Space stretched toward infinity around the personnel
shuttle Felicitas. Countless points of light burned
steadily, as if staring down the entire human race with a
wordless challenge. McBride stared back, lost in one
thought or another. None of the other five people in the
shuttle could guess what that thought was.
Jemison had given up trying long ago, and was currently
engrossed in a novel which he had loaded into his hand
computer. The four miners were all asleep, having spent the
last three hours checking their equipment and trying to beat
the computer at nine different variations of contract
bridge. Chilled air drifted through the chamber, carrying
with it the soft hum of the engines.
McBride felt a hand tapping his shoulder. He climbed
out of his contemplation and turned to meet his copilot's
gaze. "Yah."
"Do you have any idea what this means?" asked Jemison,
offering the hand computer.
A passage had been highlighted. McBride read it and
returned the unit with a smirk. "Kyle, you're incorrigible."
"Thinking about Miss Leefield?" Jemison inquired,
without looking up.
"What makes you think I would be?"
"`Incorrigible'? You only talk like that when you're
feeling good about yourself."
One of the miners stirred. McBride glanced back, then
down at his console. "Looks like we're coming up on the
waypoint."
Jemison put away his novel and took the controls,
grumbling.
One pair of airtight boots landed on the paved surface,
bringing with them the spacesuited body of Kyle-Bartelt Blue
Jemison. He looked around, arms extended, turning at the
waist, surveying the area between the landing pad and the
relay station's main bunker. The reactionless pistol in his
hand weighed next to nothing in the asteroid's fractional
gravity, but its inertia still resisted his motions.
They had approached the station with their relay beacon
activated and tuned to the automated landing frequency.
Normally, the station's computers would have interfaced with
the Felicitas' navigation systems and brought the shuttle
down on autopilot, but there had been no signal coming from
the asteroid. McBride had landed them manually while
Jemison suited up and loaded his sidearm. It had been three
months since he last fired it with hostile intent.
He stepped forward cautiously, still scanning the
barren landscape for any sign of life. Unidentified vessels
had recently been spotted around the populated sections of
the Torus, usually near the robot fringe stations, but they
had not disturbed any bases. The vehicles were definitely
human; one Quintex telescoper had been able to photograph a
loneboat with an Allison Aerospace rocket assembly. No one,
however, knew who was driving these ships.
Or, no one wants to talk about it, thought Jemison as
he took another step. Fine dust puffed around his feet as
he continued toward the bunker, both hands clutching his
weapon. Shadows fell across the harshly lit rock like spilt
ink on a blank page.
McBride watched from inside the shuttle as the miners
assembled their vacuum gear. The three men and one woman
had received small arms training from Quintex, and everyone
on the shuttle was a qualified pilot. Before his egress,
Jemison had emptied the weapons locker and laid out
holsters, pistols, extra magazines, and spare gas
cartridges. McBride had promptly put his two magazines of
nine-millimeter shells back into the locker. He knew he
couldn't shoot straight to save his own life.
One of the miners, a wiry Martian-- the accent was
unmistakable-- scratched his beard with one hand and snapped
his holster into place with the other. "What's taking so
long?"
"Just being cautious." McBride adjusted the gain on his
monitor, brightening the image from Jemison's suit camera.
He was currently examining the door to the bunker.
"The locks appear to be intact," said Jemison, freeing
one hand to reach for the keypad. "I'm going to try the
door."
He punched in the code which glowed on the interior of
his faceplate, courtesy of a transmission from the Felicitas
and a paper-thin display matrix. After a second, the light
above the lock brightened from red to green, and the door
began rolling aside. Jemison stepped back and brought his
pistol up, steadying it with both hands.
Darkness filled the doorway. Jemison tilted his head,
and the helmet-mounted floodlamp fought back the shadows.
He saw equipment cabinets and immediately knew something was
wrong.
"The inner door's been forced," he said, stepping
forward, swinging his pistol back and forth.
"Don't move, Kyle. I'm coming out." McBride grabbed
his helmet and gestured at the head miner. "You know how to
fly this thing?"
"We'll bolt at the first sign of danger," promised the
grinning Martian.
