Riddled Space Read online

  No more oxygen came into the capsule. Carbon monoxide and other poisonous gasses filled the interior, the result of incomplete combustion of the nylon and other plastics throughout the cabin. The astronauts never had a chance. Roger Chaffee died of cardiac arrest some two minutes after the fire started.

  Holt blinked, coming back from his memory of the black-and-white films he had been shown during Ground School training. He shivered. It was all too easy to imagine the same scenario on his space station.

  The patch in the frame was removed from the right shoulder of the outer spacesuit of Roger Chaffee himself, after they had chopped the half-melted seat out of the burned Apollo One. It was one of the very few combustible items that had survived that horrific fire.

  Eddie Zanger floated into the cubby as Holt wiped a tear away.

  “Something, boss?”

  “The patch,” Holt said, waving towards it. “Don't you ever tell anyone this, but I once slipped the back off the frame and took a sniff. It still had a faint odor of an electrical fire about it.”

  Eddie looked down for a moment until he heard Holt clear his throat. Everyone knew the story of Apollo One.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  “Let's take a walk,” he said, rising from his chair and floating out the hatch into the Control Room.

  Eddie followed him. Celine had vanished from the Control Room. “You owe me five,” Eddie called to Chuck, who cheerfully gave him the finger.

  “Already, Zanger?”

  “Boss?”

  “Is Zanger's General Store already open for business?”

  Eddie chuckled. Since he often piloted one of the ground-to-orbit shuttles, as well as the OTV Betsy which ran from Chaffee to Collins on the Moon, he was one of the very few crew who regularly cycled between orbit and the surface. He quickly turned that to his advantage, filling his individual weight allowance with personal requests from everyone upstairs. He was popular among the crew as well as the tenants, and they all tried very hard to stay on his good side. Piss Zanger off, so the rumor mill said, and you'll be wearing your last socks for six months.

  “You know me too well.” Eddie was still not sure if Celine had ratted him out to the boss, so he was keeping everything non-committal until he knew more.

  “Because that fiver that Chuck owes you couldn't be the bet he just lost over the Ice Queen, now, would it?” Holt pushed hard off the wall, ricocheted off a corner, and continued down a cross-corridor.

  Eddie followed, somewhat clumsily. It took time for free-fall reflexes to come back. Gut-wrenching laughter didn't help, either.

  The factory floor was full of the crashing echoes of packaging machinery working at full speed.

  “I need you to fly a mission,” said Holt, almost head-to-head with Eddie.

  “I take it that it's not a sanctioned mission.”

  Holt laughed. “Oh, hell no! But Subby will fudge his shorts when he finds out.”

  “Count me in,” said Eddie, rubbing his hands briskly before grabbing a handhold again. “What do you have in mind?”

  “You noticed there were some empty seats on the shuttle?” said Holt, trying to look all around and still seem nonchalant.

  “I wondered about that. I thought we were going to have a full load.” Eddie frowned. “If you were going to have cargo, why have the full-sized passenger canister instead of the mini-pax/cargo canister?”

  “We didn't have time for a canister change-out. You didn't examine the pax-can, I see. If you had, you'd notice that the rear seats were pretty...lumpy. The aft bathroom was full of tankage, and the rest of the cargo hold was really packed tight. Nothing in the galley, either—more cargo.”

  “What the hell?” Eddie was used to moving unsanctioned cargo from one location to the other, but this was unprecedented.

  “Jeng Wo Lee and I are pulling a fast march on Subby. Subby tried to get me to help him fire Lee because Turley died while Lee was the commander. By retiring early, I've forced his hand—he's got to bring Lisa Daniels up with the next flight, and with the Russians and Martin off the list, Lee has to stay where he is.

  “Word from the ground is that Subby's using Turley's death to sell the position of Chief Engineer to the highest bidder, and nobody in the Astronaut Corps is being considered.”

  “The hell you say!” exclaimed Eddie. Eddie was vaguely appalled at the whole sordid mess. “Wait, how do you know this?”

  Holt spread his arms wide. “Why are we in this godawful noisy place instead of my office?”

  Eddie knew this one. “Your office is bugged. Everyone knows that.”

