by Ben Bova
Freddy Aviles rocked gently from his center of gravity, which in his case was located near the solar plexus. His massive arm and chest muscles twitched as if only a supreme effort of self-denial prevented him from launching into a spin.
Tighe had selected them from a number of resumes Trikon had sent him. It was a damn fool way of manning a space station, but Trikon was the boss and constantly assured him that all candidates were top-notch space-worker material. Tighe doubted that anyone, especially Trikon’s personnel department, could predict how a person would react in orbit, but he had to play the hand he was dealt. That same personnel section was on the verge of taking what was left of his career away from him.
His newest two recruits were very personal choices. Freddy Aviles had been born in the South Bronx and enlisted in the Navy after high school. As an electronics specialist he rose to the rank of petty officer, second class, on an Aegis destroyer before losing both legs when a missile broke loose from its mounting and crushed them while the ship rode out a typhoon. After discharge, he went to college for computer science and was working as a Pentagon analyst when he suddenly applied to Trikon for employment. Tighe had always believed that a legless person was well suited for life in micro-gee. The problem was that no space agency ever had recruited one. He was glad that Trikon had the vision, or the balls, to try.
There was nothing special to recommend Lance Muncie, other than that he was a fellow midwesterner. But one fact of personal importance had caught Tighe’s eye: Muncie was a recent graduate of the University of Kansas.
Tighe acknowledged the two crewmen’s salutes with a casual wave of his hand. He presented each of them with a set of thick laminated cards bound together by a plastic spiral.
“These outline your basic responsibilities. I’m sure you already know every word,” he said. “Now for the unofficial stuff.”
Lance Muncie’s expression hardened into a frown. Freddy Aviles grinned as if expecting the punch line of an inside joke. His gold canine twinkled.
“There’s been trouble among the scientists. I’m not going to bullshit you. It’s getting worse. The official line is that they’re working together on a project with environmental ramifications. The truth is that each one would slit the throats of the others in order to be the first to develop whatever it is they’re trying to develop. I don’t concern myself with the specifics, and neither should you. Our job is to see that the station remains in one piece and doesn’t fall out of the sky.
“Now, some of these scientists may see you as possible allies in their games. Others may see you as enforcers. Others might not take any notice of you at all. You’ll get a sense of it pretty damn fast. I want you to remember that you are not a policeman, a judge, or a jury. If you see anything that strikes you as odd, don’t take any action. Report it to me.”
“Odd like what, sir?” asked Lance Muncie.
“Odd like a Japanese scientist roaming through the American lab module late at night. Or vice versa. Or any permutation of scientists or their technicians in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Oh.”
“You’ll get the idea pretty quickly, men. After a few days, you’ll see who’s staring daggers at who.” Tighe paused long enough to look each crewman in the eye. “I’m sure you noticed that there are several women on board. Some are Trikon scientists or technicians, others are part of the Mars Project, and a few are members of the crew. There are no rules against fraternization, but I hope you’ll use your common sense. This is a closed system. Emotions can run high even on the best of days, and there are damn few outlets for blowing off steam. I don’t care how you conduct yourselves in your spare time. But if I see your performance suffering or the safety of this station compromised, remember one thing. I’m your commanding officer, not your father. I don’t get paid for wisdom and understanding.”
The two crewmen muttered in assent, although Muncie looked plainly disturbed.
“Aviles, I understand you are a computer whiz.”
“I have a master’s in computer science from Columbia. The Navy paid my way after the accident. Wanted me to be a useful citizen.”
“The station has an emergency configuration for its computer system that makes sense only to people on the ground,” said Tighe. “We can’t shut off the mainframe without going to auxiliary power. If I get you the specs, can you reconfigure it?”
“I’m not on the ground, sir.”
“Fine. Any questions?”
Muncie’s brows knit slightly. “Sir—half the people up here are doctors, aren’t they? Are we supposed to call them that? Or what?”
Smiling, Tighe answered, “It’s all pretty informal. We call the medical officer ‘Doctor.’ Everybody else is ‘mister’ or ‘ms.’ Except the head of the Martians. He likes to be called Professor Jaeckle.”
Muncie nodded, still frowning uncertainly.
“All right. That will be all,” said Tighe.
Freddy flicked his wrists against the wall and bored like a torpedo toward the entrance to the connecting tunnel. Lance groped his way from handhold to handhold. The two new crewmen: a dour farm boy and a jive-ass Puerto Rican who had no ass.
“Muncie,” called Tighe.
Muncie stopped himself and covered the pad behind his right ear with his hand.
“Sir, if it’s about—”
“Forget it, son. I know about the pad and I know Trikon’s policy. Dr. Renoir is a good doctor. You do what she says, okay?”
Lance dragged his lip beneath his teeth and nodded.
“You graduated from the University of Kansas, right? Ever run into someone named Bill Tighe?”
Lance knit his brow as if rummaging through his memory for a face to connect with the name.
“He would have been a freshman when you were a senior,” prodded Tighe.
“No. Can’t say I did. UK’s a big place, sir.”
“Yeah. I guess it is.”
