Zero-G

by William Shatner

  His father, the angels, were still present in McClure’s mind when he thought of another member of his present and personal trinity: Sam Lord. God, how he didn’t want to let the boss down. He grinned as he remembered something the director had said in his anything-but-­rehearsed welcoming speech at the comm center.

  “Whatever bad situation you find yourself in, I want you to remember: it’s never over—”

  “Until it’s over,” Agent Abernathy had recited under his breath.

  Lord had heard him and smiled. “That’s football,” the director had said. “No, Agent. A situation is never over unless you give up.”

  He checked his air gauge. Nearly ninety minutes. Hell, that was a long time to die . . . or live.

  Hold the angels, Dad, he thought, looking around with renewed enthusiasm. I’m working for the Lord.

  Tse Hung sat up. The young man gripped the arms of his chair so tightly he thought his flesh would split. Was that life he saw in space? Had someone actually survived?

  Chairman Sheng’s personal assistant had seen the self-defense barrage on his IC, had watched the devastation of the Empyrean fleet, and had felt—nothing. The Americans had done this to themselves, there was nothing more to be said or done. Besides, he and the rest of the Jade Star staff had more pressing concerns.

  Survival, for one.

  Ever since the Dragon’s Eye had been turned on and the station had been shaken from joint to joint to joint until it was barely a cohesive unit, Tse had been buried alive, a prisoner in his tiny, sparse office.

  The door was sealed because there were air leaks somewhere. The door wouldn’t open until they were found and sealed. He might die of thirst but, méi shì, that’s nothing: he would have air.

  Communications with Earth were down. He had little idea who else was alive or which of his friends were dead, including Commander Sheng. All he had was his minimally functioning station IC. With it, he was able to scan through all surviving surveillance views both interior and exterior—which was how he had witnessed the massacre in space. Unfortunately, Tse couldn’t switch it off. Even if he closed his eyes, the sounds of the station crew shouting, searching, moaning, dying, were always present.

  Then he saw it: the damaged space sled and the face of someone inside. The man’s face moved. So did his hands. Despite his apathy toward the Americans, Tse was fascinated by the figure.

  A brother, he thought. Trapped, alone, frightened. Sadly, as long as this room remains sealed, I will outlive you, he thought. That is very inconsiderate of you, to leave me alone.

  Seized by his own growing despair, Tse was about to look away when he caught a flicker of reflected light. He jerked forward with interest.

  No, he hadn’t imagined it. The bottom of the sled had shifted.

  For the first time in hours, Tse Hung smiled. For, if this man, who had seen the devastating power of Chinese technology, if this man could figure a way out of his situation, then Tse could do no less.

  “Show me,” he said aloud.

  Inspiration, McClure thought. Whatever the poets and philosophers had to say on the subject, it really came down to one word, one quality: desperation.

  As McClure lay there cataloguing the tools at his disposal, he remembered one of the pictures that had blurred by: a 3-D picture of him sledding as a child in New England. And then it struck him: You’re in a sled. Find yourself a slope!

  Everything outside his viewport was spread out, bent, and twisting helplessly around all manner of central axes. They were of absolutely no use to him as a smooth, propulsive surface. But there was one thing he knew his sled could ride.

  And so, using nothing more than instinct and inspiration, he used a T-shaped socket wrench to loosen two forward bolts. These, he reasoned—­since there were matching bolts above—were what held the lower armor plating to the sled. When the second big screw floated free, he felt the front of the plate drop. He couldn’t see it but he knew it had happened because the sled was pulled in that direction.

  He imagined the vehicle looking like a shark now, its maw open as it moved through the sea. If it didn’t, he was in trouble.

  Stowing the wrench, McClure took a moment to consider the control panel. He examined the sled’s position relative to the Empyrean, and the speed with which its emergency brake tethers could deploy. The filaments had to be at full extension, and full positive potential, in about two seconds—which was all the time he’d have for the Chinese science module to detect movement and attack his sled from about three hundred feet away.

  McClure raised the old-style switch guard on the tether release. He decided not to send EAD Waters his data.

  Godammit, he thought. He would deliver his findings in person or not at all.

  Breathing slowly until his finger stopped shaking, McClure crooked it forward and back with a single, decisive move.

  Tse Hung cried out when he saw the sled’s yaw engine blaze to life moments after the bottom plating had angled away from it. An instant later, a flurry of ion projectiles sped from the Jade Star science module. Assuming a widespread assault, the SimAI had sent only one of those missiles at the fleeing sled. The others headed off into the ether.

  The ruthless head of an ion spear hit the American’s ship a heartbeat later. Tse could not immediately tell whether it was the detonation of the weapon or the explosion of the sled that momentarily turned the cloud into a glittering magnesium-white firework.

  Then he had his answer.

  Tse’s voice stopped, along with his breath, as he saw a rectangular shape speeding from the cloud. Improbably . . . incredibly . . . the pilot had used the armor plate on the bottom of his sled like a coin on a spun soccer ball: he skid off the blast before it could do any damage, using the force to propel him forward. There was no need for a second burst of thrust from the ship; as a result, there was no follow-up salvo from the science module.

