Titan

21 March 2096: Midmorning

There it is again, Vernon Donkman said to himself. Alone in his cubbyhole office, he glared at the old-fashioned desktop computer screen.

As usual, he wore a funereal dark tunic and slacks even though his complexion was now a warm golden tan, thanks to the enzyme treatments he’d taken. But his appearance didn’t matter to him at this particular moment. His slightly bulging eyes glowered at the unbalanced figures on the display screen. For the fourth straight month the habitat’s central account would not balance. The discrepancy was still minuscule—only a few hundred new international dollars—but it irritated Donkman more than if it had been a billion.

It’s too small for someone to be embezzling the money, he thought. Besides, there have been no unauthorized accesses of the accounts. He had spent so many long, sleepless nights tracing the accounts that his wife accused him of having an affair. No, he had assured her. Her rival was the blasted accounting system that refused to balance as it should.

For a while Donkman thought the problem might be in the computer. He had gone to Eberly and requisitioned the best computer analysts in the habitat. Most of them were on Urbain’s scientific staff and not available to him. Those who did examine the accounting program found nothing wrong with the program or the hardware. Donkman had shifted to other computers and had his beloved little desktop completely overhauled. No use. The accounts still failed to balance.

Maddening. At the end of every month the master account showed this slight, picayune imbalance. Never the same amount; never more than a few hundred dollars. Every month Donkman tried to track down the source of the anomaly and, failing to find it, was forced to the humiliation of correcting the master account by hand. Sometimes he had to add money to fix the discrepancy. Sometimes he had to subtract. He tried checking out the sums he had put in or out each month, but they didn’t match or add up in any way Donkman could see.

For a while he thought that the random power outages the habitat suffered might be the cause of the computer’s misbehavior. But the computer system was backed up by triply redundant auxiliary batteries and fuel cells. They never flickered, not even when the power went out for an hour or more.

The only consistency he could find in the entire matter was that the discrepancy seemed to show up every two weeks, on average. Not the same day of the week and not the same hour of the day, but every two weeks or so the account went out of balance. Not even two weeks, exactly. Sixteen days. It wasn’t exact, but the timing of the discrepancies averaged out to around sixteen days. Every sixteen days, give or take a dozen hours or so, the account hiccupped.

To make certain of that, Donkman had spent almost twenty hours straight at his office, staring at the computer screen, sixteen days after the last discrepancy popped up. His wife had brought him lunch and then dinner. She had even stayed with him a while before becoming so bored that she left for their home.

Donkman had stayed, eyes riveted to the numbers flashing across his screen. The life of the habitat was being displayed, he told himself. Every transaction, no matter how small, no matter whether it was between a shopkeeper and a customer or between the habitat’s central bank and a bank on Earth or the Moon, every transaction was flashing before his eyes. At the bottom of the screen a display bar showed the master account’s grand total.

Donkman must have dozed momentarily. He twitched awake, blinked, and saw that the master account’s total was now out of balance by a hundred and fifty new international dollars.

He wanted to scream.

Jake Wanamaker was already in the simulations lab when Gaeta arrived there. The big ex-admiral was sitting at one of the tables in the back of the room, his shoulders hunched, head bent over the laptop.

“Buenos dias, amigo,” Gaeta said amiably. “You’re here early.”

Wanamaker turned toward Gaeta, looking grim. “I’m not cutting it, am I?”

“You’re doin’ okay,” Gaeta said, walking past the boxy black bulk of the darkened simulator chamber toward him. “Another couple of months—”

“We don’t have a couple of moths,” said Wanamaker. “We’ve got to get to the rings before Holly and Eberly have their big debate.”

“I don’t see why.”

With a vague wave of his big, beefy hand, Wanamaker said, “Pancho says that’s what Holly wants, and Holly says that’s what Wunderly wants.”

Gaeta sat heavily on the chair beside Wanamaker. “So we’re gonna bust our butts because the women want it that way?”

