"There is smoke in the cockpit. CA 19-8 and CA145 levels. Cabin pressure's
dropping. Terra nos respute."
James feels his book about to slip out of his hands, catches it just in the nick of time. He blinks once or twice, completely out of sorts, guessing he'd sunk into a deep sleep while reading on the couch.
He had been reading, hadn't he?
He readjusts the book and glances up at the man standing in front of him, the man whose voice had startled him from his doze... but then suddenly realizes that this isn't her living room.
He straightens, blinks again, and rubs his eyes.
The chair he is sitting on is hard plastic. It abruptly dawns on him that he is in Q- branch that has become so numbingly familiar over these past few months and where she must have dropped off with the book open in his lap.
"007, what if I told you I can fast-forward time past Samantha's death to when she is old... What if I told you that you can have one more chance to say good-bye before she is really gone for good? If you are going to do this I would suggest you do it now. It only works once."
What is he talking about?
Q regards him a moment in that serious yet matter-of-fact way of his. Then he shrugs his sleeve back from his wristwatch, glances down at it, and holds it out to her, turning his arm to display the dial.
"Yes, she has exactly fifteen minutes, to be precise," he says. "We're on the fast track now. Time runs by until there's none left."
Perplexed by his comment, James looks at the watch.
His eyes grow enormous.
Its face is a blank white circle. Perfectly featureless, without digits, hands or markings of any kind.
He feels another chunk of himself give way.
Blank.
The face of the watch is blank.
"Stay calm, 007, it tends to run a bit ahead," Q says. "There's still a chance to say good-bye."
James suddenly finds himself out of the chair, and this time making no attempt to catch his magazine as it spills off his lap, landing on the floor at his feet. From the corner of his eye, he sees that the cover, which has partially folded under one of the interior pages, consists of a photo of a shuttle and launch pad consumed by a rolling ball of flame.
All at once James isn't sure he remembers, just as he'd initially been unable to remember being at Q-branch. His memory seems a flat, slippery surface without depth or width.
"Your wife is in room 401. But you already know that, you've been there before." Q is saying. He gestures to the end of the corridor. The corridor all of a sudden stretches in length and James found him self in a hospital.
Q starts down the corridor and he pauses and looks back at him, giving him thumbs up. "VIP's first and always," he says, and grins. "I'd advise you to hurry."
He tips him a little salute and hustles down the hall.
I'd advise you to hurry.
His heart pounding in his chest, he forgets about Q and whirls toward the room which his wife lies dying.
In an instant James is standing at the door. Breathless, he fells like he's come running over to it at a full dash, yet has no sense of her legs having carried him from Q-branch or even moving from point A to point B. It is as if she'd been starring at Q's back one moment, and found himself here in front of the door the next, trying to stop himself from falling to pieces in spite of the death sentence that has been pronounced upon his wife.
For her sake, trying to hold up.
He takes a deep gulp of air, and another. Then he reaches for the doorknob, turns it, and steps through into the room.
The light inside is all wrong.
Odd as it may be for him to register this before anything else, it is nevertheless what happens. The light is wrong. Not exactly dim, but diffuse enough to severely limit his vision. Although he can see the foot of his wife's bed without any problem, things start to blur immediately beyond it. As if through a layer of water, he sees the tubes, fluid drains, and monitor wires that run to the bed, sees the outline of Samantha's legs under the blanket, sees that she is resting on her back, but her face...
He think suddenly of those televised news reports in which someone's features are blurred to protect his or her identity, the sort that might involve use of a hidden camera, or show crime suspects being lead towards the courthouse by the police. Pictures in which it almost looks as if Vaseline has been dabbed over the part of the frame in which the person's face ought to appear.
That is how James sees his wife from the doorway of 401. There is a plaque above the door that reads:
"Samantha Bond, aged 81 will die of cancer in 14 minutes 6 seconds."
"James?"
Samantha's voice is a horse whisper. Its weakness shakes James for a moment he thinks he is going to burst into tears. He covers his trembling lips with his palm. "James, is that you?"
He stands there, trying to regain his composure, the room silent except for the quiet beeping of the instruments at Samantha's bedside. The fuzziness of the light makes him feel strangely lost and isolated, like a small boat adrift in fog.
Finally he lowers his hand from his mouth.
"Yes," he says. "It's me, hon. I'm here."
