The Trikon Deception

29 AUGUST 1998 AEROSPACE PLANE YEAGER

“Cindy, Dan.”

“I can’t hear you.”

“It’s Dan!”

“You don’t have to shout.”

“Is Bill there?”

“No.”

“This is very important, Cindy. I’m not calling to shoot the breeze.”

“He’s not home.”

“Has he left for the space plane?”

“That’ll be the day.”

“Cindy, we have a slight problem up here. I don’t think this is a very opportune time for Bill to visit the station. I’ve had his passes revoked”

“Trying to get back in my good graces, huh?”

“That isn’t it at all. Is Bill there?”

“I told you he’s not. What’s your problem? Some young girl scientist think you’re a big spaceman?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“I understand that as well as anyone.”

“Tell him I’m sorry and that I’ll make it up to him.”

“Famous last words.”

Shaped vaguely like a shark with wings instead of flippers, its eight hypersonic scramjet engines drinking up liquid hydrogen fuel, the aerospace plane Yeager accelerated past an altitude of 150,000 feet over the Great Plains. Nine minutes earlier it had taxied down the runway at Edwards Space Center in the high desert of California and vaulted into the crystalline blue of the early morning sky. Its itinerary: Trikon Station and Space Station Freedom.

Much to his relief, Aaron Weiss felt none of the crushing g-forces he had expected. The aerospace plane had taken off as smoothly as a commercial airliner. Which, in Weiss’s catalogue of evils, was bad enough. No lover of high-speed travel, Weiss believed that roller coasters should be outlawed as dangerous instrumentalities. But he had traveled in bullet trains in both France and Japan, and was pleased to discover that the aerospace plane was no less comfortable. For a moment, he even forgot about the airsick bag dangling from his fist.

The seats were arranged four across, with an aisle in the middle. Weiss had demanded an aisle seat; he had no desire to see the world falling away from him. The window seat was empty. More than half the seats were empty. Nutty way to run an airline, Weiss thought, flying this expensive contraption without a full load of paying passengers.

Across the aisle sat Fabio Bianco. Weiss had heard that the elderly CEO of Trikon International looked like a monk; he saw that the description was not exaggerated. The frail old man seemed too small, almost childlike, nestled in his chair, his wispy tonsure splayed like a halo on the maroon velour of the headrest, his liquid brown eyes staring serenely forward, his lips quivering as if in silent prayer.

“Hell of a ride,” said Weiss, realizing as he spoke that the cabin was much quieter than any plane he had ridden aboard.

Bianco smiled pleasantly and nodded.

“My first time on one of these babies.” Weiss held aloft his airsick bag. “I thought it would be worse.”

“The ride is very smooth,” agreed Bianco, with just a hint of Italian vowels at the end of his English words.

“Where are you headed?”

“Trikon Station.”

“So am I. My name is Aaron Weiss.” He stretched his hand across the aisle.

“I am Fabio Bianco.”

“Bianco?” Weiss put on his most innocent expression. “Isn’t the head of Trikon named Bianco?”

“That is correct. I am that person. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Weiss of the whales.”

“Recognized me, huh?” Weiss lifted a lock of gray hair from behind his ear. “Even without the hat?”

“I have been following your reports with great interest. I have been wondering how accurate they are.”

“Accurate enough.”

“Those deaths have brought me great sadness.”

“Those deaths are pretty damned scary,” said Weiss.

“What brings you to Trikon Station, Mr. Weiss? There are no whales on board, at least not to my knowledge.”

“A hunch or two,” Weiss said. “What about you? CEOs aren’t noted for mingling with the peons.”

“I have my reasons, Mr. Weiss. Now if you will excuse me, I need to rest. It has been an exhausting week for me. We can speak further on Trikon Station.”

You bet we will, Fabio baby, Weiss muttered to himself.

Dan Tighe eyed Aaron Weiss suspiciously. The reporter wore white crew socks, baby chinos, and a denim workshirt with pearl buttons. His Donegal walking hat was attached to his head by a jerry-rigged system of rubber bands. A Minicam hovered at chest level, loosely tethered to Weiss’s skinny neck by a loop of thinly braided cord. Dan didn’t like the idea of a reporter nosing around the station. Especially the muckraking TV-tabloid kind. He didn’t buy Weiss’s protestations that he was now a legitimate reporter covering stories related to science and technology for CNN in Atlanta. To Dan, Aaron Weiss always was and always would be a parasite. But the parasite was on board with Trikon’s permission, so Dan had to be cooperative, if not cordial.

Dan hovered in the doorway to his office. Dangling several inches above the deck of the command module just outside Tighe’s office, Weiss gripped a handhold firmly, but didn’t show any adverse effects of weightlessness. He had an airsick bag wedged under his belt. Kurt Jaeckle hovered next to Weiss. He had appeared the instant he learned that a reporter had arrived on the aerospace plane.

“The station comprises three distinct sets of personnel,” Dan was explaining, his face taut with tension. “There is the station crew, the Martians, and the Trikon scientists. This last set is divided into three further subsets: the American/Canadian group, the United Europe group, and the Japanese group.”

“I know all this,” Weiss said.

“You are free to visit any of the lab modules,” said Dan, putting more iron into his voice to discourage further interruptions. “But you cannot go beyond what the individual module’s personnel will allow. In other words, you must honor their desires for security.”

“You are welcome in the Mars module,” piped Jaeckle.

“Furthermore,” continued Dan, “certain modules will be strictly off limits to you unless you are accompanied by myself or a member of the crew. These include the command module and the logistics module.”

Weiss nodded, although the expression on his puffed-up face showed he was anything but happy with Tighe’s restrictions.

“Finally,” Dan added, “Dr. Renoir is at your disposal for any and all medical needs.”

“She’s already fitted me with a motion-sickness pad,” said Weiss.

“Fine,” Dan snapped. He glanced at Jaeckle, then returned his stern gaze to Weiss. “That’s all I have to say. I trust you will do your best not to interfere with the smooth operation of the station.”

Weiss mumbled something that did not sound like wholehearted agreement, but Dan let it go.

“Do you want to start with the Mars module?” asked Jaeckle, beaming the smile he reserved for members of the media.

“Not really,” said Weiss.

Hugh O’Donnell held the tiny strip of computer printout to one of the lights in his lab. The blood analysis unit Dan Tighe had pilfered from Dr. Renoir’s medical bay was programmed to screen thirty distinct drugs, from common natural substances like marijuana to obscure synthetics like 3, 4-methylenedioxamphetamine. He had obtained one positive result.

O’Donnell folded the printout into a pocket and squeezed out the door. None of the lab workers scattered throughout The Bakery paid him any mind as he secured his padlock. Except for Stu Roberts. He stared at O’Donnell with a cold, calculating eye as he hovered at an oblique angle between the microwave ovens fifteen meters away.

Dan Tighe was behind the closed door of his office. O’Donnell could hear him talking to someone over the radio. The topic of conversation was a TV news reporter who had apparently arrived at Trikon Station on the aerospace plane. Dan did not sound pleased with his presence.

O’Donnell waited until there was a lull in the chatter before rapping on the partition. The door slid open half a foot to reveal Tighe, his broad face pinched by a set of headphones.

“Be right with you. Let me wind up this report.”

The door closed and, after another minute of highly technical chatter, opened again. Dan no longer wore the headphones, although there was a white line where they had pressed against his roughened cheek.

“I have the blood work,” said O’Donnell, keeping his voice low.

Dan released himself from the foot loops and drifted toward the rear of the office, giving O’Donnell enough room to squeeze inside the narrow compartment.

“Better close the door,” he said.

O’Donnell obliged, then worked the printout from his pocket. Dan looked haggard. He had missed a spot shaving and his mouth was drawn down in an expression that in a lesser man would be worry, perhaps even fear.

“So what have we got?” he asked.

O’Donnell could tell from Tighe’s tone that he was tightly wound.

“The panel allows tests for thirty different types of drugs, some common, some not so common.”

“Get to the point,” said Dan. “Was Cramer dirty?”

“His blood tested positive for PCP.”

“I know that’s bad,” said Dan. “Now what the hell is it exactly?”

“Its chemical name is phencyclidine, but it’s better known as Angel Dust. It’s a hallucinogen that was developed in the fifties for use as an anesthetic. But it never was used because it caused bad dreams and aggressive behavior among the test subjects. It can turn a mouse into a maniac.”

“How do you know so much?”

“I wasn’t your normal doper,” said O’Donnell. “I would research a drug before I used it.”

“Did you ever do this stuff?”

“Once. I didn’t like it.”

Dan took the slip of paper from O’Donnell’s hand and peered at it like a suspicious man checking his supermarket bill. “Any chance of this being wrong?” he asked.

“There’s roughly a ten-percent error factor. From the amount in the blood sample, I doubt it was a false positive.”

Dan’s eyes narrowed until they resembled two sabers glinting in sunlight.

“Could he have been using this over an extended period of time?”

“No way I can tell from the blood,” said O’Donnell. “In low doses it could have a mild stimulant effect that might interfere with sleep. And the drug can build up in the fatty tissues of the brain and be released over time. But if you want to know the truth, one good dose can turn you into a psycho.”

Dan stuffed the results into his pocket.

“Dr. Renoir hasn’t missed her equipment yet. You’ll get it back?”

“Soon as I can.”

“Good.”

“Can I ask you a question, Dan?”

“What?”

“Why didn’t you have Dr. Renoir do this workup? After all, she’s the station’s medical officer.”

For the flash of an instant Tighe looked angry, furious. But with an effort he controlled himself.

“I needed somebody with no political ties to anybody else on the station,” he answered tightly. “Lorraine… Dr. Renoir… she’d been treating Cramer for sleep disorder without telling anybody but his supervisor.”

“Without telling you?”

Tighe held himself to a single curt nod. “She was following station regulations.”

“Cramer’s supervisor,” O’Donnell mused. “That would be…”

“Kurt Jaeckle,” Tighe snapped.

O’Donnell’s lips formed a silent “Oh.” He made a small shrug and turned toward the door.

“One more thing,” said Dan, his voice still edgy. “There’s a reporter on board. I don’t want any of this getting out, understood?”

“Understood,” said O’Donnell. “Who’s the reporter?”

“Guy named Aaron Weiss from CNN. Looks like a pain in the ass. Trikon’s given him limited access to the station. Damned if I know why.”

“What’s he reporting on?”

“Don’t know for sure. Trikon, I guess. He surer than hell isn’t interested in the Martians. He was pretty clear with Jaeckle about that.”

“Am I required to talk to him?”

“Don’t ask me. I’m not your superior. That’s right. The grapevine says you have no boss up here.”

“The grapevine says a lot,” said O’Donnell. “I just won’t talk to him.”

“Suit yourself,” said Dan. “Are you going to be all right?”

“What do you mean?”

“We just discovered that someone is cooking or smuggling drugs up here,” said Dan. “I think the question is validly put to someone with your history.”

“I’ll be all right,” said O’Donnell.

His hazel eyes, magnified by his glasses, stared into Tighe’s intense sky-blue slits. Neither man wavered.

“That’s good,” said Dan.

O’Donnell opened the door and pulled himself into the comparatively cool air of the command module.

“And, Hugh,” Dan called to him. “Thanks.”

For all his work and dreams about Trikon Station, Fabio Bianco had never been to space before, never experienced microgravity.

As a scientist he understood the facts of near weightlessness. As a frail old man he hoped that he would adapt to microgravity quickly, without embarrassing himself by becoming obviously sick.

He never expected to enjoy the sensation.

Yet from the moment the aerospace plane coasted into orbit Bianco felt a strange exhilaration surging through his aged body. By the time the plane had docked with Trikon and he and his fellow passengers had disembarked into the station itself, Bianco was grinning broadly. For the first time in years, in decades, he felt truly alive. Strong, almost. Twenty years younger. Thirty, even.

The young men and women of the station’s crew treated him with extreme deference. Bianco accepted their solicitude as his due as CEO of Trikon International, rather than because of his frail old age.

I’m not frail here, he marveled to himself as he floated effortlessly down the tunnel to Hab 1, following a ruddy-faced young crewman to the quarters he had been assigned. I’m strong again. Young again! I may never leave this place.

Within an hour of settling his meager luggage in his sleep compartment— and actually laughing when his clothes took on a weightless life of their own and floated almost out of his reach before he could corral them—Bianco used the intercom to call a meeting of all the Trikon personnel aboard the station.

