Saturn

by Ben Bova

  He did not smile back. "Is it true? I'm stuck here for a friggin' year or more?"

  "Unless someone sends a ship to pick you up, yes, I'm afraid you're going to be with us all the way out to Saturn."

  "Who the fuck would send a ship out for me?" he muttered. "I'm just a turd engineer, friggin' slave labor, that's all I am."

  Holly took a breath. "Mr. Tavalera, I'm no saint, but I'd appreciate it if you notched up your language a little."

  He gave her a sidelong glance. "A Believer?"

  "Not really. I'm not a churchgoer."

  "The frig—uh, I mean, it was the New Morality that sent me out here in the first place. I hadda do two years of public service. No choice."

  "I see."

  "Do ya? I only had a couple more weeks to go and they would've brought me back home. Now I'm goin' out to fri—to Saturn for chrissakes."

  Gesturing toward the rooftop view of the village and the habitat's lovely green landscape, Holly said, "There are worse places, y'know. You might actually like it here."

  "I got family on Earth. Friends. I was gonna get my life back together...." His voice trailed off. Holly could see that he was struggling to keep from flying off into a rage.

  "You can send them messages. We can find useful work for you to do. You'll enjoy living here, betcha."

  Tavalera glowered at her.

  "I know it must seem like a bugging disaster to you," said Holly as reasonably as she could, "but you're here and you should try to make the best of it."

  "Easy for you to say," Tavalera muttered.

  "We'll do everything we can to help you while you're here."

  "We?"

  "The people here in the habitat. The Human Resources Department."

  "Does that include you?"

  Nodding, Holly replied, "I'm with the Human Resources Department, yes."

  Tavelra seemed to brigthten a little. But only a little.

  Eberly paced leisurely along the path that wound around the perimeter of the lake, Morgenthau at his side.

  "It's good to be out in the open air," he was saying. "Away from prying eyes and snooping ears."

  "They're spying on you?" Morgenthau asked. She knew how simple it was to spray molecule-thin microphones on a wall or ceiling. Cameras no bigger than a teardrop could be inserted almost anywhere.

  "Probably not. Wilmot's too naïve even to understand what we're doing. But it's best to be prepared against all possibilities, don't you think?"

  "We have a problem with Vyborg," she said, as if making an announcement.

  "He's impatient, I know."

  Morgenthau said, "He's more than impatient. He's going to do something violent."

  "Violent?" Eberly felt a pang of alarm in his guts. "What do you mean?"

  Morgenthau replied calmly, "He's not willing to wait for you to remove the two men above him in the Communications Department. He's ready to strike against them."

  Fighting against the fear rising within him, Eberly snarled, "The little snake! He'll ruin everything." Inwardly he asked himself, How can I stop him? How can I prevent him without seeming weak, indecisive? I want their loyalty, but if I try to thwart them, prevent them from acting, they'll go ahead without me. And then where will I be? When we get to Saturn they'll send me back to Earth. Back to prison!

  "He's going to resort to violence, I tell you," Morgenthau insisted.

  It took an effort of will for Eberly to keep from wringing his hands. "What can I do? How can I stop him?"

  Morgenthau smiled knowingly. "Don't stop him."

  "What?"

  "Let him take action. Just make certain that whatever he does can't be traced back to us."

  Eberly stared at her, trying to understand what she was saying.

  Still walking along as if on a casual stroll, Morgenthau explained, "We want Vyborg to take command of the Communications Department. If he's ready to take a step in that direction, why stop him?"

  "What if he commits a crime? What if he's discovered, caught, arrested?"

  "That's why we must have no connection with him, not until after he's succeeded."

  "But if he fails..."

  "If he succeeds, he's one step closer to our goal. If he fails, we can honestly say we had nothing to do with it."

  "Suppose he fails," Eberly questioned, "and he's caught, and he blames me?"

