It was happening again. Oh, God, they were doing it again!
Al felt a thrill of despair as someone kicked him in the ribs, driving from his lungs what little air he had been able to suck in when they had finally lifted his head out of the trough. He couldn't even sputter to expel the fluid rattling in his bronchia, burning the tender respiratory tissue and causing horrific pain. He tried to resist as they hauled him across the clearing towards the crude wooden gallows that were never used for anything as merciful as a lynching. He was too weak. Above him he heard the delighted laughter of his captors. It was the laughter of spoiled and wicked-minded children who had realized that it was time to play with their favorite toy.
Rough hands pulled at his fatigues, wresting his body out of its coarse cotton sheath, intent upon robbing him of even this meager protection. He tried to curse at them, to writhe away from the debasing hands. You had to resist. You had to fight back. You had to try to stop them from stripping you down. Every second you kept the soiled, sweat-soaked rags on your body was one more second of delay before the horrors started afresh. There were all sorts of unthinkably hideous things they couldn't do to you until you were naked.
But Al was too weak to struggle. He could feel the cloth peeling away from his arms. Then slowly down the torso, over the hips… No! No!
He thrashed madly, trying to resist, fighting with every ounce of strength. If only, if only he could get a deep breath. He felt like he was still drowning.
The clothes were gone. With a wail of despair, Al threw up his hands to shield his head as a black snake cut from an old Jeep tire came down across his bare chest, further derailing his efforts to breathe.
Couldn't they leave him alone? God, God, why couldn't they leave him alone? They always came for him… always him…
"No! No!" he moaned, his throat grating as if it had been burned as horribly as his back. His lungs wheezed, protesting this abuse. As another blow robbed him yet again of breath, Al felt consciousness slipping away… slipping away into delirium, a fevered hallucination where nothing weighed upon his aching limbs, and strong, supportive arms held him while firm hands ministered to his battered body. A desperate dream of insanity, in which a kind, grieving voice was speaking in English—in that half-forgotten language of his innocent youth—and begging him to wake up, to please wake up, to be okay, to please, please be okay, Al, please, please, Al, wake up.
Al didn't want to open his eyes. He had to cling to this fantasy, this specter dreamed up by his tortured brain. The illusion that someone cared, that someone wanted to stop the hurt. That someone was willing to hold him, vile and hideous though he was, and try to take the pain away. Even the idea that there was someone out there who didn't want to destroy him, to break him… even that was an unheard-of treasure, to be retained as long as possible.
It wouldn't be long. Any second now the next blow would fall, and that wasn't even the real stuff. No, the real stuff was going to be much worse. Nothing in this hell could ever be so mild as a skin-flaying beating.
Hell. That was it. He wasn't in Vietnam: he was in Hell. He remembered now. The LEM. Jim Taggert, the empty oxygen tank. Nothing to push off of… out of air… and now Calavicci was finally in Hell where he belonged. Satan had come at last to claim his long-coveted prize…
Al began to cough, his battered chest heaving and his throat burning with the effort of dilating to accommodate the sudden influx of air.
"Thank God! Thank God!" a tearful voice cried. The arms tightened their hold frantically, as if afraid that if they relaxed even for a moment, Al would vanish into the netherworld.
"Houston, I think he's coming 'round!" a twanging Texas drawl exclaimed.
"Al? Al, please wake up!"
He recognized that voice… Al's muddled brain groped for the name. Jack… no, Jim… Jim… "Jim?" he croaked.
There was a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh. "Yeah! God, Al, are you okay?"
It took an enormous effort, but Al opened his eyes. There, blurry and indistinct above him, was the face of Jim Taggert, oddly disproportionate above the sealant ring of his spacesuit.
"I…" Al had to stop as a wave of unbelievable nausea washed over him. He clamped his mouth closed against the efflux of acid, screwing his eyes shut in an attempt not to vomit.
A plastic bag was placed over his lips.
"It's okay," Jim said. "Go ahead."
