Frontier
Page 39
“Deal,” Max said, his fingers dancing across the screen as he searched for the right commands. “Ah, there we go. Emergency separation engaged.”
A thud echoed through the little spacecraft as clamps unlocked and spring-loaded bolts pushed them away from the Peng Fei’s ruined docking node. As they pulled away, Jasmine activated a periscope mounted in the side of their flight module and trained it on the remains of Specter. The shuttle’s tail had been torn open, exposing its cabin—and by extension, Peng Fei’s cabin—to space. Among the cloud of shredded alloys and composites, she counted at least three bodies in PRC uniforms. She and Max watched the scene in fascination and horror as Marshall pulsed thrusters, pushing them farther away. “I know we had to ride rockets to get this far,” Jasmine said, “but to see that much explosive force . . .”
“A little frightening, isn’t it?” Marshall said.
“And in such a small ship,” she said.
“Hypergolics are wicked. They’ll deep fry your lungs when they’re not exploding on contact. I hate the stuff.”
“I suppose it has its uses.” She shuddered. “After this, I don’t intend to ever be out here again. It’s not safe.”
Marshall suspected that was intended for her husband as much as anything. “To be fair, those engines worked fine until I welded the thrust chambers shut.” He found a radio panel and dialed in his ship’s frequency. “Ahoy, Borman.”
Colonel Liu Wang Shu gasped reflexively, his lungs violently emptied of air and unable to replace it. Numbing cold at first, he felt burning heat as the unfiltered Sun bore down on him in its full force as he fell into the void. The silence was like nothing he’d ever experienced, a complete absence of sound so utterly consuming that it was as a noise unto itself: The silent music of the planets eternally tracing their orbits. He could feel the raw scream in his throat, though he could not hear it.
His ship swirled past in his fading vision as he tumbled through space. How odd to see it from here, he thought. How few space travelers got to see their vessels like this—had any, in fact?
It was liberating in a sense, and would be quite the story could he ever tell it. So much to . . .
All became darkness.
40
Nick Lesko sat up in his bed when the glass door slid open. Hoping to have another visit from that bouncy brunette, he was sorely disappointed to see three men in suits walk in unannounced while a fourth stood outside, warning away any curious hospital staff. It became even more disappointing when they showed their badges.
“Nicholas Lesko?”
He nodded, eyeing them suspiciously. “Uh-huh.”
“Agent Lang, FBI,” the leader said, slipping his badge back into his chest pocket. “We have a few questions for you.”
Lesko jutted his chin defiantly. “I got nothing to say. Not without my lawyer.”
The three men exchanged jaded glances. “We were afraid you might feel that way.” Lang loudly dragged a chair from across the room and sat, facing him. “We’ll just get right to it. You’re in deep shit, Mr. Lesko.”
They stared at each other in silence. Lesko spread his hands in a “what do you want” gesture.
Lang rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “Very well. I get it, pleading the Fifth. That’s of course your right. But you need to understand what you’re being investigated for: espionage, for starters. Probably homicide, after NTSB finishes its investigation into the Stardust mishap. You’re a smart guy. I don’t have to explain what this means for you, do I?”
“I cooperate and you hide me out in some Nebraska backwater for the rest of my life. I don’t, and you put me away for the rest of my life.”
“Something like that, yes.”
“You do what you gotta do, I ain’t talking,” Lesko said, weighing his options. The Feds thought they were in control, but what they didn’t know was that there was no such thing as “witness protection” when it came to those pricks in Macau. If he talked, someone, somewhere, would find a way to get to him. If he couldn’t stay on a military base forever, then the next safest place he could be was in a federal supermax prison.
No matter what he did, the rest of his life was going to suck. The question now was how much time did he have? He’d deal with the rest later.
“Permission to come aboard.”
“Permission granted.” Simon Poole floated up from the connecting tunnel and gripped Marshall’s arm, a broad smile across his face. “Welcome home.”
“Feels like it now, sir,” Marshall said. “Never thought I’d be so glad to see this place.” He kept his eyes fixed on Poole’s face, on anything but his missing leg.
Poole didn’t miss it. “Aw hell,” he said, “have a look. Everybody’s got to tear off the Band-Aid at some point.”
“Yes sir, but . . .” Marshall said, “I mean . . . damn, sir. I don’t know what to say.”
“What is there to say? Hell, I can’t wait to get back to Fleet Ops. I can hear it already: ‘Peg Leg’ Poole, the Space Pirate,” he growled. “I should grow a beard and get a damned parrot to complete the look.”
Marshall looked around the connecting corridor, surveying the damage. Patched bullet holes, stains that hadn’t been completely removed, the medical bay closed off perhaps permanently, at least until they got back to Earth.
“It got sporty in here, as your Dad might say,” Poole said, noticing him. “I watched him in zero-g combat once, you know. Never was something I wanted to try out myself. Kind of like one of those fight scenes in The Matrix, but without the trench coats and cartoon philosophy.”
“Ship-to-ship isn’t much more fun, sir. Standing next to a bomb that’s about to go off is even less so.”
