The Trikon Deception, Page 3

  He pulled one from the plant and offered it to the judge.

  “Not on your life, baby,” said the judge. “Next.”

  The boy dissolved and re-formed as a pretty woman with vines for hair. A watermelon hung from each ear.

  “I worked on a farm that used GroFast Microbial Fertilizer,” she said. “We grew watermelons in five weeks. But as you can see, progress had its price.” She tossed her head and one of the watermelons slapped the judge in the face.

  “I think we’ve heard enough,” the judge said as he readjusted his surgeon’s lamp. “Has the jury reached a verdict?”

  “Shouldn’t they deliberate?” O’Donnell asked. But Weinstein did not answer. Stacey sat on his lap with her tongue in his mouth.

  The foreman stood and tapped the jury rail with a conducting wand. The rest of the jurors began to chant: “O’Donnell, O’Donnell, O’Donnell…”

  “We the members of the jury,” said the foreman, “being duly constituted in the State of Grace, and otherwise perfectly fit to determine the issues presented here, find the defendant guilty of playing with nature and otherwise trying to make the world a better place.”

  “Couldn’t have said it better myself.” The judge looked at his watch. “Might as well sentence now. Has the jury a recommendation?”

  “Sentence?” cried O’Donnell. “This isn’t a criminal trial. You can’t send me to jail. I’m a scientist. I’ve committed no crimes.”

  But everyone ignored him. The jury, whose chanting had reached a crescendo, suddenly lowered its collective voice to a whisper. Slowly a new chant rose in volume: “OD, OD, OD…”

  “What a clever idea,” said the judge. “Saves the state a ton of cash.”

  A black suitcase appeared at O’Donnell’s feet. It began to shake, as if something insider were trying to escape, then burst open. A storm of white powder filled the courtroom, swirling, drifting, chasing people out the door. All except for O’Donnell and the disembodied chanting of the jury. He couldn’t move. The powder rose to his waist, his chest, his neck. And then it plugged his nose.

  Hugh O’Donnell bolted upright. His heart thumped wildly and his hands shook. He unwound himself from the bed sheets. Gray light leaked around the edges of the thick dusty drapes. The wind was still howling outside; it felt as if the motel walls were shaking. He reached up to flick on the bed lamp. Nothing happened. He looked over at the radio/alarm clock on the nightstand. That was out, too.

  Stumbling into the bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face. Another wanger of a dream. No two were alike, yet all were strangely the same: sanity and reason turned on their heads, enemies cloaked in righteousness, friends selling out to friends, and the misinformed sitting in judgment. Just like real life. He pinched water into his nostrils and shot several staccato breaths out his nose. His sinuses were clear.

  O’Donnell passed a wet comb through his hair. It was quickly turning from the sandy color of his misspent youth to a scattered and premature gray. Life begins at forty, he told himself. I sure hope so. He fit his wire-rimmed glasses on his face and looped two wings of slicked hair behind his ears. He stepped into a pair of gym shorts and went out to the balcony.

  The wind was gusting so hard he had to lean against it, but it was warm, like the hand driers in cheap restrooms. Clouds boiled across a gunmetal sky. The palm trees were white, their fronds turned inside out by the buffeting gale. On the parking lot below he saw a newspaper plastered against the side of a car. The full-color picture of the space shuttle Constellation bled into the pavement.

  “Yo, O’Donnell.”

  Freddy Aviles, dressed in an abbreviated jumpsuit, hand-walked down the balcony rail. For an absurd instant O’Donnell thought he was still dreaming. Then Aviles stopped in front of him and deftly sat on the rail; one of his pinned-up jumpsuit legs showed only a stump inside it, the other not even that. He had mocha-colored skin and a tuft of wispy black hair on his jawline that he was trying to cultivate into a beard. His muscular arms and chest bulged the metallic suit fabric as he smiled lazily at O’Donnell. A gold canine flashed briefly.

  “Tree knocked down a power line,” he said. “Me and Lance, we’re gonna take a walk to find someplace that can cook us some food. Wanna come?”

  “In this?”

  “We dodge the branches. Be fun, eh?”

  O’Donnell looked at the sky and scowled.

