The Trikon Deception

15 AUGUST 1998 TRIKON STATION

“We’ll start with the European module,” Tighe said to Jeffries. They were in the connecting tunnel, a slender tube that ran within the station’s central truss and between the rows of modules. The tunnel looked eerie in the half-light of the emergency lamps. Normally bright green and shadowless, the tunnel was now murky and splotched with dark recesses created by rows of storage lockers. Tighe felt like a crab scuttling along the bottom of the ocean.

Under normal conditions, the station gathered its energy with huge “sails” of solar cells while it flew on the sun side of the Earth. Half of the energy was delivered to the power distribution system for immediate use and half was stored in nickel-cadmium batteries to support the station when it slipped into the Earth’s shadow. The auxiliary power configuration employed by Tighe disconnected all the individual computer terminals from the mainframe, but also had the undesirable side effect of disengaging the station’s utilities from the solar arrays. The NiCad batteries were capable of providing full power for one complete orbit. The emergency configuration lowered the demand to one-sixteenth of full power, which theoretically allowed the crew sixteen orbits—barely a day—to correct whatever problem existed. Tighe hoped the search would not take that long.

The Trikon laboratory section of the station was composed of The Bakery, the European Lab Module (ELM), and the Japanese Applications and Science Module (“Jasmine”). The three modules were situated adjacent to each other, with ELM in the center. Viewed from space, they were identical except for the markings painted on their white skins. Their internal designs and color schemes were adapted to suit the tastes of the individual nationalities.

Tighe and Jeffries arrived at ELM to find a technician floating near the entry hatch and shouting in German at someone in Habitation Module 2, at the other end of the connecting tunnel. The tech fell silent at the sight of the commander, but a babel of voices quickly rose within Hab 2. Some demanded to be informed of the problem; others shouted advice for whatever that problem might be. Tighe acknowledged none of them. He pulled himself into ELM.

The lab was even murkier than the connecting tunnel. The gray floor and salmon ceiling blended into a single, dismal blah. Tighe moved through the shadows cast by the equipment. He passed two technicians, a stocky blonde Swede and a silent dark Spaniard. Each nodded solemnly. Tighe floated toward the end of the module, heading for the bulky figure waiting for him there.

“What is the meaning of this, Commander Tighe?” The reedy tenor voice floated clearly in the thin air.

Tighe stopped himself with a handhold. Looming in front of him, in fact blotting out several of the emergency lamps, was the corpulent figure of the chief scientist of the European contingent: Dr. Chakra Ramsanjawi. Unlike the others, who wore regulation coveralls and lab smocks, Ramsanjawi insisted upon wearing a saffron-colored kurta that billowed out from his body, making him resemble a hot-air balloon.

“Good morning, Doctor,” Tighe said tightly.

“I repeat, what is the meaning of this power-down, Commander?” said Ramsanjawi. He spoke with an upper-class British accent and just a faint hint of Hindu singsong. His skin was the dead-gray color of ashes. At first it had seemed odd to Tighe that an Indian had been placed in charge of the European lab, but Ramsanjawi was an employee of a Swiss firm, one of the corporations that made up Trikon’s European arm. And despite his personal appearance, Ramsanjawi was more English than Big Ben. Or tried to be.

“The power-down is necessary,” said Tighe.

“For whom?”

Ramsanjawi pulled himself toward a cabinet so that he no longer blocked the light from Tighe. Unconsciously Tighe backed away slightly. The Indian exuded a faintly acrid body odor, subtle but unpleasant, that he tried to cover up with cloying cologne. Tighe mentally pictured a cloud of mingled vapors hovering weightlessly around Ramsanjawi’s bloated body and thought, If only he’d stay in one place long enough he might strangle on his own stink.

“Someone downloaded files from the terminal in the American module,” Tighe said.

“Is that a problem with the Americans?” said Ramsanjawi. “For shame! I thought we all were dedicated to the common good.”

“I don’t care what you do among yourselves. I don’t care if you kill each other, just as long as you do it off company property.”

“Pray tell then, Commander, why are these American files so important?”

