The Trikon Deception

31 AUGUST 1998 TRIKON STATION

O’Donnell realized that there was something wrong with Lorraine. Her hair was no longer twisted into a neat French braid. Instead, it was bound by a net that seemed poised to fly off her head with the force of her loosened chestnut tresses. Her lips, usually pressed together in an expression he called grim, were noticeably turned down into a frown. She refused to meet his eyes.

His daily meetings with Lorraine had diminished from a half hour to barely ten minutes. Their tenor had shaded from openly adversarial to politely civil, if not genuinely friendly. They would chat until Lorraine apparently satisfied herself that the whites of his eyes weren’t bloodshot, his pupils weren’t dilated, his speech wasn’t slurred, and his limbs were not twitching uncontrollably. So he was surprised when she immediately ordered him to roll up his sleeve.

O’Donnell watched silently as Lorraine readied a syringe. Her breath sounded thick, as if she were congested. Still refusing to meet his eyes, she tied a rubber tube around his biceps and told him to pump his hand until his already prominent veins threatened to burst out of his skin. As with the last blood test, O’Donnell concentrated on the small Monet print fastened to the wall. He felt the coolness of the alcohol as she swabbed his inner elbow. He expected the thin prick of the needle. Instead, he felt as if his arm were being gouged by claws.

“Easy, Doc!”

Lorraine’s hands trembled. The needle scraped across his skin, leaving a darkened line of blood behind. O’Donnell grabbed the syringe with his free hand and lifted the needle out of his arm. Lorraine wrenched the syringe away and, with the same motion, stuffed it into a waste receptacle.

“You okay, Doc?”

“Fine,” she said. She didn’t look at him and furiously prepared a second syringe.

O’Donnell thought he heard her sniffle. He pulled the tube from his right arm and tightened it around his left. This time he watched her. As she moved to stick him, he gently placed his hand on hers and guided the needle into his vein.

“Do you want to tell me what this is all about?” he said when she finished drawing his blood.

“It was time for a test.”

“I’m talking about the butcher job on my right arm.”

She was labeling the syringe. O’Donnell placed his hand on her chin and turned her head so that she faced him. Her brown eyes were wet.

“You want to talk to me for a change?” he said.

She hesitated, but only for a moment.

“Have you ever thought you loved someone and tried to make that person notice you?”

“All the time,” said O’Donnell.

“Did they?”

“Sometimes, sometimes not. I never gave it much effort. I’m pretty lazy when it comes to that.”

“Well, did it ever happen that after you gave up on the one person and started seeing someone else, you realized that the first person had noticed you all along. Only now, because you are with the second person, and because you may have done things that are not in the best interests of the first person, you realize that you can never go back.”

O’Donnell knew the first person was Dan and the second person was Jaeckle, but he refrained from embarrassing her.

“I’ve been taught to think in absolutes,” he said. “Black and white, yes and no. One drink or one snort and I’ll be hell-bent for death and destruction. But when it comes to affairs of the heart, even I know that there are no absolutes. One day’s great idea is another day’s dumb mistake.”

He grinned at her. “Some people say we react to the chemicals in our brains. Some believe in true love. Whatever, the situation can be as unpredictable as hell. You make decisions based on constantly changing conditions. It’s worse than trying to predict the weather. But when you find yourself in a condition like the one you’re in, there’s only one reliable barometer.” He patted her stomach. “How does this feel?”

“Like I have a fist in it,” said Lorraine.

“You don’t like the decision you made.”

“I know that,” said Lorraine. “What can I do about it?”

“Right now, nothing,” he said. “You can’t force these decisions. It’s like trying to seed clouds. You can’t seed them if they don’t exist. You have to wait for the right time.”

“When is that?”

“Hard to say,” said O’Donnell. “But I do know one thing. The time always comes. They always come back.”

Lance’s innards trembled as he performed his daily inspection in the logistics module. The entire station seemed to be seething with a sexuality he had never noticed. The slender pipes looping across the ceiling were entwined arms and legs; their bright sheen was not from polished aluminum but from a fine glaze of sweat. The rounded bottoms of two oxygen cylinders lashed together were perfectly shaped breasts. Another pair were firm buttocks. The whole station was reeking with sex. It was everyplace, even in the very air. He tried to get his mind off last night with Carla Sue, tried to concentrate on his duties. But he could think of nothing else. His erection pressed against his flight pants.

A loud clanging interrupted his turmoil. Aaron Weiss hovered in the entry hatch, his ever-present hat and Minicam bound to him.

“May I come in?”

“I guess.”

Weiss tumbled quickly into the module.

“Commander’s orders,” he said. “I need permission and the escort of a crew member to enter this module.”

Lance shook his head as if perplexed by the rules.

“He must have a reason,” said Weiss. “Nothing on this station exists without good reason.”

“I suppose so,” said Lance, warily.

“What the hell is a logistics module, anyway?” asked Weiss.

Patiently Lance explained about the materials stored in the module and described the computer-controlled system for utilizing them.