McBride and Jemison took fifteen minutes to secure the
station. Jemison insisted that they search the entire
building visually, and perform a sensor sweep for
electromagnetic anomalies which might indicate explosives,
monitoring devices, or other unwanted equipment. McBride
let his partner put away the bulky scanning gear, and tried
to access the main computer.
"No power." He flipped several switches, opened a
panel, and flipped a few more. "Switching to batteries."
Jemison found a terminal and watched the screen as it
sparked to life. "Great."
McBride sighed and trudged over. "Is anything working?"
"Not a jicking thing." A pair of gloved hands reached
for an access hatch and popped it impatiently. "Scanners are
dead. Telescope's locked in its dome." Jemison's eyes
narrowed as he stared into the cabinet's innards. "And some
idiot's ripped out half the computer."
Before he could re-open the toolbox, McBride extended
an arm to stop him. "Wait. Where's the nearest rock?"
"About three kilometers. Why?"
"Someone doesn't want us to see something. Let's get
out of here."
After they had departed the asteroid, radioed their
findings to New Montana, and resupplied at another relay
station, the Felicitas continued toward the mining colony.
The remainder of the journey was uneventful, except for the
fact that the miners came ten points short of winning a game
of tiered-contract bridge against the computer. As McBride
and Jemison began the return trip, Quintex notified the
Felicitas that their report had been acknowledged and proper
action was being taken. The pilots shrugged at each other,
then switched on their telecom receiver, catching the end of
an old motion picture followed by a newsfeed.
"I still think she should have stayed with Rick,"
grumbled Jemison as the movie ended.
"I'm not having this argument again."
The lead story on the newsfeed was about Project
Skyscraper, Quintex and Ariane's joint undertaking to build
a space station above the plane of the solar system. The
station would be located on a chord between New Montana and
Ariane's main settlement, City of Light: the two largest
manned facilities in the Torus. The corporations would set
navigation beacons on the path connecting those three
points, providing a new and safer interplanetary trade
route. The United Nations was still debating if and how it
should regulate this project.
"Such a bland name, `Skyscraper,'" noted Jemison.
"I suppose you have a few ideas." McBride flipped to a
financial report.
"`Blue Sky.' Definitely."
Date: Thu, 19 Aug 60 19:15:34 -0500
From: PRISM@beetle.oca.ariane.tor (Carolyn-Lane A. Leefield)
Subject: Ships in the night
To: "Leonard-Shou McBride" <beagle@granite.newham.quintex.tor>
Greets Leonard,
Looks like we'll be seeing more of each other! I've
been assigned to Project Skyscraper as part of the on-site
management. Crew chief for the day shift, actually- I
volunteered. Who wants to sit in a stuffy old office, right?
You mentioned you might be also getting a new post.
Anything worth telling?
Love, Carolyn
A fierce glow illuminated the landing pad as the
Madison Quinn lowered itself to City of Light, riding on
pillars of cerulean flame. Thunder rumbled through the
ceramic floor as the vessel touched down with as much grace
as possible for something of its size and mass. Ariane
Odyssey's honor guard, their helmet visors darkened by the
light, strode forward and formed two lines on either side of
the spacecraft's egress doors. The stylized "Q" painted on
the loneboat's side split and disappeared as the irised
portal rolled back, revealing the outer airlock doors.
Three seconds later, the lock finished its
pressurization cycle, and steel alloy parted to reveal a man
in his seventies, dressed in a simple blue blazer and
marbled beige slacks. A forest-green collartie deepened the
mahogany tint of his eyes, set in a strong face lined with
many decades' worth of character. He carried a thin, black
valise, which he transferred to his left hand as a white-
suited attendant came to greet him.
"Welcome to City of Light, Mister Quinn," said the
attendant as he shook hands with the CEO of Quintex
Corporation. "May I take your bag?"
"No, thank you," replied Jacob-Martin Taggart Quinn,
his speech carved by years of residency in the United
Kingdom.
"We have a car waiting. This way, please."
It took ten minutes for the air tram to cruise from the
spaceport to company headquarters, and the tubeway took them
past several miles of the city, on both the exterior and
interior of the asteroid. Jacob had seen it all before-- in
fact, much of the colony looked remarkably like New Montana,
except that lighting elements were far more prominent here.
Ariane had built a menagerie of visible radiation,
originally designed as a system of navigational beacons, but
later becoming a distinct, stylistic emblem, like Quintex's
blue-and-grey spacecraft markings.
