Riddled Space Page 5

  “I take it that the trip up to orbit is off?”

  “Yes. We got the repair segments for The Works back faster than we anticipated. We need Zanger to fly them to the Moon, he's got a touch that will make sure that they'll get there in one piece.” He was slowly wagging a finger across the surface of his desk.

  Ah, that's not the only reason they want Zanger.

  He looked at Lisa. She gave him a short smile and nodded her head. “I guess that means I get a little more family time? When's the flight after that?”

  Amit stood up and walked over to a wall chart. Lisa was surprised—he never had to look up simple things like that. He got to the chart, and ran his finger along the appropriate line. “Six weeks, minimum turnaround. That was the launch time of the original Works replacement flight.”

  He moved his finger over the chart, as if he was writing on it.

  GCT, Redstone, 1900, his finger spelled out.

  Lisa nodded. It was a reference only an astronaut would understand. During the Cold War, New York erected a Redstone missile in Grand Central Terminal. Workers chopped a hole in the elaborately painted ceiling of the Main Concourse so a cable could winch up the missile. The missile was long gone, but for nostalgic reasons, the hole remained. It was an obscure but definite landmark.

  “Six weeks. I should be able to get at least a weekend off,” said Lisa.

  “I wouldn't be so sure. The Space Budget Panel meets again in three weeks, and I think the D.G. is going to have a cold or something. Betcha a case of Tulsi Tea?”

  Lisa groaned. “That's right—I had forgotten about them once I was slated for the earlier flight. Crap. Can't duck them or have a cold or I might never get upstairs.” She flashed Amit seven fingers, then gave him a thumbs up.

  “I told Subramanyan that he could have you for the Panel for five days, not six. We still have a lot of Chaffee data to stuff into you. Head on over to VR Sim Room Three. They have a familiarization sim that you're not going to believe.”

  “Catch you later Amit,” she said on her way out the door.

  Off-campus meeting? Something major is in the wind, and everyone seems scared to talk about it.

  ***

  Lisa looked again at the marvelous painting of the starry sky on the ceiling of Grand Central Terminal, spotting the small square hole in it. There was a willowy woman staring at her commpad directly under the hole when Lisa got there. Since she had her back to Lisa, Lisa walked past her, then glanced behind.

  “Hello, Lisa,” the woman said, somewhat quietly. Her head never moved from staring at the commpad, but she started walking at a slight angle to where Lisa was going. “Follow me,” she said.

  Their path led down through a maze of passageways, through doors that the woman unlocked with a keycard, until finally they were on a narrow platform about a meter above a vast, curved track.

  “Quite the cloak-and-dagger,” Lisa drily said. “What could possibly warrant this?” Lisa peered closer. “You're Gayatri, aren't you?”

  “Yes. I'm the CAPCOM, 'B' shift. It's been years since we last met, though.”

  “The voice did it for me,” said Lisa.

  Gayatri looked around her in the semi-gloom, then walked down the platform about ten meters before ducking into a nook, pulling Lisa in with her. She talked urgently with Lisa for about ten minutes, then led her back out of the catacombs. Lisa made her way back to the UN temporary quarters, her mind in a whirl.

  Graft To Host

  Café Kofe, Upper East Side, NYC, July 12 2080, 1343 hrs

  Subramanyan Venderchanergee fingered the memory module with his left hand. “I have reviewed the records of your candidates. They all appear to be qualified. Who do you prefer, Minister?”

  The Uzbek Minister of the Interior Esarhaddon Sihâbeddîn held his coffee cup gently. The translucent bone china appeared to have about the same strength as a soap bubble. He set it back in its saucer to free his hands to talk.

  “Egan Karadag and Adriana Orbay are equally qualified, Director. Karadag worked on our Grand Power complex from the beginning. He was the Chief Engineer for the last five years on the project. It is wrapping up, and he should be free within three months.

  “Orbay was Chief Engineer on the Central Gorge Bridge project since its inception. She has a remarkable fearlessness around heights as well as a total lack of claustrophobia. The bridge came in under budget and on time. She's been vacationing for the last two weeks, and is ready now.” Sihâbeddîn picked up his coffee and took a cautious sip.