The scientists and technicians gathered in the rumpus room at Bianco’s command. He did not need to ask permission, nor did he need to ask where to hold the meeting. Bianco knew the station’s layout in his heart, better perhaps than many of the scientists who had spent ninety days aboard. Bianco had spent years “seeing” Trikon Station in all its details.

Although the expended shuttle external tank that formed the rumpus room was the same size as the Mars module, its lack of scientific equipment made it the single most spacious area on the station, and the natural site for the meeting. Of course, there was no dais, and there were no chairs. Dan secured his three bonsai animals so they would not make a distracting backdrop for Bianco as he spoke. Lance Muncie and Freddy Aviles installed a portable floor grid on which the Trikon scientists and technicians could anchor their feet during the meeting.

Every member of the Trikon scientific community gathered in the rumpus room. Aaron Weiss joined the group, but rather than anchor himself to the floor grid he drifted above the assembly and slightly to one side so that he could see their faces without distracting them too much. His Minicam was loosely attached to his neck and he gripped a magnetized notepad in one hand.

Bianco looked small, almost shrunken in the light-blue Trikon flight suit he wore for the occasion. The open collar exposed the wrinkles and veins of his neck. The clinging pants revealed the sharp points of his knee and hip bones. Yet somehow he looked vital, eager. His eyes sparkled. He smiled gently at his employees.

“When I was a young man,” he began, “I would sit in my family’s garden at night and watch the stars track slowly across the sky. I dreamed of another star, not a glowing ball of hydrogen and helium hundreds of light years away, but a glittering diamond of aluminum and titanium that could circle our planet in a mere ninety minutes. And in that glittering diamond the finest minds from every nation would gather and direct their energies toward developing a second generation of science and technology that would solve the problems created by our well-meaning but ignorant forebears.”

Bianco hesitated a moment. The scientists and technicians, anchored by their floor restraints, swayed slightly like a field of brightly colored anemones rocking back and forth in the tide.

“There are many in the world who blame all our ills on science and technology. They say that we have too much technology, that we must give up our sophisticated machines and return to a simpler way of life. Otherwise the world will be polluted to death.”

The light in Bianco’s eyes changed. His voice became stronger, more urgent.

“But how can the human race go back to a simpler life without allowing billions to die? Can we privileged rich permit the world’s poor to starve, to die of disease? No. The answer, my friends, is not less technology, but more. We need an entirely new type of technology, second-generation technology, new and clean and based on the scientific breakthroughs that you are striving to create. Second-generation technology can feed the hungry without polluting the air and the seas. Second-generation technology can give us all the energy we need without destroying the global environment.”

Bianco studied their faces as he spoke. Only a few seemed to be accepting his words. Most of them looked impassive, indifferent.

“The most important task for our new scientific capabilities is to learn how to clean up the filth that the first-generation technologies have generated. That is why we are here. That is our high purpose. To cleanse the Earth of the toxic waste that is choking the air and strangling the oceans of our planet. That is why I created Trikon Station: to give you a place where you can save the world.

“I am a lucky man. It is not everyone who can board an aerospace plane and ascend to his dreams.”

Eye pressed to his Minicam, Aaron Weiss scrutinized every face as Bianco spoke of his vision of Trikon. He saw blank-faced Japanese, dour Europeans, impassive Canadians, confident, almost arrogant Americans. He matched the faces with names he had memorized. The Japanese with the thick neck and rolls of fat visible up the back of his crew-cut head was Hisashi Oyamo. The Indian with the greasy hair and billowing yellow kurta was Chakra Ramsanjawi. The woman with the salt-and-pepper buzzcut and cast-iron features was Thora Skillen.

Most of the names meant nothing to Weiss. But he felt a vague tug in his memory when he thought of Ramsanjawi. There was something unseemly in the Indian’s past, but Weiss wasn’t exactly sure what it was.

“It is not my intention to sound a Biblical note,” continued Bianco, “but there is a plague upon the land. We may not have as much time as we thought. Whales have been dying in the seas while we bicker among ourselves for the glory of ridding our world of toxic wastes. But this is not a problem that recognizes national borders. It does not even recognize different continents. It is truly a world problem.”

Goddammit, I was right, thought Weiss. There is a connection with the whales. And that old bastard played it so cool on the space plane, asking me if the reports were accurate. He knew damn well they were accurate all along.

Weiss stifled his self-congratulation long enough to train his Minicam on each of the faces in the audience. Now they began to look troubled as Bianco elaborated on the whale deaths. There was a connection. Definitely. And Trikon had known about it for a long time. The level of toxic wastes in the oceans had become so high that it was killing the phytoplankton. The whales were dying of starvation, just as Weiss had thought. Soon the atmosphere’s supply of oxygen would start to dwindle.

“I must make it entirely clear to you,” Bianco was saying, his voice now edged with sharp steel. “We are not talking in abstractions anymore. As the phytoplankton die, the human race will die. We are not talking about a problem that will manifest itself in a century or two. We have perhaps two decades, perhaps much less. We must find the way of destroying the toxic wastes in the oceans or they will destroy us. There is no third alternative.”

They were all leaning toward Bianco now, their faces etched with worry, their heads nodding agreement and resolve. But as Weiss panned the crowd, he found two scientists who seemed totally unconcerned about the implications of the whale deaths, at least to judge by the expressions on their faces. One was Chakra Ramsanjawi. The other he did not know: Hugh O’Donnell.

Bianco continued, “The public perceives us as a gaggle of overgrown children joy-riding across the sky in our expensive toy. Or worse, it sees us as fattened Neroes fiddling while Rome burns.

“I wish that our only problem was the public’s perception. In that case, our public relations firms could help us. But, ladies and gentlemen, I need not remind you that our problem is not one of perception. Nature is not swayed by hidden persuaders. We are running out of time.

“For these reasons, and with the advice and consent of the Boards of Directors of each of Trikon’s arms, I am assuming full authority to direct and coordinate our research efforts aboard Trikon Station. Each of the three coordinators will report directly to me from now on.”

A murmur rose among the crowd. Weiss trained his Minicam first on Chakra Ramsanjawi, then on Hugh O’Donnell. Neither reacted in any visible way to the surprise announcement.

Bianco adjourned the meeting. The audience drifted away, dispersing into knots of twos and threes, talking among themselves. Some seemed agitated, others almost stunned.

“Mr. Bianco, Mr. Bianco,” called Weiss as he swam toward the end of the rumpus room. There were no other reporters for him to jockey with. Trikon Station was a reporter’s heaven.

“I am consenting to speak to you on condition that my remarks are off the record,” Bianco said to Weiss. It was evening and they were in the dimly lit wardroom. Through the portal of the ex/rec room came the jeers of two crewmen competing at darts.

“What’s the point of talking if I can’t use what you say?” said Weiss.

“Do you know the meaning of lento?” asked Bianco.

“It’s a soup, right?”

Bianco slowly reared back his head and stared down the humped ridge of his Roman nose. Weiss felt the old man’s brown eyes penetrate to the base of his brain. He wiped the grin from his face.

“It means to take things slowly,” said Bianco. “In other words, I want you to have a comprehensive view of our work here before you file your report.”

“Agreed,” Weiss said easily. “Now how do these whale deaths connect with your work here?”

Bianco clasped his gnarled hands together and placed them on the table. Realizing that keeping them there required too much effort, he let them float before him like an inverted cradle.

“The main thrust of our project is to develop microbes genetically engineered to neutralize toxic wastes in our environment. The concept is called bioremediation.”

“I’ve heard of that. Scientists have been doing that for more than ten years, haven’t they?” Weiss asked.

“On a small scale, yes,” said Bianco. “Bacteria have been used to devour chlorine compounds that were polluting aquifers. But in those efforts, the scientists used the bacteria that already existed in the ground.”

“And Trikon’s trying to develop new kinds of bugs through genetic engineering, right?”

Bianco nodded slowly. “Ten years ago, your American EPA published a study that identified one hundred twenty-eight different toxic chemicals and compounds that were present in dangerous levels in the world’s oceans, lakes, and rivers. Ten years ago, Mr. Weiss. The situation has become much worse.”

Weiss started to speak, but Bianco silenced him with a sharp glance.

“Now I know what you are thinking,” said Bianco. “You are thinking that if there are one hundred twenty-eight chemicals, all we need do is pour the same number of microbes into the water and let them devour the chemicals to their hearts’ content.”

Weiss smiled wanly as if to say, Yes, that is exactly what I was thinking.

“The answer is not that simple,” said Bianco. “These toxic chemicals are not floating around in the water in discrete little bundles. Some ride the surface, others are buried in sludge, others blend into insidious solutions.”

“Are you getting to the whales?” said Weiss.

“Of course I am getting to the whales!” boomed Bianco.

Weiss flinched, completely surprised at the sudden power of Bianco’s voice. Even the dart players peered silently out of the ex/rec room.

“We have been working to develop one or two, maybe three, genetically engineered microbes with the capability of neutralizing all the major toxic wastes in the Earth’s waters. To give you an idea of the enormous complexity of the task, the most complicated microbe we have been able to develop neutralizes only seven.

“We knew we were working against the clock, but until the whale deaths occurred and were investigated, we did not realize how little time actually remains.”

“Do you really mean what you said at the meeting this afternoon?” Weiss asked. “We’ve only got ten years?”

“Perhaps less,” said Bianco. “The level of toxins in the ocean waters is killing off the plankton on which these whales subsist.”

“If that’s the case,” said Weiss, “why are so many marine biologists, big guns like Ted Adamski, saying that the cause of the whale deaths is a virus?”

“We have only recently satisfied ourselves that the deaths are from starvation and that the plankton supply has dipped below a level at which the normal whale population can sustain itself. We knew it would happen. But we did not anticipate it happening so quickly.”

“But Adamski still says otherwise,” said Weiss.

“Adamski privately believes the cause of death is starvation,” said Bianco. “He is maintaining his original public stance at our request.”

“Why?”

“To prevent wholesale panic,” said Bianco.

“Professor Bianco, I love the whales. I donate to Greenpeace every chance I get. Why the hell would the death of a few whales cause a panic?”

“You talked to Professor Karlis,” said Bianco.

“Karlis is a maverick,” said Weiss, too disturbed by the drift of the conversation to appreciate the irony of turning against one of his sources.

“But in this regard, he is entirely correct.”

Weiss tried to drum his fingers on the tabletop. They barely brushed the surface.

“Jesus H. Christ, you mean everything I’ve been saying is true?”

“Worse than that, Mr. Weiss. Phytoplankton not only manufacture oxygen. They also absorb carbon dioxide. For years, optimists in the great debate over global warming effects have looked to the plankton as our savior. The oceans might warm, yes, but then plankton would flourish and absorb more carbon dioxide, thereby preventing further warming. If the plankton die, the great leveling factor will be gone.”

“What does this mean to the man on the street?” asked Weiss.

“To the man on the street, I would say that without plankton Planet Earth is well on its way to becoming another Planet Venus. The man on the street will choke to death. All the men, women, and children of Earth will die.”

The Japanese tech watched impassively as Freddy Aviles traced a network of cables from Jasmine’s main computer terminal to the relay box in the center of the module’s ceiling. Freddy popped the cover with a screwdriver and inspected the innards of the box with a penlight.

“So then what happened?”

Lance Muncie, drifting beneath Freddy’s abbreviated rump with a toolbox in one hand and pages of computer-generated diagrams springing out of the other, glanced back at the tech.

“Does he have to stare like that?” Lance whispered.

“Jus’ doin’ his job, man,” said Freddy. “Like you an’ me. Oyamo told Commander Tighe that we couldn’t work in here alone,”

“Nobody trusts anybody here.”

“Nobody trusts anybody on Earth. Why should they be different here?” said Freddy. “So then what happened?”

Lance had hoped that the conversation would hop its tracks, but no such luck with Freddy. The man really was a computer whiz. He could talk, joke, sing, probably even dance if he had legs while working the reconfiguration project. He certainly didn’t need any help other than someone to prevent the specs from snaking away. And he certainly would not forget the topic of this conversation.

“We went to the observation blister,” said Lance. He waved away Freddy’s long, suggestive whistle. “It wasn’t what you think. We watched India pass beneath us and we talked about exercises and what the Mars Project was like.”

“Yeah.”

“We did, Freddy, and I told her about being part of the crew.”

“You din’ make a move on her?”

“Freddy.”

“You were alone in the observation blister with Carla Sue Gamble, the way she was diggin’ on you in the wardroom, and you din’ make a move on her?”

“I’m not like that, Freddy. I’m saving—”

Freddy turned away from the relay box. Lance’s cheeks were red; the muscles around his lips twitched. This time, Freddy’s whistle did not drip with innuendo. It was full of sudden understanding.

