Riddled Space Page 3

  A large, white, fluffy cloud loomed ahead of him, and he touched the jet's joystick lightly to bypass it before returning to his assigned flight pattern. Got to keep on the straight and narrow, Eddie-my-boy, he thought, remembering his father. This isn't South Dakota, and the world is filled with the jealous.

  Unbidden, the memory of a jet trainer, flame streaming from the stump of its left wing, came to mind. As well as bad luck. Justine had been screwing around, as usual, and flew her trainer through part of a thunderstorm while Eddie had detoured around it. The accident board later said she had flown through a region where two streams of air, one ascending and one descending, were side-by-side, forming a rotating vortex. Justine's trainer had become briefly trapped in the vortex and her left wing wrenched completely off, leaving a two-foot stub sticking out of the fuselage.

  He had looked back when he passed the cloud and saw the flames behind him. Instinctively, he had throttled back, briefly hit his speed brakes, and seemed to shoot backwards to the stricken craft. Justine was conscious, though disoriented. Eddie sidled up to her airplane, which was just starting to go into one of those unrecoverable spins. His right wing actually impacted the stump of her left wing, stopping the spin and shaking her. She looked over and smiled, though she was scared to death.

  It was the longest ten minutes of Eddie's life, but he was able, though he himself could not exactly explain how, to support her aircraft until they both touched down. Justine was sent back home from UNSOC Flight School for disobeying flight regulations, and Eddie was given both a medal and a reprimand. The medal was for his heroics, the reprimand was for damaging his aircraft. Typical UNSOC bullshit, he snorted.

  Speaking of, it was time to land and see if UNSOC had figured out when he could go back into space. Someone was probably abusing Betsy, his beloved Orbital Transfer Vehicle, and he knew it would take at least a week to get her back into flight trim. Then he’d have to go to the Moon and return Angus Turley to his widow in Scotland.

  Celine Greenfield

  Atlanta, Georgia, February 1, 2080

  She opened the front door to her apartment, stepped inside, and locked it behind her. Another day in idle. Girl, you've got to get going on your life and forget the past. She shook her head and dumped her purse on the counter and shrugged out of her coat. A hand reached out to take it.

  She congratulated herself on not screaming. It had happened often enough now that she almost expected it. She turned to confront the gloating face of her ex-husband.

  “Hello, Garth,” Celine said tonelessly. “You are in violation of a valid restraining order. I can have you jailed.”

  “You could, but you won't,” he said, reaching up a single finger to trace her smooth, pale jawline.

  Celine kept a tight leash on her reactions. His very touch made her skin crawl. Six years they had been married, ending in her walking out of the house they had shared but she had mostly financed.

  “I’m glad you’re alone. Have you always been alone? Since you left me, bitch?”

  She stepped back from his hand, realizing too late his position blocked her way out of the apartment. Step by slow step, he backed her into the kitchen, his hands slowly touching her body, combing through her long naturally blonde hair.

  They had once been so happy, and she welcomed his touch, then. Garth was quite content to have her working in real estate and supporting his vices, until he showed up at the office Christmas party, drunk, just in time to ‘catch’ her hugging one of her coworkers. The police eventually had to be called, and they were allowed to leave the party without him going to jail. She longed for those times, when life was far simpler.

  “You know there's nobody, Garth. Not after what you did to Kunele.”

  After the Christmas party, she asked for a transfer to a different office, which was granted. The other workers knew why, but they were professional enough not to say anything about it to her face. Her freedom from Garth's jealousy didn't last, though.

  Kunele was a new agent, a naturalized American from Senegal looking to pad his regular job with income from selling houses. Celine was assigned to train him. Celine and Kunele were walking through a mini-mansion in the almost-ritzy part of town. She was teaching Kunele how to best show the place before their appointment, due in the next half hour. The house was quite a place. Mancave, massive kitchen, den, even an inground pool. They came out of the equipment shed housing the pool pumps, Celine with her hand on Kunele's shoulder to emphasize some point, to find Garth standing in front of them, a length of metal pipe in his hand.

