The Trikon Deception

30 AUGUST 1998 TRIKON STATION

Dinner had been unusually quiet for Aaron Weiss. The two Martians with whom he shared a table spoke to each other in hushed tones, ignoring him. It’s like they’re really Martians, Weiss grumbled to himself, and they don’t want anything to do with an Earthling.

When they left, no one took their places. Weiss finished his meal alone and groped his way out of the wardroom, feeling distinctly like a leper.

His mood changed as soon as he reached his compartment. Wedged into the door was an envelope. There was something primitive about this method of communication in the midst of the station’s high-tech ambience. But Weiss quickly forgot the irony when he read the note inside.

Weiss could hear the Indian’s singsong manner of speech in the serpentine style of the handwriting. He was surprised by the invitation. During dinner, he had come to the conclusion that his fight with Hugh O’Donnell had resulted in the station’s scientific community hardening against him. Now the one scientist he had considered least likely to talk was consenting to an interview. These bright boys sure are an unpredictable bunch, thought Weiss.

He swam into ELM at the appointed time, moving cautiously from handhold to handhold, his innards braced against the slight hint of nausea he had felt that morning. The threat of sickness bothered him more than the real thing; he almost wished his guts would get the damned job done, upchuck and have it over with. Almost.

Ramsanjawi was alone, floating at a workstation halfway down the length of the module. His billowing saffron kurta was a brilliant contrast to the salmon-and-gray color scheme. Weiss noticed a flash of the eyes in Ramsanjawi’s dark face and thought he heard laughter echoing off the aluminum walls. He pulled himself closer. Ramsanjawi was staring at a centrifuge.

“Good evening, Mr. Weiss,” Ramsanjawi said without turning around. “I am delighted you accepted my invitation.”

Barely noticing the man’s overly sweet, perfumed scent, Weiss said, “I was happy to receive it. Surprised, too.”

“Why were you surprised?”

“You didn’t exactly lay out the red carpet for me when I came in here with Bianco this morning,” said Weiss, drifting farther away from the Indian. “And after my fight with Hugh O’Donnell, I assumed no one would talk to me. Least of all you.”

Ramsanjawi nodded at each of Weiss’s reasons, then dismissed them with a laugh that blended perfectly with the whir of the centrifuge.

“I will explain why I have once again decided to break ranks with my brethren,” he said.

The centrifuge kicked off and Ramsanjawi reached inside to free a vial from the arm. The vial contained a liquid that shaded from aquamarine to deep blue in four distinct bands. Ramsanjawi motioned Weiss to the adjacent workstation, where a stoppered beaker was secured in a metal rack.

“Seawater from the North Atlantic,” said Ramsanjawi, nodding toward the beaker. “The white filaments you see are particularly nasty polychlorinated biphenyl molecules, which you know as PCBs. They are visually enhanced for what I am about to demonstrate.”

He inserted the needle of a syringe through the top of the vial he was holding and pushed carefully until the tip of the needle entered the third of the four bands of blue. Then he drew a portion of the liquid into the barrel of the syringe.

“These are genetically altered E. coli bacteria,” said Ramsanjawi, withdrawing the needle and holding the syringe so that Weiss had a clear view of the thin band of blue. “We use E. coli because they are easy to cultivate in large quantities. They are visually enhanced as well.”

Ramsanjawi slowly pressed the needle through the stopper of the beaker. The needle appeared in the seawater, glinting among the filaments. Ramsanjawi pressed the plunger. The microbes dispersed throughout the water in thin blue whorls. The filaments seemed to dance as the microbes swirled around them. Slowly, the filaments broke apart, separating into a snowstorm of flakes. In a minute, the water was clear.

“Fantastic,” said Weiss.

“A parlor trick,” Ramsanjawi said.

“But the water is clear.”

“Only of PCBs. There are dozens of other toxic substances I did not choose to visually enhance.” Ramsanjawi sighed. “I am afraid this is a case of too little too late.”

“Spoken like a true optimist,” said Weiss.

“If I exude pessimism, it is only because I have been here too long.”

Weiss studied the Indian’s face for a moment. “Why don’t the three arms of Trikon cooperate, Dr. Ramsanjawi?” he asked.

“Personality clashes, racial clashes, silly notions of national pride. There is a good deal of competition in science, Mr. Weiss. Ask anyone who has received a Nobel Prize.” He hesitated a beat, then, “But if you want my honest opinion, the root cause is money.”

“No one’s mentioned that before,” Weiss said.

“Perhaps because it is not obvious. Or perhaps because it is so obvious that it requires no mention.”

“Pretend I don’t think it’s so obvious,” said Weiss. “How does money enter into it?”

“There are forces that want to prevent Trikon from developing these microbes,” said Ramsanjawi. “It is not because these forces wish the Earth to be suffocated in toxic wastes. They simply prefer that they be the ones who own the means of cleaning it up.”

“Forces? What forces? Who are you talking about?” Weiss demanded.

“I have no specific names to give you,” said Ramsanjawi. “But you can guess where they reside. The United States of America.”

“Dr. Ramsanjawi, that’s absurd. American scientists have spearheaded the ecological advances of the last decade.”