  “A man who is used to moving earth, and a woman who dances around on steel.” To Subramanyan, it was no choice at all. “I can wait for Mr. Karadag. See if you can speed up his release from the project—The Works is the heart of the Collins. LOX is going to become critical in about four months.”

  “Director, Orbay is available now.”

  “Turley got killed because he was out gallivanting on the surface. Orbay sounds like the kind of engineer that relishes unnecessary jaunts on high steel—and is probably an adrenaline junkie. I don't need to repeat this process again in a year.”

  “Karadag will be here within two weeks, Director.” Sihâbeddîn tapped a note into his commpad.

  “Good. I'll make the public announcement when you send me back his signed contract, and other considerations.”

  Minister Sihâbeddîn hesitated. “These other considerations. I am afraid I don't know the customary rate.”

  Subramanyan picked up the memory module and pocketed it. “Twenty percent of the contract total. You could always pre-tax his salary and include that in the bill if it makes your life easier. Oh, and it is due before the public announcement.”

  “I'm only getting ten percent myself, and that is after the first year,” Sihâbeddîn grumbled. “The contract total, then, does it meet with your approval?”

  “Yes, it's fine. Now, let us be done with this. I need Collins back up and productive soon.”

  “You shall have the contract within the week.” Sihâbeddîn signaled for a refill of the thick hot brew. These people sure knew how to make coffee the Uzbek way.

  The waitress approached later with the check, and presented it to the Minister. Subramanyan smiled a bit inside. The wait staff were so well trained.

  The Ride Upstairs

  UNSOC Shuttle Seryogin, July 16 2080, 0632 hrs

  “MECO-1,” called the pilot into his microphone.

  UNSOC Control Room responded. “We confirm main engine cutoff. We have you at inclination fife-two, altitude tree-ninety, speed two eight tousand kay-pee-aitch. Over.”

  Zanger, patched into the commlink, as were most of the other passengers in the shuttle, grinned in his seat.

  He turned to the blonde woman next to him. “Director-General must be standing right up next to CAPCOM. Gus never uses by-the-book radio protocol otherwise.” He had caught sight of her during suit fitting, standing on a platform in the Spandex undergarment everyone wore. The stretchy garment was reinforced with metallic threads of steel and copper—the first for burst strength and the second for antibacterial activity. Eddie wasn't thinking about the science behind the body stocking—he was thinking about how to help her out of it once they got on the Chaffee. Best twenty I ever spent, bribing Timson to seat us together. It was clear from her abrupt movements that this was her first time upstairs.

  “I'm Eddie Zanger. I pilot the Orbital Transfer Vehicle that flies from here to the Moon. Are you bound for the Chaffee or the Collins?”

  She looked at him like he was a swamp creature. “Chaffee,” she said before pointedly looking away.

  Eddie was shocked. He had struck out before, but he was never dismissed like this, especially after identifying himself as a pilot. He turned back to her, but her eyes were closed and she was projecting such a cold shoulder that Eddie expected liquid oxygen to drip off of it.

  Timson, that bastard. He must have known! Took my money, then strapped us in. What did that groundpounder say? “It's very cold, in spac
e.” I thought he was just scaring Blondie here. I'm gonna get him.

  The intercom came on with a preliminary click. “This is your pilot. We're in a two-hour coast right now before our second burn, so if you want, you can unstrap and move around. Newbies, please be careful. That space hand you kick in the face might just be the guy who's cleaning and maintaining your spacesuit. A little lunar dust in your shorts, and you'll wonder where all the blood is coming from. So move slowly.”

  Eddie moved to get up—then he realized that he'd have to talk to Blondie again, just to get out to the aisle. He looked at her quickly, to see if she was still asleep, and found her ice-blue eyes staring at him.

  “I suppose you want out,” she said. “Then you'll want back in.”

  Eddie had just about enough of this. “Look, lady—”

  “No, you look. I've heard about you. I'm not interested. In any of you. I'm here to do a job, make a contribution, and be left alone.” She leaned back in the seat, closing her eyes again. “For once.”

