Saturn Run (The Planetary Trilogy Book 1)

by Stanley Salmons

  The agonized scream rang out again. There was the sound of someone retching.

  Ralph was hurrying on and Dan had to run to catch him up.

  “Ralph,” he said. “Can’t we do something? Those people are sick. They should be in hospital.”

  “Hospitals won’t take ’em. They ain’t got no money and treating ’em costs. And there’s way too many of ’em. Anyway, why bother? They’re all goin’ to die soon anyway.”

  “Why, what’s the matter with them?”

  “This lot? Druggies. Hooked on the bad one.”

  “The bad one?”

  “Yeah, Blaze. You know, Dramatoin.”

  Dan’s face went slack. He closed his eyes.

  Here it was at last: face-to-face with the consequences of his own actions. The pain he felt was almost overwhelming.

  29

  When Dan settled down for the night on his makeshift bed in Ralph’s apartment the images of that ghastly Netherworld were still churning through his mind. They lingered while he was trying to get to sleep and they returned in nightmarish dreams, from which he woke up with a start, drenched in sweat. After a while he had difficulty distinguishing sleep from wakefulness. Finally he threw back the thin covers and got up.

  Moving quietly so as not to disturb Ralph, he had a quick wash, then made himself a coffee. A glimmer of grey early morning light seeped through the windows. It never got much brighter than this down here; he had to judge the time of morning from the growing sounds of traffic in the lanes overhead. He sat at the small kitchen table, his hands clasped around the warm coffee mug.

  You mustn’t blame yourself! It wasn’t your fault. That’s what Neraya had said. But it was his fault. Accepting those assignments from Rostov was naïve, for sure, but it was worse than that. He’d been wilfully blind.

  A pilot must have complete access to his cargo – one of the first things they were taught at the Academy, yet he’d ignored it. And returning from that initial trip to Mars he’d wondered what was really in the consignment, especially given his heavy-handed reception at the dock in Earth orbit. Despite all that he’d decided to believe Rostov’s cock-and-bull story about commercial rivalry. When the call came to go on a second trip, he’d accepted it, and the same with the third. No doubt he’d have made a fourth if Customs hadn’t brought his budding career to a halt. Of course he’d never imagined he was carrying drugs, much less Dramatoin – at that stage he didn’t know anything about Dramatoin – but now he’d seen its effects at first hand. He wasn’t just a fool; he was a culpable fool.

  He buried his head in his hands and remained that way for several minutes. When he straightened up it was with a feeling of resolve. It grew in him.

  I already helped to put Rostov away but that achieved next to nothing; Rostov’s syndicate is still out there, making, transporting, and distributing the filthy stuff. One thing’s certain: I’ll never be able to do anything useful with my life from this place. Right now I need to focus all my efforts on getting back to some sort of normality. That long-distance mission SpaceFreight is advertising – I don’t give a damn what it involves or where it’s going. It may be the only opportunity I ever get.

  *

  There were three stages to the selection procedure. The first was a very searching questionnaire, on which Dan had to enter all the details of his education and training, job experience, reasons for leaving jobs, convictions, financial status including outstanding debts, and a series of apparently innocuous questions that he recognized as an attempt to build a preliminary psychological profile. On the strength of that written submission he was summoned to a first interview.

  He did his best within his extremely limited resources to make himself look presentable. He even had his hair cut by Ralph which, considering the state of the guy’s own hair, was a good deal more successful than he’d anticipated. And he tried to stay calm when they summoned him into the interview room. A whole lot was riding on this.

  There were just three on the interviewing panel. Their questions were searching but not unduly hostile. They explored in more detail the answers he had given in the questionnaire. Then one of them asked him about the circumstances leading to his arrest and probationary sentence.

  “Sir, I was naïve. I needed a job and this guy was offering me well-paid work. I had no idea what was in the cargo and I’d never have accepted the assignment if he’d been honest with me. Of course,” he said, “that didn’t cut much ice with Customs when they made the interception.”

  “Do you think they were wrong to arrest you, then?”

  “Not really. I mean, I think these people have to do everything they can to fight drug abuse and the trade behind it. I did my best to make amends. I gave evidence to the court – which put me at considerable personal risk – and it resulted in the conviction of the head of that syndicate.”

  It was an adequate response even if it didn’t begin to touch on the real burden of guilt that still weighed on him.

  The woman on the panel was next to put a question to him.

  “Mr Larssen, would you be willing to give us access to your study records held by Space Fleet Academy?”

  “Certainly, ma’am, I’m more than happy for you to have access to those records, on the understanding that it’s just for the purposes of this application.”

  All three made reassuring noises. Dan figured that in the context of the present application his record could well operate in his favour.

  Evidently he was right because he was summoned to a second interview. It was a lot tougher. There were six of them this time. They had obviously done all manner of digging and were prepared to put him on the spot.

  The Chairman, who’d identified himself as Dr Trebus, started the questioning.

  “Mr Larssen. It’s been a while since you left the Academy. In retrospect what’s your assessment of the education you received there?”

