by Kathy Tyers
“What a roach,” Trev said, stamping one foot. “What a—”
“Hey,” she said briskly, “thanks, Trev, but we’ve both got to work with him.” She eyed the boy’s bandaged, lopsided face. “Okay?”
Abruptly she realized she still had not changed her password. Varberg had never shown her how to lock a file on this net, either.
It was publish, then . . . now! Or else the idea and the hope would perish.
“Right,” Trev said. “I try and help you, and since I don’t have a degree—”
The text alarm sounded on her monitor. “Excuse me for a minute, Trev.” Graysha lurched toward the screen as Trev slouched out.
A message from the Zoology supervisor appeared. Zoo, it seemed, was pleased with the quality of Trev’s work at Lower Infinity Crater. She had no idea what the message meant, but obviously it had to do with his new bandages. She relayed it to Trev. Within seconds, before she could reach for the keyboard again, Will Varberg reappeared.
“What’s he doing, taking days off from his assigned work to fiddle around on the other floors?”
He’d keyed his computer to her branch of the Gaea net, all right.
Infuriated by the intrusion, she clenched her hands. “I had no idea Trev was doing anything,” she said evenly, “other than his work for me. I wouldn’t be surprised if he did it for the scenery. He grew up on a planet. Staying inside probably gets a little old for him.”
Varberg hmmphed and left her lab. Anxious for Trev, she listened as Varberg’s heavy footsteps clomped back up the hallway.
Angrily, she pulled up the Ellard file, copied the proposal, and bracketed it. Three key strokes later, it was on the net and public.
Graysha sat back and exhaled heavily, realizing she was committed now, for better or worse. Melantha Lee would see this as soon as she checked on the station’s declared research. That could be anytime during the next week. If Lee wasn’t trying to cover something, the notion—logically and hypothetically supported—wouldn’t arouse a moment’s suspicion.
Proposals like this surfaced all the time, in every hab large enough to support a university with doctoral candidates.
She must have Jirina show her how to change a net password, though. Today.
―――
She was walking back from the break room when Paul poked his head out into the hallway, looking tousled, as if he’d had his head in a lightproof hood. “What is this?” he called in a stage whisper. She stopped near his door. “A new proposal? More work? You need a break. Let’s pack lunch from the cafeteria and sunbathe at Wastewater.”
Why had Paul spotted the proposal so quickly? The weight of his hand on her shoulder, fingers curled toward her throat, made her as uncomfortable as the proposition itself.
“I shouldn’t,” she said. “I have so much work to do.”
“You’ll work better if you relax when you eat. Trust me.”
“Well . . .”
“Good. I’ll put in a lunch order. You pick it up at the cafeteria and meet me at Wastewater. All right? Good,” he finished without waiting for her answer.
He ducked back into his workroom, she into hers. It seemed like too much trouble to refuse.
And now, alone, she dared to speculate about what specific chain of events might have set Varberg’s submerged fears against Jon Mahera. If Mahera had caught Varberg deliberately environment-testing his bacterium, the notion of reward money might have dulled Varberg’s conscience.
But the colonists had cleared Varberg.
Was Paul involved in illicit research, too?
She felt almost dizzy. Dear God, are they all out to silence me?
And DalLierx, deeply concerned about the cooling trend, had been poisoned. Varberg had access to genetically altered bacteria, including insulin producers, easily and legitimately.
That would explain the dead gribien.
Proof, though: She had no proof of anything but the CFC order. She paused to crack her knuckles, then settled in to read more abstracts.
―――
Communication time between Goddard and Copernicus Habitat, close by in the Eps Eri system, was approximately six minutes. Melantha Lee rarely saw responses to anything published on Goddard until at least a day passed, so she assumed the message on her terminal originated on Goddard until she saw its originator’s name. Then she skimmed back upscreen to reread its header.
Gaea Terraforming Consortium
Flora Hauwk, Ph.D., System Supervisor
Roosevelt Settlement, Copernicus
Melantha:
Am curious regarding Brady-Phillips’s research proposal. Do new data suggest a more severe cooling trend?