His ears barely registered the continuous chatter of
the attendant, who gave his name as Stobell. The valise
seemed heavier every time it slapped against Jacob's legs,
tossed by a tight turn or a slightly misaligned air column
in the tubeway. Stobell provided an endless stream of
largely useless information about City of Light's size,
population, energy usage, tourist attractions, and history.
The only words Jacob-Martin Quinn heard were "very excited
about Project Skyscraper" and "lobster."
A veritable army of servants and aides greeted them at
the Ariane Odyssey headquarters complex. Jacob found
himself whisked to a bath chamber, where he made use of the
mirror to ask himself what he was going to do about those
new streaks of grey around his temples. After that brief
morsel of privacy, he was guided to a sitting-room and told
that Dr. and Mrs. Galza would be with him shortly. He
smiled politely as the ornate wooden doors closed, and,
understanding that he was supposed to admire the decor for a
while, sighed and proceeded to do so. The Galzas' obsession
with ceremony would always be a mystery to him.
The room was as big as a small hangar. Intricate
frescoes covered the interior of the domed ceiling,
depicting various historical figures and events. It took
Jac a few moments to recognize them all. Christopher
Columbus stepped onto a Salvadoran beach, waves lapping at
his feet, the sun casting a long shadow onto the sand.
Richard Byrd, nearly obscured by his coat and snow gear,
planted a flag in the polar wastes. Joan of Arc pointed a
sword toward heaven. August Caesar's fleet, their sails
frozen in time, sailed toward Actium as Marc Antony fled.
Lee and Grant stood face to face at Appomattox. Amelia
Earhart smiled from the cockpit of the last plane she ever
flew. Nameless astronauts, their suits bearing the Ariane
Odyssey insignia, raised their arms as they stepped onto a
Martian desert.
Books, shelved three meters high, lined two of the four
walls. Quinn strolled past them, catching a few titles here
and there: Plato's Republic, The Complete Grisham,
Nietzsche and Mann, The Fire Next Time. The other two
walls were display panels, currently showing Van Gogh's The
Starry Night and a holograph of Michelangelo's David. As he
stepped closer to examine the statue, it dissolved into a
Chinese lion from the Forbidden City. It was public
knowledge that Jenny Galza had arranged private display
rights for several historical works of art from museums all
over Earth, but Jacob never realized how much time and
effort had been put into it.
A chime sounded as the doors opened again. Anthony-
Bettner and Jennifer-Ford Galza entered, looking regal and
refined. Quinn smiled through his embarrassment at being
underdressed and extended a hand toward Tony, whose grin
seemed to fill the room.
"Jac! How are you?" His tuxedo shone as if it had been
polished, and his voice boomed like an orchestra. Eyes the
color of a predawn Mediterranean sky peered out from a head
chiseled to match his stocky figure. "It's been a while."
"Ten months, I think." Jacob's eyes drifted to
Jennifer, who had chosen a modest but flattering emerald-
green evening gown and piled her dark brown hair into a ruby-
studded tower. He tried to remember her age and didn't
believe he recalled it correctly. "How was the opera?"
She laughed, and Jacob thought there was something
strange in the way Tony looked at her. "A reception for the
Bosnian economic council. We like to dress up," said Jenny.
"I see you have more important things on your mind."
"Er." Jac exaggerated a grimace. "Marvelous remodeling
job."
Tony smiled with half his face. His public-relations
facade was fading fast, as if he had lost the energy to
maintain it. "Business is good. Hong Kong just sent us
flowers. Oh, sorry we couldn't meet you at the spaceport."
"It's been very busy this past month," Jenny added
after a pause. "So what do you think of our little
settlement?"
"I'd hardly call it `little'," Jac replied. "City of
Light is almost as large as New Montana."
"We'll outdo you yet," said Tony, falling onto an
ornate, probably antique sofa. "A drink?"
"Just water, please." Jacob lowered himself into a
chair.
Jenny frowned softly as she glided to the liquor
cabinet and selected three glasses. "You're starting to
sound like a Torie, Jac."
"Three years out here..." He sat down, watching her
pour the liquids. City of Light's low gravity and
exaggerated Coriolis effect made it an almost surgical task.
"One learns to do without certain things."
