The Trikon Deception

2 SEPTEMBER 1998 TRIKON STATION

When Aaron Weiss returned to his compartment after dinner, he found an envelope containing a note and a small power-driven screwdriver. The note instructed him to remain in his compartment until 2345 hours. If he had not received any further instructions in the meantime, he could proceed with the plan. O’Donnell’s absence was guaranteed; but if anyone else wandered into the vicinity, he must refrain from entering the lab. The screwdriver was needed to remove the door hinges; it would be cleaner than fooling with the padlock. He also was to destroy the note.

As Weiss waited for the further instructions that never came, he entered every fact he could muster into his laptop computer. Then he ran a program popular among investigative reporters. The computer played out a series of hypotheses in flowchart fashion. But each hypothesis found a dead end. Question marks filled the screen. The cursor blinked maddeningly as if unsure where to go.

He didn’t need the goddamn program to tell him there was an unknown, an x factor, something other than Fabio Bianco’s superbug waiting to be uncovered on this station. The plants in O’Donnell’s lab were the first sign; Chakra Ramsanjawi’s checkered past the second. The connection between these two men will be very interesting, Weiss thought as he closed the laptop. Very interesting indeed.

At 2340 hours, someone rapped on the compartment bulkhead. Despite himself, Weiss jerked with surprise and a little fear. Something’s gone wrong, he thought. His first instinct was to hide the screwdriver. Looking rapidly around the narrow compartment, he shoved it into the belt of his jeans. Then he slid the door open.

Kurt Jaeckle floated obliquely in the aisle. Weiss felt a rush of relief, then hostility. Before Jaeckle could say a word, Weiss snapped: “Look, I told you in the wardroom, I’m not interested in Mars.”

“But I have a story that will make you famous,” Jaeckle said.

“Stories don’t make me famous.”

“This one will.” Jaeckle shouldered his way into the compartment. “Some weeks ago one of my scientists discovered signs of life in a Martian soil sample.”

“How interesting,” said Weiss. He checked his watch. Four minutes.

“Didn’t you hear me? Life! On Mars!”

“I heard you.”

“The story is yours, exclusively, if you’ll feature the Mars Project.”

“I don’t have time,” said Weiss.

“Look, I’ll be candid with you.” Jaeckle anchored himself in the doorway. “My man’s finding was very tenuous—too tenuous to report through the usual scientific channels. But you could report it! You’ll be the first man to break the story of life on Mars!”

Weiss could have barreled through Jaeckle’s feeble blockade, but the scientist would have yapped at his heels all the way to The Bakery. It was time to play the trump card Zeke had dealt him. He opened the compartment’s desktop and unfastened a tape recorder from its Velcro stay.

“All right,” he said, starting the tape. “I’m here on Trikon Station speaking to the man many believe will lead the first human expedition to Mars.”

Jaeckle arranged himself as if posing for a camera.

“Dr. Jaeckle,” continued Weiss, “what benefits would an expedition to Mars offer the man in the street?”

“Jaeckle blinked once, as if he had not expected exactly that question, but he immediately launched into his reply, “Economic reasons leap to mind first.” His voice resonated in the tiny compartment. “The project itself will employ hundreds of thousands of people. There are also scientific reasons. We can learn much about our own planet by studying the geological and meteorological history of Mars. Then there are the intangibles, the idea that mankind has spread its seed to another planet. And—”

“Interesting image,” said Weiss, cutting Jaeckle off before the scientist became too wound up in his own oratory. “What about the idea that Mars may be a penal colony, like Australia was centuries ago.”

Jaeckle was not flustered. “Well, of course, there are societal aspects—”

“I’m talking specifically about a penal colony for perverts and sociopaths. For men accused of having incestuous relations with their daughters?”

Jaeckle’s sunny smile turned to a trembling, white-faced mask of hatred.

“So she got to you, huh? The bitch already got to you.”

He pulled himself into the aisle and sailed away.

“Au revoir, Kurt Jaeckle,” muttered Weiss. He still had two minutes to spare.

At precisely 2345 hours, Weiss left his compartment. Hab 2 was silent except for the hiss of a full-body shower. The screwdriver was still tucked into the belt of his jeans, and he held the Minicam with one hand to prevent it from banging against the lip of the entry hatch.

Shadows ribbed the pastel-green walls of the connecting tunnel. Weiss shot himself to the hatch of The Bakery. No one was in sight. The only sounds were the whoosh of the ventilator and the occasional groan of the module’s skin stretching in the sunlit void of space.

Weiss pulled himself through the hatch. His heart thumped at the base of his throat and he steadied himself in the corner opposite O’Donnell’s lab until his anxiety passed. The hinges were each held to the door frame by two screws. Their rounded edges reflected tiny beams of light filtering in from the tunnel.

Enough time had passed for anyone who might have seen him enter The Bakery to follow him inside. Weiss opened a button and wedged the Minicam beneath his shirt. Then he worked the screwdriver out of his belt. Cupping it to his chest, he gave the tool a burst of power. The blade spun slowly and silently.

And Weiss spun in the opposite direction, just as slowly and silently, until he whacked the ceiling with his hip. He stifled a string of curses as he realized that, in micro-gee, he who is not firmly anchored by foot loops will be spun by a power screwdriver while the screw remains stubbornly unmoved.

Grumbling under his teeth, Weiss straightened himself out and started to slide his feet into the nearest floor loops. Then the module groaned, and once again his heart rushed to a gallop. He pushed himself into the corner formed by the lab and the forward bulkhead, his eyes fixed intently on the entry hatch. He remained fro/en until he was certain no one was coming. Listening carefully to the groans and whooshes, he familiarized himself with the harmless sounds and hoped he would hear nothing else. Slowly, he rotated himself into position at the lower hinge. He wormed his stockinged feet firmly into the nearest loops. He had to lean forward and sideways quite a bit to fit the screwdriver’s blade into the notch of a screw. He applied power. The screwdriver’s blade danced across the door with a series of agonizingly loud scratches.

Weiss gathered himself into the corner again. He had performed several routine micro-gee tasks since boarding the station, but had not imagined loosening four screws could be a major project. The problem suddenly seemed obvious: the screwdriver imparted its torque to the object providing the least resistance.

Weiss cast a quick glance out the hatch before resuming. The connecting tunnel was still empty. He returned to the hinge, anchored himself in the loops, and this time braced himself with his back against the forward bulkhead. He applied a shot of power; the screw turned slightly. Aha! He adjusted himself for leverage and shot again. The screw rose out of its hole. Worried that it would fly free, he performed the last few turns with his thumb and forefinger, then discovered that the screw was tethered to the hinge by a fine plastic wire that revealed itself only on the very last turn. These astronauts thought of everything.

The second screw came out quickly. He pulled the hinge away from the frame, leaving its other half still attached to the accordion door itself.

The loose hinge allowed some play in the door. Weiss pulled it back enough to see inside. The leaves of the plants floated in the strong beams of the lamps. Some of the leaves were shiny, almost waxy; others were curled, drooping, their edges brown.

He went to work on the top hinge. As he removed the first screw, he thought he heard a sound in the back of the module. Dismissing it as the groaning of The Bakery’s walls, he turned his attention to the last screw. The blade of his screwdriver never reached the slot.

The blow to his neck hurt for only an instant. In the split second before darkness fell, the chemicals of his brain formed an illogical memory. He was a boy, climbing a tree toward a nest that held three blue robin’s eggs. As he reached out his hand, the branch beneath him snapped.