Chapter Text
It is done. I watch as the rocket’s engines plume out thick clouds of smoke into the beautiful blue sky. The launch window has been absolutely perfect. No wind, no storms, nothing had to be rechecked or postponed. Just a streak of light getting smaller and smaller as it rises into the heavens. Audentes fortuna iuvat, fiat fortuna iuvat ignavos.
Soon enough, the crew will reach the Hail Mary, prepared and ready in orbit. Commander Yáo and Specialist Ilyukhina will go through the checklist once more, loading all necessary equipment onto the shuttle and securing Dr. Ryland Grace into his medical bed. Then, all three of them will be in comas for the next thirteen years. Even if they are able to solve the problem in less than a year, we are all in for twenty six years of hell. Twenty six years of famine, environmental disasters, political tension, wars, terrorism, death. Hell on earth.
A gloved hand rests on my shoulder. My time is up. “Ms. Eva Stratt. You must come with me.” I don’t even have to turn around. It’s one of the five U.S. army members who were ordered to defend me for the duration of the Petrova Taskforce. I think I remember his name being Tom Johnson. Honestly, I thought the international treaty would hold longer, but I’m not bothered by my freedom running out early. If this works, it’ll all be worth it.
“I’m coming, Mr. Johnson. One moment.” I continue to stare at the sky until the spark is gone, and then turn to face him. “Lead the way.”
I walk after him. My hot coffee cup warms my hands through the cardboard sleeve as the fall wind bites. He leads me to a facility on the left side of the complex. There’s police officers here. “Вас задерживают.” (You are being detained) The man standing closest to me says.
I nod. “я понимаю.” (I understand.) I have no time to gather my personal belongings, and am quickly herded into a police vehicle with only a pen, my phone, and my coffee cup. I’m quietly grateful that I made sure to have someone get one for me right before the launch. I sip at it as I watch the desert steppe stretch past me, a fog settling over the horizon. We reach the city of Baikonur after a half hour ride. I’m surprised they haven’t handcuffed me. My coat billows behind as I stride quickly to keep up with the officers. It’s dismal in the check in room, a yellow flickering bulb struggling to stay glowing against walls that have not been cleaned anytime recently.
“подписывайтесь на меня.” (Follow me.) A man in a khaki shirt and khaki pants gestures at me to follow. He leads me to a cell, and jams the key at the door.
“Разъяснять.” (Explain.) I stand with my hands at my side.
He yanks at the door until it unsticks. “Вас держат здесь до тех пор, пока французские власти не экстрадируют вас.” (You are being held here until the French authorities extradite you.)
The French? Out of all countries to claim me. I suppose this must be for the portion of the plan where we acquired Dr. Leclerc’s assistance. I would have expected Russia, Kazakhstan itself, China, even Libya before France. I wonder what they’re specifically going to charge me for. Or perhaps it’s something to do with the ESA.
They didn’t search or remove anything I had on me, so I assumed I wouldn’t be in this jail for long. I couldn’t see Leclerc either. If they already had authority to extradite me, then they already had gone through the diplomatic negotiations involved with international crimes. Leclerc was likely already in France. I took the pen out of my pocket and spun it between my fingers.
I was left to sit on that worn out cot for seven hours before the same man from before came to get me. No food or water, and my back is aching. He unlocks my door and grunts at me. I tuck my pen back into my pocket.
I am hustled onto a private jet. They let me drink from a plastic water bottle before I board the steps up to the cabin, which I finish quickly. This time they do handcuff me, firm metal pressed against my wrists. They push me into my seat, not unkindly, and buckle my seatbelt for me, pulling the strap taut. I keep my chin up. I will not go into my fate kicking and screaming. Unbidden, the scene of Dr. Ryland Grace writhing and clawing into the mud, face streaked with dirt and tears, desperately crying out for help, swims to my mind. My jaw tightens.
I wake up an indeterminate amount of hours later as my ears pop. I turn to look out of the window and see the glittering lights of Paris at night. I gather the information from the authorities seated around me; it’s been five hours forwards, and three hours backwards, so the day isn’t quite over yet. Once the plane lands, they pull me upright and lead me outside. The fresh air is as welcome as it is painful. It’s not much warmer in Paris than it is in Baikonur. “Madame Stratt.” A French official nods at me. I nod back. I am passed on to the 5th group of the day and loaded into yet another police car. I look up as we arrive. The tall yellow walls of Le Commissariat de Police stretch up into the starry sky. One of those stars is Tau Ceti, which is a completely insignificant thought, as it will be many years before the Hail Mary even approaches that general area. They’ve barely left the solar system by now.
A voice breaks through my thoughts. “Par ici, s'il vous plaît.” (This way please.) A blonde woman with hair pulled back tightly into a ponytail motions to me. At this point, my legs are so cramped by sitting all day that they too ache as I follow her inside. I am led to another cell, this one a bit bigger. They finally take my phone away from me (as well as my pen) and give me water.
I clear my throat. “Puis-je avoir de la nourriture ? Je n'ai pas mangé de toute la journée.” (May I have food? I haven’t eaten all day.)
The woman meets my gaze. “Le dîner est servi de 1700 à 1900.” (Dinner is served from 1700-1900. [5-7PM])
I stand my ground and eye her from the corner of the room. I feel much like a lioness, or a tiger, or some other caged beast, looking at her from lowered brows. “Je demande de la nourriture.” (I am requesting food.)
She sighs heavily, but relents. She murmurs under her breath and I’m not able to catch whatever curses she’s directing towards me as she leaves to retrieve something that I am certain will taste awful. I am left alone in the dim room. Unlike the prison in Baikonur, this one has no bars, and the space feels oppressive and cramped. I feel a pang in my chest before I promptly shut it out. If there is one thing I dislike more than anything, it's feeling trapped.