Providence - Max Barry Page 0,5
“Oh,” he said.
“And that’s it,” said Len. “Then it’s a direct walk to the shuttle gantry and you don’t have to worry about any of this bullshit anymore.”
“There’s always more bullshit,” Anders said.
“That’s true,” Len said, “but this is the worst of it. Any questions?”
The van slowed and turned down a path marked by glowing orange cones. There was a rising white noise, which Gilly hoped was from the shuttle’s engines but probably wasn’t. Earlier today, during the family meet-and-greet, when tiny frilly nieces and nephews in dark suits were running around the legs of politicians and generals, one of his cousins had asked, Do you know how many people they say will be there? and Gilly had a rough idea, because the send-off crowds had been huge for every Providence launch, but before he could insist that he didn’t want to know, the cousin had said, SEVENTY-FIVE THOUSAND. Gilly couldn’t stop thinking about that. He might be able to pretend the broadcast audience didn’t exist, but he was going to have trouble ignoring that many faces.
“Hey,” Beanfield said, kicking his shin. “You’ll be fine.” She was smiling, and it did make him feel better, not just the smile, but the reminder that Beanfield made crew because she had preternatural people skills, to the point where she occasionally seemed to read his mind. They were all here because they were among the best in their fields. They’d been chosen by a sophisticated and demanding software-guided selection process. His presence wasn’t an accident. He was where he was supposed to be.
The van stopped. The doors were pulled open. He stepped out into a light wind and a high sky and hundreds of people scurrying about in black caps and headsets. Between huge trucks were stacked crates and heavy equipment. A short distance away rose the back of the stage, fifty feet high and twice as long in either direction. Even so, he could see the crowd spilling around its edges, an indistinct mass like a single creature. The noise was like the rolling of an ocean.
“Flight crew have arrived at stage rear,” said a woman in a black cap.
“How many people?” asked Beanfield.
“Latest estimate is eighty-five thousand,” said Len. “We’ve had to open up the overflow areas.”
“Oh, God,” Gilly said.
“Don’t sweat it. There’ll be so many lights in your face, you won’t be able to see a thing.”
A drone buzzed over Len’s shoulder and hung there, watching. Beanfield gave it a thumbs-up. Gilly turned away and peered skyward, trying to approximate the ship’s location.
“Can you see it?” Beanfield said.
He shook his head. “Too bright.”
“But it’s there.” She smiled.
The crowd gave a roar. Something must be happening onstage. A moment later, he heard a booming voice, echoing weirdly because all the speakers were facing the other way.
“All right,” said Len. “This is where I leave you.” He eyed them.
“Don’t make it sappy,” Anders said.
“I want you to know, you’re the best troop of performing monkeys I’ve ever had,” Len said. “In all seriousness, I’ve been nothing but impressed with the way you’ve carried yourselves through pre-launch. I know you didn’t sign up for the media circus. It makes me very happy that we’ve reached the point where you can finally start doing your real jobs. I know you’ll make every one of us you’re leaving behind very proud.”
“Don’t make me cry,” said Beanfield. “This makeup took hours.”
“Jackson,” said the woman in the cap, pointing where she wanted her to stand. “Then Beanfield. Anders. Gilligan.”
“Gilly,” he said. The announcer said something at the same time and the crowd roared and he didn’t know if she heard him.
Len straightened into a salute. They returned it, even Gilly, who had never quite gotten the hang of it. The woman began to lead them toward the stage steps. When Gilly glanced back, Len was still holding the salute.
“There’s one more step than you expect at the top,” Len said. “Don’t trip.”
* * *
—
When it was over and he was strapped into a force-absorbing harness, his knees pointed