  Holt looked at him. The seconds marched past while the roar of the machines beat at their ears. Holt looked like he would stay here all day. Then the penny dropped.

  “We have Subby's office bugged?”

  Holt put his finger aside his nose and tapped it. “Getting warmer.”

  “What could be warmer than that?” Eddie shrugged his shoulders.

  “We didn't do the deed, but we discovered taps when we tried running our own. So we tapped the taps. We're also keeping encrypted copies of the intercepts. It's been going on for years.”

  Eddie's eyes hurt. He really shouldn't be bugging them out so much, but he had never been so astonished.

  “I don't get it,” Eddie said. “Why are we acting no better than Subby?”

  “For reasons like this. Look, Eddie, you're not stupid, just relatively innocent. We're asking you to do something only a little dirty. Not anything you'd go to jail for. Just a bit more unorthodox than running recreational chemicals under Betsy's deck plates to and from the Moon.”

  “What?” Eddie pretended fake outrage. “I never...”

  “Stow it, Eddie, I don't have a lot of time. Betsy's being loaded with most of the items launched up with y'all. We want you to take Betsy out to the Moon tonight.”

  “No problem. I haven't even unpacked. I still don't get the cloak and dagger, though.”

  Holt laughed and put his arm around Eddie's shoulders. “You're just not thinking things through, my boy. We get The Works hardware out to the Collins on the Moon. It gets unloaded. Who puts everything together?”

  “Turl...oh, yeah. Wait, isn't Nygaard the Deputy Chief? He can do it.”

  “Horst would do his best, of course. But that's not going to make him Chief Engineer, especially when Subby's putting the job out on GraftNet. Who is upstairs, now, who has a chance to make it work and, more importantly, could weather any attempt to get removed?

  “Well, if it's not Nygaard, then it's nobody on the Moon.”

  Holt looked pointedly in all directions.

  “McCrary! You want me to fly him to the Moon? How does he feel about it?”

  “He suggested it, once he knew about Subby's graft.” Holt rapped on the bulkhead next to his handhold. “Keeping this hulk in the sky and safe to inhabit is important, but it's just maintenance and McCrary deserves more of a challenge than this. We owe him a chance to rebuild The Works to be bigger and better than ever. Plus, he's an honest man. Not only does Subby's graft appall him, he knows that any new Chief we get up here by those means is going to be substandard by definition, and that will get people killed. That's why he suggested the move. Hodges is more than qualified to lead Chaffee's Engineering department and Subby can't touch McCrary. So we block Subby's latest cash grab. The only variable here is you. Can you fly him to the Moon and keep quiet about it?”

  Eddie grinned. “To thwart Subby? You bet!”

  “Get moving. Astrogation puts Trans Lunar Injection in seven hours. Coincidentally, our orbit will be off South America, rounding the Cape of Good Hope and up the Indian Ocean.”

  Eddie looked at Holt, laughing. “We'll be out of radar contact for at least an hour!”

  “Plus, Betsy will be in the radar shadow of Chaffee for another three. By the time the Ground sees anything, you'll be on your way for at least four hours. It will also be C Shift in the Control Room, and we've got CAPCOM wired in.�
��

  “How long have you been planning this?”

  “Right after I announced my retirement. Nothing like going out with a bang.” Holt looked forlorn. “I'll be ruined, of course. Subby and UNSOC will find a way to destroy me in retirement. But someone has to be Horatio at the Bridge.”

  Eddie looked embarrassed. “I, ah, don't know what to say.”

  “Then say, 'aye-aye, Captain!', and I point my finger forward and say 'Make it so.'“

  “Aye-aye, oh Captain my Captain!”

  “Make it so!”

  They laughed as they left the manufacturing cubic, but to Eddie, it was not mirth that moved them, it was a bark of defiance at those who would destroy what had been built up here.

  Final Flight

  UNSOC Space Station Roger B. Chaffee, July 17 2080, 0342 hrs

  Stanley Holt looked at the Apollo One patch for the last time. Even though everyone associated with that particular disaster was long dead, the grief at the waste and loss was still strong within him.

  Holt wondered for the fiftieth time if he was doing the right thing. Retiring and handing the bag to Lisa Daniels was the easy way out.

  She deserves command, just not over the body of Jeng Wo Lee.

