Spindrift (4 page)

“Well, yes, but…” Beck smiled. “Relax. You've had a long day. And that was quite a presentation you gave this morning. At the very least, it gave everyone much to think about.”

Shillinglaw chuckled. With all the chairs taken, he leaned against a bookcase beside the hearth. Sinclair's mouth briefly ticked upward, yet they continued to regard Ramirez as if he was a bug someone had neglected to crush. The young man, though, gazed at him with unabashed curiosity, like a university student coming face-to-face with a notorious figure whom he'd studied in one class or another, but never dreamed of meeting in real life.

“Glad to hear it,” Ramirez said dryly, “but I wasn't under the impression that ‘thinking about it' was the prime concern of this conference.” The waiter reappeared, bearing a tray with a glass of wine. “In fact, I've begun to wonder why I'm here in the first place,” he added, as the waiter handed his drink to him. “Not that I haven't enjoyed the change of scenery”—even Sinclair smiled at this—“but anyone knowledgeable about Raziel could have delivered that talk.”

“Yes, quite.” Beck folded his arms together. “You're absolutely correct…although your presence added a certain
gravitas
that might otherwise have been lacking. But that's beside the point, really. As I said, we have something more important we'd like to discuss with you.”

Shillinglaw cleared his throat. “Perhaps I should introduce our friend here.” He gestured to the young man seated across from them. “Commander Theodore Harker, first officer of the EASS
Galileo
.”

“Which ship?” Ramirez shook his head. “Sorry, but I haven't heard of the
Galileo
. Is that a new Mars cycler?”

“No, sir.” Harker's voice held a slight Welsh accent, watered down by years of refinement. “We completed our shakedown cruise to Mars just six weeks ago, but interplanetary service is not our principal mission.” He paused. “The
Galileo
is a starship.”

Ramirez blinked. It took a moment for this to sink in. “A starship,” he murmured at last. “I'll be damned…” He looked at Shillinglaw. “You
have
made progress while I've been away, haven't you?”

“Don't feel bad. You haven't been that far out of the loop.” Shillinglaw stepped away from the bookcase. “Most of
Galileo
's development was classified, strictly on a need-to-know basis. We didn't go public with the project until we actually began construction four years ago…”

“And by then, of course, your intelligence operatives had achieved their goal.” Sinclair glowered at both him and Beck. “I have to hand it to you…they were very good at unearthing the details of our diametric drive. My government didn't even know they'd been stolen until…”

“Oh, Donald, please.” Beck closed his eyes, shook his head. “ESA didn't steal the diametric drive, and you know it. Our people developed it independently. Otherwise, why would the configuration of the drive torus be so different?”

“Because you—”

“Look,” Ramirez interrupted, “I'm really not interested in hearing this.” Then a new thought occurred to him. “Or maybe I am. The last starship the Union Astronautica built…um, the
Spirit
…”

“The
Spirit of Social Collectivism Carried to the Stars
,” Sinclair said, reciting the ship's cumbersome but politically correct full name. “The last of the five colony ships sent to 47 Ursae Majoris.”

“After the
Alabama
, of course.” Sinclair's face reddened as Ramirez said this. Good social collectivists—particularly political officers—didn't like to be reminded that it was the old, right-wing United Republic of America that built and launched humankind's first starship, long before the Western Hemisphere Union rose from the wreckage of the former government. He started to sputter something, but Ramirez ignored him. “But the Union Astronautica exhausted their resources building that fleet,” he went on, “and…at least so far as I know…haven't built any since.”

“Sometimes, there's a certain advantage to being the tortoise,” Shillinglaw said quietly. “Especially when it's obvious that the hare will soon take a nap.”

Sinclair glared at him, while Beck covered his bemused expression with his hand. “That's one way of putting it,” Harker said, making an attempt to be diplomatic. “The fact remains that, at this moment, the EA has the only operational starship.” He smiled, and Ramirez couldn't help but notice a certain twinkle in his eye. “Among other resources,” he added, as a mischievous grin crept across his face.

“I think you can see where this is going.” Beck leaned forward to place his empty wineglass on the table. “We mean to send the
Galileo
to Spindrift, with the intent of investigating the origin of these signals.” He nodded toward Sinclair. “This will be a bilateral mission. After all, it was the Union Astronautica that discovered Spindrift…”

“And ESA has the means to get there.” Ramirez toyed with the untasted drink in his hand. “Not a bad idea, if you have a ship capable of reaching the object…Spindrift, I mean…when it makes its closest approach.” He searched his memory. “Just short of two light-years, about two and a half years from now. You're going to be cutting it close, even with diametric drive.”

