Rock Killer

by S. Evan Townsend

  “Dr. Hanna-Chun here to see you,” the secretary said to an intercom speaker.

  “Thank you,” McConnell’s voice answered back. Kirsten grated at the sound of his voice. Another psychologist, one of McConnell’s partners, stepped up to the receptionist and began speaking with her.

  The door to McConnell’s office opened and the rotund form of McConnell moved into the waiting room. He had a cigarette in his maw and the foul order preceded him. Kirsten briefly wondered how he got away with that since smoking was banned in all public buildings.

  Kirsten moved to him, clenching her right fist.

  “Kirsten,” he said removing the cigarette, “good to—”

  Kirsten’s fist connected with his jaw with force that came from regular exercise and irregularly great rage. McConnell was floored by the blow and looked up at her with great, hurt puppy eyes. The patient, the receptionist, and the other doctor all stared with wide eyes at the scene.

  “You pious son-of-a-bitch,” Kirsten threw her words at him. “You’re damn lucky I have high regard for life, even yours, or I’d kill you now. You and your damned ecologist consciousness probably just killed my husband.”

  She turned and walked out of the office toward the elevator. Her arms were quivering with anger. The elevator was blessedly empty. She leaned against the wall and began crying.

  She walked to her car and drove home, almost driving automatically, as if the car knew the way.

  When Kirsten opened the front door of her and Alex’s house, the computer was beeping and displaying “incoming call.”

  “Computer, answer that, no video,” she said, walking in. She didn’t want anyone to see her like this.

  “Hello?” she answered. She got the icon that the other person was also sending no video.

  “Ms. Hanna-Chun?” an unfamiliar voice asked.

  “Yes.”

  “This is Judy Rice of Fox-CNN news.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kirsten cut her off. “You’ll have to contact SRI’s public relations department, Tokyo.” She tapped the hang-up button and instructed the computer to contact another address. A few minutes later she was talking to Mitchel, the only man in Tokyo she personally knew.

  “Yes,” he said after she explained the situation, “we can provide you with security from our Boulder facility. Worried about the press?”

  “Thank you, yes,” Kirsten exclaimed. “Mitch, tell me. Will they make it?”

  “There’s a good chance,” he said and explained the planned rendezvous.

  “That’s good, Mitch,” she said, her voice full of relief.

  She actually had thought Alex was as good as dead. Now, there was a chance. “Thank you.” She then had the computer call her secretary computer. It would call all her patients with appointments for the next few days and cancel them after she used the house computer to instruct it. Even while doing that she had four incoming calls. She instructed the computer to only allow calls from SRI through. The ringing stopped.

  “Computer: Fox-CNN on the big screen.”

  One wall of the living room changed from a scene of Pike’s Peak to a computer generated news anchor. “We now take you, live, to a news conference at SRI’s headquarters in Tokyo,” it said.

  A PR man for SRI was in mid-sentence. “...a very good chance the asteroid tender Kyushu will get there in time and we will be able to save all the survivors.”

  “How many have been killed?”

  “Five. We are, of course, withholding information pending notification of kin.”

  “If you,” a voice asked, “take the crew off the asteroid won’t it be out of control and isn’t there a chance it could hit the Earth?”

  The PR man is good, Kirsten thought. He didn’t even crack a smile at the ludicrous question.

  “No,” he said. “We’ve plotted the course. It will not hit the Earth.”

  “What happened to the terrorists and their ship?”

  Who the hell cares, Kirsten thought, as long as they died horribly in the vacuum of space like the five people they killed?

  “As far as we know,” the PR man said, “the ship they stole is destroyed and they are dead.”

  Kirsten watched as the news conference droned on. Security men arrived about 40 minutes later, just in time to stop the news crews from a frontal assault on her home.

  ***

  Charlie heard voices. They were quick and efficient voices talking in steady tones.

  “Get another unit of PFD with leukocytes started,” one said. “Damn, she’s lost a lot of blood.”

