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Without question, the vid had been taken today. And Yakov had it.

  The remaining attachment was labeled Birthday 2014. He remembered that birthday all too well.

  Robin had been a wild kid: rebellious, often drunk, hanging with a bad crowd. He was ten years older, and she had always looked up to him. Had he been around for her, maybe he could have done something. Instead he had been in Afghanistan.

  Somehow we’re always a world apart, kiddo.

  When Robin’s high school expelled her, their parents, calling it tough love, had thrown her out, too. She was long gone—out of touch, out of sight—before he even knew. When his regiment shipped home, he had had no idea where to look for her.

  By 2014, she was a druggie, hopelessly addicted, hooking to support her habit. On her nineteenth birthday, taking stock of her life, she chugged a bottleful of pain pills.

  From the ER, Robin had reached out to Thad. “I can’t do this anymore,” she had said. “I can’t take anymore.” Gaunt, trembling, with tears streaming down her face, she had put herself into his hands. He had sworn never to do what their parents had done. He would never abandon her. He would never fail her.

  Together—and with lots of therapy—they somehow worked through things. Robin detoxed, learned to stop hating herself, and got her GED. She went to college and met her future husband. Randall Brill came from old money; he proudly carried a “Fifth” after his name to prove it. Randy and his family believed her late start at college came of two years backpacking across Europe.

  I wanted you to have some reminders of what’s important.

  If Robin’s past were revealed, it would destroy lives across the family. Could she go on after that? Or would she try again to kill herself?

  I wanted you to have some reminders of what’s important.

  Yakov had used Robin’s secret once to bend Thad to his will. Yakov had needed “a man I can trust,” on Phoebe. “A man with motivation, to perform a small, technical task.”

  And because no one could know about Thad’s task, a man had had to die.

  Three years after that … murder, Yakov was back in touch. What horrible thing did he want?

  His hand shaking, dreading what the second attachment would show, Thad tapped the 2014 icon.

  File corrupted, a pop-up proclaimed.

  He found, as he expected, a message encrypted within the “corrupted” file: Prepare the artifacts and await contact. Do not reveal yourself unnecessarily, but the success of the mission comes first.

  Artifacts, Thad understood all too well. His “small, technical task” of three years earlier. He trembled to think what type of mission required them, because the devices he had built could serve only one purpose.

  I do it for Robin, he told himself. Whatever it was. Because he had no choice.

  To keep his promise to his baby sister, he had long ago compromised himself beyond redemption.

  * * *

  Beautiful beyond words, Earth receded in Dillon’s window. While other passengers floated about, cavorting in freefall as the shuttle coasted toward their hotel, he remained in his seat. He could float just as well where they were headed, but Gaia’s slow retreat was an almost religious experience.

  Two clicks sounded on the loudspeaker. “This is Captain Blackwell. We’ve been flying tail-down so you can enjoy Earth. I hope everyone has appreciated the scenery. We’re coming up to another quite spectacular view, though, so we’ll be rolling over. If you might find that maneuver disorienting, you may want to buckle up. Regardless, stay alert and enjoy the show.”

  Jonas and one of the women returned to their seats.

  “Commencing slow roll in sixty seconds,” Blackwell updated, then gave a countdown from ten. “Commencing roll.”

  The men and one woman still afloat in the cabin seemed to rotate in the air, but it was the shuttle, not the passengers, that turned. The earthlight streaming through the windows slid up the wall. As Earth fell from sight, a holo opened at the front of the cabin. Three small, bright objects glistened in the image.

  Blackwell’s travelogue resumed. “I’m relaying our view from the cockpit. We’re overtaking Phoebe and its sunshield. At the moment we’re about five hundred miles apart. The bright oval is the sunshield. The shield is actually round, but we’re catching it at an angle. We don’t see Phoebe itself. It’s behind the shield from us, and too dark anyway to spot easily.