“Technically that could be considered a war crime, you know. Faking surrender for a tactical advantage.”
“Yes sir, I suppose some pencil-neck lawyer could see it that way. I doubt many of those types ever had a gun pointed at them.”
“Of course you were prepared to surrender,” Poole said, aping an officious bureaucratic tone, “but the Jiangs weren’t obliged to go along with it. Changed their minds, did they?”
“They were pretty adamant, sir. And then my OMS went and malfunctioned like that . . .”
“Good thinking, by the way. You had a lot of people really cranked up here. ‘Surrender is not in our creed’ and all that. Not saying I’d have been any happier. Lucky for you I was sedated or I’d have found a way to personally come over there and knock some sense into you.”
“I’d have been glad to have had you there, sir. Might have found a way out of it without blowing up Specter.”
Poole put a hand on his shoulder and tapped his forehead with one finger. “You didn’t hear me—I said good thinking. They caught us with our pants around our ankles, son. You found a way to zip up our fly without snagging our junk in it.”
“An interesting metaphor, sir. But I don’t think we’re zipped up yet, are we?” They still had a long way back to Earth.
“Not yet, but we’ve got some ideas.” Poole led him down the corridor, into the wardroom where Garver and Rosie waited with trays of their best freeze-dried, reconstituted steak. Four drinking bulbs full of golden-brown liquid were clipped to the table by each. Marshall picked up on the sharp scent of bourbon. “First, a toast.”
There being no arguing with physics, they were still locked into a path home that included a Mars flyby, a six-month extension to their journey that no one had come prepared for. The following days were spent in a flurry of hops between Borman and the now-empty Peng Fei using their newly acquired shuttle, made flyable by the Jiangs’ tireless translation of Shenzou’s flight manual and liberal handwritten notes taped over every switch, lever, and circuit breaker.
“Looks like yet another packet of freeze-dried noodles,” Marshall said as he sent another soft-sided package flying down an open corridor.
“Not bad.” Max caught it in midair. “I recall you saying you couldn’t even read a Chinese menu.”
“I can promise you will be,” Max said. “Give me a good hot dog any time.”
They spent two full days aboard the Peng Fei, raiding its pantry and—just as importantly—its computers. By the end of the week, when the synodic period dictated Borman’s departure window, they had emptied the ship of months’ worth of food and absconded with hard drives full of information on the extent of PRC operations in cislunar space. There would be much to keep them occupied during the long journey home.
“Ensign McCall.”
Perhaps having been a little too comfortable at her control station, Roberta sat up straight in her seat at hearing the Ops officer’s voice behind her. She hastily checked her screens—nothing untoward in view, and the drone systems she was running were all working normally. So, not in trouble then. Not yet.
She stood, surprised to find him with Commander Wicklund in tow. “Yes sir?”
He began roughly. “I understand you’ve been doing a little freelancing, Ensign.”
It was too bad Ivey was off today. She could use the backup. “I think I can explain, sir.”
The Air Force colonel eyed her, then traded a look with Wicklund. “Can you? Because that would be interesting.”
She swallowed. “Sir, I—”
The colonel held up a hand. “The less I know from you, the better. Wicklund here already briefed me.”
Roberta looked at him quizzically.
“You think I’m going to just let you go around your chain of command, Ensign? It doesn’t work that way.”
“I don’t understand . . .”
“We don’t pay you to understand, McCall,” the colonel said, jerking a thumb between himself and Wicklund. “That’s our job.”
She turned to Wicklund, perturbed. “You told him?”
“Hell yes I did, because it was brilliant and ballsy. Told him you deserved a commendation.”
The colonel interjected. “Which I might have endorsed if I’d known beforehand. Lucky for you it worked. If it’d blown up in your face, we’d be having a different conversation.”
“You pulled off a bit of an intelligence coup,” Wicklund said, “which would’ve been great if you actually worked in the S-2 or investigative service.”
“You did the right thing, but it embarrassed the wrong people,” the colonel explained. “So no commendation medals for you, I’m afraid.”
Roberta knitted her brow. “I wasn’t looking for medals, sir. I was just trying to . . . well . . . defend my country and help my fellow Guardians.” She knew it sounded corny as hell, and she didn’t care.
The two senior officers exchanged looks. “No good deed goes unpunished, Ensign. In this case it ends with you being reassigned,” the colonel said.
Roberta deflated. The drones had been fun while they lasted. “I understand, sir.”
The colonel handed her a tablet. “Sometimes, recognition comes in unexpected forms.”
Puzzled, she took the tablet. “I still don’t understand . . .” she said, reading the orders. “I’m being assigned to your detachment, Commander Wicklund?”
“For now,” he said, “until the Borman gets back. That should be enough time to get you up to speed and tie up any loose ends here on Earth.” Wicklund gave her a wink. “Welcome aboard.”
“Inmate 163922. Visitor.”