“We have a certain…well, edge…that gives us confidence that we can make it,” Harker said. “In order for us to achieve our launch window, we're looking at a departure date of June 1.”

Ramirez raised an eyebrow. “So soon? That's only six weeks away.”

“We believe that it can be accomplished.” Beck settled back in his chair, steepled his fingers together. “We already have a good crew, with Captain Lawrence in command…sorry he can't be here, but he's attending to other matters just now.” Harker made a face, but said nothing. “And we're presently assembling our science team, with representatives from both the Union Astronautica and the European Space Agency.” He paused. “Which is why we've asked you to be here, Dr. Ramirez. We'd like to have you aboard.”

The glass slipped from Ramirez's hand, spilling wine across the dark green carpet. He barely noticed the waiter as he rushed forward to sop up the mess with a terry-cloth towel. His heart skipped a beat; for a moment, it was hard for him to breathe. No one in the room spoke; Ramirez waited for someone to grin, laugh, tell him it was just a gag—
Oh, no, we're not serious…You're staying behind, to act as a consultant
—but everyone simply gazed at him, waiting for a response.

“Sure,” he said at last. “I'd love to.”

“Splendid,” Shillinglaw said. “We were hoping you'd say that.” He grasped Ramirez's shoulder as he gazed at Harker. “You've got your astrobiologist, Commander…the best in the business.”

Harker gave him a tight smile, then nodded to Ramirez. Sinclair let out his breath and shook his head, while Beck asked the waiter to fetch a round of champagne so that they could make a toast to the mission. None of them noticed Shillinglaw as, still holding Ramirez's shoulder, he leaned forward to whisper in his ear.

“There, you see?” he said softly. “You didn't really want to jump out that window, now did you?”

MAY 29, 2288—TSIOLKOVSKY STATION,
NEW GUINEA SPACE ELEVATOR

L
ike a silver caterpillar ascending an impossibly long strand of silk, the tram from New Guinea climbed the last hundred yards toward its berth within the station's outer hull. As it approached the terminus, the vehicle began to decelerate, the conical fairing of its nose bisecting to reveal the flanges of its docking module. The tram almost seemed to coast the rest of the way home; it slowly entered the sleevelike berth, then there was a slight jar as it came to a halt.

A recorded voice came through speakers within the passenger lounge, announcing the tram's arrival. First-time travelers, impatient to board the elevator for its descent, unbuckled themselves from their seats. Clutching the straps of their carry-on bags, they began to waddle toward the hatch leading to the boarding gate, careful not let the soles of their stickshoes leave the floor's densely fibered carpet. The gate agent didn't hurry to collect their tickets, as it would take a while for the outbound passengers to disembark. After that the stewards had to clean the cabin and restock its galley. The more seasoned passengers knew this; they remained in their seats, reading their pads or watching netcasts, or gazed out the lounge window at the impressive sight of the space elevator, a massive and seemingly infinite cylinder that fell away from them, gradually diminishing in width but never in length, until it became a mere wire that pierced Earth's upper atmosphere almost 22,300 miles away.

Harker lingered at the window until he heard the hatch open, then he turned away to saunter across the lounge. The first few people to disembark were all civilians; some looked distinctly pallid, and it wasn't hard to tell which ones would soon be rushing for the nearest toilet to become spacesick. And, as always, there were the kids who seemed to bounce everywhere at once, drunk with their first taste of microgravity. None of them would be here very long; they'd soon board ferries that would transport them to orbital colonies, lunar shuttles or, in a few instances, one of the giant Mars cycleships parked elsewhere in geosynchronous orbit.

Harker almost envied them. Not because of where they were going—he'd spent most of his adult life on the Moon, and two trips to Mars was enough for him—but with whom they'd be traveling. It didn't bother him so much that it would be nearly five years before he set foot on Earth again. What he wasn't looking forward to was the company he'd keep.

Please, change your mind
, he thought, even though he knew that this was a futile hope.
Please let there be a death in the family, or some unforeseen illness, or anything else that might lead you to think that this is something you just can't do. Even an attack of common sense, unlikely as that may be. But please…

“Mr. Harker!”

No such luck. Ian Lawrence emerged from the gate, pushing past a couple of vacationers who'd come off the tram just in front of him. Harker forced a smile, even though his face felt as if it was made of lead. “Welcome back, Captain,” he said, as pleasantly as he could. “Have a good trip?”

