NASA PUBLIC AFFAIRS COMMENTATOR SCOTT SHAWLER, AUGUST 23, 2019

At the first blow, the entire cabin rang like a church bell. “Stop that!” Yvonne said, feeling in equal parts frightened, ill, and, especially, foolish, since no one, least of all Downey, could hear her.

She had done as Trieu instructed, leaving the hatch between the Venture main cabin and its airlock open, essentially locking the outer hatch. (An interlock inside the hatch froze the outer latch mechanism unless the inner one was closed.)

But Downey had climbed the ladder and, after a fruitless session of tugging on the door, had actually struck it with something hard.

She finally got on the radio again. “That won’t work.”

“What choice do I have?” he said, after a lag. “I can’t stay out here.”

“Let’s talk, Pogo. Talk to mission control, too.” She had been able to see him through the hatch port, but now light streamed through. Where had he gone?

“Sorry, I don’t have time for that.”

“What do you want?”

“I just want to go home.”

“You and me both!” Yvonne said. Then the other channel lit up. “Yvonne, Houston. The director is online.”

Her father? “Copy that.” What else was she supposed to do? Coo, Oooh, Daddy?

“First, I just want you to know we’re doing everything we can here.”

She wanted to scream. That wasn’t a father talking, that was a man with his head up his butt—wondering what the rest of the world would say. “Too bad the decisions have to be made up here, by me.”

“We’re confident—” he said, then paused and started over: “I’m confident in you.”

To do what? Figure out how to stop Downey, or blow myself up? “Thanks for that,” she said, knowing the sarcasm would likely not be noticed through the radio connection.

“How are you feeling? How is the leg?”

Oh, yeah, her leg: the one she would almost certainly lose if she managed to survive this. “Leg is stable,” she said.

As she talked and waited for a response from her father, she hopped from window to screen to window, searching for Downey. Still nothing. “The situation is . . . critical, Yvonne.”

Fuck him. “Just what exactly are you trying to tell me, Daddy? Why can’t I just let Downey in . . . maybe I can talk sense to him.”

Was that him? A shadow around to the left—

“Negative, Yvonne. All our data shows that astronaut Patrick Downey died six hours ago. The person you see cannot be given access to Venture.”

True, the person running around out there sounded like Pogo Downey, but he was wearing Zack Stewart’s suit.

“Which is where this all started,” she said. “I can hold him off, maybe until his air runs out, but it would really be helpful if you guys could do something from there.” Was there some kind of remote-control switch the EVA support guys had, something that would disable an astronaut’s backpack? Until a few hours ago, Yvonne would have been horrified at the thought of it . . . now it didn’t seem so undesirable.

“You are the best option,” her father finally said.

“So we’re back where we started.” She had lost the shadow . . . damn, she hated this.

“Not quite. Every minute he remains outside he’s one minute closer to his redline.”

“That’s all you’ve got to say to me?” She wasn’t sure what she wanted. . . . An apology for twenty-odd years of neglect? An even better apology for putting her in this horrific situation?

“We—” he said, then had to correct himself again. “I am proud of you.”

Which only convinced her. Things would have to be a lot worse, as in bugfuck crazy Pogo Downey about to stab her, before she would blow up the Item.

Before she would make her father’s life any easier.

Then she saw Downey again, back on the surface at the rear of the lander, heading for the front. He had something in his hand . . . the same weapon she had told Dennis to take.

“I want to come inside. You have something I need.”

“You ain’t coming in here.” There he was . . . right outside the forward windows, looking up at her.

She knew she sounded more confident than she felt—thank you, NASA, for sending me on speaking tours—but it was all surface. She realized this situation was much, much worse than being flung across the surface of Keanu.

Five meters lower, eight meters away, Downey looked up at her. For a moment their eyes met through the multiple layers of glass.

Houston had heard some or all of this. Now Jasmine Trieu was saying, “Tell him to wait until Zack gets back.”

Which she did.

Downey was already in motion. “Zack won’t be here for hours. That’s assuming he ever gets here. No, it’s you and me.”

What was he doing? Picking up a rock?

“Last chance.”

“Pogo, come on, be real.”

“Are you going to open the hatch?”

“I can’t.” There it was.

As she watched, the space-suited figure clumsily hurled a rock the size of a bowling ball directly at the forward windows.

Downey’s aim was terrible, but Venture was a big target. The rock hit with a shuddering thud and bounced off.

“Stop that!”

“I’ve got lots of rocks, Yvonne.” And he bent to pick up another one.

Shit, shit, shit. “Houston, what the fuck do I do now? He’s throwing rocks at me!”

“Venture, Houston, ah, we don’t think he can really damage the vehicle... .”

A second thud, this one almost a direct hit on one of the windows.

Yvonne knew spacecraft and structures. She knew that, yes, a vehicle like Venture was actually a thin aluminum shell that could be punctured with a screwdriver. But when pressurized to ten pounds a square inch, it was harder than any rock Downey could throw at it.

Still, that second shot had come close to a window . . . and Yvonne could see a ghostly crack.

The multipaned windows were vulnerable. The same air pressure that bolstered the thin metal skin would cause a seriously cracked window to blow out.

She grabbed the metal case and opened it. “Okay, Downey, you want to play rough. I’m arming the Item, you dumb bastard.”

Three seconds later, her answer was another thump from another rock, followed by Jasmine Trieu’s frantic, “Negative, Venture! You are not authorized for that step!”

But she was already deeply into the process. She had opened the case, removed the false front, and entered the first set of codes. She felt stupid, slow, and numb . . . the drugs doing their work.

She was not planning to die. This was just a contingency move, to allow Houston to come up with an answer.

The countdown started from ten minutes. Be cool, she told herself. You can stop it at any time.

She picked up the Item and stepped toward the front windows. “Can you see this? It’s a bomb, and it’s armed!” There was no sign of Downey, no word on the radio.

Then Yvonne heard a different sound, not the thump of rock against the rugged cabin wall, or the more frightening crack of impact on the window. This was a more distant clang.

An alarm sounded on the control panel, two indicators suddenly red.

Fuel tanks! Downey had managed to poke a hole in one of them, and it was big enough to create a cloud of freezing vapor: Yvonne could see it from the left front window.

“Pogo,” she radioed, knowing she sounded tired and pathetic. “What the hell are you doing? This fucks all of us. . . .”

Houston was on the line, Jasmine Trieu sounding strained. “Venture, we show a drop in hydrogen tank two—”

“I know,” Yvonne snapped. “Pogo!” she shouted.

It took almost ten seconds. “I’m at the hatch,” he said. “Put your stupid bomb in the lock, button yourself up, and open the outer door. And I’m counting, too. Up to ten, when I put a hole in another tank. One, two . . .”

She considered her options. “Houston, can you hear this?” Goddamn time lag. The clock on the Item showed 6:30 and counting. “What do I do?”