“Because they contain a bug. Whoever tries to upload those files will crash his computer. If that bug gets into the mainframe, this power-down will look like the Fourth of July in comparison.”

A laugh bubbled in Ramsanjawi’s throat, but Tighe sensed there was precious little humor in it.

“Commander Tighe, if your power-down had not been so ill-timed your explanation would be merely pathetic. My staff and I have worked for one month”—Ramsanjawi held a stubby finger aloft—“one entire month to produce a microbe with a genetic structure capable of neutralizing seven toxic substances. Not one, not two. Seven! Just before eight o’clock this morning, we began testing the microbe in that pressure tank behind your left shoulder. Don’t bother to look, Commander. This particular microbe can survive only under prescribed conditions of temperature and pressure. Your power-down has caused one month’s work to, how shall we say—evaporate?”

His dark eyes were glittering now, betraying the fury that his smile was trying to mask.

“And now you tell me that this bold move was occasioned by a theft of some American computer files.” Ramsanjawi laughed again, and it sounded even thinner than before. “Are you intimating that I would covet the work of the American microbiologists?”

“Cut the crap, Doctor,” Tighe snapped. “I don’t give a damn what’s in those files except for that bug. I want to know whether anyone in your group stole those files. Because until I find them, the power-down will continue.”

Ramsanjawi exhaled deeply; again, Tighe backed away.

“I will question my staff,” said Ramsanjawi, “I assure you that if any one of them is responsible, he—or she—will turn over the files.”

“You know where to find me,” said Tighe. He started to move toward the hatch.

“And Commander,” said Ramsanjawi. “I would wager that anyone clever enough to download those files would be too smart to attempt to access them here.”

“I don’t have the luxury of being a betting man,” said Tighe.

The next stop was Jasmine. As Tighe and Jeffries traversed the five meters of connecting tunnel between the two entry hatches, they noticed a slight figure speeding toward them in the shadows. They pulled up to a stop. The red-suited figure floated through a band of light. Kurt Jaeckle.

It always surprised Tighe to realize how physically small Jaeckle really was. Tighe himself had the compact build of the typical fighter pilot. Jaeckle was tiny in comparison, skinny and big-domed, almost like a child. But his voice was powerful and he knew how to use it.

“Dan, what the hell is going on?” demanded Jaeckle.

“I ordered everyone to remain where they were,” Tighe said.

“I didn’t think that applied to me,” said Jaeckle. In the weak light his eyes, set deeply in his skull, were totally black pools, like a mask.

“It does.”

“Wait a second, Dan. I’m not one of Trikon’s employees.”

“You’ll be briefed when I deem it necessary,” said Tighe.

“That’s not fair. I’m responsible for eleven other people. I have a right to know the nature of this emergency and I demand to take an active role in whatever decision you intend to make.”

“Everything is under control,” said Tighe. He turned to Jeffries. “Escort Professor Jaeckle back to the Mars module.”

“I wasn’t in the Mars module. I was in the rumpus room, broadcasting a show.”

“All right, Jeff, take him to the rumpus room.”

Jeffries placed his hand on Jaeckle’s shoulder. The professor glared at Tighe but did not resist.

That’s why Jaeckle’s sore, thought Tighe as he watched the two figures fade in the tunnel. His almighty TV show was interrupted.

The Japanese contingent waited together just inside the entryway to their module. Each wore a short lab smock neatly belted at the waist and nylon pants with many pouches. The chief scientist, Hisashi Oyamo, greeted Tighe with a bow. Oyamo resembled a downsized sumo wrestler, stubby but wide in every dimension, practically no neck at all. He had a pockmarked complexion and large watery eyes that complemented the opal ring he wore on one pinkie. Ripples of fat ran up the back of his severely crewcut head.

“We are concerned about your emergency,” he said. “How may we help?”

