“Ladies and Gentlemen, we’ll get to as many of you as we can. First, we’ll brief you on the current status of flight 501.” He paused to clear his throat, and looked to see the PR team had provided them all with information packets on the rescue mission.
“As you’ve no doubt seen from your briefing material, we are working in concert with the National Aeronautics and Space Administration to rescue the occupants of our stranded Clipper. A European orbital transfer vehicle has undocked from the International Space Station and is on its way as we speak. It will be in position to capture the ship and match orbits with the station early tomorrow morning.”
“So you’ll be able to recover your crew and passengers from the accident?” one reporter asked.
“I should not need to repeat our position that while this is a grave situation, the NTSB is not classifying it as an
accident
. That determination is ultimately up to them, not us. As they are the governing body for making such a serious designation, we’re not about to usurp that authority. And neither should our friends in the press,” Hammond said, his contempt barely concealed. “That’s a distinction reserved for the loss of life or of the spaceplane, neither of which has happened.”
“Not yet, at least,” the man retorted. “Then what should we call this?”
“An emergency,” Hammond said plainly. “Same thing we said to the FAA. So far they’re not disagreeing on that point.”
“That’s not what we’re hearing,” another reporter pressed.
“Our principal inspector…” Hammond began, and was cut off by the same questioner.
“There are sources inside FAA and NASA who have questioned the safety of your spaceline for some time now. Doesn’t this prove their case?”
The kid seemed to be looking for a fight. Hammond cracked his knuckles and leaned into the podium. “Let me be perfectly clear. The FAA inspector assigned to our company has been closely monitoring our response to this situation since the beginning. He is satisfied that we are doing everything within our ability to safely return our crew and passengers.”
“There are still those within the government who disagree…” the reporter prodded.
“Exactly who would that be?” Hammond shot back. “Our FAA inspectors don’t have a problem,” he said, ticking off a finger to emphasize each point. “And the certification branch certainly didn’t when they awarded our Clipper 500-series the world’s first passenger spacecraft certificate.”
“But isn’t Polaris taking advantage of regulatory loopholes by offering scheduled service to paying passengers? Isn’t your parent company, Hammond Aerospace, cutting corners in comparison to the airline manufacturers?”
Oh brother
, Hammond thought.
This kid won’t shut up
. “If you’re referring to the personal risk waivers that our clients sign when booking flights, that’s a real stretch to call it a ‘loophole’. We’re required to do that
because
this is all new. It’s not like flying coach to Vegas on brand-X airlines for the weekend. The practices for certifying new airliners were established fifty-some years ago, and they’re
still
evolving.”
“Then shouldn’t you be held to the same standard?”
“Maybe,” Hammond allowed, “in another twenty years. Nobody has design specs just laying around on a bookshelf for us to whip out like
that
,” he said, snapping his fingers for effect. “Standards evolve precisely because we are always learning things along the way.”
“Which requires the occasional sacrifice of human life, then?” the kid asked smugly. “Isn’t this proof that your spaceplanes should at least meet the same expectations Boeing or Airbus have for their airliners?”
Before Hammond could cut him off at the knees, Taggart stepped forward. “Young man, aircraft and spacecraft operations are constantly-shifting paradigms. And certification of a new airliner is an unimaginably complex process. That’s why Arthur’s in charge here and I’m not,” he smiled disarmingly. “If one were to apply such a standard to us now, it would be as if you’d expected fully-equipped 747s ten years after the Wright Brothers set down at Kitty Hawk.”
“It would be safer, at least,” one woman prompted, emboldened by her colleague’s grilling.
“It would also be prohibitively expensive, to the extent that nothing new could ever be tried. Speaking for myself, we’ve extended Arthur’s credit about as far as I dare,” he said to some laughter.
“Then if it’s all about money, perhaps spaceflight should remain the government’s responsibility,” she asserted with evident satisfaction. “Would you agree?”
Hammond appeared eager to pounce on that comment, but Taggart turned to him and raised an eyebrow in caution before answering for them both. “I would not. If that had been the case with aircraft, Orville and Wilbur would still be standing around on the beach while bureaucrats nitpicked over the thread count of their wing fabric.”
That finally seemed to knock the wind from their sails, if only a bit. With that dust-up apparently settled, an older man stood and waited patiently until Taggart finally pointed to him.
“Rich Landon,
World Traveler
magazine,” he said. “As you’re well aware, our publisher, Colin Magrath, is one of the people trapped aboard your spacecraft. He’s recently filed a story from orbit which our magazine just posted in its online edition,” he said, and offered them printouts of the article. “Would either of you care to comment?”
Hammond’s face darkened as he silently flipped through the pages. Even Taggart appeared visibly agitated. They’d been ambushed.
“‘Reckless disregard for safety’ is an attention-grabbing lead, wouldn’t you say?”
47
Austral Clipper
“He said
what?
” Ryan almost shouted into his headset. “Stand by, Denver. We’re retrieving the uplink now.”
It didn’t take long for the story to appear after they turned on the tablet PC. “Polaris 501: Pride Before the Fall?” Tom read with disgust. “Oh brother…that guy’s like a pet raccoon: what he doesn’t tear up, he craps all over.”
“Guess I should go retrieve our guests,” Ryan said, pushing off for the doorway.
“Good idea. Let me know if you need the Taser.”
“I’ll enjoy using my bare hands more.”
…
Magrath appeared outside the cockpit soon after, flanked by Ryan, with Wade in trail. Marcy positioned herself in the galley behind them, glowering.
Tom’s long silence and stony face conveyed more than words possibly could. Magrath steadied himself against a sidewall, but otherwise appeared unfazed. Wade studiously looked away.