Al shook his head ferociously. Not if he could help it. He choked back the burning fluid and raised a clumsy hand to bat the bag away. He was having a hard enough time breathing without that. The effort expended was enormous, and he let himself go limp. His legs were floating; Jim had his arm clamped firmly around his torso.
"God, Al, you scared the hell out of us," Jim scolded, trying not to cry any more than he already had. "How do you feel?"
"You ever used your head as the clapper in a church bell?" Al rasped. God, he felt awful. There was pain pulsing through his temples and his throat and mouth were raw.
Jim let out a tiny laugh that smacked of ill-suppressed hysteria. With every breath, the world was starting to come more and more into focus. Al blinked heavily. His limbs ached as if he had run a full marathon, or spent the afternoon in the blazing sun, strung up by his ankles, with his arms spread-eagled to the sides.
Clem Jacobs bobbed over and peered down at him. He, too, was still in his spacesuit, having stopped only to remove gloves and helmet. "Hey, Commander," he said. "Doc told me I should ask you: what year is it?"
"Nineteen seventy-six," Al answered, his vocal cords snagging on the words.
Clem nodded. "Who's the current president?"
"Gerald Ford."
"And where are you?"
Al frowned thoughtfully. "Hell," he finally said.
Jim and Clem exchanged a worried look. Al decided to elucidate.
" 'Cause they say there're more Texans in Hell than there are in Texas," he finished, with his best attempt at a wicked grin.
The two men laughed out of sheer relief.
"You gonna tell me who turned down my bid for the farm?" Al asked. He was starting to tire of Jim's hold on his chest, but the kid looked like he needed reassurances that he was still there. Al remembered enough of what had happened to know what the kid must be feeling—what he would have been feeling had their places been reversed. So he endured the indignity of his current position while his crew exchanged another communicative look.
"Soon's Jim got inside we hooked him up to the EVA tether and sent him out after you," Clem said.
Al shook his head. "That tether's fifteen, maybe twenty feet long."
"And there's a spare," Clem pointed out. "You water rats aren't the only ones who know how to tie a knot."
"Maybe not," Al said, coughing shallowly; "but we tie them best."
"Only 'cause you can't do anything else," Clem countered.
"When you can rope 'em, what else do you need?" Al retorted, hoarsely salacious. "I would've thought a farm boy like you would know that."
He coughed again, gripping his arms against the fit, and then realized abruptly that there had been something to the memories of being stripped down. He frowned.
"What the hell?" he muttered.
Jim colored a little. "You… uh… you were out for six or seven minutes by the time we got this baby pressurized again," he said. "We had to clean you up a little."
Al felt himself flushing with shame. He tried to pull away, but Jim wouldn't let go. He seized Al with a bracing shudder.
"You saved my life," he said through clenched teeth. "You saved my life and you almost died. Don't you dare think like that. Don't you dare."
"How d'you know what I'm thinking?" Al griped viciously.
" 'Cause I'd be thinking the same thing, but don't you dare!" Jim reiterated fiercely.
Clem returned, though Al hadn't seen him move off. He had the spare jumpsuit in hand. Jim gripped Al tightly for a fraction of a second, then let him float into a sitting position. With the help of the other astronauts, Al got into the garment, then sat meekly in mid-air while Clem got his feet into some socks. He ran a hand through his hair and frowned again.
"Why'm I wet up top?" he asked, puzzled.
Jim laughed a little. "You ralphed in your helmet, too," he said. "Am I ever glad we were stuck in the LEM for as long as we were!"
Clem sniggered. Al had to laugh, too. After all, they were all alive, the Command Module was in perfect working order, and this was shaping up to be one hell of an adventure in just about every way possible. "Guess I should be, too," he said ruefully, pushing himself gently towards the cabinet where the paper wipes were kept.
"That ain't all," Jim said. Al looked up from unfolding the damp square, wondering what fresh humiliation he was about to learn of. Jim pointed to an object hovering near the hatch. "Through all that you hung on to the film!"