  "You can show clean hands and a pure heart," Morgenthau replied sweetly. "With your powers of persuasion, I'm sure you can make Wilmot and the whole population believe that you've been falsely accused. Because that will be the truth."

  Eberly walked on in silence, with Morgenthau keeping pace beside him. She wants Vyborg to act. Even if he commits murder, she's in favor of his acting. Why? he asked himself. And the answer came immediately: Because that will give her a stronger hold on Vyborg. And a stronger hold on me. She's allowing me to be the public figurehead because I can organize people and sway them to our side. But she's the power behind the throne. She's the real power here.

  INTERFAITH CHAPEL

  With ten thousand souls in the habitat and only one small chapel for them to worship in, you would think this house of God would be filled to overflowing every hour of the day and night, thought Ruth Morgenthau as she sank to her knees in the first pew. But no, it's empty except for me.

  Cold anger filled her. Ten thousand people and not one of them loves God enough to kneel here in prayer. Only me. I'm the only one here.

  Not so, came a stern voice from within her. God is here. Bow your head in prayer. Acknowledge your sins and beg your Maker for forgiveness.

  Morgenthau prayed.

  She had found God—or, rather, God had found her—when she had been a skinny fourteen-year-old prostitute in the filth-littered back streets of Nuremberg, speeding toward an early death from malnutrition, disease, and drug abuse. The Holy Disciples rescued her, healed her body and cleansed her soul.

  Yet the hunger remained. She realized, in time, that the hunger was the devil's work, the insidious, inescapable hunger that would pull her down to eternal damnation unless she dedicated her every waking moment to the service of God. She prayed for relief, for the strength to overcome its constant searing need. Often she prayed for death, for she thought that only death would end the torture of her soul. She denied herself the companionship of women, slept alone in a bare monk's cell, to keep from temptation, to stave off the yearning hunger.

  And then she found the substitute, the permissible passion that sublimated her forbidden hunger. Power. By working with men, by spending virtually every waking moment surrounded by the men she loathed and feared, eventually she learned to play their games of power. She deliberately allowed her body to bloat, to become unattractive physically. But she honed her mind and her instincts. She rose in the councils of the Holy Disciples. No one suspected her suppressed yearning. Women and men alike respected her growing power.

  When she was asked to go on the mission to Saturn she agreed gladly.

  "We have selected a man to organize a God-fearing government in the space habitat," her superior told her, "but he is not the most reliable of souls. He claims to be a Believer, but his past record of chicanery makes me doubt his faith."

  Morgenthau nodded. "I understand," she said. And she did. This was an opportunity for real power, control of ten thousand men and women. A great opportunity. And a terrible temptation.

  So she knelt alone in the habitat's little chapel and prayed fervently for guidance. And power. Power was good, power in the service of God was an absolute blessing. It kept the hunger at bay. It calmed the devils that burned within her.

  Morgenthau prayed for inner peace, for humility, for understanding the path that God wished her to take. But most of all, she prayed for power.

  SATURN ARRIVAL Minus 335 Days

  Holly felt awkward when she saw Gaeta again, two days later. She found a good business reason to call him, yet instead of asking him to come to her office, she invited him to lunch. He easily agreed,
on the condition that it was at the Bistro, not the cafeteria. When Holly hesitated, wondering if he considered that more romantic, he said:

  "Don't worry, it'll be my treat."

  Despite herself, Holly laughed and agreed to meet him at the Bistro.

  Yet she grew more nervous as noon approached. We spent a night together and he hasn't made a move to see me since then. I call him to talk business, but he wants to have lunch in the Bistro because it's quieter and the food's better and maybe he thinks we can go back to my place or maybe his afterward and go to bed together. Which wouldn't be altogether a terrible thing, she thought, grinning despite her pangs of guilt. But I can't get involved with him or anybody else because Malcolm's the man I really want.

  A faint voice in her head asked, Is that really true? Malcolm hasn't even held your hand. Are you really in love with him?

  Yes, she replied so swiftly that she did not allow herself any doubt. The faint voice said nothing more.

