Energized (17 page)

A table at the back of the dining area had two empty seats and he headed that way. The four men sitting there were deep in conversation. Marcus had noticed them before. It was his impression they were bound for The Space Place.

“Are these seats taken?” he asked.

“Help yourself,” one of the four said. “We're leaving.” And kept talking.

Marcus ignored them, taken with the impulse to send Val flowers. His datasheet, only one-fourth unfolded, drooped off the end of the table. As he entered the stiffen-for-typing command, a shopping-bot icon started to flash.
Bargain found.
Tapping the icon revealed an unbelievably good price for the upscale 3-V set he had been coveting.

Had he been naïve enough to believe the offer, the urgent instruction that he needed to reconfirm his banking information stood to correct him. Damn! Another generation of agent software compromised.

Google confirmed the break-in. The Russian mafia was suspected. Or the infamous hacker, Psycho Cyborg. Or freelancing students from any of three notorious Chinese hacking academies. Or maybe organized crime in Botswana. The only element of the reports that Marcus found credible was that digital forensics folks were on a merry chase from computer to computer around (and around, and around) the world, hoping to track the exploit to its source.

Good luck with that.

Flowers would wait. First he had to shop—the slow, geezerly way, directly at the websites of a few trusted estores—for new agent software.

Three of his tablemates did, finally, leave; one offered an ironic-sounding, “Bye, boss.” Their most solemn member stayed behind, seated catercorner to Marcus.

The straggler had a long, gaunt, almost ascetic, face, with a deeply cleft chin. He was wiry and even seated managed to seem athletic. His blond hair, worn short, had begun to recede. He squinted so much that Marcus could scarcely tell the man had blue eyes.

“Hi. Marcus Judson.” He leaned close enough to offer his hand. “I'm headed for Phoebe soon.” Anyplace else,
Where are you from?
or
What do you do?
were the standard icebreakers. Here, everyone opened with something about their upcoming flights.

“Dillon Russo. The Space Place.” Dillon seemed awfully dour for someone going to the world's most exclusive tourist destination.

“Enjoying your training?” Marcus asked.

“It's been … interesting.”

“That it is.” Marcus searched his table in vain for a saltshaker. He snagged one from another table and sprinkled his fries, then took a big bite from his burger.

“You know, a meat diet consumes far more energy and generates more carbon emissions than eating vegetarian.”

Uh-huh. And how much energy will it take to hoist your bony vegetarian butt and a week or two's supply of (shudder) tofu to The Space Place?

At least Dillon had left methane—cow farts—out of the discussion.

Marcus finished chewing, then returned to training. “What have you done here so far?”

“My med tests. FAA disclaimers and safety lectures. Got fitted for my counterpressure suit. A couple rounds up against the toilet trainer.”

“Ah, the toilet trainer,” Marcus sympathized. Step one on the instruction placard read, A
CTIVATE CAMERA
.

Going to space meant learning to shit while jammed, positioned
just so,
against a four-inch toilet opening. Peeing down a funnel into a vacuum hose was the easy part. Male docking
not
recommended …

“Good times,” Dillon agreed, grinning. “But wait, there's more. The centrifuge. Flew the hopper”—barebones utility craft—“simulator, while some snag with my scuba certification got straightened out. Once it finally did, mostly I've been in the NBT.”

Marcus had spent time in the neutral buoyancy tank, too. The tank was the world's largest and deepest swimming pool. It contained life-sized mock-ups of Phoebe base and several other key Phoebe structures, The Space Place, and a representative expanse of PS-1.

Neutrally buoyant objects, however massive, could be moved about in the NBT as though weightless. In a pressure suit, wearing weights to neutralize the trainee's own residual buoyancy, the NBT was the only way to mimic aspects of space conditions for longer than the half-minute at a pop that the
Vomit Comet
achieved. Real astronauts rehearsed in-space construction projects for days in the NBT before trying them out for real.

None of which made the NBT a good zero-gee training simulation. Try to move anything quickly in the tank and the water's drag—hardly a factor in space—interfered. The objects with which one practiced seemed weightless, but the swimmer himself did not. And the scuba divers all around, loitering lest some trainee got into trouble, shattered the illusion of being in space.

“I haven't seen The Space Place mock-up,” Marcus said. There were not enough hours in the day, even if NASA would have paid his way to use that end of the tank.

“Nor I, beyond the preflight requirement.” Dillon rubbed his chin. “I can see
that
once I'm up there. I figured, why not spend my time in the tank mock-visiting places I can't visit.”

For someone who vacationed in space, extra NBT time probably cost only loose change from beneath the sofa cushions. It must be nice to be rich. Unless—

“One of the men here earlier called you boss. Do you do business on orbit?”

“We work together. I own an investment firm and The Space Place outing is last year's bonus.”

“Business must be good.”

“You have no idea.” The words came across closer to a dirge than agreement.

Real astronauts, and Marcus knew a few, were far less serious. The old adage was evidently correct: The rich
were
different. Oh, well, he would have a zillionaire anecdote with which to regale Val.

“Done your freefall flight training yet?” Marcus asked.

“Tomorrow's my first flight.” Dillon looked at his tray, the food picked over, and slid it away. “It's never too soon to stop eating.”

“Today was my second time, much more successful than the first, so I'll offer you some free advice. Eat
something
in the morning, just nothing heavy or greasy. A dry bagel, say, or some cold cereal.”

“Thanks.” Dillon stood abruptly, shoving back his chair. “I've got work to do. If you'll excuse me?”

“Sure. Have a good evening.” As his new acquaintance stalked off, Marcus guessed the man did not know how.

*   *   *

With a stack of hard-copy program listings under one arm, Patrick followed Valerie down Jansky Lab's second-floor hallway. She paused outside the observatory's main control room to tap at a wall-mounted keypad.

He had never been trusted with the access code. As a point of pride, he had observed closely enough, often enough, to know the code. As a point of honor, he had never used it.

With a soft squeak, the door opened.

“Hey, Ian,” she called to the man on duty.

Ian Wakefield glanced up. He was chewing on the stem of an old briar pipe he had never been seen to smoke. Eight computer displays sat on the curved console that he had to himself. “Hi, guys. Shut the door.”

Patrick looked for a clear spot to set the printouts.

All around, holos flickered and LEDs glowed. A row of electronics cabinets stood in the middle of the floor. More cabinets filled an interior nook, behind a glass partition. All that gear—supercomputers, signal processors, amplifiers, and an atomic clock—spewed RF that could bollix observations. Even the humble keyboard on which Ian pounded away emitted low-level RF as its innards ceaselessly scanned to detect keystrokes.

Unseen copper screening—behind painted wallboard, beneath well-worn carpet, and above the acoustic ceiling tiles—encased the room. Conductive glass in the windows completed the enclosure. Many a physics lab was a Faraday cage: a room whose metal sheath kept ambient radiation outside. The GBT control room was an inside-out Faraday cage,
trapping
radiation; this cage kept the emissions from all this electronic gear from reaching the exquisitely sensitive receivers of the big scopes.

“The door,” Ian repeated.

Patrick set his printout stack on the floor and pulled the door shut. “Where do you want us to set up?” he asked Ian.

Ian gestured vaguely. “What are you two up to?”

“ASTRID upgrade,” Valerie said. “We've got time reserved for testing on the forty-five-foot dish.”

Ian called up the day's observation schedule. “Right, so you are. Okay, to install software you'll need sysadmin privileges. Valerie, I'll log you into workstation six.”

There an emphasis on
you,
and a sidelong glance that Patrick ignored.

“It's a slick upgrade,” Valerie said, talking fast. She blithered when uncomfortable, and slights like Ian's made her uncomfortable. “The dishes are always oversubscribed…”

Patrick wasn't uncomfortable, only sad. Misplace a billion-dollar spacecraft just once, and years later people still don't trust you. He arranged printed-out test cases on the console ledge as Valerie rattled on about the sky survey one of her grad students was doing, and that a dish slewing between approved observations could be observing while it moved.

The astronomer's integrated desktop, the observation-planning software more commonly known as ASTRID, did not plan between sessions. Yet. Patrick had helped Valerie code an upgrade to change that. The new code would take pending requests into account when planning how to redirect a dish. Rather than take the simplest path—rotate this far; tip that much—the upgraded software would optimize dish movement to seek out objects of interest along the way as it moved. The new software not only read the look-when-you-can list, it updated the list as it went. Suppose a scope were to look repeatedly at sky objects A and B. With the new software the dish would trace a different route, gathering different data along the way, each time. Yet another new feature reprioritized based on the real-time weather, because rain and snow blocked some wavelengths.

“Pretty cool,” Ian conceded, gesturing outside at the heavy rain. “I could have used that last upgrade today. Okay. Test away.”

“Thanks.” She plugged a thumb drive into her assigned workstation.

“What do your hear from Marcus?” Patrick asked. He didn't care beyond calming down Valerie.

“His second
Vomit Comet
ride. He didn't throw up today,” she said lightly.

Too lightly. Marcus's upcoming spaceflight plainly terrified her.

“Any day you don't throw up is a good day,” Patrick said. “And what's Simon up to?”

“He's sleeping over at a friend's tonight.” After a flurry of typing, she turned. “Okay, the software is installed in a test partition. Test sequence one, please.”

As testing proceeded, Ian glanced over his shoulder every so often to give Patrick the fish eye. With traces of pity rather than distrust, Valerie checked on Patrick, too. Because, obviously, the new software also meant many more opportunities to hunt for the
Verne
probe.

Knowing Valerie meant well, Patrick pretended not to notice.

 

Tuesday, September 19

From within the claustrophobic confines of the spaceport mantrap, Dillon watched TSA screeners poke and prod his carry-ons. How interesting could shoes, a datasheet, and a bottle of aspirin be?

He imagined the various sensors at work, sniffing for explosives and scanning for metal. Beyond the already intrusive airport-type screening, he also got X-rayed. He might have had a bomb up his ass, and no one bound for space could credibly object to a few millirems on the ground “for everyone's safety.”

The mantrap door slid open and the overhead speaker came on. “You may now leave the security station and reclaim your belongings. Have a safe flight.”

As Dillon slipped on his shoes and tucked his few carry-on items into flight-suit pockets, Jonas Walker exited the mantrap. Jonas was senior among the three “employees” Dillon had been ordered to deliver to The Space Place. The others, Lincoln Roberts and Felipe Torres, had already cleared the security checkpoint and exited to the tarmac.

“Shall we, boss?” Jonas said. Only however deferentially he spoke, it was not a question. He gave the orders now, he did not take them, and it had been no accident that he, not Dillon, was the last of the four to pass through security.

Jonas was soft-spoken and poised, almost petite, yet with a creepy physical intensity: James Bond turned welterweight wrestler. He knew more about software than any five other people Dillon knew. Ditto Lincoln in electrical engineering and Felipe in communications systems. Tweedlesmart, Tweedlesmarter, and Tweedle-Effing-Genius. In simpler times, Dillon had been happy to have Yakov's experts at his company.

More naïve times.

“Are you ready?” Jonas prompted, this time with an edge to his voice.

“Sure.” Dillon grabbed his bag. He wondered what hold Yakov had over Jonas and the others, but they no more responded to Dillon's subtle probing than he to theirs.

Maybe we're
all
trapped.

“After you, boss.”

At the terminal door, held open by a smiling member of the ground crew, they were offered sunglasses. They walked out into a gorgeous late-summer day. Heat devils shimmered and shimmied over the tarmac.

One of the huge mother ships officially dubbed
The Space Portal
—and known to everyone as
Big Momma
—sat straight ahead, its white paint gleaming in the sun. Mother ship one or two? Dillon wondered inanely. And which of Cosmic Adventure's three shuttles?

As though he did not have enough to think about.

Beneath a hundred-fifty-foot wingspan,
Big Momma
appeared to have three fuselages, but only two were part of the plane. The central segment was the shuttle on which they would ride to orbit. Near the mother ship's cruising ceiling, the shuttle would drop free and light its rocket.