by Ben Bova
Gaeta answered doubtfully, “I dunno. Got no propulsion fuel left. Nothing but the cold-gas attitude microthrusters; all they can do is turn me around on my long axis.”
“Not so good.” Timoshenko looked through the cockpit port. He could see the tiny figure of a man outlined against the broad, brilliant glow of Saturn’s rings.
“Ow!” Gaeta yipped.
“What’s the matter?” Fritz’s voice.
“I pulled a muscle when I got my legs outta the suit legs,” Gaeta answered. “Now I’m putting ’em back in and it hurts like hell.”
“If that’s your worst problem,” said Fritz, “you have nothing to complain about.”
Timoshenko couldn’t help laughing at the technician’s coolness. Like a painless dentist, he thought. The dentist feels no pain.
Gaeta said, “I’m not gonna be much help getting aboard the shuttlecraft. I’m just barging along like a fuckin’ meteor. Got no more propulsion, no maneuvering fuel.”
“Not to worry,” Timoshenko said. “I’ll bring this bucket to you. I’ll bring you in like a man on the high trapeze catching his partner in midair. Like a ballet dancer catching his ballerina in her leap. Just like that.” He wished he truly felt as confident as he sounded.
Holly lay crumpled on the steel flooring of the airlock chamber, unconscious again.
“She’s faking,” Morgenthau said.
“For God’s sake, let her be,” Eberly begged. “Push her out the airlock if you want to, but stop this torture. It’s inhuman!”
Vyborg said, “We have enough recordings of her voice to synthesize a statement against Cardenas.”
“I want to make certain,” Morgenthau insisted. “I want to hear it from her own lips.”
Kananga nudged Tavalera’s inert body with a toe. “I’m afraid some of his ribs are broken. He’s probably bleeding pretty heavily internally. Perhaps a lung’s been punctured.”
Morgenthau planted her fists on her wide hips, a picture of implacable determination in a ludicrous rainbow-striped caftan.
“Wake her up,” Morgenthau commanded. “I want to hear her say the words. Then you can get rid of her.”
“One hundred meters and closing.” Timoshenko’s voice in Gaeta’s helmet earphones sounded calm, completely professional.
He couldn’t see the approaching shuttlecraft in his faceplate, so Gaeta spent a squirt of minithruster fuel to turn slightly. There it was, coming on fast, its ungainly form looking as beautiful as a racing yacht to Gaeta’s eyes. The cargo hatch was wide open, inviting.
“You look awful damn good, amigo,” Gaeta said.
“I’m adjusting my velocity vector to match yours,” Timoshenko replied.
Fritz’s voice added, “Your fuel supply is reaching critical. Instead of trying to return to the main airlock, it will save fuel if you come in to the central ’lock at the endcap.”
“Is it big enough to let me squeeze through in the suit?” Gaeta asked.
“Yes,” said Fritz. “Aim for the endcap’s central airlock.”
Gaeta said, “Lemme get aboard the shuttleboat first, man.”
Timoshenko nodded his silent agreement. Get safely aboard the shuttlecraft. Then we can head for the airlock that’s easiest to reach.
Deftly he tapped out commands on the control panel, edging the shuttlecraft closer to Gaeta. Timoshenko knew that if he’d had the time he could have set up the rendezvous problem for the craft’s computer and have it all done automatically. But there was no time for that. He had to bring Gaeta in manually. He almost smiled at the irony of it. The computer could solve the problem in a microsecond, but it would take too long for him to set up the problem in the computer.
There was no way to match their velocities exactly. He had to close the distance to Gaeta, move the shuttlecraft on a trajectory that would intersect Gaeta’s path at the smallest possible difference in velocity. Timoshenko wiped sweat from his eyes as he stared at the radar display. Ten meters separated them. Eight. Six.
Gaeta saw the cargo hatch inching closer and closer. Come on, pal, he encouraged silently. Bring it in. Bring it in. He wished he had some drop of fuel left in the propulsion unit; even the tiniest nudge of thrust would close the gap between him and the cargo hatch.
“Almost there.” Timoshenko’s voice sounded tense, brittle.