  Gaeta was already at their table when Holly arrived at the Bistro. He shot to his feet, a bright smile on his rugged face.

  The Bistro was so small that most of the tables were outside, on the grass. There was never any rain to worry about in the habitat, and the only winds were the gentle breezes that were stirred by the massive air circulation pumps set into the endcaps. Underground hoses watered the lawns and the crops, as needed, without spraying water through the air. Sensors in the ground kept track of soil moisture and nutrient levels.

  There were no flies or other buzzing pests in the habitat, although Holly knew that the ground was honeycombed by ants and worms and the microscopic creatures that turned inert, dead dirt from the Moon's regolith into living, productive soil.

  "Sorry I'm late," Holly said, slipping into the chair that Gaeta held for her.

  "Only five minutes," he said, sitting down again.

  "Sometimes it's almost impossible to get out of the office. There's always something more to do."

  The flat-topped robot waiter trundled to their table, the menu and wine list illuminated on its touchscreen. They made their choices and the robot threaded its way through the tables and back inside the restaurant.

  "We're making a nice little bundle on the rescue footage," Gaeta said. "It got a big play on the news nets. Outscored our flyby of Jupiter in the ratings."

  "That's great."

  The robot rolled back to their table, bearing their drinks. As Gaeta handed Holly her frosted mug of cola he asked, "So what did you want to see me about?" He seemed guarded, Holly thought, almost wary.

  "I need to talk to you about Tavalera, the guy you rescued," she said.

  "What? He wants a percentage?"

  Holly was surprised at that. "No. Prob'ly he hasn't even thought about that. He just wants to go home."

  "Back Earthside?"

  "Right."

  Gaeta made a small, careless shrug. "He can hitch a ride with us when we leave, I guess."

  "That's what I was going to ask you."

  "Sure. No prob. Fritz'll grumble, but the guy's an engineer, isn't he? So we can carry him as a backup techie. That'll keep Fritz happy."

  Suddenly there was nothing left to talk about, Holly realized. Except everything.

  Sammi Vyborg skipped lunch. He stayed in his office and followed Diego Romero on the surveillance cameras spotted throughout the habitat. Kananga had given him the Security Department's code for accessing the cameras.

  The old man had spent the morning in his office, as usual, going through the motions of being second-in-command of the Communications Department. Then he'd left and gone to his own apartment. From the cameras atop the administration building's roof Vyborg watched Romero amble along the path to the apartment building, walking slowly, as if he hadn't a care in the world. A few minutes afterward he emerged again, dressed now in tattered, frayed work clothes, and strolled off into the woods out beyond the village, also as usual.

  Morgenthau had refused to give him access to the cameras inside Romero's apartment.

  "That's very sensitive," she had said flatly. "Only myself and a very small cadre of sworn Believers are allowed to review those records. Besides," she added, with a dimpled smile, "we wouldn't want to invade someone's privacy, would we?"

  Simmering with frustration, Vyborg watched the views from the outdoor cameras.

  Impatiently, he switched from one camera to another, keeping Romero in view on his holographic display until the old man disappeared down the slope of the culvert for the irrigation canal. There were no cameras down there. He's alone out there, Vyborg saw, except now and then that young woman from Morgenthau's department comes out to help him. I can get Morgenthau to keep her busy on the day when I strike. That should be easy. But how to eliminate the old man? It must look like an accident.

  Vyborg cleared his display and closed his eyes to ponder the problem. Kananga, he thought. Kananga will know how to do it. He'd probably enjoy the task.

  Eberly gazed at the document hovering above his desktop the way ah art lover would admire a Rembrandt.

  It's perfect, he thought, leaning back in his desk chair. A constitution that no one could possibly vote against. Every high-flown phrase from history that spoke of human freedom and dignity was in the document. And so was that tiny clause, buried deeply in all the other verbiage, that allowed the government to cancel all individual rights for the length of an emergency.

