Rock Killer

by S. Evan Townsend

  And from Suruga Bay, Japan: Greenpeace was still flying helicopters dangerously close to the archology. So far they’d just tried to hamper construction and thrown some paint balloons–organically degradable paint, no doubt. But once they flew too low over some workers and the down wash of the rotors almost blew a worker off where she was standing. They still insisted the archology was an environmental travesty despite SRI spending trillions of yen to appease them and those like them. Mitchel wished the structure was in international waters. He’d mount some anti-aircraft artillery and discourage low over-flights. He could buy them from Philippe Thorez, the arms dealer. Mitchel understood the Frenchman was having problems since his SRI account, containing billions of euros, was accidentally credited to the account of a charity that helped refugees from the parts of the former Soviet Union that the Chinese had conquered.

  And so it went in the office on the hundred and thirtieth floor of the SRI headquarters building, where one man tried to keep his company safe from the zealous, jealous, evil, and just plain stupid ones humanity seemed never to stop breeding.

  ***

  Caroline Zalesky held a printout of the letter in her hand. It had been transmitted from the Moon. Chun had described how David had died trying to repair the mass driver. His body wasn’t recovered.

  Caroline decided she was becoming numb because the letter didn’t affect her at all. She did briefly consider finding Mouret, being held in security, and killing him. But she dismissed that fantasy. The miner’s ship had been confiscated and he would be sent back to Earth on the next shuttle. She didn’t wish a similar fate for herself.

  She read the letter again. Below Chun’s scrawled signature was a hand-written message, barely readable because of his illegible penmanship and the low quality of the fax. It said, “I can’t tell you how sorry I am David was killed. I would have prevented it if I could.”

  She almost laughed bitterly at that. The only way to stop David’s death was to stop the terrorists before they got a chance to kill. She decided the next time she had a chance, she’d shoot a terrorist on sight.

  ***

  Thorne called Diana’s family from the Moon. He didn’t know them other than an address in Iowa. He talked to her mother. “Are you planning a memorial service?” Thorne asked.

  “Yes,” the woman replied on the screen. “But someone else from SRI called and asked that and I told them when it was.”

  Thorne nodded exaggeratedly to indicate he understood that. “Yes, that would be someone official. Someone from her division will attend any memorial service you have. I was a friend of Diana’s.”

  The woman studied Thorne through the computer. He could see some of Diana in her mother. It was disturbing.

  “We’re you and my daughter close?” the woman asked.

  “Yes,” Thorne said. “I also want to explain to you, to her family, how and why she died.”

  “Why?”

  “I think it’s important. I want you to know she didn’t die needlessly. She was doing her part to save lives.”

  “Why is that important to you?” she asked.

  “I want to do the right thing for Diana. God knows I didn’t get a chance to do much else for her.”

  Thorne saw Diana’s mother assess him again. “The memorial service,” she said finally, “will be in three days; Saturday at ten a.m. Can you get here by then?”

  “Yes,” Thorne said. “I’ll be there.” He made another call.

  “Pa, I’ll be home in about a week. Can you pick me up at the airport in Idaho Falls again?”

  “Sure, son.”

  ***

  Perez walked into the NESA hospital room. She looked at him.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “Who are you?”

  “Perez,” he replied. “I was in the mass driver. I found you.”

  “Oh,” she replied. “Thank you. I guess I owe you my life.”

  “No,” he said. “I just helped. It was a group effort.”

  “Well, thank you anyway.”

  “You’re welcome, uhm...I’m sorry. I don’t know your name.”

  “Sharyl Svensen.”

  “Miguel Perez.”

  “Well, thank you, Miguel.”

  “You’re welcome, Sharyl.”

  Neither spoke as the sound of the medical equipment droned on.

  “How do you feel?” Perez asked.

  “As well as could be expected.”

  “That’s good,” Miguel said. “I mean, I’m glad you’re doing good.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  More silence.

  “Listen, Sharyl,” he said. “When you feel up to it, do you want to go out for a drink or something?”

  She looked at him and smiled. “I think I owe you at least one. Sure. Doctor says it won’t be long and I can try my prosthesis.”

  “Good,” Miguel said. “I’m not going to Earth so I’ll be here.”

  “Okay, Miguel,” she said smiling.

