Critical Mass, page 4
“It’s pronounced ‘Tie.’ ”
“Apologies.” The doctor jotted a note in the folder.
Tighe took a seat once more.
The doctor sat down on a high stool. “I asked for you to come in so that we could review your test results in person. Have you driven here today?”
Tighe shook his head. “No. Why, are we doing another biopsy?”
“No, no.” The doctor placed a hand on the folder. “I must tell you the lab results came back positive. The mass in your liver is a malignant neoplasm—a very serious cancer.”
On hearing this news, Tighe’s prevailing emotion was simply disappointment. Apparently his cumulative radiation exposure in deep space had finally caught up with him. He recalled a conversation years ago with one of Joyce’s recruiters back on Ascension Island about why they preferred asteroid mining candidates in their thirties and forties: Most of you will die of old age before developing serious cancers.
Wrong again.
“We don’t yet know if it has spread, and determining this will require additional tests. However, it is important that you know this type of cancer—caught at this stage—is not necessarily terminal.” The oncologist looked Tighe in the eye. “With a rigorous schedule of chemo and radiation therapy, there is likelihood of containment. Possibly of full remission.”
Tighe nodded. He was feeling strangely detached, almost as if he was watching this on television.
“Do you understand what I am telling you, Mr. Tighe?”
“Yes. You’re telling me I need to undergo chemotherapy.”
“Correct. What we call neoadjuvant therapy, to prepare you for follow-up radiation treatment. The idea is that we want to shrink the tumor first.”
“How long would the chemo last?”
The doctor started writing in his folder. “I want to start you on a monthly cycle of two biweekly chemo sessions and depending on the results, tentatively aim to commence radiation treatments within two months.”
Tighe winced. “I don’t know where I’ll be in two months.”
“I suggest you clear your schedule.”
“And what are the side effects of the chemo?”
“The more common side effects include fatigue, vomiting, hair loss, bruising, loss of appetite. However, sometimes the side effects can be more debilitating—in which case we would change your medications. Certainly you should consider reducing your work schedule, or if possible taking a leave of absence.”
Tighe was already shaking his head. “I can’t. I need to travel for work.”
“Travel is a very bad idea. Chemotherapy suppresses your immune system, making you susceptible to viruses and infections.”
“But I need to work.”
“Mr. Tighe, getting better should be all that you are focused on. Is your job more important than your life?”
Tighe contemplated Jin Han and Priya Chindarkar trying to finance and organize a deep space rescue mission within the next four years without him—in time to be ready for Ryugu’s next close encounter with Earth. He owed his life to Adisa and Abarca. How many times had they both saved his? The next few months would be crucial. Was his work more important than his life? “In a way, yes. It is.”
The doctor looked confounded. “It may feel that way, but I doubt that is actually the case.”
“I can’t be incapacitated right now.”
“With an aggressive program of chemotherapy, we can reduce the size of your tumor and provide a reasonable chance of remission through radiation treatment.”
“And I’d be out of action for how long?”
“Six months. Perhaps a year. However, you would likely survive.”
“But no guarantee.”
“There is never a guarantee. All cancers are different. Your treatment might not succeed, but this approach gives you the best probability.”
“What if I reduced my chemo meds—to avoid side effects?”
The doctor frowned. “It could make radiation treatment impractical. This type of cancer is aggressive, and it would likely spread. Your illness could then become terminal.”
“But how long from now? Are we talking years?”
“Without chemo? Perhaps a year.”
“Could I push that date back a bit with a reduced chemo schedule? But stay on my feet for most of that time?”
Now the doctor looked alarmed. “That is a very unwise approach.”
“I understand, but is it possible?”
“I . . . Do you have a family, Mr. Tighe?”
“No. No wife or children.”
“Brothers? Sisters? Parents?”
He stared. “None who are close.”
“What is your occupation?”
“I work in the space industry.”
“And is your work physically strenuous?”
“You could say that.”
“Then this is not sensible. You need chemotherapy and bed rest, not travel and exertion.”
“The work I do means life or death for other people. Do you understand? I need to travel, and I need to function.”
“Your coworkers would not be able to count on you.”
“Not in space, no. But before then. That’s all I need.”
The doctor apparently saw the resolve in Tighe’s eyes. He tapped his pen on the folder and sighed. “You do realize this makes it likely your cancer will progress?”
“I’ll take all the meds I can handle—until the side effects start making it too difficult to work.”
The doctor jotted down notes in the folder. “I strongly advise you against this approach.”
“Yes, I know you do, and I appreciate it. I really do.”
“Are you certain you won’t reconsider, Mr. Tighe?”
“Yes, I’m certain. Thank you, Doctor.”
* * *
—
Despite the oppressive heat, Tighe didn’t take the tram back to the office. Instead, lost in thought, he strolled along Boulevard Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Strange that several of Luxembourg City’s streets were named after US presidents. Was it because of World War II? The Cold War? No doubt historic figures had left their mark on this city, but like all things, the details eventually faded into the background of everyday life—simply becoming someone’s street address. He imagined the momentous events he himself had lived through—the first crewed voyage beyond Earth’s orbit; the longest journey into deep space; the first off-world mining at industrial scale. Perhaps Tighe’s name would one day become a history test answer for bored teenagers.