  This time, Celine let Garth stay in jail while she removed her favorite possessions from their house and brought them back to her parents’ place. Her father was a disabled vet, but he always went around armed. Her stuff and her folks were safe, and Garth knew better than to bother them after her father placed a shot between his feet when he showed up unannounced one day.

  “I should have killed that black guy,” said Garth. “I can't believe you let him defile you. But I’m willing to forgive you, let you come back.”

  Celine resisted the lure. He was looking for resistance from her. If she backtalked him, it would justify, in his mind, any and all use of force against her. She was so tired of going to the emergency room, tired of calling out sick until the bruising went down, and tired of moving from place to place.

  “What did I screw up this time?” she asked. There was always something she forgot, some slip she made that allowed Garth to find her.

  “Why should I tell you?” he sneered. “Why should I make it hard on myself? All you need to know is I know where you are at all times. Where you live. And who might be fouling your sweetness at any time. I know, and I act to keep what is mine, mine. You've been a good girl, Celine, since Kunele, so I’ll just let you off with a warning this time.” He grabbed her jaw with his large, rough hand. “If you let anyone but me do this, it will be the last thing they will ever do.” He jammed his lips against hers, hard, and tried forcing his tongue between her clenched teeth. He glanced at the butcher block with its array of knives, snorted lightly, and let himself out.

  Celine was quite proud of herself. She locked the door and was able to get to the bathroom before her bladder cut loose. She waited in the little bathroom until the shakes subsided. She was so tired of running, and the courts obviously couldn't keep Garth away from her.

  What was that last part about? Why did he look at the knives? She finished in the bathroom and went into the bedroom to get changed.

  Her teddy bear was pinned to the bed with a carving knife.

  McCrary

  UNSOC Space Station Roger B. Chaffee, July 1 2080, 1302 hrs

  Theophilus Barton McCrary was looking over some old documents. The original engineering drawings for the International Space Station, in Russian. Despite over one hundred years in Low Earth Orbit, a decent amount of the first modules for the station remained in use. One of them had a coolant leak, and McCrary was determined to isolate it before the air was filled with floating spheres of antifreeze and water.

  A tone sounded, directing his attention to the control panel. Commander Holt's face filled the screen. “When you get a chance, McCrary, I need to see you. Sometime within the hour, please.” McCrary nodded, and the control panel reverted to its previous display.

  He frowned. 'Within the hour' meant that it was important, but not urgent. McCrary thought about his workload, and could not think of anything that would demand the Commander's attention. He shrugged mentally and returned to the drawings with their Cyrillic annotations.

  Forty-two minutes after the call, McCrary showed up at the Commander's office, knocked on the aluminum bulkhead, and floated inside.

  Holt nodded, raised a finger for silence, and keyed the intercom. “Sparky, I'm going out for a bit. Try to keep us in the sky, will ya?”

  The communications tech on the other end replied, “Sure thing, Boss. I'll call if anything blows up.”

  A shrill whine started and ramped
up to inaudibility while the power within the commander's office went out. Holt flicked on a battery-powered light. McCrary raised his eyebrows. Everyone knew the Commander's Office was bugged, but nobody could ever find the transmitter. However, shutting off all power and using an ultrasonic jammer seemed to do the trick.

  “UNSOC called.” Holt was subdued and McCrary frowned.

  “Bad news?”

  “They want me to take over the Collins.”

  “Don't want to?” McCrary was curious, though he respected Holt's privacy.

  “No. Several reasons, but the biggest of which is that UNSOC wants to pin Angus Turley's death on Jeng Wo Lee. Lee had nothing to do with it. It was just bad luck that Turley got caught out there. Lee's a good commander, and I'll have no part of Subby's games.”

  “I see.” McCrary was a man of few words. He had learned early in life to speak less and listen more. His mother's socialization teachings had served him in good stead throughout life.

