Rock Killer (39 page)

She flicked the joystick on her wheelchair and headed for the door. As she reached out to open it, the door swung aside. There was a short, Asian man coming in the room. He was wearing a blue command uniform and director insignia.

“Excuse me,” he said and stepped out of her way.

“Thank you,” Charlie replied as her chair passed by. N
ot too bad looking
, she thought,
if he wasn’t so damn short.

***

Alex Chun sat in the employee lounge, sipping water. He hoped he’d keep that down. His space sickness was unusually acute. He tried to distract himself by looking out the window at the Mediterranean 400 kilometers below. He could see Italy, the Adriatic, and the Greek islands, where Odysseus had labored to return home for–what was it, ten years?
How many of his crew did he lose on that trip
? Alex wondered.

The shuttle to Earth was leaving soon and Alex would return home to his wife. Yet, ten of his crew would never go home again.

“Director Chun,” a familiar voice called out.

Alex looked away from the window. Tsuji was pushing her compact, muscular body toward him.

“Chun,” she said, coming closer and pulling herself into a chair. “Going back to Earth?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” she replied. “Have a nice time.”

“Thanks.”

“I hope we can work together again, soon.”

Alex looked at the miner. For a rock-cutter, that was almost a marriage proposal.

“I do too, Tsuji.”

“Chun,” she continued. “You did one great job out there. Using the laser on the
Kyushu
probably saved all our lives.”

Alex looked at her. “I wish I could have saved all the lives.”

“Well, you’re not God. You did the best you could and that was enough. You should be proud of what you did.”

Alex smiled wryly. “I don’t know. Maybe someday I’ll be able to feel good about my actions. Right now, they don’t seem to have been enough.”

“Why?”

“Because ten people died.”

Tsuji pushed out of her chair. “Director,” she said, “I’ll be glad to work with you anytime.”

“You, too, Tsuji,” Chun replied. “Where you going now?”

“Home.”

“Where’s that?”

“SRI-2062. A rush job. Good-bye, Director.”

“Bye, Chief.”

Tsuji moved away and Alex watched her go. In his memory he couldn’t think of a time a miner said three words to any non-miner that didn’t have to do with work.

Well, if Tsuji thought he did a good job, maybe he did.

He looked back out the window. The Black Sea and the Crimea were visible through broken clouds.

If only he didn’t feel so bad.

***

A Lexus coupe stopped in front of the Catholic Relief Society’s shelter. Cathy Williams walked inside and talked to the volunteer in the foyer.

“Yes,” the woman said, “she is here.”

“Could you ask her if she’d come with me, please?”

“Okay,” the volunteer said. “If you’ll wait here.” The woman went into the large room behind the entrance. As the door swung open, Williams could see the floor was covered wall to wall with small cots.

The volunteer returned with a small, elderly woman. “Ms. Williams, this is Mrs. Cortez.”

“Mrs. Cortez,” Williams said. “I’m from Space Resources Incorporated. You helped one of our employees.”

“Yes?” Mrs. Cortez said tentatively.

“Ma’am, could you come with me, please?”

The old lady looked at the volunteer.

“I’m sure it will be okay,” the volunteer said.

“Okay,” Mrs. Cortez said.

Williams led her to her car and they drove toward the Pacific. Eventually, they were following the coast out of the city heading north. “Mrs. Cortez,” Williams said as she drove, “We talked to your friends in your church, and learned you wanted to live near the ocean.”

“Yes.”

“You helped Charlie Jones and it cost you everything you had. We can’t replace what you lost, but we hope this helps.”

Williams drove the car off the road and down a driveway to a small house just off the beach.

“
Por Dios
,” the lady cried.

Williams got out and ran around the car to help Mrs. Cortez out. “It’s yours, if you want it. It’s a good area, too expensive to have terrorists live next door. I don’t think there’s a smash house within 20 miles.”

“But it’s too big, I can’t take care of it.”

“Don’t worry,” Williams said. “Come on, let’s look inside.”

Williams showed the woman how to put her hand on the sensor plate to open the door. The interior was furnished. A young woman was waiting inside.

“Mrs. Cortez,” the young woman said, “I’m Julie Lide. I’m your housekeeper.”

“I can’t afford a housekeeper,” Mrs. Cortez protested.

“SRI’s paying my salary,” Julie said.

“And if she doesn’t work out, or leaves, just call our San Francisco office and we’ll find someone else.”

“Why are you doing all this?” Mrs. Cortez asked incredulously.

“Because you saved the life of one of our employees; SRI repays its debts.”

Mrs. Cortex looked around the house. “Thank you,” she said. “
Gracias
.”

“You’re welcome,” Williams replied. “I’d better be going. If you have any problems, just call me in San Francisco. The number’s in the house computer.”

“I will.”

Williams walked out. T
he rent on the house and the housekeeper’s salary for a year are probably less than a small fraction of what SRI spends every day
, she thought to herself as she got into her car. And Mrs. Cortez was going to be surprised when Julie charged all household expenditures to SRI. Sure, there was no profit involved in helping the old lady who helped them. At least, not the kind that showed up on a balance sheet.

Williams entered the highway and drove north.

***

Esmeraldas is barely 80 miles north of the equator on Ecuador’s coast. SRI had located its spaceport there for the boost the spin of the Earth gave departing ships, not for the weather; it was unbearably hot and humid. But, as she stood on the runway at SRI’s facility there, feeling the sweat run down her back, Kirsten didn’t mind. SRI had decided to hold this whole greeting and celebration outside to accommodate the horde of media.

“How long?” she asked Mitchel.

“A few more minutes.”

Kirsten looked around her. Mr. Kijoto was a silent statue in the bustle and excitement of other SRI employees. The press, blocked off a few meters behind the SRI people, had even caught the carnival atmosphere. Then the double clap of a sonic boom vibrated everyone to their feet. All looked up. The shuttle was a black dot against the blue sky. Kirsten smiled: Alex was on that shuttle.

The shuttle eventually landed almost exactly like the first reusable shuttles did decades ago. Then, using its jet engines, it taxied like a plane to where the crowd waited.

Kirsten waited with what she thought was infinite patience for the door to open. Finally, about a century later, it did. Out came a man too tall to be Alex. D
amn
, Kirsten thought. Then Alex’s small frame was in the door in front of a massive black man. T
hat would be Banda
, Kirsten thought. Both men walked down the stairs. Mr. Kijoto, for the first time in many years, moved to greet someone first.

Then Alex had to talk to each SRI officer, followed by the black man. Alex finally reached Mitchel and the two men pounded each other on the back like the old friends they were.

Then, Alex turned to his wife. Ignoring Mitchel, Banda, Kijoto and the other SRI officers, the other employees, and the press who blatantly beamed the live pictures around the world, husband and wife wrapped themselves together into their own, safe universe.

About the Author

S. Evan Townsend is a writer living in central Washington State. After spending four years in the U.S. Army in the Military Intelligence branch, he returned to civilian life and college to earn a B.S. in Forest Resources from the University of Washington. In his spare time he enjoys reading, driving (sometimes on a racetrack), meeting people, and talking with friends. He is in a 12-step program for Starbucks addiction. Evan lives with his wife and two teenage sons and has a son attending the University of Washington in biology. He enjoys science fiction, fantasy, history, politics, cars, and travel.

Be sure to check out his other published works: