Rock Killer

by S. Evan Townsend

  ***

  “Hello,” the very tall girl said. “You must be Director Chun.”

  Alex looked at her. She was obviously a native of the Moon and, like himself, Oriental-Occidental mix. On her it was a combination that made her a rare beauty.

  Alex was waiting in an employee lounge for the shuttle from the Low Earth Orbit Facility to the Kyushu that would take them to the belt. He was, as usual, not feeling well in free-fall.

  It wasn’t any surprise she recognized him. Like her, he was wearing the blue, standard jumpsuit/uniform with the SRI patch on the left shoulder. The director insignia over his heart and the security patch on his right shoulder identified him as the only director to come out of Security Division. Under his director insignia was a crescent Jupiter with a gray, mottled Europa he’d earned as part of the first expedition to that moon. The row of bars on his sleeve testified to his years of space experience. His constellation of stars was smaller than Mitchel’s, but Chun had three red stars for trips as Assistant Director. On this trip he’d earn his first blue star.

  “Yes,” he answered her, “I’m Chun. I’d guess you are Bente Naguchi. I hear you’re a very good navigator.”

  She smiled self-consciously. “I just do my best.”

  “Well, I hear your best is pretty good,” Alex said.

  “Thank you,” she replied. She had only two stars and one bar.

  “Director Chun?” a deep, resonant voice said. Alex turned to see the biggest and blackest man he’d ever faced. He was tall, taller than Chun’s wife, probably almost 200 centimeters. With him was a pale woman with a long, angular face who Alex recognized as Lorraine Taylor.

  “Yes?” Alex asked the massive man.

  “I’m Philip Banda; your Assistant Director.”

  Alex nodded, looking up at the man’s black face. “I’m glad to meet you, finally. I’ve heard a lot of good things about you. I thought you’d be taller,” he joked. Banda just stared at him but Naguchi smiled.

  “Hello, Director Chun,” Taylor said.

  “Hi, Lorraine,” Alex replied. “It’ll be good to have you on life support.”

  “Thank you,” she said, smiling.

  Alex looked at the bunch and thought they were typical of SRI: a Korean-American man, a white American woman, a Japanese-European woman born on the Moon, and an African black man all working together.

  “Alex, you son of a—” a familiar voice called out. Alex turned his head to see his old friend William Thorne move up to the group. Thorne was looking at Bente. He turned back to Alex.

  “How ya doing, Alex?”

  “Fine,” Alex said extending a hand. Thorne took it and they clasped hands without shaking. “How are you?”

  “Pretty good, Alex. Thanks for requesting me for your security chief.”

  Alex frowned. “Bill, I didn’t.”

  Thorne shrugged. “I just assumed when I heard you were the director.”

  “I guess we just got lucky,” Alex said with a chuckle. “It’ll be good to have at least one old friend to pick me up when I step on it.”

  “You should have never left security, Alex.”

  Alex looked at the people he was to lead and they were only a few of the hundred and thirty or so.

  “Sometimes, Bill, I think you’re right.”

  Chapter Seven

  “...asked to sacrifice your life to the Earth and Her solar system.”

  Mr. Kijoto was a hard man to see. As CEO of SRI, in his hands were virtual strings that ran to hundreds of divisions, contractors and sub-contractors all around the Earth and as far away as Jupiter. Some said that, other than national leaders, he was the most powerful man in the world. Others said even some national leaders didn’t hold the power cradled in the old, Japanese man.

  But he made time when his Chief of Security Mitchel said he had news concerning the Rock Skipper.

  One might think that the graying, wrinkled man, as he sat quiescent in his massive chair with his eyes closed and his fingertips touching, was a doting old man. But his questions always proved his mind to be as keen as an edge filed down to mono-atomic thickness.

  Mitchel had just related all he knew about the Rock Skipper, the missiles, Cole, former employee Knecht, the Syrians, and the Gaia Alliance.

  “Why,” Kijoto asked, “was this Cole woman allowed to work on a sensitive project?”

