Rock Killer (38 page)

“Who?”

“Alexander Chun. He was the director on the asteroid the GA attacked. They say he saved many lives.”

“Hum,” Charlie said. And all she did was end a few.

Rodriguez stood and said farewell. Charlie ignored the nursemaid.

She wondered why she didn’t feel better about killing McConnell.

***

Caroline Zalesky wondered why McKenna had called her into the chief’s office. Caroline had finally gotten to sleep after hours spent worrying about David on the asteroid that had been attacked. When McKenna called her, she had to get dressed and downed some coffee to wake up.

“Chief?” she asked poking her head through the open door to McKenna’s office.

McKenna looked up. She was strapped in her chair working at her computer. She looked as if she hadn’t slept in days. Her blue eyes had dark rings about them and her usually lustrous red hair was stringy and uncharacteristically slovenly.

“Caroline,” she said. “Come in; close the door, please.”

Pulling the hatch shut, Caroline asked, “What is it?” She held on to a handhold in the air.

“There was a second attack on the asteroid,” McKenna said softly.

“Yes?”

“David, your husband, was killed.”

Silence coagulated in the compartment.

“Caroline?” McKenna asked.

She didn’t respond but, letting go of her grip, she started floating in the air, staring straight ahead.

***

The
Kyushu
was too slow a ship for just about everyone on board. For the most part the asteroid crew spent the trip back in a somber, bitter mood that was the antithesis of the trip to the belt. It was better when the ship was close enough to Earth to make conversation practical, but Captain Takashara limited everyone to one ten minute call to Earth or the Moon. That gave Alex just enough time to tell Kirsten he loved her and was all right.

There was time spent in the saloon, but most of it was spent in gloomy reflections on lost friends. Alex saw Thorne very little and when he did see his friend, Thorne was surly at best and enmeshed in grief to the point of almost being comatose. Alex hoped he’d pull out of it.

He met Bente in the corridor one day as they approached the Moon.

“Did you call home?”Alex asked.

“Yes,” she replied.

“How’s your father?”

“He’s alive, at least,” she breathed. “The doctors say it’s still indefinite if he’ll be all right.”

“I’m sorry,” Alex said. “I hope he’s okay.”

“Thanks, Alex.”

Eventually the old, balky ship entered lunar orbit. Since this was unusual, the intra-lunar shuttle had to be used to take everyone off and down to the Moon. The extra passengers meant it had to make two runs, taking it off its profitable LEOF-Moon run for twice as long.

Alex suspected that with the asteroid loss and the shuttle losses, SRI’s profit would be exceptionally low this year. SRI was self-insured, meaning all the loss came straight off the bottom line. That meant the stock wouldn’t increase in value, or might even decrease. A lot of normal folks’ retirement accounts would take a hit.

On the lunar surface the head of SRI’s Lunar Facility, Mr. Takeda, the new security head Rodriguez, and just about every SRI employee on the Moon was there to greet them. There was no media, thankfully.

Alex was surprised to be greeted as a hero. The crowd actually cheered when he entered the shuttleport. Takeda enthused at length about Alex’s actions. Alex’s own opinion of his actions that, in his mind, cost ten people their lives, contrasted directly with the proclamation that he was a hero.

Alex quickly paid his respects to Takeda and then, to the disappointment of the gathered throng, went to a hotel where SRI had rented rooms for the crew of the asteroid. There he began writing letters, actual hand-written on paper letters. He had to write ten of them.

***

Bente passed through the gauntlet of well-wishers and finally broke out into an open corridor. Akio was there. Bente ran to him and grabbed her brother, giving him an embrace.

“Akio, I’m sorry,” she said.

“Sorry?” he asked a little embarrassed by her display of affection. “For what?”

She looked at him. “I don’t know–for being away and not being here.”

“Don’t worry. And Father will be fine. He needs to slow down, that’s all.”

“Can I see him?”

“Of course,” Akio said. “And he wants to see you.”

They took the subway to the hospital.

Mrs. Naguchi was inside the room with her husband. She came out and greeted her daughter. “I’m so glad you’re all right,” she exclaimed happily.

Bente entered the room alone. She took in a breath—her father looked so fragile. He had more wires and tubes hooked up to him than most computers she’d seen.

“Hello, Bente,” he said. She was surprised how soft his voice was.

“Hello, Father.” She moved to his bed and carefully took his hand that had no tubes in it. She gently held it.

“I’m glad to see you’re all right,” he said.

“I’m glad you’re okay, too,” she answered.

Father and daughter looked at each other.

“Father?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

“I know,” he said. “I love you, too.”

There didn’t seem much more to say. Father and daughter sat holding hands for a long time.

Finally he said, “There were news reports that you helped stop the attack by the terrorists.”

“I didn’t do much,” she responded.

“You did your job well,” her father said. “That is something. I’m proud of you, Bente.”

“I’m proud of you, Father.”

Chapter Nineteen

“It was a group effort.”

Mitchel entered his office in the morning. The crisis was over and it was back to work as usual. Sure, in a few days he’d board the corporate spaceplane for Esmeraldas to greet his friend Chun as he returned to Earth. In the meantime, he had a lot to catch up on; first the reports from the information gathering departments and the news services.

From Pyongyang, Republic of Korea: there was a report that a group called the
Yuk’ee-oh yo’don
, or June Twenty-fifth Brigade, was making threats against SRI interests on the peninsula. The name, according to the report, referred to the date when imperial American and South Korean armies invaded the peace-loving People’s Democratic Republic of Korea in the first Korean War.

He wrote a memo to remind himself to have someone look to see if the Chinese, the last bastion of Marxism outside academia, were succoring the Brigade.