  “C’mon, man.” Freddy flipped up into a handstand and began a set of vertical push-ups. A huge gold crucifix fell from the collar of his jumpsuit. It dangled from his neck and clicked against the rail with each repetition. “What you gonna do, sit in your room all day and count the walls, eh? They is only four.”

  “Give me a minute so I can shave,” said O’Donnell. He paused at the door. “Hey, Freddy, do people dream in space?”

  Dan Tighe raced down the passageways and through the hatches toward Trikon Station’s command module, grabbing handholds and literally flying weightlessly past startled technicians and crewmen, his feet never touching the deck.

  All of the station’s energy and environment control systems were regulated by the life-support program in the station’s mainframe computer. The life-support program monitored air quality in every one of the ten pressurized modules and regulated the circulation fans and carbon-dioxide absorbers on a second-by-second basis. Heat, electrical power, air, water—every breath taken by every man and woman aboard Trikon Station depended on the uninterrupted operation of the life-support program.

  If whoever copied Nutt’s files tried to upload the stolen data, Stu Roberts’s hug would cripple the thief’s computer and spread to the mainframe. The life-support program would be stopped along with everything else. They could all die within minutes.

  Tighe pulled himself into the command module, banging his knee on the entry hatch and tumbling toward the floor.

  “Ouch!” said Dr. Lorraine Renoir. Her infirmary was adjacent to the hatch. Her accordion door was open, and she was floating freely inside the cubbyhole making notes on a clipboard.

  Tighe ignored both the comment and the pain in his knee. Before his body hit the floor he pushed with his palms and redirected his momentum down the length of the module like a swimmer barreling off the bottom of a pool.

  The command and control center was located in the aft end of the module, adjacent to the space shuttle docking port. It contained the main computer terminal, manual controls for all systems, and the viewing ports.

  Tighe curled his feet into the loops at the base of the computer and hurriedly typed in his password. The computer beeped. Tighe breathed a sigh and entered the emergency code. A series of options played across the screen.

  WHICH ONE, COMMANDER TIGHE? asked the last line. The cursor blinked.

  “What’s going on, Dan?”

  Dr. Renoir steadied herself in the doorway to the command section. A French braid of chestnut hair floated from the back of her head.

  “We have a real problem, Lorraine. I’ll explain in a minute.”

  Tighe selected the option that read: AUX COMPUTER/AUX POWER/ESSENTIAL UTIL ONLY. The lights in the command module went out. He heard a gasp of surprise from Lorraine, behind him. Then the emergency lamps came on, substantially dimmer than the normal cabin lights.

  Tighe flicked on the station intercom.

  “This is Commander Tighe. A situation has arisen that requires a transfer to the station’s auxiliary power supply. All essential utilities such as life support will continue to operate at normal levels. However, nonessential utilities will remain inoperable until the situation is rectified. I am ordering everyone to remain where you are until full power is restored. The only exceptions are crew members Jeffries and Stanley. They are to report to the command module immediately.”

  Tighe clicked off the intercom.

  Lorraine was staring at him, eyes wide with either surprise or fear. Or both.

  “Some idiot scientist stole files from the computer terminal in The Bakery. Turns out
that a bigger idiot’s infected the files with a bug that’ll jam the computer of anyone trying to access those files.” Tighe patted the computer terminal. “If it gets in here and starts to replicate, then we’re in deep yogurt.”

  “Can you keep it out?”

  Nodding, Tighe forced a grin. The old command philosophy: Instill confidence in the crew. Maintain their morale and you’ll automatically maintain their respect. It occurred to him that he wanted Lorraine’s respect. She was an intelligent, level headed woman whom he could depend on. Even though she was the physician who could permanently ground him.

  She smiled back at him. She looked much better in micro-gee than she had on Earth. Back on the ground her face had been handsome, strong features and dark brows, her figure slim, almost boyish. The fluid shift that microgravity caused had served her well. Her brown eyes had an almost oriental cast to them now; her face was rounder, more feminine. Even her body seemed to have filled out better beneath the royal-blue jumpsuit she wore.

  Abruptly, Jeffries and Stanley slid through the hatch. Jeffries, a rangy, long-limbed black from Virginia Polytech, was Tighe’s most experienced crewman, with more than a year in space, the last six months on Trikon Station. He would be rotating back to Earth when the shuttle finally arrived, and Tighe would be sorry to lose him. Stanley was the station’s only Aussie: sandy hair, lazy grin, the powerful build of a swimmer. Neither man had ever experienced an emergency power-down. They both looked worried.

