Riddled Space Page 4

  “If I had it in my passport, the guard would take all of it?”

  “Right, and leave you nothing for the placement officer. Remember, say nothing about the money to anyone. Nobody wants to be reminded that they are doing something technically illegal.”

  Subramanyan blinked as he returned to the present day. He glanced outside the bay window overlooking the UNSOC Control Room. The video board was now showing something on the Moon. Collins. Turley managed to get himself chopped up by a few meteors, and Subramanyan had to figure out who was going to replace him. Well, never let a crisis go to waste. He ran over the list of qualified UNSOC engineers in his mind. Was there anyone who wanted the assignment badly enough? Maybe there’s a constituency I can stroke with the right person assigned. The question of merit never entered his mind, beyond bare qualification.

  Then there was The Works. A combination rock crushing plant with a giant roaster attached, The Works took in lunar rock, mostly olivine, and turned it into liquid oxygen or LOX, aluminum, and some iron and silicon. The LOX was shipped to the Chaffee for their breathing air needs. It was a giant contraption for such a small task, but without it, they would have to use a lot of expensive rockets just to get air flown up from the Earth. Now The Works was broken.

  Subramanyan reviewed the replacement cost document in his head. The sum was approximately twenty million, but Subby was certain that was a lowball estimate. If he could convince the Space Review Board that the real cost was in the low forties, there would be enough padding to not only ensure that The Works got back online, but also enough for a bit of kickback to Subby as well as his bosses.

  It was just a question of finding the right engineer.

  He glanced at his commpad and growled. He also needed a new Commander for the Chaffee. Subramanyan resumed pacing. He slipped over to his dry-erase board, selected a marker, and wrote down a number of names, stepped back, and stared at the list for a long time.

  CAPCOM

  UNSOC Control Room, New York City, July 4, 2080, 1450 hrs

  “Still up there?” asked Gayatri Vedya as she approached the CAPCOM console. Fred Palowitz, the First Shift or “A” controller, glanced up at the lighted bay window of Subramanyan's office. He glanced down at a flickering light in the middle of the left-hand console, labeled Osmium Pressure.

  “Yes, he's still there. Pacing, it looks like.” Gayatri looked at the light and nodded in agreement.

  “Probably figuring crew assignments,” she said.

  Fred leaned over a keyboard, opened a simple editor and typed out:

  Didn't you hear? Holt has put in his retirement papers.

  “Nope.”

  That's right, Gus told me last night. Funny how time works. Holt said he's tired of the UNSOC games. The trigger was Subby trying to cashier Jeng Wo Lee.

  “Be damned,” Gayatri murmured. They were both aware that the controller consoles also recorded their voices, with the tapes destroyed every six months.

  So, with Holt gone, Martin unlikely, and the Russians staying home, the only one left is Lisa Daniels. No chance Subby would ever put her up there on her own.

  “Got that right,” she said, leaning forward to mimic pushing buttons and turning dials. She sat down, punching another screen.

  Who replaces Turley?

  Subby's putting Zanger on the next shuttle.

  He's a pilot, not an engineer.

  Yes, but he's the one who flies people to the Moon

  That's right. Forgot.

  No worries. Holt and Lee are sending McCrary to the Moon, and Hodges will take his place as Chief of Chaffee.

  Gayatri looked up from the screen to see Subramanyan opening the door to his personal staircase to the Control Room. “Substandard,” she said, closing the simple editor on her console. Fred did the same.

  “Director-General,” said Fred, standing up as Subby approached.

  “Why haven't you completed the shift change?” asked Subramanyan. “It's five minutes after fifteen hundred, and Ms. Vedya has not logged the change.

  “My apologies, sir,” said Gayatri. “I was busy checking the latest telemetry on the Mooncan in transit to the Chaffee.”

  Subby looked at her monitor. “Really? I don't see the NavTrack window up.”

  “I finished my analysis, the Can is on track, and I am now ready to take over from Mr. Palowitz.”