Mitchel shook his head. Hard to believe there were still idiots in the world trying to rewrite history.

From Tel Aviv: United Baathist Radio announced the murder of hero of the Socialist/Arab Revolution General Zuabi and a presidential aide by Israeli death squads operating in what used to be southern Lebanon. A protest to the UN was expected.

From San Francisco: the governor of California named Green party member Mike Winston to fill Linda Trent’s seat in the House of Representatives as the “alleged” terrorist had resigned. Also, the governor planned to protest to the World Trade Organization on the unfair trade practices of Japanese Space Resources Incorporated’s move to pull all their business out of his state.

And from Suruga Bay, Japan: Greenpeace was still flying helicopters dangerously close to the archology. So far they’d just tried to hamper construction and thrown some paint balloons–organically degradable paint, no doubt. But once they flew too low over some workers and the down wash of the rotors almost blew a worker off where she was standing. They still insisted the archology was an environmental travesty despite SRI spending trillions of yen to appease them and those like them. Mitchel wished the structure was in international waters. He’d mount some anti-aircraft artillery and discourage low over-flights. He could buy them from Philippe Thorez, the arms dealer. Mitchel understood the Frenchman was having problems since his SRI account, containing billions of euros, was accidentally credited to the account of a charity that helped refugees from the parts of the former Soviet Union that the Chinese had conquered.

And so it went in the office on the hundred and thirtieth floor of the SRI headquarters building, where one man tried to keep his company safe from the zealous, jealous, evil, and just plain stupid ones humanity seemed never to stop breeding.

***

Caroline Zalesky held a printout of the letter in her hand. It had been transmitted from the Moon. Chun had described how David had died trying to repair the mass driver. His body wasn’t recovered.

Caroline decided she was becoming numb because the letter didn’t affect her at all. She did briefly consider finding Mouret, being held in security, and killing him. But she dismissed that fantasy. The miner’s ship had been confiscated and he would be sent back to Earth on the next shuttle. She didn’t wish a similar fate for herself.

She read the letter again. Below Chun’s scrawled signature was a hand-written message, barely readable because of his illegible penmanship and the low quality of the fax. It said, “I can’t tell you how sorry I am David was killed. I would have prevented it if I could.”

She almost laughed bitterly at that. The only way to stop David’s death was to stop the terrorists before they got a chance to kill. She decided the next time she had a chance, she’d shoot a terrorist on sight.

***

Thorne called Diana’s family from the Moon. He didn’t know them other than an address in Iowa. He talked to her mother. “Are you planning a memorial service?” Thorne asked.

“Yes,” the woman replied on the screen. “But someone else from SRI called and asked that and I told them when it was.”

Thorne nodded exaggeratedly to indicate he understood that. “Yes, that would be someone official. Someone from her division will attend any memorial service you have. I was a friend of Diana’s.”

The woman studied Thorne through the computer. He could see some of Diana in her mother. It was disturbing.

“We’re you and my daughter close?” the woman asked.

“Yes,” Thorne said. “I also want to explain to you, to her family, how and why she died.”

“Why?”

“I think it’s important. I want you to know she didn’t die needlessly. She was doing her part to save lives.”

“Why is that important to you?” she asked.

“I want to do the right thing for Diana. God knows I didn’t get a chance to do much else for her.”

Thorne saw Diana’s mother assess him again. “The memorial service,” she said finally, “will be in three days; Saturday at ten a.m. Can you get here by then?”

“Yes,” Thorne said. “I’ll be there.” He made another call.

“Pa, I’ll be home in about a week. Can you pick me up at the airport in Idaho Falls again?”

“Sure, son.”

***

Perez walked into the NESA hospital room. She looked at him.

“Excuse me,” she said. “Who are you?”

“Perez,” he replied. “I was in the mass driver. I found you.”

“Oh,” she replied. “Thank you. I guess I owe you my life.”

“No,” he said. “I just helped. It was a group effort.”

“Well, thank you anyway.”

“You’re welcome, uhm...I’m sorry. I don’t know your name.”

“Sharyl Svensen.”

“Miguel Perez.”

“Well, thank you, Miguel.”

“You’re welcome, Sharyl.”

Neither spoke as the sound of the medical equipment droned on.

“How do you feel?” Perez asked.

“As well as could be expected.”

“That’s good,” Miguel said. “I mean, I’m glad you’re doing good.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

More silence.

“Listen, Sharyl,” he said. “When you feel up to it, do you want to go out for a drink or something?”

She looked at him and smiled. “I think I owe you at least one. Sure. Doctor says it won’t be long and I can try my prosthesis.”

“Good,” Miguel said. “I’m not going to Earth so I’ll be here.”

“Okay, Miguel,” she said smiling.

***

While Charlie detested the thought of her grandmother’s body being in a concrete box in the ground, she did find some comfort in a physical thing, the grave and marker, that remained as a memorial to that remarkable woman.

With Frank there was only a plaque. It was in the briefing room that Frank had lectured in and been eulogized in. It listed the names of SRI Security personnel killed, either by accident or violence, in the line of duty on the Moon. Frank’s name was under Prince and Nakamura’s at the bottom of about 20 other names. The three names were in bigger type, as were all that died by violence.

Charlie stared at the nickel plate. The metal had come from an asteroid, of course.

Anger, denial, then either bargaining or depression, then finally acceptance. Charlie had first read about Kubler-Ross after her grandmother died. The stages of grief were the same as for dying, they said. She didn’t remember going through all the stages before acceptance—probably too busy. But, looking at the engraved letters of Frank DeWite’s memorial, she could remember Frank and rejoice in their relationship instead of only mourning his loss. She took one last look at the deep, dark script and said good-bye.