"Come over here, James," she says. "Hard to talk when you're standing there by the door."
He steps forward into the room. Her sleeve. Something about it isn't right, something about the color of it-
"Come on, what are you waiting for?" she says.
He wades through the filthy light towards his wife. Her IV stand and the wall of beeping instruments are on the left side of the bed, so he walks around its foot to the right and rolls back her plastic hospital tray in order to approach her.
Suddenly her hand reaches over the safety rail and clutches his wrist.
"Give it to us, James," she says. "Let's hear how sorry you are."
He stands there in shock as her fingers press into him with impossible strength.
"We trusted you," she says.
Her fingers are digging deeper into the soft flesh under his wrist, hurting him now. Though James knows they will leave bruises, he does not attempt to pull away. He looks at Samantha across the bed, wishing he could see her face, mystified by her words.
"Samantha, please tell me what you mean-"
"My boy, always in a hurry, rushes from one place to another without looking back."
He winces as her grip tightens.
Who can she be talking about? Herself and the crew?
James can scarcely guess.
No, that isn't the truth. Not really.
The simple, inescapable truth is that he's afraid to guess.
Her grip tightens.
He wishes he could see her face.
"You were supposed to be responsible. Supposed to look out for us," she says.
James still doesn't pull away, absolutely refuses to pull away. Instead he moves closer to her, pressing up against the bed rail, thinking if she could just see her face, if they could just see each other eye-to-eye, she would stop this nonsense about him leaving her –
The thought is abruptly clipped short as his eyes once again fall on her sleeve. The color, yes, the color, how had he failed to identify it right away? He doesn't know the answer, but realizes now that what she's wearing isn't a pajama; it's a NASA flight suit. At the same instant this occurs to him, the quiet beep of the instruments measuring his wife's vital functions pitches up to a shrill alarm, an earsplitting sound he recognizes from some other place, some other when.
It is a sound that makes him gasp in horror.
The faceless woman in the bed is shouting at him at the top of her voice: "Cabin pressure's dropping! Look for yourself! Check the readings!"
James awoke from the nightmare, his hands still clasped over his eyes; he felt a small bleak smile touch his lips.
An instant later the tears begin streaming between his fingers.
James feels his book about to slip out of his hands, catches it just in the nick of time. He blinks once or twice, completely out of sorts, guessing he'd sunk into a deep sleep while reading on the couch.
He had been reading, hadn't he?
He readjusts the book and glances up at the man standing in front of him, the man whose voice had startled him from his doze... but then suddenly realizes that this isn't her living room.
He straightens, blinks again, and rubs his eyes.
The chair he is sitting on is hard plastic. It abruptly dawns on him that he is in Q- branch that has become so numbingly familiar over these past few months and where she must have dropped off with the book open in his lap.
"007, what if I told you I can fast-forward time past Samantha's death to when she is old... What if I told you that you can have one more chance to say good-bye before she is really gone for good? If you are going to do this I would suggest you do it now. It only works once."
What is he talking about?
Q regards him a moment in that serious yet matter-of-fact way of his. Then he shrugs his sleeve back from his wristwatch, glances down at it, and holds it out to her, turning his arm to display the dial.
"Yes, she has exactly fifteen minutes, to be precise," he says. "We're on the fast track now. Time runs by until there's none left."
Perplexed by his comment, James looks at the watch.
His eyes grow enormous.
Its face is a blank white circle. Perfectly featureless, without digits, hands or markings of any kind.
He feels another chunk of himself give way.
Blank.
The face of the watch is blank.
"Stay calm, 007, it tends to run a bit ahead," Q says. "There's still a chance to say good-bye."
James suddenly finds himself out of the chair, and this time making no attempt to catch his magazine as it spills off his lap, landing on the floor at his feet. From the corner of his eye, he sees that the cover, which has partially folded under one of the interior pages, consists of a photo of a shuttle and launch pad consumed by a rolling ball of flame.
All at once James isn't sure he remembers, just as he'd initially been unable to remember being at Q-branch. His memory seems a flat, slippery surface without depth or width.
"Your wife is in room 401. But you already know that, you've been there before." Q is saying. He gestures to the end of the corridor. The corridor all of a sudden stretches in length and James found him self in a hospital.