“I’m afraid I’m going to kill Pancho out there,” Wanamaker said, his voice hard and even.

“The pickup is pretty rough, yeah.”

“Then we’ve got to get a better man to fly the mission.”

“Tavalera?”

“That’s right.”

“He doesn’t want to do it.”

His face as somber as an executioner’s, Wanamaker said, “Let’s have lunch with the lad and pound some sense into him.”

Gaeta nodded, but he thought, Raoul has plenty of sense. He’s scared of flying the mission. He’s smart to say no.

Timoshenko was obviously uncomfortable as he sat in front of Eberly’s fastidiously clear desk.

“I’ve told you before,” the engineer said, “I’m not a boss.”

Eberly rocked slightly in his high-backed chair and tried his most charming smile. “You’re doing a fine job as chief of exterior maintenance.”

Timoshenko scowled at him. “I don’t want to be director of the whole maintenance department. You yourself said it was too big a job for one man.”

“It’s too big a job for Aaronson. I’m convinced that you could handle it.”

“I decline the honor.”

Eberly steepled his fingers. For a long moment he said nothing, his mind working furiously. There’s got to be a way to bring him around, he thought. There must be something that he wants. At last he said, “The people of this habitat deserve to have the best possible man heading their maintenance department.”

Timoshenko was unmoved. “Then find him. Or her. There are hundreds of engineers among us.”

“The computer picked your name from the list of qualified personnel,” Eberly lied.

“Run the list again and leave my name off it.”

“Aaronson has got to go,” Eberly said, feeling his patience waning. This Russian is too obstinate for his own good. “We can’t have blackouts, power outages. It’s dangerous.”

“I agree, but I’ve got my hands full with the exterior maintenance job. That’s important too, you know.”

“You can handle both the exterior and interior maintenance responsibilities. I know you can.”

“Look,” said Timoshenko, leaning forward in his chair earnestly. “I work on the outside. I really work. I go out there with my crew. I get my gloves dirty. If I took over the inside job too, I’d end up sitting at a desk, telling other people what to do. I’d become a bureaucrat, just like the drones you have sitting outside your office. I won’t do that.”

“But it’s necessary!” Eberly pleaded. “These random power outages are getting worse. I have to replace Aaronson.”

“Not with me,” Timoshenko said firmly. He sat across the desk from Eberly, his arms folded across his chest, a stubborn scowl darkening his heavy-featured face.

Exasperated, not certain of how to swing the man into accepting his offer, Eberly said mildly, “Well, will you at least think about it? I’m sure that once you’ve considered all the—”

The engineer got to his feet. “I can think about it until Siberia grows palm trees. The answer will still be no.”

And he turned and walked out of the office, leaving Eberly sitting at his desk with his mouth hanging open.

The door closed with a soft click. Eberly said to himself, There’s got to be a way to make him do what I want. Every man has a weakness, a chink in his armor. Every man wants something, something that he can’t get. What does this obstinate Russian want? What’s his secret desire? I’ll have to go through his personnel file very thoroughly, search out every detail. I’ve got to find his weakness.

At half past noon the cafeteria was noisy and bustling with troops of people lining the service counters, taking tables, finding friends, talking, laughing, clinking silverware and dishes. A medley of aromas wafted through the big room: grilled pseudosteaks, boiling coffee, the sharp tangy sweetness of pastries fresh from the oven.

Seated between Wanamaker and Gaeta, Raoul Tavalera’s long, somber face wore an expression somewhere between scowling suspicion and sullen anger.

“We need a second man on the flight,” Wanamaker was explaining. “I’m not a good enough pilot to do the whole job by myself.”

Gaeta added, “We wouldn’t ask if we weren’t up against it, amigo. Jake can fly the bird out to the rings all right, but he’s going to need help recovering Pancho at the end of the mission.”

“Look, guys, I told you before—”

Wanamaker cut him off. “This is a matter of life and death, Mister.”