“Well, Doctor, it seems we’ve had a theft,” said Tighe. Whenever he talked to any of the Japanese, he found himself exaggerating his natural drawl. He assumed it was an unconscious reaction to their clipped, formal manner of speech. “Seems some enterprising person downloaded a set of files from the computer in the American module. I’m not myself concerned about the guilt or innocence of any particular party. I am concerned about those files because there was a bug written into them that will jam any computer used to access it. If that bug gets into the mainframe from any of the terminals, it’ll shut the whole station down.”

“So you disconnected the terminals from the mainframe as a precautionary measure,” said Oyamo. “I understand.”

Tighe waited for more, but Oyamo floated impassively before him.

“Well, Doctor, you’re the first person who’s grasped the situation without sticking it back in my ear.”

“You have been to the European module?”

“I have.”

“Dr. Ramsanjawi was uncooperative?”

“Dr. Ramsanjawi was Dr. Ramsanjawi,” Tighe said. “He promised to let me know if anyone on his staff was responsible.”

“I will consult with my staff and inform you immediately,” said Oyamo. “If you will excuse me.”

Jeffries rejoined Tighe as the six Japanese huddled in the center of the module. “Jaeckle’s pissed, sir,” said the crewman. “He didn’t appreciate being escorted.”

“I don’t care what he did or did not appreciate.”

“He wants to lodge a formal complaint.”

“With who?”

“Beats me. Maybe you, sir. He wants to see you after the power is restored.”

“I guess I’ll see him,” said Tighe. How the hell can you avoid anyone on a space station, he added to himself.

They watched the meeting of the Japanese. Oyamo seemed to do all of the talking. The others simply listened.

“What do you think, sir?” asked Jeffries.

“I think we’re in the wrong module, if you ask me.”

Oyamo floated back toward them, his face as impassive as a blank wall. But he was unconsciously rubbing one hand across the chest of his crisp white smock.

The Japanese director deftly slipped his feet into the nearest floor loops and made a slight bow to Tighe.

“I regret,” said Oyamo, “that I am unable to help you. None of my technicians seems to have the offending computer disk in his possession.”

Tighe thought that Oyamo was choosing his words as carefully as a lawyer speaking into a tape recorder.

“The power-down will have to remain in force until I am certain that the bug will not infect our life-support program,” he replied, equally stiffly.

Oyamo bowed again, nothing more than a dip of his chin, actually. “I understand your concern. However, it would not be advisable to continue the power-down indefinitely, would it?”

“No,” said Tighe, “Certainly not.”

“Therefore, perhaps the best that can be hoped for is the assurance that whoever copied the American files will learn of the virus implanted in them and will refrain from attempting to read the files.”

He’s telling me to go stuff myself, Tighe realized. Very politely, but the message is loud and clear.

“Furthermore,” continued Oyamo, “even if someone should hand you the offending disk, it would be impossible to know if it actually was the one with the copied data on it. Any attempt to read it would cause precisely the disaster you are trying to forestall, would it not?”

He’s got me there, Tighe admitted to himself. “Yes,” he replied aloud. “It would.”

Oyamo’s face betrayed no hint of emotion, not the slightest flicker of triumph or even satisfaction. “Indeed, even if someone did hand you such a disk, there would be no way to know if he had made another copy of it.”

Tighe smiled grimly. “It can’t be copied without activating the bug.”

“Ah so. Of course.”

Out of the corner of his eye Tighe saw Jeffries watching like a spectator at a particularly intense chess game. Behind Oyamo’s thick frame the Japanese technicians huddled together like a bunch of school kids, not daring to move.

After long moments of silence, Tighe finally said, “I guess you’re right. The best we can hope for is that whoever copied the files won’t be foolish enough to try to download them.”

“I will do my best to make certain that everyone is made aware of that fact,” said Oyamo.

“Thank you.” Unconsciously, Tighe made a stiff little bow.

“It is my pleasure to help you, Commander.” Oyamo bowed in return.

“What the hell was that all about?” Jeffries asked once they were back in the connecting tunnel.

Tighe huffed a humorless laugh. “Oyamo just as much as told me that one of his people swiped Nutt’s file, but now that he knows there’s a bug in it, he won’t download the file. At least, not here aboard the station.”

“You’re sure?”

