Saturn Run (42 page)

A day and a half after departing the Maxwell Gap and the deadly alien constellation, the
Celestial Odyssey
was closing in on the
Nixon
. The two ships were separated by a few thousand kilometers, and the gap was narrowing at a kilometer per second.

Zhang was considering the good news: the
Nixon
had stayed its course and made no efforts to evade the impending encounter. They had sufficient reaction mass to follow the
Nixon
, however it maneuvered, but the ship was badly battered, and he didn’t want to put any more stress on it than he absolutely had to.

Cui pushed for contact with the
Nixon
: “Sir, we’re only hours away from the
Nixon
. Shouldn’t we contact the Americans and ask for rescue?”

He smiled what he hoped was an enigmatic smile: “I feel that ambiguity serves us better, for the moment.” Seeing that Cui was not satisfied, he said, “Speak plainly, Cui.”

“I don’t see how that helps us. In fact, I don’t entirely understand why you didn’t reach out to her much earlier.”

“This isn’t about the
Nixon
. It’s about the people on Earth, playing their games. We have not been entirely candid with those
ben dan
on Earth about the condition of our ship. I don’t want anyone to know how damaged we are, how weak we are. People talk. If American intelligence learned what we know, the terms of the rescue might change. l want them frightened of us, I want to be treated as equals. Unfortunate victims of shipwreck, but equals.”

Cui shook her head, still skeptical. “But how can we not look like a threat to them, sneaking up on them in silence? It’s dangerous. They must be going crazy over there. It would make me crazy if I were their captain, this kind of suspicious behavior.”

“No doubt it would, Mr. Cui, and it would make me crazy also. But tell me this: If the situation were reversed, what would you do? Would you initiate hostilities, fire upon the other ship? When it has not, in fact, overtly demonstrated a hostile intent? You, yourself, commented on how flimsy their ship is, how easily we could cripple it. Would you really fire upon us?”

She paused. “Uh, no. Not without an explicit authorization. Maybe not then.”

Zhang nodded approvingly. “Very good, Cui, you’re thinking like a space captain. You may get your own ship yet. If we live through this. The ability to put yourself in somebody else’s shoes, that’s a valuable survival skill in space. We have a lot more in common up here—and a lot more risks we share—than the groundpounders understand.”

“All right, sir, but what if you’re wrong about this? What if she has secret orders to finish us off? They’ve had time to fab a bomb . . .”

“Then we are at the mercy of Fang-Castro’s conscience. She has as much space experience as I do, and I have as much faith in her as I would have in me. I know what I would do, without a moment’s hesitation.”

But it was all academic, anyway, Zhang thought. The fate of the crew of the
Celestial Odyssey
had been taken out of their hands a day ago, when they’d made the burn that put them on an intercept course with the
Nixon
. Either she’d rescue them or she wouldn’t. Zhang had done the best he could.

Soon he’d know if his measure of the American admiral was correct. He and Cui headed for the bridge. It was time to play out the next scene in this drama he’d constructed.

“Comm, open a distress frequency channel.” The murmurs between the bridge crew got momentarily louder; then everyone became very, very quiet, as Zhang’s gaze swung around the room. He spoke calmly and clearly, with the utmost respect and deference, yet with no hint of subservience.

“This is the Chinese deep space research vessel
Celestial Odyssey
. We
are issuing a Mayday call. We are in distress and are in need of immediate assistance. Please respond.”

He waved a finger at the communication station to close the channel. “Comm, put that on a ten-second loop. Repeat it until we get a response. When we do, patch it through immediately.”

He smiled at Cui: “Now? We wait.”

Fang-Castro watched the rearward screen as the
Celestial Odyssey
closed on them. If she cut the engines, they’d arrive in ten minutes. She had no intention of doing that, because there was little doubt that the Chinese ship could fire up its engines to keep up with the slowly accelerating
Nixon
. The Chinese were two kilometers to starboard, well out of the path of the VASIMR engines’ exhaust and safely distant from a collision course.

“Let’s hear the hail,” she said.

Summerhill, the comm officer, said, “It’s recorded, on a loop.”

He touched a button and Zhang came up, in the middle of a sentence: “. . . are in need of immediate assistance. Please respond.” After a couple of seconds of silence, the recorded message started from the beginning. On the second repeat, Fang-Castro ordered it muted.

“Put me through to the
Odyssey
,” Fang-Castro said. Summerhill touched another button and then pointed at her: “You’re up, ma’am.”