“Oh my God,” he said. “Oh my God, I Shoulda figured it out long ago. You a virgin.”

“Freddy, shh.” Lance tilted his head toward the Japanese tech.

“He don’ understand what we sayin’, Lance. I can’t believe this. I mean, I can believe it because I know you, but I can’t believe it.”

“Believe it.”

“Well, well, well,” said Freddy. “This puts a differen’ light on the subject.”

“I wanted to, Freddy. I was really really tempted. She had her hands on me. She wanted to put her mouth on me.”

“Not bad,” Freddy said in a stage whisper. “Then what?”

“I left.”

Freddy winced in embarrassment for his friend. “You get her pissed, no?”

“I guess so. I haven’t had the courage to look for her.”

“What you gonna do when you find her? Apologize?”

“Maybe,” said Lance. “Maybe explain to her what I think about these things.”

“And what do you think?”

Lance stuttered.

“You know, you full of shit, Lance. You talk about how you not like your folks. How you are space age and they are Stone Age. But here you are on a space station with a nice young lady hot for your bod, and you ain’t taking advantage.”

“Premarital sex is wrong no matter what the age,” said Lance.

“Tha’s a crock of shit,” said Freddy, “You ever read Thomas More? He said people should see each other naked before they got married. An’ he’s a saint!”

“He was a Catholic, Freddy.”

“Don’ hold that against him.”

“It’s still no argument to say that everyone does it. I have myself to think about. Becky, too.”

“Yeah,” said Freddy. “And while you up here livin’ like a monk, how do you know what she doin’ down there?”

Lance’s normally dark eyes flashed. His short hair bristled. His jaw clenched, making him resemble an avenging angel rather than a cute cherub.

“You take that back right now, Freddy!” Lance released the toolbox and specs and pounded the fist of one hand into the palm of the other.

“Hello, gentlemen.”

Aaron Weiss tumbled awkwardly through the entry hatch. The sound of his Minicam clanking against the floor echoed throughout the module. The Japanese tech hurried forward to intercept him. Weiss righted himself and inspected the camera for damage. The Japanese chattered shrilly and waved him away with the back of his hand.

“What? What?” said Weiss in response to the angry gestures. “I don’t understand you.”

“’Scuse me.” Freddy left his screwdriver and penlight with Lance and dove toward the reporter and the tech. The tech was growling now, like a swordsman in a samurai movie, and obviously gesturing for Weiss to leave. The reporter, feigning ignorance, was explaining that he just wanted a few pictures of the equipment.

“Do you understand what this man wants?” Weiss asked Freddy. “He’s not speaking English.”

“He wants you gone, man. How’s that for English?”

“Not very eloquent,” Weiss said, noticing the thick muscles beneath Freddy’s royal-blue flight suit. “But clear enough.”

Freddy nodded to the tech as if to say everything was under control. Then he escorted Weiss to the entry hatch.

“Hey, I know you,” said Weiss. “You’re Freddy Aviles. I was supposed to cover your launch. But then a bunch of whales died.”

“Out of here,” said Freddy, slapping the rim of the hatch for emphasis. “Now.”

With a sigh of resignation, Weiss cased himself through the hatch. Freddy watched him moving unsteadily down the connecting tunnel. Weiss stopped at The Bakery and looked at the hatch as if considering whether to enter.

“Not there either!” shouted Freddy.

“Sorry,” said Weiss, a guilty grin on his face. “Thought it was my hab module. This is a very confusing place.”

Freddy eyeballed Weiss until the reporter entered Hab 1. Then he returned to Lance and the relay box. Lance was still fuming.

“Sorry about what I said about Becky,” said Freddy. “She prob’ly isn’t doing anything like that.”

“Definitely isn’t,” said Lance.

“But even so, you could still go back Earthside an’ find her with another guy. Then what you gonna do, kick yourself in the ass for all the opportunities you let slide?”

Some of the hostility left Lance’s face. He bit his lip as he considered Freddy’s new tack. Stripped of the sexual issue, it made sense. Why did Becky sound so distant over the telephone? What type of person would he find when he returned?

“Take it from me, man. Don’ let opportunities slide by. Look at me. I can’ even kick myself in the ass anymore.”