  Lorraine backed away from the doorway so the two crewmen could enter. Tighe quickly explained the situation, unconsciously spicing this version with more jargon than the account he had given Lorraine.

  “Okay,” he said, taking a breath. “Stanley, you stay here with Dr. Renoir. I want nobody, and I mean nobody, to enter the command module except for me. Jeff, you and I are going to conduct a complete search of the station.”

  Jeffries shoved off. As Tighe followed toward the hatch, Lorraine floated back to the infirmary and started to unlock a pharmaceutical compartment. Tighe stopped his momentum and cocked his head.

  “Preparing tranquilizers,” she said in response to his unstated question.

  “Good thinking,” said Tighe, and dove after Jeffries.

  Wordlessly Lorraine watched him disappear down the passageway.

  Hugh O’Donnell cast a dubious eye at the roadhouse. Its windows were boarded with plywood and its cratered gravel parking lot was empty except for a single pickup truck.

  “Looks like it’s closed,” shouted Lance Muncie over the growl of the relentless wind.

  Freddy bounced off the skateboard he used for long-distance treks and clambered up an awning post to an uncovered section of window.

  “Somebody inside,” he said as he cupped a hand against the glass.

  Muncie was young and big, varsity-football big, with heavily muscled arms and powerful hands. Yet he looked almost baby-fat soft: short-cropped blond hair and pinkly cherubic face. He frowned at the tattered sign clinging to the doorjamb, advertising topless dancing, and at the photos, censored with black squares across each woman’s chest.

  “Let’s try another place,” he said, pulling himself away from the peeling poster.

  A cardboard box smacked against O’Donnell’s legs, then flew across the parking lot. “There isn’t any other place,” he snapped, already regretting that he had accepted Freddy’s invitation.

  Freddy slid down the post until he was eye level with Lance.

  “’Scuse us a second, eh, O’Donnell?” he said.

  O’Donnell moved out of earshot, which was only a few feet away in the thundering gale. Apparently Freddy knew how to handle this Muncie kid. Freddy spoke earnestly, and some of the hardness drained from Lance’s face. Lance shrugged. Freddy shot a stage wink at O’Donnell and bounced onto his skateboard. Lance held the door as Freddy rolled through.

  The bartender was an amiable sort, fat and bearded and looking like he would be more comfortable in the cab of an eighteen-wheeler than behind a bar on Cape Canaveral. The storm had interrupted food delivery, he explained, but he might rustle up some tuna on toast if that suited their fancy. Everyone agreed that would be just fine.

  “Where ya’ll stayin’ at?”

  Freddy was gawking at the uncensored photos of the dancers taped to the mirror and Lance was staring at his fingernails, so O’Donnell answered, “The New Ramada.”

  “That’s where they put up shuttle passengers.” The bartender looked at Freddy. “Say, I know you. You’re that legless guy they’re sending up.”

  “Astronaut Fernando Aviles at your service.” Freddy vaulted onto the bar and spun himself on one hand.

  “Goddamn,” said the bartender. “You don’t need no micro-gee to be an acrobat.”

  Freddy returned to his stool.

  “Goin’ to Space Station Freedom, huh?”

  “Not Freedom. Trikon.” Freddy mussed Lance Muncie’s hair. “Lance and me, we’re part of the crew.”

  “Trikon, huh? That’s the industrial one, ain’t it?” The bartender looked at O’Donnell. “You a scientist or something?”

  “Something,” said O’Donnell.

  The bartender served tuna sandwiches and poured three glasses of grapefruit juice. Freddy accepted a shot of rum in his; Lance and O’Donnell refused. As the men ate, the bartender made small talk and professed a deep interest in all matters extraterrestrial. As if to prove his dedication, he switched the television to the “Good Morning, World” show. The screen showed a man wearing a crimson flight suit and bobbing effortlessly in what appeared to be a padded room. Nearby, a lanky blond wearing an identical flight suit pedaled a cycle attached to the floor.

  “Ever watch this?” asked the bartender. “They do a segment every week, live from Trikon Station. That guy there, he’s Kurt Jaeckle. His that scientist writes all them books about Mars.”

  Freddy and Lance grunted in recognition. O’Donnell gnawed on a burnt section of his toast. Seeing that his patrons were less than talkative, the bartender retreated to a well-cushioned stool set up next to the cash register.

  Kurt Jaeckle was smiling earnestly into the camera. His face was thin, pallid except for heavy dark eyebrows that shadowed his eyes.

  “One of the problems of extended space missions,” said Jaeckle, “is the effect of weightlessness on the muscular system of the human body. In microgravity, objects retain their mass but not their weight. Tasks that require the exertion of muscle power on Earth require virtually no effort in space. Hence, without a planned exercise regimen, a person’s muscles will atrophy.”

  The camera pulled back as Jaeckle floated effortlessly toward the blond puffing away on the exercise cycle.

  “Ms. Gamble here is demonstrating our stationary cycle, which exercises the leg muscles and, more importantly, the heart as well. The heart, remember, is nothing more than a muscle. On Earth it pumps blood against the force of gravity, but here in space there is no such resistance. Therefore, the heart can atrophy just like any other muscle.”

  At a nod from Jaeckle the blond stopped pedaling and tried to smile prettily into the camera.

  “I require each member of the Mars training mission to spend a minimum of eight hours on the cycle each week. The station commander has a separate set of exercise requirements for his crew, and the teams of research scientists on board are advised by the station’s medical officer to exercise on a regular basis.”

  “Ho boy, I’m in trouble,” said Freddy.

  “You can pedal with your hands,” said Lance.

  “Where do I sit?”

  “You don’t need to sit.”

  “Tha’s right,” said Freddy. “Maybe we can pedal with her, eh?”

  “She’s a local girl,” the bartender piped up. “First name’s Carla Sue. She was a beauty queen at the University of Florida a few years back, though you wouldn’t know it to look at her on that cycle. Space travel don’t agree with her. Professor Jaeckle talked about it last week. Somethin’ about
the body fluids rising from the legs to the chest and face in micro-gee. Carla Sue was prettier’n a movie star down here. But up there her face kinda looks like one of them big all-day lollipops, don’t it? Not that I still wouldn’t give her a lick.”

  Freddy giggled; Lance’s face reddened. O’Donnell didn’t know whether the kid was embarrassed or angry.

  “Don’t none of you guys get any ideas about Carla Sue,” said the bartender. “She’s Jaeckle’s.”

  “She hasn’t met us yet,” said Freddy.

  “I oughtta know,” the bartender went on. “The two of them were in here makin’ kissy-face enough before goin’ up.”

  No one picked up on this morsel of gossip, so he folded his arms across his gut and swiveled his head back to the television. Jaeckle was in the midst of explaining that the stationary cycle, for all its virtues, did not provide enough exercise for the calf muscles. To demonstrate, Carla Sue unzipped the bottom of her pants leg. Her calf was as straight as a rail and so thin that Jaeckle was nearly able to encircle it with one hand.

  “And, as you can see, it is quite flabby, too.” Jaeckle rubbed his hand up Carla Sue’s calf. A ripple of flesh preceded his fingers toward her knee.

  “In order to exercise these muscles, we have a treadmill,” continued Jaeckle. “Now Ms. Gamble apparently has not been spending the required amount of time on the treadmill.” He smacked her calf sharply. “Better work on these.”

  Lance tapped O’Donnell’s wrist.

  “Did I ever show you the picture of my girl?”

  O’Donnell grunted noncommittally. He had tried talking to Lance Muncie during preflight instruction and had received nothing but a hard stare in return. His initial impression was that Muncie somehow knew of his past and disapproved on a deeply moral level. Later, from talking to Freddy, he learned that Lance came from a Pentecostal community in the Oklahoma panhandle. Just what we need, he had thought, a fundamentalist aboard the space station.

  Yet the kid didn’t seem too bad. Uptight, of course, but not a fanatic. O’Donnell thought of his own father, sneaking booze even into the hospital room where they tried to save him from cirrhosis. There are all kinds of fanatics in the world; maybe the son of a Bible-thumper will work out better up there than the son of an alcoholic.