"Neither will the FODMAC," Singleton stated sharply. "An orbit is defined as the movement of a smaller body around a larger one. The FODMAC will always maintain a fixed position relative to ROVER V or its landing site. It will not, therefore, ever be in orbit."
Halstead leaned backward, eyes shifting from one administrator to the other. "I am, however, an astronaut. Why do you need an astronaut to 'occupy' something that isn't a ship and isn't going to Mars?"
Bray cleared his throat and smiled again. "I see you haven't read your e-mail yet today."
"My e-mail?"
"Yes, if you had, you'd know that your job classification has been officially changed. You are no longer occupying an astronaut billet. Commander Halstead, you are now an On-scene Maintenance Technician."
"I see. What if I don't want to be an On-scene whatever?"
The two Doctors exchanged glances. "In that event," Singleton advised, "you will of course be released from duty with NASA and returned to your parent military service for assignment. Naturally, the secrecy oaths you signed regarding classified mission details will remain fully effective, and any discussion of the FODMAC or your role in it will be forbidden. Alternatively, you can chose to participate, and have some role in this historic mission. The choice is yours."
#
Vicinity Mars -
Commander Halstead shifted uncomfortably, trying for the millionth time to fully stretch in the small compartment that had been home for months. His head jerked as the communications panel buzzed to warn of an incoming message.
"FODMAC, this is Houston. ROVER V has encountered difficulty deploying from the pad of the landing vehicle. Conduct an egress and carry out necessary maintenance."
Halstead's heart leaped. "Roger, Houston. I understand you desire I conduct a landing on Mars near the ROVER."
Long minutes passed as light waves crawled back and forth through the emptiness, before Houston's reply finally roared forth. "Negative, FODMAC! Negative! Your reply used improper and unauthorized terminology and has been purged from system records. We repeat, you are to conduct an egress using the IEM and achieve necessary proximity to ROVER V to conduct any required maintenance, then return to the FODMAC ASAP. Do you understand?"
"Yeah, Houston, I understand."
#
A trail of footprints marked the Martian soil, leading from the still-smoking site of the IEM touchdown to the pad where ROVER V sat like a huge, ugly stamen in the middle of a petal formed by access panels which had dropped open on every side. Halstead glared sourly down at the machine, noting that the retaining clip on the left rear quarter of the ROVER had failed to release and was holding it captive. Pulling out a long screwdriver, he bent awkwardly, inserting the tool inside the latch and tugging. The latch popped open and retracted, freeing the ROVER, which immediately surged into motion, seeming to bustle merrily away across the red landscape.
Commander Halstead trudged heavily back to the IEM, pausing at the ladder, then stared toward the glowing spot of light far above that marked Earth. "To hell with it," he muttered, then fished an oblong of stiff paper from the tool kit and smiled at it. One side of the postcard was given over to a picture of the American flag. On the blank side, Halstead had earlier written 'Kilroy was here' in large letters. Jamming the screwdriver blade through the paper next to the flag's union so that it served as a crude jackstaff, he planted the tool handle-first in the soil, then stepped back and sketched an elaborate salute. Leaving the tiny marker, he climbed back into the IEM.
#
NASA Press Conference, Houston - "Ladies and Gentlemen, I am pleased to announce that the robotic probe ROVER V is successfully completing every assigned task. Our knowledge of a wide area of the planet Mars is being significantly augmented with every passing hour as a result of the analytical and exploratory capabilities of ROVER V. In short, this an outstanding success for our planetary exploration program. Every person involved with the ROVER program should be immensely proud, as should every American."
"Excuse me, Doctor Singleton, but rumors persist that a manned expedition was somehow integrated with the ROVER program and played a role in this latest success. Can you comment on those rumors?"
"I do not know why this kind of irresponsible rumor-mongering continues to be given credence. This sort of innuendo has surfaced before and our comments are on record."