  Mitchel sighed. “Joe Murda, from the San Francisco office, talked to a manager at West Coast Missile systems. According to her, a California law prohibits job discrimination on the basis of political affiliations or sympathies. Cole was denied the security clearance necessary to work on the missiles, a better paying job, because of her GA sympathies. She complained to the state. It threatened to sue West Coast Missile Systems. So they put her to work on the missiles to avoid a long and expensive court battle.”

  Kijoto thought for a moment. Then: “Did you question anyone from the Syrian ship?”

  “Yes,” Mitchel said. “The Syrians rarely let the crew out of their compound, just the officers. Rodriguez found a junior officer who was willing to talk if we kept him well lubricated with alcohol and offered him some euros. He said the Syrian ship did indeed rendezvous with another ship somewhere between Earth and the Moon. We showed him a picture of the Rock Skipper and he thinks that’s the ship. But he knows the missiles were transferred to the other ship.”

  “Could the space-to-space missiles be installed on the Rock Skipper?”

  “I talked to engineers at West Coast Missile Systems and sent the specs Elisa Morgan got from the French on the Pumas. They think it could easily be done. And Cole probably could do it.”

  “What is the possibility the missiles are nuclear tipped?”

  “Slim,” Mitchel said. “The Puma is a modified anti-ship missile. It carries about a five hundred kilo warhead. According to information the Mossad gave Morgan in Tel Aviv, the Syrians can’t make nukes that small. That’s why they use the Chinese Long March: they need the lifting power. Also, I don’t think they’d give away a nuclear weapon, and even the GA couldn’t afford to buy one.”

  Kijoto considered that a moment. “Do you have any idea for what they intend to use the missiles and the ship?”

  Mitchel shook his head. “No idea; obviously an attack on something. It might not even be us.”

  “Yes,” Kijoto said, “but it would be our ship. That makes us responsible. You have done good work. You will bring me the information on the target as soon as you can.”

  Mitchel knew when he was excused. He stood and walked out the door.

  Kijoto waited until Mitchel had made his way out of the expansive office. Then he turned to his computer and called up an address.

  “Review all contracts we have with companies located in California. We may need to cancel them...yes, all of them.”

  ***

  Charlie left her SRI ID with Freeman. She also gave him her watch/cellular phone/pager/computer terminal in exchange for a generic, cheap one.

  Her face was devoid of makeup and she had let her hair go its own frazzled way. She wore corduroy pants and a flannel shirt. She hoped she wasn’t overdoing it. At least her Nikes weren’t replaced with hiking boots.

  She waited on the east side of the Capitol. It was pretty safe with the Capitol police watching for threats against the Congress. They eyed her suspiciously but didn’t harass her and probably wouldn’t, at least until curfew.

  Some workmen were cleaning black graffiti off the white marble. They also eyed her.

  Charlie recognized Trent when she came out of the building. She was about 40 and dumpy with short, brown hair. She wore hiking boots.

  “Congresswoman Trent,” Charlie called out.

  The police watched carefully as Charlie walked toward Trent.

  “Yes,” Trent confirmed.

  “Hi,” Charlie said coming closer. She kept her hands in sight as some of the police closed in.

  Trent looked Charlie over. Charlie had seen that look be
fore but usually from men.

  “What can I do for you?” Trent asked. She made some signal and the police backed away, but still watched carefully.

  “My name,” Charlie said, “is Shari Johnson. I’m from Maine. I came here to meet you, Ms. Trent.”

  “Why?” Trent asked, starting to walk toward the south.

  Charlie followed. “I read about you, how you are involved in the Gaia Alliance and how you’re fighting for the Earth. I admire that. I admire that a lot.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And,” Charlie said, “I was wondering if I could help in some way.”

  Trent stopped walking and looked her over. From the way she looked at her, Charlie half expected her to lick her chops.

  “I think you might. Where are you staying?”

  “At a homeless shelter on Massachusetts.”

  Trent nodded. “You’ll be there about nine tonight?”

  Charlie shrugged her shoulders. “I can be.”

  “Good,” Trent said. “What’s the address?”