  It's time to bring this before the people. Let them debate its fine points, let them argue it out, clause by clause, phrase by phrase. He laughed, alone in his apartment. Let them spend the next few months dissecting the document and then putting it back together again. Let them babble and quack at each other. In the end they will accept something very close to this document. And I will see to it that the emergency clause is untouched.

  He clasped his hands together prayerfully and held them to his lips. This will make Morgenthau happy. I'll have the complete backing of the New Morality and Holy Disciples and all the other Believers scattered in among the population. They'll vote for this constitution. They'll make an effective bloc of votes that I can count on. If anything, they'll want to make it more restrictive than it is now. I can just see Wilmot and Urbain and the rest of the scientists debating against the Believers! What a show that will make! Entertainment for weeks to come.

  Once the constitution is enacted, the time will come to elect the habitat's new leaders. No, not leaders, plural. There can be only one leader here and that will be me.

  And once I am elected, it will be the time to clean house, the time to settle old scores, the time to make Morgenthau and those New Morality prigs grovel at my feet.

  As she walked back to her office, Holly didn't know whether she should feel disappointed or relieved. Actually, she felt some of both. And puzzled.

  Lunch with Manny had been pleasant, even fun. He didn't try to come on to me. Why? she asked herself. He was warm and friendly, but it was like a couple of nights ago never happened. Like he has amnesia or something. Just erased from his memory bank.

  Are guys all like that? Didn't it mean anything to him? She realized that it meant much more to her. And then there was Malcolm. Maybe it's better that Manny isn't really interested in me. He just had a fling with me, that's all. I shouldn't take it seriously. But he was so...

  She realized she was close to tears.

  Maybe I should talk to Don Diego about it, she thought. Then she shook her head. How could I tell him about it? I'd sound like a stupid dimdumb, or worse. But I've got to tell somebody. I need a friend and he's the only real friend I have.

  Kananga listened to Vyborg without saying a word, without nodding or gesturing or even blinking his eyes, it seemed. He walked alongside Vyborg in the dimmed light of evening, the lamps along their path making his shaved scalp gleam darkly, and listened so intently that Vyborg wondered if the man had gone mute.

  At last Vyborg asked, "So what do you think can be done about it?"

  "Why do you come to me
with this problem of yours?" Kananga asked quietly.

  Vyborg glowered at him. "Because you are a man of action. Because you wouldn't be aboard this habitat if it weren't for me. I convinced the Peacekeepers to allow you to emigrate. They wanted to put you on trial for genocide."

  Kananga's dark face remained impassive, but the old fury welled up inside him once again. Genocide! The Hutu slaughtered us by the thousands and no one lifted a finger. Yet when we seized power, when we repayed the Hutu in blood just as they had done to us, the Peacekeepers come in with their satellite cameras and their laser weapons. They arrest us and put us on trial in the World Court.

  Misunderstanding the rage in Kananga's eyes, Vyborg said in a more conciliatory tone, "I need your help. No one else can do this for me. I need your strength and skill. Help me to get rid of this old man. Please."

  The tall, lanky Rwandan took a deep, calming breath. Pointing a lean finger at one of the light poles at the side of the path they were walking along, he said softly, "That is a problem."

  Vyborg understood immediately. "The cameras."

  Kananga nodded solemnly. "Morgenthau has even installed cameras in the apartments."

  "Yes, I know."

  "Of course, if we do something in his apartment, I'm sure that we could get Morgenthau to suppress the video."

  "So we could take care of him in his apartment and no one would know," Vyborg said hopefully.

  "But what would we do with the body?" Kananga put the slightest of emphasis on the word "we," but Vyborg heard it and understood.

  "Make it look like an accident. A natural death. He's an old man."

  "In excellent health. I checked his medical records."

  "People die," Vyborg snapped.

  With a low chuckle, Kananga said, "Yes, especially when they have help."

  Feeling exasperation growing within him, Vyborg demanded, "Well, can you help me or not?"