  Subby looked at them with narrowed eyes, then shook minutely. “Do so. But don't expect to put in for overtime, Palowicz. You should have insisted on a timely handoff. See, that's what happens when you have women mixing with men. The women don't get discipline, but the men do get soft. Remember that, Palowicz.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “Did you need me?”

  “Still looking for overtime? No, I was just coming down to see what the delay was. Still, if you need some guidance, I can stand a walk out in the sunshine. On your own time, of course.” Subramanyan walked towards the exit while Fred hurriedly transferred CAPCOM duties to Gayatri.

  “Encrypt through Tom, only,” he muttered to her as he hammered at the keys. He stood, as did Gayatri.

  “I relieve you,” she said.

  “I stand relieved,” said Fred.

  “Are you coming or not?” asked Subramanyan, a hint of whine in his voice.

  “On my way, sir,” said Fred, walking away from the CAPCOM console, a rigid middle finger sticking straight up, behind his back.

  ***

  Gayatri, like Fred and Gus, was essentially an honest person. It pained her to have to use underhanded tactics to thwart Subby, but if they didn't, there would be no way to defend their vulnerable friends from disasters such as a Chief Engineer without any experience in space. She called up Tom and ensured it was fully operational.

  Tom was the controllers' nickname for a small piece of malware they had slipped into Subramanyan's computer over two years ago. It sat quietly in the background. Because it was hand-built, never tried to spread, and did nothing to call attention to itself, it was ignored by all antivirus software. What it did do, though, was act as a Peeping Tom. Silently, Tom copied all data transmissions to and from Subramanyan's office to another computer on the floor of the Control Room. And since everything from the telephone to the setting on the thermostat ran through computers, they had, in theory, a complete record of everything that happened in his office. It was Tom, for instance, that flickered the Osmium Pressure light on the CAPCPM board.

  Subramanyan Venderchanergee was, however, not completely stupid. Whenever he braced his customers for his special service fees, it was never over the phone, and definitely never at the office, but at a restaurant of his choosing. Further contacts occurred out in the open. He especially liked parking lots around the area airports—the roar of the arriving and departing planes always hashed up any recordings the customers might try to make.

  He ran five kinds of virus software on his computer, and swept it constantly for malware. But such tools are only reactive; they can only identify software known to be bad. A one-of-a-kind custom-built program would never be picked up. The existence of Tom was never suspected. Thus, despite his low cunning, Subramanyan's office life was an open book.

  Subramanyan returned, as Gayatri knew he would, around nineteen hundred.

  “Get me Lisa Daniels,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “Sir?” asked Gayatri.

  “You heard me. Get her. I need her in the office tonight, as soon as possible. She's in UNSOC HQ, she should be reachable. Reach her. Do it.” He stomped up the stairs to his office, slamming the door behind him.

  Commander Daniels

  United Nations Space Operations Command, New York City, July 5, 2080, 0730

  Lisa didn't look or feel bandbox fresh, but for the past twenty-five years, she lived in environments that demanded the best from her at all hours. By the time she ran through the shower, drew on a fresh uniform, and made her way through security to the UNSOC Control Room, her brain was up to speed, fatigue had been vanquishe
d with some surprisingly good coffee, and she was ready for whatever Subby would throw her way.

  She smiled as she walked down the main hall of UNSOC. Nothing Subby could do to her here could match the bowel-clenching fear that was a blowout in space. She had survived two, one each in the Collins and Chaffee. It was doubtlessly another petty task, a way for him to show her who was the boss.

  She shrugged, assuming a neutral countenance when she got within the perimeter of the Control Room. From here on in, she was going to be on camera, and the eyes that would view these tapes definitely did not have her best interests at heart.

  “Ah, Mrs. Daniels,” said Subramanyan when she reported to his office. “Come in.” She approached his desk and remained standing. He remained seated, looking up at her quizzically. Back in Koschevski's day, Natalya would invite Lisa to sit and offer her coffee or tea. Subby had different ideas about hospitality and separate rules existed depending on one's gender. Women were made to stand, men were allowed to sit in Subramanyan's presence.

