Io Station glittered in the fading sunlight, as it
crossed the terminator into the moon's shadow. One
telescope operator gave a low whistle as a particularly
violent eruption lit up several square kilometers of the
volcanic surface. The orbiting platform had a spectacular
view of one of the most destructive wonders of the solar
system.
Of course, there was also routine monitoring to be
done. The robot stations on the surface were mainly for
measuring seismic activity; most of the important things
happened in orbit. Another scoper, fending off boredom,
watched a long-dead actor stumble across the display screen
in a flurry of dance. Her computer terminal purred softly
to itself, calmly processing the billions of pixels which
arrived from the telescope port every second. It had been
programmed to record any anomalous flickers, glows, or
glimmers which could not be matched to scheduled spacecraft
or known astronomical phenomena.
June-Garner Bergan had thought living in the Torus
would be more exciting than it had turned out to be.
Adapting to the physical environment had been fun, but the
job-- almost a year old now-- presented no more challenging
than her previous occupation at Lick Observatory, and the
Tories at Io Station were an arrogant bunch. Despite her
obvious qualifications and dedicated acceptance of a zee-gee
lifestyle, they still tended to sneer at her too-long hair
and gravity-sculpted figure, and those who didn't sneer,
leered. Some things never changed.
The terminal whistled loudly, causing June to start.
Something large enough to be hazardous was moving into a
shipping lane. She cursed whatever idiot it was who had
forgotten to file an accurate flight plan, switched off the
movie, and looked at the screen. Ten seconds later, she
locked the telescope to track its targets and started taking
photographs. Twenty minutes after that, City of Light
received the first of the pictures. Within an hour, Anthony
Galza had contacted Jacob Quinn to request another private
meeting.
"We were going to follow the shuttles," said Galza,
"but all three of them have disappeared. They dove into
Saturn's rings and went cold."
"After attacking a convoy and killing five men? I
should think so." Jacob-Martin Quinn tried to speak without
showing the tension that had knotted his gut.
Anthony-Bettner Galza was half limp, floating in the
aft compartment of the Madison Quinn like a diver at rest.
Even in the weightlessness of space, he seemed to have an
intense burden on his shoulders, and the lines of his face
agreed.
"Here's the vid," he sighed after a long moment of
contemplation. The wall beside him came to life with the
image of an astronaut, the torso of his spacesuit ruptured,
slowly wheeling before a background of stars. The self-
sealing material of the suit had congealed around his heart,
pulling his arms inward into a grim mockery of a hunchback.
"Dear God." Quinn had only seen a dead man like this
once before, and that had been a construction accident. "One
of yours?"
"One of ours." Galza paused the display. "Io Station
recorded this last night, after the body drifted into a
shipping lane and triggered the alarms. The operator had
enough sense to turn a radio receiver in that direction
after she found the position and range. She got two signals
back.
"The first was this man, Harold-Donat Gramble." He
gestured at the image on the wall. "He was the pilot
assigned to the Zbigniew Neumad, one of the three shuttles
which intercepted our convoy yesterday.
"Here is the second." Galza touched the wall, and the
display changed to another dead astronaut, spinning in the
opposite direction. His helmet had been cracked by some
impact, and what was left of his head had frozen in the
interstellar cold.
Quinn shuddered. "Another pilot?"
"Jonas-Pike Millen. The copilot of the Zbigniew
Neumad."
"Your shuttles only carry two men," came the vocalized
thought.
"We only put two men on them. Someone must have stowed
away and killed them after they launched." Galza shut off
the screen. "We checked our records. Gramble and Millen,
and the crews of the other two stolen shuttles, have been
checking in on schedule, up until yesterday morning, twelve
hours before the attack. Visual and audio records all
match. Whoever killed these two did it less than thirty-six
hours ago."
"But there was a loneboat tailing Felicitas.
Confederates?"
Galza chewed his bottom lip. "Both these men must have
had some reason to suit up." A very limited number of things
could make an astro put on a suit and wander outside the
relative safety of his spacecraft. "Either a deception, or
an emergency on the outer hull."
"Who would want to steal Ariane shuttles?" Quinn
wondered aloud.
"I was hoping you might have an idea." Galza looked at
Quinn intently. "Jac, how did you know they would attack the
convoy?"
The question caused Quinn to blink. "I didn't know."
"But you had a good idea." The gaze hardened to a
glare. "You put Jemison and McBride in the escort. I can
see two reasons for that. One, they photographed the
loneboat you showed me last weekend. Two, they investigated
that dead relay station. There was information about one or
both of those things that you didn't want to propagate
unnecessarily."
This elicited a nod. "Keeping the loneboat photo quiet
was a matter of professional courtesy. If someone had
stolen that shuttle, and the same someone wanted to attack
you, they'd probably use the same ships. It's going to be
hard enough keeping six people shushed--"
"Why did you think they would attack us?" Galza hissed
impatiently.
"They didn't steal the right things from the relay
station." Quinn fixed his counterpart with a hard stare.
"Power supplies, but only small ones and backup units.
Computer parts, but not the main memory. And some scanning
equipment."
