How Amanda comported herself was exceedingly pleasant to most males of the species. It can best be described as a collection of subtleties: The conscious (or, from force of habit, semiconscious) way she positioned her long, shapely legs; the deliberate way she threw her shoulders back; how, when speaking, she shook her long hair to one side, slightly tilted her head down, then raised a suggestive eyebrow at her captive audience.
The inflated importance she assigned to her appearance happened to be quite the opposite of Andrés Garcia’s. His attentiveness to the physical was part-time, having everything to do with staying healthy, rather than being perceived as attractive. To Amanda, the casualness of his deportment, the ease of his self-assurance, presented something of a challenge. In defiance of an age discrepancy of twenty-six years, she had persisted in making the Comandante the target of her affections.
“I can tell by the pungent atmosphere in here,” she said, announcing her entrance while making an obvious point of sampling the air with her petite nose, “that you two gentlemen have just about finished your workouts.”
For the briefest moment, the bluntness of the observation competed with Amanda’s appearance for attention. “Ventilation system,” Carlos stammered out in equal measure of defensiveness and swagger. “Just one more thing I have to fix around here.”
“Don’t do it on my account,” Amanda responded, throwing a quick glance at Garcia while at the same time gauging Carlos’s reaction. “I didn’t say it bothered me.”
“Why would I think that?” Carlos lamely replied, closely watching Amanda slowly unroll an exercise mat on the floor. She was wearing a synthetic form-fitting plum-colored one-piece and nude leggings, stretched skin tight to accentuate curves that needed no such assistance. On a quick glance, which was impossible, only the clothing’s plum color spoiled the illusion that she was wearing no clothing at all. Her “warm-up” (which produced a universal effect) consisted in twisting her supple body into a range of positions that, with the addition of a partner, would have made a worthy addendum to the Kama Sutra. Unlike Carlos, Garcia tried to avoid taking exceptional notice. This was most difficult because on more than one occasion he had been that partner. Not entirely by choice—the Comandante was the Teniente’s superior officer—except in this instance the imagination had assumed command, ordering the body where it should not go.
No one understood or regretted this more than Garcia. His brief dalliance with Amanda had been inadvisable for any number of reasons—differences in age, temperament, and, yes, rank. And yet, recently, during two vividly memorable interludes, he had succumbed. At the time, he was twenty months into his two-year assignment on Murkor. When factoring in the long voyage to Murkor, it amounted to three years without the touch of a woman.
Thinking back on it, it was soon after her arrival on base, a year ago, that she had begun to show interest in him. At first, she applied her skills under the guise of ambiguity. An accidental touch, a suggestive word. He had, with effort, excused, ignored, and then resisted these first overtures. When she made her intentions unmistakable, his resolve began to crumble. Somehow, he still held out. But this tantalizing fruit was too easy within reach. Once firmly grasped, he had, with growing ardor, become the aggressor.
Before he came to his senses and decided to let her go.
Or had he?
Soon, he hoped soon enough, he had tried backing away. As CO, he was obligated to cultivate an atmosphere of objectivity. To scrupulously avoid any semblance of partiality. Had he done so? Thankfully, no one had called attention to the affair even though the crew had to be aware of its existence.
All these misgivings he shared with her, in return receiving assurances that she had no expectations of anything other than a physical relationship. Obviously, the message “it was ended” had been transmitted, not received. He could only blame himself for lack of resolve. Looking at Amanda now he realized that he would be responsible, and deservedly so, for whatever unforeseen emotional complications might ensue.
He could do nothing but watch as Amanda, in full intuition mode, aware that Carlos’s eyes followed, elevated her lithe form off the exercise matt and strutted over, stopping only when she stood within his personal space.
“May I use your towel?” she breathed. “I seem to have forgotten mine.”
Saying nothing, Garcia handed it to her. Then retreated a half step.
“It’s unusually warm in here, is it not?” she said, closely observing his reaction while dabbing the perspiration collected at the hollow of her throat.