“Nothing’s sure, Jeff.” Tighe could feel a sullen anger welling up inside him as they floated back toward the command module. “Except that we can’t keep the power-down going forever. The bastard’s got me there.”

“Then whoever stole the files is going to carry them home, after all.”

“Right. I hope he chokes on them,” Tighe said with real fervor.

Hisashi Oyamo ran his right hand across his burly chest as he watched the two Americans duck through the hatch and leave Jasmine. His fingers pressed against the computer disk in the breast pocket of his smock.

Typical American impetuousness, he thought. Power-down the entire station! Does the commander truly believe that someone clever enough to break into another scientist’s files would be so stupid as to attempt to access the stolen material while still aboard the station, where anyone might catch him simply by monitoring the computers?

Still, Oyamo had not expected the files to be bugged. It was kind of the commander to inform me of that fact, he said to himself. It would have caused great unhappiness in Tokyo if one of our mainframes were ruined by the Yankee virus.

Turning back to his technicians, he barked an order. They sprang into instant activity.

Oyamo nodded to himself. It is well. What we cannot buy from the money-mad Americans or the bickering Europeans we can steal. The warrior uses whatever means come to hand; there is no shame in seizing opportunity. Japan’s destiny is to lead the world out of the morass these Westerners have created. It is the duty of every Japanese to use every atom of his strength and intelligence toward that goal.

Dan Tighe shut down his communications console after completing his official report to Tom Henderson at ground control in Houston. The time was 1130 hours, CDT. Three hours of emergency power-down and twenty minutes’ explanation to the Earthside brass. He hoped the rest of the day would be less eventful.

Henderson had been just as unhappy as Tighe about the situation.

“You mean whoever stole the data still has the disk? With the bug in it?”

Tighe had nodded sourly. “Not much more I can do about it, Tom. Can’t keep the station powered down forever.”

“Yeah, I know, but…”

“Whoever’s got the disk knows that if he tries to run it he’s going to jam the mainframe.”

Henderson had been silent for a moment. Then, “Better pop an unscheduled CERV test.”

“Right. Good idea.” But Tighe pictured in his mind the bitching the scientists would do if he called a surprise emergency evacuation drill on top of the power-down.

Tighe let his feet slide out of the restraining loops and floated toward the ceiling of his cubbyhole office. The bonsai bird circled on its tether in an eddy of air. Tighe noticed a twig springing out from the bird’s belly. He pulled the bird to the floor, secured himself, and carefully snipped the offending twig with a pair of shears from his toiletry compartment. He had requisitioned tiny scissors, the kind suitable for trimming a mustache or beard. But the cretin in the Trikon supply depot ground-side had sent him heavy-duty shears. His bonsai bird hadn’t suffered from an errant snip. Not yet, anyway.

There was a knock on the bulkhead.

“Just a minute,” said Tighe. He inspected the bird carefully, then nudged it back toward the ceiling.

Kurt Jaeckle slid the folding door back. The office was not big enough for two people to fit comfortably, so he hovered in the doorway.

“I want to apologize for my behavior in the connecting tunnel,” he said.

“Sure you do. That’s exactly what Jeffries told me you intended.”

“I was angry.”

“A lot of people were angry,” said Tighe. “I would have been angry if I’d had time to think about it. Bugs on a space station, as dependent as we are on computers. Some people are crazy.”

“That’s part of the reason I’m here. I think we need a set of ground rules for emergencies.”

“We have ’em. I followed them.”

“Then we should rethink them. Abruptly shutting down power to the science modules has its consequences.”

“I know all about them,” said Tighe. “Unfortunately, the only way to cut off the computer terminals from the mainframe was to go to auxiliary power.”

“That is entirely my point,” Jaeckle said slowly, carefully. He seemed to be planning each word as he spoke. “Your only move was to disconnect the terminals which, through no fault of your own, necessarily cut off power to the science modules. That being the case, you should have warned us.”

“There was no time for any warnings.”

“Dr. Ramsanjawi informed me that the download occurred at two A.M. and was discovered at eight. That’s six hours, Dan,” said Jaeckle.