  “And she didn’t have much to lose,” someone else said.

  Charlie relaxed. She was still alive and they were pumping perfluorodecalin into her veins to substitute for the blood she’d lost.

  Beatty was either dead or incapacitated. It angered her that someone may be trying to save his life. But she decided that could wait for later. She wanted to sleep.

  Damn, her feet were cold.

  ***

  The Rock Killer was tumbling in space like a lifeless hulk. She almost was. Knecht ignored the pain from multiple bruises to work the controls in an attempt to give the ship a stable attitude. Griffin was bending over Trudeau. Blood and brains from Trudeau’s smashed head were painting the walls as the tumble carried it to the outside. When the mass from the asteroid hit, the ship had moved so violently they had been bounced around like beads in a baby’s rattle. Trudeau’s head had connected with the communications panel and both had been damaged beyond repair.

  “He’s dead,” Griffin said. He was ignoring the unnatural bend and searing pain in his arm.

  “What about Cole?” Knecht asked.

  “I’m fine,” she replied, then vomited, forming a liquid mass that moved to mingle with the gore on the walls. “Can’t you do something about this god-damned spin?”

  “I’m working on it,” Knecht screamed. The spin shouldn’t make Cole dizzy, Knecht said to herself. She couldn’t take the gore. “We’re damn lucky the mass only grazed us. It only breached the hull in the power room. Unfortunately, we have only battery power now.”

  The ship stopped spinning but the blood and vomit began entering the air in a sickening dance of thick globs.

  “Now I can get some work done,” Knecht said.

  “Can you fix it?” Griffin asked?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Where’s the asteroid?”

  “We got about 50 kps of delta vee from the collision. If I can fix the main power fast enough we can catch up. I just hope we can find it again.”

  “Cole, the missiles?”

  “Just a second, damn it.” She made her way to the fire-control panel, ducking the foul mixture floating around the bridge. The panel had somehow escaped damage. All lights were green. “Get me to that rock and I’ll kill it.”

  ***

  Dr. McConnell canceled his morning appointments and called his lawyer. He made an appointment to see him that afternoon. Driving home, rubbing his jaw, he thought about the lawsuit. With pain and suffering, public humiliation, and loss of professional reputation he should be able to put quite a dent in the late Mr. Chun’s estate.

  McConnell smiled. He’d send a good chunk of that money to the GA. Ironic, having SRI money financing the Gaia Alliance.

  Once home, he looked for his wife but she was off spending time with her volunteer projects. He had the computer turn on the news to catch what there was about the attack. He lit a cigarette and waited for the story.

  He swore heavily when he heard it wasn’t a complete success.

  Mr. Chun, it seemed, was alive and well. Oh well, thought McConnell, we’ll hurt Space Rape Incorporated and the suit will make a dent in Chun’s SRI income.

  Then another anchor introduced a story about a large gun battle in Los Angeles between police and suspected terrorists in Los Angeles. McConnell recognized the house. He switched to C-SPAN. Someone was making a speech.

  “Chamber view,” he said. He could see the whole House.
It was about half full, as usual. He knew where the three Greens sat. Two were there; Trent was not.

  “Damn. Is the environmental committee meeting?”

  The word yes flashed at the bottom of the screen.

  “Is it available for viewing?”

  NO.

  “Shit,” he said putting his cigarette in his mouth and picking up the handset on the computer. He punched in an address from memory. He didn’t want to store it in the computer’s directory. Trent’s secretary said she was indeed at the committee meeting.

  McConnell didn’t dare leave a message–not the message he had.

  He called another number. There was no video with the simple computer Trent used. At least it had a message-taking function.

  “This is Whaltham. The police have the records. I’m going to the emergency location. I suggest you do, too. It’s over for now.” He hung up and went upstairs to the bedroom to pack. With luck he’d be gone before his wife got home.