  ***

  While Charlie detested the thought of her grandmother’s body being in a concrete box in the ground, she did find some comfort in a physical thing, the grave and marker, that remained as a memorial to that remarkable woman.

  With Frank there was only a plaque. It was in the briefing room that Frank had lectured in and been eulogized in. It listed the names of SRI Security personnel killed, either by accident or violence, in the line of duty on the Moon. Frank’s name was under Prince and Nakamura’s at the bottom of about 20 other names. The three names were in bigger type, as were all that died by violence.

  Charlie stared at the nickel plate. The metal had come from an asteroid, of course.

  Anger, denial, then either bargaining or depression, then finally acceptance. Charlie had first read about Kubler-Ross after her grandmother died. The stages of grief were the same as for dying, they said. She didn’t remember going through all the stages before acceptance—probably too busy. But, looking at the engraved letters of Frank DeWite’s memorial, she could remember Frank and rejoice in their relationship instead of only mourning his loss. She took one last look at the deep, dark script and said good-bye.

  She flicked the joystick on her wheelchair and headed for the door. As she reached out to open it, the door swung aside. There was a short, Asian man coming in the room. He was wearing a blue command uniform and director insignia.

  “Excuse me,” he said and stepped out of her way.

  “Thank you,” Charlie replied as her chair passed by. Not too bad looking, she thought, if he wasn’t so damn short.

  ***

  Alex Chun sat in the employee lounge, sipping water. He hoped he’d keep that down. His space sickness was unusually acute. He tried to distract himself by looking out the window at the Mediterranean 400 kilometers below. He could see Italy, the Adriatic, and the Greek islands, where Odysseus had labored to return home for–what was it, ten years? How many of his crew did he lose on that trip? Alex wondered.

  The shuttle to Earth was leaving soon and Alex would return home to his wife. Yet, ten of his crew would never go home again.

  “Director Chun,” a familiar voice called out.

  Alex looked away from the window. Tsuji was pushing her compact, muscular body toward him.

  “Chun,” she said, coming closer and pulling herself into a chair. “Going back to Earth?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good,” she replied. “Have a nice time.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I hope we can work together again, soon.”

  Alex looked at the miner. For a rock-cutter, that was almost a marriage proposal.

  “I do too, Tsuji.”

  “Chun,” she continued. “You did one great job out there. Using the laser on the Kyushu probably saved all our lives.”

  Alex looked at her. “I wish I could have saved all the lives.”

  “Well, you’re not God. You did the best you could and that was enough. You should be proud of wha
t you did.”

  Alex smiled wryly. “I don’t know. Maybe someday I’ll be able to feel good about my actions. Right now, they don’t seem to have been enough.”

  “Why?”

  “Because ten people died.”

  Tsuji pushed out of her chair. “Director,” she said, “I’ll be glad to work with you anytime.”

  “You, too, Tsuji,” Chun replied. “Where you going now?”

  “Home.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “SRI-2062. A rush job. Good-bye, Director.”

  “Bye, Chief.”

  Tsuji moved away and Alex watched her go. In his memory he couldn’t think of a time a miner said three words to any non-miner that didn’t have to do with work.

  Well, if Tsuji thought he did a good job, maybe he did.

  He looked back out the window. The Black Sea and the Crimea were visible through broken clouds.

  If only he didn’t feel so bad.

  ***

  A Lexus coupe stopped in front of the Catholic Relief Society’s shelter. Cathy Williams walked inside and talked to the volunteer in the foyer.

  “Yes,” the woman said, “she is here.”

  “Could you ask her if she’d come with me, please?”

  “Okay,” the volunteer said. “If you’ll wait here.” The woman went into the large room behind the entrance. As the door swung open, Williams could see the floor was covered wall to wall with small cots.

  The volunteer returned with a small, elderly woman. “Ms. Williams, this is Mrs. Cortez.”

  “Mrs. Cortez,” Williams said. “I’m from Space Resources Incorporated. You helped one of our employees.”

  “Yes?” Mrs. Cortez said tentatively.

  “Ma’am, could you come with me, please?”

  The old lady looked at the volunteer.

  “I’m sure it will be okay,” the volunteer said.

  “Okay,” Mrs. Cortez said.

