The Last Dance

by Martin L Shoemaker

  I folded back the flap in the left sleeve of my dark-blue uniform, revealing the suit comp that I wore like a gauntlet. With a swipe of my finger, I pushed my latest interview notes from my suit comp to the desk. Back in my own office on Farport, my comp would’ve automatically synced with my desk (a much smaller, less impressive desk than the one I sat at now); but I hadn’t managed to set up the sync protocols with Aames’s desk. Or for that matter with any computer system on the Aldrin. The ship’s technical staff kept promising to fix that, but it never seemed to happen. It had been that way ever since I had boarded: the crew were never provably derelict in their work, and yet they managed to be politely uncooperative and incompetent. I had to push to get them to do anything outside of their routine ship duties. The message was clear: We don’t like you.

  The door chime sounded, and a window opened on the desk. Aames had a concealed camera outside the door, letting him see his visitors before he answered. The window showed Matt and a ship’s officer—a heavyset, middle-aged woman of medium height in the gray uniform of the Aldrin’s crew. Her hair had probably been auburn once, but now there was more gray than russet color. She wore a medical cross on her collar and an old-fashioned stethoscope around her neck. I tapped the desktop, and the door slid open.

  Matt led the doctor in. “Inspector, Dr. Baldwin is here to see about your shoulder and your headache.”

  I frowned and held my palm up to halt them. “I only needed an aspirin, Matt.”

  Dr. Baldwin set a black medical bag upon the desk. Then she grabbed my arm, turned it wrist up, and found my pulse. “We don’t work that way on the Aldrin,” she said, her voice surprisingly deep. “It’s diagnosis before treatment here.” She put the stethoscope ends in her ears and held the cup to my chest.

  I pushed her hand away. “Doctor, wouldn’t a medical scanner be more accurate?”

  She slapped my wrist with her free hand, and I let go. “Inspector, you may be in charge of everything else on this ship, but I still run the medical department. Scanners take battery power we don’t need to waste as long as I have working eyes and ears. Now shut up and let me work, or you can keep your damned headache.”

  I could have had her up on charges for striking a superior officer, but I was too shocked to respond. Besides, then who would’ve seen to the medical needs of the crew and passengers? So I shut up and complied, breathing in and coughing and doing whatever else the doctor instructed. Matt stood by. I hadn’t dismissed him, so he didn’t know what to do. When I saw the uncomfortable look on his face, I waved him out. Matt seemed worried about me. Ever since we had arrived on the Aldrin, he had subconsciously been acting like a big brother—the big, strong American man protecting the tiny Korean farm girl.

  Well, maybe I had made up that last bit, my own subconscious playing its own games. Matt couldn’t know that I was a farm girl from outside Hongcheon, couldn’t know how my rural manners and dark skin had made me an outcast all through school. The rustic clothes and stringy brown hair had been replaced by a crisp uniform and a regulation cut, yet sometimes I still felt like that little chon tak who ran away to space to prove herself. Matt—and pretty much everyone in the International Space Corps, to their credit—didn’t care about where I came from, just how I did my job.

  After checking the rest of me over, Dr. Baldwin finally got to my left shoulder. I had injured it in our rush to leave Farport for the Aldrin. She had me remove my uniform jacket and my blouse so she could look at the bruising. She had me lift and flex, and she probed, finding some tender spots. “It looks like you inflamed it from overuse right after bruising it. And somebody dressed it, someone competent, but not a doctor.”

  I nodded. “Chief Gale.”

  Dr. Baldwin snorted. “Figures. He’s had a decent amount of field medic training, but he thinks he’s a doctor. Your shoulder shows signs of acceleration stress, and the dressing didn’t help there. Some anti-inflammatories would have, but it’s too late for that. I think all it needs now is time. You can get dressed.”

  Satisfied at last, Dr. Baldwin pulled a small bag of pills from her pocket and held them out to me. “No more than three of these a day. I recommend you get more exercise—but take it easy on that shoulder—and more sleep. And do less meddling so we can do our jobs.”

  I took the pill bag and sighed. “Doctor, I have work to do, just like you. Please let me do it.”

  She crossed her arms. “I’m having a hard time doing my work with the Inspector General team and the Admiralty’s shock troops all over the ship, disrupting operations, panicking the passengers, and putting the crew through an inquisition.”

  I rose, steaming. “An inquisition? This is a proper investigation by the Inspector General of the International Space Corps. And Captain Aames brought it on himself by refusing to surrender this ship under lawful orders.”

  “Sit down and watch that blood pressure!” Surprised at her tone, I sat. “This is a political witch hunt, driven by people whom Captain Aames rubbed the wrong way.”

  “From what I can tell, that’s a long list. I have a string of complaints about him that would stretch from here to Farport, crew complaints in particular.”

  She sniffed. “No doubt mostly from the Space Professionals? No, I know, you won’t divulge the complainants. The captain has drummed out plenty of crew in his career, malcontents and SP layabouts who couldn’t measure up to his standards. Good riddance to them.”

  My headache was growing stronger by the second. I took a pill and a long drink of water, giving myself time to calm down. I set the glass back in the coaster, and then I looked back to the doctor. “You really believe that, don’t you? You’re not the only one. Most of this crew is intensely loyal to Aames. Why? What is there about him?”

  Dr. Baldwin shook her head. “No thank you, Inspector, I’m not going to tell you anything that could be twisted into evidence for some court martial. You can’t compel me to talk.”

  I pressed my fingertips together, feeling my pulse pound in them. “Doctor, do you know what ‘plenary power’ means?”

  She nodded. “It means you can do whatever the hell you want, and the Admiralty and the Initiative will back you up. Unless you offend the wrong people, like Captain Aames did. Oh, you can’t have me put out the airlock, but you can mete out all manner of administrative punishment. Even ruin my career.” I was ready to agree, but she continued, “But I’m still not saying anything for the record. If you have a problem with that, then confine me to quarters. And hope that no one gets sick or injured between here and Mars.”

  I stood again, watching the doctor for any sign of disapproval. When she said nothing, I started pacing, my hands clasped behind my back. After crossing the office three times, I calmed down enough to go on. “Doctor, I know you’re upset. Your whole crew is. I don’t want to upset them more, but I have a job to do. I have to straighten out this mess in a way that placates everyone involved: the System Initiative, the Admiralty, the UN, the Holmes Trust, the Space Professionals, and your crew. I want to do that in the fairest way possible; but I can’t if I don’t have the whole picture. Right now I have official Admiralty charges and reports; I have complaints from the Space Professionals; I have amicus briefs from the Trust and a dozen shareholder groups; and I have noncommittal testimonies from your crew. What I don’t have is your side, your crew’s side. I don’t understand the way Captain Aames works, and so I can’t see the complete picture.” I paused and looked her in the eye. “Let me be honest with you, Dr. Baldwin: if I go only by facts currently in evidence, the situation can’t get much worse for your captain. The only reason I haven’t filed a summary judgment and a recommendation for a full court martial is this crew seems certain that Aames is right and the facts are wrong. My instincts tell me that if a whole crew is united like that, they know something. Something I should know. But none of them will talk to me beyond official duties.”

  She held my gaze, not wavering a bit. “So what do you want from me?”

&nbs
p; I tried to look trustworthy. “Off the record, tell me why you’re willing to risk your career for Captain Aames.”

  I had made inspector pretty young compared to my peers, largely because I was very good at reading people. I saw by the upturn in her eyes that the doctor was convinced. “Off the record?” she asked.

  “Off the record.” I pulled off my suit comp and set it aside. Then I switched off the desk, turning the room suddenly dark.

  Dr. Baldwin went to the sink and poured a glass for herself, then she leaned back against the desk. “Sit down, Inspector. Let me tell you a story from my first tour on the Aldrin. That’s when I first learned how Nick Aames works.”

  2. RACING TO MARS

  OFF-THE-RECORD ACCOUNT OF CONSTANCE J. BALDWIN, MD, CHIEF MEDICAL OFFICER OF THE IPV ALDRIN

  COVERING EVENTS FROM 25 JUNE 2064 TO 22 NOVEMBER 2064

  I was thirty-four years old, in what should have been the prime of my medical career; but in fact, I was washed up, a victim of my principles and my temper. My life as a doctor was over—until Nick Aames unexpectedly swept in and threw me a lifeline, asking for me personally to be chief medical officer of the Mars cycler Aldrin.

