“Jesus Christ, Chuck! Is that what you’re worried about all the time? Is that why you’re so militant? I just figured it was your navy training and all,” Peanut said quietly.
“Hey, don’t get me wrong. It’s not like thinking about threats is all I do, but with you about to try to punch into interdimensional space, or even into another dimension, for damn sure someone has to think about the possibilities,” Chuck said. “Think about this: We’ve been advertising our presence in the galaxy for a hundred years now. All those radio broadcasts, then television after that, all traveling away from the Earth at the speed of light. There’s a sphere two hundred light years in diameter with Earth smack-dab in the center full of signals that indicate there’s a technological civilization here. That covers a lot of stars in the immediate neighborhood. If any of them have a civilization near to ours and similar in capability, we have all but announced our presence and location. But the galaxy is huge. The chances of a spacecraft passing through our signals is so remote it’s almost not worth considering. And if they’re anything like you, Peanut, their travel is most likely to be in another dimension completely and they’d be going so fast that they’d never know we’re here. But maybe, just maybe …”
Neither said a word for a few moments. Then Peanut gave a small shiver, and then said, “Man, that’s too deep. What say we call Chris and talk this out?”
“I’m never going to discuss this with Chris, not unless there’s definitely something to worry about. You know how he is, he’d never let you launch the probe for fear of aliens following the thing back to us. But we can call him and see what he’s doing for dinner, I’d love to tell him about the mission in person.”
Contacting Christopher, the three arranged to get together in the common diningroom. Once they were all together, Chuck described the mission in detail; then they gravitated to discussing ideas about further hardening the exploratory jumpers against the kinds of electrical discharges Chuck had seen.
And though the specter of Riley’s absence was still a cloud over them any time the three got together, their hanging out with each other was always reminiscent of when their friendship was born and cemented years ago.
Chapter 16
YOU CAN’T ALWAYS GET WHAT YOU WANT
Everyone in the solar system was stuck in a holding pattern for weeks, waiting for something to happen, something in space, on Earth, on the moon, anywhere!
The buzz about Chuck’s descent into the Jovian atmosphere and the attendant discoveries about its composition, the electrical discharges, and the power of the upper atmospheric winds, had died down in the colony’s science community. Planning for the next mission was well on its way, along with Peanut’s design and engineering team’s working through the complex calculations and designs of the interdimensional probe.
Three weeks before Project Jove was scheduled to leave orbit, only a skeleton construction and engineering crew was still manning GST’s SkyHub construction facility. John had managed to build collegial relationships with everyone in the Jove crew, but every now and then he would catch Dr. Roscoe watching him intently, as if by peering at him hard enough, she’d be able to read his mind.
They were now all on a first name basis, titles and rank deemed superfluous, given their proximity and the duration of the mission. During downtime from training, running simulations and inspecting every inch of the spacecraft, Susan Roscoe and Bianca Ortega, with their support counterparts at the United Nations and the White House, were going over every scenario they could come up with for communicating with the separatists.
Each had their own agenda, Susan’s set by the president and NASA; Bianca’s primarily from the UN, and, secondarily, an offer of asylum from her own government in Brazil. It was most fortunate that Susan and Bianca genuinely liked and respected each other, and underneath were of similar temperament.
As the ship wasn’t underway yet, the crew was living in a zero-G environment, floating or “jaunting” from place to place. Meals were in sealed containers, as were all liquid consumables. This gave them additional time to acclimate to the absence of gravity they would face once they reached their destination near the asteroid belt. John decided early on to build his own mini dossier on each crew member, committing the details to his private tablet.
Their tablets were modified, off-the-shelf commercial computers, controllable by screen touch, plug-in keyboard or by voice entry. They could also be used to make video or voice calls back to Earth, the crew being assured that their transmissions were encrypted and secure.
John called Pete once to test the system and came to find that Pete’s desktop computer at the bar was camera-equipped so they could make a video connection.
“Hey! What’s up with my corporate spook?” Pete asked. “Nice buzz cut, white boy! Where the hell are you? I’ve been a little worried since you haven’t been by.”
“You won’t believe me when I tell you. I think I’m going to have to put Dwight on a retainer to take care of my place for a while,” John began.
“Dude, no problem. He’s been watering and cutting the lawn. Those sad-ass bushes have never looked better, and there’s a foot-high pile of junk mail on the dining room table just waiting for you. So what’s up?”
John unhooked the tablet from the wall above his desk and panned it around.
“Damn, you back in school? It looks like a college dorm room. Where in the hell are you?”
John then pulled back the cover to the porthole and pushed the tablet against the reinforced glass so the camera was facing out into space.
“What the fuck! Get the hell out of here! Are you really in orbit?” Pete exclaimed.
His questions came a mile a minute while John returned the tablet to the wall.
