The Trikon Deception

by Ben Bova

  Stacey saw the syringe in the mirror.

  “What’s that?” she cried.

  “Just something to make you sleep.”

  “I don’t want that! I don’t know you! I didn’t see you!”

  She bucked against his elbow, wrapped her legs around his ankles, tried to kick his feet out from under him. He concentrated on her trembling buttocks. They were still reddened from the heat of the bath, so perfectly shaped, so firm, like two ripe apples. Her face was white with fear. Her hair swept back in reddish-brown swirls. A thin blue vein, just like Sir Derek’s, beat beneath the china skin of her temples.

  Meade jammed the needle into her ass.

  Stacey yelped. Despite the pressure of the elbow on her spine, one hand shot up to her mouth. She bit her finger.

  Meade stared at her face. It was so contorted in pain that it no longer looked feminine. He thought of Sir Derek with the same porcelain skin, the same reddish-brown hair, the same blue veins.

  A hot rush of hatred surged through him. He tore open his pants and had it off with her. The syringe, still embedded in her right buttock, slapped at his waist as he pounded away at her slackening body.

  29 AUGUST 1998

  AEROSPACE PLANE YEAGER

  “Cindy, Dan.”

  “I can’t hear you.”

  “It’s Dan!”

  “You don’t have to shout.”

  “Is Bill there?”

  “No.”

  “This is very important, Cindy. I’m not calling to shoot the breeze.”

  “He’s not home.”

  “Has he left for the space plane?”

  “That’ll be the day.”

  “Cindy, we have a slight problem up here. I don’t think this is a very opportune time for Bill to visit the station. I’ve had his passes revoked”

  “Trying to get back in my good graces, huh?”

  “That isn’t it at all. Is Bill there?”

  “I told you he’s not. What’s your problem? Some young girl scientist think you’re a big spaceman?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “I understand that as well as anyone.”

  “Tell him I’m sorry and that I’ll make it up to him.”

  “Famous last words.”

  Shaped vaguely like a shark with wings instead of flippers, its eight hypersonic scramjet engines drinking up liquid hydrogen fuel, the aerospace plane Yeager accelerated past an altitude of 150,000 feet over the Great Plains. Nine minutes earlier it had taxied down the runway at Edwards Space Center in the high desert of California and vaulted into the crystalline blue of the early morning sky. Its itinerary: Trikon Station and Space Station Freedom.

  Much to his relief, Aaron Weiss felt none of the crushing g-forces he had expected. The aerospace plane had taken off as smoothly as a commercial airliner. Which, in Weiss’s catalogue of evils, was bad enough. No lover of high-speed travel, Weiss believed that roller coasters should be outlawed as dangerous instrumentalities. But he had traveled in bullet trains in both France and Japan, and was pleased to discover that the aerospace plane was no less comfortable. For a moment, he even forgot about the airsick bag dangling from his fist.

  The seats were arranged four across, with an aisle in the middle. Weiss had demanded an aisle seat; he had no desire to see the world falling away from him. The window seat was empty. More than half the seats were empty. Nutty way to run an airline, Weiss thought, flying this expensive contraption without a full load of paying passengers.

  Across the aisle sat Fabio Bianco. Weiss had heard that the elderly CEO of Trikon International looked like a monk; he saw that the description was not exaggerated. The frail old man seemed too small, almost childlike, nestled in his chair, his wispy tonsure splayed like a halo on the maroon velour of the headrest, his liquid brown eyes staring serenely forward, his lips quivering as if in silent prayer.

  “Hell of a ride,” said Weiss, realizing as he spoke that the cabin was much quieter than any plane he had ridden aboard.

  Bianco smiled pleasantly and nodded.

  “My first time on one of these babies.” Weiss held aloft his airsick bag. “I thought it would be worse.”

  “The ride is very smooth,” agreed Bianco, with just a hint of Italian vowels at the end of his English words.

  “Where are you headed?”

  “Trikon Station.”