There was a moment of silence as the absurdity struck home. This time, the relieved laughter of all three astronauts seemed to rock the capsule.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMElsa stared at the screen charting the Command Module's course back to Earth. She was furious. All of her knowledge, all those years of training and experience, and she had been unable to save the astronauts. Had it not been for Al's courageous stupidity, there would be one man in that capsule now, and two dead ones floating in a decaying orbit around the moon.
There was a cry from the entryway to the Command Center. "Elsa! Oh, Elsa!"
Elsa turned as Lauren Taggert rushed towards her, Jeremy bouncing on her hip. Suddenly the two women were embracing around the little boy. "He saved him! Al saved Jim!" Lauren sobbed. "Oh, Elsa, he could have been killed! He could have been killed!"
Elsa didn't ask who she was referring to. It didn't matter anyway: she was right both ways. Lauren's hold on Jeremy was slipping, and Elsa awkwardly tried to support the boy.
"Allow me, ma'am," a deep, calm voice intoned. Gene Kranz moved in with firm, confident hands and extracted the baby from his precarious position. He jiggled the little boy, grinning. "Hey, fella," he said. "You've got a hero for a daddy. Saved his commander's life today, yes he did."
"No, no, Al saved his life!" Lauren wailed. "If it hadn't been for him—oh, Elsa!"
"Yeah, well, Jim returned the favor," Kranz said. "Sounds like everybody's going to be okay. Thanks to Calavicci's quick thinking."
"Can I talk to Jim?" Lauren asked. "They said if I wanted to talk to Jim, I would have to—"
Two Marines bolted into the room, skidding to a halt when they saw the Mission Director holding the baby.
"Sir! I'm sorry, sir!" one of them panted. "We couldn't stop her, sir! She just—"
"It's all right, soldier," Kranz said, chucking Jeremy under the chin and grinning enormously when the gesture elicited a smile.
"But sir, it's against regulations—"
"And I'm in command here, which means I can veto regulations," Kranz told him. "Now, Mrs. Taggert has had one hell—excuse me, ma'am, one heck of a scare, and now she's the wife of a hero. If she wants to talk to her husband, I don't see any problem with that."
Elsa reflected that three missions ago the stern man would have taken a rather different view of things. Perhaps the nostalgia of commanding his last mission was going to his head. Or perhaps he was charmed by the beautiful blue-eyed boy. Jeremy was such a sweet little boy, the kind one could cuddle forever…
She shook her head. What kind of a thought was that, when they were in the middle of a crisis? Or rather at the end of one.
Kranz navigated Lauren over to Cap Com and spoke quietly to Simmons. The corporal grinned.
"Houston to Enterprise, come in Enterprise," he said.
"Enterprise here. What's up, Houston?" Clem Jacobs responded.
"Oh, this and that," Simmons said. "How's our brave boy in khaki?"
"Fine, fine," Jacobs said. "A little green around the gills for a sailor, but that's only to be expected. And he tells us he's got one mother of a headache."
"I'm not surprised," muttered the indignant flight surgeon. He had not yet forgiven Al for failing to inform him of the levels in the oxygen tanks that everyone had thought the men were such geniuses to don.
"Well, you tell him Doc thinks he's a damned fool," Simmons said. "Say, is our brash young lieutenant handy? I've got somebody here who wants to talk to him."
"Hang on for a second on that one, Houston," Jacobs said. There was a silence, and then Jim came on the radio.
"Go ahead, Pete. Who's going to bawl me out now?" he asked.
"I wouldn't be too flippant about it," Simmons warned. Then he got up and escorted Lauren into his chair, fixing her up with a headset. "Just talk into the microphone. He can hear you fine."
She glanced nervously at Elsa, who mustered a firm and encouraging nod. Lauren leaned forward. "Jim?" she said.
"Lauren! Lauren, honey! God, I thought I'd never hear your voice again!" Jim cried.
It was the wrong thing to say. Elsa could see Lauren's throat palpitate. She moved in to grip the younger woman's hand. Lauren managed a small, glassy-eyed smile of gratitude. "Jim, are you really all right?" she asked. "Really, truly?"
He laughed. "Really, truly, darling, I'm fine! Never been better!" Jim said. "I'm just sorry you had to have a scare like that, honey."
