The Trikon Deception

by Ben Bova

  Skillen heard someone giggle, and realized it was herself. Lorraine was smiling broadly at her.

  “They can correct the cellular defect that causes cystic fibrosis,” the doctor repeated. “You can be cured, Thora.”

  It was impossibly ironic. “Through genetic engineering.”

  “Yes, healthy CFTR genes can be inserted into you to replace the defective ones that cause the disease.”

  Skillen laughed out loud. It was so funny! Dr. Renoir’s expression went from happiness to amusement to troubled, doubting worry.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Skillen said, struggling to control herself. “I’m not going to be hysterical. It’s just that…” She stopped. What could she say? How could she tell someone who was not a sister?

  “I know,” Lorraine said kindly. “It’s rather overwhelming. It means an entire new life for you, doesn’t it?”

  “More than you know,” Skillen said. “Much more than you know.”

  She thanked Dr. Renoir and pushed out of the infirmary as quickly as she decently could. The irony of it! The wild, crazy, delicious mixed-up convoluted incongruity of it! A molecular geneticist dying of a genetic disease whose only thought for the past two years has been to punish the rest of the world finds out that other molecular geneticists have learned how to cure her.

  Skillen laughed openly as she swam back toward The Bakery. Repair-crew personnel and technicians stared at her as she floated down the tunnel past them. She could not care less.

  Here I’ve been telling myself that science and technology have been at fault, that it’s their fault I came down with cystic fibrosis, and all the while it’s my own scientific discipline that’s been working to save me. Wait till my sisters hear this!

  Bianco was smiling happily as he pushed along the tunnel past ELM and The Bakery, heading for Hab 2. If Oyamo could see past his nationality and work for the ultimate good, then he had no doubt that a new team of scientists and technicians could be assembled that would grasp the necessity of cooperation rather than competition. We can learn from our mistakes, he told himself. We can do better next time.

  Thora Skillen swam by him, heading in the opposite direction, beaming happily. A thread of memory tickled Bianco’s consciousness. But all he could remember was the sight of a waitress from a Venice cafe from fifty years ago. It must be the drug that was in the air, he thought. It is still playing tricks with my mind.

  The lab modules he passed were chaotic messes of smashed equipment and spattered chemicals. The repair crews were working hard, but it would take time before Trikon Station was ready to function again. Bianco’s face hardened. His hands clenched into fists.

  A Trikon security guard hovered in the corridor of Hab 2, looking slightly green around the gills. His first time in weightlessness, Bianco understood. I wonder if he would be worth anything if it came to a fight.

  The guard made a curt nod of recognition as Bianco sailed past him. No matter, the old man thought. There is no fight left in Ramsanjawi, and Muncie is safely wrapped up in the Constellation.

  He knocked once at Ramsanjawi’s door and slid it open. A little gasp of surprise puffed from his lips.

  Ramsanjawi hovered up near the compartment’s ceiling, hands folded placidly over his middle, his laptop computer floating in front of him, tethered by a single bungee cord.

  The Indian was in a royal-blue flight suit. His dark hair, neatly tucked into a mesh net, sparkled as if freshly washed. Gone were the kurta and the cloying perfume.

  “So you were in disguise all along,” Bianco said. Pushing into the compartment, he added, “Or is this your disguise?”

  Ramsanjawi pushed gently down to the floor. “I have said all that I intend to say, sir, until I have benefit of counsel.”

  “Yes, I know. We will respect your rights as a British subject,” said Bianco.

  “Of course. Not even Trikon Station is above the law.” A hint of a smirk twitched at the corners of Ramsanjawi’s fleshy face.

  Bianco stared into his deep-brown eyes. He saw fear there: the inescapable fear of a man who knew that his fate was forever sealed.

  “Before you recovered from the effects of the drug you put into the station’s air system…”

  “Lethe,” said Ramsanjawi softly. “I created it myself, you know.”

  “Yes.” Bianco nodded. “I have learned much about you in the past day and a half.”

  The Indian looked almost pleased with himself.

  “While you were still under the drug’s influence,” Bianco went on, “you loudly proclaimed that you were under the protection of Sir Derek Brock-Smythe.”