  “So am I. My name is Aaron Weiss.” He stretched his hand across the aisle.

  “I am Fabio Bianco.”

  “Bianco?” Weiss put on his most innocent expression. “Isn’t the head of Trikon named Bianco?”

  “That is correct. I am that person. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Weiss of the whales.”

  “Recognized me, huh?” Weiss lifted a lock of gray hair from behind his ear. “Even without the hat?”

  “I have been following your reports with great interest. I have been wondering how accurate they are.”

  “Accurate enough.”

  “Those deaths have brought me great sadness.”

  “Those deaths are pretty damned scary,” said Weiss.

  “What brings you to Trikon Station, Mr. Weiss? There are no whales on board, at least not to my knowledge.”

  “A hunch or two,” Weiss said. “What about you? CEOs aren’t noted for mingling with the peons.”

  “I have my reasons, Mr. Weiss. Now if you will excuse me, I need to rest. It has been an exhausting week for me. We can speak further on Trikon Station.”

  You bet we will, Fabio baby, Weiss muttered to himself.

  Dan Tighe eyed Aaron Weiss suspiciously. The reporter wore white crew socks, baby chinos, and a denim workshirt with pearl buttons. His Donegal walking hat was attached to his head by a jerry-rigged system of rubber bands. A Minicam hovered at chest level, loosely tethered to Weiss’s skinny neck by a loop of thinly braided cord. Dan didn’t like the idea of a reporter nosing around the station. Especially the muckraking TV-tabloid kind. He didn’t buy Weiss’s protestations that he was now a legitimate reporter covering stories related to science and technology for CNN in Atlanta. To Dan, Aaron Weiss always was and always would be a parasite. But the parasite was on board with Trikon’s permission, so Dan had to be cooperative, if not cordial.

  Dan hovered in the doorway to his office. Dangling several inches above the deck of the command module just outside Tighe’s office, Weiss gripped a handhold firmly, but didn’t show any adverse effects of weightlessness. He had an airsick bag wedged under his belt. Kurt Jaeckle hovered next to Weiss. He had appeared the instant he learned that a reporter had arrived on the aerospace plane.

  “The station comprises three distinct sets of personnel,” Dan was explaining, his face taut with tension. “There is the station crew, the Martians, and the Trikon scientists. This last set is divided into three further subsets: the American/Canadian group, the United Europe group, and the Japanese group.”

  “I know all this,” Weiss said.

  “You are free to visit any of the lab modules,” said Dan, putting more iron into his voice to discourage further interruptions. “But you cannot go beyond what the individual module’s personnel will allow. In other words, you must honor their desires for security.”

  “You are welcome in the Mars module,” piped Jaeckle.

  “Furthermore,” continued Dan, “certain modules will be strictly off limits to you unless you are accompanied by myself or a member of the crew. These include the command module and the logistics module.”

  Weiss nodded, although the expression on his puffed-up face showed he was anything but happy with Tighe’s restrictions.

  “Finally,” Dan added, “Dr. Renoir is at your disposal for any and all medical needs.”

  “She’s already fitted me with a motion-sickness pad,” said Weiss.

  “Fine,” Dan snapped. He glanced at Jaeckle, then returned his stern gaze to Weiss. “That’s all I have to say. I trust you will do your best not to interfere with the smooth operati
on of the station.”

  Weiss mumbled something that did not sound like wholehearted agreement, but Dan let it go.

  “Do you want to start with the Mars module?” asked Jaeckle, beaming the smile he reserved for members of the media.

  “Not really,” said Weiss.

  Hugh O’Donnell held the tiny strip of computer printout to one of the lights in his lab. The blood analysis unit Dan Tighe had pilfered from Dr. Renoir’s medical bay was programmed to screen thirty distinct drugs, from common natural substances like marijuana to obscure synthetics like 3, 4-methylenedioxamphetamine. He had obtained one positive result.