  ***

  Freeman arrived in Los Angeles in the late morning. Chaiken approved a government jet for him. He was met by an agent from the local office who drove him to the hospital. She tried to quiz him but he was as silent as many perceived space to be.

  Freeman had to use his FBI identification to get past all the police. They were jumpy and Freeman knew something had happened. He asked for Sergeant Knight and a body bag was pointed out. Finally he found a captain who would talk to him. The man, obviously agitated, explained what happened while Freeman was in the air.

  Eventually Freeman was shown into a room in the Intensive Care Unit. There were two police officers with riot gear and submachine guns guarding the room. They, too, wanted to see Freeman’s ID.

  In the room he saw Charlie on her stomach. She had the usual assortment of biosensors and probes on and in her body. Freeman looked at the readout. He walked near her head. Her eyes were closed.

  “Charlie?” he said softly.

  She opened her eyes, blinked a few times, and then looked at him. She smiled a little. “Hi, Freeman,” she said slowly.

  “Hi,” he said. “You’ve been busy.”

  She made a small, shoulder shrugging motion, then immediately regretted it. “The GA, what happened?”

  Freeman explained about the gun battle and the arrests.

  “They found the guns and the computer in the basement. The captain told me they got a court order and they’ll have all the data analyzed soon.”

  “My chip?”

  “The police have that also. But it may be inadmissible because it could be ruled an illegal search.”

  “Why? I’m a private citizen. Hell, I’m a member of the GA.”

  “Yes,” Freeman said, “but if they can prove you were acting as my agent then it is an illegal search.”

  “That’s stupid.”

  “It’s the Fourth Amendment.”

  “What about my right to face my accuser. They threw that out for my ‘unlawful self-defense.’“

  “I know; like I said in Washington, the Constitution means exactly what the current Court says it means.”

  “So–what about the evidence against the GA?” Charlie asked.

  “The LAPD has it all. As soon as we get the evidence we can get Trent–and maybe Whaltham.”

  “I saw him,” Charlie said.

  “Could you identify him?”

  “Damn right.”

  “Good. We may find out who he is.”

  “Beatty? Is he alive?”

  “No,” Freeman said. “He bled to death. You got the jugular. You’re one tough girl, Charlie.” He reached out and squeezed her hand.

  Funny, she thought, I don’t feel so tough.

  ***

  Alex spent most of his time in his office/quarters. It was just off the centerline of the asteroid, so he felt almost no outward acceleration because of the spin. Bente calculated that at the surface of the rock there was almost 13 gees of pseudo-gravity. Fortunately, there was very little equipment far from the middle of the asteroid. There were four tunnels, perpendicular to the long axis of the asteroid, with airlocks on the surface. Spinning the asteroid turned them into half-kilometer long pits. Alex had them sealed up before the spin was applied and was doubly glad he did when the airlocks ripped out under the force of the air pressure they were designed to hold and those 13 gees they were never expected to endure. Alex wondered what other surprises were in store from them, and if they’d continue to be lucky.

  Taylor reported the electrolysis was going as planned.

  “Under the low gravity, the bubbles look like they’re rising in oil,” she reported.

  “As long as we get it out eventually,” he said over the intercom.

  “No problems so far,” Taylor said. “We had to adjust the voltage. Too much voltage and the bubbles couldn’t rise fast enough and I’d get that bubble on each electrode you talked about. I had somebody from the reactor section install a voltage regulator and I can adjust the voltage.”

  “Good,” Alex said. “Is the H-2 going out okay?”

  “Yes,” Taylor replied. “That’s going great.”

  “What about the partial pressure?”

  “Point zero nine-eight.”

  “Good,” Alex repeated. Taylor signed off.

  Alex had needed to make a decision. Almost everyone on the asteroid wanted to send a message home, but that would tie up the communication gear. That wasn’t a major problem because the computer had “look through” transmission capability and would shut down an out-going transmission if something came in.