  Williams led her to her car and they drove toward the Pacific. Eventually, they were following the coast out of the city heading north. “Mrs. Cortez,” Williams said as she drove, “We talked to your friends in your church, and learned you wanted to live near the ocean.”

  “Yes.”

  “You helped Charlie Jones and it cost you everything you had. We can’t replace what you lost, but we hope this helps.”

  Williams drove the car off the road and down a driveway to a small house just off the beach.

  “Por Dios,” the lady cried.

  Williams got out and ran around the car to help Mrs. Cortez out. “It’s yours, if you want it. It’s a good area, too expensive to have terrorists live next door. I don’t think there’s a smash house within 20 miles.”

  “But it’s too big, I can’t take care of it.”

  “Don’t worry,” Williams said. “Come on, let’s look inside.”

  Williams showed the woman how to put her hand on the sensor plate to open the door. The interior was furnished. A young woman was waiting inside.

  “Mrs. Cortez,” the young woman said, “I’m Julie Lide. I’m your housekeeper.”

  “I can’t afford a housekeeper,” Mrs. Cortez protested.

  “SRI’s paying my salary,” Julie said.

  “And if she doesn’t work out, or leaves, just call our San Francisco office and we’ll find someone else.”

  “Why are you doing all this?” Mrs. Cortez asked incredulously.

  “Because you saved the life of one of our employees; SRI repays its debts.”

  Mrs. Cortex looked around the house. “Thank you,” she said. “Gracias.”

  “You’re welcome,” Williams replied. “I’d better be going. If you have any problems, just call me in San Francisco. The number’s in the house computer.”

  “I will.”

  Williams walked out. The rent on the house and the housekeeper’s salary for a year are probably less than a small fraction of what SRI spends every day, she thought to herself as she got into her car. And Mrs. Cortez was going to be surprised when Julie charged all household expenditures to SRI. Sure, there was no profit involved in helping the old lady who helped them. At least, not the kind that showed up on a balance sheet.

  Williams entered the highway and drove north.

  ***

  Esmeraldas is barely 80 miles north of the equator on Ecuador’s coast. SRI had located its spaceport there for the boost the spin of the Earth gave departing ships, not for the weather; it was unbearably hot and humid. But, as she stood on the runway at SRI’s facility there, feeling the sweat run down her back, Kirsten didn’t mind. SRI had decided to hold this whole greeting and celebration outside to accommodate the horde of media.

  “How long?” she asked Mitchel.

  “A few more minutes.”

  Kirsten looked around her. Mr. Kijoto was a silent statue in the bustle and excitement of other SRI employees. The press, blocked off a few meters behind the SRI people, had even caught the carnival atmosphere. Then the double clap of a sonic boom vibrated everyone to their feet. All looked up. The shuttle was a black dot against the blue sky. Kirsten smiled: Alex was on that shuttle.

  The shuttle eventually landed almost exactly like the first reusable shuttles did decades ago. Then, using its jet engines, it taxied like a plane to where the crowd waited.

  Kirsten waited with what she thought was infinite patience for the door to open. Finally, about a century later, it did. Out came a man too tall to be Alex. Damn, Kirsten thought. Then Alex’s small frame was in the door in front of a massive black man. That would be Banda, Kirsten thought. Both men walked down the stairs. Mr. Kijoto, for the first time in many years, moved to greet someone first.

  Then Alex had to talk to each SRI officer, followed by the black man. Alex finally reached Mitchel and the two men pounded each other on the back like the old friends they were.

  Then, Alex turned to his wife. Ignoring Mitchel, Banda, Kijoto and the other SRI officers, the other employees, and the press who blatantly beamed the live pictures around the world, husband and wife wrapped themselves together into their own, safe universe.

  About the Author

  S. Evan Townsend is a writer living in central Washington State. After spending four years in the U.S. Army in the Military Intelligence branch, he returned to civilian life and college to earn a B.S. in Forest Resources from the University of Washington. In his spare time he enjoys reading, driving (sometimes on a racetrack), meeting people, and talking with friends. He is in a 12-step program for Starbucks addiction. Evan lives with his wife and two teenage sons and has a son attending the University of Washington in biology. He enjoys science fiction, fantasy, history, politics, cars, and travel.

  Be sure to check out his other published works: