Catch the Lightning (23 page)

“It’s beautiful,” I said. “What are all those things under it?”

“The grid is a radiator,” Althor said. “It bleeds off excess heat. The hub is where we’ll dock. The smaller spheres under it are probably manufacturing plants.” He motioned to the rim of the wheel. “That torus is the habitat where people live.”

The wheel continued to grow, until it filled the holomap. A tiny speck appeared, coming toward us from the hub—and then I realized the “speck” was a ship. My perception of the station changed, dizzyingly, like an optical illusion. Only distance had made it appear small. The wheel was more than a mile in diameter.

Althor indicated the approaching ship. “That’s a Faraday drone. It will transfer us inside the plasma core.”

“The what core?”

“It’s a well of electrons, about one thousand coulombs’ worth. It holds the habitat at a potential of fifteen billion volts. The design is based on a classic NASA study.” He motioned in the direction of the star, Epsilon Eridani. “It’s protection, against cosmic rays and solar fluxes. The plasma repels particles and keeps radiation at a safe level.”

The drone came in closer, until it blocked our view of the station. As it matched its speed to ours, its front end opened like a blossoming flower.

“Hey,” I said. “It’s swallowing us.” All the holomap showed now was the interior of the drone, a metal cavity braced with giant struts. If I hadn’t known the drone was moving, I would have thought we stopped.

The Jag hummed with talk from Epsilani and Althor answered, something about accepting data on a com channel. The holomap switched to a view showing the drone’s approach to Epsilani, one apparently recorded from within the station. The drone had closed again and looked like an unopened flower bud.

Althor pointed at the map, indicating a feathery stem on the bud. “That’s an electron gun. It bleeds electrons into the well to equalize the potential between us and the station.”

The bud spurted exhaust. Through my link to the lattice, I caught a message from the station, something about compensating for a “wind” created by repulsion of positive charges on the drone and station. As the Jag adjusted to my brain, it was coming up with more and more creative ways to present data, so that I “saw” the message as an iridescent insect winging its way through the lattice. A swarm of bottle-blue flies hummed in with data about how plasma density variations were controlling instabilities in the shield. When I concentrated, more datoids appeared, flying in and out of the grid, clustering in cells, buzzing to new locations.

We had just about reached the station’s hub. The drone opened its petals and they locked into the hub like a flowery jigsaw puzzle piece. An unfamiliar voice said, “Docking complete, Commander. We’re all set.” s

“Got'it,” Althor said. He switched off the com and turned to me. “Before we go any further, I need to talk to you.”

His expression made me uneasy. “Yes?”

“I’m not certain what situation we’re facing. My ship was severely damaged before I reached Earth and I don’t know why.” He pushed his hand through his hair. “I don’t know this station or these people. For now, I would prefer none of them know my identity, that is, that my parents are members of the Imperial Assembly.”

“What do you want me to do?”

He took my hand. “Reveal as little as possible. Other than that, just follow my lead.”

I squeezed his hand. “All right.”

We left the ship, drifting through the airlock into a circular chamber. Except for a console in a bulkhead and a hatch across from us, the area was completely bare. Panels around the walls of the chamber bathed us with light and heat.

“Bacterial contaminants detected,” a pleasant voice said. “Request permission to proceed with decon.”

“Go ahead,” Althor said.

I glanced at him. “Contaminants?”

“Everyone carries bacteria and other organisms,” he said. “The decon web thinks some of ours might be dangerous to Ep-silani’s ecosystem.”

“Does it want us to scrub down?” I smiled, imagining us together in the shower.

He laughed. “Unfortunately, no. It just releases nano-meds into the air.”

“Like the ones in your blood?”

“Similar. Except the carrier molecules kill bacteria.”

“Decon complete,” the voice said. “Welcome to Epsilani.” Across the chamber, the hatch opened, and six people floated in. The man in the center was almost as big as Althor, a bit heavy around the waist, with graying temples and a confident air. A second man floated at his side, tall and angular, with jet-dark skin. Four guards accompanied them, two men and two women, what looked like security police. They too cut tall figures, and each wore a weapon, a tube with a black grip and a snout, which I later learned shot only sedatives.

The leader moved with the ease of someone comfortable in '» .

free fall. “Welcome, Commander Selei.” His voice sounded odd, vaguely British, but unlike any accent I had heard before. “I’m Max Stonehedge, Director of Epsilani Station.” Stonehedge indicated the second man. “This is Bob Kabatu, our expert on Skolian physiology.”

As Althor nodded to them, Kabatu grinned. “Hello, Commander.” He too had an unfamiliar accent, what I learned was a dialect spoken in an African country that didn’t exist in 1987. His smile faded as he looked at the blood-soaked bandage on Althor’s shoulder and the bruises on his arms.

Stonehedge glanced at me. “Perhaps you’d like to introduce us to your…”

“Fiancee,” Althor said.

“Ah. Yes.” Stonehedge smiled at me. “Hello, Ms… . ?”

“Pulivok,” I said.

Kabatu spoke up. “Commander Selei, it looks to me like that shoulder of yours is still bleeding. I’m guessing here, but I’d say it hurts like hell.”

Althor paused. “It is a bit—stiff.”

“Maybe we should go straight to the med center,” Kabatu said. “We can save formal greetings for later.”

Althor spoke carefully. “All right.”

We all floated across the chamber, accompanied by the security officers. The hatch let us out into a much larger sphere, the interior of the hub. A group of people were flying around in it, doing a gymnastics class. They tumbled through the air, laughing, shouting, flipping in wild rolls that would have broken bones on Earth. Some of them called to Stonehedge and he waved back.

, We crossed to another hatch, one that let out onto a passage circling the hub. The “wall” on the other side of the passage slid past, part of the rotating station. We floated with it, faster than the rotation, until we reached a pair of doors in the moving wall.

Stonehedge pressed a set of colored triangles next to the doors. They opened, and we floated into an elevator. It was more pleasant than I expected. A downy rug covered the floor and art made from delicate strips of coppery metal hung on the walls. Light diffused through a white ceiling bordered by intricate designs of parrots and bonsai trees.

We drifted upward when the elevator first moved, but after a few moments we floated to the side. Gradually our weight increased, until we settled to our feet. It felt as if we were going “down,” but we were actually riding outward, to the rim of a wheel. A slight pressure pushed us sideways, making it an effort to stand up straight.

Stonehedge told us about the station, a research center built to study the Epsilon Eridani system. Epsilon Eridani was a K star, more orange than Earth’s sun and only a third as luminous, with about three-quarters the mass and 90 percent the diameter. The station was a joint effort by Europe, Japan, several African countries, and the United States. United. Not Federated. About three thousand people lived in the station then, mostly adults with a growing number of children, a long way from their goal of ten thousand.

Stonehedge was easier to understand once I grew used to his accent. Although he used unfamiliar idioms, his English resembled mine more closely than mine resembled that of people three hundred years in my own past. English had become the language of science among the Allieds, extending a trend that began in the twentieth century. As humans moved out to the stars, they standardized the language, hoping to facilitate communication among increasingly diverse populations separated by light years.

The director’s spiel was well rehearsed and obviously one he enjoyed giving. His enthusiasm for his station came through in every sentence. He also tried to draw Althor out, with little success. Althor did loosen up when Stonehedge got into engineering details of the station. It was different from when he and Heather talked theoretical physics; Althor had seemed informed then, but uncomfortable, out of his milieu. With practical applications he came into his own. He was a rocket man. He liked to get his hands on concrete problems and work them out.

They built Epsilani using titanium from Athena’s moons. Large sections of the station were constructed via metal-vapor molecular beams, which essentially sprayed metal atoms onto large balloons. The vapor was doped with molecular robots, each consisting of molecule-sized carbon threads plus a spherical cage carrying a picochip. The bots also served as a substrate for the chemical process that wove the tubes into the titanium. After the bots finished their construction, they remained in the composite, forming a station-wide picoweb that repaired damage. If a dust particle or small meteor pierced the station, the web dispatched nano-bots to fix it.

Stonehedge told us that Epsilani’s wheel was almost two kilometers in diameter and rotated at one revolution per minute. Humans could function at faster rotations, but the Coriolis forces bothered some, causing motion sickness and disorientation. Coriolis was responsible for the sideways push we felt in the elevator. The spokes also carried cables and heat exchangers that connected the habitat to external power supplies and the radiator.