“I did not say American scientists. I meant American industry. Most of the pollutants in the oceans are by-products of American manufacturing processes developed in the middle part of the twentieth century. A patented microbe with the ability to neutralize these wastes would be worth millions of dollars to any scientist who can develop it. But it would be worth trillions to these industries because they would be able to continue using those old, cheap manufacturing processes, since they would have the means of cleaning up after them. They could even sell their manufacturing processes—and the cleanup systems—to the rest of the world.”

Weiss thought a moment, then said, “Kind of like putting catalytic converters on automobiles instead of giving them non-polluting motors.”

“Exactly!” Ramsanjawi beamed at the reporter. “You grasp the situation very quickly.”

Weiss thought the details were vague, but he liked the conspiratorial, antiestablishment flavor of Ramsanjawi’s theory. It was like the stories he had unearthed for his old TV tabloid, but on a far more sweeping scale.

“How are these forces preventing you from doing your work?” he asked.

“They are not,” said Ramsanjawi. “They are actually trying to promote our work so they can steal it and use it for their own purposes.”

“How do they steal it?”

“We are not certain of their methods, but we are certain of the thefts.”

“By who?” said Weiss.

“Different people.” Ramsanjawi made a small wave of his hand. “They change from rotation to rotation, posing as scientists or technicians. We think they are close to fitting all the pieces of this microbial puzzle together.”

“Is that so bad?”

“That depends on who you think should own the keys to toxic-waste cleanup—some giant corporation or a nonprofit consortium dedicated to the betterment of the world.”

Weiss considered the alternatives and decided that he did have a strong preference. He flashed on the image of Ramsanjawi and Bianco speaking warmly that morning. Could it be that the Indian, of all the others, was Bianco’s true soul mate, the genuine embodiment of what Bianco called the Trikon spirit?

“What makes you think these forces are close to developing the microbe?” he said.

“We think they have sent up a superspy,” said Ramsanjawi. Lowering his voice, “Hugh O’Donnell.”

“Why did I know you were going to say that?” Weiss asked, grinning.

“What impelled O’Donnell to attack you today?”

“I tried to film his lab. He got, as we say, pissed.”

“When we say pissed, we mean drunk,” said Ramsanjawi. He smiled as if the incident proved his premise that O’Donnell was a spy.

“Wait a second,” said Weiss. “Everybody in the American lab hates O’Donnell.”

“An elaborate act. He pretends to work on a separate project, they complain about lack of lab space. All the while, he is gleaning data from us and the Japanese and sending it back to the corporation he works for. His employer may not even be a member of Trikon.”

Weiss remembered the conversation he overheard through Thora Skillen’s door. The Americans had fallen behind in their research and Bianco was angry. Ramsanjawi might have a point, farfetched as it seemed.

“Is that the camera you used?” said Ramsanjawi. “May I?”

Weiss slipped the cord over his head and handed the Minicam to Ramsanjawi. The Indian aimed it around the lab like a tourist in midtown Manhattan.

“Extremely fine resolution,” he said. “And good magnification.”

“Only the best from CNN.”

“What did you see as you filmed?”

“A computer, smaller than the ones in the main lab modules. It had some sort of genetic structure on the screen. Vials of colored liquids, which probably were microbe soups.”

“You have learned much in your short time here,” said Ramsanjawi. “Was there anything else? Any sophisticated communications equipment?”

“That’s all I saw,” said Weiss. Of course, there were the plants. But he wasn’t about to mention them. He had a reporter’s sense that Ramsanjawi was angling for something—information, a favor, maybe a deal. He wanted to keep one trump card up his sleeve. Besides, he had a damned good idea what those plants were. The sixty-four-billion-dollar question was what were they doing on Trikon Station.

“How would you like to film O’Donnell’s lab?” Ramsanjawi asked.

“And get killed doing it? No thanks.”

“What if I told you I could arrange it?”

“With O’Donnell? Fat chance.”

“Ascend from the real world, Mr. Weiss, just for a moment. Theoretically, would you like to film O’Donnell’s lab and have someone with scientific expertise interpret the images?”

“What I would like to do is ask O’Donnell a bunch of questions and have him answer them. But that isn’t going to happen.”

“Precisely. So answer my question.”

“Do I look stupid?” said Weiss.

“What if I told you that I could guarantee you fifteen minutes without danger of being assaulted? Is that enough time?”

“How are you going to do that?”

“Is it enough time, Mr. Weiss?”

“I can manage with it.”

“Would you be willing to cooperate, and bring the tape to me?”

“I might,” said Weiss. “But why should I?”

“Because we both want the same information.”

“How do you know I’m not a spy myself.”

“I don’t,” said Ramsanjawi, handing the camera back to him. “But I can’t be in two places at the same time, so I have asked you. I assume there are spies. If I discover you to be one, so be it.”

Weiss took the Minicam from Ramsanjawi and slipped the cord back over his head. He wasn’t sure about the offer. It was too easy, too coincidental with his fight that morning. But where would he be if he hadn’t run down the other coincidences he had encountered in his life? Probably writing a police blotter column for a local rag and playing with himself. Fuck the whales. Big as they were, those plants in O’Donnell’s lab were the key to something bigger. He was going to have another look at them. Somehow. Some way.