“Hold on … Hey! One question at a time! One question at a time!” John repeated until Pete calmed down. When Pete was finally silent, John continued. “Yes, I’m in orbit. When I said that Weston had a hidden agenda I was completely off the mark. It wasn’t him. I’m on the Jove mission at the behest of GST’s board of directors.”
“Because of your relationship with Sydney, right?”
“Exactly. And I’m supposed to keep an eye on the others, sort of a troubleshooter,” John explained.
“What the hell do you know about being an astronaut?”
“Now? A hell of a lot. NASA’s been training me to within an inch of my life. I can get in and out of my spacesuit with my eyes closed,” said John, laughing. “This is the last place I’d have ever thought I’d have ended up.”
“How do you feel about seeing Sydney again?” Pete asked, almost whispering.
“I don’t know, it’s been ten years,” he answered, then paused. “Besides, they keep me so busy that I don’t really have time to think about her except maybe at night.”
“Hey, don’t go buggin’ ’bout it. It’s gonna be impossible for me to watch your six while you’re out there!” said Pete, changing the subject.
“Ain’t that the truth! I waffle from being scared shitless to being more excited than I’ve been in my whole life. On a practical note, I wanted to let Dwight know that he can send the bills, electric, gas, whatever to GST. They’re going to cover everything while I’m on the mission, plus a couple of hundred bucks a month for a caretaker.”
“Shit, John. That’s not necessary—”
“I know,” John interrupted. “But that’s what it is. I trust you and Dwight to be making sure everything’s okay while I’m away, and I don’t expect anyone to do it on the come. But do me a favor, don’t tell anyone where I am.”
“Yeah, sure, John. But isn’t everyone going to know eventually? The press has been running nonstop shit on the mission for weeks now. How come they haven’t mentioned you?”
“They have, just not my real name. Look, I probably wasn’t supposed to tell you, but Weston did background on you way back when, and h
e knows how close we are. Just don’t mention it to Dwight or anyone else; tell him that I’m overseas or something.”
“He’s going to know eventually. But I got you, don’t sweat it,” promised Pete. “They going to let you write a book about the mission? Or is that shit falling under the ‘if I told you, I’d have to kill you’ label?”
John laughed. “There’s so many things that can go wrong with this mission, I doubt anyone really thinks we’re going to make it back.”
“You think so? And you’re going anyway? What the hell’s up with that?”
“You tell me how I could say no. The people who, who—enlisted, I guess that’s the best face to put on it—enlisted me aren’t the kind of people you say ‘no’ to.”
“Are they listening in on this call?” Pete asked, suddenly worried.
“They say no, but you might as well assume that they are. I do. I just don’t care. But hey, I doubt they’ll come after you. I’ll drop you a note by email shortly with the arrangements for keeping up the house. Thanks for the chat, I’m really missing home, now that I’m committed to not seeing it for a couple of years … if at all.”
“Buck up, sarge. They wouldn’t send you all out there if they didn’t expect you to come back. As for when you get out to those people, good luck, and you know what I mean. And, sarge … ” Pete said, then paused.
“Yeah?”
“Remember, as far as the separatists are concerned, don’t start none, won’t be none,” Pete warned as he cut the transmission.
John laughed as the window closed on the tablet. Since he was free until morning, he decided to begin his informal dossiers of the crew, starting with some notes on his impressions during training.
Susan Roscoe, Ph.D. Mathematics @MIT. Smart, sharp, no nonsense. Head of the math department at MIT, has to have stellar credentials to have gotten that gig as a woman, and black. Was a member of President Bender’s Commission on the Separatists, apparently went toe-to-toe with Bender and didn’t back down. She’s picked up botany and comm protocols like drinking water. Doesn’t play favorites with any of the crew. Spends most of her free time with the ambassador working out contact strategies. She’s suspicious of my being on the mission but hasn’t made a big deal of it. Very efficient at prioritizing and delegating, everyone else seems OK with her leadership. If NASA or the president embedded someone in the crew to take over if the shit hits the fan, I can’t tell who it may be. So far, my money’s on her running the show no matter what.
John closed and encrypted the file, leaving it on the tablet instead of uploading it to the ship’s network storage, he then covered the porthole and started getting ready for sleep. At least he wasn’t waking up with ‘falling’ nightmares as often from sleeping in zero-G.
The next day was full of decompression drills. Seemingly endless episodes of getting in and out of their suits, and two evacuations from the spacecraft, both instances with all the interior lighting off. The crew had to check each other’s suits using only the lighting of their helmets, navigate to the nearest airlock together, and disembark attached by safety cable while members of the engineering crew waited in space backing them up.
When they broke for dinner everyone was exhausted. The conversation was subdued, but they were all more confident that they could handle a catastrophic failure of the environmental systems. The problem was, they all knew that if such an accident occurred, their options would be extremely limited, if not nonexistent. Everyone was trying to keep those thoughts away, concentrating on doing everything possible to keep mishaps from occurring.
The chore of getting into their suits was complex. An astronaut had to completely disrobe and put on an undersuit which helped control temperature, had medical sensors and wicked moisture away from the skin. They also donned, for lack of a better term, a diaper for times when urination or defecation was unavoidable. During the many drills, modesty was thrown to the wind as pairing up with a crew member of the opposite sex was just as likely as someone of the same gender.
Getting everything on and connected properly was imperative. There was absolutely no margin for error. Their relief at having completed every drill successfully made them giddy over their evening meal together, but no one was particularly interested in remaining up much later.
When John retired to his cabin he started another crew dossier, promising to himself to make it a habit before going to sleep.
Ambassador Bianca Ortega, special UN envoy - Brazilian. Very smart, has already stated she has two goals: 1) to negotiate for concessions and possible inclusion in the UN as a nation state and 2) she’s also offering normalized relations to the separatists or asylum on behalf of Brazil. She and Susan are, if not friends, very close confidants, at least where the mission is concerned. She’s lovely, which disarms most men who are easily distracted by her looks. I wouldn’t want to play poker with her. She’s obviously got the confidence of the security council, as well as the ear of Madam Secretary General. She’s hypercompetent, and flew through the spacesuit drills like she’s been doing it all her life. Twice we had to assist each other in the drills. She’s put together quite well; I hope she didn’t notice my blush. She gets along well with everyone; a professional communicator, almost empathic. She defers to Susan as mission commander with no hesitation, nor outward resentment. She’s also making an effort to learn everything she can about all the departments and their functions as well as the scheduled tests in her own wheelhouse. She’s visibly worked harder than anyone else studying for the mission. Bianca’s determined not to be a third wheel on this mission. She’ll definitely be pulling her weight.
John tucked himself into his bunk, making sure the covers were sealed to keep him from drifting around the room in the slight breeze that kept carbon dioxide from his exhalations from creating a life-stealing bubble around his head. His last thought before dropping off to sleep was the memory of how Ambassador Ortega looked with no clothes on.
Bianca was steeped in similar thought as she read through the oxygen reclamation and purification system manual. She spent several hours each evening in study, trying to master every detail of the ship systems. Where her survival was concerned, she left as little as possible to chance as she could. She also spent a considerable amount of time going over confidential background files the U.N. created on each crew member, looking for clues as to how each would perform during the mission. Bianca was also concerned with what other loyalties crew members might have and whether anyone was placed on the crew to sabotage the mission. The worst possible outcome would be a system failure that left them all incapacitated or dead.
So far, she had seen nothing in the behavior of any crew member that led her to suspect anyone’s motives, which left her quite gratified.
During the spacesuit drill, because of their proximity in the ship when the drills began, she had paired with John twice, helping each other suit up, making sure all the systems were functioning properly and that their suits were sealed against the coming vacuum of space. She was quietly amused as John was all business, even when they were both naked getting into their suits. She read his appreciation for her body as he had to smooth wrinkles out of her lining as well as he trusted her conscientious checking of his suit.
She had no illusions about the inevitable pairings that would come on a mission scheduled to last anywhere from eighteen months to two years. Not that she would be discomfited remaining unattached on the trip; the lack of sex with another wouldn’t be any great hardship. Still there was no reason to make any hard and fast decision about exactly what she would, or could, do with another crew mate on the mission.
She easily admitted to herself that John was interesting. He had a good sense of humor, somewhat self-deprecating, but he was no one’s fool. His mind was keen and he was having little difficulty absorbing the lessons of his training, suggesting experience in some very intensive and professional work for GST. And, as he had obv
iously done with her, Bianca thoroughly checked him out when he disrobed during the drills.
Of all the crew members, John was the only person who she wasn’t completely sure she understood as well as the rest. There was something slightly mysterious about him that she hadn’t clued in to. But Bianca was patient, and if GST had embedded him in the crew for some nefarious purpose, she’d find out soon enough
* * *
“Sydney? Please excuse the interruption, but I have just acquired some information that will be of interest to you,” announced Genesis.
Sydney was alone in her office in the suite she shared with Lucius Walker, both former recruiters turned colony historians. She welcomed the distraction, as she was really just counting the minutes until she would pick up her daughter and take her to the commons for dinner as a treat.
“What is it, Genesis?”
“There is a crew member on the NASA mission who I believe will be of great interest to you.”
“Is it one of my former students?” she asked.
“It is not. The crew member is traveling under an assumed name, but highly encrypted communications between Dr. Paul Milton, the director of Project Jove, and a member of the GST board of directors indicates that former detective John Mathews is now a member of the crew.”
At first the name didn’t make any sense to her, as she had made a deliberate effort years ago to push any thought of John to the back of her mind. When it clicked Sydney gasped, fumbling for a response as her mind exploded in turmoil.
When she finally calmed enough to speak intelligibly, she asked, “How … I mean, why, no—how did he get on the crew? He’s a retired police officer. He’s a bartender, for God’s sake. How is he a member of the mission crew?” she asked.
Confrontation Page 26