After mastering the use of the personal hygiene facilities, O’Donnell closed himself in his compartment and began to unpack. He was traveling light, even by space flight standards: socks, toothbrush, comb, and razor. No picture of a girl back home to attach to his compartment wall. No gold crucifix to drift out of his collar and dangle at the end of a thick chain. No blank minicassettes for video letters to home. Everything he needed was in his head—work, memories, dreams, and an invisible line he could not cross.
O’Donnell finished stowing his belongings and checked the time. It was early afternoon. His scientific gear was in the new logistics module and would not be accessible until the next day. He adjusted the sleep restraint, played with the reading lamp, and flipped through the selection of scenes on the viewscreen. He looked at his watch again. Four minutes had passed. The Cape began to look like paradise.
A knock on the doorframe relieved his boredom.
“Who is it?” O’Donnell pulled free of the sleep restraint and pushed toward the door, expecting either Freddy or Lance Muncie.
“Dr. Renoir.”
He slid the door open.
“The medical officer,” she added. She hung in the doorway, stockinged feet barely touching the floor, one hand on a grip set into the wall: good-looking, not quite beautiful, strong alert features, ample figure filling out her blue flight suit nicely.
“I remember,” O’Donnell said, making himself smile at her. “From Commander Tighe’s welcoming speech. You dodge projectile vomit very well.”
“It comes with medical training,” she said. She glanced down at the computer in her other hand. “You are required to report to me every day. Trikon’s orders.”
“I know. Does today count as a day?”
“It does.”
He noticed her looking past him, taking in the entire compartment in one sweeping glance. He was accustomed to the probing eyes, the seemingly innocuous questions, the tricks. Was this visit a coincidence? Or had she come here as soon as Jeffries reported him safely in his compartment.
“We
can talk here or you can come to the infirmary. It has slightly more room.”
“I think I’ll be seeing enough of this place.”
“Fine. The infirmary is in the command module.” She quickly turned and pushed through the hatch into the connecting tunnel.
Dr. Renoir’s infirmary was larger than O’Donnell’s compartment, but just barely. With the door closed, the only way for them to fit comfortably was for her to hover near the ceiling and for him to hook an arm through a foot loop on the floor. The positions were disorienting at first, but O’Donnell quickly adjusted his perceptions. Her legs, foreshortened from his angle, were tightly pressed together and crossed at the ankles. Excessively prim and proper. More like prudish, since she wore a trousered jumpsuit just like everybody else. He considered suggesting that she unwind, then thought better of it. There was a severity in her broad, blunt features. Her lips, pressed tightly together, seemed to be made of stone. Her brown eyes were narrowed in concentration and her dark eyebrows were shaped like the horns of a ram. She was too well scrubbed for O’Donnell’s taste. In fact, her neatly wrapped French braid reminded him of a University of Oregon sorority sister he had tried unsuccessfully to bed. Then he laughed to himself. She’ll look like Miss Universe in a couple of weeks, he predicted silently.
“Do you know why you are here?” she asked. Her voice was a rich mezzo, almost sultry despite the severity of her looks.
“On Trikon Station?”
“No.”
“Seeing you? You want to make sure I won’t get sick like Lance Muncie.”
“Don’t be flip, Mr. O’Donnell. You have already failed your first test by not admitting it.” Dr. Renoir tapped on her hand computer. “July, 1995, you were arrested for possession of cocaine during a police sweep of a drug neighborhood in East L.A. Your car was confiscated but your case was dismissed on condition that you seek treatment for substance abuse. August, 1995, you checked into a private clinic in Encino, California. You were discharged in February of the following year and continued attending outpatient meetings for six months.”
“That’s when I started riding my motorcycle again.”
Dr. Renoir furrowed her brows so that her ram’s horns almost touched over the bridge of her nose.
“You and someone named Bob Rodriguez formed a chapter of a national motorcycle club for ex-addicts.” Her tone was deprecating.
“You don’t sound as though you approve.”
“I don’t think that a motorcycle club is the proper forum for treating drug abuse.”
“It’s worked for us, including the three physicians who begged to join.”
Dr. Renoir ignored his comment. “You went to work for a Trikon subsidiary in August, 1996.”
“I’ve been clean for three years.”
She stared at him.
“I’ve been clean for three years. Does your report include that?”
Dr. Renoir stuck the hand computer behind a bungee cord. “Mr. O’Donnell.”
“Hugh.”
“Mr. O’Donnell,” she repeated with emphasis. “I don’t know why Trikon sent you here and I don’t care to know. But I have my orders. You will report to me each day at oh-eight-thirty hours. If that time conflicts with your schedule for any reason, we will set a new time. You will be randomly tested for drugs once during each calendar month you are on the station. If any of the results are positive, I will immediately report you to your superiors on Earth. And if, despite negative results, I have reason to suspect that you might be using controlled substances, I will ask the commander to order a thorough search of your compartment and workstation. Do I make myself clear?”