It was another scorching day in Luxembourg—over a hundred degrees. He suspected that at some point climate change would make this the new normal for summer in Europe, but the punishing conditions matched his mood.
Tighe walked for a while without a destination. He didn’t want to speak with anyone—not until he’d come to terms with his diagnosis. He thought back to how Nicole Clarke, the first captain of the Konstantin, had died—or more specifically how he’d euthanized her at her own request. In deep space. Before her cancer got nastier. Perhaps he’d do the same to himself when the time came. She’d gone peacefully. Rather than sulk about it, he should probably accept the fact that dying of old age was never in the cards for him. In truth, half of the people he cared about were no longer among the living. A gallery of remembered faces brought a pang of loss all over again.
But what to tell Chindarkar and Jin about his medical situation? They would no doubt insist on a full course of chemo. And radiation treatment. He’d be out of action for most of the next year. Perhaps even become a burden to them.
Not if they don’t know about my cancer.
Still, what if his illness made him unreliable and that put others at risk? Well, that wasn’t likely to happen until they launched to space, and there were a thousand hurdles to clear before that would even be possible. So there was time yet before he had to come clean to them.
Pondering this, he wandered the Chemin de la Corniche and then down a winding cobblestone lane that descended along the cliffs to the Alzette River—where he meandered through the quaint streets of the Grund, largely deserted owing to the heat. This medieval quarter seemed centuries removed from the private space industry, whose investors and astropreneurs had brought an economic boom to the rest of the city.
It was strangely comforting to contemplate a medieval world where technology wasn’t constantly hurtling forward, humanity clinging on for dear life, but that was nonsense, of course. The world back then was imagined to be full of demons and witches. Climate change or no, the twenty-first century still had its advantages.
Chemo being one of them.
Tighe passed by shops and flats and saw people inside enmeshed in their rooted lives. All the things he never chose. How many times had he orbited over this city at 17,000 miles per hour? Too high to see these human moments.
What was certain was that his time in deep space had done more than damage his DNA—it had also altered his outlook on life. Before the Konstantin expedition, Tighe did not recall having a purpose, but after the expedition, his sense of purpose was all he could think about. This, at least, was something he could hold on to.
Tighe’s phone sounded. Very few people had his number, so despite his reluctance, he wiped the sweat off his hands and pulled the device from his jacket pocket. He wasn’t surprised by the caller and picked up. “Yes, Lukas.”
“Where are you?”
“Down in the Grund.”
“The Grund? We have an investor meet and greet right now. Here in the office. It’s on your schedule. We need you here.”
Time must have slipped away from him. The very last thing Tighe felt like doing at the moment was pumping up the Catalyst Corporation “brand story” with investors. But they needed the liquidity to get back into space—at least twenty-five million dollars per person for a seat on a rocket from either Macy’s or Burkette’s company. Where and how they’d manage in orbit after that was still an open question, and one that would require Earthly investors to answer.
Tighe nodded. “Right. I’m on my way.”
“Hurry. And be ready to discuss your experiences in space. Investors love that.”
Tighe took the Luxtram back toward the eastern edge of the city, and exited near Avenue John F. Kennedy, where he gazed up at the modern building where Catalyst Corporation leased space. True to form, Rochat had selected one of the toniest addresses in town, but as Tighe passed through security and the ground-floor atrium, it was impossible to deny the energy of the place. Sharp young people clustered in the common areas. He felt like a senior citizen as he moved anonymously through the throngs of youthful engineers.
Rochat insisted Catalyst remain low-profile—despite their high-profile address. So they had no listing in the building directory and no signage on their door. Instead, they were meant to be an insider-only secret. Nathan Joyce had made the Catalyst name infamous for fraud, and yet there was something about reusing the name that appealed to Tighe’s innate stubborness. Joyce had been many things—a liar, a megalomaniac, and a user of people—but he was not, in the final analysis, wrong about the mission of Catalyst Corporation.
Tighe exited the elevator and buzzed through the heavy double doors of their unmarked class A corporate suite. Inside, the place looked more like a law firm than an asteroid mining company. The fashion-model-handsome receptionist looked up and spoke into his headset as Tighe entered. “Mr. Tighe is here, Mr. Rochat.”
Tighe noticed a throng of guests in the glass-walled conference room beyond.
A Russian-accented voice nearby said, “Not like you to be late, J.T.”
Tighe turned to see former cosmonaut Sevastian “Yak” Yakovlev coming down the hall toward him. A fellow asteroid mining trainee and veteran of multiple Roscosmos missions, Yak had nearly gone on the Konstantin expedition—having been an alternate. He’d also been instrumental in getting Tighe, Jin, and Chindarkar back to Earth alive after Joyce’s bankruptcy and suicide. For this reason, Yak was now a board member of the new Catalyst and today actually looked the part with a sport coat, slacks, and collared shirt. His thick beard was carefully groomed.
