The Trikon Deception

by Ben Bova

  Ramsanjawi crawled through the port and into the lifeboat. Six months’ training, he thought; what a laugh. With a mere few hours of observation during and after those mindless evacuation drills, he had deduced the method of piloting the lifeboat to Earth. And even if he drifted in orbit, there was little to fear. NASA certainly would not forsake the sole survivor of Trikon Station.

  Above the constant din of the alarms came a loud crash. The entire lifeboat shuddered.

  The force of the landing stunned O’Donnell. When he saw the open CERV port, his senses cleared. He bounced up, hooked the port’s rim with his gloves, and jerked himself through. His helmet smashed against the CERV hatch as it swung shut. O’Donnell used all his strength to prevent the hatch from locking. Wedging himself in the connecting station hatchway that Ramsanjawi had struggled to open a few moments earlier, O’Donnell pushed and pushed against the CERV hatch, feeling a slight give. Suddenly, the hatch released and he flew into the lifeboat. He landed against the far bulkhead and became entangled in the loose harnesses. Ramsanjawi gathered his satchel and fled the CERV, billowing into the connecting tunnel. O’Donnell freed himself and bounded after him.

  Ramsanjawi had no time to open the other lifeboat port; O’Donnell was right on his heels. He clawed his way up the wall of the connecting tunnel and dropped into the wardroom. O’Donnell followed.

  The centrifugal force had turned the module’s wall into its floor, and both men clambered like harbor seals over the newly horizontal galleys. Ramsanjawi opened a galley door and began winging trays. They flew like lethal frisbees, crisply slicing through the air as O’Donnell instinctively ducked away from them. One hit the shoulder of his suit and bounced off, wobbling through the air.

  Then the wardroom was plunged into darkness.

  “Oh, shit,” O’Donnell snapped. A tray clattered against the galley behind him. A single emergency light, glowing weakly from what had been the ceiling, cast thick slabs of shadow. O’Donnell carefully raised his helmeted head. No other trays came whizzing at him.

  Ramsanjawi was nowhere in sight. O’Donnell climbed across the last of the galleys and peered through the horizontal doorway into the ex/rec area. An emergency light glowed there as well; the exercise machines and game tables, now growing out of the wall, were wrapped in shadow.

  O’Donnell hooked himself over the edge of the doorway. A hand reached out of the darkness and dragged him through. He landed on his head, stayed upright for a second, then toppled onto his back. Something flashed above him. He tried to roll over, but the edge of the tray caught him in the ribs. The pain stung.

  Ramsanjawi bolted for the door. O’Donnell desperately swung out a leg to trip him. The satchel popped out of the kurta and sailed into the upturned equipment. Both men scrambled after it like opposing linemen vying for a loose football on a wet field. Ramsanjawi came up with it and lurched away. O’Donnell hurled himself after him.

  It was a crunching tackle.

  O’Donnell drove the shoulder of his hardened EMU suit into Ramsanjawi’s ribs, and both men fell into the rowing machine. One of O’Donnell’s legs became wedged in the mechanism. He tried to brace himself, but his weight combined with Ramsanjawi’s was too much. The sound of his shinbone snapping echoed through his EMU. He roared with the sudden unbearable pain.

  For a second they hung as if frozen. Then the rowing machine’s mounts gave way. O’Donnell, Ramsanjawi, and the machine toppled over, splintering storage compartments along the far wall.

  O’Donnell held onto Ramsanjawi’s upper arm, the force multipliers of one glove digging deeply into the flabby flesh, like motor-driven pincers. The Indian gave a high-pitched scream and tried to wriggle free. O’Donnell tried to reach Ramsanjawi’s air hose with his other gloved hand. He wanted to give Ramsanjawi a taste of the cabin air. But his glove tips fell short by inches and the EMU restricted him from moving any closer. Pain swirled up from his leg, choking him, purpling his vision. Ramsanjawi squirmed like a hooked fish, trying to free himself from the glove’s viselike grip. If O’Donnell let go, the slithering Indian bastard would get away. Into the lifeboat. Into forever.