  “What looks like a rectangle is a square we’re viewing almost edge-on. That’s NASA’s prototype powersat, PS-1, constructed mostly with raw materials from Phoebe.” She spouted the usual bullshit about how great powersats would be. She rattled on how the onboard thrusters would lift PS-1, once its checkout was complete, to a stationary orbit above the Americas, while more such obscenities were built. “The powersat is dimmer even though it’s about fifty miles closer to us than the sunshield. On to the third—”

  “Why is PS-1 dimmer?” the still-floating woman asked.

  The cabin must have had a microphone, because Blackwell answered. “The shield is white to reflect sunlight. The solar cells on the powersat are dark to absorb sunlight.

  “On to the third object up ahead: the deformed-looking dot. It’s both smaller by far than the other things we’re seeing, and it’s two hundred miles beyond the sunshield. That dot, ladies and gentlemen, is The Space Place. We’ll be docking there soon. While we’re busy in the cockpit, you’re welcome to listen and watch on channel one.”

  Spacecraft docking patter turned out to be as dry and formulaic as airplane cockpit chatter. Dillon began surfing other options on the in-flight entertainment system and came upon an educational vid. At least he assumed it was educational: the animation showed Olympian gods looking down on Earth.

  “… was a Titan, a daughter of Gaia, whom some call Mother Earth. Phoebe was often described as ‘golden wreathed’ and associated with the moon. How appropriate then that Phoebe now is a moon.”

  He fast-forwarded, until the visual changed from animation to real imagery.

  “… still debate the origins of the object that became Earth’s second moon. The orbit on which it was spotted must have been new, or the object would have been observed years earlier. Regardless—”

  He fast-forwarded again. Animation, when it resumed, defied recognition at the speed he scanned. He went back to PLAY and the image resolved into a dark, tumbling blob.

  “… and without detailed knowledge of the object’s exact nature, NASA’s options were limited. The key question was: how solid and sturdy was the object? How hard of a shove could it withstand before shattering into an unstoppable hailstorm of debris? If, as turned out to be the case, it was a rubble pile, NASA would need to deflect it very gradually.”

  A stylized spacecraft zoomed into the animation frame, to hover, its thrusters blazing, above the tumbling blob.

  “Enter the gravity tractor.” The spacecraft graphic alternated twice with the image of an ordinary farm vehicle. “All objects in the universe attract each other. The object we know as Phoebe outweighed NASA’s gravity tractor by about a million to one, but thrusters on the Rescue One spacecraft kept it from being pulled down to the surface. By maintaining with its thrusters a slight separation, the spacecraft exerted a very small—but very steady—pull on Phoebe.

  “Just as an ordinary tractor uses a mechanical linkage to tow a plow, NASA’s spacecraft used the pull of gravity itself to … slooooowly … over many months, move Phoebe into a more desirable trajectory. By the time Phoebe came within reach of a crewed mission, Rescue One had closely observed Phoebe for a year. NASA astronauts knew exactly where to set the thermal nuclear rockets that nudged Phoebe into its present orbit.”

  Someone tapped Dillon’s shoulder.

  “We’re passing right by Phoebe,” a female voice asserted. She had a charming accent. “Why can’t we visit?”

  Dillon looked up. The woman should have put her hair into a ponytail or something. As it was, she looked like Medusa. “Security,” he said. “So I
hear.”

  “Because I might conquer America’s precious little moon with my nail file? Oh, wait. I don’t have my nail file. I was told I had to pack it.”

  Across the aisle, Jonas snickered.

  “Trust me,” Dillon said, “I had no part in setting that policy.”

  The loudspeaker clicked again. “This is Captain Blackwell. We’re cleared for final approach to the hotel. If you have not already done so, please return to your seat for docking.”

  Dillon had studied the brochures for The Space Place. He knew its major parts, how its systems operated, and just how big it was. But until then, he had not truly had a feel for it.

  Outside his window: a pearl onion (pierced by a white toothpick) with an equatorial bulge. The pearl became a great bubble. The “toothpick” ends were docking stations, one projecting from each pole. The bulge resolved into two concentric doughnuts, the outer one spinning. Sun-tracking solar panels hung far enough from the hotel not to impede guests’ views.

  Closer still, more detail emerged. The struts that connected the solar panels to the main body of the hotel. Clinging to the bubble, two arcs of much tinier bubbles: emergency escape pods. Where too-bright sunlight would otherwise have streamed inside, the bubble material had been polarized, and from this angle was opaque. Elsewhere within the bubble, hints of interior structure.

  Scattered specks—people in spacesuits—zipped about the hotel. The sphere’s diameter was about forty times their height! The people jetted to one pole of the hotel as the shuttle coasted toward the other.

  “Docking in five seconds,” Captain Blackwell announced. The shuttle hesitated as bow thrusters engaged. “Four … three … two … one…” There was the faintest of vibrations as magnetic couplers engaged. “Welcome to The Space Place.”

  Wednesday, September 20

  Feeling needy and manipulative, Valerie e-mailed a few recent adorable pictures of Simon. Then she waited for two days before she called her parents. Timing was everything.

  She checked in with them more or less weekly, and every conversation was pretty much the same. The weather is crazy. Politicians are crooks. A catalog of aches and pains, “But what can you do?” For some hapless 3-V star, a slut-of-the-week award. A recitation of grocery sales in Danville.

  This call was no different, and Valerie wondered if she would have to raise the subject. She decided to wait a little longer.

  Mid-rant about Illinois’s latest corrupt governor, Mom stopped. “Enough of that. I meant to thank you for the new pictures of Simon.”

  “You’re very welcome. I hope you guys enjoyed them.”

  “Dad says Simon is growing like a weed.” Pause. “The next time we see Simon, Dad says, we won’t even recognize him.”

  Taciturn as Dad was, he did say things on occasion. More often, Dad says was code, Mom hinting at matters she did not care to raise outright. Dad says twice was a giveaway.

  “We can’t have that,” Valerie said. “You guys should come for a visit. Spend some quality time with your grandson.”

  Mom blinked. “You’re asking?”

  “I’m asking.” Hoping her jitters did not show, Valerie suggested, “How about this coming weekend?”

  “This weekend? That’s not much notice.”

  I didn’t have much notice. “You and Dad are retired, Mom.”

  Mom tipped her head, considering. “I’ll need to check with your father, but sure. We’d love to see you and Simon.”

  “And Mom…”

  “What, hon?”

  “Can you watch Simon for me at the beginning of your visit?”

  “The fog begins to lift. Who is he?”

  “Yes, I’m seeing someone. He asked me on a getaway weekend.” And to the launch, to see him go very far away. It was all Valerie could do not to shiver.

  Ever since Marcus had called from the training center to invite her, she had been putting off this conversation. Unless Mom came to watch Simon this trip could not happen, and scarier than seeing Marcus off was not to see him off.

  What came next? “You’re not married,” perhaps. Valerie saw nowhere to go from there, beyond agreement. Or, “How well do you know this man?” Just five months, Mom, and mostly from afar, but if that is not long at all, it seems long. In a good way. Or, perhaps, “What are the sleeping arrangements?” Marcus, whether he was being gallant or sensitive, obtuse or still hung up on Lindsey, had offered separate rooms if Valerie wanted. She didn’t know what she wanted!

  And the scariest question of all: “Do you love him?”

  She only knew with certainty that she had loved one man. He had gone to Afghanistan and never come back. Deep in her gut, experience warned: love equaled loss.

  Did she love Marcus? Probably. Almost certainly. But love wasn’t real until the word came out of her mouth—and out of his. And if love equaled loss—

  Did part of her want Mom to talk her out of going?

  For all the scenarios Valerie had imagined, she had missed one.

  “Dad and I loved Keith, too,” Mom said. “His death was a tragedy. But, hon…?”

  Valerie waited.

  “Your father will be so happy you’re getting on with your life.”

  * * *

  The circuitously routed, many-times encrypted e-mail reached Yakov in his embassy office. Merely the message’s origin on The Space Place, were the wrong parties to take notice, might raise inconvenient suspicions, but he did not worry. Russian programmers were among the best in the world, and the Federal Security Service engaged only the best of the best.