Flora Hauwk
Lee frowned at the monitor. What had Graysha Brady-Phillips published that caught the new system supe’s eye? She punched up current research, read the new abstract carefully, then read it again.
This, she decided, must be answered immediately. She reached for her keyboard.
Dr. Hauwk:
No new evidence of cooling, simply a new theory. Brady-Phillips hopes to explain the minimal cooling we do experience. She is inexperienced at on-site terraforming. We’re letting her try this as a learning experience.
Melantha
P.S. Welcome to Eps Eri system.
That, she hoped, would keep Dr. Flora’s long nose out of the issue long enough for Lee to ensure that Graysha’s research failed. Melantha had worked with Dr. Flora, years ago. She liked to snoop and throw her weight around.
So it would be important to deal with Graysha quietly.
―――
Trev lifted the frond of a delicate fern and ran a finger up its underside. Covered with tiny bumps, it looked infested with some kind of insect. His hand stung. Searching for food, Dutchy had pounced hard. According to Yukio, it would be okay to offer a bottle tomorrow. Trev hoped so. Maybe the kitten wasn’t desperate yet, but he was.
“Ari,” he called, “is this one all right?”
Laying down a compact handheld sprayer, the tall Vice-Chair crossed her damp dugout and eyed the frond. “Yes, it’s all right.” She laughed. “That’s where it grows its spores. I was only able to bring my collection because of the minimal weight of propagation cells.”
“Ferns don’t have flowers, then.”
“That’s correct.” Her sensual mouth looked solemn, but her eyes seemed to laugh every time she looked at the mess of new bandages half covering his face.
When he frowned at her, one long cut stung sharply. He was starting to hate his father for an entirely new reason. Evidently his education had holes a man could drive a track-truck through.
Ari examined the pot. “You haven’t fed this one.”
He couldn’t believe the way she spotted tiny grains of fertilizer. “Not yet.”
She set the plant back in its spot and returned to her frond misting.
Was this a good time to ask her how a person might put in for a transfer to live at Center, with other non-Lwuite immigrants?
No, she wanted him under her eyes. She might report him to DalLierx for asking about Center, and he didn’t want to get Yukio in trouble.
Still, he couldn’t wait too long. He needed to make a move.
A few minutes later, she spoke while she continued to work her way down the row. “Rumor has it you’ve no love for our CCA.”
Where did she hear that? Did Yukio report him? “DalLierx,” he answered, “treated me like a retarded criminal. At least I thought so at the time. He’s—”
“He’s a self-righteous prig. Any suggestions you can give me on how to beat him in the election?”
Oh, the election. He’d forgotten these people had their own pressing concerns. He dug his spoon into the beaker of plant food. “Graysha Brady-Phillips would be the one to talk to about that. She’s spoken with him more recently than I have.”
The rhythm of Ari’s spraying faltered, then resumed. “Oh?”
“Yeah.” He sprinkle
d crystals onto the potting medium. “She’s sweeting a little bit on him, I think. And she’s commented about religion a couple of times. Something she’s nosy about, I guess. I know how to respect the RL Act.”
“Keep it that way,” she said softly. “What else can you tell me about Dr. Brady-Phillips and Chairman DalLierx?”
He couldn’t see around the freestanding shelf, but he heard her stop working while he answered. “Well, when he’s on screen during town meetings, she watches.”
“Oh?”
“She’s been married. You know how divorcees get sometimes. Desperate. DalLierx is pretty, but so’s Paul Ilizarov.”
“Now, that’s an interesting observation.”
“And she told me she met his sister, trained with her, at your D-group.”
“Yes, I saw that. I’m surprised she made the connection, but perhaps I shouldn’t be.”
