Oxygen Series Box Set: A Science Fiction Suspense Box Set

by John Olson

  He handed the magazine back to Yamaguchi. “By the way, I’m glad you’ve been a part of Nate’s life these last couple of years. Life hasn’t been easy since his wife left him. Thanks for helping bring back some of the old Nate.”

  Yamaguchi beamed at Josh, then looked at her watch. “Well, I’d better let you get to work. Let me know if you need anything.”

  Josh smiled her out the door, then turned to look at the stash. A gray filing cabinet sat in the corner, four drawers deep. He opened the top drawer. Everything was neatly filed by topic. “Abrams Journal Articles.” “Hartmann Journal Articles.” “Internal Reports.” “Interviews With Crew.”

  The second drawer was nearly full too. The third and fourth contained textbooks on psychology, alphabetized by author. Josh pushed them closed without looking at them. How in the world was he going to make sense of all this? Somewhere in this file was the secret to Kennedy’s weird behavior. Should he be systematic or try the shotgun approach?

  He decided to riffle through each file and just get a feel for what was there. Look for patterns. Find the common thread. No, better—find the one that stood out, the bright red thread running through the pastel tapestry that was Kennedy’s life.

  Two hours later, he came to the interview transcripts and straightened in his chair. All the scientific articles Kennedy had squirreled away had big sections highlighted in yellow. Josh smiled. Thanks for the help, buddy. Kennedy must have used a ruler—the yellow highlighter lines were straight as an arrow, and each exactly the same length, to the millimeter. That was Navy precision for you.

  Josh scanned the information. Bottom line, Kennedy had picked out precisely those passages dealing with selection of the crew commander. Until about a dozen years ago, NASA had never really done much thinking about psychological aspects of crew selection. They basically used the shrinks to screen out the weirdos, and that was it. Then, right after Congress made the commitment to go to Mars, NASA decided to get serious. They brought in a bunch of high‑priced shrinks from the military and academia.

  And those guys had a theory. There was a particular kind of profile they were looking for in a crew commander. Kennedy had worked that profile into a precise, ten‑point list noted in the margins of their papers. He had a nice, neat way of printing.

  Josh read the cover of the interview: “An Interview with Mr. Kennedy Hampton.” It had been almost a year since he’d first read this thing, and it still burned. He flipped it open and began reading.

  Three pages in, a question caught his eye.

  Q: How do you relate to the commander, Mr. Joshua Bennett?

  A: Josh is an excellent commander. He’s quick and decisive and doesn’t hesitate to move rapidly in a crisis. He doesn’t dillydally around trying to get a consensus when there’s an emergency. He just gives the order, and we follow it. I was trained to do that in the Navy, to follow the orders. We all were. We love the guy—we’d do anything Josh asks.

  Josh leaned back in his chair. Point four on Kennedy’s list of what the shrinks were looking for was “Commander should not dominate the crew.” The Hampster had really punched that button. And made it sound like a compliment. Josh kept reading.

  Q: Please rate the diversity of the group.

  A: We were pretty diverse coming into this thing. I was raised in the South in a fairly well‑to‑do family. Lex is half‑Japanese and comes from Santa Barbara, where she was raised by a single mom. Bob comes from a middle‑class Polish family in Chicago, and I think he grew up Catholic. But Josh has really pulled us together into a great team. He grew up in Houston, and his dad worked for NASA, and he’s got us all thinking as one. I know what Lex is thinking before she says it, or Kaggo, or Josh. It’s like one brain and eight hands. You wouldn’t believe how efficient we are now. And that’s all Josh’s doing. He’s great at welding us together into a team.

  Josh slammed the sheaf of paper down on the desk. What a load of lies! Kennedy was doing a major number on the shrinks—and on Josh. Point six on the shrinks’ list was “The crew must represent a diversity of viewpoints—the more the better.”

  Kennedy had nailed Josh to the wall, but he’d been careful to make it sound like high praise. Josh rubbed his eyes. The Hampster had set him up—he’d known that for a full year. But he still needed an answer to the real question. What was Kennedy up to now? A guy like Kennedy needed a mission like he needed air. He needed to be the center of attention, the hero. How could a one-eyed pilot grab the spotlight while he was still on the ground?

  A loud rapping interrupted his thoughts.

  Josh went to the door and opened it.

  Cathe Willison stood there in jeans and a Bay‑To‑Breakers T‑shirt. “Hi, Josh! Did you forget our appointment at 8:30? I’ve been looking all over for you. Your secretary said—”

  “Sorry.” Josh looked at his watch. 9:15. “I got … sidetracked. How are you doing on that decryption problem? Any evidence it’s coming from Mars?”

  She shrugged. “Nothing so far. I’ve made some progress on the decryption, but it’s slow. Can I come in? Or should we go somewhere else?”

  “Please. Come on in.” Josh stood aside.

  She brushed past him with the faint scent of spring flowers.

  He pointed to the logbook. “You’ll ... uh, need to sign in. Sorry, there’s only one chair. Have a seat and fill me in.”

  Cathe signed the register and slipped into the chair, crossing her legs and leaning back with her hands behind her head. “Okay, here’s the story. I talked to the Gold Team CATO and a couple of our guys who’ve trained in Star City and really know the Russians. And I called a guy at the National Security Agency. The Russians have traditionally used a straightforward 128‑bit encryption scheme for their data transmission. They don’t know it, but we can crack it really fast, thanks to a black box NSA gave us a few years ago.”

  Josh began pacing. “And now they’ve changed the code, is that it?”

  “It’s a 512‑bit code now, and the NSA box doesn’t work.”

  “So that means ...” Josh did the arithmetic. “That means it’s going to be four times harder to crack now, right?”

  Cathe shook her head. “Not hardly. Every extra bit makes it twice as hard. The complexity is exponential. It’s two raised to the 384th power times harder than it was before.”

  Josh felt his eyes bulging. “That’s a big number.”

  “It’s huge. You know how many protons there are in the universe? Ten raised to the 90th power. It’s way bigger than that.”

  He stopped in his tracks. “So you’re telling me there’s no hope of cracking this encryption scheme.”

  “I didn’t say that.” Cathe leaned forward in her chair. “My ex‑boyfriend Gary was doing quantum computing at Caltech before he moved to Houston. And you would not believe what those guys are doing now. The NSA took that whole project black a few years ago, and that’s when Gary decided to get out of it. Now he’s working for ExxonMobil.”

  Josh nodded, his mind buzzing. “Apparently, you don’t mind working with NSA.”

  “My father worked for them until he died. This guy I talked to is good, really good. He can’t tell me much, but NSA is working on a box that can break 512‑bit encryption. He’s willing to let us test a prototype.”

  “Great.” Josh forced his eyes away from her face. “So ... if that works, I guess our mystery will be solved.”

  Cathe leaned forward as if she was about to stand.

  Josh scrambled for something to say.

  “Um ... I’m sorry to hear about your father. Mine died a few years ago—heart attack.”

  “It was pneumonia with my dad.” Cathe looked up at the filing cabinet. “So what brings you to this dinky little room?”

  Josh returned the file he had been studying and closed the cabinet drawer.

  Cathe’s wide eyes studied him. “Sorry. Did I say something wrong?”

  Josh licked his lips. Why not? She had a Secret clearance. Another perspective
might be just what he needed. And if Kennedy was behind the comm problems, then she had a need to know. “Listen ... I need your word that you won’t talk to anyone about it.”

  Cathe raised her right hand. “Scout’s honor.”

  Josh filled her in on what he knew.

  Cathe leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. She looked so different with her eyes closed. Like her face was somehow softer—warmer.

  “Here’s an idea.” Cathe opened her eyes. “Let me toss a what‑if at you and see what you think. What if we take Kennedy’s comments at face value? Why don’t you read through his interview again and pretend Kennedy is telling the absolute truth about what he thinks is important? What does he value?”

  “He values order, for one thing.” Josh looked down at the stack of papers scattered about the floor. “Neatness. Precision.”

  “That’s his Navy training. What else?”

