Zero-G

by William Shatner

  Lord made his way past offices that consisted of nothing more than round inflated tents within the Kevlar tubes—“blisters,” they were called—and he couldn’t help thinking that the whole excursion was like a glorified camping trip with Tengan as the scout leader. Only the science labs had anything approaching security: until now, there was nothing to threaten the base. That security was their location: even going through the base, they were exceedingly difficult to reach.

  Adsila did not speak. She watched. And when the two ruddy figures appeared in Lord’s IC, she knew what he was planning to do.

  “Drs. May and Diego,” she said. “Headed for the lab.”

  “That’s right,” Lord told her.

  “It’s external,” she said. “Located miles away.”

  “Right again.”

  “Sir, if you’ll check the upper-right corner of your IC at one hundred forty-four degrees periph, you will note that your suit status may be insufficient to survive on the lunar surface— ”

  “Meaning it may also be sufficient,” he said. “Besides, I’m used to the feel and I don’t have time to change.”

  “—and, in any event,” Adsila went on, “the external tanks do not contain sufficient air to make the trek.”

  “Noted,” Lord replied.

  Once again Adsila fell silent. But not for long. “You don’t intend to walk there.”

  “No.”

  “Neither scientist is flight-qualified, so they must be driving,” she said. “You intend to go with them.”

  Lord didn’t answer. He knew what was coming next. He had just done the research.

  “Sir, the transit buggies are all two-seaters.”

  “A challenge,” he admitted.

  “More than that,” Adsila said. “Your added lunar weight of thirty-­three pounds could mire them in surface dust.”

  “I’ll get out and push,” he promised.

  “Excuse me, sir, but I don’t think you understand the gravity of this. In any sense.”

  “Thank you, EAD,” Lord replied, “but the truth is, I do. Which is one reason I’m not leaving our best hope to go this alone.”

  As he spoke, Lord reached the locker room, where Saranya and Diego were suiting up—another tent, this one with small footlockers and a backdoor airlock. The two scientists were apparently unaware that Lord had entered.

  “What’s the other reason you’re going out, if I may ask?” Adsila inquired.

  Lord replied, “We have to find out how the data was stolen and by whom. They may still be working against us.”

  EIGHTEEN

  EMPYREAN PERSONNEL, WE are in Zed status,” Commander Stanton said over the stationwide IC plug. “I repeat, Zed status. STAR unit mobilize, full force, and report to Egress Center Alpha.”

  Adsila Waters listened to the announcement with eager interest. Space Tactics and Reconnaissance was the paramilitary detachment on board the Empyrean. Because Commander Stanton had resigned his army commission, the station had no official ties to the Department of Defense; STAR was solely a space station security unit, comprised of former military personnel who reported directly to Commander Stanton. Any actions they took had to be related directly to the well-being of the station, its crew, and its visitors. That gave Stanton considerable leeway within the Empyrean charter, though there had not yet been any challenges to match the adventure he was clearly planning now.

  Except for a single station-proximate drill, there had never been an exercise like this. Egress Center Alpha was not for shuttle traffic. It was where the Empyrean’s personal flight vehicles departed. Those were mostly science sleds and repair pods, accredited and equipped solely for repair and limited expeditionary flight. There were also rocket packs, but those lacked the necessary range. If all fourteen of the vehicular assets were setting out for the Jade Star, it would be a historic undertaking.

  Along with PD Al-Kazaz, Adsila Waters felt it imperative that ­Zero-G have one of their own people on such a mission. It wasn’t just that the only arm of space law enforcement should be a part of a major space security initiative, though pride and value added were certainly part of it. Zero-G also had access to something—to someone—Stanton needed. That had to be communicated to him.

  Adsila glanced at Lord’s IC view. The director was quickly examining data coded on the footlockers. Space suit sizes and applications filled his vision. He selected one quickly and moved toward it. The Armstrong suits were like slightly inflated scuba suits, but made of brownish-green autocontouring layers designed to expand for different body types. Engaged in their own preparations—and loud discussion, which masked Lord’s low-gravity footfalls—neither Saranya nor Diego was yet aware of his presence.

  Adsila felt testosterone rising in her loins. It came hand in hand with the Cherokee wahaya saquii, the rise of the single wolf, the lone hunter. Right now, she felt she was being wasted here. Being part of a team didn’t mean she had to sublimate personal initiative.

  “Dukshanee,” she swore in Cherokee under her breath. There was little profanity in her native language; what few words they had were potent.

  The woman tamped down her rising male aspect: she did not want to be one more rough territorial man among men. She switched on her link to the nanites in Dr. Carter’s lab and toggled it off and on while talking to Lord. It was all right to let her eavesdroppers know that Lord was alive at Armstrong, but she had muted it when he revealed his intention to reach Saranya’s lab. Though it was a risk to involve Ziv Levy in any undertaking, the EAD also weighed the potential benefits. She wanted him to hear what she was about to say.

  “Agent Abernathy, take over Director Lord’s IC,” she said, shifting the view to the junior member of the team. “Whatever the director needs, do it. Explain that I’ve gone to see Commander Stanton.” She faced Grainger and smiled a little. “Janet, the comm is yours. Again.”

  Janet Grainger looked over with full understanding. “Adsila, I’ve searched the charter—we have no claim on STAR activities.”

  “I know, but we should, especially on this one,” Adsila said bluntly, heading from the comm. “Director Lord should have updates to go with whatever he knows. Agent McClure, you’re with me.”

  The science special agent had been looking after her with longing; he was on his feet and hurrying after her with a smile so large it actually caused his IC to ripple like a pond.

  “EAD, thank you for this opportunity,” McClure said as he caught up. He nearly overshot Adsila in the shifting gravity.

  “You’re welcome. Your dossier says you’re PV1 qualified.”

  “Fully.”

  “Good.”

  Personal Vehicle 1 pilots were permitted to fly one-person craft in local situations; that is, around and returning to the ships or platforms from which they were launched. This mission applied as long as they didn’t dock at Jade Star.

  Egress Center Alpha was located on the underside of the runway where the large commercial shuttle landed. The location was remote but strategic: in the event of a complete power failure on board the Empyrean, solar pressure would keep the station rotating so that no power would be required to release a repair pod from the outer edge of the band; it would whirl off at a tangent determined by the timing of the release.

  Adsila and McClure made their way down the radial tower by elevator. As they traveled, Adsila reviewed the STAR duty roster, figured out the approach she’d take. She was not under any eyes-only orders and felt she had some leeway regarding ongoing Zero-G operations.

  Upon reaching the runway receiving area, they walked through a curving horizontal tube that tracked the underside of the runway itself. There, like a flattened beehive, sat the small openings that accessed the conveyances. Suits and oxygen tanks were kept in wall-mounted cabinets beside each pod. The rocket packs were suspended at the far end near a crawlspace-like airlock.

&
nbsp; Commander Stanton and his team were already present and gearing up in the tube’s familiar one-g gravity.

  Adsila stepped up behind him. “Commander Stanton?”

  The powerful man turned, regarded her, then turned back to watching the preparations. “EAD Waters,” he said without a welcoming tone. “You’re not authorized to be here.”

  “I want to share information about what you’re facing.”

  Stanton hesitated. He was on the clock, facing a crisis, and every moment mattered. So did every piece of information.

  “I’m listening,” he replied without turning.

  “We have the scientist who created this beast,” she said.

  Stanton turned at the waist. He regarded her with interest now. “Have him where?”

  “Her,” Adsila gently corrected him. “She’s on the moon with Director Lord.”

  “Exactly how does that help my team?”

  “This is Special Agent Ed McClure,” she said, moving aside slightly. “Our science officer.”

  “I know who he is.”

  “Yes, we’ve met, sir, twice, sir,” McClure said politely, offering his hand.

  Stanton ignored it, and him. “You’re wasting—”

  “Commander, you are launching with the station security team and a few engineers,” Adsila said. “You have no science personnel in STAR. Take him with you. He can communicate with our resource.”

  “Directly?” Stanton asked. “Or through Lord.”

  Adsila fudged. “Both.”

  “You will share that contact information with me,” Stanton said. “I saw the station surveillance, saw your boss with a woman, had her profiled.”

  He probably knew more than Adsila, who had made a point of not prying into Lord’s mission. Yet Stanton had been careful not to say the other woman’s name. For all his swagger, the commander was a professional who understood SACO—security and counterespionage operations.

  “Commander,” Adsila continued, “you know that I cannot give you authorization to communicate with an asset under protection—nor is there time to get it. Director Lord is occupied. Our man must be the conduit.”

  Stanton thought for a moment. He was a commander first, a politician second. “Are you sled-qualified, McClure?” he asked.

  “I spent two hundred hours on one of these removing tech from the International Space Station before the Russian handover,” he replied. He’d also spent that time inserting microscopic spy wires to feed intel to PD Al-Kazaz. McClure didn’t mention that; he didn’t need to, judging from Stanton’s knowing expression.

  Without further hesitation, Stanton called over the unit leader. The commander pointed to an operative suiting up at position five.

  “Lyons, have Special Agent McClure take O’Hara’s place,” Stanton told him. “He’s a scientist with specific knowledge. He’ll fly in place of the engineer.”

  “Yes, sir,” the man said, firing a puzzled, slightly annoyed look at the newcomer.

  “Position five,” Stanton instructed McClure. “Suit up, but the second you get in the way you’re out of the formation.”

  “Understood, sir,” McClure said. “Thank you, sir.”

  As McClure headed toward the other men, Stanton pinioned Adsila with a hard look. “Your agent understands that he’s not serving two masters?”

  It was Adsila’s turn to give Stanton a look. “We both want the same thing,” she answered evasively.

  Stanton nodded gruffly then turned back to the team.

  Before she turned back the way she had come, Adsila quietly passed on a Cherokee blessing: “May you all have the strength of eagles’ wings.”

  McClure was unaware of Adsila Waters’s departure. He was concentrating fully on getting into the military-grade space suit as quickly and as safely as he could. His only distraction was the disappointed look on O’Hara’s face as he made way for him. To McClure’s relief, the look was temporary.

  “I heard you say your name is McClure,” O’Hara said as he removed his suit.

  “That’s right.”

  “Good luck, McClure,” O’Hara said, and he sounded as if he meant it.

  He smiled as O’Hara walked away. That felt good.

  “I’m Dr. Joe Lyons,” he heard next, and looked over to see the unit leader suiting up with practiced confidence.

  “Special Agent Ed McClure, PhD,” the newcomer answered. He wasn’t trying to impress the team leader, only to inform him.

  “O’Hara was my pilot on six construction tours up here. Big shoes to fill. You up for that?”

  “I am.”

  “It’s not too late.”

  McClure pointed to the footwear O’Hara had removed. “I’m a ­triple-E boot. This smart fabric can stretch to fit a man, right?”

  It was a little arrogant-sounding, McClure knew, but Lyons took it as it was intended: an almost required dash of bravado.

  “You’re an engineer?” McClure asked.

  “Material science aeronautics,” he said as he finished with his suit and grabbed the helmet from a hook. “I’ve got to determine what shape the Jade Star is in. Everyone else’s job is to make sure I get in. What’s your area?”

  “Astrochemistry major, astrobiology minor.”

  Lyons considered McClure with fresh eyes. “The commander made the right call,” he admitted. “We’ll need educated eyes on-site.”

  “Thank you,” McClure said.

  “There are just two things you have to know, apart from how to fly. The first is to stay in formation unless I call for odd up, down, right, or left. You’re an odd number, so you follow my instructions. That’s so you don’t bump into your neighbors.”

  “I understand,” McClure assured him. “The result would not be pleasant.”

  “In zero gravity we’d be like billiard balls after a break,” Lyons said. “But why am I telling you? You’re the science guy.”

  “What’s the second thing I need to know?”

  Lyons grew very serious and glanced back furtively. “The commander’s neck is stretched way out on this one. So are ours. We don’t have permission to enter Chinese space. We don’t know what shape they’re in but we do suspect they have at least a few armed interceptors disguised as construction robots, and the Chinese could launch them.”

  “I’ll follow your lead, wait for instructions,” McClure assured him.

  But Lyons had already turned back toward the rest of the men to complete his instructions. He didn’t have to. His IC would have brought his orders to them all, but McClure noted that, like Lord, Lyons preferred human connection.

  “Ready units,” he ordered. “Count off.”

  As each person sounded their number from one to fourteen, McClure made sure his suit was set. The main difference between it and the Zero-G model were the exojoints—small internally powered devices that plugged into the IC and neural impulses, allowing for more natural movement against the suit’s standard pressurization.

  “On my mark,” he heard Lyons announce when they were done.

  A hatch activation button appeared in their ICs.

  “Open.”

  Each person pressed the red tab. The hatches swung open, revealing the least-comfortable spacecraft McClure had ever seen: lozenge-­shaped sleds and Ping-Pong-ball-shaped pods. Each had a docking ring barely large enough to accommodate the suits.

  “In pairs, deploy!”

  McClure saw the first two men dive into the conveyance openings. He glanced over at Lyons, who nodded back, then dove forward after the fourth man did the same one conveyance away. The last thing McClure saw was Stanton’s face, looking on from the side. McClure wasn’t sure whether the commander’s expression held approval, disapproval, or both. Not that it mattered. The young scientist was all in on this ride.

  McClure felt the usual thrill
as he floated into the small sled. He was flat on his belly, a slab of luncheon meat between four heavily shielded, thickly armored hull sections. He took in as much as he could as he reached for the controls forward and slightly below him, in a small well that left the viewport clear. His suit had automatically clicked into the craft’s magnetic plates that would keep him from jerking forward or backward as the sled sped or slowed. As they did, the hatch shut behind him and the holding pins released. All that held the vehicles in place now was a pair of electromagnets that would cut off at ignition. The agent quickly refamiliarized himself with the controls.

  “Operation Jade Rescue,” he heard Lyons say in his IC from the sled beside him. “If this is not your mission, kindly leave now.”

  That got appreciative laughs from the team.

  “On three,” Lyons said without delay. “One . . . two . . . launch!”

  The ships ignited and there was a rush of speed. The vehicles were on autopilot until they cleared the farthest reaches of the station. The preprogrammed courses carried them away and banked them toward Earth, toward the lower orbit of the Jade Star. As they sped off they started to fan out, creating a kite-like structure with a pod at point and at the tail.

  “Everyone hold present positions,” Lyons instructed.

  McClure felt a surge of excitement and also anxiety. He had little doubt that every eye on the Empyrean was watching, including—and especially—that of Adsila Waters. Her neck was out too. He suddenly remembered the immortal words of virtually every test pilot since Wilbur Wright: Please don’t let me screw the pooch.

  “Nolan,” Lyons said. “Signal sent to the Chinese station?”

  “Message on constant repetition, sir,” the communications liaison reported from another ship. “If they’re receiving at all, they know this is an emergency aid and rescue mission.”

  At least, that’s what you’re telling them, McClure thought. We all know better and so do they.

  That exchange, and all that followed, were for the benefit of the rest of the team. Like McClure, they were concentrating on flying and watching their cold-atom positioning plots, instead of checking their ICs, where all other data was displayed simultaneously and in real time.