  O’Donnell stretched his arm until he thought his shoulder would dislocate. His free hand inched closer to Ramsanjawi’s shaking air hose. His fingers curled around it. He pulled.

  He couldn’t hear the air rush out. But he felt the change come over Ramsanjawi. The Indian stopped squirming. O’Donnell let his hand fall from Ramsanjawi’s arm.

  A moment later, there was a knock on his helmet. It sounded polite, almost friendly. Ramsanjawi stared at him with a benign smile on his face. His mouth moved and O’Donnell heard, like a voice in a dream, “Would you like some tea, sir?”

  “What the hell,” O’Donnell said, and let the pain and darkness engulf him.

  In the weak light of the emergency lamp, Dan pried the transparent cover from the emergency controller receptacle. The ACS malfunction left him with only one option: killing the spin rate by manually firing the thrusters. It wasn’t an easy task; Trikon Station wasn’t designed to be flown like a space shuttle. It was a fragile, delicate bird, no more capable of real maneuvering than the bonsai creatures he cherished. But it was spinning drunkenly, tearing itself apart; Dan had to get it back under control. And fast. Without power from the solar panels he had only minutes.

  Outside the command center, Lance slowly regained consciousness. His helmet was gone, he realized. The cabin air had a slight flowery scent that tickled his throat for a moment, then seemed to die away, evaporate. He tried to take a deep breath but the knife-sharp pain in his ribs made him gasp. For long moments he clutched at a handhold, panting painfully as his head slowly cleared. Then he saw Commander Tighe at the controls.

  “Finally couldn’t ignore me,” he muttered. He flung himself headlong toward the commander.

  Dan was fitting the emergency controller into its receptacle and did not sense Lance’s rush until it was too late. Lance blasted him out of his anchoring loops. The two men crashed against the bulkhead in a flurry of punches and kicks. Lance was frothing, gurgling, biting at Dan’s EMU. Dan fended off the blows as best he could. He no longer felt anger. He could not be incensed with a youngster who had obviously snapped his tether. Dan felt more bemused than anything else, like a fully suited football player being physically attacked by a fan in street clothes.

  But Muncie was almost fully suited too. His gloved fists were flurrying madly, and even though most of his punches were wild, enough were landing on Dan’s torso to hurt.

  There was no time for niceties. Dan grabbed the shoulders of Muncie’s EMU and butted his helmet into the youngster’s forehead. Muncie’s arms stopped flailing; his jaw fell slack, stunned.

  “Sorry, kid,” Dan muttered as he braced his feet against the wall and landed a bone-breaking right squarely on Muncie’s jaw. Muncie’s eyes rolled up and he hung in midair like a balloon slowly leaking air. Slowly, slowly he sagged toward the floor under the slight but discernible gravity.

  “That ought to keep you quiet for a while,” Dan mumbled, realizing his ribs felt sore.

  He made his way back to the control panel. The emergency controller was a joystick with a pistol grip. Once in place, it automatically overrode all other commands to the ACS. Dan positioned himself so that his right hand gripped the controller and he could see clearly out the viewport. The horizon rolled past like a roller coaster and then the window showed black space with a sprinkling of stars.

  Dan squeezed off a command to the forward nadir translation-thruster assembly. The stars slowed their spin past the viewport. He wrenched the joystick to his right and ordered a blast from the aft nadir thrusters. The stars stopped for an instant, then reversed field. He moved the joystick from side to side, squeezing the pistol with each turn. When the horizon crossed the port, it was moving appreciably slower.

  For a crazy instant he remembered his son playing video games. I should have spent more time with him, Dan thought grimly.

&nb
sp; With the Earth in full view, Dan switched the joystick from translation control to attitude control. He nudged pitch, yaw, and roll; took a gross reading through the port with his eye; then repeated the firing sequence with ever finer thrusts until the station had resumed something resembling gravity gradient attitude.

  “That’s as good as I can get it,” he muttered.

  He punched up the main computer. A light on the screen flickered.

  “Come on, Freddy. Come on,” he said, coaxing the computer back to life. “Let’s see what you’ve done.”