Ari set down her sprayer with a thump and walked to the end of the row, close to where he stood. Browncloth lost some of its wrinkles in this humidity, he noted. Her lightweight off-duty clothes suited that long, well-curved body. She smiled, but it looked predatory, not kindly. “I like you, Trev. You’re the most honest person I’ve met on Goddard. We need to water that fertilizer in. Then, if you have time before lunch, I’d like to show you my other hobby.”
“Other hobby?” How was he going to escape this woman and get out to Center or into the wild?
She ran the back of her hand down his arm and finished the caress at his fingertips. “I dance. I hope you didn’t know that. It’s my darkest professional secret.”
On the other hand, he had a weakness for deep-voiced women. “Oh?” He cleared a catch out of his throat. “Well, I sing. Sometimes. People say I sound a little like Blase.”
“I’d love to hear you.”
―――
An hour later, Ari ladled a measure of water into her steam shower’s intake port, then pressed a button and leaned against her wall to let the water heat.
It had seemed only sensible to consolidate her hold on Trev LZalle in the quickest, most effective way. She’d guessed he would fall to a blatant come-on. He was old enough to appreciate beauty but too callow for caution.
Besides, she’d found out he really could sing, with sublime expressiveness and an incredible range.
A high-pitched whistle told her the steam bath was ready. Quickly she slipped through the door and shut it firmly behind her.
LZalle, Brady-Phillips, DalLierx: She couldn’t afford to let any one of them go unwatched. DalLierx was a fool to hope Graysha Brady-Phillips didn’t report to her mother. Thwarted in her attempt to send information offworld through personal mail, she’d plainly published that proposal, now on its way outsystem, as a message to Novia’s spies. Couched in scientific doublespeak, there could be any number of prearranged keywords.
One round to you, Brady-Phillips.
It would take time, though, for other nettechs to arrive. Ari would up D-group readiness. She must ensure Graysha learned nothing more and that she did not report again. Now Ari had Trev on watch.
The little he’d said was cause for alarm. If Graysha was inquiring about religion, she was probably on the track of deeper secrets. DalLierx, Ari knew, would sacrifice group security for one clear chance to influence an immortal soul. That was a poor bargain for the rest of Goddard.
Ari frowned as she reached for shampoo. Lwuites did need a unifying faith. Her own fledgling progressive ideology fit Henri and Palila Lwu’s original writings well enough. Separated from other people groups, they might be able to gradually drop away religious pretense. Eventually, once D-group had enough muscle to guard this world, they might declare themselves openly. One day, when Lwuite life-spans stretched to millennia, she hoped to be remembered as a spiritual guide of the immortal race during its infancy. It was her hope—her dream—to release Goddard’s next generation from all the old combative faiths.
She would make up the new religion as she went along. Converts would flock to Goddard as to the fountain of youth.
With the exception of a few truly religious men and women, most colonists would be glad to have an on-file faith to be “discovered” by inquirers. That would be a relief after all this head turning and mouth shutting.
Gathering threads from all religions would help ease the transition for all but a few diehards, whose children would be raised in crèches anyway.
One generation of crèche indoctrination would finish the job.
After her bath, she called up her ideology file and spent an hour refining a loyalty precept. She would introduce it as part of her election platform. When group security was compromised, consequences must be serious.
And Brady-Phillips had to be stopped.
It had to be done soon, and it must look like an accident.
Ari’s mother had called it “the prophet’s prerogative.”
―――
Graysha almost decided not to meet Paul at lunchtime, but she just wasn’t comfortable doing a no-show. She unwrapped the cafeteria’s lunch parcel beside the settling marsh. Paul sat close by, lounging as comfortably on pebbled concrete as he would lie on a bed. That, at any rate, was the image his languid posture projected. “Soy spread?” she asked, handing him a sandwich. “And greens. Good idea.”
“Too bad we don’t have any ripe tomatoes.”
“You checked?”
“Of course,” he said.
In fading Windsday sunlight through shielded roof panels, cattails swayed in the ventilator’s breeze. “You could almost imagine yourself in a park,” she said. “Will you be returning to Einstein someday?”
