The Trikon Deception

by Ben Bova

  Dan enjoyed early morning. Even though Trikon Station went through sixteen sunrises in every twenty-four-hour period, hardly anyone aboard the station saw the outside except through video screens. The planners had designed the interior system to cue normal circadian rhythms. The lights in the connecting tunnels and other common areas dimmed every evening and brightened every morning in an artificial approximation of dusk and dawn. The system effectively prevented the inhabitants from “going around the clock,” the tendency to awaken and retire one hour later each day unless aroused by the morning sun.

  At 0530 hours, the lights were still dim. Dan had the station to himself, a feeling of solitude that he cherished. The only sounds were the hum of the ventilation system and the occasional creaks of the module shells as they expanded or contracted in sunlight or darkness. They weren’t cricket chirps or bird songs, but they were comforting just the same.

  The personal hygiene facilities in Hab 2 were superior to those in Hab 1. The hot water was generally hotter and the pressure in one particular full-body shower was the most powerful on the station. Even the Whits were tolerable. The difference in quality and comfort certainly justified a swim from Hab 1 to Hab 2 first thing each morning.

  Dan was surprised to discover that someone had beaten him to his favorite shown. He could hear the man singing tunelessly as the water removal vents sucked the millions of droplets out of the air inside. The singing broke into a torrent of curses, then subsided completely. Moments later, Hugh O’Donnell emerged from the shower. His neck and chin were mottled with splotches of blood.

  “Up awful early,” said Dan.

  “Habit,” O’Donnell replied.

  “You also know which shower works best.”

  “I keep my ears open,” said O’Donnell. He dabbed his chin; the towel came away dappled with blood. “Do you know any secrets to good shaving?”

  “I nick myself every damn time. But I do find that long slow strokes draw less blood than short fast ones.”

  “I’ll remember that tomorrow.”

  Dan closed himself into the shower and powered up the spray. The water drenched him from all directions, warm and fine, and for a moment he was a boy again, walking home through a sudden rainstorm on the last day of school. His bare feet squished in the mud of the dirt road that curved up to his house and a bead of water tickled his nose before dropping to earth.

  He cut the shower and watched the vacuum vent suck away the water droplets hanging in the steamy air. The mist spiraled out, and with it the memory. He slapped shaving gel on his face, slipped his feet in the loops, and squinted one eye to focus himself in the aluminum mirror attached next to the shower head. The razor pulled slightly, and he concentrated on the long slow strokes he had suggested to Hugh O’Donnell.

  Dan toweled himself dry and went to his compartment to change into his flight suit. He ate breakfast alone in the wardroom, then went to his office in the command module. He wasn’t there long before crewman Stanley rapped on his bulkhead.

  “Phone call, sir.”

  Dan looked at his watch. The station was set for central daylight time, which meant that it was 7:30 A.M. in Dallas, too.

  “I think it’s her,” said Stanley.

  Across the command module, Hugh O’Donnell floated patiently near the ceiling of Lorraine Renoir’s tiny office.

  “How do you find Trikon Station?” Lorraine asked. She slipped her feet into the restraining loops on the floor and opened a wall compartment.

  “Not so bad,” said O’Donnell. He had a perfect view of the razor-sharp line on the top of her head where her chestnut hair was separated and twisted into a neat French braid. “The scientists could be a little friendlier.”

  “I see,” said Lorraine. An orange rubber tube slithered out of the compartment. She pinned it to her side with her elbow.

  “Actually, I feel pretty damn good,” said O’Donnell. “Haven’t even seen the creepy-crawlies.”

  “What are they?”

  “In my case, spiders.” O’Donnell smiled at the worried look crossing Lorraine’s face. “Not real ones. More like eye floaters. Saw them all the time in rehab. Now only on occasion, like if I’m knocked out of my routine. I thought I’d be bored here, but I feel just the opposite. I’m very focused.”

  “You’ve been here hardly a week,” said Lorraine.

  “Ah, but I can tell, Doc. This orbiting space lab was made for a workaholic like me.”

