The ship was suddenly empty.
Maybe this is one time being in shock helps, Jack thought numbly. He could always cry later, if he lived.
He dragged himself over to the console and up into the chair. His leg flopped pathetically—no bleeding, but the flesh looked like raw hamburger and the bone hadn't even begun to set when they came for her. He blacked out once from the pain and found himself looking up at the ceiling. He nearly lost the oxygen mask that time.
There was water below—he was out somewhere past the banks. He took a guess at west from the fading sunset and hit the laterals. Bingo. Land. He headed for the first flat spot he saw, behind the dunes, over the road. Managed to slow descent—one of many things Morningstar Rising could do that NASA's crippled birds couldn't. Take off from anywhere. Land anywhere . . . anywhere . . . and everyone said it couldn't be done. Deep-space vehicle from Earth launch . . . well . . . screw them all—she flew like an angel. Screw the money people, NASA, the government with its petty, red-tape-wielding bureaucrats, the doubters, the hecklers. To Hell with all of them. Screw them . . .
He blacked out again as he touched down.
He came to when the hatch opened. A middle-aged man in uniform burst in, stared at the blood everywhere, shouted, "Corpsman! Stretcher, stat!"
Everything went black again
Someone stood over the bed, looking down at him.
Jack focused with difficulty, frowned. "I know you," he said at last, though he didn't know who the man was.
"Al Roberts, from TRITEL," the man said. "Celestial's . . . well, financial angel, I guess you could call me."
"Probably not," Jack said. "I'm a bit pickier about that term than I used to be. And TRITEL pulled out on us; if I called you anything, it would be our financial devil."
"TRITEL didn't pull out. First I got called back on active duty for some mess that didn't even exist—situation totally FUBAR. I ended up spending time in Antarctica while an endless succession of bureaucrats told me they knew I wasn't supposed to be there but until they received forms that verified that fact, Antarctica was where I would have to stay. Meanwhile, Williams had a massive heart attack and keeled over dead. And to complete the disaster, every scrap of paper I had documenting the channeling of government funds through TRITEL into Celestial vanished while I was trying to straighten out the military mess. Williams could have kept your funds flowing—he knew the secret. He wasn't supposed to die on me."
"Government funds. For our spaceship? That would imply intelligent life in Washington." Jack was incredulous.
"Occasionally," Roberts said. "Just occasionally." The corpsmen got Jack on the stretcher and out the door. He saw a familiar monument, brightly lit in the deepening night. "Pournelle was lobbying pretty hard there at the end, just before the funding went through."
Jack nodded. In a funny way, it made sense. "How did she come down?"
"Perfectly. Like a sweet dream. Ended up in Kittyhawk." Roberts grinned. "You put her down just about where Wilbur did." Roberts paused. "I think he'd like that." He sighed. "Anyway, the Antarctic mess suddenly resolved itself, and I shot back to North Carolina immediately. Just missed you at Celestial, headed for Manteo on the advice of Jan . . . whatever her last name is . . . and crested the dunes in time to see the ship fading into the darkness. I thought she would have been on the ship with you, considering the . . . circumstances. Where is she?"
"Gone," Jack said dully. "She was . . . ah . . . one of the Hellraised. Hiding from them, helping us to get into space. They found her, and they took her back."
Roberts paled. "No. Christ, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He stared out the window, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "She was a remarkable woman."
"You don't know the half of it," Jack said as the darkness claimed him again.