  O’Donnell folded the printout into a pocket and squeezed out the door. None of the lab workers scattered throughout The Bakery paid him any mind as he secured his padlock. Except for Stu Roberts. He stared at O’Donnell with a cold, calculating eye as he hovered at an oblique angle between the microwave ovens fifteen meters away.

  Dan Tighe was behind the closed door of his office. O’Donnell could hear him talking to someone over the radio. The topic of conversation was a TV news reporter who had apparently arrived at Trikon Station on the aerospace plane. Dan did not sound pleased with his presence.

  O’Donnell waited until there was a lull in the chatter before rapping on the partition. The door slid open half a foot to reveal Tighe, his broad face pinched by a set of headphones.

  “Be right with you. Let me wind up this report.”

  The door closed and, after another minute of highly technical chatter, opened again. Dan no longer wore the headphones, although there was a white line where they had pressed against his roughened cheek.

  “I have the blood work,” said O’Donnell, keeping his voice low.

  Dan released himself from the foot loops and drifted toward the rear of the office, giving O’Donnell enough room to squeeze inside the narrow compartment.

  “Better close the door,” he said.

  O’Donnell obliged, then worked the printout from his pocket. Dan looked haggard. He had missed a spot shaving and his mouth was drawn down in an expression that in a lesser man would be worry, perhaps even fear.

  “So what have we got?” he asked.

  O’Donnell could tell from Tighe’s tone that he was tightly wound.

  “The panel allows tests for thirty different types of drugs, some common, some not so common.”

  “Get to the point,” said Dan. “Was Cramer dirty?”

  “His blood tested positive for PCP.”

  “I know that’s bad,” said Dan. “Now what the hell is it exactly?”

  “Its chemical name is phencyclidine, but it’s better known as Angel Dust. It’s a hallucinogen that was developed in the fifties for use as an anesthetic. But it never was used because it caused bad dreams and aggressive behavior among the test subjects. It can turn a mouse into a maniac.”

  “How do you know so much?”

  “I wasn’t your normal doper,” said O’Donnell. “I would research a drug before I used it.”

  “Did you ever do this stuff?”

  “Once. I didn’t like it.”

  Dan took the slip of paper from O’Donnell’s hand and peered at it like a suspicious man checking his supermarket bill. “Any chance of this being wrong?” he asked.

  “There’s roughly a ten-percent error factor. From the amount in the blood sample, I doubt it was a false positive.”

  Dan’s eyes narrowed until they resembled two sabers glinting in sunlight.

  “Could he have been using this over an extended period of time?”

  “No way I can tell from the blood,” said O’Donnell. “In low doses it could have a mild stimulant effect that might interfere with sleep. And the drug can build up in the fatty tissues of the brain and be released over time. But if you want to know the truth, one good dose can turn you into a psycho.”

  Dan stuffed the results into his pocket.

  “Dr. Renoir hasn’t missed her equipment yet. You’ll get it back?”

  “Soon as I can.”

  “Good.”

  “Can I ask you a question, Dan?”

  “What?”

  “Why didn’t you have Dr. Renoir do this workup? After all, she’s the station’s medical officer.”

  For the flash of an instant Tighe looked angry, furious. But with an effort he controlled himself.

  “I needed somebody with no political ties to anybody else on the station,” he answered tightly. “Lorraine… Dr. Renoir… she’d been treating Cramer for sleep disorder without telling anybody but his supervisor.”

  “Without telling you?”

  Tighe held himself to a single curt nod. “She was following station regulations.”

  “Cramer’s supervisor,” O’Donnell mused. “That would be…”

  “Kurt Jaeckle,” Tighe snapped.

  O’Donnell’s lips formed a silent “Oh.” He made a small shrug and turned toward the door.

  “One more thing,” said Dan, his voice still edgy. “There’s a reporter on board. I don’t want any of this getting out, understood?”

  “Understood,” said O’Donnell. “Who’s the reporter?”

  “Guy named Aaron Weiss from CNN. Looks like a pain in the ass. Trikon’s given him limited access to the station. Damned if I know why.”