Gaeta raised both arms and tried to reach the hatch’s rim. Less than a meter separated his outstretched fingertips from safety.
“Get ready,” Timoshenko said.
“I’m ready.”
The hatch suddenly lurched toward Gaeta, engulfing him. He slammed into the cargo bay with a thump that banged the back of his head against the inside of his helmet.
“Welcome aboard,” said Timoshenko. Gaeta could sense the huge grin on his face.
“A little rough, but thanks anyway, amigo.”
They both heard Fritz breathe an astonished, “Thank God.”
AIRLOCK JUSTICE
Fritz and the three other technicians, accompanied by Wunderly and Berkowitz, raced out to the endcap to meet Gaeta and Timoshenko when they docked. Much to Fritz’s amazement, pudgy, wheezing Berkowitz kept up with him as they pedaled madly along the length of the habitat. Even Wunderly was not far behind, while his technicians lagged farther along the bike path.
He waited impatiently for them at the hatch to the endcap’s central airlock, thinking, I’ll have to see that they get considerably more physical exercise. Watching how they panted and sweated, he shook his head. They’ve turned into putty globs since we’ve been aboard this habitat.
Flanked by Wunderly and the still-puffing Berkowitz, with the technicians behind him, Fritz marched along the steel-walled tunnel that led to the airlock. They got as far as the chamber that fronted the airlock’s inner hatch. A trio of black-clad security people stopped them. A taller black man in gray coveralls was with them.
“This area is restricted,” said the guard leader.
“Restricted?” Fritz spat. “What do you mean? A shuttlecraft is going to dock at this airlock within minutes.”
The guard drew his baton. “You can’t go in there. I have my orders.” A woman’s scream rang off the steel walls, curdling Fritz’s blood. “What the devil is going on in there?” he demanded.
As Timoshenko guided the shuttlecraft to the endcap airlock, he called to Gaeta in the cargo bay. “Do you want to get out of your suit? I can come back and help you.”
“No can do,” said Gaeta. “I’ve got this hijo de puta pulled muscle in my thigh. I’m gonna need a couple guys to help pull me out.”
Timoshenko shrugged. “Hokay. We’ll be at the airlock in less than ten minutes.”
But when they reached the habitat and Timoshenko mated the cargo bay hatch to the airlock’s outer hatch, his command screen showed, AIRLOCK ACCESS DENIED.
“Access denied?” Timoshenko grumbled. “What stupid shit-for-brains has put this airlock off-limits?”
“Try the emergency override,” Gaeta suggested.
Timoshenko’s fingers were already dancing across his keyboard. “Yes, good, it’s responding.”
He got out of the cockpit chair and ducked through the hatch into the cargo bay. Looking at Gaeta in the massive suit, he grinned. “At least I can enter the habitat in shirtsleeves.”
“Tell you the truth, amigo, the way my fregado leg feels, if I weren’t inside this suit I wouldn’t be able to walk without somebody propping me up.”
Through a haze of agony, Holly forced her mind to center on only one thought. Don’t give them what they want. Don’t let them drag Kris down. I’m already dead, I’m not going to let them kill Kris, too.
One of her eyes was swollen shut, the other down to a mere slit. She felt a hot breath on her ear. Morgenthau’s voice, heavy and dark, whispered, “This is nothing, Holly. If you think you’ve felt pain, it’s nothing to what you’re going to feel now. So far we’ve merely given you a beating. If you don’t speak, we’ll have to start tearing up yo
ur insides.”
Holly concentrated on the pain, tried to use it to keep the fear out of her mind. They’re going to kill me, whatever she says, they’re going to kill me. All the pain in the world isn’t going to change that.
Someone shouted, “The airlock’s cycling!”
“Impossible. I gave orders—”
“Look at the indicators.” That sounded like Eberly’s voice. “The outer hatch is opening.”
Inside the bulky suit Gaeta watched the telltales on the airlock’s inner wall flick from red through amber to green. Jezoo, he thought, it’ll be good to get out of this suit. I must smell to high heaven by now.
The inner hatch slid open slowly, ponderously. Gaeta expected to see Fritz and the techs waiting for him. Instead, he saw a group of strangers. Eberly, he recognized after a disoriented moment. And those others -
Then he saw two figures on the floor. Bloody. Beaten. Jesus Christ almighty! That’s Holly!