  Emergency options scrolled across the main screen. A smaller monitor reported structural damage: one solar panel disconnected, one radiator lost. He could see the RMS arm still hanging free of its cradle, but it was no longer waving; it stood stiffly at an odd angle, like a broken bone.

  Dan keyed in the ACS program. The primary gyro system responded briefly, only to fail. The secondary system came to life. The numbers on the attitude readout edged toward stability.

  He puffed out an enormous, heartfelt sigh. It’s out of my hands for now, he knew. He kicked out of the anchoring loops. The sick bay contained several oxygen units. Lorraine was sorely in need of some fresh air. He cradled her in his arms and gently patted her cheek. Her lips moved slightly, but locked within his EMU he couldn’t hear if she made a sound. He fit the oxygen mask over her nose and mouth. Her eyes opened, and when her gaze penetrated his visor she smiled in recognition. Dan gently patted her shoulder. They had much to discuss.

  6 SEPTEMBER 1998

  TRIKON STATION

  Crewman Muncie confessed freely to the murders of Aaron Weiss and Carla Sue Gamble, claiming that God told him they were evil and should be killed. He further stated that God wanted him to destroy Trikon Station because it was an outpost of the devil set in God’s heavens.

  He was heavily tranquilized and under physical restraints when he made the confession, but no sodium pentothal or other truth serum was used. Nor was coercive force. I don’t know if his confession will stand up in court, but as far as possible we did not violate his civil rights.

  Personally, I believe that the psychologists who examined Muncie and passed him for duty on Trikon Station are as much responsible for the murders as he is.

  —Report of Cmdr. D. Tighe, 4 September 1998

  “No, I will not leave the station,” said Fabio Bianco.

  Dan Tighe grimaced. The old man hovered in the doorway of Dan’s office. Beyond his slim form Dan could see the relief crew from the newly docked Constellation at their stations in the command module. There was a lot of work to do, and Bianco was not making it any easier.

  “Sir,” he said, keeping his voice even, “Trikon Station will need at least two months for repair and refurbishment. All the scientific work is stopped. Most of your scientists are demanding to go back to Earth.”

  “I will remain here,” Bianco said.

  “The shuttle Constellation will remain docked with us for eleven hours more,” Dan continued firmly. “You must be on it when it leaves.”

  “It will do you no good to frown at me,” Bianco said, actually smiling as if amused with Dan. “It has taken me all my life to get here. I will not leave. Not now. Not ever.”

  “As commander of…”

  Bianco’s smile widened. “Oh yes, of course. As commandante of this station you can have me carried off and put into the Constellation. I assure you, that is what you will have to do to get rid of me.” The smile flicked off like an electric light. Bianco’s face hardened into an old man’s stubborn scowl. “And I assure you, Commander Tighe, that the instant I set foot on Earth once again, where I am no longer under your orders, I will fire you from Trikon. And then return here.”

  Dan glowered, fuming. The old bastard means what he says, he realized.

  Bianco turned on the smile again. “Commandante, I am a reasonable man. You be reasonable too.”

  “But the work we have to do now…”

  “I will not interfere with the repair work. Perhaps even the repair crews will work a little faster with me on board to peer over their shoulders, no?”

  “You could be injured. We all were damned near killed.”

  “Yes, and you saved us, Commander. It would be a pity to fire you after such heroism.” The smile made the old man’s eyes twinkle.

  Dan had no response to that.

  “Commander,” Bianco said kindly. “Dan—may I call you that?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Bene. Dan, look at me. You never knew me back on Earth, but observe me now.” Bianco gripped the sides of the doorway and drew himself up to his full height, almost.

  “A week ago I was a tired, sick old man. I was dying on Earth. Now I feel strong, I feel almost healthy! I have not taken any medication since my first day here. Weightlessness agrees with me.”

  Dan grudgingly admitted. “It certainly seems to.”

  “It does. Ask your Dr. Renoir; she is astounded at how my blood pressure has gone down.”

  “I know,” Dan said. “So has mine.”

  “Do not send me back to Earth, Dan,” the old man said, his voice suddenly low, almost pleading. “Do not send me back to die. Let me live up here.”