Weiss suddenly asked, “What is your opinion of the scientific research being conducted on this station?”

“Uh—It’s important, I guess,” said Lance.

“I get the feeling that the crew is not intimately involved with it.”

Lance almost said that he personally was more intimately involved with the Mars Project. His thoughts surged between a giddy pride about last night and a gnawing fear that he had done something terribly wrong. But he couldn’t tell Aaron Weiss about that. Weiss wouldn’t understand.

“No, we’re not,” he replied. “Our main job is to keep the station flying. That’s why we’re here. That’s what inspecting this here log mod every day is all about.”

“Log…?” Weiss looked puzzled momentarily. “Oh, you mean logistics module.”

Lance nodded. Moving around Weiss, he made a big show of testing the seals of a waste receptacle.

“It’s an interesting project,” said Weiss, adjusting himself so that he always faced the constantly moving crewman. “The creation of a superbug that will rid the world of toxic wastes.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” Lance said, though he didn’t pay the idea much mind. He furtively passed a finger under his nose. Traces of Carla Sue’s tangy smell were still there, even after he had scrubbed his hands several times. Could the reporter smell it?

“Looks to me,” said Weiss, “that man for hundreds of years has played the devil in our Garden of Eden down below…”

“How’s that?” A jolt of almost electrical intensity surged through Lance.

“We’ve screwed up the environment of Earth,” Weiss explained, looking surprised at Lance’s ferocious stare. “Now we have the chance to play God.”

“Play God?” Something started churning inside Lance, an echo that reverberated with the guilty pleasures of the previous night.

“What these scientists are doing is altering the genes of common microbes so that they’ll devour toxic wastes. They’re creating new forms of life in the labs here instead of waiting for them to develop naturally. That’s kind of like playing God, don’t you think?”

“They’re doing that here?” Lance looked surprised.

“What do you think all those tubes of colored liquids are? Oil paints?”

Lance swallowed bile. Trying to keep a calm appearance, he answered, “Well, like I said, all I’m concerned about is keeping the station flying. Anything else is none of my business.”

“What about industrial espionage?” asked Weiss.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Spying,” said Weiss. “This superbug is a very valuable little animal, you know. Or is it a vegetable? Anyway, someone might want to steal if for himself. What if you, as a crewman, witnessed a theft. What would you do?”

“I’m supposed to report it to Commander Tighe,” said Lance, still shaking inside. “Those are the only orders we have.”

“That’s an awfully laid-back attitude, considering the nature of the project and its potential value.”

“Commander Tighe says we’re not policemen, or judges or juries, either.”

“Is that why you were installing a security system the other night?”

Lance was confused. The other night was ages ago.

“In the Jap module. You and Freddy Aviles were there working on something when I wandered in.”

“Oh, that night,” said Lance. “That was no security system. See, Freddy’s a computer whiz, so Commander Tighe is having him reconfigure the station’s computer system. I don’t know much about it myself. I just hold the tools and—”

“Lance!”

Freddy Aviles sailed through the entry hatch with his usual acrobatic flair.

“Hi, Freddy,” said Lance.

Freddy ignored Lance and spoke directly to Weiss.

“You have a phone call in the command module.”

“I do? Male or female?”

“A guy named Ed Yablon.”

“Oh, him,” said Weiss. “Tell him I’ll be there in a minute.”

“I ain’t goin’ there, and he don’ sound like he got a minute.”

“Bureau chiefs!” said Weiss with mock exasperation. “I’m going. Thanks for the tour, Lance.”

Lance nodded silently. Freddy stared at Weiss until well after he had disappeared into the connecting tunnel.

“What was he doin’ here?” Freddy asked.

“Nothing. He just wanted to see the logistics module.”

“What was he askin’ about me?”

“Nothing.”

“I heard you mention my name.”

“He thought we were installing a security system that night in Jasmine. I told him you were reconfiguring the station’s computer system because you were a computer whiz.”

Freddy stroked the thin strands of black hair that waved on his chin.

“That it?” he said.

“That’s it,” said Lance, confused by Freddy’s reaction to such an innocent conversation. “He was here only about five minutes. He did most of the talking.”

“Anything else he want to know?”

“About spies and the research project. I told him it was none of our business.”

Freddy stared at the hatchway as if expecting Weiss to return.

“Freddy,” Lance said. “Last night. I got to tell you what happened.”

“Save it, Lance,” said Freddy as he launched himself toward the connecting tunnel.

Lance hung in the middle of the logistics module, alone, surrounded by mute canisters and gleaming pipes, knowing that what he had done with Carla Sue was terribly wrong. Playing the devil in the Garden of Eden. That’s what Weiss called it. And he was right. Lance knew he was right.

Lance knew one other fact. He wanted Carla Sue. Wrong or not, he wanted her with a desperate physical ache that hurt so much it was pleasure.

“What the hell are you doing up there?” screamed Ed Yablon. “I haven’t heard a goddamn word from you.”