“
Celestial Odyssey
, this is the United States Spaceship
Richard M. Nixon
. We’ve received your distress call. Please stand by.” She signaled the communications officer to close the channel. After a quarter minute, the muted distress message loop cut off.

“Good. They’re listening full-time,” she said. “Mr. Crow? Mr. Francisco? Anything you want to say before I proceed? This is for the official record.”

Crow shook his head: “We’ve talked it through. Speaking officially and for the record, as the President’s representative, I’m satisfied that we have prepared as well as we can for . . . whatever eventuality. I agree that under the accepted laws of space, we are required to perform a rescue of a ship in distress, if we are able to do so.”

“Thank you,” Fang-Castro said. “Mr. Francisco?”

“I agree with Mr. Crow, ma’am.”

Fang-Castro signaled Summerhill to reopen the channel to the
Chinese. “Ship in distress,
Celestial Odyssey
, this is Admiral Naomi Fang-Castro. What is the precise nature of your emergency and what assistance do you require? Over.”

“Admiral, this is Admiral Zhang Ming-Hoa. I am very happy to hear from you. I will keep this brief: my ship was badly damaged during our aerobraking maneuvers at Saturn. Most of our hydrogen tankage is gone. Our remaining tanks cannot carry enough reaction mass to get us back to Earth before our life-support or engineering systems fail. We have expended almost all our reaction mass just to match velocities with you. In your vernacular, we ‘need a lift.’ Otherwise, we are all dead. Over.”

Crow said, to no one in particular, “There it is.”

Fang-Castro: “Admiral Zhang, do you need immediate retrieval? How much time do we have? Over.”

Zhang: “We are not at imminent risk, but we cannot match your acceleration indefinitely. We will exhaust our reaction-mass reserves in less than half a day. Over.”

“Admiral Zhang, we will consider your request and get back to you. Over and out.” She turned to Crow and Francisco. “Let’s adjourn to the conference room, where we can sit down and talk this out.”

A moment later, settled into the conference room chairs, she said, “Thoughts?”

Francisco: “I suggest we drop the whole thing back into Zhang’s lap. He’s the one with the real problem. Supposedly. What should he do to convince us? He couldn’t imagine we would take him at his word. He must have thought out what his next move would have to be. Let’s see what that is.”

Fang-Castro nodded: “Good point.”

Fang-Castro asked Comm for a channel to the
Celestial Odyssey
. When Zhang came up, she said, “Admiral Zhang, we have considered your request. If your situation is as you state, we will take your crew on board. But—there is no delicate way to put this—you must understand that we are skeptical. We need to be persuaded that you are really in need of aid. Over.”

“Thank you, Admiral. I understand your doubts. In your position I
would share them. I have a proposal. We exchange delegations. Two of us will come over from the
Celestial Odyssey
. You may send as many of your crew as you would like to our ship to inspect it. You may ask any questions you wish of the crew; half of them speak English.”

He continued, after a pause: “To ensure that this does not appear to be a useless exchange of hostages, I propose that I and my first officer come to your ship. We are willing to arrive at your ship before you send your representatives. The people you send to our vessel can be of as low rank and . . . frankly . . . expendable as you wish. Over.”

Before Fang-Castro could reply, Crow silently raised a finger and slid it across his throat. Fang-Castro said, “Excuse me one moment, Captain Zhang. I will be right back.”

When she’d closed the comm channel, Crow said, “This is extremely abnormal behavior for the Chinese. If Zhang is being honest with us, I can understand his coming over, if for no other reason than to be able to talk with you face-to-face and privately. The stakes are extremely high for him. But, he would be accompanied by their political officer, the highest-ranking party official on their ship. He’d leave the first officer in charge.”

Fang-Castro understood that, in her blood. She nodded and reopened the channel: “Admiral, I am puzzled by something. I would expect you to be accompanied by your political officer rather than your first officer. Can you explain? Over.”

Zhang: “Ah, you have some familiarity with our protocols. The explanation, unfortunately, is extremely simple. Our political officer is dead. She died with half my crew in the antimatter explosion at the alien facility. We have barely enough personnel to operate this ship. We are running with a below-minimum complement. I’m offering to send over our two most senior command to help convince you of the gravity of our situation. Over.”

“Thank you for that information and my sincere condolences on your losses. I’ll get back to you as quickly as possible. Over and out.”

Crow shook his head: “I don’t see how we can refuse.”

“A suicide mission?” Francisco suggested.

“I don’t believe it,” Fang-Castro said. “But we could insist on a scan before they board us.”

Crow said, “That would also define the relationship. We’re not just being friendly.”

Fang-Castro: “Unless somebody has a better suggestion, I would assign Sandy Darlington to go over, with his cameras, so we can see in real time what he’s seeing. He can take direction from Martinez and Greenberg, and if they kill him, we still get back, because he’s not critical to our operations. And you, Mr. Crow. Since you speak Mandarin, you might overhear something—”

“And if they kill me, you still get back,” Crow said, with a grin. “That works for me.”

Francisco nodded in agreement.

Fang-Castro reopened a channel to the Chinese captain.

The extensive and unrestricted videography was acceptable to Zhang. He was eager to proceed; he reminded Fang-Castro that unless she decided to order the
Nixon
’s engines shut down, their two ships would start to separate in less than half a day and rescue operations would become increasingly difficult, maybe even infeasible.

“I will order the engine thrust reduced, which will allow the radiators to continue operating,” she said. “They’re a little touchy, and we don’t want a cold restart. My first officer will speak to yours, about the details of the rendezvous.”

Just past midnight,
Nixon
time, transports left the Chinese and American ships. Fang-Castro had decided that requiring Zhang to come on board first was perhaps insulting. And she didn’t see much risk in a simultaneous exchange.

Sandy said to Crow, who was driving the bus, “I hope she’s right. I got this funny feeling between my shoulder blades.”

“Could be shingles,” Crow said.

“Or possibly a sniper.”

“You take your stims?” Crow asked.

“Does a chicken have lips?”

Crow considered, then said, “I don’t know what that means. It could go either way.”

“Yeah, I took the stims. But fear alone would keep me awake.”

As the
Nixon
’s bus passed the Chinese runabout, Sandy waved at the space-suited figures strapped to the framework of their craft. It was similar in concept to the
Nixon
’s eggs, but meant to carry more than one person outside the
Celestial Odyssey
. Rather than working from inside, as with an egg, the Chinese craft would ferry several space-suited workers to any point on the ship, and then release them to work as individuals. One of the space-suited figures waved back. The larger one, he thought.

Crow nudged him. “When we get there, don’t say anything unless spoken to, and keep your replies as short as possible. I want you to be the silent guy with the camera. Don’t volunteer anything. Don’t ask any questions. That’s my job.”

“Got it. Sir. General. Field Marshal.”

The
Nixon
, with its near-kilometer-long radiators and three-hundred-meter main axle, was larger than the
Odyssey
, but it was like a box kite made of balsa wood and string, long thin columns and beams
tied together with graphene guy wire. The Chinese ship was only two-thirds the size of the
Nixon
, but it looked like a tank.

As they approached the massive deep space transport, Sandy panned his cameras over the surface of the Chinese ship, and Crow muttered, “Holy cow. Look at that. Get that.”

“I’m getting it.”

They were stunned by the damage. There were fused and torn moorings where, presumably, there had been external hydrogen tanks. There were none of those now. The hull was scarred and gouged where pieces of the disintegrating tanks must have slammed into the ship. It was obvious that the Chinese crew had patched things together rapidly and, so far, functionally, but there was no attempt to clean it up. Rough welds, overlapping plates, mismatched joints.

Crow said, “You can have it fast or you can have it right.” The Chinese had been under time pressures that precluded “right.”

“Can’t believe they didn’t breach,” Sandy muttered.

Crow: “The Chinese know how to build a hull. If that had happened to us . . .”

They’d all be dead.

Sandy went to an open channel back to the
Nixon
: “Comm, are you seeing all this? Just checking.”

“We see it. Astonishing. Keep it coming, Sandy.”

They lingered for a few moments outside the Chinese ship, doing a complete vid scan of the exterior. When Sandy finished, Crow maneuvered the bus into the one operational shuttle bay on the
Celestial Odyssey
. It was a huge space, clearly designed to accommodate a surface-to-orbit vehicle. Now it contained nothing but a couple of runabouts and service pods. A second shuttle, they’d been told, was currently useless, trapped behind nonfunctioning doors on the other shuttle bay. The external vids might confirm that, once Martinez went over them. Sandy couldn’t tell, from one look: there was simply too much patchwork on the exterior of the ship.

As Crow maneuvered into the shuttle bay, Sandy stuck the small hand camera on a side-support, with the camera aimed toward the air
lock. If a bunch of Chinese troopers came boiling out to seize the bus while he and Crow were inside, the
Nixon
would see it.

While they waited for the bay to pressurize, Crow and Sandy disconnected themselves from the bus and pushed off toward the floor. The shuttle bay was zero-gee environment, as was the entire ship.

“They gotta have some kind of serious exercise regimen, or they’re gonna drop dead when they get back to Earth,” Sandy said.

“They do,” Crow said, as though he actually knew. “And they got lots of meds.”

“That shit can kill you all by itself,” Sandy said.

The environmental all-clear had come through on their internal readers. As they stripped off their suits, the inner bay door opened and two people came in, led, Sandy noticed, by a young woman, about his age. A really, really cute young woman, small, slim, buff, who looked like she was made to ride a surfboard.

The two Chinese stopped a few meters from the two Americans. “Welcome to the
Celestial Odyssey
. I am Second Officer and Acting Commander Sun Yu Jie, and this”—she gestured to her left—“is our medical officer, Dr. Mo Mu.”

Her English was excellent, with only the faintest hint of an accent. “Please do not be offended, but Dr. Mo is going to perform a body scan on both of you, to ensure that you are not bringing any weapons or explosives on board. I am entirely comfortable with the arrangements Captain Zhang has made, but some of my crew is nervous.” She looked regretful. “They feel that we are at the disadvantage in this situation. This will relieve some of their anxiety and distrust, unjustified as it is.”

Sandy gave her his toothy grin. “No problem! I’m Sanders Darlington. Everyone calls me Sandy—”

Crow’s voice crackled in his earbud. “Zip it, Sandy.”

Sandy said to the woman, “. . . and this is Mr. Crow, my assistant.”

The woman smiled back and extended a hand to Crow: “Yes, Mr. David Crowell, the political officer. Ours, unfortunately, as you heard, was killed. She was loved by everyone. As, I’m sure, is Mr. Crow.”

“Absolutely,” Sandy said. “And by no one more than myself.”

Crow said, “Mr. Darlington is our videographer and will be sending a vid stream of what we observe back to the
Nixon
for the experts there to evaluate. We understand that time is short, and I put myself and Mr. Darlington at your disposal. I’m sure you best know what we need to see to appreciate your situation and confirm Captain Zhang’s statements. Not, I assure you, that we’ve been given any reason to doubt them.”

Sun reached out to Sandy, and as they shook hands, she said, “Captain Darlington. I’ve been watching your vids since you left Earth. You are very talented. Welcome aboard.”

Crow conjured up a look of regret, and said, apparently embarrassed, “The President is insisting on confirmation in a matter which has such profound international repercussions. If it were left up to me, we could dispense with all of this.”

“The scan, then?” Sun asked. “You accept the scan?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Do you wish to continue in English?” Sun asked. “Or go to Mandarin? I understand yours is excellent.”

Crow didn’t flinch. “English is fine.”

With the formalities completed, and the body scans done, the four of them left the hangar bay for their tour of the ship. Mo also spoke English, and Crow engaged him in polite chitchat, inquiring of his family, wondering what it was like to practice space medicine on a trip like this, and admiring the spaciousness of the ship they were wandering through.

Sandy marveled at it: Crow was completely in character as a political functionary, a meet-and-greeter whose primary skill was to be disarmingly pleasant and a good listener.

Though it didn’t demand any dissimulation to marvel at the scale of the Chinese ship. The
Nixon
was large in dimension, but very little of that was interior space. The
Celestial Odyssey
was all about carrying cargo, people, and equipment. Three-quarters of the interior was taken up with the propulsion system, mostly the huge internal liquid hydrogen tanks that provided reaction mass for the thermal nuclear engines, but the remaining quarter was still a lot of volume, especially in a zero-gee
vessel that was carrying a fraction of the number of people it’d been designed for.

Crow consulted his slate and said, “We’d like to see the propulsion system and talk to a few of your engineers, if we could.”

Sandy did vid of the conversation: most of the engineers spoke passable English, and Crow relayed questions from Martinez and Greenberg. At the end, he asked that their engine operation and refueling logs, from the time they arrived at Saturn, be transmitted to the
Nixon
. The engineers looked at Sun, who nodded.

Sandy didn’t know what Crow was seeing, but nothing he saw suggested that Zhang had told anything but the truth. Sandy didn’t understand, and wasn’t interested in, most of the details of ship operations. But after documenting the activities of the
Nixon
’s crew for nine months, he had developed a feel for what were normal working situations in space.

