this ruling body in two days, after the public ceremonies, after settling in, but maybe the crash of the Endeavour had changed things. Maybe Kendricks had always intended to see her directly, yet chose not to prearrange it on the radio for everyone to hear.
“Sorry I couldn’t afford the rooftop luxury suite,” Ruth said. She meant it as a joke, meant to be charming, but Kendricks thought she was playing him.
He lifted his chin and his broad white hat in a slow, serious movement. “Should be able to do something for you there,” he said. “Get you a window, at least. Anything else?”
“No, no, they’ve been great. It’s perfect.”
“Well, the plague year’s been pretty rough on us here, you understand. We’re working with what we have. But the right people always get taken care of.”
He watched her, and she nodded.
“I want you taken care of,” he said. “Anything you need. We all have big, big hopes.”