Gwendy’s Final Task

Pete Riley went to the window of Gwendy’s small study and looked out with his hands stuffed deep in his pockets. “Okay,” he said, not looking at her. “Barring a miracle, you’d lose. I think we’ve settled that point. So lose. Make a pretty concession speech about how the voters have spoken but the fight continues and blah blah blah. Then you can go back to writing about Derry, Maine in the 1930s. But this isn’t the ’30s, it’s 2018, and you know what?”

He turned back to her like a good defense attorney addressing the jury.

“Yeat’s blood-dimmed tide is also running. People are turning away from women’s rights, from science, from the very notion of equality. They’re turning away from truth. Politics aside, somebody needs to stand up and make them look at all the stuff it’s easier and more comfortable not to believe in. You always did that, always. I’m asking you to do it again.”

“To be your noble Joan of Arc and let the good people of Maine burn me at the stake?”

“Nobody is going to burn you alive,” Pete said … not knowing that eight years later Gwendy would be atop a flaming torch called Eagle Heavy and more than half-expecting to be transformed into superheated atoms at any moment. “You’re going to lose an election. But in the meantime, you could make that fat prick Magowan sweat bullets. Get him on the debate stage and make people see that he’s sticking up for ideas that aren’t just bad, they’re unworkable and downright dangerous. Then you can go back to writing your books.”

Gwendy had been ready to be angry with Pete, but she saw he was at least partly right. She was being melodramatic. Which, she supposed, went with writing fiction full of secrets and hot sex. “Take one for the team, in other words. Would that be accurate?”

He gave her the big Clark Gable grin. “Hole in one.”

“Let me think about it,” she’d said.

Probably a mistake.

8

BUT NOT AS BIG as this one, Gwendy thinks as the roar of the engines increases to a bellow. Jafari Bankole’s grip has become paralyzing, even through the thickness of their two gloves. She goes to CREW on her iPad with her free hand, highlights Jafari’s name with the pad-sensitive tip of her index finger (it’s easier to remember stuff when you’re not trying, she has discovered), and speaks to him com to com, so it’s private. “Let up a little, Jaff, okay? You’re hurting.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, and relaxes his grip. “This is … such a very long way from Kenya.”

“And from Western Maine,” Gwendy says.

The cabin’s shudder-shake begins to lessen, and her recliner starts to turn slightly on its gimbals. Or is it? Maybe what’s really happening is that the altitude of the cabin is changing. Tilting.

Gwendy punches for Ops Com so she can listen to Kathy, Sam, and Mission Control.

“350 miles downrange and the sound barrier is just a happy memory,” Eileen says. She sounds calm, and why not? Eileen is safe on the ground.

“Roger that,” Kathy says. She also sounds calm, which is good.

“Looking fine, Eagle Heavy. Nominal burn, all three engines.”

“Roger.” Sam Drinkwater this time.

The cabin’s tilt is gradually becoming more pronounced, and the ride has become smooth. For the time being, at least.

“You are go for throttle up, Eagle Heavy.”

Kathy and Sam together: “Roger.”

Gwendy can’t hear any real difference in the engine-roar, but an invisible hand settles on her chest. Ahead of her, Dale Glen, the mission’s doctor, appears to be making notes on his iPad, and never mind the pad-sensitive fingertip; he has stripped his glove off. He could be in his Missoula consulting room, Gwendy thinks.

She goes to FLIGHT INFO on her pad. They are less than two minutes into the flight but already 22 miles high and traveling at 2600 miles an hour. For a woman who considers driving at 80 on the Maine State Turnpike living dangerously, she finds the number hard to comprehend, but there’s no doubt about the increasing pressure on her body. Gravity doesn’t want to let go.

There’s a thud, followed by a bright flash in the pothole to her left, and for a moment she thinks it’s all over. Jafari’s hand clamps down again.

“Solid booster rocket has separated,” Sam says, to which Dave Graves responds, “Hallelujah. Swivel those jets, BoPeep.”

“Call me that again and I’ll tear your face off,” Kathy says. “Let me hear your roger.”

“Roger that,” Dave says, grinning.

The tilt of the cabin increases. Outside, the blue sky has darkened to violet.

“Three main engines all firing beautifully,” Kathy says, and Gwendy sees Bern Stapleton lift his hands with the thumbs up. A moment later he’s in her helmet, com to com. “Enjoying the ride, Senator?”

And because for the moment it’s just the two of them, she says, “Best orgasm a girl ever had.”

He laughs. It’s loud. Gwendy winces. She needs to turn down the sound, but how does she do that? She knew a little while ago, she even did it, but now she can’t remember.

It’s on your iPad. Everything is.