Skyfall

Nadya was on the far couch, the one that had been Colonel Kuznekov's, possibly asleep; with her eyes bandaged it was not easy to tell. Gregor was helping Coretta to put Ely's body into a sleeping bag. She went about it so calmly that he was ashamed of his emotions as he felt the cold skin, the limp arms. He had never touched a corpse before and it was doubly horrible here in space. It was too soon for rigor mortis to have set in, he had always thought it happened almost instantly after death, but the corpse was still difficult to handle, to force into the tight confines of the bag.

“This is not working,” Coretta said. “Pull it off. Hold him while I fix the bag.” She rolled it back on itself then, like putting on a stocking, rolled it neatly down over the body.

“What should we do with…?” Gregor asked.

“Nothing, I imagine,” Coretta said slowly. “No burial, no service either I guess. Let's just strap him to the bunk.”

“Here on this one,” Nadya said, sitting up. “Someone guide me, if you please.”

Gregor was glad to leave the compartment, to answer Patrick's call.

“Turn on the teleprinter, will you,” Patrick said, his blind eyes looking into darkness, pointing where he knew the machine was. “Just throw the switch to on, then the other switch to transmit. Type 'ready to receive' and turn the switch back to receive.”

“Easy enough.” Gregor did this and as soon as he had switched to receive, the machine began to chatter rapidly. The first thing it typed was HOOPSNAKE OPERATION DESCRIPTION.

“What is this?” Gregor asked.

“Get the others in here, I want to tell them top.”

In a calm, unemotional voice, Patrick explained what Dill-water had told him, what the program was that was coming out line by line from the teleprinter. Gregor accepted the news stoically, with Slavic resignation. Coretta was not quite sure what it meant.

“Engine self-destruction program?”

Patrick nodded. “It would be simpler to say make-the-engine-a-bomb program. They want us to rig the thing to blow ourselves up to prevent greater loss of lives on Earth.”

“That's nice,” Coretta said, not hiding the bitterness in her voice. “They get us up here, strand us up here, shoot a bomb at us, then expect us, out of gratitude, to commit atomic suicide. Why don't they just shoot off another bomb? Maybe the American aim will be better than the Soviet.”

“They must have their reasons,” Patrick said. “Probably because there could be no guarantee of the complete destruction needed to eliminate us and our atomic fuel. What do you think, Gregor?”

“I? Nothing. If we die a few minutes earlier or later we are just as dead. You are the Commander, the decision is yours.”

“No, we all have to vote on this Nadya?”

“Follow the instructions, blow us all up, get it over with.”

There was more pain than resignation in her voice; Patrick knew how she felt, shared the same emotions. The ache in his eyes was only dulled by the drugs, the pain of their failure was even stronger. “Your vote, Coretta?” he asked.

“Me? Does it matter what I think? You are going to be real Gung Ho and logical about it in the end and put the safety of the world ahead of a few minutes more of our happy lives. So go on and do it and don't bother me.” Her voice was rising, she was beginning to shout, and she realized suddenly that she was losing control. The trained physician, cool and abstract, getting hysterical while the two blind pilots remained calm and stoical in the face of this final adversity. She took a shuddering breath and tried to imitate their control. “Sorry to blow my cool.”

“You have every reason,” Patrick told her.

“I guess I do, but so do the rest of you, with even more reason, and I don't see you enjoying any self-pity. I'll try to be logical. If we are going to die in any case in minutes, hours, whatever the latest estimate is….”

“The solar output hasn't varied, the beginning of the storm is not the size anticipated.”

“With our luck it's going to get bigger, sooner, and if it doesn't we still have only seventeen hours left, so the hell with it. Rig the bomb and have someone press the button.”

“Do you really believe what you're saying?” Patrick asked.

“Hell yes, but why the cross-examination?”

“Simply because neither Nadya nor I can help. The physical preparations will have to be done by you and Gregor.”

“That is logical,” Gregor said.

Coretta was shocked at first, then she smiled wryly. “Well, well, it-comes to that. The good Dr. Coretta Samuel, saver of lives, ends her days building an atomic bomb. Why not, Commander. They'll be singing folk songs about me in the ghettos before you know it.”

“Then we are in agreement,” said Gregor. “It will be done.”

“Agreed,” Nadija said.

“I'll tell them.” Patrick switched on the radio. “Prometheus calling Mission Control. Can you patch us through to Mr. Dillwater…”

“NO!” Flax's answering shout was so loud that the wall speaker rattled with it. “I am connecting you to the President of the United States, to Dillwater as well, and the entire cabinet who are meeting at this time.”