Rock Killer (30 page)

Taylor reported the electrolysis was going as planned.

“Under the low gravity, the bubbles look like they’re rising in oil,” she reported.

“As long as we get it out eventually,” he said over the intercom.

“No problems so far,” Taylor said. “We had to adjust the voltage. Too much voltage and the bubbles couldn’t rise fast enough and I’d get that bubble on each electrode you talked about. I had somebody from the reactor section install a voltage regulator and I can adjust the voltage.”

“Good,” Alex said. “Is the H-2 going out okay?”

“Yes,” Taylor replied. “That’s going great.”

“What about the partial pressure?”

“Point zero nine-eight.”

“Good,” Alex repeated. Taylor signed off.

Alex had needed to make a decision. Almost everyone on the asteroid wanted to send a message home, but that would tie up the communication gear. That wasn’t a major problem because the computer had “look through” transmission capability and would shut down an out-going transmission if something came in.

But he had everyone packed like sardines in the galley, and there was only one computer in there. Everyone moving to the computer to send their message was a bigger problem. Moving was surprisingly difficult because of the unexpected direction of acceleration, and that would burn much precious oxygen.

Alex decided everyone could write down a message on a handheld computer and one person would take the computer and send them.

Alex’s computer in his office/quarters could interface directly with the communications computer. He sent his message to Kirsten from his office; rank has its privileges. He kept it down to a short: “I’m fine. I love you. Everything will be all right. I’ll be home soon.”

***

The bridge was clear of blood and vomit. Cole had at first balked at cleaning up the mess, but Knecht and Griffin sternly insisted. She helped grudgingly and Griffin, with his bad arm, wasn’t much help. It seemed Knecht was going to have to do everything.

She was pulling on one of the emergency pressure suits SRI had been kind enough to provide in the
Rock Killer
, but she was having trouble with it.

Griffin pushed over to help but he got going too fast. He grabbed her arm with his good appendage to try to stop. She jerked her arm out of his hand and he hit the bulkhead hard with his broken arm.

“Ow, God damn it!” he yelled. “I just wanted to help.”

“I don’t need your help,” she said angrily.

Griffin swallowed his anger. “Hey,” he said softly. “What’s wrong?”

She stopped struggling with the suit and looked him over with her blazing green eyes. “Just leave me alone, okay?”

Griffin was silently surprised.

Knecht pulled the bubble helmet over her head, effectively cutting off conversation. Griffin passively watched her finish putting on the suit, checking it, and move to the airlock. She ignored him the entire time.

Once the airlock swallowed her form, he shrugged, which caused him more pain, and moved to the first aid station.

“Cole,” he ordered. “Come here.”

The other woman glared at him.

“I broke my God-damned arm. I need your help.”

Cole pushed over. “What do I do?” she said reluctantly.

“There should be some splints in there. We need to immobilize it.”

“Okay,” Cole said with a heavy sigh of annoyance.

Chapter Fifteen

“There’s two men from the FBI here.”

McConnell took a taxi to the airport. There he used the electronic ticket agent to buy a ticket to Seattle in his name with his computer. He then moved to another airline and bought a ticket to Los Angeles using a computer in Whaltham’s name.

Finally, at a third airline, he bought a ticket to New York, JFK, using a computer with the name of Roger Oaks. He dropped the other two computers in a trash can. Nice thing about electronic ticket agents was they couldn’t remember a face. Their cameras only operated if someone tried to cheat or damage them.

He endured the flight without smoking and in New York he bought a ticket on the spaceplane to French Guiana. At least that would be a shorter flight. Normally he wouldn’t take a spaceplane because of the damage he believed they did to the ozone layer. But this was an emergency–it would have flown anyway, and if he could save himself he could do more good in the future than the spaceplane did harm. At least that was how he rationalized it.

The spaceplane landed in Cayenne and McConnell took a taxi to the NESA facility near Kourou, about 60 kilometers through sweltering jungle. He’d read somewhere that the road had been built by Devil’s Island inmates. L
ittle better than slavery
, he thought. The West always built their “progress” on the backs of the oppressed.

There was never a line at the NESA public spaceport. Space travel was still too expensive for most people. McConnell walked up to the girl behind the counter labeled “English.” She was pretty and had a slight French accent when she spoke. The use of humans indicated the level of luxury.

“May I help you?” she asked cheerfully with her plastic smile.

“Yes,” McConnell said. “I need a ticket to the Moon on the next shuttle.”

“Do you have a reservation?”

“No. Is that a problem?”

She worked the computer. “No, we usually have a seat available. Do you have a visa?”

McConnell showed her the plastic card, much like what credit cards were like. She raised an eyebrow.

“Been planning to visit the Moon for a long time, Mr. Oaks?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She put the visa in a slot on the computer and asked him to step on the scale. She typed on the computer then indicated he could step off. “Okay, Mr. Oaks, you have a seat on the next shuttle. It’s leaving in about eight hours. Please be in the terminal at least an hour before. In low Earth orbit you’ll transfer to the intra-Lunar shuttle. In the meantime, there’s the NESA hotel. Shall I get you a room? You can rest up before your trip.” She handed back the visa.

“Thank you, yes,” McConnell said.

“Also,” she said, “do you need reservations at a NESA hotel on the Moon? You’ll be arriving in two days. You never know if they’ll be full. You may end up in a dorm.”

“Yes, I do.”

“And which hotel, Mr. Oaks?”

“The best one,” McConnell said, as if it were obvious.

“Yes, sir. That would be the Selene. And how would you like to pay for that today?”

“Credit.” He held up his wrist with the Roger Oaks computer on it.

“Fine. You realize there will be a reweighing at check-in and any significant weight gain will be charged against your credit account.”