"Nonetheless, Doctor, can you categorically deny any manned involvement in the ROVER program?"
"Sir, every line of the ROVER mission plan, funding authorization, and mission objectives is available on-line for your review. Use any keywords you want to search through them. I can categorically state you will find no reference to a manned mission to Mars therein. Does anyone else have questions?"
"Doctor Singleton? There has been an ongoing dispute over the relative worth of manned missions versus robotic exploration, with partisans of human explorers insisting there is no substitute for human involvement given the inherent limitations of any machine and the huge distances involved in space travel. How does this success for the ROVER program affect that debate?"
"We have not been involved in any 'debate,' as you characterize it. We were assigned the mission of achieving planetary exploration quickly and at minimum cost, using robotic explorers, and we have done so."
"But, Doctor, this is the fifth ROVER mission. Counting the previous ROVERs, the time spent designing them, building them, and in transit to Mars, as well as the costs of all those missions, wouldn't a single manned mission have been both faster and cheaper?"
"I can't speculate on such issues. Our orders were to conduct robotic exploration of Mars, and we have done so. I really can't understand why the Press is trying to harp on the allegedly limited success of earlier ROVER missions instead of the positive news of ROVER V's accomplishments."
"Doctor Singleton, in light of what you've characterized as the ROVER Program's overwhelming success, is there any foreseeable need for future manned missions outside of Earth orbit?"
"I would say the official record speaks for itself in that regard."
Author's Note on Section Seven
How do you hold together a society spread across the stars? The answer in many stories involves using force, but how practical might that be if you have to worry about moving enough force to control a planet across the distances between stars? At the least, it wouldn’t be easy. Maybe there would be more subtle ways to keep people seeing themselves as part of a wider group rather than separate. Methods so subtle that very, very few people would even know they were being used.
Section Seven
Valentia looked beautiful from orbit, but then most planets did. Foster gave the world a weary traveler's worth of attention as the lander glided down, reflecting that from a great distance you couldn't encounter temperature extremes or rough terrain or the bites of bugs that wanted to eat you even if they couldn't digest you. Not to mention encountering the people, who were always the source of the particular problems Foster dealt with.
The customs official barely glanced at Foster's standard ID before feeding it into his desk scanner. A moment later, the ID popped back out onto the counter where he could pick it up.
"HaveanicestayonValentiaMr.Oaks," the official mumbled before reaching for the ID offered by the next traveler.
Foster retrieved his ID, took two steps past the customs desk, and found himself facing a trio of individuals wearing dark uniforms and stern faces. One of the port police officers held out her hand. "May I examine your ID, sir?"
"Uh, of course." Foster let his own expression show an appropriate level of surprise and a hint of worry as he fished out the ID again. "Is something wrong?"
The officer took the ID and slid it into a portable reader before answering. "Just a random check, Mr. Oaks. Valentia wants to make sure all travelers have good stays here. What brings you to Valentia?"
Foster smiled with the practiced enthusiasm of a sales professional. "I represent Inner Systems Simulations. You'
ve heard of ISS?"
The officer's responding smile was both polite and brief. "No. Sorry."
"We make some of the finest entertainment software. Just in the Inner Systems right now, but we want to expand our market. If you'd like, I can show you some of our -."
"That won't be necessary." The officer removed the ID from her scanner and returned it to Foster. "Have a nice visit to Valentia, Mr. Oaks."
Foster smiled back with the same degree of professional insincerity, though his smile could've been genuine. Posing as a sales professional had numerous advantages, not the least of which was the ability to drive away questioners by beginning to offer a sales pitch. It never hurt to cut short an interview, even though his false IDs couldn't be spotted by any scanner and his cover story was solid.
Outside of the port terminal Foster squinted against the brightness of Valentia's sun. He hailed a cab by raising one hand in a gesture understood everywhere humanity had gone, directing it to the short-term rental business apartment complex where Mr. Oaks had his reservation. Foster didn't bother looking around for anyone tailing his cab, since that would have been a tip-off he thought he might be followed. Instead, he watched the scenery roll by with every appearance of boredom.