  He shook himself. This was not the way to leave space, bitter and angry.

  Holt thought of Eddie Zanger and McCrary, already thousands of kilometers on their way to the Moon, and smiled. That die was cast. Just like when the launch pad autosequencer kicks in, events were happening on their own, ripples spreading out from that dropped stone labeled Stanley Holt, Retired.

  He tucked his feet under a toehold, stretched to his full height, and saluted the singed patch in its protective frame. Then, without a backward glance, he left the Commander's Office for the last time.

  Arriving at the airlock leading to the shuttle, he stopped, amazed at the number of people there to see him off.

  “Look, everyone, I appreciate this, but the window for the shuttle to push off is coming up fast, and I've got to go. I know this is sudden for a lot of you, but I've got faith in your professionalism and attention to duty. There are some changes coming, beginning with me, but I know you'll do just fine.

  “When you get back downstairs, do feel free to come on by and visit. I suspect I'll be busy for the next few months, but then I'll really have nothing to do but drink beer and tell war stories about UNSOC. I'd love to have all y'all come by. Now, I've really got to go.”

  The familiar 'all-station' tone sounded, and Celine Greenfield's voice came over the intercom. “Attention, all hands. Is Commander Holt still aboard?”

  Most of the men let loose a subconscious hum when they heard her voice, honeyed and rich. Even those who had been shot down by her did it.

  “Really, guys? Cut it out, would ya?” Holt floated over to the communicator. “Make it fast, Greenfield, I'm running late already.”

  “I've got a call from Rising Star Ground Control, a Wentao Jin Fong wanted to talk with you.”

  “Route it to the shuttle, I've got to be on it.” He turned from the communicator, then turned back to it. “Greenfield?”

  “Yes, sir?” The honey was gone from her voice, a note of caution had crept in.

  “Here's my last order: if any of these horny bastards hassles you, you have my permission to kick him in the nads.”

  A roar of laughter accompanied him all the way to the shuttle.

  ***

  “Holt,” he said into his helmet microphone as he savored his last few minutes of free-fall. They would probably be the last he would ever have.

  “Rising Star Ground Control, Commander. We are reading something very strange. It looks like there's a second radar shadow behind the Chaffee. It just appeared ten minutes ago, after Chaffee came onto our scopes. Can you clarify?”

  “Mister Wentao, is it?”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  “I will be entering reentry blackout in fifteen minutes and I will be on the ground within the hour. Can this wait until then?”

  “The Chaffee will off our scopes by then. I could advise Pasadena to make sure their scopes are tuned before Chaffee comes into view.”

  “That would be excellent. I will contact the UNSOC Control Room when I ground.”

  “Understood. Rising Star, out.”

  ***

  Holt was not the only person heading back to Earth. A variety of tenants and crew partially filled the pax-can.

  The intercom clicked in his ear. “Coming up on deorbit burn in five minutes. Make sure your suit is vacuum-ready, and check your buddy.” Soon, all the green flags were up in the pax-can.

  The intercom clicked again. “What was that all about with the Chinese, sir?” asked the pilot. “We're private.”

  Holt considered. Intercom talk was not part of the flight data recorders. He realized that, for once, he didn't care.

  “Kipsnick, right?”

  “Yes sir. Sad to see you go. Everyone liked working with you.”

  “Thanks. Well, it seems our boys in China managed to image Betsy.”

  “Betsy? Zanger's ship?” A pause. “Oh, that explains it.”

  Holt grinned. There would be a lot of that going on shortly—people connecting dots.

  “I thought they were unloading my ship a little quickly,” mused Kipsnick. “I guess The Works is more damaged than the rumor mill is saying.”

  “What did they tell you on the ground?” asked Holt.

  “About the change in cargo? Nothing. Just mass and moment arms. I guess they really need it up on the Collins.”

  Holt thought for a moment. Kipsnick had reached the wrong conclusion. It was safer to keep him in the dark, but all of a sudden, he was tired of the games, of the politics. But did he have a right to pull in more victims?

  “Kipsnick, you've got a ship to land. Look me up in a few days and I'll give you the rest of the story.”

  “Deal, sir. EI in thirty seconds.”

  Regretfully, Holt tightened his harness and said goodbye to freefall.

  Assumptions

  UNSOC Hanger 23L, Cape Canaveral, July 17 2080, 0755 hrs

  Holt patted the helmet one final time. “Ya done good,” he said. Like most of his fellow space travelers, he had treated his equipment almost as if it was alive. Yet his spacesuit was never actually his personal property—it belonged to UNSOC.

  “Sir?” A technician appeared at his side, extending a commpad. “UNSOC, the Director-General wishes to speak with you.”

  Holt smiled. He had been anticipating this moment for days. He toggled the speakerphone function but kept the camera disabled. He waved other techs close, but motioned them to silence.

  “Director, this is Commander Holt.”

  “What is the meaning of this, Holt?”

  “You're going to have to be a bit more explicit, sir.”

  “Don't play games with me. The switch in cargoes on the shuttle, you've abandoned your post, and now the OTV is headed to the Moon. I've had three ground stations confirm the readings.”

  Nodding to himself, Holt tried to keep his face neutral for the techs gathered around. Subby was so dense sometimes. “You publicly stated that UNSOC was going to be critically short of LOX in about four months. Then when the Seryogin arrived, I discovered that it was full of repair parts for The Works, and the OTV pilot had been sent up. I figured you ordered it, so I sent it along to the Moon. We were in an especially favorable position to launch, too, with the Moon near perigee, and change of plane burn would be exceptionally small. I grabbed the opportunity.”

  Holt looked up. The technicians were listening, but were wondering why. So far, it was pretty tame, as conversations go. Holt held up a finger. Wait.

  “So you're getting the parts to the Moon, but what good are they going to do there? Turley's gone and Nygaard is a just a boiler mechanic.” A low growl, more felt than heard, came from the technicians. Horst Nygaard was respected in the Astronaut Corps and among these techs.

  “That's a li
ttle harsh, sir. Nygaard could put The Works together, but it wouldn't be really optimized.”

  “The point is, the parts going to the Moon without a Chief Engineer to organize the reconstruction effort just means that we'll have to make a second flight to get the Engineer there.”

  “I realized that too, sir. That's why I sent along McCrary with the parts. I've promoted Hodges to Chief of the Chaffee. I kinda figured that's what you had in mind, sir, when you authorized the parts flight in the first place but didn't send up an engineer.

  Holt looked around to see a circle of grinning faces. One man had to turn aside, hand over his mouth.

  “You WHAT?”

  “Sorry, is there a comm problem? I sent McCrary with the parts, and promoted Hodges to fill the empty Chief Engineer slot. Chaffee will need a Deputy Chief, but I can give my replacement some recommendations. My orders should be in the log.”

  This time, the technicians couldn't hold it in. Among the general laughter, the commpad could be heard screeching. “Are we on speakerphone?”

  “Yessir. I'm still unsuiting. You got me standing here with my dick in my hand. Anything else or do you want me to get pneumonia, too?”

  The commpad went blank as soon as Holt said 'dick'. Holt grabbed it and waved it at the commpad. “Suck it, Subby, I've had enough of you!”

  The room filled with cheers.

  Wages of Sin

  Café Kofe, Upper East Side, NYC, July 19 2080, 1251 hrs

  The Uzbek Minister of the Interior Esarhaddon Sihâbeddîn started on his coffee early. They were at the same restaurant, even in the same banquette. Subramanyan Venderchanergee looked distinctly unhappy.

  “Director Venderchanergee, you mentioned something about a problem. I do not understand. Engineer Karadag is enroute to Florida at this moment. We had to replace him on the Grand Power project, we are moving his family to be closer to her parents, all kinds of dislocations. We have paid the 'other considerations' you demanded. What is the problem?”

  Subramanyan blanched slightly. That damnable Holt! As Director-General, Subramanyan had complete autonomy over personnel. But McCrary was famous. Word had leaked out to the media about the change in Chief Engineers. UN Public Affairs had forwarded pre-publication rushes of outside media articles praising Subramanyan for his 'genius' in his solution to the problem. There was no way to undo the situation. If he were even to attempt to put in Karadag at this late date, the watchdogs would start turning over rocks. He didn't want the rock hiding his special fees to be flipped over.