  “Two-fourteen Massachusetts Avenue Northeast.”

  “Someone will meet you there.”

  “Great,” Charlie said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

  Trent walked away.

  Charlie didn’t like the homeless shelter at all. These people may be homeless but they weren’t weaponless. While she could defend herself, she didn’t want to be accused of any more “unlawful self-defenses.” And, as she waited, every hour her tension grew exponentially. If she screwed up with the GA, not Mitchel or Freeman or anyone else could save her–she was on her own.

  Charlie had arrived about six and eaten the free meal. She wanted to keep up appearances in case she was watched. Freeman warned her not to underestimate the resources of the GA. Hell, Shari Johnson was a real person that Freeman had convinced to disappear for a while. He didn’t elaborate how he accomplished that.

  About nine, Charlie saw a woman walk in and look around. She was tall and thin, almost to the point of emaciation. She had a hard, chiseled face. She spotted Charlie and walked over to her.

  “Shari Johnson?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Charlie replied.

  “I’m a friend of Linda Trent’s. Come with me.” The woman turned and walked away. Charlie grabbed her bag and followed. They left the shelter and walked down the street a few blocks in silence. The woman didn’t seem to even acknowledge Charlie’s presence.

  They took an escalator down to the Metro. Stepping over the prone bodies of the homeless and ignoring the almost overpowering smell of human waste, they bought tickets and went to the platform. When the next train came the woman got on a car and Charlie followed. After a few seconds there was a low dinging to warn that the doors were about to close.

  “Come on,” the woman barked and jumped out of the car.

  Charlie hesitated a second before complying. Hesitation kills, she thought, as the doors just about closed on her.

  Wordlessly the woman climbed back to street level (the up escalator was inoperative). About a block away she unlocked a battered, old electric car. They drove a circuitous path around town while the woman checked her mirrors frequently. Finally, they passed the Pentagon and crossed into Alexandria.

  The woman pulled the car into the driveway of an old house in a wooded residential neighborhood. They pulled under a carport by a side door to the house. The woman got out of the car and Charlie again had to follow. Charlie wondered why all the cloak-and-dagger if their base of operations was a house in a suburb. One wouldn’t have to follow them, just stake out the house.

  The woman used a key to open the door and they entered the kitchen. Charlie looked around and noticed that the kitchen’s technology was circa late twentieth century. Linda Trent came into the simple but clean room. She was wearing a plaid robe over her cottage-cheese like skin.

  “Thank you, Vera,” Trent said. “Hello, Shari.”

  Charlie nodded politely. “Hello, Congresswoman Trent.”

  Trent moved closer to her. “Linda, please.”

  Charlie smiled. “Linda.”

  Trent reached out for Charlie’s arm. “Come here, Shari. Tell me about yourself.”

  ***

  Mitchel studied the picture on his computer screen. The woman was pretty, he noted, with thick brunette hair. She didn’t look like a terrorist. He berated himself for judging her by her appearance; he didn’t do that to men nearly as often as he did to women.

  He looked at her school record. She’d been what was internally referred to as a political trainee. Most Americans that applied to SRI were products of the degenerate education system in the U.S. and ended up in security simply because it was the least technical job in SRI. But every new employee was scrutinized for intelligence with a simple logic test that required no knowledge. Those that tested well were trained in technical jobs no matter what their education level. This meant the Boulder school, which started as a rock climbing school for SRI security and miners, taught everything from basic math and algebra to advanced space navigation. This was an attempt to get Americans into better jobs than security and dissuade the popularly held belief, in the U.S. at least, that the Japanese-owned Space Resource Incorporated discriminated against Americans. That perception had actually prompted some American politicians to call for economic sanctions against SRI. SRI did enough business in America to warrant action to counter that threat.

  The need, the political need, for such a double standard bothered Mitchel. SRI would train in the space-skills that no terrestrial university had yet bothered to add to their curriculum. But, anyone, other than an American, coming into SRI had better know their math and science first.

  Knecht had done well and learned fast. Her navigation instructor indicated she did so well on her training cruise to the Moon and back she should be assigned to a trans-lunar shuttle as a third navigator.