Foster checked in, went up to an apartment whose interior decoration could've placed it on any of a score of worlds, and swiftly changed clothes. The Valentian styles in his bag hadn't aroused any suspicion at Customs, since many tourists didn't want to look like tourists. A few minutes later, he was leaving the apartment complex by a different way than that he'd entered through. A brisk walk took him to a restaurant, where he paused to examine the menu in the window while also checking the reflection for anyone following him. There weren't any apparent candidates, but Foster took the precaution of checking for tails in two other restaurant or shop windows before entering an establishment promising authentic Italian cuisine using the finest native Valentian ingredients.
Like all sit-down restaurants, it had restrooms. And like most restrooms, these were located near a service entrance. Foster had no trouble leaving via that entrance, then criss-crossing further into the city before finally entering a hotel and registering there as Juan Feres using another one of his IDs. Only after reaching his room there did Foster actually unpack.
His data pad linked to the local net with some difficulty, causing Foster to frown. Once linked, he located the local classified ads and searched for the one he wanted, one advertising antique Beta videotapes for sale at prices too high for anyone to be interested. Foster called up on his data pad an ecopy of a venerable novel entitled Dykstra's War and went to the page that correlated with the Standard Federation Julian Date. The prices and titles of the Beta tapes provided coded links to words on that page, giving Foster a phone number in the city.
The phone number was answered by a recording. Foster waited until the ancient sign of the beep sounded and spoke his message. "Juan here. I'm at the Grand Frontera Hotel, Room 354. I have a message from your sister Kelly on Innisfree."
Then Foster waited. After a bit, he began wishing he'd paused long enough to pick up some of the authentic Italian/Valentian food. Room Service provided an overpriced and overcooked plate of 'authentic nachos' which in addition to chips and cheese included some sort of small fish filets and what appeared to be a raw egg cracked into the center of the plate. Foster sighed, chewed some of the latest stomach calming medicines available in the inner systems, then ate carefully around the egg, or whatever it was. Dealing with local tastes in food was just one of the occupational hazards of his job.
A soft tone announced his room had received mail. He checked the message, ensuring its enthusiastic response included the counterphrase needed to confirm it'd come from his Valentian contact. Referring to Dykstra's War again, Foster decoded the information in the reply to find an address in the city.
The local mapping system balked at working with his data pad, causing Foster to frown again. He finally got the directions he needed, saw his destination was too far to walk, and headed for the public transit system, carrying his bag along. It didn't do to leave bags unattended in hotel rooms if you could help it. Especially bags whose shielded, wafer-thin concealed compartments contained a variety of false IDs as well as other useful materials.
Sitting on the subway gave Foster a decent excuse to idly glance around. None of the other passengers seemed to be suspicious, and none left at his stop. Foster nonetheless took a circuitous route to his destination, weaving back and forth along several blocks and checking unobtrusively for tails, before finally reaching the doorway of a private residence.
A nondescript man of medium size and build answered Foster's ring. "Hello. Are you Juan?"
"That's me. Wide and free from Innisfree." Foster winced internally at the code phrase. He didn't make them up, but he had to say them.
"I wasn't sure Kelly had left Barbadan. Is she still engaged to Collin?"
Foster nodded. "Now and forever."
Sign, countersign, and counter-countersign exchanged, the man let Foster in, closing the door carefully behind them, and led the way into the house, bringing Foster to a nicely laid-out library room and closing that door as well before speaking again. "I'm Kila. Jason Kila. Welcome to Valentia."
"Gordon Foster. This room's secure?"
"Tight as a drum. No one can see or hear us."
Foster sat in the nearest chair and leaned back, relaxing for the first time since he'd arrived on Valentia. "Can you bring me up to date?"