“Usually three don’t occupy L3 at the same time,” Garcia answered. “The ESS apparently can’t handle it. Perhaps you should have waited to come up.”
“Exercising alone is boring,” Amanda replied, still holding Garcia’s gaze. “I enjoy the company.”
“It may be boring, but the results are the same,” Garcia responded, observing Carlos in the background, doing his best, which wasn’t very good, at acting disinterested. Who wasn’t acting in this room? he asked himself. And did he see envy in the engineer’s face?
Amanda did. Frustrated at Garcia’s indifference, she decided to entice easier prey: A healthy male eleven years her junior; the two other women on base giving no indication of being approachable. “Dry towel,” she said, strutting over to Carlos. Grabbing his, she began sensually patting the back of her neck and the exposed skin of her chest and arms. “Like I said, it’s too damn hot in here.”
“Like I said,” Carlos chided, moving in closer. “I can fix anything that needs fixing around here.”
“I’ve seen Red Giants the size of your ego,” she responded, pressing her hands against the engineer’s chest, pushing him away in mock protest.
“Clever,” Carlos said, rising to the occasion. “More accurate if you compared that astronomical term to my anatomical one.”
The clumsy exchange wasn’t lost on Garcia as he navigated the spiral stairs leading down to L2 and his duties as CO. He doubted Amanda’s intention was to replace him with the younger man, but so be it. If, as they say, “youth must be served,” then Carlos would be receiving quite a delectable portion. Experience, however, was telling him that she was a bit over the young man’s reach.
As for his own time, it would be better spent contemplating a more pressing concern. The arrival of Zenith’s new commander.
AKA, the “chancro bitch.”
3. Zenith
“YOUR ARRIVAL ON MURKOR is being greeted with much anticipation,” said soon-to-be ex-commander Frank Trenchon as he extended his arm to indicate the direction he was leading. He could have easily inserted the word “nervous” in his characterization of Zenith’s present state of mind.
“Of that, I’m sure,” Commander Ellis replied.
“Would you first like to see your quarters?” Trenchon asked. “Perhaps freshen up before our briefing?”
“I’m already quite fresh,” Ellis responded, the remark earning her a sideways glance as they proceeded down the gleaming corridor heading to Trenchon’s office. Two men approached from the opposite direction; in passing, they stared inquisitively at Ellis, then acknowledged their present CO with a barely perceptible nod. Ellis took note that neither man saluted.
The spacious office Trenchon called his own was a well-appointed affair sporting tasteful furnishings and sumptuous wall-to-wall carpeting. One wall was overwhelmed by a huge hexagonal viewport. Ellis’s attention was drawn outside to a vista of sharp lava spikes. It reminded her of the whipped topping of a lemon merengue pie left in the oven too long. Off in the distance there was a tremendous spiraling of blackish-yellow dust, probably the kick-up of one of the “rollers” she had heard of. Webs of lightning coursing through a rising pile of filthy clouds threw a flickering blue light into the room.
Trenchon took a seat behind his desk; Ellis a chair opposite. For an awkward second or two each remained silent. The outgoing CO was the first to speak—to the mindstor in front of him:
“Sixty pe
rcent opacity.”
The viewport noticeably darkened and the blue highlights disappeared. Whatever lumens lost were instantaneously replaced by the ceiling and walls brightening.
“I see you had a spat of trouble on Varian,” Trenchon said at last.
“A bit,” Ellis responded, volunteering nothing more.
“Then you were ordered here.”
“And so, Commander, here I am.”
“You may call me Frank. May I call you Jennifer?”
“Is it customary, on this base, for officers to address each other so?”
“There is very little that is customary this far out.”
Ellis nodded. “I can tolerate ‘El’ in private. Not within hearing of those I am to command.”
“As you wish. You should be aware, however, that certain accommodations to normal protocol must be made here. Zenith is staffed by mostly IMC personnel. Civilians. Nineteen men and five women, all of them hard-boiled company employees. Frankly, they can be more than a little rough around the edges. Military personnel—there are six, ’self included—are in the minority. Later, I’ll intro you to Captain Michele Stewart, our physician and a damn good one at that. There’s Lieutenant Brian Davis. Hydrogeologist, engineer, mindstor mentor—just about anything else you can put your finger on, he’s your man.”
“Military personnel and IMC techs alike must answer to you—and soon, to me.”
“They’ve come to accept me as their CO. May they do the same for you.”
“‘May’ shouldn’t enter into it.”
Trenchon hesitated. “I appreciate the sentiment, El, except you should keep in mind the exigencies of life here on base.”
“I shall do that, Frank, once I’ve personally reviewed what those exigencies are. So far, I’ve been force-fed pabulum from headquarters and favored with advice from a shuttle pilot. The pilot was more enlightening. From what I’ve seen so far,” Ellis added, making a point of looking about the room, “it would appear you have a modicum of comfort here.”
“I’m referring to what is out there,” Trenchon said, gesturing toward the viewport. “The seen and the unseen. We’ve all heard versions of planet lore. Here, it’s more pronounced. My advice is don’t discount its effect on those who’ve lived here for any length of time. Murkor, one way or another, can drag a person down mentally.”
“A situation exacerbated by people having too much time on their hands. I refer to the cessation of mining activity due to an inadequate water supply.”
“The lack of any water. Period.”
“Is it that bad?” Ellis replied.
“Nearly so. And I’m afraid you’re going to have to deal with it sooner than anyone anticipated. I expect you have been given wide latitude to do so. I haven’t been made privy to your orders.”
“You haven’t seen my orders because neither have I.”
“I see,” Trenchon said, stroking his chin. “You have carte blanche dealing with the problem.”
“I would appreciate your telling me what that problem is.”
“The problem of Nadir, of course.”
“Is that how you would characterize it?”
“How else? They have an overabundance of the one resource we need. Nadir is a rat hole of a base. Their exclusion zone is mineral-poor but it encompasses what we believe to be the planet’s largest reserve of water. Unfortunately, the Tinos—Unión, I mean to say— exercises total control of those reserves as spelled out by statutes of the World Court.”
“And Zenith’s own EZ abuts Nadir’s. Was that the best we could do?” Ellis said. “An entire planet and we had to breathe down their neck?”
“Murkor is very stingy of its water. What little has been discovered is sequestered in a network of lava tubes—the extraction vehicle you’ll see a bit later—the majority of which reside squarely within Nadir’s zone. A minor amount extends beyond their zone into ours.”
“If the water supply was known to be questionable why not avoid the problem altogether? Establish a smaller base with a regenerative system where every drop of water is recycled?”
“Anecrecium is too unstable to transport without processing. Processing uses water, and generates unrecyclable wastewater. You’re right, though. For drinking, a recycle system would have been the way to go.”
“Even now it’s a good idea,” Ellis said.
“Good luck finding a supporter. You’re aware of the politics, the public outrage over how expensive the venture on Murkor was and the close ties of politicians to companies awarded lucrative contracts. A profitable mining operation lent a measure of sanity to the whole affair. Except unrealistically high production quotas were set. Whatever water we had under our EZ was rapidly depleted.” Trenchon gave Ellis a hard stare. “Zenith’s potable water supply, that used for personal hygiene, drinking and cooking, will soon run out. There’s no way to sugarcoat it,” he added. “You’ll have a tough go of it.”
“And you have had the extreme good fortune of being called to another assignment,” Ellis responded.
“A total surprise to me, if that’s what you mean,” Trenchon said, chafing at the insinuation. “It seems to be more a function of getting you here to deal with the situation.”
Except for the severity of the water shortage, Trenchon had encapsulated what she already acquired from her tenure on Varian and what she had learned in transit. Hearing it again solidified her personal views on the matter and how she hoped to proceed—despite, she thought with satisfaction, and not because of the vagueness of her orders.
“Given the urgency,” Ellis said, “has there been any direct communication with Nadir or Unión?”
“Haven’t you heard?” Trenchon asked. “No, of course not, you couldn’t have. You were in transit. A formal request was made by Coalition—through the face-saving auspices of a third party—to allow Zenith access to certain water reserves within Nadir’s EZ. The request was resoundingly rebuffed, as was a petition to compel Unión to release their hydrogeological mapping surveys. The Tinos are quite adept at locating water resources, scant as they may be on this hellhole.”
“Any reason offered for Unión’s intransigence?” Ellis asked.
“Some mention made of a prior dispute concerning water rights on Earth, I believe.”
“Did their rebuff put an end to the issue?”
“Not quite,” Trenchon responded. “Coalition petitioned the World Court.”
“Asking the Court to declare Unión Latino’s hydrogeological data to be within the public domain?” Trenchon’s expression informed Ellis she had guessed wrong. “No?” she asked. “Then what?”
“Mindstor,” Trenchon said into the air. “Read Planetary Settlement Statute, Section 107.16.3. S.”
The mindstor, choosing the voice of a human adult female, read the following:
A nation shall be entitled to settle and control an exclusion zone 100 km in diameter on any planetary body beyond the Sol System once said exclusion zone is continuously inhabited for no less than thirty Standard Earth Days by no less than six humans. To retain title, said exclusion zone shall remain inhabited thereafter.
“Coalition,” Trenchon explained, “has accused Unión of noncompliance with the statute.”
Ellis had to laugh. “Nadir was established three years ago. It’s a little late for making baseless accusations.”
“Not according to arguments made by Coalition lawyers. They interpreted the phrase shall remain inhabited thereafter quite rigorously, claiming it logically refers back to no less than six humans. In their petition to the Court, Coalition is alleging Nadir is in noncompliance with that provision of the statute.”
“And Unión views the petition as a sham and an affront, refusing on pride and principal, to submit Nadir’s personnel records.”
“It is,” Trenchon volunteered, “the proverbial zero-gravity pissing match. Except it does give Coalition—and you—partial cover for any action you deem necessary. If Nadir cannot, or simply refuses demonstra
te compliance with the statute—”
“—then their EZ does not have to be honored.”
It was rare for Ellis to finish another person’s sentence. It was just far too easy to follow Coalition’s strained logic.
“Well, we’ve kicked this around enough for now,” Trenchon said, standing. “We can discuss the finer points of base operation later, over dinner. We have an extensive menu here.”
Motioning for Ellis to follow, Trenchon took four strides across the room to a bare wall where a door auto-slid open. Both stepped into what was to become Ellis’s private quarters.
“There is also a corridor entrance,” Trenchon commented. “I believe you’ll find these quarters to be more than satisfactory. For convenience sake I had my personal effects removed earlier this morning. I’ve taken the liberty of having your belongings brought—” Trenchon, gazing about the room, was surprised to see only a rolled-up mat and a duffel bag. “Sorry, El, I instructed staff to unload your belongings from the shuttle.”
“I travel light.”
“I see. Apparently, you won’t need time to unpack. I shall return in an hour. Together we shall tour the base. You’ll meet most of the crew.” Trenchon paused as he turned to leave through the corridor doorway. “Oh, yes. Nearly forgot. Almost every communication, entertainment, and creature comfort metric you can think of can be activated by voice command. Feel free to change the wall colors if you like.”
“It’s appreciated,” Ellis said.
“It’s the least I could do,” Trenchon said, departing.
Considering the circumstances, Ellis had to agree.
Her living quarters were similar in shape and size to the office. Standing in front of the room’s viewport, looking out at the wasteland that was Murkor, she had to wonder if anyone could feel lonelier. No meaningful ties back on Earth, an outcast from Varian, isolated on a base full of discontented miners who she was about to make unhappier than they already were.
The Symbionts of Murkor Page 4