  And she who personally handled his information security? She was the most skilled of all. Yakov trusted in her talents without reservation, no matter how very far removed infosec was from his own expertise. It was not only that at the highest levels of the Counterintelligence Directorate, her exploits were legendary. The CIA, MI5, and the Mossad all wanted dearly to nail the hacker they knew only as “Psycho Cyborg.”

  Boasts were cheap. Survival convinced.

  Unwrapped and decoded, the message to Yakov read, simply, P-K4. Pawn to king four, in the classic, descriptive chess notation that Yakov still favored.

  Pawn to king four: the opening move of many a game.

  The Americans, oblivious, did not know they were in a game. Or that there was a game to be in. Or that, with his men in place, the game clock was running. Or that the stakes of the game were—the world.

  Entering his own terse message, to Psycho Cyborg herself, Yakov took the next move. It is time for things to get hot, he wrote.

  Very hot.

  Friday, September 22

  Marcus’s flight from Houston and Valerie’s flight from D.C. came into the same terminal. Good: He could meet her at her gate. To meet at baggage claim would be in no way romantic.

  Their hug was satisfactorily It’s been way too long, but in the accompanying kiss, passionate though it was, he sensed a trace of But why am I here? He hoped he was wrong.

  “Baggage claim?” he asked. Not for him: Cosmic Adventures had checked most of his luggage through to Canaveral Spaceport.

  “Only my carry-on. I like to travel light.”

  “One more reason you’re a keeper.”

  A smile came and went. “Lead on.”

  They picked up their rental car and hit the road. His flight had been late, but hers later; he worried that they would not get where he wanted in time. Once they left the Interstate, palm trees and gated communities lined the roads. The traffic sucked.

  “I’m still not seeing why you picked Tampa,” she said. Because they would have a three-hour drive Monday morning to Cape Canaveral. She would have a two-hour solo drive back across the state to catch her return flight.

  Not Tampa, just its airport. “You will.” He hoped.

  Making small talk and catching up, they drove the length of Cape Haze. The sun sank lower and lower, and his anxiety grew. At the little town of Placida, they took the bridge—with its unconscionable tolls, to discourage th
e riffraff —to Gasparilla Island.

  “Any relation to sarsaparilla?” she asked.

  “The perhaps fictitious Spanish pirate, José Gaspar, is big business in these parts.”

  “Huh. So our weekend has a pirate theme?”

  “Arrr, matey.” Though he still wondered if anyone would be shivering his timber.

  As they began passing large private homes on ocean-facing lots, she looked surprised. He pulled to a stop on the shoulder. “Right: not a hotel. This is a friend’s second home, and she’s letting me use it.” The sun peeked out between houses. There was just one way to make it. “Val, I propose that we go straight to dinner while we can enjoy the sunset. We can unpack later.” And postpone the conversation about into which bedroom to set her bag.

  “Sure. I mean, arrr.”

  The restaurant near the island’s south end was unassuming—but oh, the view! Florida was not quite yet in season, and they almost had the place to themselves. They took a table on the patio, near the beach, and he ordered wine. The sun, red and fat, almost kissed the horizon. Long, slow combers washed up the sand. The breeze from the ocean was cool.

  He asked, “How are your parents?”

  “Good.”

  “They don’t mind keeping an eye on Simon?”

  “Let me put it this way. They may not notice that I’m gone.”

  “Simon sent me a note. Did you know that? Told me not to let you eat kiwi, that you’d blow up like a balloon.”

  “I can’t have any secrets?” She sighed melodramatically.

  They finished the carafe and started a second. Seagulls glided low over the waves while a brown pelican settled noisily onto a spray-slick boulder. The sun had all but disappeared, painting ocean and a rim of sky the color, somewhere between pink and red, to which he could never put a name. “Let’s take a walk before ordering.”

  She nodded.

  They slipped off their shoes to play tag with the waves. Hand in hand they strolled along the beach. By the time they reclaimed their table, the sun had gone and the stars were out. Gazing over the water, utterly relaxed, he said, “I could sit all night listening to the surf.”