  “Did I? How foolish.”

  “You deny the truth of your own statement?”

  “Certainly.”

  Bianco rubbed his chin for a moment. “If anyone is above the law, it would be a personage as lofty as Sir Derek, would it not?”

  “Perhaps.” Ramsanjawi tried to keep his face expressionless, and failed. Bianco saw contempt, anger, and the barest hint of hope there.

  “However, I fail to see,” the Italian went on, “why a man of Sir Derek’s stature would want to involve himself in protecting you. He did not protect you when you were fired from Oxford, did he?”

  Ramsanjawi’s nostrils flared angrily. “He could not make any money out of that fiasco.”

  “But out of this fiasco… ?”

  “He is a major owner of several companies that would profit enormously from a toxic-waste bioremediation microbe.”

  “Ah. I see,” said Bianco.

  “I have told you nothing that you could not find out from the newspapers,” Ramsanjawi said.

  “I am not a legal expert,” said Bianco. “Nor am I a detective. But I will use the best lawyers and detectives on Earth to determine what role Sir Derek Brock-Smythe has played in the attempted destruction of Trikon Station. I promise you that.”

  Ramsanjawi gave the old man a pitying smile. “What good would that do, except to satisfy your curiosity? Sir Derek will never leave enough evidence to bring him to court, let alone convict him.”

  “I do not need a court of law,” Bianco said, his voice as thin and sharp as a stiletto.

  Ramsanjawi blinked once, twice. Then he understood. And he had no reply.

  17 OCTOBER 1998

  CORONA DEL MAR, CALIFORNIA

  “Hello, Dad?”

  “Bill? Is it really you?”

  “Yeah. How are you?”

  “Where are you calling from, son?”

  “From school. I transferred to Wichita State.”

  “Oh… It’s good to hear your voice, son.”

  “Are you okay? I mean, we heard about the trouble on the station. It was on all the news shows.”

  “Sure, everything’s okay here. We’re getting things patched up. Why’d you transfer? What happened…”

  “I’m not cut out for liberal arts, Dad. They’ve got a good engineering school here at Wichita.”

  “Engineering? What kind?”

  “Aerospace.”

  [Silence for four seconds.]

  “Uh, Dad… I got kind of worried about you.”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Are you coming back down to Earth?”

  “Not for a while. I’d sure like it if you could come up here, once we’ve got everything shipshape again.”

  “You would?”

  “Sure.”

  “For real?”

  “Certainly, Bill.”

  [Uncertain sound, possibly laughter.] “I told Mom you would. She claimed you didn’t want to have anything to do with me.”

  “Didn’t want… ! Hell, I wanted you to come up on the space plane two weeks ago. But I guess it’s a good thing that you didn’t. Things got kind of hairy up here for a while.”

  “But it’s all okay now, isn’t it?”

  “Yep. Everything’s fine now.”

  “Uh, Dad, is it okay if I call you again?”

  “Sure! Certainly. I’d like to call yo
u…”

  “Well, Mom gets kind of upset when you call, you know. That’s why I waited until I got to campus.”

  “I see.”

  “She gets all wound up.”

  “I do want to see you, son. Whether it’s up here or back on Earth.”

  “I’d sure get a blast out of coming up there!”

  “Okay, we’ll try to work something out for you.”

  “Great!”

  “I’ll call you in a day or two.”

  “Okay. Make it around this time in the afternoon. I’m usually in the dorm then.”

  “I want you to tell your mother, Bill. It’s not a good thing to keep secrets from her.”

  “Sure, okay. I’m learning how to handle her — I think. So long for now, Dad.”

  “So long for now, son.”

  — Transcript of telephone conversation,

  William R. Tighe (Wichita, Kansas) to Cmdr. D. Tighe (Trikon Station), 11 September 1998.

  Hugh O’Donnell stared at the foaming water of the Jacuzzi. He had always had wiry, marathon runner’s legs, but after six weeks in a hip cast his right leg was toothpick thin. And hairless. From the waist down he looked like two different people. That’s why he enjoyed the Jacuzzi: he didn’t have to see that damn leg.