  In other words, do you still have a chip on your shoulder?

  “I think it was absolutely first class. There are plenty of places you can go to learn to fly, and there are engineering schools at all the universities. But I don’t think there’s anywhere that offers the particular combination of breadth and depth that you get at the Academy.”

  Another panel member sat forward. “Mr Larssen, your record at the Academy suggests you are something of a free spirit. Would you agree?”

  Dan could see the trap-doors opening everywhere. “I’m not sure what you mean by ‘free spirit’, sir. I believe that you should be prepared to act on your initiative and defend what you believe to be right, even against considerable odds. If that’s a crime, I’ll plead guilty to it.”

  It was a good answer and not too defensive, and the man was big enough to smile slightly and nod his approval. But one of the others, the woman who’d been on the previous panel, was quick to leap in with the next question.

  “But Mr Larssen, you thought fit to leave a group that was engaged in a team-building exercise. I don’t know about ‘free spirit’. That sounds more like ‘loose cannon’ to me.”

  “Ma’am, I was unable to accept unquestioningly a course of action that I saw to be fundamentally flawed. You must understand that these exercises are designed to simulate real-life situations. If a situation like that came up in the field it could mean life or death for the people involved. I think I’d be seriously at fault if I failed to speak my mind.”

  “Very well, very well. But would you then be prepared to negotiate a solution with others whose convictions were different to yours and held just as strongly?”

  “Absolutely.”

  The brevity of his reply shocked them into silence. Then one of the more senior men posed a hypothetical problem.

  “Let’s suppose, Mr Larssen, you are on a route past one of the giant planets. The trajectory has been worked out in advance, of course, but now that you are on the approach are there any checks that need to be made?”

  “There certainly are. The trajectory has to be updat
ed at every stage, particularly as you approach orbit.”

  “And how would you do that?”

  What was he driving at?

  “As you know, sir, there are standard computer routines for it.”

  “Yes. That’s enough, is it?”

  Now Dan knew what he was driving at. There had been cases where excessive reliance on the computer’s predictions had seriously endangered the mission.

  “No, sir, I don’t believe it is. I would always cross-check the answer with my own calculations.”

  “Okay, let’s suppose you’ve done that. And suppose your calculations differ from the computer predictions. Which do you then believe? The computer’s predictions, based as they are on hundreds of hours of programming by expert engineers, or your own calculations?”

  Now Dan could see how cleverly the man had steered the conversation. It was another trap but he wasn’t falling for it.

  “Sir, if you’ve looked closely at my academic record, as I’m sure you have, you’ll see there that I uncovered a bug in a major navigational code that was in common usage at that time. That discovery quite possibly saved lives – although little account was taken of that when I was subsequently expelled by Dr Taylor.” He couldn’t resist the dig. “It shows that the best programmers can make mistakes. On the other hand, I achieved a Distinction in Problem-Solving Skills in every year that I attended the Academy. All things being equal, if it’s my neck, then I am certainly going to back my own judgment.”

  Dan wasn’t sure whether the man was smiling or grimacing at the reply, but he didn’t have time to ponder it because the woman was putting a supplementary.

  “In such a situation, Mr Larssen, wouldn’t it be sensible to seek help and advice from Ground Control?”

  “Of course, ma’am, I’d be very foolish to ignore any possible source of help and advice. But it also depends on distance. The further the ship gets from Earth, the greater the transmission delay and the less current and relevant the advice that Ground Control can offer. In the final analysis it’s only the man in the field who has the full picture and, with or without advice, he’s the one who has to make the decisions.”

  When he emerged from the interview he exhaled a long breath. His face felt flushed and the blood tingled in his veins.

  If they didn’t like the bit about trusting my own judgment it’s just too bad. I failed to do it once, and it’s never going to happen again.

  He’d given it his best shot. Now it was a matter of waiting for their decision.

  Between the two interviews he’d done as much homework as he could on the company. SpaceFreight Incorporated had originally been a division of Space Fleet. As part of the response to the StarTrader disaster the freight-carrying part of the organization had been cut adrift as an independent company, with its own administration, Board of Directors, and shareholders. Obviously the intention was to limit the risk to either company by putting a bulkhead between freight and passenger operations. There were, however, vestiges of the former organization; for example, the Board of SpaceFreight included a Director from Space Fleet. Dan looked to see who else was on the Board. Among the names was Karl Stott.

  His first reaction was one of dismay and helpless frustration, mingled with disgust that Fleet-Admiral Stott had transparently used his power and influence to secure this position for his son. On further reflection he wondered how much it mattered. It didn’t seem all that likely that a Director would get involved in the routine appointment of a mere freighter pilot. In that Dan was right: he was offered the job, subject to the satisfactory outcome of a more detailed assessment of his physical and psychiatric fitness. He accepted the offer, deciding that it was also unlikely that a Director would ever deal first-hand with a freight pilot; he was right in that, too. As he passed the various tests and the full nature and challenge of the mission was made clearer to him he comforted himself that having Karl Stott as a Director would be unlikely to have any material influence on the success or otherwise of his mission.