“What the fuck’s going on here?” he demanded.
Gaeta’s voice boomed like a thunderclap in the steel-walled chamber.
Eberly blurted, “They’re trying to kill Holly!”
Morgenthau whirled on Eberly, hissing, “Traitor!”
Kananga stepped in front of the huge suit, looking almost frail in comparison. “This doesn’t concern you. Get out of here immediately.”
“They’re killing Holly!” Eberly repeated, even more desperately.
Kananga called up the tunnel, “Guards! Take this fool out.”
The three security personnel raced toward him, but skidded to a stop at the sight of Gaeta’s suit, looming like some monster from a folk tale. A taller man in gray coveralls hovered uncertainly behind them.
“Shoot him!” Kananga bellowed. “Kill him!”
From inside the suit, Gaeta saw the three guards drawing laser cutting tools from their belts. Behind them, Fritz and the others came up cautiously. His eyes returned to Holly, lying on her back on the floor, her face bloody and swollen, one arm bent at a grotesque angle, the fingers of her hand caked with blood.
The guards fired their lasers at him. They’re trying to kill me, Gaeta realized, as if watching the whole scene from a far distance. The sons of bitches!
The red pencil lines of three laser beams splashed against the armor of the suit’s chest. With a growl that the suit amplified into an artillery barrage, Gaeta pushed Kananga aside and advanced on the three guards. One of them had the sense to aim at his faceplate, but the heavily tinted visor absorbed most of the laser pulse; Gaeta felt a searing flash on his right cheek, like the burn of an electric shock.
He barged into the guards, smacking one backhanded with his servo-amplified arm, sending the man smashing into the wall. He grabbed the laser out of the hand of the woman and crushed it in the pincers of his right hand. They turned and fled, running past Fritz and his openmouthed companions. The guard that Gaeta had hit lay crumpled on the floor, unconscious or dead, he didn’t care which.
He turned back toward Kananga, who was staring at him with wide, round eyes.
“Trying to kill Holly,” Gaeta boomed. “Beating her to death.”
“Wait!” Kananga shouted, retreating, holding both hands in front of him. “I didn’t—”
Gaeta picked the Rwandan up by the throat, lifted him completely off his feet, and carried him back through the open hatch of the airlock. With his other arm he banged the airlock controls. The hatch slid shut. Kananga writhed in the merciless grasp of the pincers, choking, pulling uselessly at the cermet claws with both his hands.
“We’re gonna play a little game,” Gaeta snarled at him. “Let’s see how long you can breathe vacuum.”
The airlock pumped down. Gaeta kept his the pincers of his left hand firmly pressed against the controls, so that no one outside could open the hatch. He held Kananga high enough to watch his face as the Rwandan’s terrified eyes eventually rolled up and then exploded in a shower of blood.
EPILOGUE: SATURN ARRIVAL PLUS 9 DAYS
Professor Wilmot sat sternly behind his desk, wishing desperately he had a glass of whisky in his hand. A stiff drink was certainly what he needed. But he had to play the role of an authority figure, and that required absolute sobriety.
Sitting before his desk were Eberly, Morgenthau, Vyborg, Gaeta, and Dr. Cardenas.
“They made me do it,” Eberly was whining. “Kananga murdered the old man and they made me stay quiet about it.”
Morgenthau gave him a haughty, disgusted look. Vyborg seemed stunned into passivity, almost catatonic.
Pointing to Morgenthau, Eberly went on, “She threatened to send me back to prison if I didn’t do as she wanted.”
“Prison would be too good for you,” Morgenthau sneered.
For more than an hour Wilmot had been trying to piece together what had happened at the airlock. Part of the background he already knew. Gaeta had freely admitted to killing Kananga; Cardenas called it an execution. Wilmot had gone to the hospital and was thoroughly shocked when he’d seen Holly Lane, her face battered almost beyond recognition, her shoulder horribly dislocated, her fingers methodically broken. Tavalera was in even worse shape, broken ribs puncturing both his lungs. Dr. Cardenas hadn’t waited for permission; as soon as she learned what had happened to them she had rushed to the hospital and began pumping both of them full of therapeutic nanomachines: assemblers, she called them. Drawn from her own body, they were programmed to repair damaged tissue, rebuild bones and blood vessels.