Tony accepted a martini from his wife. "That's why we
have transports, Jac. Bringing a bit of the old world to
the new."
Jacob sipped at the contents of his glass. "Mineral
water?"
"Only the best," assured Jenny, taking a seat beside
her husband. "French. The export tariffs were horrendous."
"Alcohol is worse. And it dehydrates you," Jacob
noted. "Bad thing when you're in open space for twenty
days."
"But you don't spend weeks flying a boat, Jac," said
Tony, staring into his drink. Jenny watched him. "We
executives can afford to relax a little."
"Fate cares not for titles, my friend," intoned Jacob,
theatrically. "When was your last certification on a
loneboat?"
"Six weeks ago."
"Two." Jacob tapped his own chest with one finger.
"Semper paratus, Tony. Never know what'll happen out here."
"Speaking of which," Anthony prompted, "you said you
wanted to talk about the relay station."
"Yes." Quinn reached for his valise. "Since both our
companies maintain the fringe stations, I thought we should
discuss this latest incident in person."
"You're concerned about the loneboat sightings."
"I can accept random meteor impacts." A portable
electronic notepad, not as bulky or versatile as a hand
computer, emerged from the valise. "I won't abide pirates.
We are all the authority there is out here, and it falls to
us to maintain order."
"There haven't been problems before," said Jennifer.
"No." Tony put his glass down. "All we had before were
full astros, but we've had to transport and train a lot more
Earthers and Martians for Skyscraper. These people
generally aren't as dedicated as the astros. They didn't
come out here with the same mindset. I still wish we had
fought the UN a bit harder, Jac."
"We've been over this, Tony." The Skyscraper
Conference, held a year ago, had lasted nine weeks, with the
companies' respective CEOs debating vigorously for most of
that time. Jac had enjoyed the debates, but other people
had insisted on getting real work done. "We need too many
people, and we can't slow down our schedule." Five different
shipping companies had already contracted to use the
station.
"You remember the Holtz projections. A good bunch of
astros can get the job done much faster than twice the
number of Martians."
"Holtz?" Jacob squinted at Tony, then Jenny. She
shrugged. "Martin Holtz could extrapolate the existence of
God from the result of a coin toss. Most of our astros
don't have the expertise needed for a project of this scale.
And pulling five thousand people from all our other projects
would be crippling."
Tony conceded the point. "Would it make a difference if
these flatfoots didn't work out?"
"Don't say things like that. I'd hate to suspect you
of something underhanded." Jacob offered the illuminated
notepad, a touch-sensitive display surface surrounded by a
grip frame.
Tony took the pad. Jenny peeked over his shoulder at a
series of blurry images and said, "The loneboat sightings?"
Quinn nodded. Tony shifted in his seat, causing Jenny
to move away.
"We've established that they're human. What are we
looking at?"
"Those pictures were taken yesterday by the shuttle
that discovered the dead station in sector 94305. The
pilots thought that the ship might have been following them.
It changed course and disappeared half a minute after they
spotted it."
"So you think these might be the saboteurs?" Tony
enlarged the image. "Does this match any previous images?"
"No." Jacob placed his hands on his legs. "We computer-
enhanced the film. Take a look at panel six."
Jenny pointed at something. Tony muttered and touched
the notepad. The display area shimmered, and a single
spacecraft appeared. Tony drew a deep breath.
"I assure you, Jac, I know nothing about this." His
eyes had darkened.
"But you will confirm that the loneboat pictured is an
Ariane vehicle."
"Yes." The red-and-white hull imprint was unmistakable.
He looked at his wife-- for the first time that evening, Jac
realized. "It looks like one of our supply ships. We run
ten of them a day between here and Mars."
"Has any of them disappeared or been stolen?" probed
Jacob.
"Not that I know of."
"We would have been notified," Jenny remarked. "They
carry supplies for this facility. We've been living here
for months."
"Then," sighed Jacob, "it looks like someone's been
moonlighting."
"Do any of these pictures show the registry number?"
"No. We already checked--"
A bell rang somewhere above them, and the doors parted
to reveal a smartly dressed butler. Tony quickly turned the
notepad away and acknowledged the elderly man with a gaze.
"Dinner," he pronounced thoughtfully, "is served."
Copyright © 1996 Curtis C. Chen. All Rights Reserved.