  And I hated him for it.

  Oh, not right away. I had never met him, so how could I hate him? I was grateful. So as soon as I had dropped my gear in my office, I headed up to the bridge to thank him.

  But when I got there, my image of my benefactor was shattered. As soon as the bridge door opened, I heard him berating his crew. “Howarth! Why are those mooring lines not reeled in? Sakaguchi, are those engines ready yet? We boost in two hours, people. Don’t waste time. Move!”

  I peered in through the door. Nick Aames loomed over his bridge, a redheaded, gray-clad vulture looking to swoop down on anyone that drew his ire. The bridge was arranged in the classic “mission control” layout, three rows of desk stations facing a main display, officers in gray uniforms manning each station; and at the rear was the captain’s raised aluminum-and-web chair. The curve of the deck and the height of the chair combined to give Aames an elevation of nearly two meters relative to the front row of stations, so that he could look “down” upon each station and see the displays. He glared at everyone and everything around him, a scowl fixed in place. His uniform was immaculate, and his red hair and beard were neatly trimmed; despite the tone of his voice, his slouch and his attitude made him seem sloppy, just as I had heard from his detractors. When I saw the glare in his eyes, I decided that he was not sloppy, but rather dismissive: he was busy, and he had no time for anything but planning the maneuvers.

  Chief Carver was a contrast to the captain: just as neat and trim, but his dark face was alert and warm as he greeted me at the bridge door. I saluted (still not comfortable saluting even after my academy training), and I introduced myself. “Dr. Constance Baldwin, reporting to Captain Aames.”

  Carver returned my salute, and he smiled just a bit. He was a charmer. “Welcome aboard, Doctor. We’re glad to have you. Let me introduce you to the captain.”

  He walked over to the captain’s chair, and I followed, trying to imitate his precision stride and failing utterly in the one-quarter gravity. Carver cleared his throat and announced, “Captain, Dr. Baldwin is reporting for duty.”

  I saluted again, but before I could say a word, Aames snapped at me without taking his eyes from the stations: “Is anyone sick here, Doctor?”

  I was unsure what to do, so I held my salute; and I answered without hesitation: “No, sir.”

  “Have there been any injuries that I missed? Did someone call you to treat a bout of spacesickness?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then what the hell are you doing here? I do not tolerate spectators on my bridge, particularly during departure maneuvers. Get the hell off the bridge, Doctor, and back to your office where you belong.”

  And that was my introduction to Captain Nick Aames. I owed him for my second chance as a doctor. And instinctively, I hated him. I had the urge to knock him out of that chair, but I held my temper. Barely.

  I had signed aboard the Aldrin’s first full cycle to Mars and back. She had been through shakedown cruises in Earth-Luna space before then, but now she would begin a series of boost maneuvers to launch her on a cycler trajectory to Mars. After a flyby, orbital mechanics would sling her out and eventually back to Earth; and then, with skilled piloting, she would repeat that cycle, Earth to Mars and back, again and again with minimal fuel costs. All it took was time: five months out, twenty-one months back. I faced over two years under a captain whom I hated. My streak of career bad luck looked to stay unbroken.

  I returned to my new office, a small space that smelled like a doctor’s office should—disinfectant with a tang of medicine—but looked like the interior of a mud hut. Back then, the Aldrin was still owned and managed by Holmes Interplanetary, and they had painted the interior in their corporate colors, a hideous shade of orange brown. Oh, they called it “ochre”; but in my dark mood, “orange muddy” was all I could see.

  “Suck it up, Connie,” I said to myself. “You’re still a doctor. You have a practice. That’s enough.”

  I opened my old black medical bag and pulled out a clear plastic tube containing a sheet of ivory parchment: my medical diploma from the University of Michigan. I had almost left the tube at home—our mass budget for personal effects was that tight—but I couldn’t make myself do so. I removed the parchment, unrolled it, and wondered how I was going to hang it. The frame had been too much for my mass budget, but I had no intention of going to space without that parchment.