  “Subby wasn't too happy about me telling him no,” said Commander Holt, “and he said I had two choices: either replace Lee or resign. I asked him who he had on backup if I didn't take the job. I gather he hadn't thought that far ahead.”

  “Few people are qualified to be Commander,” mused McCrary. “Daniels, of course. Martin, though he's near mandatory retirement.” McCrary looked upward as he mentally flipped through the senior astronauts he knew.

  “Koikov and Eorzakov would be the other ones qualified, but only if Russia releases them,” finished Holt. “And that's not likely. So of the four, there's really only one and that's Daniels. Subby would rather cut off his left nut than name a woman to a command position.”

  McCrary looked around the Commander's office. “You're packing,” he said. “No mementos.”

  Holt looked behind him at the empty display case. “Yup. I've been considering retiring for a while. Now seems to be a good time.”

  McCrary nodded. “You'll be missed.”

  “So will you.” Holt's face was impassive, betraying nothing.

  “Where to?”

  Holt smiled. “That's what I like about you, McCrary. There's never any wrangling. All you want are the facts.”

  “Sometimes, speed is of the essence. Where to?” McCrary reached out a hand to stop his drift towards a wall.

  “Collins. Lee and I are staging a coup with UNSOC. Subby would never do this on his own, so we're rearranging the in-flight personnel for maximum effect. Unless you'd rather send Hodges to the Moon. Lee would be happy with either of you.”

  McCrary smiled. “Good old Collins. Been a long time since I was there. Hodges, good chief for either. Panjar should stay here. Hodges and I will figure it out for you.”

  Holt chuckled. “It's so liberating, in a way, for Lee and I to be real Commanders for a change. We never get to choose our own teams, just deal with what UNSOC sends us. By the way, UNSOC has no idea this is happening, and make sure Hodges doesn't call his wife groundside and spill the beans, okay?”

  McCrary agreed. “When do you need to know?”

  “Anytime in the next day or so is fine. Chaffee can't be without a Commander, so the next flight up here will have to bring my replacement. Then we'll send either you or Hodges to the Moon on the OTV and UNSOC will just have to suck it.”

  “Think they'll go for Daniels?” asked McCrary.

  “They're going to have to. She's the only one with the qualifications who isn't retiring or that their government is willing to give up. Subby's gonna hate me.”

  McCrary frowned. “Belt tightening coming. Subby's not going to be happy. Revenge.”

  “That's why we're going to have to keep up the charade.”

  McCrary straightened up from the semi-crouch that the body naturally assumes in free-fall. “Hodges and I will talk, but bet I'll be for the Collins. 'Charade' really bothers me, even if I'm not involved. Dishonesty in certifying shipped cargo Earthward——”

  “Completely counterbalances the graft that Subramanyan Venderchanergee extracts on the front-end. Look, McCrary, I hate it too. But turning a blind eye to extra product produced up here is the only way we can get the manufacturers to agree to ship up health and welfare items. Besides, Subby has to know we're doing it. He might be a complete dick for not sending up nonessential supplies, but he's seen enough of them in the background of the video shots.” Holt sighed. “See, that's why I'm retiring. It suddenly came to me how much I hate this petty crap, and at my age, I certainly don't need to put up with it anymore.”

  “I better go talk with Hodges.”

  “Hey, McCrary, no hard feelings, okay?”

  McCrary stopped, startled. “It never occurred to me, sir. You're one of the good guys. Hell, look at how far the sleds have come along since you've been aboard.”

  “Let's hope we never have to use them.”

  “But we will.” McCrary blinked. “Oh, right. I mean, we will use them as solar shelters. I agree, I hope we never have to use them as lifeboats. If that's all?”

  “For now. I'll make a general announcement after you and Hodges figure out who's where. Have a good day, McCrary.” Holt reached for the intercom to get his office turned back on.