  Eddie was instantly curious. How was this not caught on the psychology tests? The woman obviously had a large chip on her shoulder over some guy. He pulled himself back into his chair and rebuckled his harness. Well, he could always nap.

  He closed his eyes, and that unnerving stare of hers replayed itself on the insides of his closed eyelids. The color of her eyes...Eddie wasn't sure, but he could swear they were the same sky-blue color of solid oxygen.

  It was cold in space—the cold of oxygen ice. That was it—she was an Ice Queen. No emotion. Do her job. Icewater in her veins, O2 ice in her eyes. Let her stare at you too long, and you'll freeze solid, too.

  Eddie adjusted the air nozzle, adding in some heat. It was chilly all of a sudden.

  ***

  “Wakey, wakey,” chimed the pilot over the intercom. “Docking with the Chaffee is in five minutes. Return your seats to their full upright position, ha, ha. Close and lock your helmet visors and gauntlets, and that's not a joke. Make sure you have your external mikes on, too. Especially you newbies. Vets, please check them out.”

  Eddie opened his eyes and slid the plexiglass visor down until it locked in its gasket, then locked his gauntlets. He chinned the switch inside his helmet, checked the status of his external mike. Air, batteries, consumables, check. Hose plugged in and drawing, check. Ready for docking. Eddie flipped up the green flag on the seat in front of him and leaned back to rest.

  He thought about checking the Ice Queen beside him. Fuck her. Treat me like shit, think you know it all. Suffer, asshole. He felt a medium-sized fist impact his right arm. He looked at the Ice Queen, fury on her face. She was mouthing something, but she had neglected to turn on her outside speakers, which was just as well. He had no desire to hear her yammering.

  He rotated about a quarter way around in his chair towards her. He pushed on her visor, which rotated up. He sighed, snapped it back down, and locked it for her. He looked at the radio, which was unfortunately chest-mounted, to ensure her mikes were on. This earned him another glare. He tugged on her gauntlets. The left one was locked but the right one came right off.

  “Ground school's getting sloppy,” he muttered, as he gave it right back to her and waited for her to put it on. He locked it at the wrist and continued suit checkout. It was up to her to check the batteries and consumables. He thought about telling her, but he noticed that she was looking a little spacey all of a sudden. He looked at her earlobes for her O2 monitor, which was nowhere to be found. He unlocked his visor and pushed it up, then unlocked and opened her visor. A gush of hot, foul air flooded out. He took off one of his gauntlets and tried to stick his hand inside the helmet, feeling around for it.

  She sank her teeth into his hand. He belted her helmet with his free hand and leaned close.

  “What the fuck is your problem? I'm looking for your O2 monitor. Who suited you up? Didn't they teach you anything? Let go of my hand and let me make sure you get to the station alive, or so help me I'll just let you smother right here in front of me. Got it?”

  Her teeth let go of his hand. “What's an O2 monitor?”

  “Kidding, right?” Eddie said. He pointed to what looked like a breath mint clipped to his ear. “Green means good, red is dead. Where's yours?”

  “They never gave me one.”

  Eddie stared at her, pulling his hand out of her helmet. “Did a guy suit you up downstairs?”

  “Yes,” she answered warily.

  “Let me guess, you gave him crap for whistling or a comment or something, right?”

  She just glared at him.

  “I'm going to tell you something you should have already figured out. We are already IN dangerous territory. Everyone checks everyone, anything else is a sure way to get dead. That guy who suited you up? Bet he was trying to clip on the monitor and you thought he was trying to get a feel or kiss or something. So he said to himself, 'The hell with this, let her learn the hard way.'

  “I was doing the same thing, ignoring you, until you punched me. Only reason I'm helping you now is I don't want to get grilled about why you died. Word to the wise—nobody's going to go out of their way to help you, especially if you bite their head off.”

  He snapped her visor down to cut off any reply, then checked out her air hoses. The inlet valve was closed on the suit, and the hose was disconnected from the seat's air supply. He hit her visor with the free end, shook his head at her, and plugged it in to her supply vent, turning on the valves to let the air flow.