  I had worked too hard to get that diploma—and then fought too hard to keep it. I had reported sanitation violations at my hospital. They sued, and I countersued. The evidence was all with me, and I was vindicated. Eventually I won; but in the process, I lost. I had the court settlement on my side and a big damage award, but I also had a reputation as a troublemaker. One slimy investigator had pushed me too hard one night, trying to provoke a reaction; I had lost control, punching him when he had grabbed me in a restaurant. Smart, Connie, really smart. Witnesses had testified that I was provoked, so the police never pressed charges, but that became my reputation: the temperamental woman who punches men in bars. The hospital’s PR flacks made sure that story was in all the media, and I was marked, a whistleblower with a temper. No one ever used the word “blackballed,” but no hospital would grant me admitting privileges. Without those, no practice would accept me. I was locked out of medicine.

  At first I was angry. Despite my natural temper, I had kept my calm throughout the court proceedings. (Punching holes in walls at night didn’t count.) When I realized how screwed I was, I was angry enough to punch more than a wall, but I was smart enough not to make that mistake twice. Eventually I figured I was still young enough to switch career paths, so I used my settlement to fund my training in space operations and space medicine, and I also became a reservist in the International Space Corps. Then I sent applications to all the transport companies.

  And then I waited. It seemed the blackballing went further than I had realized. I had good recommendations from my instructors at the academy, but I received no interview requests. None. I still read about shortages of doctors in space, but apparently the shortage wasn’t enough to overcome my reputation. My medical career was over, it seemed, and I didn’t have a backup plan.

  But then out of nowhere, my fortunes completely reversed: instead of an interview request, I received a job offer from Holmes! But I was confused. I had applied there, yes, but I had never heard a word from them—until this offer.

  I was torn between celebration and doubt, and doubt won. I didn’t want to derail the job offer, but I hate not understanding. So I called their personnel director, and I asked her to confirm. She was very positive: “Yes, it’s very unusual, Dr. Baldwin. But your academy record and your résumé are exemplary. And your instructors spoke highly of you, Mr. Quintana particularly.” Quintana had taught our unit on emergency manag
ement. “That was enough for Captain Aames. He insisted we hire you. Our launch schedule is very aggressive, so we didn’t have time for the customary rounds of interviews. I hope that’s all right with you?”

  Absolutely it was all right! And before I knew what was happening, I was on Farport, boarding a rendezvous shuttle, and looking forward to meeting the man who had believed in me.

  That bastard, Nick Aames.

  After the second Bradbury expedition, most people knew Aames by reputation. For a while he was a media hero. And he was also somewhat legendary at the academy, though a lot of people there were not fans. “Difficult,” they said. “Sloppy.” “Obstinate.” “Insolent.” “Arrogant.” “Smug.” And more often: “Arrogant bastard.” “Smug asshole.” I had written these off as jealousy or petty rivalries. Now I was ready to believe them. And worse.

  Oh well. I had worked for tyrannical bosses, and I had put off hitting them for over two years (until I found out they were compromising patient safety, and then I hit them in the courtroom). I could put up with Nick Aames for that long. The boss didn’t matter, only the patients did.

  But soon I was as fed up with my patients as well as my boss. Or to be more specific, a patient: Anthony Holmes. He first came to my attention when my assistant, Dr. Santana, brought me the ship’s medical report, a summary of the condition of the crew and the passengers. When he pushed it to my desktop display, I skimmed over it. I knew Santana’s record, so I trusted he had done thorough work. But then I saw that one line was marked “Incomplete.”

  “Who’s this ‘Holmes, Anthony,’ and why is his record incomplete?”

  Santana whistled. “A hundred-twenty passengers and crew on board, and you zoom right in on the one incomplete. You’re pretty sharp, Doctor.” I nodded, acknowledging the compliment. “Anthony Holmes is the sole heir of Anton Holmes, chairman and primary stockholder of Holmes Interplanetary. In other words, he’s the boss’s son, and he damn well acts like it.”