  The synthesized tone of the videophone sliced through the humid air. The apartment may have been equipped with this fancy bathroom/spa, but its only telephone was located in the living room. The rings mounted, five, six, seven times. No one else wanted to answer. Hugh swung out of the water, knotted his bathrobe around his waist, and hobbled into the living room on his cane.

  His leg was still too stiff to bend comfortably unless it was immersed in warm water, so he leaned on the back of the sofa and shouted the phone’s answering code. The faces of Dan and Lorraine appeared on the monitor; him grinning, her smiling radiantly.

  “How are you, buddy?” Dan asked.

  “Hobbling along. I sure miss microgravity, with this leg. How’s everything up there?”

  “Hobbling along,” Lorraine answered.

  Dan cast a disapproving glance at her. “Repairs are on schedule. We’ll be open for business again in three weeks.”

  “Great.”

  “It helps to have Bianco here,” Dan added. “It’s funny: he doesn’t push anybody, but somehow things seem to be getting done much faster with him watching.”

  “He’s an inspirational force,” said Lorraine.

  “I’ll bet,” Hugh said.

  “How is your leg?” Lorraine asked. “Is the therapy proceeding satisfactorily?”

  “Yeah, I guess. Slow but steady, you know.”

  “You ought to come back up here,” Dan said. “It would be good for you.”

  Hugh nodded, knowing that it was impossible. Changing the subject, he said, “I hear congratulations are in order.”

  Lorraine looked surprised. Dan tried to look noncommittal.

  Hugh grinned at them. “Come on, the rumor’s all over the tabloids. ‘Space station commander and medical officer to marry.’ ”

  Lorraine broke into a huge smile. “Dan told me what I said under the influence of the Lethe. He asked if I wanted to retract any of it. I said no.”

  “Tighe, you’re a true romantic,” said Hugh.

  “Ramsanjawi would be surprised to learn he’s a matchmaker, huh?” said Dan. “Is your leg really coming along okay? Is there anything we can do?”

  “I’ll miss the next Olympics,” said High. Out of the corner of his eye he saw clothes being tossed into a suitcase on his bed. “You guys are okay up there?”

  “The lab modules are still a mess,” said Dan. “Otherwise, we’re operational.”

  He continued as if issuing a report to the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Mars module had fared the best because it had separated early and somehow had avoided a collision as the station cartwheeled across the sky. Half of the Martians had resigned from the project. NASA and ESA were requiring the rest to recertify, including Jaeckle. Although his demented separation order had saved the multibillion-dollar module from severe damage, neither agency was treating him as a hero.

  Fabio Bianco, that old coot, was busily selecting a new contingent of scientists and preaching that the entire incident was an object lesson on the need for international cooperation.

  Hugh listened absently to Dan’s account. His time in the station seemed part of a distant past, a dream that reverberated in the deepest chambers of his mind whenever he dropped off to sleep. And these two people, his only friends since he had ceased existing as Jack O’Neill, were now images on a screen.

  But there was one memory that prodded him daily. He remembered waking up in the ex/rec area, floating among the debris and damaged equipment. His shattered leg throbbing red-hot inside his EMU, sending up blinding waves of pain. Dan and Lorraine swam out of the shadows. They pried him out of his suit and fashioned a splint for his leg. Later, at the sick bay, Lorraine offered him a painkiller.

  “No drugs,” he had said, and slipped back into the darkness. She had honored his request.

  Dan stopped talking, and Hugh realized that they were staring at him. He shifted his weight on the cane. From the bedroom came the sound of heavy luggage being slammed shut.

  “Company?” Dan asked, arching his eyebrows.

  Welch stepped out of the bedroom and peered at Hugh over the tops of his sunglasses. Freddy Aviles, walking rockily on prosthetic legs, passed behind him. Both men carefully stayed out of range of the videophone’s lens. Welch pointed at the screen and drew his finger across his neck.

  “Sort of,” said Hugh. “I’ve got to go now.”

  “Come up and see us,” Lorraine said.

  “Right,” Dan agreed. “Whenever you can. Just let me know and I’ll set up the transportation for you.”