  “Well, aren't you going to report?” Subramanyan asked.

  “Major Daniels, reporting as ordered,” she said, snapping a salute in his direction. She watched his nostrils flare with a touch of anger. Ah, he must hate a woman doing the same thing a man does, like boning military.

  He lightly touched the corner of his eyebrow with a two-fingered salute, and Lisa snapped her arm down, remaining at attention.

  I'm glad I put in that gym time. He's going to keep me standing, regardless of how much time I've spent in space.

  “I am sure you're wondering why I called you here in the middle of the evening instead of waiting for the morning.”

  Lisa remained silent. If she replied, he could say he had not asked her a question. She wondered idly if this was how battered women felt when their abusers confronted them. Don't do anything to set them off. She wasn't an abused woman, though. She was running her own game.

  Fred Palowicz had briefed her about the situation upstairs, so Lisa knew Holt was coming down on the next transport, which would only be in a couple of weeks. The Russians weren’t going to give up their commanders either. The Russians stood a good chance of commanding half of the upcoming Mars Expedition, but only if their personnel were available. Martin wasn't interested in commanding the Chaffee. Holt said he didn't blame him. Holt was retiring because the Commander job was not really command but acting as Subby's puppet, spying on the manufacturers, shaving costs, and making sure, wherever possible, to wring the most out of every dime the UN sent upstairs while maximizing the returns to UNSOC.

  “I suppose the Russians aren't releasing their commanders,” she said. “Martin isn't interested, either. So you're naming me as Holt's replacement.”

  Subramanyan stared at her. In the deep twilight of Subramanyan's office, lit by the video wall light streaming through the bay window, she couldn't see his eyes clearly. It suddenly seemed as if she was looking down two rifle barrels, twin pits of blackness.

  “Yes,” he ground out slowly. “I've informed the Director-General of UNESCO, though she lets me run things here without interference.”

  “How did she take it?” Lisa asked. She already suspected; she had met with UNESCO's DG a month ago at some function. The old matron, the widow of some wealthy contributor, had gushed to her that she hoped Lisa would be Commander one day. Subby must be infuriated.

  “She congratulated me on my vision and praised my sense of diversity,” he said.

  Lisa relaxed from her position of attention, walked over to the couch, and sat down, gazing in Subby's direction. She let him stew for a few seconds, then let him off the hook.

  “The Commander of the Chaffee is pretty much your right-hand woman upstairs, am I right?”

  “Yes,” he ground out.

  Lisa smiled sweetly at him. “Let's establish the rules right now. I refuse to be treated like a cadet, made to stand at attention, and reporting, and all of that nonsense. I'm sorry if this does not meet with your approval, but if you want to replace me now, you'll have to tell Mrs. vanDeHoog exactly why. Then, when you leave, you will pass me in her waiting room where I’ll be waiting to tell her my version. Are we quite clear?”

  He really needs to see his doctor. The way his neck veins are bulging, he's a prime candidate for a heart attack or stroke.

  She remained where she was, relaxed and watching, until Subby tucked his anger away and got on with the rest of the meeting.

  ***

  The next morning, Shep was trying to fend off one of the more aggressive cougars of the neighborhood when his cell phone rang.

  “Lisa! I can't tell you how glad I am to hear from you!” He waved a happy goodbye to the woman, who stalked away. Shep rolled the shopping cart to the pickup area, got in his car, and told it to take him home.

  “That greeting seemed a little too enthusiastic,” said Lisa. “What's going on?”

  “Remember Mrs. Drysdale? Her husband is one of those expert witness types? Well, he's off in some class action lawsuits in Delaware, and Cougar Drysdale is on the hunt. Your call helped me get away from her. I can't thank you enough.”

  “Isn't she my age? Doesn't that mean that I'm a potential cougar?”

  Shep chuckled. “Not by a long shot, dear. For one, you haven't baked yourself by the pool and added a decade to your apparent age. Or used every hair product known to man and have seriously burned out straw. And don't get me started on her makeup.”