“Care to explain this?” Tom finally said, flinging the tablet across the cockpit at them. Wade flinched as it ricocheted off of a bulkhead and caught it on the rebound.
“I think my work speaks for itself,” Magrath said without remorse.
“It sure as hell doesn’t speak for
us
,” Ryan spat. “We’re busting our asses to keep this bird going, nursing systems that weren’t meant to run this long—just to hang on until that rescue tug can get here. And you go publish trash like this?”
“You’ve certainly made your opinions clear enough,” Tom said with a glance at Wade, who turned away in embarrassment. “I’m more interested in knowing how you planned this, because we haven’t had the Wi-Fi up that long. That tells me you’ve been working on it for some time.”
“Wade informed me the data network would have to stay on until we reach the space station. But don’t blame my people,” Magrath insisted. “They do what I tell them. The words are mine.”
“We’ve got enough to do up here without you fouling up the works,” Ryan said. “Skipper, I vote for the brig.”
“We don’t have a ‘brig’,” Tom said patiently.
“The supply locker in back would do nicely. It’s plenty big enough. He can cool his heels there until we get to the space station. He’ll be the government’s problem after that. I say stuff him.”
Magrath grew wide-eyed, and looked frantically back and forth between the pilots. He realized they were serious.
Tom nodded. “He’s right. We can’t afford any more distractions. You understand I have the authority to have you
both
restrained if I believe you’re a threat to our safety?” he asked.
“Like hell you will,” Magrath shouted. “You’ve put our lives in danger for no good reason but to stroke your own ego, and
I’m
the threat?”
“Excuse me?”
He pointed a thick finger at Tom. “You heard me,” he hissed. “I had urgent business on the other side of the world, a fact you took advantage of to make a name for yourself. And for what? Who really cares, outside of your own little circle of right-stuff wankers? A regular Buck Rogers, you are.”
“That’s enough,” Ryan said. “It’s time to cool down.” He could see Tom was fuming, and wasn’t about to let him be forced to defend himself against this absurdity. “We don’t do anything without a boatload of planning. By the time we’ve pushed back from the gate, a good half-dozen people have looked over every detail. We can’t make a move without someone in the company agreeing to it.”
“All the better,” Magrath said. “A useful tidbit, that one is. It’ll be of great interest to my attorneys. Maybe I’ll end up owning the whole blasted company. Your shares have certainly become cheap enough, even without my lawyers breathing down your necks.”
“Is that what this is really about?” Tom challenged him, though it was the least of his concerns. “Let’s talk about taking advantage, then. You wouldn’t be using your position and media influence to manipulate our stock, would you?”
That had hit a nerve. “You insect,” he sneered. “I’m not that clumsy. If I wanted to tank Hammond’s business, there are much better ways of doing it. Ways that a fool like him would never see coming.”
“Like poorly-sourced hatchet jobs?” Tom asked pointedly.
Magrath was indignant. “Don’t blame
me
for your own cock-ups!” he shouted. “You and Hammond’s lackeys got us here, on ships that are too bloody dangerous.” Sweat began to bead up on his bald head and float away. “Do you understand me?
We’re not getting out of here!
The next rescue will fall on its ass as sure as the first one!” Magrath banged a fist against the sidewall and the force caused him to spin around in the opposite direction, slamming his head into the doorframe and pushing him to his breaking point.
“
You’ve killed us all, you stupid bastard!
” Cursing, he pushed off towards Tom and flew clumsily across the flight deck.
The cramped space erupted into a tangle of thrashing limbs. Ryan reached for the Taser, but it was knocked out of his hands by Magrath’s foot as he careened past. The other foot caught him squarely in the mouth.
Tom quickly braced himself against his seat. Defending yourself in zero-g was easy if you knew how to use it to your advantage, which Magrath didn’t. With any walls or railing well out of reach, there was no way for him to change direction or stop. Tom ducked, grabbed Magrath by his belt, and pushed him back towards Ryan who was scrambling for the Taser just as Wade snatched it in midair.
They had no idea which side Wade would take. Ryan hoped his guess would be right: “Don’t touch him! You’ll get it too!” he shouted, as Magrath caromed off the doorframe and out into the galley, grasping at Marcy who deftly somersaulted over him in slow motion.
He was beginning to get himself under control. Magrath braced against the ceiling and pushed off towards the cockpit once more, finding Wade flying out to meet him with a chunky black device in his outstretched hand. He felt the cold metal prongs press against his sweaty neck and lightning course through his veins.
Wade struggled to keep clear and not be shocked himself as he held the trigger down. Magrath convulsed and went limp. He floated, unconscious, across the galley.
Tom drifted through the doorway. “Nice move. He’s not dead, is he?”
Wade couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. “Don’t really care at this point,” he finally said, and handed over the Taser. He turned back to Whitney and Carson in the cabin, who could only gape in amazement at the scene. “This probably means I’m fired once he wakes up.”
“You’re probably right,” Ryan said, nursing a split lip. “Far as I’m concerned, it looks like you resigned with extreme prejudice.”
“He’ll get over it. Looks like you got the worst of this.”
“Occupational hazard,” he sighed. Marcy dabbed at his lip with a cotton swab, and went after trickles of blood as they beaded up and floated away. “This is bad, hon,” she said. “I’m going to have to stitch it.”
“We need to get that cleaned up fast,” Tom said. “In the meantime, we’ll take Ryan’s advice and give this gentleman private accommodations in the supply locker until we get to the station. Wade, can you help me with him while she keeps Ryan from bleeding all over the place?”
Wade eyed him cautiously; he’d expected to spend the rest of his time onboard handcuffed to a bulkhead after word of Magrath’s hit piece got out.
“Things are tense enough up here,” Tom continued. “We don’t need anyone making it worse, or none of us have a prayer of getting home. Is that very clear?”