  “Thanks,” said Hugh, feeling awkward, under surveillance. “I’ll try.”

  “Move your ass,” said Welch as soon as Hugh cut the phone connection. “Plane leaves in an hour.”

  Hugh started for the bedroom, leaning heavily on his cane. The damned leg hurt like hellfire.

  His eye caught Freddy’s. He saw sympathy there. A shared pain.

  “I’m not going on the plane,” Hugh heard himself say to Welch.

  “What?”

  “I’m not going with you. I’m going back to Trikon Station.”

  Welch’s face looked like a smoldering volcano. “What do you think…”

  “I’ll finish the job aboard Trikon,” Hugh said, feeling stronger with each word. “Otherwise no deal.”

  “I’ll have you in the slammer so fast your goddamned ass’ll be singed!”

  “Hey, wait up a minute, Mr. Welch.” Freddy’s gold tooth glimmered in his smile.

  Pointing a finger, Welch said, “You keep out of this, Aviles.”

  Ignoring the order, Freddy said, “You want O’Donnell to finish the cocaine project, right? O’Donnell wants to finish it. What’re you arguin’ about? What difference does it make where he finishes, huh?”

  “It makes a difference to me,” Hugh said, tapping his right thigh. “I finish the project in micro-gee or you find yourself another boy, Welch.”

  Welch started to reply, but Hugh added, “And Freddy comes with me.” Freddy’s smile dazzled. He turned to Welch. “An’ you can have these tin legs back. Give ’em to somebody who really needs ’em.” Welch growled at the two of them. But he did not say no.

  BRITISH LORD MURDERED

  BATH—Sir Derek Brock-Smythe, outspoken former foreign minister and well-known philanthropist, was found murdered in his Avonshire home this morning. According to police, he had been shot to death sometime Friday night, but the body was not discovered earlier because he had dismissed his servants for the weekend.

  Police stated that his unclothed body was found in bed, wrists and ankles tied to the bedposts with a woman’s nylon stockings. He died of a gunshot wound to the head. Apparently the pistol was held in his mouth when the trigger was
pulled.

  “It’s a grisly sight,” said Inspector Carlin Mayes. “Some sort of sexual thing gone wrong, undoubtedly.”

  Police are questioning the household servants and known friends of Sir Derek’s.

  Ms. Joanna Ames, a frequent houseguest, revealed that he had “unusual” sexual tastes. “It might have been some game he was playing with someone that simply went too far,” she said.

  Sir Derek had been a member of Parliament since 1976 and served as foreign minister from 1990 to 1994, when he resigned over the government’s decision to quit the European Community.

  After his resignation he devoted most of his time to philanthropic and scientific pursuits, He founded and financed the Sir Walter Brock Laboratory in Lancashire in the hope of attracting “the flower of British science to forge a technology worthy of the coming millennium.”

  Sir Derek’s adoptive brother, Dr. Chakra Ramsanjawi, is currently in a Zurich prison awaiting trial on charges of criminal conspiracy and theft brought by Trikon International Corp. and Ciba-Geigy A.G. He is also fighting extradition to the United States, where he has been indicted on drug and assault charges stemming from the recent Trikon space station incident.

  When asked if there might be any relationship between Dr. Ramsanjawi’s arrest and Sir Derek’s murder, Ms. Ames replied, “I simply don’t know. That’s something the police will have to consider.”

  Ms. Ames, who was in London for the weekend, said the news of Sir Derek’s murder reached her just before she left for Italy. She is taking sabbatical leave from her faculty position at Oxford to spend a year teaching in Venice on a Trikon International fellowship.

  —The London Express, 2 November 1998

  FIRST WEDDING IN SPACE

  HOUSTON(ap)—Commander Daniel Tighe and Dr. Lorraine Renoir were married yesterday aboard the space shuttle Constellation while it was docked to the Trikon Station in orbit 300 miles above the Earth. It was the first wedding ever performed in space.

  N.J. Williamson, commander of Constellation, officiated. The groom is the commander and the bride is the medical officer of Trikon Station, a commercial and industrial space station owned and operated by the Trikon International consortium.