  “I’d have to read the transcript again.” Josh picked it up. “If you want, you can have a look through those files there.” He began flipping through the transcript.

  Fifteen minutes later, Cathe hissed quietly.

  Josh looked up. She was carefully peeling a label off the front cover of one of Kennedy’s notebooks. “You really shouldn’t be—”

  A line of handwritten text appeared behind the sticker. Josh leaned in closer but couldn’t make out any words. “What—”

  “It looks like some sort of coded message. Think it’s Kennedy’s handwriting?” Cathe pulled a phone out of her pocket and photographed the four lines of text.

  “It’s definitely Kennedy’s writing, but what do you suppose it means?”

  “He referred to it more than once.” Cathe held out the sticker. The sticky side of the label had picked up multiple, overlapping prints of the text.

  Josh nodded. Clue number one. “So … what’s your best guess?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Cathe made typing motions with her fingers in the air. “This is his password list.” She narrowed her eyes and studied Josh. “Any chance you could get me five minutes on the computer in his office?”

  * * *

  Thursday, March 19, 10:30 a.m., Mars Local Time

  Valkerie

  Valkerie flung her phone at her pillow. Of all the stupid orders! She had a million experiments to run on the most important find of the century, and Houston wanted her to waste time examining a crew member who was perfectly fine.

  “Bob!” Valkerie stalked through the galley and into the commons.

  He wasn’t upstairs.

  “Bob!” She plunged down the central staircase and circled to the workshop.

  Bob sat on a stool, taping an EVA suit. He smiled at her when she came in. “Hey, Valkerie, want to see what I—”

  “How could you do this to me? You know how much work I need to do on the stromatolite.”

  Bob seemed genuinely puzzled. “How could I do what?”

  “How could you—” Valkerie lowered her voice to a whisper. “How could you nark on Kennedy? Now the shrinks want me to do a complete neurological exam on him. Do you know how much time that’s going to waste? I don’t—”

  “It wasn’t me. I never even talked to Flight Med.”

  “Right, and I suppose they were just eavesdropping last night when you asked me to examine him.”

  “I promise. It wasn’t me.” Bob looked perplexed. “Maybe Lex said something. She talked to Houston this morning.”

  “Lex? Oh right.” Valkerie turned and stormed out of the workshop. That comment didn’t even deserve a response. Lex would never nark on Kennedy—not to Flight Med. She knew how many experiments they had to do. Valkerie swung through the stairwell hatch and almost ran into Lex on her way down the stairs.

  “Hey, Val, ready to get back to work on the sequencing?”

  “I can’t,” Valkerie spat out the words. “I’ve got to do a med exam on the Hampster.”

  “You’re kidding. What’s wrong?”

  “Terminal jealousy.”

  Lex raised an eyebrow.

  “I know the answer to this already, but you didn’t say anything to the flight docs about Kennedy, did you?”

  “Me? Talk to Flight Med?” Lex let out a haughty laugh, then frowned. “You don’t think it was Bob? He wouldn’t—”

  “Right. Kennedy narked on himself.” Valkerie ran up the stairs three at a time and headed for the med center. She threw open the instrument bin. Stethoscope, sphygmomanometer ... Where was the electroencephalograph? She pulled out the lower bin and riffled through the contents, tossing everything she needed into a plastic washing pan. Okay, now for the ticklish part. Valkerie went up to Kennedy’s room and knocked on the door. “Kennedy, it’s me, Valkerie. I need to talk to you.”

  A confusion of bumps and muffled scrapes sounded through the door.

  Valkerie waited ... and waited. What could be taking so long? Should she knock again? She raised a hand.

  Kennedy’s voice sounded. “Okay, come on in.”

  She opened the door slowly and peeked into the dimly lit room.

  “Hey, Valkerie, sorry about the mess.” Kennedy sat on his cot, leaning against the wall. “The maid service here is terrible. I’ve a mind to complain to the management.”

  Valkerie picked her way among the debris that littered the floor. What a pigsty. It smelled horrible.