“Dr. Ramsanjawi, huh?” said Tighe. It wasn’t the first time that Jaeckle had proposed a novel way of running the station after consulting with the Indian scientist.

“We both decided that an extra few minutes would not have been critical. It would have saved a month’s work in his case and my television broadcast.”

“Your goddamn show,” muttered Tighe.

Jaeckle put on a diplomatic smile. It made his gaunt, high-domed face look almost like a death’s skull. “Look, Dan. I know you were dead set against the Mars module becoming a part of the station. And I know you hate the idea of my TV broadcasts.”

“I think that this station could accomplish much more in the way of terrestrial research if we didn’t have to coordinate our orbits for TBC.”

“But we are accomplishing things,” said Jaeckle. “Trikon, the Mars Project. Just the fact that the first commercial industrial space station exists at all is a blessing. It is a toehold in the heavens for every man, woman, and child on Earth.”

Tighe rubbed wearily at his eyes. On Earth, Jaeckle’s stentorian voice and skill at popularizing science commanded thousands of dollars in lecture fees and enthralled millions. On the station, he had lost none of his penchant for making speeches.

“But it is not enough,” continued Jaeckle. “If we are to establish bases on the moon, if we are to travel to Mars, we need the backing of the people. We must beat them into a frenzy of scientific interest, the way it was in the sixties. We can’t have them asking why billions of dollars are being shot into the sky rather than spent on Earth. You and I know the reality. But they don’t. That is why the power-down was so critical.”

“How the hell did we get from our toehold in the heavens to this morning’s incident?” asked Tighe.

“There were millions of people tuned to their sets this morning when Carla Sue and I were explaining the importance of exercise,” said Jaeckle. “Halfway through the script, the screen cut to black. The vice-president in charge of programming has been trying to reach me like mad. I don’t know what the hell I’m going to tell him. They were caught completely unaware in New York.”

“’Good Morning, World’ will survive,” said Tighe.

“Sure it will. But will the Mars program? Millions of people thought the show was cut because of ineptitude.”

“Close. It was pure stupidity,” said Tighe. “Are you now about to tell me I should have waited until your broadcast was over?”

“Of course not. But the warning would have made a difference,” said Jaeckle, “I could have informed the studio, then put our situation into perspective for the audience. The dedicated scientists, the brave crew, the station commander faced with a critical decision. It would have been great drama.”

“We’ve got enough drama up here,” Tighe grumbled. “Whoever stole those files still has the damned bugged disk.”

“Drama sells,” said Jaeckle, unperturbed. “All it would have taken was a warning and a two-minute delay of the power-down. Who knows how many millions of dollars it would have generated for the space program?”

“You sound like a television producer.”

“Unfortunately, it’s what I have to be. I hope you understand that.”

Jaeckle pushed himself away from Tighe’s office and headed for the hatch. As he passed the infirmary he peeked in at Dr. Renoir with his telegenic charm on full beam. Tighe grimaced sourly. Nothing in his conversation with Kurt Jaeckle bothered Tighe as much as the sight of him talking to Lorraine Renoir.

He waited until Jaeckle pushed himself through the hatchway before he started for the doctor’s office. Why does my weekly blood-pressure check have to come on a morning like this? Damned pressure must be high enough to pop my eyeballs.

Dr. Renoir saw him approaching and waved an upstretched finger at him. “I’m rather busy right now, Dan,” she said. “Can we make it this afternoon? Say, two P.M.?”

A wave of relief and gratitude washed over him. He nodded, trying to keep his emotions from showing on his face. “Fourteen hundred hours,” he said.

Lorraine smiled at him. “Right. Fourteen hundred hours.”

Not trusting himself to say anything more, Tighe turned back toward his office. You’ve got two hours and some to get your pressure down to where it ought to be, he told himself. A part of his mind noticed that Dr. Renoir did not seem particularly busy; there was no one in her infirmary; she was not working on her computer or on the phone.

But he ignored the observation. She’s a doctor, he reminded himself. She can ground you for good.