“Difficult to say. It’s been pleasant working with real oceans. I might be so bold as to make the pilgrimage back to Earth for my next stint.”
Graysha swallowed, then said, “I don’t know where I’ll go. I meant to teach at Halley, and if I last the triannum here, I’ll probably reapply for a university position. I’ll have to wait and see where there’s an opening. But that’s three terrannums away. Do you think you might settle on Earth?”
“I’m not a settler.”
No, he wasn’t. He was a free spirit if ever she met one.
“So tell me.” He dug into the box for one greens tray, popped its lid, and squeezed on reddish vinegary-smelling liquid. “What will the logistics of your proposal entail?”
How much could she tell him? She considered, thought twice, then three times. “Well,” she said, “I’ll need a sampling aircraft and someone to man it. Trev, probably—”
Paul raised one eyebrow. “The way I hear it from colonial sources, you think there’s been environmental sabotage—by one of us.”
But she told no one! No one but Trev—and Lindon, who certainly didn’t socialize with Paul. “Colonial sources?” she asked, feeling stupid.
“Mmm.”
She ate silently, not wanting to pressure him. Water trickled over pebbles close by. A water bug bobbed past, then dove under the surface.
“Finished?” Paul nested his cafeteria boxes.
“Almost,” she said, tipping her own box to show him that half her greens remained.
“If you hurry, we have time for dessert.” He eased closer and rested a hand on her thigh. Catching a whiff of citrus, she felt the old longing press down inside her heart and body.
“I don’t think dessert is on my diet,” she said, staring at the greens.
“But you need it. Here.” He took the salad away from her and laid it on the walkway. “Only a nibble. Main course when you’re ready, but you ought not to say no when you haven’t tasted.”
“Stop it.” She scrambled to her feet. “Stop condescending to me. Please.”
“You’ve changed.” He arched one eyebrow and clasped his hands around one knee. “From that, I assume you have an eye elsewhere. DalLierx, as I hear?”
Did Jirina tell him? It didn’t matter. If she gave him a millimeter, she’d end up stuck on the old famil
iar path of scorn and conciliation. She held her tongue.
“Go find your dessert in the refrigerator with the rest of the dead and dying, then.” He waved one hand toward the door. “Go on. Go.”
“Hey,” she said, “when you set up this lunch, you didn’t even give me the chance to say no politely.”
His eyes flared. “I’m so sorry. What did you bother coming down for, then?”
“Because I thought it would be rude to simply not show up.” She spun on one foot and stalked toward the door.
“Graysha.”
She turned. He was crumpling lunch cartons between strong hands. “About that proposal of yours?”
“Yes?”
He dropped a carton onto the path. “Watch your back.”
Trident
Lindon sat up on his bed, disoriented and unsure what had wakened him. Fading westerly sunshine streamed through the skylight, and his eyes ached. He hadn’t slept nearly enough.
“Mr. DalLierx,” repeated an urgent voice.
He rolled toward his bedside intercom. “Yes?”
“We need you on duty as quickly as possible. It’s an emergency.”
Lindon checked the time. It was almost midnight. “Keep talking,” he said, “I’m getting dressed. What kind of emergency?” He’d laid out a clean shirt next to yesterday’s pants. He yanked them both on.
“Volcanic.” The gruff voice wobbled. “I’m in the Gaea building. It’s Thad Urbansky, Geology.”
Lindon fastened his pants. Poking his head through the neck of a pullover, he asked, “Where’s it going off?”
“Sixty k northeast, along the Storm Sea pipeline. I’m getting either one huge or several small hot spots on satellite and seismic triangulation.”
Seizing shoes and socks, Lindon dashed out.
In the bright, eerily quiet CA building, he swung into his office, dropped his shoes, and went on audi line. “Urbansky, DalLierx here. What do you have?” He pushed one toe into a shoe.
“Nothing I didn’t have before,” said Urbansky. “This is insane. We had no seismic warning at all, not even a wobble in the magnetic field. Can you see out to the northeast?”