  “Is that what you are now? A workaholic?”

  “Slip of the tongue, Doc. A mere slip of the tongue. What I meant to say is that there is nothing here to do except work. Consequently, I’m already a week ahead of schedule in my project. That is, how you say, fantastique?”

  “Enough levity, Mr. O’Donnell. Push yourself down here and roll up your right sleeve.”

  “Already, huh?” said O’Donnell. He guided his stockinged feet to a second set of restraining loops and worked his sleeve toward his shoulder. His arm muscles were wiry. The veins inside his elbow were prominent.

  Lorraine cinched the orange tube around his biceps and rubbed an alcohol swab over a vein. O’Donnell made a point of staring at the Monet print adorning the wall.

  “I didn’t think you would be so squeamish,” said Lorraine.

  “I’ve done my share of drugs,” he said, “but nothing that required a needle.”

  Lorraine expertly drew a vial of blood and pressed a bandage against O’Donnell’s arm.

  “What exactly are you testing for, Doc?”

  “I use a screening panel for thirty different drugs. Cocaine, amphetamines, MDMA, and a host of synthetics you probably never heard of.”

  “MDMA?” O’Donnell asked. “Ecstasy?”

  “That’s correct,” said Lorraine as she tried to coax the rubber tube into its compartment.

  “Ecstasy on Trikon Station?”

  “God forbid,” Lorraine said.

  Station personnel often joked that the sleep compartments were glorified telephone booths. The command module, however, was equipped with two authentic phone booths for the personal use of the crew, the scientists, and the Martians. A call originating from the station was transmitted by unsecured radio link to any of several communications satellites in geosynchronous orbits, then beamed down to receiving installations on Earth where conventional fiber-optic lines carried the call to its destination. Calls from Earth to the station went the same way, in reverse. The system was fast but had two drawbacks. First, the various links of the phone patch often distorted voices beyond recognition. Second, although the phones had voice encryption capabilities, Trikon regulations specifically prohibited scrambling except during operational emergencies. Any ham radio operator could eavesdrop on the calls by intercepting the radio signal.

  Dan sealed himself into the booth. Conversations with Cindy were always tense. Knowing that strangers the world over could be listening made it worse. After one particularly violent argument over a child support payment, a female ham radio operator from the Shetland Islands had written to Trikon complaining about obscenities emanating from space.

  Cindy cut him off one syllable into “Hello.”

  “I found something on Billy’s dresser and I hope it’s a joke.” Her voice, even distorted, was coldly contemptuous. “A round-trip pass on a space plane.”

  “That is no joke,” said Dan. His latest ploy in dealing with Cindy was to maintain a placid tone regardless of the topic of conversation. It did not always work, but it kept him from losing his temper. Sometimes.

  “You can’t take him away from me like that!”

  “It’s only a visit.”

  “I don’t like the idea of him going up there. Riding a space plane. It’s a glorified rocket.”

  “The aerospace plane is nothing of the sort. It has been tested and retested and shaken out in all kinds of conditions. Flying in it is safer than driving to the Seven Eleven.”

  “Maybe the way you drive it is.”

  Dan let the
barb pinch him without answering. His driving record during their marriage had been checkered with speeding tickets.

  “He’s just a boy!” Cindy screamed into the silence.

  “Bill is twenty years old. In most places and in most times, that qualifies him as a man.”

  “Not with me.”

  “When I was twenty I already had a thousand hours’ solo flight time.”

  “You’re always measuring him against your milestones. That isn’t good for him.”

  “I’m no psychologist,” Dan said evenly. “But is it bad for a young man to know what his father did with his life?”

  Cindy grumbled. One of her subsequent gentleman companions had been a psychologist. “How did you get the passes to him?”

  “Well, I knew I couldn’t call him because you won’t let him come to the phone. I knew I couldn’t write because you intercept the letters. So I hired a process server to deliver them.”

  “He’s not going!”

  “You’ll deny him an opportunity that every boy, as you like to call him, would love to have?”