  Tse Hung’s eyes remained open very wide as the tiny ship sailed into the void, its dimly lighted passenger quickly swallowed in darkness. When it was gone, Tse wept.

  McClure couldn’t believe that he was alive.

  The ion blast had given him a massive jolt, knocking him hard against the top of his space suit. If not for the fact that he was secured to the ship itself, the agent might have broken his back against the top of the sled. As it was, McClure felt as if he’d been shaken by his heels and then dropped on his head.

  He checked his distance from the module. It was the same distance he’d been when the first salvo was launched. He gave himself a few more seconds of free drift before he raised his finger to fire the main thruster.

  “Go, baby,” he said.

  As with so many of the skycycles and young ladies he had known on Earth, those two words achieved nothing.

  Crap.

  He tried it again. Once more: nothing. The sled of the team leader must have struck it when it flipped over McClure’s sled. It didn’t even fizzle.

  He tried to reach the Empyrean.

  Crap.

  The comm array was on the bottom of the craft, where it hadn’t weathered the armor drop or the particle strike particularly well. It failed to realign itself and pointed not toward Earth or the Empyrean but somewhere, he thought, near Deneb—where no one, even if they were listening, would get a message in his lifetime.

  All McClure had, he presumed, were his pitch and yaw jets. Activating them here, all he’d do was spin in place.

  “Okay, team, I know you’re watching,” he said, trying to find the Empyrean in his viewport. “Come and get me.”

  Just then, in the silence of his tiny craft, he heard a whizzing sound. He looked around, caught his reflection in the window—and noticed a rent in his air tank. It must have ruptured when he hit the top of the craft.

  This time McClure swore out loud. He didn’t have time to sit tight: he had to get the st
ation’s attention. Hoping he didn’t throw up in his suit, he hit both the pitch and yaw rockets and began to spin.

  “Survivor adrift,” Adsila Waters said at almost the same instant Stanton’s comm officer did.

  “Your agent, your call,” CO Indira Singh informed the EAD.

  “Zero-G rescue protocol A,” he immediately invoked.

  “Incoming shuttle due in thirty-three minutes,” Singh replied. “Diverting to sled’s apparent location, ETA forty-one minutes.”

  That location was vividly apparent. The sled looked like a pinwheel firework in the enhanced magnification view of Adsila’s IC. The Earth-Empyrean shuttle detour was better than nothing, but that was not the solution the EAD wanted to hear.

  Adsila shifted to female. That happened involuntarily at times when anxiety caused elevated testosterone levels that threatened to cloud reason. “We don’t know what McClure’s life-support system is like,” Adsila said. “Singh, the manifest shows a pod in repair. Can it be launched quickly?”

  “Negative,” Singh replied. “The only available shuttle—”

  “Belongs to Ziv Levy,” a voice said in Adsila’s ear. “And he is launching in three . . . two . . . one.”

  The voice was coming over her private comm. The CHAI was listening to her and Singh through the nanites in Dr. Carter’s lab.

  “Ziv?” she acted surprised.

  “My shuttle is not recovery-arm-equipped,” he said as rocket ignition came through on audio, “but when I burn through some space I’ll go EVA and net him. And not with the carbon nanotubing that fell all apart on the Grissom: these are some of the synthetics that hold me together! I’ll have your agent on board in under twenty minutes.”

  As she listened to Ziv, Adsila wasn’t sure whether she felt smart, used, or both. In light of the many disasters that had struck this day, there was only one certainty that mattered: because of what she’d done, Special Agent McClure would likely survive.

  She allowed herself a moment of satisfaction before informing Director Lord.

  TWENTY-ONE

  IN FLIGHT SCHOOL, Lord had read a story online about a World War I Royal Air Force ace who was so impressed by the courage of a German pilot that, after shooting him down, he landed and brought the wounded man back to the British base near Flanders. It was a stirring moment of détente: the British pilot knew the German man would never fly again for his actions, and the German knew the Englishman would. Yet the encounter ended with two men surviving instead of two men perishing.

  Lord took the news of Ziv Levy’s action in a similar mind-set. Lord did not for a moment believe that the CHAI’s actions were born in compassion. Ziv would expect something in return, even if it were just a chance to spend time with the Zero-G team to spy, seduce, plant nanites, or even convince Jack Franco that he had learned something new. More than likely, his shuttle would be scanning the attached sled for data about the Chinese module. He would have it before the FBI did. In that way, a player like Ziv could wrest concessions from the DIA in exchange for raw intel.

  All true, Lord thought as the buggy bounced toward Armstrong. But he also saved a member of my team. In the director’s mind, that earned Ziv a Flanders-style free pass. For now.

  After riding in silence, the northern entrance to the base came into view.

  “Dr. Diego, please inform Commander Tengan that we require an escort,” Lord said.

  “I believe that she has anticipated your request,” Diego replied.

  The scientist fed Lord an image from the bay. The two bay-­authorized security officers were present along with Commander Tengan.

  Lord grinned. The woman was good.