  McCrary headed over to Environmental, where he knew Hodges would be checking out the hydroponic extension personally. Good man, Hodges. Meticulous, careful. A lot like me. He would be fine on Collins or Chaffee. But I bet he stays here. Rotations Earthside for R&R are on six-month rotations for Low Earth Orbit, and twelve-month rotations for the Moon. He had met Tyra, years ago. Seemed to be a nice woman. Good to see a marriage surviving all these years despite the constant churning of the personnel pool inherent in an organization like UNSOC.

  Hodges, of course, elected to stay on the Chaffee. Because of the six-month rotations, although he would never admit it.

  The Director-General

  UN Space Operations Command, New York City, July 4, 2080, 1034 hrs

  Subramanyan Venderchanergee closed the connection with a bang of his small fist on the disconnect button. The nerve! So, Holt chose retirement over the Collins. Holt told him, told him, not requested, that he was coming down on the next flight.

  Subby got up to pace his office. Outside the bay window, he could look out over the vast UNSOC Control Room, its huge video wall showing operations on all current missions under his command. There was the Chaffee, of course. A giant orbiting manufacturing base with what was once the International Space Station buried in the middle of a mass of tankage, industrial cubic, docks and spars and trusses. Over all of this mess spread wings of solar cells, drinking up the energy of the sun for fifty minutes out of every one hundred, to charge the batteries of the station so that they would survive the dark and cold of the nighttime part of their orbit. It was what was usually on the big screen, since that was where the action was.

  When the United States cut the Space Shuttle program, the International Space Station was in limbo. It continued to be manned and supplied, but there was no money to do more than keep it flying. It had gotten too damn big to risk reentry to the Earth, and every time that was suggested, the space activists came out of the woodwork to howl at the politicians to save it. It represented the only large habitable volume in Low Earth Orbit, though was woefully underutilized for either basic research or space manufacturing.

  By the early 2020s, the United States was deep in its own economic troubles. An ardently internationalist President recommended that the United States transfer the Station to the United Nations in return for a 'paid in full' stamp on their long overdue UN contributions. The press touted the plan as a win-win for both the United States and the United Nations. Congress reluctantly went along. The US Astronaut Corps was completely demoralized.

  By then, though, the Corps began referring to the ISS as 'Space Station Roger B. Chaffee', honoring one of their own who had perished at the dawn of the Space Age. Ignoring contrary orders completely, they repeatedly called it 'The Chaffee' until the name stuck.

  Compa
nies that wanted to operate a space manufacturing facility realized that it would be far easier and more cost effective to rent space on the Chaffee than attempt to launch and operate their own orbital factories. UNSOC found itself in the enviable position of picking from a large pool of applicants for a small number of spots on the Chaffee. It did what any organization in a similar position would do: it took bribes.

  'It' meant 'Director-General Subramanyan Venderchanergee'. He was the absolute despot of UNSOC. Portions of his 'special service fees' for everything from manufacturing space to slots in UNSOC Ground School were laundered up the chain of command, ensuring zero interference in his fief from without as well as within.

  Brokering the demands from all the manufacturers that wanted cubic up on the Chaffee was his main task. The actual flying of the station he left to the professionals in the Astronaut Corps and the engineers in Operations. It usually boiled down to UN politics combined with who could come up with the extra...lubrication...that determined who won any open concession. The power to decide who won the right to head upstairs was what made Subramanyan the darling of his wives and hordes of children.

  Graft was not abhorrent to Subramanyan, after all, it was graft, pure and simple, that enabled him to climb the ladder of success at the UN. Indeed, it was the very first lesson his father taught him once he turned eighteen and applied to work at the global organization.

  The old man, dead for thirty years now, had given Subramanyan a wad of currency just outside their home on his way to the UN field station in town.

  “Just like I taught you. Clip this on the back of your application. Do NOT stick it into your passport—that's a rookie mistake. Passport money is just to get you past the guards, this money is to appease the placement officer.”