  In that he could not have been more wrong.

  30

  “You’re putting on weight, Karl.”

  Karl Stott scowled. That voice. His father used it like a weapon. Deep and resonant, like a large bell, everything it said seemed to carry the burden of wisdom and experience. Karl had done what he could to imitate it, but compared to his father his own voice seemed to come out thin and shrill, and the things it said would sound hasty and ill-considered.

  “I don’t think so.”

  He lifted another slice of toast from the silver toast rack and buttered it thickly. His father watched with disapproval.

  “Not good for you. Get heart problems, diabetes, stuff like that. You taking any exercise?”

  “You know I don’t go in for all that macho posturing, father.”

  “Well, shall I ask Travis to cut down on your intake?”

  “There’s really no need, father. I’m not overweight, I’m just heavy boned. That’s what mother always said.”

  The mention of his mother was a calculated distraction. He watched his father out of the corner of his eye, saw a shadow of pain cross the older man’s face.

  It must be hard for him. It’s one thing if they die, you’ve just lost something you had before. But running off with another man, that’s a real blow to your self-esteem. Well, it was a blow to mine as well as his. There wasn’t exactly a custody battle over me. I haven’t seen her since. In fact, I can’t even remember what she looks like.

  He’s still bitter about it. You can see he doesn’t trust women. All the staff in his office are men, his PA and the secretaries included; he won’t have any women in the house either. I wonder how he’d react if I brought a girlfriend home? Oh well, it doesn’t arise really, since there isn’t one and there isn’t likely to be one. That’s okay. I’m better off without that kind of involvement. I’ve got it sorted. Could get more, too, if I wasn’t staying at home.

  He dabbed at his chin with a linen napkin and cleared his throat.

  “You know, I really ought to think about getting my own place.”

  His father looked up from the Agenda and Minutes he had been reading at the table and frowned. “We’ve been over all that before, Karl. We talked about it and we came to a decision. You know how I hate having to make decisions more than once. The situation hasn’t changed. You can’t cook or clean; the only reason you know how to make a bed is because they made you do it at the Academy. You’d have to have staff, and that’s sheer madness when I’ve got this great mansion full of staff who aren’t busy enough as it is. And then there’s the whole business of security. That affects you as well as me, you know.”

  Karl grimaced. There was no denying that. His father’s wealth and influence came with the danger not just of burglary but of assassination or kidnap, and the mansion was therefore fortified. The high wall that enclosed their extensive grounds was topped by electrified wire. Anyone who was dropped inside the walls would be picked up instantly by an intruder alarm based on movement and infrared detection, laser fences, and sonar scanners. And such an intruder would be dealt with very firmly by a security team who lived in the house and worked shifts day and night. He was a whole lot safer living within the compound than on the outside.

  There was a discrete knock on the open door and a member of the Admiral’s house staff came in.

  “Excuse me, sir. Cook would like to know if you were planning to be in for dinner this evening.”

  “I don’t think so, James. I have to see various people in Washington this afternoon. I’ll have something on the flight back.”

  “Very good, sir. And Mr Karl?”

  No way!

  “I have a late meeting on Thursdays. I’ll eat when I get back. Ask Travis if he’ll put out some chicken and cold cuts for me. He knows the sort of thing.”

  Karl’s late meeting on Thursdays took place at a brothel in town. He could only manage a visit there once a week without arousing his father’s suspicions. I
t was expensive but if you wanted something good you had to pay for it. He could afford it. The girls there really knew how to look after him. Especially Zena. She’d discovered sexual proclivities he never even knew he had.

  “Very good, sir.”

  Oh it will be, James, it will be. You can be sure of that.

  31

  As part of his package, the probationary sentence Dan had been given for his involvement in the Rostov business was considered served. It was a technicality – he had no intention of reoffending – but it felt good just the same. His debts were paid off, so Virgilius’s enforcers would no longer be pursuing him. He was also assigned temporary accommodation in the SpaceFreight headquarters building, where they had some guest rooms. This was a huge benefit: the headquarters building was secure, so he was safe here from the attentions of Rostov’s gang. He recognized it was not pure largesse on the company’s part; if he was living on site he would be able to put in more hours every day making the preparations before final loading started in orbit. But even if that was their motivation it didn’t matter to him. He was so happy to have the challenge of using his professional skills once more that he positively welcomed the prospect of long hours. He buried himself in the work.

  He spent most of his time in the Mission Overview Office. This was a large, plain room, the floor covered with a grey cushioned composite. Both of the longer walls were occupied entirely by touch screens. One carried the project management chart for the entire mission. The other called up information needed for immediate reference. There was a desk at one end, coffee-making equipment in a corner, and a long table, on which he spread large-scale plans, lists and schedules. The key ones were printed on smart paper, and would update together with the screens whenever Dan or another authorized member of the Mission Planning Team made or altered an entry in the secure databank. He preferred this way of working; it gave him a broader view of the project’s progress and he could always use the screens to bring up any detail he needed.