  He flipped her visor open one more time. “Nobody's gonna rape you up here because the other hundred men would space the bastard and everyone knows it. So instead of kicking guys in the balls just because of some old history you have with some ground pounding asshole, think about giving the rest of us the benefit of the doubt, okay?” Eddie slammed her visor down and locked it. He did a final check, closed and locked his own visor, and flipped up her green flag.

  It didn't seem very cold anymore. In fact, it seemed there was a small supernova sitting on his right.

  To The Moon, Zanger!

  UNSOC Space Station Roger B. Chaffee, July 16 2080, 0958 hrs

  “Pilot Zanger to the Commander's office. Pilot Zanger, acknowledge.”

  Eddie stuck his head out of the shower bag and cursed. He had waited a full three hours after they got aboard before he hopped into the bag. His encounter with the Ice Queen had left him stressed, sweaty, and ripe. He grabbed his commpad and acknowledged the signal.

  “I'll be there in ten minutes.”

  “Zang, Holt wants you now,” answered the controller on duty.

  “Fine, I'll bunny-hop over there wearing a shower bag.”

  “Why didn't you say so?”

  Eddie was convinced everyone was out to make him crazy. “You didn't give me a chance, Chuck. This thing with Holt. Is it about the Ice Queen?”

  “Who?”

  “That beautiful blonde babe that came up with us. I bet she made a complaint.”

  “You gotta stop grabbing 'em, Zang. No, I think it's an assignment.”

  “Word to the wise, Chuck. That chick is poison.”

  “To your type, sure. I'm a sensitive guy.”

  Eddie laughed. “Fine. Bet you a fin you strike out within the first two minutes.”

  “Deal. Now, hurry it up, Holt's looking irritated.”

  “Working. Out.”

  Eddie changed his underwear but not his jumpsuit before heading off to Holt's office. To his horror, he saw the blonde waiting for him and a look of dismay on Chuck's face. Ah, shit, she's filed a complaint. Better enjoy freefall while I can. Next stop is flying tourists around Cambodia.

  He turned in the air and made to push off towards Holt's cubby off Main Control when he felt a touch on his ankle. He looked back to see the blonde pulling her hand back.

  “Yes?” he said in a tone that shouted, I don't want to talk to you!

  “I am sorry, Pilot Zanger, for my behavior on the ride up. It was unprofessional and unwar
ranted, and it will not happen again.”

  Eddie was so shocked that he let go of his support, and was left floundering in the air. “Uh. It's okay. Stress. Don't worry about it.”

  “Thank you for checklisting my suit,” she said before pushing against the sole of his foot, propelling him to a handhold. “My name, by the way, is Celine Greenfield.”

  “Celine,” he said before pulling himself towards Holt's cubby.

  ***

  Holt looked around at his now-empty cubbyhole. Empty, that was, of personal items. Certain things belonged to the Chaffee and were passed from Commander to Commander. The place of honor was a singed Apollo One mission patch in a common frame that was screwed into the bulkhead. Legend said the patch was from the primary spacesuit that Roger Chaffee wore on January 27th, 1967. It was over one hundred and fifteen years old. Holt gazed at the patch, remembering his history.

  On that cold January morning, three men climbed into a cramped space capsule, Apollo One, for a systems test of the vehicle. The idea was to simulate the liftoff portion of the mission, exercising as much of the capsule as possible without actually launching it. The fuel tanks were empty, but the atmosphere inside the capsule was the same as it would be for liftoff. One hundred percent pure oxygen, at about two pounds over normal atmospheric pressure.

  Gus Grissom, one of the original Mercury astronauts, was the Command Pilot. Ed White, the first American to spacewalk, was the Main Pilot, and Roger Chaffee, who had never flown in a spacecraft, was simply Pilot. There were many problems, especially communications, but there was no reason to suspect danger.

  A fire started low on the left side of the spacecraft, away from Roger Chaffee, probably the result of an electrical arc. In the pure oxygen atmosphere, the entire inside of the capsule was engulfed with flame for about ninety seconds. The capsule burst, the result of the high pressure of the hot gasses from the fire. The astronauts were still alive at that moment, though badly burned, their spacesuits melted onto them.