  “I’m sure you have a list. Well, better let your other conquests know that the old lady is coming home in about three hours. Damned Subby. He told me he had a UN plane lined up to take me to Ohio. We got up to altitude, the pilot flicked on the autopilot, and said 'So, who do you know in Cleveland?'“

  Shep pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it for a moment. “Cleveland? That's two hundred klicks from here!”

  “Yeah, and I've had a hell of a time getting a rental. Some UN yutz ordered the plane to Cleveland so he could fly back from his boating holiday on the Great Lakes. Subby's either dense or didn't care. I’m sure he thinks Ohio is like Long Island—nothing's more than an hour away. Bastard.”

  “Ten more years, honey. Just keep that in mind.” Shep smiled at the passing scenery. “I can't wait for you to retire.”

  “Yeah. Well, the guidance module in this hunk-o-junk says I should be in your vicinity around thirteen hundred. That gives us, what, a couple of hours until the kids get home from school? I have a present for your Lil’ Guy.”

  “I'll bet. He's trying to get to his feet right now and salute.”

  “Tell him not to wear himself out. I get to do that.”

  Shep laughed. “I'm not sure he wants to sit back down.” His voice dropped an octave. “How long can you stay?”

  “I have to be back in New York on Monday.”

  “Just the weekend?”

  “And today, Friday. You can bet Subby's charging that to my vacation balance. Travel time always included with the charged vacation. I really miss Nattie Koshevsky. Now, there was a leader.”

  “Don't brood, sweetie. I've got to spin this buggy right around and go back to the store—I've got a list of things to get for this very occasion. I've got so much to do.”

  Shep heard her voice soften until he could barely make it out over the road noise.

  “I've got the best husband in the entire world or off of it. My dear Shep. I don't know what I did to deserve you, but I really love you right now.”

  “Me too, Leese. Now let me go, I've got a banquet to prepare!”

  They exchanged goodbyes. Something the matter with the vents in this car, she thought. Screwing up my eyes. It's not tears, gotta be dust.

  Cargo Switch

  UNSOC Astronaut Office, July 8 2080, 0843 hrs

  Monday morning dawned bright and clear, one of the very few days that life in Manhattan seemed to pause in its hustle and bustle and marvel at the perfect weather. Lisa strode across the quadrangle that separated the temporary
housing for UN personnel and The Monolith. After the rolling hills of Ohio, the sterile rectilinear architecture of Manhattan seemed almost an affront. Nice day, though.

  She endured Security and glanced through the glass doors to Control Room before moving up the hall to Operations. She needed to report in and find out what they had for her today. She was due to go upstairs with the next rocket in three weeks, and UNSOC loved to load up all ground days with simulations of things that would never happen in orbit.

  Gives them something to do. Who knows? Maybe some of the training would be useful.

  “Good morning Kiko, what's shaking?” she said as she spotted a familiar face behind the counter at Operations. Kiko looked ill at ease as he returned her wave. Lisa looked in her mailslot to see if anything was in there. She pulled out a slip.

  “Come see me. Amit.”

  “Oh, crap,” she said, quietly. “Amit wants to see me.”

  Kiko nodded. He pointed upwards, then drew his hand across his throat, and shrugged. “Catch ya later, Lisa,” he said.

  ***

  “Major Daniels, reporting as ordered,” she said.

  “Lisa, please. You're mixing me up with our Director-General.” Amit Kapoor was from a slightly higher caste than Subby, but he never made a big deal about it. He didn't have to. Unlike the unloved Subramanyan, Amit was one of the best astronauts to come out of the Indian Astronaut Corps. He had made the jump to UNSOC because, as he told her once during survival training, UNSOC tended to have a better safety record with their manned launches.

  He was also the Head of the UNSOC Astronaut Corps, as he was one of the most senior astronauts. He still flew missions both on and above the Earth, as well as shepherding the VIPs around when they insisted on going up to orbit. He was a genial and careful buffer between the astronauts and the Director-General Venderchanergee.