He studied Tighe. “Where have you been?”
“Just went for a walk. Guess I lost track of time.”
Yak said, deadpan, “Perhaps it was heatstroke.”
Tighe gazed toward the crowded conference room. It was precisely where he did not want to be. “You headed in?”
Yak clapped Tighe on the shoulder. “Nyet. It is you, Han, and Priya who investors wish to speak with.”
“You did two stints on the ISS.”
“But I did not crew on Konstantin. If we get money from these people, I will go to space with you this time.”
Beyond Yak, some ways down the hall, Tighe spotted Jin Han, his crewmate on the Konstantin expedition and one of the three who made it back alive. Jin was escorting a Caucasian woman and two Black girls in their mid-teens.
In answer to Tighe’s quizzical expression, Yak said, “David’s ex-wife and twin daughters. They are shareholders now. As we promised him.”
Tighe nodded. He now recognized David Morra’s ex-wife from the photograph Morra had kept in his quarters back on the Konstantin. Her auburn hair remained unchanged, and though they were much older now, Tighe recalled the girls from the same photo. That photo, Tighe realized, was now interred with Morra’s remains in a cairn orbiting the asteroid Ryugu, many millions of miles in deep space.
“You should introduce yourself.”
Seeing Morra’s widow for the first time in person, Tighe felt a sudden dryness in his throat. He had been present at Morra’s death. In fact, Morra had saved him and Jin—and possibly the entire crew of the Konstantin—by sacrificing his own life to disable a competitor’s malfunctioning machine.
Morra had also been Tighe’s closest friend.
He realized he could not face Morra’s widow and children. Not yet. Perhaps it was Tighe’s recent diagnosis, but the memory of Morra’s death—and of all the things Tighe could have or should have done—was too much at the moment. He shook his head. “I can’t. Not right now.”
A voice behind Tighe said, “I agree. You need to freshen up first.”
He turned to see Lukas Rochat, the thirty-something CEO of Catalyst, dressed as usual in a bespoke suit with a colorful pocket square and standing with someone Tighe didn’t know, a short Latino man in his late twenties.
Rochat frowned. “Why are you all sweaty, J.T.?”
Yak answered for him. “He went for a walk.”
Rochat tugged Tighe in the opposite direction from Jin and Morra’s family. “You’ll have time to meet them before we head off to Ascension Island. Right now I need you to chat up potential investors.” He gestured to the Latino man. “This is Ramón Marín, our new director of systems architecture. He’ll bring you up to speed on—”
Tighe held up his hand. “Let’s just get past today’s meet and greet first.” He turned. “No offense, Ramón, but I’m still reacclimating.”
Marín nodded. “Of course. It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Tighe, and I’m available whenever you have time.”
Tighe turned back to Rochat. “So we’re returning to Ascension?”
“Next week. For meetings with mission control and to train on new systems. Please make a point of speaking with Ramón before then, since he’s entering orbital certification training there.”
Yak raised his eyebrows and looked to Marín. “Then you will be accompanying us to orbit?”
Marín looked surprised to be asked anything. “Not initially, but once you’ve established a base of operations in orbit, yes.”
Tighe spoke to Rochat. “Just send me the flight details for Ascension.”
“Not necessary. One of our investors is providing his personal aircraft for our use.”
Tighe was relieved—much less hassle for such a long flight to the South Atlantic. “Good.”
“We’ll be stopping off in Lagos on the way.” He looked Tighe in the eye. “We located Adedayo’s family.”
Tighe brightened and glanced toward Yak. “That is great news.” Adisa had grown up in one of the worst slums in Lagos, Nigeria; locating his family no doubt required more than an Internet search.
“We’re setting up his mother and siblings with a nice home on Victoria Island.”
“Outstanding.”
“But right now we have guests to meet.” Rochat nudged Tighe down the hall. “Use the bathroom in my office to freshen up.”
Marín added, “Again, it is an honor to meet you.”
Tighe headed to the private restroom in Rochat’s corner office and splashed some water on his face. He then stared into the mirror and tried to see himself as anything other than a dead man walking. After a few moments of deep breathing to psych himself up, he headed out to make an appearance.
Entering the conference room, he moved among the guests. Priya Chindarkar spotted him and nodded greeting while she chatted with two Japanese businessmen.
It seemed surreal—the dense knot of accredited investors, all under NDA, from Europe, Asia, the US, sipping wine and nibbling appetizers plucked from wandering wheeled robots. No human catering staff allowed. That would have undermined secrecy. The event had the triumphal air of a Skull and Bones Society meeting. You had to be this in the know to be here at all.
On a good day Tighe had little patience for self-promotion, but having just been diagnosed with cancer made it almost unbearable. However, Rochat was right about one thing: they needed these people’s money if they were to have any chance to get back into space—and save Abarca and Adisa. This was where he needed to be.
Rochat raised his voice to get everyone’s attention and then gave a speech about the Catalyst mission—during which Tighe’s mind wandered—followed by a toast to the trio of returned asteroid miners. A Catalyst staffer handed Tighe a glass of champagne.