“Why did you show me the parlor trick?” he asked.

“To establish credibility, Mr. Weiss,” said Ramsanjawi. “Why else?”

The phone booths in the command module were open twenty-four hours a day. Crewman Stanley was on duty in the module when Weiss got there. He looked askance as the reporter swiftly explained that he had to contact his boss in Atlanta. The Aussie nodded okay, but the suspicious look stayed on his face.

Weiss closed himself in the booth farther from Stanley, then grumbled under his breath as his fingers refused to hit the right pads on the telephone keyboard. Damned micro-gee, he fumed. Nothing works right here, not even my hands.

Slowly, very deliberately, he pressed out the number of the network office in Atlanta. Zeke’ll be there, he said to himself. He’s got to be. Where else does he have to go to, without me?

Sure enough, Tucker was exactly where Weiss hoped: in the editing room helping a production assistant wade through miles of tape.

“How’s outer space treating you?” Zeke’s voice drawled in the phone.

“Never mind. Gotta make this fast, Zeke.” Weiss kept his voice low, eyeing Stanley through the booth’s clear plastic door, watching him from across the module. “I’m going to mention two names. I’m only going to say them once. After that, they are Number One and Number Two. I want you to dig out morgue files on both. I’m not looking for mainstream vanilla bullshit. I want the kind of dirt that used to pay our rent. Ready?”

“Yup.”

“Number One is Chakra Ramsanjawi. I remember something about a scandal in England several years ago, mid-eighties, maybe. Not sure of the particulars, but it was bad. The European Bureau should have it.

“Number Two is Kurt Jaeckle. I need something I can hit him with to get him off my back. Guy’s a pain in the ass, begging to show off his Mars Project. Like I need Mars.”

Tucker chuckled. “Only you would call a world-class scientist and media star a pain in the ass.”

“I’ve seen the slimy undersides of too many world-class media stars in my day.”

“Why, Aaron, you’re a world-class media star yourself.”

“Cut the crap, Zeke. This is important.”

“Okay. Give me twenty-four hours. Hey, Yablon’s pretty steamed he hasn’t heard from you.”

“Another pain in the ass,” said Weiss. “I’ll call when I’m damn good and ready.”

“A real world-class attitude,” Zeke Tucker said, laughing.

It’s now or never, Thora Skillen said to herself as she slipped into the sleep restraint in her compartment.

Fabio Bianco himself is here. And a reporter from CNN. If I do it now it will get tremendous publicity all over the world. Everybody will see how wrong it is to conduct genetic research, even on a space station.

She could stop them, she knew. In the darkness of her compartment she squeezed her eyes shut and told herself that she would strike back at them for her sister’s death.

But her dreams, when she finally fell asleep, were troubled. Her father stared down at her, cold and disapproving. “Melissa would never do that,” her father said, in a tone that was more hurt than anger. “Why must you always be the bad one?”

Melissa told her, “It’s all right, Thora. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. I love you, Thora dear. It’s all right.”

And she heard her own voice pleading, “I don’t want to die. Oh God, please don’t make me die.”

“I reserved the observation blister,” said Lance, “so we can cool down.” Carla Sue removed her hairnet and shook her head. Her hair instantly puffed out like a perfect sphere of yellow cotton candy. She patted the nape of her neck with a towel.

“Sure,” she said. “Sounds fine.”

Lance detected uncertainty in her voice, as if she were replaying their last visit to the blister. Be cool, be in command, Freddy had told him. You are the man.

He didn’t give her a chance to reconsider. He led her to the Mars module, never once looking back lest she interpret the slightest glance as a lack of confidence. She stayed right behind him.

He opened the blister door with a flourish and invited her to enter before him. She smiled for him as if charmed by his gallantry.

They floated side by side. Three hundred miles below, a necklace of atolls gleamed in the brilliant blue waters of the Pacific. Lance felt a mad urge to apologize for his behavior their last time together. He wanted to tell her the truth, that he had been surprised and scared but that this time would be different. He checked himself. All the talk in the world don’ mean nada, Freddy had told him. You deliver with action.

So they talked about their workout and the pleasant sensation of fatigue that followed exercise. Carla Sue wasn’t as forward as the last time. In fact, as Freddy had predicted, she was downright prudish. Her knees were pressed together, her arms folded.

Thoughts of Becky tried to creep into Lance’s mind. He suppressed them by talking faster and louder.

“Look how the water is a lighter blue around the islands,” he said.

“Yes,” said Carla Sue.

A lock of blond hair brushed against his cheek. He stole a glance at her and suddenly felt a giddy sense of ownership, as if all of this woman—the long legs, the blond hair, the lips shaped like Cupid’s bow and red as a valentine—were his for the taking.

All the talk in the world don’ mean nada, Freddy’s voice said in his ear.

He pulled Carla Sue to his body, locked one leg behind her knees, and pressed his lips against hers.

Just get her started and don’ worry.