  Dan huffed out an exasperated sigh. “Now I know how you got to be Trikon’s CEO.”

  Bianco beamed at him. “Mille grazie, commandante.”

  The old man bobbed up and down in the doorway, happy and perky as a pup. Maybe he’s right, Dan said to himself. Maybe living in micro-gee will keep him healthy. Both of us. One thing’s for sure, he’d fire my ass in a hot second if I sent him back. No question about that.

  Bianco had turned to leave the command module, but as Dan started to slide out of his office, the old man spun in midair.

  “About Dr. Renoir,” he said to Dan.

  “What about her?”

  “Do you love her?”

  Dan felt a jolt of electricity in his gut. He froze his emotions, clamped his jaw tight.

  “Ah, you do, I can see it. Good. She is in love with you, very much. I think you two should get married.”

  He sailed for the hatch to the connecting tunnel, leaving Dan hanging in midair. The crewmen at the command console grinned to one another, but carefully kept their commander from seeing it.

  “I have failed you.”

  Bianco looked into the dark, unfathomable eyes of Hisashi Oyamo. The Japanese biologist had asked for a private meeting before he left the station. The two men stood close enough almost to touch noses inside Bianco’s cramped sleep compartment. Bianco’s slippered feet were firmly tethered in floor loops. Oyamo hovered before him. Both men hung in the slightly crouched question-mark posture of microgravity.

  “Failed me?” Bianco asked softly. “In what way?”

  Oyamo took in a deep hissing breath, as if a knife wound was paining him. “I have not put the interests of Trikon International foremost in my work. I have thought as a Japanese rather than as a member of the human race at large, as you have wished us to do.”

  “It is not merely my wish,” Bianco said, his voice low but firm as bedrock. “It is necessary. For the salvation of Japan. For the salvation of all.”

  Oyamo bowed his head, eyes closed. “I have shamed myself.”

  “No, no,” said Bianco. He was tempted to reach out and grasp the man’s shoulder, but refrained, not knowing how a Japanese would react to an Italian gesture of friendliness.

  “The whale deaths showed me the truth of it. And then what has happened here on the station proved it. By seeking individual gain we have nearly destroyed everything.”

  “It is not too late to change,” Bianco said. “Not too late to begin anew.”

  Oyamo made no reply. His eyes remained shut.

  “Will you be willing to return to this station once it is ready for operation again?”

  His eyes snapped open. “You would want me to return?”

  “If you can work for the good of all.”

  Oyamo b
owed deeply. “Yes! That is my deepest desire.”

  “Your employers in Tokyo…”

  “They could not refuse a direct request from your illustrious self?”

  Bianco nodded gently. “Perhaps we truly can bring together a team of men and women who understand the realities of the world. Perhaps we can make a new beginning.”

  “I would be honored to have your trust,” said Oyamo.

  Bianco gazed deeply into his eyes once again and saw that they were no longer guarded, no longer unfathomable. Oyamo was begging for forgiveness, and a new chance to prove himself.

  “You have my trust,” he said. And he clasped both Oyamo’s shoulders. The Japanese biologist radiated gratitude.

  “It was among the pile of messages waiting for me when the comm blackout was lifted,” said Lorraine Renoir.

  Thora Skillen fought down the wave of bewilderment, almost giddiness, that surged through her. When the doctor had called her to the infirmary she had thought it was to tell her the results of her tests the previous week. But Lorraine’s news was totally unexpected, shattering.

  Keeping her voice as flat and unemotional as she could, she asked, “Human trials, you say.”

  “Yes,” Lorraine replied, smiling happily. “Human trials.”

  “With what success rate?”

  “Better than eighty percent.” Dr. Renoir glanced at her desktop computer screen. “Eighty-two, to be precise.”

  Skillen took a deep breath. So much had happened in the past few days. And now this. Her world was threatening to tumble topsy-turvy. Everything would be changed if…

  “It’s real, Thora. The Tufts University School of Medicine is one of the most respected in the world.”

  “It repairs the CFTR defect.”

  “In eighty-two percent of the patients tried so far.” Another glance at the computer screen. “A total of forty-seven men, women, and children.”