“I understand,” McConnell replied.

***

“Hi,” the woman entering Charlie’s hospital room said. “I’m Cathy Williams. I’m with the SRI West Coast Terrestrial Information Gathering Office in San Francisco. Joe Murda sent me down at Mitchel’s behest.” As she spoke, she glanced about the room, surveying it.

“Hi,” Charlie said to the petite, black woman. At first glance she didn’t look as if she could harm a fly. But Charlie noticed Williams was aware of every aspect of the room. She seemed like a chemical mixture that just needed the right activation energy to give a violent exothermic reaction. A sizable bulge under her leather jacket was either a congenital defect or a very large weapon. She wondered how she got it past the locals. “You here to protect me?”

Williams nodded. “Yes, and Mitchel wants you back in Tokyo as soon as you can travel. The local constabulary already failed once to keep you safe. The corporate spaceplane can be at Orange County Airport within a few hours, waiting for you, when you’re able to leave.” She had moved to the window, looked out, and closed the shades.

Charlie’s eyes grew wide. “How did I rate that?”

“Apparently,” Williams said, “Mr. K. liked what you did.”

“Excuse me,” Freeman said, coming in the door.

Williams spun, placed her body between Charlie and the door and had her hand in her jacket. She relaxed, but not too much.

“Oh, it’s you,” Williams said.

“You know each other?” Charlie asked.

“Agent Freeman,” Williams explained, “got me in here, past the LAPD.”

“It’s great,” Freeman said. “We got Trent’s activities to obtain support for the GA by a foreign nation. That violates the Anti-Terrorist Act of 2024. We’ve got her ass,” Freeman said with glee.

“Whaltham?”

“You won’t believe it. The computer had records of his financial dealings with the GA. He’s a damned psychologist in Denver named James Whaltham McConnell. The Denver office will pick him up.

“Charlie, what you did effectively has shut down the GA. Beatty and Griffin are dead and Trent and McConnell will be arrested soon. Without them the GA is just a bunch of overzealous idealists. I’m flying back to D.C. right now to personally arrest Trent. I’m looking forward to it.”

“That’s great,” Charlie said.

“I forgot to give these to you earlier.” Freeman reached into his briefcase. He handed Charlie her SRI ID and her wrist computer.

“Thanks,” Charlie said. She looked at her ID as if it were a holy totem.

“Freeman?” she asked.

“Yes?”

“Why haven’t I been charged with unlawful self-defense?”

Freeman put his finger to his lips. “Shhhhh!”

Charlie looked at him quizzically.

“Listen,” Freeman said softly, “this isn’t the state of Columbia. Yes, technically, you are guilty of unlawful self-defense. But no one is going to file charges. The only person they can prove you killed is Beatty, and he killed three cops to get to you. You’re a hero; even the media is treating you as such. The local authorities know that, politically, they can’t touch you.”

“I didn’t mention it,” Williams said, “but that’s another reason Mitchel wants you out of the U.S. Once the hubbub dies down, you may be liable for indictment. But NESA won’t extradite you from the Moon.”

“Well, I’ve got to go,” Freeman said, stepping toward the door.

“Okay, bye,” Charlie said.

Freeman stopped short of pulling the door open. “You did a great job.”

Charlie smiled. “Thanks. You too.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

Charlie laughed. It hurt a little. “You’re right.”

“Well, bye.”

“Good-bye, Gordon.”

He smiled and walked out of the room. The door slowly closed.

“He’s cute,” Williams said. “Yours?”

Charlie laughed again. “No.”

There was soft knock on the door. A thin, tall man with longish auburn hair and beard walked in. He was wearing a lab coat and a stethoscope was draped around his neck.

“Excuse me,” he began, “I need—”

Williams was on him immediately. She pushed him against the wall and, while holding him with one arm, frisked his lab coat with her free hand.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“He’s my doctor,” Charlie explained.

“Oh, sorry,” Williams said, releasing him.

***

The environmental committee meeting went late. Late for Washington that is: about six.

Trent went to her office. Most of her staff had gone home and she scooted her secretary out the door. Trent had some work to do and there was no need for the fellow to be there.

Vera picked her up about nine and they drove to the house in Alexandria. Neither noticed the gray Fiat parked across the street. They parked in the carport, plugged the car in since its batteries were about drained, and went in through a side door into the kitchen. They started working on a light dinner together.

“I’d better check the computer messages,” Vera said.

“Okay,” Trent said, slicing some vegetables.

Vera walked into the living room. The light on the old computer was blinking. Vera walked toward the machine but the front doorbell (another obsolete technology Trent and Vera preferred) rang.

That’s strange
, Vera thought. W
ho’d be ringing the doorbell at this late hour
? She went to the door and looked through the peephole. It was two men in business suits. Vera didn’t have much use for men starting with, and especially, her father. She picked up the baseball bat kept near the door.

“What is it?” she yelled through the door.

“FBI,” one said. “We’re looking for Congresswoman Trent.”

Vera chained the door and opened it, holding the bat behind her. “Congressperson Trent is busy,” she said through the crack. “May I see some ID?”

One of the men held up a wallet with a badge and ID card.

It looked official but Vera wouldn’t know an FBI badge from one found in a Cracker Jack box. “Okay, hang on.” She closed the door and locked it. The men could wait outside; it was starting to get chilly.

Vera moved to the rear of the house where the kitchen was. She walked slowly, wasting as much of the men’s time as possible. And, of course, there was no energy wasting central computer system in this house to transfer messages.

“Linda,” Vera said.

“Yes, Vera?”

“There’s two men from the FBI here.”
Men
and
FBI
were spat out like obscene words. “They want to speak with you.”