“Splendid, just splendid.” Lawrence had an overstuffed duffel bag in one hand and an attaché case in the other. Without bothering to ask, he held out the bag for Harker to take. “Thanks for coming to meet me. Nice to see a familiar face.”

Captain Ian Lawrence, commanding officer of the EASS
Galileo
, apparently hadn't received the memo requesting crew members using the space elevator to travel incognito. Either that or, more likely, he'd decided to disregard it. Whatever the reason, his dress uniform attracted attention; from the corner of his eye, Harker saw other passengers taking note of his service beret and the gilded braid and epaulets of his tunic. Perhaps that was why Lawrence insisted on wearing them; besides a handlebar mustache cultivated to mate with a pair of muttonchop sideburns, there was nothing about the
Galileo
's captain—short, slightly overweight, with a weak chin and a mercurial temperament—that commanded more than a moment's notice.

“Of course, sir. Not a problem.”
Unless you count the fact that you should've been here five days ago, along with the rest of us.
Harker took the bag from his captain, then turned toward the lift. “If you'll follow me, sir…”

“Just a moment. We've got one more person.” Lawrence looked around, then raised his hand. “Over here, John!”

Looking back, Harker felt his heart sink even further. John Shillinglaw, the ESA associate director whom he'd met at Wilton Park a few weeks earlier. Shillinglaw had impressed him as little more than a bureaucrat who'd found his way into his position by being in the right place at the right time. It only figured that he'd make friends with Lawrence; they both belonged to the same social class. The only difference was that, in Shillinglaw's case, he actually showed some aptitude for his job.

Cut it out.
Harker bit the inside of his lip as he watched Shillinglaw make his way through the crowd.
You've got to work with these guys…especially Ian…even if you don't respect them.

“Sorry. Got hung up back there.” As Shillinglaw joined them, his gaze fell to the V-neck sweater and baggy trousers Harker wore. “A little out of uniform, aren't we, Commander?”

“Sorry. Wasn't aware that this was a formal occasion.” Praying that Shillinglaw's presence didn't portend another unexpected crew addition—they'd had one of those already—Harker began to escort them to the lift. “We weren't expecting you. I take it this is…ah, official business?”

“Of course.” Shillinglaw smiled. “Don't worry, I won't be here long. I've just come up to observe the final mission briefing before you go into quarantine.”

Oh, thank God.
“In that case, glad to have you aboard.” Harker caught the sour expression that crossed his face. “That is,” he quickly added as he pushed the button that opened the lift doors, “I hope your visit is…”

“John was my guest at my family estate this last week.” Lawrence's voice was cool as they entered the lift. “We spent some time discussing the mission in a more comfortable environment.” He cast a sideways look at Harker. “You were welcome to join us, of course…”

“Thank you, sir, but I had my duties.” Harker stared straight ahead as the lift began to ascend.
All the things you couldn't be bothered to take care of yourself
, he thought.
But, after all, one last weekend loitering around the Yorkshire manor was more important, wasn't it?
“The rest of the crew is already aboard. They've completed training, and we'll commence final preparations tomorrow.”

“Very good. If you could deliver an update by nineteen hundred hours, I'd appreciate it.” Lawrence turned to Shillinglaw. “See? I told you Ted was efficient. That's why I personally requested for him to be my first officer.”

That
, Harker thought,
or you knew you'd get someone who'd cover your ass. Just as you always have…

The lift came to a stop, and the doors slid open to reveal a circular corridor. Harker stepped aside to let the other two men through, then followed them into the passageway. At least Lawrence knew where he was going; making small talk with Shillinglaw, he led them around the bend to a round hatch on the outer wall marked
SEC. 2—AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
. A quick scan of his thumbprint and a typed-in password on the keypad were enough to open the hatch. On the other side was a cramped sphere, just large enough for four persons, with padded seats arranged around its interior. Ducking their heads, they climbed inside and sat down. Harker took a moment to secure the captain's baggage within the nets beneath the seats, then they grasped rungs positioned at shoulder level and inserted their feet beneath the floor bar. Once they were settled in, Harker pushed a button to seal the hatch.

“So we've got everyone?” Lawrence asked as the cab began to descend down the axial spoke leading to the station ring. “Flight crew, science team…”

“Yes, sir. All present and accounted for.” The cab rotated ninety degrees, and Harker briefly closed his eyes, feeling his body gain weight as the cab crossed the gravity gradient. “Dr. Ramirez came up last week. He's handled the training quite well…better than I expected, in fact.”