  “I’ll call Ellis Berlow! I’ll get a court order!”

  “Without Bill knowing?”

  Cindy mumbled incoherently, then the connection broke. Dan clicked the handset back into its receptacle. Not a bad performance. Reasonable, low-keyed, courteous. Still, he could not hear the name of Ellis Berlow without a raging sea of memories flooding back from his subconscious. He pulled himself out of the phone booth and headed for the rumpus room.

  The rumpus room was another shuttle external tank, and its adaption to a pressurized, inhabitable volume had been a dry run for the later Mars module. The first station construction crew had burned the tank into orbit with Constellation. It had served as a “shanty” for the construction crews and later, as the station grew, was docked along with the other modules to provide additional space. When the Mars module was added to the station, the tank was moved to the leading end of the connecting tunnel to serve as a counterbalance.

  The rumpus room had no “ceiling” or “floor,” just a continuous dull silver wall that was particularly disorienting to people with sensitive middle ears. And it was huge. Even with the partition that separated it into two sections, even with the massive merry-go-round structure of the man-rated centrifuge and the other gym equipment, going from the station’s lab and habitation modules to the rumpus room was like stepping from a crowded subway train to the great outdoors.

  The variable-gravity human centrifuge had been installed for the Martians. Since opinion was divided over whether the eventual Mars spacecraft would provide artificial gravity or fly the entire mission in zero-gee, certain Martians were required to spin in the centrifuge each day while the rest were prohibited from using it at all. Mars Project medics on the ground closely monitored both groups to assess which might be better adapted for the nine-month trip to Mars.

  Even with the centrifuge, there was still plenty of room for other activities. Kurt Jaeckle had transformed a section into the studio for his television show. A Swedish Trikon tech created a jogging track by attaching a ring of indoor-outdoor carpeting to the circular wall. And Dan Tighe used it to display his personal menagerie.

  The rumpus room was empty except for the Swede, who ran the track in long, loping strides. Running laps in micro-gee required very little exertion, certainly not enough for a decent aerobic workout. But it was fun.

  Three bonsai animals hovered on short leashes attached to the rear bulkhead: a turtle, a rabbit, and a squirrel. Dan examined each one, then dislodged a tiny pair of scissors from behind a bungee cord. As he snipped, he tried to imagine Cindy’s next step. Would she try to dissuade Bill from the flight? Or would she actually hire Ellis Berlow to obtain a court order? Dan hated that fucker. He could still sec him standing in the courtroom and arguing against his fitness as a father.

  Rocket junkie, Berlow had called him, space vagabond. This court must not be a party to this man abandoning his child as he has his wife. After the judge denied the petition for joint custody, Dan saw Berlow in the courthouse men’s room. The lawyer would not acknowledge him. He simply stared into the mirror and primped his smooth brown pelt of a beard with a brush.

  The scissors slipped and amputated a piece of the squirrel’s leg. Anger gurgled in Dan’s chest. Memories of his divorce evoked the worst kind of adrenaline.

  “They’re nicely done.” Lorraine Renoir drifted beside him, her voice a low purr.

  “Sometimes they’re too damn delicate.” Tighe took a deep breath to calm his rage at having ruined the squirrel. He caught a whiff of Lorraine’s perfume. It smelled fresh, as if she had just come out of the shower. He added: “Thanks. Glad you like them.”

  “Why animals?” She plucked one of the tethers. The rabbit hopped in the air. “Why these animals?”

  With a slow smile, Dan explained, “When I was a boy I liked to pretend I saw creatures in cloud formations. Most of them were silly, but one evening, along about dusk after a full day of rain, the sun broke through a patch of clear red sky just over the hills. The clouds lit up and I saw a parade of perfectly shaped animals: a bird, a rabbit, a squirrel, and a turtle.”

  Lorraine nuzzled each one, then set it slowly adrift. She exuded a calm that seemed to affect everything around her, even Dan, and he was glad of it.

  “I’m sorry I snapped at you the other night,” said Lorraine. “You have to understand my position.”