"What the hell's so strange about that?"
"I'll show you the report, Tony, but you could get the
same stuff in any electronics store. And for considerably
less than it would cost to fly a ship to a relay station and
sabotage it. Either they were unable to get it anywhere
else, or else they specifically wanted Quintex equipment.
But those components are standard for half the monitoring
systems in the Torus. There are much easier ways to obtain
it.
"But let's assume that piracy was the only way these
people could get the equipment. What do they want it for?
Studying Ariane technology? Building their own systems?
They'd need more than one relay station could provide. And
raiding the convoy, while it might be more dangerous, would
be much faster than hopping around asteroids. Besides, if
they did that, we'd catch on to them eventually. We had
already found the dead station; they couldn't waste any more
time."
Galza shook his head. "You've assumed far too much."
"But I was right." And if I know-- the thought came
unbidden-- so must Jemison and McBride.
The CEO of Ariane Odyssey stared at the floor for a
moment. "If you're right, they must have been monitoring our
coded transmissions. They would have to be Ariane
employees, but if they were, they would have easier ways to
steal this equipment. Why not hijack the frigates directly
from City of Light?"
"They may have been Quintex employees," Quinn said, in
a low voice. "Or collaborating with someone who later double-
crossed them. But all codes can be cracked, if you have the
equipment and the initiative."
"And luck. I appreciate your objectivity, Jac, but it
doesn't make sense. There's no reason for Quintex personnel
to go to the trouble of stealing Ariane ships when it would
be easier to commandeer one of your loneboats."
"Quintex doesn't run shuttles ten times a day from the
Torus to Mars. That's a lot of space to lose a ship in-- it
would be easier for someone who wasn't based in the Torus."
The two men looked at each other, neither one wanting
to offer the inevitable conclusion. All the evidence they
had pointed in no distinct direction, but they could not
avoid the thought.
"What about the droid we found at Skyscraper?" Quinn
probed, almost desperately.
"Could have come from anywhere. It was trying to tap
into our monitor systems."
Another heavy silence ensued. Each man avoided the
other's eyes, perhaps afraid of the reflection he might see
there.
"Have you contacted the United Nations?" asked Quinn,
finally.
"No." Galza folded his hands behind his neck. "It just
doesn't make sense, Jac."
"Those wounds..." Quinn gathered his nerve. "They were
vicious, Tony. Any astro would have cut their air supply.
It's still murder, but a Torie wouldn't waste energy like
that."
"Even if it was flatfoots, they should have known
better! It's obvious that no Torie would blast someone's
head open like that. It almost looks like a planned
misdirection."
"No Earther would be that stupid, and neither Earther
nor Torie would need to steal." Quinn shook his head
morosely. This mystery became more inexplicable with every
clue.
"I've sent ships to retrieve the bodies." Galza rubbed
his eyes. "Maybe they'll tell us more."
"How long?"
"Tomorrow morning. I'll contact you."
Kyle-Bartelt Jemison's brown skin glistened under the
soft lighting, which left reflections in the limpid pools of
his eyes. The fingers of his left hand rested lightly on
the table. His right hand held a novel which barely managed
to keep his attention away from his unwilling companions.
To his left, Leonard-Shou McBride had closed his eyes
and was either sleeping or thinking about Carolyn-Lane
Leefield. As usual, nobody could tell.
Across the table, Golino and Anderson were playing
chess on a hand computer, their respectively sand- and mud-
colored hair ruffled lightly by the ventilators behind them.
They had settled into a sort of routine: make a move, wait
a moment, look around the table, glare at McBride and/or
Jemison, think, repeat. Jemison had been ignoring them, and
McBride had stopped watching after Golino lost a knight to
an ancient Kasparov ploy.
On Jemison's right, at the head of the table, Warlow
sat by herself, contemplating a new program she was working
on for her patroller's main computer. The compiler was
still returning errors around the middle of her image-
processing function. She called up the manual entry on an
esoteric signal-routing command and started reading again.
The five officers had been quarantined in Conference
Room Three for the better part of two days, after being
debriefed by three security chiefs, including Price, and
spoken to by Jacob-Martin Quinn himself. Each astro had
written two reports, one for public record and one to be
kept by the security department only. The latter was, of
course, more detailed, and had kept McBride and Golino busy
for most of the last day. Everyone else had grumbled
relentlessly.
For a Torie, who has chosen to live in the limitless
expanse of outer space, any sort of confinement is akin to
imprisonment. When his rights to privacy and freedom of
choice are curtailed, the injury is even more deeply felt.
Corporations like Quintex and Ariane provided a community of
sorts, but in the end, every Torie was alone-- and liked it
that way.
Being kept together was supposed to allow all five of
the officers to share their thoughts, and to support each
other emotionally. However, Jacob-Martin Quinn, no matter
how much time he had spent in the Torus, still thought like
an Earther. A Torie wanted to be alone with his thoughts,
as he was alone for most of his life. He enjoyed his
independence. There had been conversation, but eventually
the one group of five had become five groups of one each.