17 AUGUST 1998
TRIKON STATION
TOP SECRET
To: The President and Staff
From: R. McQ. Welch, Executive Department, Drug Task Force
Date: 11 January 1994
Subject: Eradicating cocaine
Ecgonine synthase is the principal enzyme that enables the coca plant to produce the chemical backbone of the alkaloid known as cocaine.
As experiments with tobacco plants have proven, it is possible to create an RNA messenger molecule that will instruct plant cells to stop manufacturing a specific enzyme. The tobacco experiments, which focused on the alkaloid nopaline, were highly successful using this antisense RNA sequence treatment. (The term “antisense” means that the RNA sequence is instructing the cell to stop producing a certain chemical, rather than start.) Nopaline production was suppressed, and this trait was passed down to the plants’ offspring.
Our proposal is to develop and deliver an RNA sequence that will turn off the gene responsible for ecgonine synthase production without affecting any other gene in the coca plant’s cells. This genetic agent will not kill the coca plants. In fact, its only effect will be to suppress the production of the enzyme, which will suppress the plant’s production of cocaine and render the plants useless for cocaine processing.
We believe that this technique will be the safest, most successful, and most ecologically responsible method of eradicating cocaine from South American jungles.
Should such a research project be initiated, it must proceed under airtight security. To have the maximum impact on the cocaine cartel’s raw materials, the coca crop must be treated in a single growing season. If the cartel learns of this plan they will disperse their growing fields and/or diversify into other drugs.
Security for the scientific personnel will also be important, both for their personal safety and to ensure the integrity of the program. Therefore the research should be conducted in a laboratory facility that is as secure and remote as possible.
The station wardroom shared a module with the exercise and recreation area. The wardroom consisted of six galley stations and an equal number of chest-high tables. No chairs were necessary in microgravity. Instead, diners slipped their feet into the “stirrups” that were mounted on the table legs like the rungs of a ladder, so that anyone could find a height that was comfortable for his or her individual size and posture.
Each galley had three doors, two hinged to open sideways and one that swung down to provide a working surface. Behind the doors were a pantry, freezer, refrigerator, microwave oven, a supply of plastic trays with magnetized receptacles for utensils, and hot and cold water injectors. The predominant color of the fixtures was pastel yellow.
On the wall spaces between the galleys were larger versions of the video screens found in the living compartments. The screens almost always showed real-time views of the Earth taken by the station’s TV cameras, accompanied by soft music.
The six tables poked up from the floor like truncated mushrooms. Above each table was an inverted bowl attached to the ceiling by thin pipes. Looking like Art Deco chandeliers, the bowls were actually vents that gently sucked crumbs and errant bits of food onto removable grids. Each table had four bins for holding the magnetized food trays. This limited the wardroom capacity to twenty-four; meals had to be staggered, since the station’s normal population was more than double the wardroom’s capacity. On rotation days it got even worse, with new personnel arriving before the old ones could depart.
Despite its high-tech ambience, the wardroom had the feel of a small-town general store. Except for a few days after a rotation, everybody knew everybody else. A nod or a glance often told as much as words; more, sometimes. Groups combined and recombined from meal to meal as alliances were forged and friendships made—or broken.
O’Donnell found the wardroom crowded when he pulled himself through the hatchway for his first meal. From the pantry he selected a tray of soup, smoked turkey, mixed vegetables, bread, strawberries, and apple juice. Just as he had been taught at his abbreviated preflight briefings, he attached his tray to the magnetic strips on the fold-down door of the galley, placed the turkey and mixed vegetables in the microwave oven, and rehydrated the soup by injecting it with a blast of hot water.
All of the tables were occupied, though none by four people. Three Japa
nese gathered around one table, their heads bobbing in unison as they efficiently moved precise cuts of food from tray to mouth with their chopsticks. A heavyset dark man with a billowing saffron shirt bellied up to another table, his spindly arms working his utensils like pistons. Lance Muncie and Freddy Aviles were together near the doorway to the ex/rec room.
O’Donnell opted for a table occupied by a pudgy, bearded man wearing a Trikon USA T-shirt. He chose the table less for the man’s nationality than for the amount of food remaining on his tray: He was almost finished with his dinner.
They introduced themselves. The bearded man was David Nutt. He explained that he was due to return to the States on Constellation.
“And not a day too soon, either. I’m not thrilled with the prospect of readjusting to gravity after six months, but this place is played out for me. You’re a biochemist? Microbiologist? What?”
O’Donnell pushed a valved straw into his apple juice.
“That’s the best policy. Don’t answer any questions, not even those asked by compatriots.” Nutt beckoned O’Donnell to lean closer and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Watch your ass and watch your data. See that Jap over there, the fat one with the crewcut? He’s Hisashi Oyamo, head of the Japanese group. He’ll kill you with politeness. All bowing and hissing. But one of those little pricks with him stole genetic data files from my computer.”
“So I heard,” said O’Donnell. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” said Nutt bitterly. “Oyamo called Tighe’s bluff and now the damned Jap’s going back home with my data on a bugged disk. They’ll figure out a way to get past the bug and then they’ll have everything I’ve worked six months to accomplish. Fucking zipperheads.”