  “That’s all right,” Dan said. “I was out of line.”

  ’’I have something to ask you, Dan.” Lorraine lowered her eyes as if marshaling the precise words, then looked up. “Kurt Jaeckle asked me to assist him in his TV broadcasts. I haven’t given him an answer yet. I wanted to talk to you.”

  Dan felt his guts wrench, but kept his face stony. “Are you asking me for my opinion or for my permission?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe both.”

  “Do you want to be on TV?”

  “It isn’t one of my great dreams, but I think it would be interesting.”

  “There’s no regulation against it, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “It isn’t—” Lorraine turned slightly away from him.

  “Well?”

  “It’s just that I know that you and Professor Jaeckle are not on the best of terms.”

  “That’s irrelevant. The Mars Project is an integral part of this station. If you want to be Professor Jaeckle’s TV assistant, there’s nothing I can do about it as long as it doesn’t interfere with your regular duties.”

  “It won’t,” said Lorraine. “So I guess you have no objection.”

  He did, but none that he could articulate. Lorraine looked at him as if she expected him to say something, but when he did not she pushed against the bulkhead and headed for the hatch.

  Dan watched her sail away, pausing briefly to let the Swede pass on his endless run before slipping through the hatchway. Lorraine had a calming effect on him, all right. But why, after talking to her, did he always feel as though he had just fumbled the ball?

  The last dinner shift was long over. The lights in the wardroom had dimmed to a glimmer. In the exercise area, Lance Muncie strained against a variable-resistance rowing machine. With every pull of his bulging arms, with every thrust of his sinewy legs, he grunted out the number of his repetitions. Nine eighty-six, nine eighty-seven…

  Freddy Aviles pulled up to the doorway. He had a tool kit lashed to his chest and ten feet of fanfold paper snaking behind him. He gathered the paper into a manageable sheaf, then continued inside.

  “Hey, Lance.”

  Nine ninety-one, nine ninety-two.

  “Oh La-ance.”

  Nine ninety-seven, nine ninety-eight.

  “Lance Muncie!”

  Nine ninety-nine, one thousand.

  Lance unhitched himself from the machine and drifted upward. His straw-colored hair was lined with dark streaks of sweat, his cheeks crimson from exertion. His teeth were set on edge, w
hich made his chin protrude as if daring someone to take a poke at it. Freddy had seen this expression before; Lance was worried.

  “You okay, man?”

  Lance grunted in response. He removed his hairnet and toweled his hair.

  “You not okay.”

  “I felt my calcium levels decreasing. I needed exercise.”

  “Oh, calcium. I see.” Freddy nodded in exaggerated agreement. “You want to help me tonight?”

  Lance patted his underarms with the towel, then braced his feet against the rowing machine while he slipped into his shirt.

  “Sure, what else do I have to do?”

  They drifted leisurely down the connecting tunnel and entered the Mars module. The computer circuits and multiplexers ran behind the ceiling panels in the module’s internal tunnel. Freddy hooked his arm through a handhold and trained a penlight on the top page of his papers. The page was a spaghetti of colored lines and numbers. Freddy muttered thoughtfully as he traced his finger along one of the lines.

  “I tried phoning Becky again tonight,” said Lance. “She wasn’t home.”

  Freddy directed the penlight at a tiny box set into a crease in the ceiling.

  “That’s three nights in a row,” said Lance.

  “Maybe she’s away.” Freddy tapped the box with his finger.

  “Away where?”

  “How would I know? People go places.”

  “I’ve never gone three days without talking to her. Never.”

  “You have an agreement with her?”

  “What sort of agreement?”

  “You know, an agreement. You up here for six months. She down there for six months. Six months a long time.” Freddy opened the box with the blade of a screwdriver. “How long you been going out?”

  “Two years,” said Lance. “We met when we were seniors at Kansas. She was the prettiest girl I ever saw. Well, I showed you her picture.”

  Freddy hiked himself up until his eye was an inch from the inside of the box. Wires and circuits matched the diagram on the paper.