Wilmot agreed with Cardenas. Killing the Rwandan was an execution, nothing less.
“Colonel Kananga deliberately murdered Diego Romero?” Wilmot asked.
Eberly nodded eagerly. “He put Kananga up to it,” he said, jabbing a thumb toward Vyborg. “He wanted to be in charge of the Communications Department.”
Vyborg said nothing; his eyes barely flickered at Eberly’s accusation. Wilmot remembered Eberly’s insistence that Berkowitz be removed from the department.
“And all this was part of your plan to take control of the habitat’s government?” he asked, still hardly able to believe it.
“My plan,” Morgenthau insisted. “This worm was nothing more than a means to that end.”
With an incredulous shake of his head, Wilmot said, “But he was elected to the office of chief administrator. You won the power in a free election. Why all the violence?”
Before Eberly could frame a reply, Morgenthau answered, “We didn’t want to have a democratically run government. That was just a tactic, a first step toward acquiring total power.”
“Total power.” Wilmot sank back in his chair. “Don’t you understand how unstable such a government would be? You self-destructed within hours of being installed in office.”
“Because of his weakness,” Morgenthau said, again indicating Eberly.
“And this disgusting torture of Miss Lane? What good did that do you?”
“We had to get rid of all traces of nanotechnology in the habitat,” Morgenthau said, with some heat. “Nanomachines are the devil’s work. We can’t have them here!”
Bristling, Cardenas said, “That’s idiotic. If you really believe that, then you must be an idiot.”
“Nanotech is evil,” Morgenthau insisted. “You are evil!”
Cardenas glared at the woman. “How can anybody be so stupid? So self-righteously stupid that they’re willing to commit mayhem and murder?”
Morgenthau glared back. “Nanotechnology is evil,” she repeated. “You’ll pay for your sins, sooner or later.”
Wilmot had his own reservations about nanotechnology, but this Morgenthau woman is a fanatic, he realized.
He turned to Eberly. “And you just stood there and let them torture the poor girl.”
“I tried to stop them,” Eberly bleated. “What could I do?”
Wishing more than ever for a whisky, Wilmot took in a deep breath. Tricky waters here. They still have those foolish entertainment vids hanging over my head.
�
�Very well,” he said. “My course seems clear enough. Ms. Morgenthau and Dr. Vyborg will return to Earth on the ship that brings the scientists here.”
“We don’t want to go back to Earth,” Morgenthau said.
“Nevertheless, that’s where you’re going. The two of you are banished from the habitat. Permanently.”
“Exiled?” For the first time Morgenthau looked alarmed. “You can’t do that. You haven’t the authority to do that.”
“I do,” said Eberly, breaking into a smile. “I think exile is a perfect solution. Go back to your friends in the Holy Disciples. See how they reward failure.”
Morgenthau’s eyes flared. “You can’t do that to me!”
“I’m the duly elected chief administrator of this community,” Eberly said, obviously enjoying the moment. “It’s well within my power to exile the two of you.”
Vyborg finally stirred from his stupor; suddenly he looked startled, frightened. Wilmot was focused on Eberly, however. Can I strike up an alliance with this man? the professor asked himself. Can I trust him to run the government properly?
“Yes, you are officially the chief of government,” Wilmot agreed reluctantly. “But we’re going to have to find some way to get the entire population involved in the running of your government.”
“Universal draft,” Cardenas said. “It’s been done in Selene and some countries on Earth; seems to work pretty well.”
Wilmot knew the concept. “Require every citizen to spend at least a year in public service?” he asked, full of skepticism. “Do you actually think for one instant that such a scheme could be made to work here?”
“It’s worth a try,” Cardenas replied.
“The people here will never go for it,” Wilmot said. “They’ll laugh in your face.”
“I’ll go for it,” said Gaeta. “It makes good sense to me, getting everybody involved.”
Wilmot raised an eyebrow. “What does it matter to you? You’ll be leaving on the same ship that brings the scientists in.”