Finally, Nick Lesko thought. His bloodsucking lawyer had decided to show up. He pulled himself up from the thin mattress atop the concrete bench that formed his bed and worked out the kinks in his back. With a loud buzz, the door to his cell slid open and a burly guard waited for him on the other side. Lesko ignored the man’s name tag, didn’t register his face as to him they were all the same. The guard’s black and white uniforms were as ubiquitous as the prison’s colorless milieu of concrete and steel; the only distinctions Lesko could make were by smell. This one smelled of mustard and onions, so it must have been after lunchtime.
The guard led him by the arm down a long corridor and around a corner to a series of small visitation cubicles, each partitioned from the outside by thick panes of shatter-resistant glass.
He’d only been here once before, the first time he’d met his scumbag lawyer. It had been a lot busier then. Lesko noticed right away there was no one else around. He looked to the guard, who pointed him to a cubicle at the end of the row. Behind him, the steel door shut with a thud.
As Lesko passed the last partition, he could see his visitor: young, well dressed, a slick of black hair pulled back from his head into a small, tight bun. Asian, and definitely not his lawyer. The man picked up the telephone receiver on his side of the glass, motioning for Lesko to do the same.
“Greetings, Mr. Lesko. We haven’t met.”
“We haven’t,” Lesko said suspiciously. “Who are you?”
“That is not important. But I bring a message from a mutual acquaintance.”
Lesko’s neck began to tingle. Behind him, the steel door thudded again. “Yeah? What message is that?”
The man remained silent, his eyes looking beyond Lesko. They were trying to intimidate him, and it was starting to piss him off. Where the hell was his lawyer when he needed him? “Guard—” Lesko began, and turned to look. Behind him, the guard had disappeared. In his place stood an orange-suited hulk, his coveralls barely containing his tree-trunk physique. A prong of coarsely formed metal glinted in his right hand.
For being so massive, he was shockingly fast. Lesko felt the blows, but didn’t feel the blade sinking in until the third or fourth strike.
As he crumpled to the floor, vital fluids gushing from a half-dozen openings in his torso, Lesko stared up at the ceiling as the light faded around him. A shank? He’d expected them to be more subtle. You do what you gotta do.
EPILOGUE
Mars grew visibly larger by the minute as they approached from its night side. Mostly shrouded in darkness, its eastern limb glowed in burnt ocher as the Sun climbed over the horizon. Morning mists of carbon dioxide filled the lower plains while the massive Olympus Mons rose above the planet’s thin atmosphere.
Marshall sat in the command pilot’s seat, Captain Poole in the second pilot’s seat beside him. Behind them, the Jiangs marveled at the passing planet from the cupola, furiously firing away with every camera they could fit up there. He hoped at least one picture would be of them with the red planet in the background; they deserved the indulgence.
The view from the dome would’ve been spectacular, but never in a million years did he think he’d get to see it from the pilot’s seat. That was a thrill few could understand.
“Look at that,” he said as more of Mars came into view. “I can’t believe how fast it goes by.”
“Life is like that,” Poole said. “I know you’re thinking about the planet, but still . . .”
“I think I know what you mean now, sir.” He stared at the spectacle outside. “My first look at this was through my dad’s telescope. It wasn’t long after you guys came back from the Moon.”
“Now that was a real shitshow,” Poole drawled. “Nothing to do with your dad, believe it or not. I just about bought the farm there.”
“A lot of us did,” Marshall said, his voice trailing off. Memories of riding out the flood with his mother came back with a shiver. He pushed the thought from his mind, as he’d learned to do over the years: put it in a box where it belonged, lock it away, don’t let it out. He focused on the planet outside. “I’ve wanted to go to Mars ever since. I can’t explain it, I just always felt pulled to go like some people feel about climbing mountains. It’s there and nobody knows much about it, so let’s go.” He sighed. “I just hope we get to come back.”
“You never know where the fickle hand of fate will land, son.” Poole smiled. “I got a message from your Aunt Penny.” She wasn’t technical
ly his aunt, but Penny Stratton had been as close to his parents as Poole had been over the years. “She’s back at NASA, heading up their human spaceflight division. You knew that, right?”
“I didn’t. What did they do to convince her to quit flying missionaries around South America?”
“New deep-space project called Magellan, she said. Reusable and modular, based on this platform,” Poole said, patting the glare shield. “They want to experiment with variable-impulse plasma engines, supposedly it can do this very trip in three months.”
Marshall whistled. “That’s serious.” He eyed Poole. “Wait a minute . . . you’re going to do it, aren’t you?”
Poole patted the air where his leg used to be. “They’re not going to let me stay, I can tell you that. This here is an express ticket to medical retirement.” He laughed. “That’ll be like my third retirement. I thought you had to be pro ball player to do that, but whatever.”
“So the military won’t let you command a ship, but NASA will?”
“I’m the flavor of the month, I guess. She wants somebody who knows his way around a spacecraft and a nuke plant.”
Mars filled the windows now. Their flyby was already half over, yet this crowded out his attention. “I’m not sure what to say, sir. I hate to see you go.”
Behind him, he heard Garver clear his throat. Had the chief been eavesdropping? “You do understand they still draw astronauts from active military, sir?”
Marshall’s eyes darted between the two. This was more than just eavesdropping.
Poole placed a hand on his shoulder. “You’re coming with me.”
THE END