The Sparrow - Mary Doria Russell [63]
"D.W. was in the Marines," Emilio remarked, picking up a dish-towel to dry the stemware Anne was washing. The old trick of keeping a straight face was failing him these days. More and more, his face matched his eyes. "I don’t think I ever mentioned that."
Anne looked sideways at D.W. "I have this terrible feeling that you aren’t going to tell us that you were a chaplain."
"No, ma’am, I wasn’t. This was back in the late eighties, early nineties you unnerstan’, ’fore I signed up as a lifer in Loyola’s outfit. I flew Harriers. ’Magine that."
Anne, who didn’t quite see the point of this information, nevertheless tried imagining that and wondered how D.W. managed depth perception with a cast eye. Then she remembered LeRoy Johnson, a major-league ballplayer with a similar cast in one eye who consistently batted over .290, and she guessed their brains compensated for the problem somehow.
"It couldn’t be a stock plane," George said. "You’d have to special-order one with a biphasic skin like the spaceplanes use, so it could take the reentry heat."
"Yeah, folks’re workin’ on that." D.W. grinned. "Anyhow, turns out, landin’ a jump jet’s real similar in some ways to flyin’ an asteroid docker, ’cause they ain’t no runways on space rocks neither. So I expect an ole Harrier pilot may be the very thing for the job at hand."
This time even Anne realized the implications.
"Kinda spooky, ain’t it. Hell of a lot of coincidences. Like we say back home, when you find a turtle settin’ on top of a fencepost, you can be pretty damn sure he didn’t get there on his own." D.W. watched Anne and George look at each other and then continued. "Tomás da Silva, the General his own self, he thinks maybe God’s been goin’ around puttin’ turtles on fenceposts. I don’t know about that but I hafta admit, this’s kept me up some long nights, thinkin’." D.W. stretched again and smiled crookedly at them. "I’m still in the Reserves and I’ve kept up my flight hours. I’ll be spendin’ the next little bit of time qualifyin’ on a docker. Oughta be real interestin’. Which way is it to this guest room you’ve been so kind as to offer me, Dr. Edwards?"
"WELL, FUCK ME dead!" cried Ian Sekizawa, vice president of the Asteroid Mining Division of Ohbayashi Corporation, headquartered in Sydney. "It’s Sofie! What a treat to see you again, girl! What’s it been? Three years?"
"Four," Sofia said, withdrawing a bit from her screen, not feeling safe from Ian’s bear hug even across the electronic distance between them. "It’s good to see you, too. Are you still happy with the system? It still suits your requirements?"
"Fits like a finger in a baby’s bum," Ian said, grinning when her eyes widened. His grandparents were from Okinawa but he and his language were pure Australian. "Our blokes could be pissed as a newt and still bring back the goods. Profits are up almost twelve points since you did that work for us."
"I’m pleased to hear it," she said, genuinely gratified. "I have a favor to ask of you, Ian."
"Anything, my beauty."
"This is confidential, Ian. I have an encrypted business proposition for you to consider."
"Jaubert doing a dirty?" he asked, eyes narrowed in speculation.
"No, I’m independent now," she told him, smiling.
"Fair dinkum? Sofie! That’s beaut! Is this your own little project or are you fronting?"
"I represent clients who wish to remain anonymous. And Ian," she said, "if you are interested, I am hoping you can take this step on your own authority."
"Send the proposal and I’ll do me dash," he told her forthrightly. "If it’s buggered, I’ll trash the code and no one’s the wiser, right, love?"
"Thank you, Ian. I appreciate your help," Sofia said. She ended the video conference and sent the code.
LOOKING HER PROPOSITION over, Ian Sekizawa lapsed into thoughtfulness. She wanted a good-sized rock, junk, ice-bearing, with a lot of silicates, more or less cylindrical around the long