When I felt about as heavy as I did on Earth, the elevator stopped. We had reached the torus, the living habitat for the colonists. The doors opened—and we stepped out into a wonderland.

A platform circled the station spoke we had just left. The spoke itself rose up behind us, through the roof of the torus was far above our heads. I had expected the habitat to be metal surfaces and functional equipment. Instead, Epsilani resembled the Japanese Tea Garden in San Francisco. A long park about a hundred yards wide stretched in front of us, gradually curving upward, until in the distance the upper surface of the torus cut off our view.

A river ran along the center of the park. It looked odd, as if the water ran “up” the curve of the torus. In truth, the station’s rotation makes each point along the river essentially perpendicular to gravity, so it doesn’t really flow uphill. Delicate bridges arched over the water and trees spread their branches in leafy shelves. Lush gardens were everywhere. On either side, the park sloped up the “walls” of the torus. Houses were built into the slope, terraced affairs with many windows, patios, and even open roofs. The colonists didn’t need roofs, after all, other than for privacy; they could make every day perfect.

Panes of dichromesh glass ran around the upper surface of the torus, and mirrors directed sunlight through them, so that it streamed into the park. Here and there people walked along paths. A few rode bikes, sleeker models than in my universe, but still bicycles. Dogs ran in and out of the bushes. In fact, animals were everywhere: prowling cats, red or blue birds, a rabbit bounding out of a glade. Water rippled in a nearby pond as a fish jumped up in a spray of drops.

Stonehedge told us 'that when Epsilani reached its target population, it would be self-sufficient. Entire sections of the torus were devoted to agriculture and the colonists’ precise control of the weather let them plant crops continuously. Numerous animals lived in the habitat, pets and livestock both. The colonists mined chemicals and metals from Athena’s moons. The station had an oxygen and nitrogen atmosphere, at a humidity of about 40 percent, with a lower nitrogen partial pressure than on Earth. Photosynthesis regenerated the oxygen and removed extra C0
₂
. The colonists recycled everything. Tailored nano-meds broke down waste products and aided crop and livestock growth.

I gazed out at the plain. “It’s lovely.”

Stonehedge gave me a gentle look. “Yes. It is.”

Kabatu motioned toward several buildings half a kilometer up the torus. “That’s the medical complex. My office is there.”

“We walk?” Althor asked.

Glancing at him, I saw the paleness of his face. New blood showed on the bandage covering his shoulder, red with a tinge of blue.

“No. We’ll ride.” Kabatu frowned at Althor and held up his hand. “Don’t bother to argue, Commander. Those are my orders.”

I almost smiled, impressed by how fast Kabatu figured out how to deal with Althor. I knew Althor didn’t want to walk, but he was too stoic to ever admit it.

Kabatu nodded toward a rail that ran the length of the plain. “We’ll take the mono-hoot.”

“The what?” Althor asked.

Stonehedge smiled. “It’s a ground-based monorail system. Someone, I forget who, said it was a hoot that we gave it such a grandiose moniker as MagRail. So we call it the mono-hoot.” Althor’s mouth curved up, as if he might laugh. He didn’t, though. I wondered at his wariness. The longer we spent on Ep- silani, the more I liked her people. My intuition said they were exactly what they seemed: hard-working colonists who enjoyed showing off the fruits of their labor.

Still, how would I know what undercurrents swirled around us? I was treading water, struggling to float in a sea of new impressions.

* * *

Kabatu’s office was sunny and cramped, its walls covered by consoles, cabinets, and equipment. He sat Althor down in a reclining chair and removed the bandage on his shoulder. One look at the wound Was enough to crease his face with concern. Reaching out, he grabbed a mechanical arm off the wall. It hummed in response, and a line of yellow lights appeared, stretching from the first of its three elbows to the seven jointed “fingers” at its end. Kabatu touched the third finger and it lit up. Directing the light at Althor’s shoulder, he gently probed the wound.

Althor jerked away. “What are you doing?”

“Stay still,” Kabatu said. “I’m imaging the injury.”