  But he had everyone packed like sardines in the galley, and there was only one computer in there. Everyone moving to the computer to send their message was a bigger problem. Moving was surprisingly difficult because of the unexpected direction of acceleration, and that would burn much precious oxygen.

  Alex decided everyone could write down a message on a handheld computer and one person would take the computer and send them.

  Alex’s computer in his office/quarters could interface directly with the communications computer. He sent his message to Kirsten from his office; rank has its privileges. He kept it down to a short: “I’m fine. I love you. Everything will be all right. I’ll be home soon.”

  ***

  The bridge was clear of blood and vomit. Cole had at first balked at cleaning up the mess, but Knecht and Griffin sternly insisted. She helped grudgingly and Griffin, with his bad arm, wasn’t much help. It seemed Knecht was going to have to do everything.

  She was pulling on one of the emergency pressure suits SRI had been kind enough to provide in the Rock Killer, but she was having trouble with it.

  Griffin pushed over to help but he got going too fast. He grabbed her arm with his good appendage to try to stop. She jerked her arm out of his hand and he hit the bulkhead hard with his broken arm.

  “Ow, God damn it!” he yelled. “I just wanted to help.”

  “I don’t need your help,” she said angrily.

  Griffin swallowed his anger. “Hey,” he said softly. “What’s wrong?”

  She stopped struggling with the suit and looked him over with her blazing green eyes. “Just leave me alone, okay?”

  Griffin was silently surprised.

  Knecht pulled the bubble helmet over her head, effectively cutting off conversation. Griffin passively watched her finish putting on the suit, checking it, and move to the airlock. She ignored him the entire time.

  Once the airlock swallowed her form, he shrugged, which caused him more pain, and moved to the first aid station.

  “Cole,” he ordered. “Come here.”

  The other woman glared at him.

  “I broke my God-damned arm. I need your help.”

  Cole pushed over. “What do I do?” she said reluctantly.

  “There should be some splints in there. We need to immobilize it.”

  “Okay,” Cole said with a heavy sigh of annoyance.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Ther
e’s two men from the FBI here.”

  McConnell took a taxi to the airport. There he used the electronic ticket agent to buy a ticket to Seattle in his name with his computer. He then moved to another airline and bought a ticket to Los Angeles using a computer in Whaltham’s name.

  Finally, at a third airline, he bought a ticket to New York, JFK, using a computer with the name of Roger Oaks. He dropped the other two computers in a trash can. Nice thing about electronic ticket agents was they couldn’t remember a face. Their cameras only operated if someone tried to cheat or damage them.

  He endured the flight without smoking and in New York he bought a ticket on the spaceplane to French Guiana. At least that would be a shorter flight. Normally he wouldn’t take a spaceplane because of the damage he believed they did to the ozone layer. But this was an emergency–it would have flown anyway, and if he could save himself he could do more good in the future than the spaceplane did harm. At least that was how he rationalized it.

  The spaceplane landed in Cayenne and McConnell took a taxi to the NESA facility near Kourou, about 60 kilometers through sweltering jungle. He’d read somewhere that the road had been built by Devil’s Island inmates. Little better than slavery, he thought. The West always built their “progress” on the backs of the oppressed.

  There was never a line at the NESA public spaceport. Space travel was still too expensive for most people. McConnell walked up to the girl behind the counter labeled “English.” She was pretty and had a slight French accent when she spoke. The use of humans indicated the level of luxury.

  “May I help you?” she asked cheerfully with her plastic smile.

  “Yes,” McConnell said. “I need a ticket to the Moon on the next shuttle.”

  “Do you have a reservation?”

  “No. Is that a problem?”

  She worked the computer. “No, we usually have a seat available. Do you have a visa?”

  McConnell showed her the plastic card, much like what credit cards were like. She raised an eyebrow.

  “Been planning to visit the Moon for a long time, Mr. Oaks?” she asked.