  The hatch to the base slid open, the buggy rolled onto the smooth platform, and Lord’s insides settled as the vehicle rode down. He did not relax, however. If he was correct, there was a spy on the base, someone who might want to protect his or her identity.

  Armed security guards were waiting for them in the garage with Commander Tengan.

  Lord popped his visor. “For me?” he asked innocently as he disembarked.

  “You didn’t think I knew you’d go out there?” Tengan asked. “The guard is for my scientists. Or rather, for their data.”

  Lord shook out his rattled limbs as he walked over. “Do these guards routinely have access to the buggy?”

  Tengan seemed surprised. “Not unless they are directly instructed, by me, to be here.”

  “And they come in pairs?”

  “Always. What’s going on?”

  “One more question, Commander,” Lord said. “The satellite dish outside the hatch. That’s the only way you can communicate with the lab, or the lab with Earth. Is that correct?”

  “It is.”

  “Then they wouldn’t risk using that,” Lord thought out loud.

  “Who?”

  “Commander, back in the lab just now, Dr. May pooled all of her data,” Lord said. “It was complete for the first time. I believe someone may have intercepted the data prior to this . . . and, realizing it’s not working, they may have done so again.”

  “How?”

  “Bugged buggy,” he said. “But I don’t believe they would have risked sending data through the dish. That being the case, they’re going to want to come and collect it.”

  “And you—”

  “Yeah.”

  Tengan understood. She cocked her head toward one of the guards. “Will you need—?”

  “Keep them nearby, but I would like that,” he said, pointing to a sidearm. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

  Tengan asked one of the security officers for his weapon. It was a first-generation Pulsor, a gun that fired a short-range ultrasonic wave to stop a target without damaging structural material if the shot were a little off. So far, it had only been used to deter base crew who suffered psychoses due to isolation, or what was being called terracy: madness caused by the impact of Earth’s tidal gravity on the inner ear, or at least that’s how the legend went.

  Lord accepted the weapon. “You should requisition P3s Gauntlets,” he said with a smile. “Bigger local punch than a Pulsor. That’s what we’ve got.”

  Tengan smiled back as she motioned the others to move out. “NASA keeps us two models behind,” she said. “In case we get any ideas up here about, oh, Jeffersonian democracy, if you take my meaning.”

  Lord nodded.

  “I’ll make sure Dr. May is safe,” Tengan said, turning with a small lingering look that somehow communicated a full salute, then followed her team out.

  Saranya looked back at Lord as they left, but Lord had already turned back toward the buggy.

  The geometric monster of a vehicle remained still and silent for several minutes, until a hatch on the outside of the wall slowly opened and someone in a radiation suit with an opaque visor entered. That person glanced around the garage and, seeing no one, moved quickly toward the buggy, toward the exterior solar panels.

  Breathing heavily, the intruder opened the driver’s side door. He did not climb in but reached around and removed the panel from the inside. That exposed a network of small, fine structural supports. He reached toward a specific vertice joint that ran along the inside of the polyhedral cage. Using a small ultrasonic torch, he detached the metal locus. He removed a smaller, metal, inner tube from within it, and then the vertice joint was slipped back into place. He placed the inner tube in a pouch on his suit.

  His attention focused on replacing the panel, the intruder did not see a figure rise from the cargo platform in back. When he did, he leapt back, nearly flying off his feet in the lesser gravity.

  “Stay there and I won’t have to shoot you,” Lord told him as he maneuvered from behind the driver’s seat.

  The other person remained where he was standing but he activated the ultrasonic torch. His helmet off, Lord winced as the beam drove hard into his
ears.

  The intruder charged, still pointing the instrument. Accustomed to sharp decompression from power dives in his old Vampire, Lord recovered enough to fire, hitting the attacker in the thighs and knocking him back. Then he fired again, striking the person’s hand and sending the screwdriver scuttling across the floor.

  The attacker lay back in surrender. Lord approached with the Pulsor aimed squarely at the intruder’s helmet. A shot at this range, with a hard concrete floor below, would probably crack the person’s skull and cause permanent deafness.

  Lord used a free hand to motion for the person to raise their visor. The individual complied. Lord looked down into the face of ERB medical technician Don Christie.

  “I should’ve known,” Christie said.

  “That this might be a trap?”

  The ERB officer nodded. “What I said on the Grissom—you are good, sir.”

  “You knock around long enough, you pick up things,” Lord said. “Who’d you do this for?”

  “I’m not free to say, sir.”

  “A blast at this range will not be kind to your facial bones,” Lord said.

  “Then I will also be unable to say, sir.”

  Christie had him there. Lord got on his IC. “Armstrong command,” he announced. “Suspect secured. Move in security detail at your pleasure.”

  Suddenly, Christie moved a hand toward a place just above his chin. Still unaccustomed to lunar gravity, Lord stepped toward him—and a little past him, just as the lunar veteran had anticipated. The Zero-G man swore as Christie finished activating his Emergency Team IC and pushed himself in the opposite direction. The buggy thrummed to life and jerked forward at the same time, striking Lord with its rolling façade and throwing him facedown.