Vessel

17

CATHERINE YAWNED AND rubbed her eyes, squinting at her office computer. Last night, she’d tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable in the hotel bed that was hers for the foreseeable future; there was no time between now and the launch to find an apartment.

Her phone beeped and she saw a text from Aimee: there’s a new apt complex not far from house. U looked there yet?

Catherine smiled. Aimee seemed to be taking things in stride so far, eager to help Catherine find a place to settle. Aimee was so perceptive that Catherine wouldn’t have been surprised at all if she had seen this coming. God knew Catherine should have.

No, I didn’t know about it, she replied. Text me the address?

Aimee loved to give her shit about how she texted in complete sentences with proper punctuation, but Catherine had never gotten the hang of abbreviating everything.

She took a sip of her lukewarm coffee and turned her attention back to her computer. She was going to be one of the flight controllers on launch day, a first for her. Tradition said the CAPCOM desk—short for Capsule Communicator, although there hadn’t been a “capsule” launched in decades—should be staffed by an astronaut, and as the only surviving member of Sagittarius I, Catherine wasn’t just the logical choice, she was the only real choice. When John Duffy radioed the call sign “Houston” on launch day, Catherine would be the one who answered him.

The role was an extremely visible one, one that she’d never have been given if anyone at NASA knew about her blank periods. To distract herself from the fear that she might have one of those spells on launch day, she threw herself into memorizing all the protocols.

An hour later, she picked up her mug and walked to the kitchen area down the hall, smiling at Aaron on autopilot as she passed him.

“Catherine!” The voice was far away and not immediately identifiable.

She stuck her head out into the hallway to see if she could tell where it had come from, her brow furrowing.

After a moment or two, it came again, more impatient. “Catherine, come on!”

The mug of coffee fell out of her fingers, which had gone suddenly nerveless, and shattered on the tile floor.

The voice was Tom Wetherbee’s.

That’s impossible.

“Let me out already! Be reasonable!”

Catherine’s heart pounded. It sounded as if the voice was coming from the end of the hall, down past her office. The only things down there were the stairwell and a supply closet. Was someone playing a cruel joke? Catherine walked down the hall, forgetting the broken mug.

The voice didn’t sound again right away. The stairwell was empty. No sounds of movement. No voice. Catherine pushed open the door to the supply closet, heart in her throat. She fumbled for the light switch. No one was in there.

“Catherine?”

This time the voice came from behind her, and Catherine jerked in surprise. But the voice wasn’t Tom’s. She turned around to see John Duffy standing there, a concerned look on his face. “You okay?”

“John. Yeah, you just startled me.”

“Is that your mug on the floor?”

Catherine gave him an embarrassed smile. “Clumsy me. I-I was looking for something to clean it up with.”

“Don’t worry, I called Facilities; they’re sending someone up.” Before she could thank him, he said, “Are you sure you’re all right? I, um, heard about you and David. I’m sorry.”

Sometimes the rumor mill around here moved faster than the rockets. “Thanks. I guess nearly a decade apart was just too long.”

“Well, listen, if you ever need someone to talk to,” he said, smiling wryly, “or need someone to recommend a good divorce lawyer, just let me know.” She must have looked surprised, because he added, “Come on, you have to know how high the divorce rate is around here.”

“Oh,” Catherine said. “Um, thank you.”

She escaped back to her office as quickly as she could, the strain of keeping a normal face on wearing on her too much. Tom’s voice hadn’t come from anywhere but her own mind. Dr. Darzi would dismiss this hallucination as a completely normal response to trauma. Catherine could probably have a screaming, ranting breakdown in Darzi’s office and she’d sit there and say the same thing.

Hell, maybe it was.

But what if Tom’s voice was coming from a memory? What if it had really happened? What if what really happened? You locked him up somewhere?

That didn’t make sense. It was just her guilt over the affair bubbling to the surface.

The problem was, it didn’t stop once she went back to her hotel that night.

As she was waiting in line for her takeout, she heard him again.

“Catherine! This isn’t fair!”

It was so loud and sharp she jumped, looking around. No one else reacted at all. Trembling, she paid for her food and raced back to her hotel, the radio turned up to full volume to drown out any noise—real or imagined.

Once in her room, she had a bottle of wine with dinner, and the voice stopped. Blissful silence. And when she slept that night, she actually slept.

The voice was back the next day, so she took a couple of the miniature bottles from the minibar to work with her, tucked in her purse. She told herself it was “just in case.” And just until after the launch. Then she’d have time to figure everything out.

By the end of the day, both bottles were gone, but so was Tom’s voice.