  Knecht took some vacation time and failed to return. Only a terse computer call resigning, long after she was due back, indicated she was still alive–until she showed up on the Moon with the GA.

  That’s strange, Mitchel thought. Why she would give up a promising career in SRI for the Gaia Alliance was a complete mystery.

  The computer beeped, suspending Mitchel’s ruminations.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Mitchel,” Meyoung said over the terminal in voice mode only, “I have a call from Mr. Lloyd of the liaison office in Moscow.”

  “Russia?” Mitchel asked. “Put him through.” The SRI logo on the desktop monitor was replaced by an unfamiliar face.

  “Yes?” Mitchel asked.

  “Mr. Mitchel, this is David Lloyd,” the caller said. He was wearing a business suit but was using an SRI Security code.

  “Yes?” Mitchel repeated.

  “I am,” Lloyd stated, “the SRI liaison officer to the Russian Federation.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Lloyd,” Mitchel said. “What can I do for you?”

  “The Russian Space Command informed me that their ship, the Peter the Great, found ten missiles two days ago.” A blue box appeared in the lower left-hand corner of the screen. It was covered with groups of ten alphanumeric characters. “Those are,” Lloyd continued, “the serial numbers from the missiles.”

  “Just a moment,” Mitchel said. He had his computer call up the data on the Rock Skippers’s last load-out of probe missiles. Another box appeared in the lower right-hand corner of the screen with those numbers. The screen was getting too complicated so Mitchel transferred the numbers to the wall screen where they lined up next to each other. He had the computer sort both sets alphanumerically.

  They matched.

  “Mr. Lloyd,” Mitchel asked, “did the Russians say where these were found?”

  “They were in Earth orbit at an altitude of about 150 thousand kilometers.”

  Mitchel wondered briefly what the Russians were doing out there.

  “The Russians,” Lloyd added, “will return the missiles for standard rescue fee
s.”

  “I can’t authorize that,” Mitchel said.

  “Then who can?”

  “Nakata or Yamada; I can connect you.”

  “Thank you, that would be fine.”

  Mitchel used the computer. “Meyoung, transfer this call to the Director of Space Operations and if he’s busy, to Nakata.”

  “Yes, Mr. Mitchel.”

  Mitchel sat back and thought. They’d need to jettison the missiles on the Rock Skipper. It was just dumb luck the Russians found them. Or was it? No, if he thought that way he’d be chasing shadows. But this confirmed that the Syrian ship, Baath Revolution, rendezvoused with the Rock Skipper. It was only a matter of time before the GA used those Puma missiles somewhere.

  ***

  The next morning Charlie took a long shower; she had to.

  The water came out of the showerhead at about the rate a baby drools and around the same temperature at its hottest.

  Charlie got out of the shower and was drying when Trent walked in. She kissed Charlie on the mouth.

  “You shouldn’t take such long showers,” she said. “Wastes water and energy.”

  “I’m sorry,” Charlie said, wondering how these people got clean.

  “Don’t be,” Trent said. “You’re still learning. Breakfast is soon.” She dropped her robe and climbed into the shower. She was out before Charlie thought she had time to get wet.

  Breakfast was fruit and homemade cereal. Some fruit was going bad and Charlie was about to throw it out when she noticed her hosts were actually consuming it.

  Charlie forced herself to eat it but wondered why the fruit was going bad when there were so many ways to keep it fresh.

  During the meal Vera didn’t meet Charlie’s eyes and Trent noticed.

  “This is wonderful,” Trent said joyfully.

  “How’s that?” Vera asked sullenly.

  “Us three women,” Trent explained, “united for Mother Earth.”

  “Oh,” Vera mumbled.

  “You know, Shari,” Trent continued, “as women we have a special bond to the Earth and a special responsibility. We are the givers of life and the nurturers, just as the Earth nurtures us and gives us life. Men, on the other hand, exploit the Earth just like they exploit women, and abuse the Earth just like they abuse women. Women must band together to protect the Earth, and each other, from the violations of men.”