“I'm not…” Shillinglaw belched; his face went pale, and for a moment Harker was afraid that he might get sick. “Surprised,” he finished, his voice little more than a gasp. “He's very…”

“Adaptable, yes.” Lawrence looked away, tactfully sparing his guest a moment of embarrassment. “Good, very good. And the crew…?”

“No problems so far.”
Except that you decided to take a holiday while the rest of us were busting our chops.

The cab eased to a halt, and the doors automatically opened. They climbed out to find themselves in another circular passageway, this one with a wider arc than the one within the station hub. Once again, Lawrence left it to Harker to carry his bag. As they walked toward a frosted-glass door at the end of the corridor, a new thought seemed to occur to him. “Ted, have you been letting people visit the rest of the station?”

“Of course, sir.” This section of the ring was already off-limits to anyone who didn't have ESA clearance. By the next day it would be under full quarantine as well, with access denied to anyone who wasn't going aboard the
Galileo
, and no one allowed to leave either. “When they've finished training, they've generally gone up to the hub. There are a couple of good restaurants there, and a rather good pub…”

“Well…” Lawrence frowned as he pressed his thumb against the identification plate. “Afraid there'll be enough of that. Don't want to risk any loose talk in public about this mission. From here on out, everyone is confined to this section.”

“Sir…”

“That's an order, Mr. Harker. I expect you to carry it out.” The door slid open with a faint hiss. Lawrence reached over to take his bag from Harker, then stepped through the door with barely a glance behind him. “One more thing…I want the crew and the science team assembled in the conference room in one hour. It's time to go through our final briefing.”

Harker was glad that Lawrence had taken the bag from him; otherwise, he might have been tempted to drop it on his foot. He watched as the captain marched down the corridor, Shillinglaw following him like a puppy.

“Insufferable bastard,” he muttered.

 

Like the rest of Tsiolkovsky Station's deep-space training section, the conference room was spartan and antiseptic, with plastic chairs surrounding an oval table fashioned to look like bird's-eye maple. The only relief was a broad window. Standing before it and looking straight down, one could see Earth revolving at the end of a long silver string like a giant blue-green yo-yo, an optical illusion produced by the ring's axial rotation.

There weren't enough seats to accommodate everyone, so a few expedition members had to stand against the window and the walls. Even so, Harker reflected, the
Galileo
party was remarkably small: fifteen in all, divided between nine crewmen and six passengers, with Shillinglaw as an observer who, along with a handful of ESA physicians, would be among the last few to see them before they left Earth. No one was happy about Captain Lawrence's abrupt edict against further visits to the hub, but Harker had little doubt that some of them would attempt to sneak up there anyway. Well, then, so be it. Unless Lawrence specifically ordered him to do otherwise, he intended to forget about locking down the spoke cab until 0800, and look the other way if anyone came back before then reeking of ale.

Sitting at one end of the table, Harker let his gaze travel across the room. Of everyone gathered here, he was most familiar with the ship's flight crew. Antonia Vincenza, the executive officer, her brow furrowed as she studied the datapad in her lap. Martin Cohen and Werner Gelb, the chief engineer and life-support engineer respectively, involved in some technical discussion. Arkady Rusic, the communications officer, and Simone Monet, the helmsman, sharing a private conversation in hushed tones. Nick Jones, the ship's doctor, dozing in his chair, arms folded together and head tilted forward against his chest.

Seated at the opposite end of the table was the shuttle pilot, Emily Collins. As always, they were careful not to acknowledge each other's presence. Nonetheless, when she briefly looked up from the pad she was reading, there was a moment when they caught each other's eye. The most secretive of smiles, then she returned her attention to her pad. No more covert rendezvous in the station pub, Harker reflected. From here on out, they'd have to find other ways of spending time with each other.

He knew the science team less well. Tobias Rauchle was a German astrophysicist who'd been picked to lead the team; he sat on the opposite side of the table, arms folded across his chest, staring straight ahead with a perpetual frown upon his face. Standing behind him was his former student, Robert Kaufmann, also from ESA's extrasolar exploration directorate; the two of them were never far apart, with Kaufmann almost always seconding Rauchle's opinion, but at least the younger man was a little easier to take than his mentor. On the other hand, there was Jorge Cruz, the astrogeologist from the University of Havana who'd been sent by the Union Astronautica. Judging from their previous conversations, Harker had come to realize that Cruz, while apparently less than a bred-in-the-bone social collectivist, was only too happy to disagree whenever possible with his European colleagues.