“Easy, Ed,” said Weiss into the phone. “It took me a while to feel my way around up here.”

“Feel your way around? Where the hell are you? Goddamn New York City?”

“There’s a very complicated social and professional structure on the station. I’ve had to weave my way through it to find the most reliable sources.”

“Cut the crap, Aaron. When do I get the first report?”

“Not for a while.”

“Aaron, if this is another of your goddamn schemes, I’ll make sure you never come back.” Yablon’s voice was never sweet, even face-to-face. Over the phone connection it sounded sandpaper rough.

“Listen to me, Ed. I came up here looking for one thing and I think I found something else, something much bigger.”

“Stop talking in generalities.”

“I can’t. These are unsecured phone channels. All I can say is I’m worming my way to the core.”

“When the hell are you going to get there?”

“Soon.”

“This better be worth the wait, Aaron.”

“This is big, Ed.”

Even the poor connection could not mask Ed Yablon’s sigh of exasperation. “Everything is big with you. If you’re not the death of me, I’m going to see that it’s written on your grave.”

“You’re a bundle of laughs, Ed. Is Zeke there?”

“I’m in his office. He’s the only one around here who goddamn knew how to reach you.”

Zeke Tucker took the phone and stalled until Yablon left the office.

“What did you get?” Weiss asked impatiently.

“Number One,” said Zeke. “The BBC sent us a taped report in 1985. Subject was implicated in an Oxford University drug scandal. Nothing ever was proven, but the university was very sensitive to its own reputation and dismissed him from the faculty.”

“What types of drugs?”

“Designers,” said Tucker. “Bunch of chemical names.”

“Interesting,” said Weiss. “What about Number Two?”

“Wait till you hear this one…”

Even Weiss, the old tabloid reporter, was shocked by the story.

“Who’s your source?”

“A P.I. up in Maryland. Claims he was working for one of Number Two’s recently jilted lovers. She stiffed him on his fee and he shopped it around the media to cut his losses. Nobody wants to use it, though, ’cause he can’t provide anything more’n hearsay.”

“That’s a real humdinger.”

“It’s hearsay, Aaron,” said Tucker.

“Yeah. A guy like that would probably go screaming to a lawyer.”

“Sort of reminds you of the old days, don’t it?”

Stu Roberts fingered the keypad of his hand-held computer. He had stored the data in a secured file and now was having difficulty gaining entry. Looming above Roberts, Chakra Ramsanjawi sighed impatiently. The Indian’s sleep compartment felt small and fumingly hot.

“Be cool, man, I’ll get it,” said Roberts, perspiring.

Ramsanjawi smirked. He was growing tired of Roberts’s jive talk. It made a bad combination with incompetence.

“Dig it,” said Roberts as data played across the tiny screen. “Okay, O’Donnell works an average of three hours in his lab before breakfast. He eats at oh-eight-hundred hours, returns to Hab Two to brush his teeth, then reports to Dr. Renoir at 0830 hours. He does this every day. The amount of time with Dr. Renoir usually runs from five to ten minutes, but today it was close to a half hour. When he returns to his lab, he works an average of four hours before lunch. The actual time doesn’t deviate by more than a minute or two. After lunch, he stops at his compartment, goes to the Whit, then returns to his lab by fourteen hundred hours. Not much deviation there, either.”

“What does he do at the Whit?” asked Ramsanjawi.

“What do we all do at the Whit?” said Roberts. “Oh yeah, he brushes his teeth, too.”

Ramsanjawi nodded.

“His afternoon time in the lab is more variable,” said Roberts. “He never spends less than three hours, but there have been days he’s spent four or five. You think he does timed experiments?”

Ramsanjawi, lost in thought, ignored the question.

“He always goes to the wardroom for dinner at nineteen hundred hours,” said Roberts. “Always. If Commander Tighe is there, he’ll eat with him. If not, he’ll try to eat alone. If he can’t, he’ll sit with the Martians. Never with anyone from the American/Canadian group. I know. I tried to sit with him once. He left without finishing his food.”

“Very discriminating,” said Ramsanjawi.

Roberts grinned awkwardly, not sure whether Ramsanjawi’s comment was an insult.

“After dinner he goes back to Hab Two, hits the head, I mean the Whit, and spends time in his compartment. Then usually, and I mean four out of every five nights, he meets Tighe in the ex/rec room for a game of darts. This is pretty boring stuff, huh?”

“Does he brush his teeth?” said Ramsanjawi.

“Before darts? Yeah, and after, too.”

Roberts went on to explain how he had poked a pinhole in the accordion door of O’Donnell’s compartment so he could time exactly how long O’Donnell kept his lights on before retiring. But Ramsanjawi wasn’t listening. He had heard enough to realize that O’Donnell led a very rigid life within the patterned rhythm of the station. It would be frightfully easy to knock him out of sync.

“Can you bring me his toothpaste?” said Ramsanjawi, interrupting Roberts’s discourse.

“Sure,” said Roberts, fighting the impulse to ask the reason why. He did not want to know, he told himself.