This surely wasn’t. There were many fewer workstations than the
Nixon
had, and two-thirds of them were unstaffed. Some of that might be differences in the way the Americans and the Chinese did things, but overall, the ship looked bare bones to him. The unused stations were powered down and there was a very, very thin layer of dust on the screens, about what you’d expect to see from a few days of non-use on Earth. But in a spaceship, in zero-gee? They must be having scrubber problems. Sandy made a note for his report.

The remainder of their tour didn’t turn up anything to contradict the impression that the
Celestial Odyssey
was operating with a skeleton crew. Sun asked if there was anything else they needed to see.

Crow carefully consulted his slate one last time and, apparently chagrined, asked if it would be possible to see some of the crew quarters. He told Sun that he felt this was an invasion of privacy and that if she declined he wouldn’t hold it against her or their evaluation. It would make his job easier, though, if she could accommodate this awkward, and in his view inappropriate, request.

She agreed to the request—the whole thing had been gamed by both sides, Sandy realized, and there were no unexpected moves—and took
them to what amounted to a space-side barracks. Most of the Chinese quarters were laid out for three or four occupants, and a large fraction of them seemed to be entirely unoccupied. Unless the Chinese had very carefully staged all the living quarters, Crow’s random sampling ought to yield a fair statistical estimate of the number of Chinese remaining in the crew.

Sandy dutifully vidded everything and then they headed back to the shuttle bay for the return trip to the
Nixon
. Crow amiably chatted the whole way, asking about opportunities for touring, even living in China. He thought there might be some prospect for posting to the diplomatic corps if he did well on this assignment.

Once they had jetted well away from the
Celestial Odyssey
, Sandy aimed his remote at the hand-camera, which unstuck itself, and as he stowed it, he said, “Jesus, what an enormous load of bullshit. The diplomatic stuff. You think they bought it? They know you’re the political officer.”

“What part did you think was bullshit?”

“The ‘hail fellow well met’ routine. Free-and-easy social banter isn’t really your style.”

“You really don’t know my style, Sandy.”

Sandy hesitated, then asked, “Do you?”

Crow shrugged, and they slid back to the
Nixon
. A minute before they arrived, he said, “I’ll tell you what, Sandy. When John Clover interrogated the alien AI, he was more interested in finding out
why
the aliens were doing things than
what
they were doing. That’s what I wanted to know. I didn’t so much care what the Chinese told me. What I cared about was how they told it to me. What I learned is that they are scared. You, they paid no attention to, because they understood your function. But they were frightened of me, because they were afraid I might say no, and they understand me as the political officer. They are deeply suspicious of us, but they badly wanted my approval.

“That, more than anything I saw or you vidded, makes me think they’re telling the truth. His crew has been traumatized and is operating under terrific stress. They’re keeping a lid on it as best they can, but
they’re terrified. Unless their typical engineer is better at this game than I am, this isn’t some crafty ruse to get on board the
Nixon
. They need us. If we don’t help, they’re dead.”

After a minute, Sandy said, “All right.” After another minute, “I’m sorta impressed, man.”

—

Zhang and Cui inhaled the delicate vapors drifting up from the cups of tea that Fang-Castro had offered them. “Superb,” Zhang said. “Better than anything I can get. When we are back on the ground, you will have to give me the name of your provider. I’m stunned that you, outside of China, can obtain better leaf than I can.”

Fang-Castro smiled. “It’s a side effect of our international trade. When you find out what I paid for this, you’ll be amazed. The tea growers in China can make much more money selling their goods on the international market, than they can selling it locally. There’s not a lot of opportunity on a space station to spend my pay. So most of it goes into retirement funds for me and my ex-wife, and our children’s education. Tea is one of my few indulgences.”

Zhang sighed. “I hope we will get to enjoy retirements. On that point . . . I am feeling pressed for time. May we discuss transfer arrangements, assuming your investigations confirm my claims and encourage you to a favorable decision?”

“I read the summary of your situation. You only have nine space suits and your pressurized shuttle was destroyed in the antimatter explosion? Other than a handful of service eggs, similar to your pods, we don’t have any pressurized transfer vehicles, and our space suits are customized to the user. How did you plan to make the transfer?”

“Our suits are not so customized. We could either shuttle the suits back and forth or go to body bags. I’d prefer not to go to body bags.”

“I understand.”

“We would also wish to bring aboard personal items. We understand that they would be thoroughly inspected by your security people.”