Q starts down the corridor and he pauses and looks back at him, giving him thumbs up. "VIP's first and always," he says, and grins. "I'd advise you to hurry."
He tips him a little salute and hustles down the hall.
I'd advise you to hurry.
His heart pounding in his chest, he forgets about Q and whirls toward the room which his wife lies dying.
In an instant James is standing at the door. Breathless, he fells like he's come running over to it at a full dash, yet has no sense of her legs having carried him from Q-branch or even moving from point A to point B. It is as if she'd been starring at Q's back one moment, and found himself here in front of the door the next, trying to stop himself from falling to pieces in spite of the death sentence that has been pronounced upon his wife.
For her sake, trying to hold up.
He takes a deep gulp of air, and another. Then he reaches for the doorknob, turns it, and steps through into the room.
The light inside is all wrong.
Odd as it may be for him to register this before anything else, it is nevertheless what happens. The light is wrong. Not exactly dim, but diffuse enough to severely limit his vision. Although he can see the foot of his wife's bed without any problem, things start to blur immediately beyond it. As if through a layer of water, he sees the tubes, fluid drains, and monitor wires that run to the bed, sees the outline of Samantha's legs under the blanket, sees that she is resting on her back, but her face...
He think suddenly of those televised news reports in which someone's features are blurred to protect his or her identity, the sort that might involve use of a hidden camera, or show crime suspects being lead towards the courthouse by the police. Pictures in which it almost looks as if Vaseline has been dabbed over the part of the frame in which the person's face ought to appear.
That is how James sees his wife from the doorway of 401. There is a plaque above the door that reads:
"Samantha Bond, aged 81 will die of cancer in 14 minutes 6 seconds."
"James?"
Samantha's voice is a horse whisper. Its weakness shakes James for a moment he thinks he is going to burst into tears. He covers his trembling lips with his palm. "James, is that you?"
He stands there, trying to regain his composure, the room silent except for the quiet beeping of the instruments at Samantha's bedside. The fuzziness of the light makes him feel strangely lost and isolated, like a small boat adrift in fog.
Finally he lowers his hand from his mouth.
"Yes," he says. "It's me, hon. I'm here."
"Come over here, James," she says. "Hard to talk when you're standing there by the door."
He steps forward into the room. Her sleeve. Something about it isn't right, something about the color of it-
"Come on, what are you waiting for?" she says.
He wades through the filthy light towards his wife. Her IV stand and the wall of beeping instruments are on the left side of the bed, so he walks around its foot to the right and rolls back her plastic hospital tray in order to approach her.
Suddenly her hand reaches over the safety rail and clutches his wrist.
"Give it to us, James," she says. "Let's hear how sorry you are."
He stands there in shock as her fingers press into him with impossible strength.
"We trusted you," she says.
Her fingers are digging deeper into the soft flesh under his wrist, hurting him now. Though James knows they will leave bruises, he does not attempt to pull away. He looks at Samantha across the bed, wishing he could see her face, mystified by her words.
"Samantha, please tell me what you mean-"
"My boy, always in a hurry, rushes from one place to another without looking back."
He winces as her grip tightens.
Who can she be talking about? Herself and the crew?
James can scarcely guess.
No, that isn't the truth. Not really.
The simple, inescapable truth is that he's afraid to guess.
Her grip tightens.
He wishes he could see her face.
"You were supposed to be responsible. Supposed to look out for us," she says.
James still doesn't pull away, absolutely refuses to pull away. Instead he moves closer to her, pressing up against the bed rail, thinking if she could just see her face, if they could just see each other eye-to-eye, she would stop this nonsense about him leaving her –
The thought is abruptly clipped short as his eyes once again fall on her sleeve. The color, yes, the color, how had he failed to identify it right away? He doesn't know the answer, but realizes now that what she's wearing isn't a pajama; it's a NASA flight suit. At the same instant this occurs to him, the quiet beep of the instruments measuring his wife's vital functions pitches up to a shrill alarm, an earsplitting sound he recognizes from some other place, some other when.
It is a sound that makes him gasp in horror.
The faceless woman in the bed is shouting at him at the top of her voice: "Cabin pressure's dropping! Look for yourself! Check the readings!"
James awoke from the nightmare, his hands still clasped over his eyes; he felt a small bleak smile touch his lips.
An instant later the tears begin streaming between his fingers.