“The Chinese.”
“Yes. It seems to me that we’re getting in a bind here. They would have a problem with our getting exclusive use of an alien tech. That’s something we’ve got to work through.”
“Are you going to weaponize the Nixon to fight the Chinese?”
“I doubt it. We have to see what the big brains on Earth think. But if we did—and if the Chinese already have—I think what you’d have is mutual assured destruction. If we don’t arm ourselves and the Chinese attacked us, I’m pretty sure Santeros would destroy their ship in retaliation. And vice versa. There wouldn’t be a huge war, or anything, but nobody would be able to put anything out in space—or more to the point, get it back. At the same time, exclusive use is pretty tempting.”
“Lot of ugly possibilities growing out of those fears,” Clover said.
“Yes, there are.” Fang-Castro glanced at her view screen and said, “They’re cutting up the hulls. I’ve got to go check on things. Listen, John—we’ve got to talk more. Read some twentieth-century stuff on the way the Americans and Russians managed the Cold War. Tell me what you think about that—their management techniques.”
“I will do that,” Clover said. “I’ve got to tell you, though, you’ve got me a little puckered up here.”
“I’ve been puckered up ever since I found out the Chinese were going to Saturn.”
Trimming the living modules wasn’t technically difficult; it just had to be done carefully and in a coordinated fashion so it wouldn’t throw the station out of balance. Industrial lasers could cut through the frothy walls in minutes. After the cutters sliced off the excess thirty meters from each module, crews would build new proper front ends, reattach the front elevators, and remove the temporary supports.
Clover had just gone, with his cat, when the station computer pinged Fang-Castro to move to the command module. She relieved the officer on watch and checked the external monitors and status displays; the four industrial cutters were in position.
“Mr. Martinez, how’s everything out there?”
“We’re good. We’re about through the first one, the tugs are positioned to get it out of the way.”
In carefully coordinated action, the four laser operators had fired up their beams and begun simultaneously cutting through the inner and outer walls of the two living modules, just forward of the temporary bulkheads. Grooves had appeared in the four walls and deepened into narrow cuts; otherwise there was little to see besides a faint purplish glow.
The excimer laser cutters projected intense shortwave ultraviolet light, invisible to human eyes. The high-energy photons didn’t burn their way through materials; they directly broke apart molecular bonds. Foam and fabric simply disintegrated into vapor where the beam hit, cold-cutting that the laser crews controlled with surgical precision.
It took most of an hour to cut through the first two pairs of walls. The job could have been done in half the time, but Martinez was being careful. He periodically called for work stoppages while status readings were checked. Were the station’s stabilizing computers keeping everything in balance? Were the brackets doing their job of keeping the forward sections from breaking loose prematurely? Any stray debris flying around, something blown off by the lasers?
After January’s failed radiator test, Fang-Castro was being super-careful about creating space junk. That hadn’t just been embarrassing, it’d been expensive. Nobody had been prepared for such a spectacular failure, and the station personnel were only able to recover about three-quarters of the chaff created by the uncontrolled radiator ribbons.
Interops, the International Orbital Operating Commission, had levied a fine whose size was described as “astronomical” by almost every punster on the Internet. Space junk had made low Earth orbit space almost unusable by the mid-thirties, and it had taken a decade of concerted and costly international effort to clear out the big stuff. A lot of the small stuff was still circling the earth, and now the space nations were talking about who’d pay to clear that.
The cutting proceeded, carefully, until the forward thirty meters of modules were severed from the rear seventy. The cutters shut down the lasers, a final systems check came up green, and Martinez spoke an authorization into his workslate. The operations computer simultaneously released the locking clamps on the module sections and a millisecond later fired the engines on the pair of robotic tugs.
From the command module, Captain Fang-Castro watched as the now-superfluous forward sections were moved to a safe distance away from the station. Some of their materials would be recycled into the Nixon, but most of it was scrap, possibly recyclable to a new station. She checked the status reports: the station was stable and the temporary forward bulkheads on the truncated living modules were working perfectly. The whole operation had gone off with exemplary smoothness.
She realized she’d been tensely hunched over the console and consciously relaxed her shoulder blades. The rest of the reconstruction wouldn’t take more than the remainder of the day. Crews had pre-fabbed new front ends for the modules with all the fittings, docking collars, and brackets they needed to smoothly hook them up to the living modules and reattach the free-floating front elevator shafts to them and the new axle hubs.
“Mr. Martinez?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Outstanding work. Pass that along to everyone who had a hand in this. I just spoke to the President, and she is extremely impressed, and she is not an easily impressed woman,” Fang-Castro said.
“I will pass that along, ma’am. Thank you.”
She hadn’t spoken to Santeros in a week, at which time they’d agreed on two possible statements: congratulations for a job well done, and a second, “The responsibility for this problem is mine, not the men and women who did the work.”
“Mine,” as in Fang-Castro’s, not Santeros’s.
Fortunately, she thought, as she headed back to her room, the second statement wouldn’t be needed.
As yet, anyway.
Sandy and Fiorella had stayed up, when most of the crew had gone down, because they were documenting the reconstruction. Sandy had been outside, and had just gotten back, when Fiorella pinged him.
“We need to talk to you. Privately.”
“Uh, where are you?”
“My cabin.”
“I just got in, I’m in Engineering. I could stop by . . .”
“Please do. Soon.”
Was she now using the royal “we”? Sandy wondered, as he dropped down the shaft to the habitat. Or was there more than one person waiting for him? Whatever, Fiorella definitely sounded conspiratorial. Of course, she was of Italian heritage; the Medicis, and all that.
He got to her cabin, tapped the call bell, and the door popped open. “Come on in,” Fiorella said. John Clover was sitting in the single chair, and nodded. Fiorella sat at one end of her bunk and patted the other end for Sandy.
“So what’s up?” Clover asked.
Fiorella looked at Sandy. “Despite our personal differences, the people on this ship believe that you and I are destined to sleep together.”
“Fools,” Sandy said.
“I would agree,” Fiorella said.
“Although you are not totally unattractive,” Sandy allowed.
“I would have to say the same about you,” Fiorella said.
Clover said, “Excuse me. I don’t think I want to hear this conversation.”
Fiorella said, “Yes, you do. Wait until I finish.”
Clover subsided, and Sandy, curious, asked, “What happened?”
“I was sitting in an egg, not going anywhere, checking out a possible internal shot. That feature we were talking about, showing the groundhuggers how you control an egg. Anyway, your friend the handyman walked into the garage, with a tech, and they were talking about us. They were being sneaky about it. Joe kept glancing over at me,
making sure I couldn’t hear.”
“You turned up the gain on the external mike,” Sandy said. All the eggs had external microphones and speakers. They were useless in space, but convenient when two people were working on an egg repair, one inside and one out.
“Yes, I did,” Fiorella said. “Anyway, it seems that the crew has a pool, on the day we fall into bed together. The pool is still open. The buy-in is one thousand dollars.”
That didn’t seem like much to Sandy, but Clover grunted. “There are what, ninety-plus people going on this trip? More or less? That’s ninety grand, if everybody buys in. Nice. That’s three months’ salary for a poor man like me.”
“Much nicer than that,” Fiorella said. “Because these guys are a bunch of scientists, they all think they’re statistical savants. They weren’t happy with a simple, pick-your-day pool. They set up a market.”
Sandy: “A market? You mean like a political market?”
“Exactly. You buy a date that you think it’ll happen. If you start to feel your pick was weak or if your date goes by without any action, you can buy back in, any date you want—but you have to pay the market price, which is set by consensus. Everybody who already has that date won’t want you to buy in at all—they’ll want to keep all the money to themselves. But if you have the right to buy in, they’ll want to jack up your reentry price as high as possible.
“On the other hand,” she continued, “people who don’t have that date, and don’t believe it will happen, will want other people to buy in—because the money stays in the pot if it doesn’t happen. So they want the buy-in price to be low enough to encourage people to buy in, but also high enough that the pot gets fatter downstream.”
“Okay,” Sandy said. “I got that.”
“Once the market price is set, you can put your money in,” Fiorella said. “Say that it looks like we’re going to get together on Friday. Okay, the price to buy in on that Friday could be quite large. With a basic, say, hundred thousand dollars on the scale, you might have to kick in another five or ten thousand dollars, or even more, to buy back in, if the event looks likely. If we’re all kissy in the corridors. The amount would depend on how many people already have that date . . . The market price for the gamble.”
“I don’t entirely understand that,” Sandy said.
“Look. Say there’s a hundred thousand in the pot, and only three people have that date,” Fiorella said. “If you can buy back in for, say five thousand, the pot is then a hundred and five thousand. Split four ways, that would be”—her eyes rolled up as she worked it out—“twenty-six thousand, two hundred and fifty each, a profit of twenty-one thousand, two hundred and fifty dollars on the five-thousand-dollar buy-in. But only if we get together that day.”
“Tell me again why the three original buyers let him buy in?” Clover asked.
“They don’t have any choice—the buy-in is by consensus of all the bettors,” Fiorella said. “And the people who don’t think it’s going to happen on one particular day, would always be a majority, and they can force the buy-in price down to an acceptable level. Because they want other people to buy in.”
“Because the money stays in the pot if it doesn’t happen, and they don’t believe it will,” Sandy said.
Fiorella: “Yes!”
Clover: “If Sandy doesn’t nail you on that Friday—”
“Please, John,” Fiorella said.
“If you and Sandy don’t have coitus on Friday—”
“Coitus? That’s even worse,” Fiorella said. “Anyway, to get to the point, the money stays in the pot and the action moves to the next day.”
Clover scratched his chin. “Hypothetically, if you and Sandy were to stretch this out, running hot and cold along the way, raising hopes, then disappointing them, the money could get . . . large.”
“I wouldn’t say large. I would say huge,” Fiorella said. “Actually, as the retained pot gets larger and larger, the amount will tend to snowball. It could go to, who knows? A million? More? If Sandy and I had a really loud argument on the morning of the day it happened . . .”
“The buy-in on that date would be really low,” Clover said.
“And if we picked a fight date that nobody had bought, and then jumped in bed later in the day, someone who bought in would keep it all,” Sandy said, his eyes narrowing.
“You and Sandy couldn’t bet on this, because then everybody would know that you could fix it,” Clover said to Fiorella. “But if a third person were to know the actual date, you and the third person could move things around so . . .”
“We could make a fuckin’ fortune,” Fiorella said. “Excuse the pun.”
Sandy said to Fiorella, “You have a criminal mind. I admire that in a woman.”
“So do I,” Clover said. He rubbed his hands together. “Who do I talk to about getting in the pool? The handyman?”
—
A few days later:
Becca said, “If this doesn’t work, I’ll kill you.”
Mark Vaughn, a computer tech safely ensconced on Earth, said, “It would have stopped the last one, or anything like that. We won’t have the same fault, I promise you that. Other faults—well, it’s your design, sweetie.”
“Call me sweetie again and I’ll kill you.”
“Anyway, Becca, ma’am, sir—you’re good. That last batch of code looked great if you didn’t look too hard, but basically, it was marginal, in my opinion, and you probably ought to burn down that code farm and switch all the contracts to us. This batch . . . this batch is the cleanest, most robust stuff in the world. I mean that literally. In the world.”
“If this batch blows us up again . . .”
“I know, you’ll kill me.”
“That’s correct.”
“Let me know what happens,” Vaughn said.
“Don’t worry about that: it’ll be all over your screen, one way or the other.”
—
A few days after that:
The other marines all looked at Sergeant Margaret Pastor, who said, “I know. I’m the smallest.”
“It’s not much of a leak,” said one of the guys.
“It’s not ‘how much.’ It’s what it is,” Pastor said.
What it was, was human waste, a brown trickle that could be seen spattering the floor. What was happening was a leak in a pressurized sewer pipe, and the fastest way to get to the leak was to send somebody down a cable tunnel, not meant for human access, with a laser cutter. That person would cut a hole in the wall of the cable tunnel, and then reach up and seal the leak in the sewer pipe with an epoxy injector.
“A shit job,” said one of the guys, and the rest of them, with the exception of Pastor, fell about laughing.
“I didn’t join the Marine Corps to clean up somebody’s poop,” Pastor said.
“No, but you volunteered to be cross-trained in maintenance, and none of the rest of us can fit into that pipe.”
“Give me the fuckin’ cutter. And get a garbage bag. I’ll wrap myself in the bag.”
The job took an hour: fifteen minutes to carefully cut through the cable pipe, another fifteen to plug the leak, during which time Pastor got liberally spattered with the effluent, another fifteen minutes to vacuum the crap out of the cable tunnel.
When she finished, she scooted herself backwards, until her feet were sticking out of the tunnel, and then the guys grabbed her by the ankles and pulled her out.
She was still on the floor, unwrapping the plastic bag that hadn’t done much to protect her from the waste, when Fang-Castro turned the corner and asked, “What’s that smell?”
When the explanations were finished, Fang-Castro told Pastor, “We’ve got a seat going down on the shuttle tomorrow. You want it, it’s yours.”
Leave was getting scarcer, especially for the military people. Pastor said, “Ma’am, I’d
really love to see my mom one last time, before we go.”
“I’ll fix it with Captain Barnes. And thank you for this.”
—
A few days more:
Vintner was not quite asleep, his feet up on his desk, when he heard the heels snapping down the subbasement’s concrete floor, coming fast.
Women’s heels had different sounds. Most of the higher-ranked women in the White House wore chunky heels because they wanted to look dressy, but knew they’d inevitably spend a lot of time on their feet, and their days were long. Women of lesser rank tried to emulate the dressiness of those higher up, wearing the chunky heels some of the time, but many, on the days when they didn’t expect to do anything important, took a step down and wore flats, or disguised flats. Those of still lesser rank, who generally were making deliveries—mail, policy statements, budget documents, and so on—usually wore running shoes.
The chunky heels went clunk-clunk-clunk; the flats went clack-clack-clack; the running shoes went flap-flap-flap.
The shoes coming down the hall toward Vintner’s office were going peck-peck-peck on the concrete, which meant that they were high-heeled dress shoes, and very, very few women in the White House wore them, and those who did would not be coming to Vintner’s subbasement office . . . with one exception that he could think of.
The President.
A really, really angry president.
Santeros didn’t get angry when dealing with disaster, or plotting a disaster for somebody else—in those cases, anger was inefficient. But when she was pissed, usually about some stupidity, she tended to get physical.
Vintner kicked his feet off his desk, grabbed a bottle of water, poured some in his hands, rubbed the water across his face and up through his thinning hair, then wiped his face on his jacket sleeve. One second later, Santeros burst into his office.
She started by shouting, “Twibbit!”
Vintner popped to his feet. “Mr. President! I mean, Madam—”
“Grabaddibbit!”
“Ma’am, I can’t understand . . .”
Santeros’s face was a fiery red, but she slowed, took a deep breath, and when her voice came back, it was icy cold and totally comprehensible, which was worse.
Saturn Run Page 16