Tavalera nodded somberly. “Yeah. My life and death.”

“Pancho’s,” Wanamaker corrected. “I’m not letting her go out there and risk her neck unless I’m absolutely sure we can bring her back.”

“Alive,” Gaeta chimed in.

“Find somebody else,” Tavalera mumbled, looking down at his lunch tray.

“There isn’t time to find somebody else and train him. We’ve got to go in a few weeks,” Wanamaker said. “Before the big debate between Eberly and Holly.”

That sparked a flicker of interest in Tavalera’s eyes. “What’s the debate got to do with it?” he asked.

Gaeta answered, “Eberly’s gonna make a big deal about mining the rings, selling water ice to the rock rats out in the Belt, Selene and the other Moon cities.”

“So?”

“Wunderly wants to prove there are living organisms in the rings,” said Wanamaker. “That will put the rings off limits for mining.”

“And for that you want me to risk my neck?” Tavalera demanded.

“You want Holly to win this election, don’t you?”

Tavalera’s eyes flickered again, but he slumped back in his chair and muttered, “What difference does it make?”

Wanamaker started to reply but Gaeta put up a silencing hand. “Hey, Jake, why’n’t you go get another cup of coffee? I got something to say to Raoul here, just between the two of us.”

Wanamaker stared hard at Gaeta for a moment, then got up and made his way through the busy cafeteria toward the coffee urns.

Hunching closer to Tavalera, Gaeta said, “Look, kid, Kris told me about you and Holly.” Before Tavalera could reply, he went on, “For what it’s worth, Holly’s pretty damn miserable about the fight you two had. You wanna help her win this election? You wanna get back together with her? Fly this mission.”

Glowering, Tavalera said, “That’s all she’s interested in. She doesn’t give a shit about me. She just wants to use me.”

“Don’t be a cabron, wiseass. Holly cares a lot for you. She cared before this mission to the rings ever came up, didn’t she?”

“Maybe. I guess so.”

“Damn right. And now you two idiotas have yourselves all wound around the flagpole and neither one of you has the smarts to get out of it.”

“She thinks I’m a coward,” Tavalera grumbled.

“Then show her you’re not.”

“Why don’t you go?” Tavalera demanded. “You’re the trained stunt guy. You went out there before.”

Gaeta started to reply, but hesitated. Why don’t I go? He repeated to himself. Why am I asking this kid to do something that I ought to be doing? Why am I sitting here trying to get this scared kid to do something that I can do better than anybody else?

Because I’m scared of it, he answered himself. I’ve risked my butt so many times; maybe this one would be the one where my number comes up. That’s why I’m asking this kid to do what I should do myself.

He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly.

“You’re right,” Gaeta admitted. “You’re absolutely right.”

Tavalera’s jaw dropped open.

Before he could say anything, Wanamaker came back to his chair and placed his newly refilled coffee mug carefully on the table before sitting down. His craggy face looked like a looming thundercloud.

“Jake,” Gaeta said amiably. “Change of plans. I’m going to the rings. You and Pancho can fly the bird and I’ll go get the samples Wunderly needs.”

Tavalera brightened. “I can do the mission control job.”

“Right,” said Gaeta.

Wanamaker’s eyes narrowed. “You certain you want to do this?” he asked Gaeta.

Feeling excited despite himself, Gaeta replied, “It’s the only way this chingado mission is gonna work.”

“Kris isn’t going to like it.”

With a half-hearted shrug, Gaeta said, “Kris will just have to accept it. One last mission. Then I’m finished. For good.”

Wanamaker sat there in silence, thinking, This will be the best thing for Pancho. She can fly the mission. I’ll be her backup and help with recovering Manny after he gets the samples.

The ex-admiral’s gaze turned to Tavalera, sitting there looking relieved. Besides, Wanamaker told himself, this way I won’t have to take the kid out behind the woodshed and beat the crap out of him.