“I’m not going out there,” Khan says. She wipes her eyes—which are red and swollen—with the heel of her hand. “I’ll take my chances with you.”
“Me too,” Sixsmith agrees. And Foss, over the walkie-talkie, says the same.
Finally McQueen shrugs and nods. “I don’t see what the hell else we can do,” he says. “Stand or run, they’re going to blow us to shit. We might as well take a few of the bastards with us.”
“Some of them are Beacon soldiers,” Carlisle reminds him. “Like you. Part of their function is to obey even when they don’t entirely understand.”
“That shouldn’t be part of anybody’s function.”
Reluctantly, Carlisle nods. “Perhaps not,” he concedes. He feels as though he is throwing half his life onto the fire with those two words.
Only Stephen Greaves has failed to give an answer. Carlisle knows now what the consequences were of not allowing him a voice the last time they spoke like this. He nods to the boy, then deliberately lowers his gaze to make it easier for Stephen to find the words.
“I think going out might be a good idea,” Greaves says.
“You heard what I said, Stephen? The likelihood is—”
“No, I know, I know.” Greaves gestures with his hands in an accelerating rhythm, not illustrating anything but building up the momentum to speak. “A lot of people will die, but if we’re careful it won’t be us. Because we’ll know they’re coming.”
“Know who is coming?” Sixsmith asks blankly.
Stephen acknowledges the question by darting her a glance that lasts about a tenth of a second.
“The children,” he says. “We can bring them.”
58
Lieutenant Foss extends and mounts the airlock, and they assemble on the mid-section platform.
Five of them, not the full roster.
One of the missing is Dr. Fournier, who is still unconscious. When Khan went back into the lab to check on his status, she took the precaution of propping him up against the workbench and fastening his wrists, both together, to one of the straps. He is breathing shallowly but evenly and she suspects it might be some time before he wakes, but when he does she wants to make sure he stays exactly where he is.
Because the other two crew members who are staying on board are Stephen, who will close the airlock behind them, and her baby.
“This could go horribly wrong,” she tells Stephen, just before they leave. “Even if it works. Even if they come, we could all end up dead. I’m leaving him with you because I trust you to … to make sure he’s okay.” She flails for a second on the frictionless slope of that concept. “Don’t let them take him, Stephen. Whatever happens, don’t let them take him.”
“I won’t,” he promises her. “I’ll do what we said. Whatever happens.”
She touches the back of his hand with her fingertip, presses hard. “Keep yourself safe too,” she says, her voice shaking. “I love you, Stephen.”
All he can offer her in answer is a tremulous nod. “I—I—” he tries, and then “Rina.” He closes his eyes, folds himself in on the emotion to lock it down. Even ordinary social embarrassments are torture for him, so Khan can’t imagine what he’s feeling now. She wishes his condition would allow her to take him in her arms and stroke his head. She feels as though she’s leaving both her children behind. Her whole family. But they can’t embrace, they can only say goodbye, and drawing it out will hurt him more.
So she leaves, without any more words and without breaching the cordon sanitaire around his frail body. She is full to the brim with pain. And the fact that she will soon be empty is the most painful thing of all.
The soldiers are all in the airlock when they get there. Foss is talking to McQueen about bullets. “You might get to try out those home-mades after all. Just wait until I’m somewhere else, okay?”
“Top notch, these are,” McQueen says. “You’ll be begging me for the recipe.”
“Oh, I know the recipe. That’s what bloody worries me.”
For all their talk of weaponry, their rifles remain strapped across their backs. Their hands are empty.
“A word, Colonel,” Khan says. She beckons him close.
“Of course.” Carlisle leans down towards her and she whispers in his ear—a few terse sentences. The only gift she can give him, but it’s not a small one. When she steps back and he straightens, he stares at her in solemn perplexity. “Are you sure?” he asks her.
“Yes.” She’s sure.
“But that changes—” He doesn’t finish the sentence, so Khan doesn’t have to disagree. Here, now, it changes nothing. It’s just the punchline to a joke she won’t be alive to tell.
Carlisle looks as though he wants to say more, but at that moment Stephen steps out of the crew quarters into the mid-section. He has brought the baby to see her off, and the baby’s presence somehow eclipses everything else.
Stephen holds the tightly wrapped bundle out gingerly, uncertainly, his eyes flicking from side to side as he tries to avoid so many closely clustered gazes. Khan wraps the baby’s tiny hand in both of hers and leans down to kiss him on the crown of his head, which is covered in unbelievably fine downy hair. “Godspeed, buster,” she whispers.
“Takes after his dad,” Foss says. “Poor little bastard.”
There seems nothing else to say. The moment is suddenly on them. The colonel taps the keypad. The deck plates shake as the airlock’s hydraulics wake up.
The doors slide back and the soldiers step out onto the broken concrete. Khan climbs down right behind them, wincing as her feet touch down on the parade ground. Her muscles feel wasted, recoilless. But she lines up with the rest as they stand, spotlit by the multiple rows of headlights, showing their empty hands.
Showing their number, too. Brigadier Fry knows that Rosie’s full complement stands at seven. She has to be aware, as the airlock doors slide closed again at their backs, that two crew members have remained inside. This is an invitation to negotiate, not a full surrender.
So the decision rests with her.
A man steps into the focus of the headlight beams, where he turns at once into a two-dimensional silhouette. He’s not a soldier. He wears an ancient T-shirt with an indecipherable slogan, torn and mud-spattered jeans and orange snow boots. He waves to them to advance.
Khan takes one last glance back at Rosie. Her home through the long months of the mission, and the last one she will ever know. No, almost the last. Her body is a house too, for something subtle and ineffable that answers to its name. She carries her last home with her, walks it forward across weeds and concrete into a light that is alive with drifting dust motes.
Everything, she thinks. Everything is alive. I wish I’d noticed that before.
They walk a hundred yards. Another hundred.