  Kennedy looked from Valkerie to the pan she carried—and stiffened. Smiling, he leaned forward in a formal bow. “So what can I do you for? Got any new results on the Halophilis valkilexus?”

  She didn’t even try to hide her frustration. “Like they’re even giving me a chance to work on it. Unfortunately, I’ve got to give you a med exam. Flight docs’ orders.”

  Kennedy shook his head. “You don’t have time for this kind of nonsense. Don’t those idiots know you’ve got real work to do?”

  “Apparently not.” Valkerie set the pan down on Kennedy’s desk.

  “Tell you what. Just leave that stuff here. I’ll take my temperature, shine a flashlight in my eyes, and whack myself a couple of times with a hammer. They’ll never know the difference.”

  “Thanks for the offer,” Valkerie pulled the blood‑pressure cuff out of the pan and wrapped it around Kennedy’s arm, “but if I know them, they’ll want to look at all the data themselves.” Valkerie pumped up the cuff and released the pressure. 140 over 90—a bit on the high side, but she’d released the air pretty fast. Close enough. She tossed the cuff into the pan and brought out the EEG.

  Kennedy eyed it—then her. “So why the sudden interest in my health?”

  She bit her lip and started untangling the electrode leads. What would Kennedy do if he found out Bob had narked on him?

  Kennedy leaned close and whispered, “It was Bob, wasn’t it? I’ve been really worried about him.”

  Valkerie looked up from the electrodes. “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. He’s been downright paranoid. Even more than usual. And all the accusations about my driving. I don’t know what to make of that.”

  “He’s just being Bob. Now relax. The gel’s a pain, but at least it’s painless.” Valkerie roughed up his scalp with grit and dabbed twenty‑seven blobs of electrophoretic gel in a grid pattern on Kennedy’s head. Then, working the gel down to his scalp, she pressed the filamentous electrodes into the greasy patches.

  “And what about all that talk about the Russian satellite jamming our communications?” Kennedy rolled his eyes. “After all we’ve been through ... almost seems like some kind of bizarre delusional disorder—maybe a jealousy thing.”

  “Delusional disorder? Bob?” Valkerie flipped on the EEG. Five traces squiggled across the instrument’s LCD panel. The alpha trace was almost flat, but the lower‑frequency theta fluctuated wildly, pegging at the upper and lower amplitude bounds. Either Kennedy was more stressed out than he looked, or she had the gain way too high. She flipped the instrument over to check. Out of the corner of her eye, a ra
pid motion distracted her.

  Kennedy was rocking back and forth on the cot, holding his right hand in front of him. A trickle of blood ran down his wrist.

  “Kennedy, what happened?” Valkerie reached for his hand and tried to hold it still.

  “Cut myself on the cot.”

  “Let me look at it.” Valkerie forced open his fingers.

  An inch‑long slice ran down the tip of his index finger. Painful, but not bad enough for stitches.

  Valkerie retrieved a first‑aid kit from the med center and bandaged the cut. “So what happened?” She got down on her hands and knees to examine the cot’s frame. There wasn’t anything that could have caught on Kennedy’s finger.

  “Probably just an aluminum splinter. Don’t worry. I’ll find it,” Kennedy said. “Just don’t tell Bob.”

  Valkerie looked up at Kennedy. “Why not?”

  “You know how he is.” Kennedy dropped his voice. “Treats every little splinter like it’s an international incident. And, well ... right now I think it would be best to give him some space.”

  She pushed up onto her knees. “What do you mean? Because of the haircut?”

  Kennedy laughed. “That was just an excuse. I told him I couldn’t cut hair, but he made me do it anyway. I didn’t understand then, but I do now.”

  “Understand what?”

  “I don’t know why, but he’s been looking for a fight for weeks.”

  Valkerie frowned. Bob? Looking for a fight? “No way. I don’t for a second believe Bob would ever—”

  “Bob would ever what?”

  Valkerie started and spun to look.

  Bob stepped into Kennedy’s room and fixed an icy stare on Kennedy. The air in the room crackled with tension.

  Valkerie scooted back, taking in Bob’s fists, which were clenched at his sides. He looked agitated. Angry.