Kila sat down as well and shrugged. "Not much has changed since my last report. Just more of the same."
"I noticed compatibility problems with the local software."
"Oh, yeah. They've got this operating system they claim is easier to use and more reliable than Federation standard, and also fully compatible. Some of the stuff in it is easier to use, other's harder. I don't know about the reliable part. I do know it's less and less compatible every time they tweak it."
"We'll have to take care of that."
Kila grinned, his lips drawing back to expose his back teeth. "You've got authority to act?"
Foster nodded. "Once I've heard everything. What else?"
"Here." Kila fished in one pocket, then tossed a small object at Foster. "Local ammo."
"Hmm." Foster frowned down at the bullet. "It's too small for 9mm and seems too big for 5.6mm."
"Right. Good eye. It's 6.8mm."
"Six point eight?" Foster let exasperation show. "Why the hell are they producing ammunition incompatible with Federation small arms standards?"
Kila rolled his eyes disdainfully. "They wanted one round for pistols and rifles. So they picked something smaller than a 9mm pistol round and bigger than a 5.6mm rifle round. They call it universal ammo."
"Universal?" Foster laughed. "They create a new ammunition type incompatible with Federation standards and then label it universal? I guess I should give Valentia credit for sheer gall."
"Yeah. Between the operating system and the ammunition, we've got a slowly accelerating gap developing between Valentia and the rest of the Federation. There's already talk about altering the mass transit gauge 'to better suit local conditions.' It's all in my report."
"What about the Federation demarches to Valentia demanding conformity to standards? Has there been anything about those in the local press? Any public debate?"
"Nope." Kila shook his head for emphasis. "The government's sitting on the demarches. There's been a few questions raised about diverging standards, but they're very isolated. Most locals don't see it as anything to worry about."
"Okay. Valentia thinks they can sit in their own little corner of the Federation and do whatever they want." Foster flipped the bullet back to Kila.
Kila snagged the shiny object and eyed Foster. "Pretty much. What do we get to do about it?"
Foster turned up the corners of his mouth in a humorless smile. "We get to mess with a few things."
"Yee-hah. When do we start?"
Kila nodded. "Of course. Janeen Yule. She's very good."
"Give her this." Foster slid open the heel of his shoe, revealing another shielded compartment, and removed a data coin. "It contains a worm called Black Clown."
"Black Clown?" Kila took the coin gingerly, turning it over between two fingers. "What's it do?"
"It makes things harder. Have Yule make any necessary changes to match it to Valentia's new operating system. Once we introduce it onto the Valentian net it'll propagate like crazy."
"The Valentian firewalls won't stop it?"
"No."
Kila clearly wanted to ask more, but simply nodded. "I'll get it to Yule. Are you sure you don't want to hand it off personally? Yule might have some questions for you."
"If she does, you pass them to me. I want to maintain tight compartmentalization of this operation. I don't need to know what Yule's local cover is."
"You're the boss." The coin disappeared into Kila's clothing. "What about the ammunition?"
"I'll need access to the fabrication module controllers in the manufacturing facilities. For the ammunition, and for the firearms the Valentians are building to use that stuff."
Kila's brow furrowed for a moment. "You'll need to work directly with one of our on-planet people for that. Not Yule. Jane Smith."
"Jane Smith?"
"Yeah." Kila grinned. "Her real name sounds like a cover name. Jane's burrowed into the Valentian bureaucracy. She can get you that access and not leave any fingerprints."
"Cool. It's good to have a friend in the bureaucracy."
Kila smiled again, then looked at Foster questioningly. "Speaking of bureaucrats, I heard that rumor again. The one about our pensions and stuff not being honored because officially we don't exist as Federation employees."
"There's no truth in that. We're covered. Every one of us has an official and totally innocuous identity within the Federation government. I've personally confirmed that. Those identities have nothing to do with our real work, but they're accruing all the benefits we're entitled to."
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