Shortly after noon, the Madison Quinn docked at New
Montana. Price met Quinn at the spaceport, and the two men
went immediately into a conference with four other high-
ranking Quintex officials. Two hours later, six copies of a
verbose legal document were made and sent down to Conference
Room Three.
"Good afternoon to you all," said Jacob-Martin Quinn as
he sat down at the head of the table in Conference Room
Three. Price followed him in and locked the door.
There was a pause as the five officers tried to gauge
Quinn's expression. They had just received the contracts
five minutes ago, and had not had time to read through the
document. Most Tories were suspicious of legal obligations,
since they implied a distrust between the parties involved.
Every astro needs to be able to trust a partner with his
life.
"You've all received the contracts," Quinn continued,
placing a hand on his copy and opening it. "You'll have time
to read through it later, but let me summarize what it says
now.
"We're going to go after the pirates." Eyebrows went up
around the room. "`We' being Anthony-Bettner Galza and
myself. As you all know, UNSF will not intervene in
civilian affairs, and there is no established law
enforcement agency in the Torus. The UN JAG office at
Sandburg, Mars has granted us investigatory authority in
this matter." Quinn held up a single sheet of paper,
imprinted with a holographic bar code and the digital
signatures of the UN Attorney General and the UNSF commander
in chief of Saturn sector.
"Anthony and I are taking leaves of absence to avoid
any possible conflicts of interest. Jennifer Galza and
Frank Dao will assume our executive responsibilities while
we're gone. Obviously, we'll require some assistance-- good
pilots, good astros-- but we don't want the information
about these pirates to spread and cause a panic. There are
two parts to the contract: in the first, you agree to abide
by Quintex's judgment as to when this information should be
made public. The second part is an application for a leave
of absence from your jobs, with appropriate compensation.
"As you know, your contracts with Quintex do not
require you to engage in activity which would be
unnecessarily life-threatening to you, above and beyond the
normal dangers of living in the Torus. Therefore you cannot
agree to help Dr. Galza and myself as employees of Quintex.
You will need to volunteer your services as private
citizens. As CEO of Quintex, I can appropriate some
equipment and supplies, but this will not be a company
mission."
"Excuse me, sir," said McBride, breaking the rhythm.
It got everybody's attention.
"Yes, Mr. McBride." Quinn looked at him thoughtfully.
"By sending us to escort the Ariane convoy, you've
already violated the terms of our employment contracts."
McBride ignored Jemison's glare.
"We didn't know the convoy would be attacked."
"But you had strong suspicions."
The CEO of Quintex folded his hands. "At any time after
the distress call came in, you could have decided that the
situation was too hazardous and declined to continue the
mission."
"You were obligated to explicitly offer us that
choice."
Now, Quinn smiled. "You're not stupid, Leonard. Are
you planning to sue?"
"No," the other man replied, "but someone else might."
"We're prepared for that. Worry about something that
concerns you." Quinn patted the contract. "I'll give you all
some time to look this over. Let Mr. Price know when you've
reached a decision. He has already signed.
"And," he said as he stood, "I would ask each of you to
remember Hong Kong."
McBride's paternal grandmother had died in the Hong
Kong Riots of 2002, less than an hour before Quintex
security forces had broken the Chinese blockade and begun
evacuating the city. He skimmed the contract again and
signed, twice, as Quinn and Price departed. Jemison waited
until the door had closed, then spoke loudly.
"What the hell was that all about?" he demanded. "Are
you trying to get on the Old Man's bad side, or are you just
stupid?" His eyes spoke volumes more.
"He's not my boss anymore, Kyle." McBride held up his
signed contract. "Not for the next month, anyway."
"We don't have to do this," Anderson said, leaning
forward. "The old man said it himself. We don't sign,
there's not a damned thing they can do to us. Price'll
probably give us some cushy patrol circuit so we can keep
out of trouble."
"And get bored out of our skulls," sneered Warlow,
pulling a pen out of her jacket. "We live here, Anderson.
If we don't punish the criminals, who will?"
"You go ahead, Warlow." Anderson settled his bulky
frame back into his chair. "I say it's Ariane's problem, we
let them deal with it."
"How do you know they're just after Ariane?" prodded
Warlow. "Maybe those shuttles were just easier to get at
first. Suppose they come after Quintex?"
"Let 'em," Anderson spat. "We'll take care of them when
we have to."
"You say that about heart disease, too, Anderson?"
McBride asked.
"I don't have a martyr complex, McBride. I like to
play it safe. You should try it sometime."
"I have. Didn't take."
Anderson snorted and shook his head. "Grandstanding!
This is just another publicity stunt."
Nobody was listening to him. Golino frowned at the
wall, holding his contract, as Warlow stood and walked to
the door with her signed contract.
"Len," said Jemison as he scribbled his name, "don't
ever have children."
"Why not?"
"You'd worry too much." The pen paused over the second
signature, then touched the paper in a blur of motion.
McBride placed a hand on Jemison's shoulder. "Have a
little faith, Kyle."
"I'd prefer technology."
Copyright © 1996 Curtis C. Chen. All Rights Reserved.