"I was so worried!"
"You shouldn't worry," Jim said firmly. "There ain't a thing that can hurt us while Al's around. Lauren, you shoulda seen him! Didn't even hesitate—my God, honey, he could have died…"
"Jim? Jim, are you all right?" Lauren asked anxiously.
"Darling, I said I'm fine," he reiterated.
"And—and Al? Is he okay?"
Jim's voice broke as he spoke. "I think he's going to be okay," he said. "Thank God."
Elsa turned away from the overjoyed young bride, unable to deal with the jumble of emotions warring within her. Divorce, she reminded herself. As if this whole marriage had never happened.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMClem brought Al a packet of water and helped him open it when his fingers fumbled clumsily with the seal. Across the capsule, Jim was winding down his conversation with Lauren.
"You really feeling okay?" Clem asked.
"Fine," Al fibbed. Actually, he knew he had felt worse, but not for the better part of three years. An orb of water burst in his mouth, and he coughed a little. "Just fine. That was some quick thinking you did," he said.
"Not as quick as yours," Clem countered.
"Hah," Al said flatly. "I wax suicidal, and suddenly I'm a hero?"
"You saved both your lives," the other man pointed out. "Jim couldn't have got you back to the capsule if you hadn't got him there first."
"Go stuff a duck," Al muttered, popping another dose of fluid into his mouth. The taste of vomit still wasn't dissipating, and neither was the headache. He coughed again. Clem felt his forehead.
"Maybe you should get some sleep," he suggested diplomatically.
"I said I'm fine. I'll sleep on my off watch," Al snapped. He sailed over to the seats and pulled himself down, proceeding to stir the oxygen tanks.
Jim glanced at him and frowned. "Doesn't anyone else want to talk to us?" he asked.
"I don't know…" Lauren said. "Elsa, do you want to talk to Al?"
There was a pause.
"No," Lauren says; "no, no one else. I love you, Jim. You be careful."
"Always am, darling. I love you too." Jim sat back as Simmons came back onto Cap Com.
"That's a brave little lady you've got, Jimbo," he said.
"She's a treasure," Jim said. He twisted in his seat and put a hand on Al's arm. "She's probably just busy," he reasoned.
Al chuckled ruefully. As if he cared.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMThe earth was enormous in the window. Al stared at the expanse of blue glory, and rammed his fist against his mouth to muffle the sound of the cough he just couldn't shake. It almost felt like there was something rattling around in there, and though he wouldn't admit it, it hurt like hell.
Jim bobbed over with a package of freeze-dried strawberries. "Al, Houston says if you don't eat something—"
"They'll what?" Al asked sardonically. "Abort the mission and bring me home in disgrace?"
Jim looked hurt. "Al, come on. You gotta eat. You haven't eaten anything since we left the moon."
"I'm not hungry," Al said flippantly. He turned back to the window. "Isn't she beautiful, Jim? She looks so perfect from up here. So peaceful, so clean…"
"We'll be home tomorrow," Jim said, his voice taking on a dreamy tone. "I'm gonna see Lauren and my little guy tomorrow. I have you to thank for that, you know."
"Don't romanticize it, Jimbo," Al said. "What I did out there was stupid. I could have killed you just as easily."
"But you didn't," Jim said. "You saved my life."
"And you saved mine," Al countered. "So we're even. So get over it."
Jim shook his head. "It's not the same thing. I wasn't in any danger. You…"
Al shrugged off the hand that moved to grip his shoulder. "Kid, I said get over it. We're even. Wouldn't be right for you to risk your life for me. The idea that one life is worth just as much as any other is for Utilitarians and used-car salesmen."
Jim stared at him for a moment, his eyes betraying deep hurt. Not wanting to watch the suffering his hard words were causing, Al smirked.
"Gimme those," he said, grabbing the package of food. "Freeze dried strawberries are just about as addictive as cocaine."
Jim smiled a little. "Just don't try to snort them," he said.
Al shrugged. "Might be fun to try in zero-G."