  “What’s he reporting on?”

  “Don’t know for sure. Trikon, I guess. He surer than hell isn’t interested in the Martians. He was pretty clear with Jaeckle about that.”

  “Am I required to talk to him?”

  “Don’t ask me. I’m not your superior. That’s right. The grapevine says you have no boss up here.”

  “The grapevine says a lot,” said O’Donnell. “I just won’t talk to him.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Dan. “Are you going to be all right?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We just discovered that someone is cooking or smuggling drugs up here,” said Dan. “I think the question is validly put to someone with your history.”

  “I’ll be all right,” said O’Donnell.

  His hazel eyes, magnified by his glasses, stared into Tighe’s intense sky-blue slits. Neither man wavered.

  “That’s good,” said Dan.

  O’Donnell opened the door and pulled himself into the comparatively cool air of the command module.

  “And, Hugh,” Dan called to him. “Thanks.”

  For all his work and dreams about Trikon Station, Fabio Bianco had never been to space before, never experienced microgravity.

  As a scientist he understood the facts of near weightlessness. As a frail old man he hoped that he would adapt to microgravity quickly, without embarrassing himself by becoming obviously sick.

  He never expected to enjoy the sensation.

  Yet from the moment the aerospace plane coasted into orbit Bianco felt a strange exhilaration surging through his aged body. By the time the plane had docked with Trikon and he and his fellow passengers had disembarked into the station itself, Bianco was grinning broadly. For the first time in years, in decades, he felt truly alive. Strong, almost. Twenty years younger. Thirty, even.

  The young men and women of the station’s crew treated him with extreme deference. Bianco accepted their solicitude as his due as CEO of Trikon International, rather than because of his frail old age.

  I’m not frail here, he marveled to himself as he floated effortlessly down the tunnel to Hab 1, following a ruddy-faced young crewman to the quarters he had been assigned. I’m strong again. Young again! I may never leave this place.

  Within an hour of settling his meager luggage in his sleep compartment— and actually laughing when his clothes took on a weightless life of their own and floated almost out of his reach before he could corral them—Bianco used the intercom to call a meeting of all the Trikon personnel aboard the station.

  The scientists and technicians gathered in the rumpus room at Bianco’s command. He did not need to ask permission, nor did he need to ask where to hold the mee
ting. Bianco knew the station’s layout in his heart, better perhaps than many of the scientists who had spent ninety days aboard. Bianco had spent years “seeing” Trikon Station in all its details.

  Although the expended shuttle external tank that formed the rumpus room was the same size as the Mars module, its lack of scientific equipment made it the single most spacious area on the station, and the natural site for the meeting. Of course, there was no dais, and there were no chairs. Dan secured his three bonsai animals so they would not make a distracting backdrop for Bianco as he spoke. Lance Muncie and Freddy Aviles installed a portable floor grid on which the Trikon scientists and technicians could anchor their feet during the meeting.

  Every member of the Trikon scientific community gathered in the rumpus room. Aaron Weiss joined the group, but rather than anchor himself to the floor grid he drifted above the assembly and slightly to one side so that he could see their faces without distracting them too much. His Minicam was loosely attached to his neck and he gripped a magnetized notepad in one hand.

  Bianco looked small, almost shrunken in the light-blue Trikon flight suit he wore for the occasion. The open collar exposed the wrinkles and veins of his neck. The clinging pants revealed the sharp points of his knee and hip bones. Yet somehow he looked vital, eager. His eyes sparkled. He smiled gently at his employees.

  “When I was a young man,” he began, “I would sit in my family’s garden at night and watch the stars track slowly across the sky. I dreamed of another star, not a glowing ball of hydrogen and helium hundreds of light years away, but a glittering diamond of aluminum and titanium that could circle our planet in a mere ninety minutes. And in that glittering diamond the finest minds from every nation would gather and direct their energies toward developing a second generation of science and technology that would solve the problems created by our well-meaning but ignorant forebears.”