“Gin, this is the third time! What's the point of having an emergency rescue ship and then letting her rot? Tinkering's one thing, but she needs proper maintenance. Surely the transport can wait a day while the McAuliffe gets a thorough overhaul?"
“No can do. I need to turn it around pronto. Your VIP should just squeeze in before all hell breaks loose. There's been a little accident on Mars."
“The control room crew doesn't need me there to run the magbeam. Or for much else, either. What's the matter on Mars, anyway?"
“A check valve malfunctioned, and some hydroponic fungicide siphoned into the water supply. A couple of the colonists bathed in it."
“With what effects?"
“Just irritation and rashes so far, but we're concerned about long-term health consequences if they're left untreated. We're shipping antidote immediately. The sooner they get treatment, the less likelihood they'll suffer any permanent damage. If we wait a day now, it'll cost us a week in arrival time."
“Thank you, Gin. I think I remember reading something similar in Orbital Mechanics for Dummies. All right, the McAuliffe can get her makeover another time. God forbid I should prevent the colonists getting their aspirin."
Gin's shoulders slumped. “Sorry you won't make it to LEO today. I had a bottle of wine cooling.” She sighed. “Run along now; your VIP will arrive in about two hours.” She cut the connection.
David left his office and tramped along looping metal corridors. Outside, the Earth and stars wheeled dizzyingly as the station's gravity centrifuge revolved slowly. David ignored them. His inspection produced its usual array of irritations, bugs, and blemishes, but nothing dangerous. The whole station needed an overhaul, but with space-hating bureaucrats like Gin's woman from OSTP sniffing everywhere, no one dared put their head above the parapet to request a budget increase, leaving David to waste his few precious days in space on janitor's work. His father would laugh; he'd left the old man's wrecking yard behind for the thrill of space exploration.
He caught sight of a young woman poking inside a wall panel with a voltage probe.
“Ellen! Anything going on I should know about?"
Ellen Francis smiled at her supervisor. Almost impossibly beautiful, but seemingly unaware of it, the redheaded engineer left lovestruck astronauts in her wake wherever she went. David smiled paternally.
“Hi, David. No, just glitches. Nothing worth bothering Maintenance about."
“Glitches?"
Ellen proffered him her portable toolkit. “The flammable gas sensor flatlines over point four percent concentration. It's not really a problem: point four percent's well past the alarm concentration."
David poked around inside a maze of wires. “Had the same problem with these things in F-15 engines in Saudi a thousand years ago,” he said. “Turned out to be sand contamination of the pellistor sensors. Chances are something's got in and decatalyzed it.” He kept probing around, occasionally holding out a hand for a new tool.
“So how did Timmy Weaver get along last night? It was his title fight, wasn't it?"
David nodded. “Yeah. Wyoming Junior Light-Flyweight Championship. I haven't checked in at the gym, but he ought to have walked it. Kid's got talent like you wouldn't believe."
“Better than you?"
“Way better. Big and strong was plenty in the Air Force championship, but Timmy's got such fast hands, and instincts to go with it. Pride of the gym, he is."
“All thanks to you,” Ellen said, with an exaggerated flutter of her eyelashes.
David fixed her with a look. “That's very nearly insubordination, Ellen. No, I like helping those kids. I don't know teaching them to box does much good, but anything must be better than spending all day in an orphanage, right?"
Ellen said nothing. Her thoughts were clear enough, though: Aren't you an orphan of Yellowstone, too?
Delicately holding a pasta-spoonful of tangled wires aside, David extracted a tiny ceramic bulb. “Christ on his cross!"
“What?"
“Serial number 223-BR2Z. No wonder it's flaky; these sensors were discontinued in 2011. Ten bucks they cost, but the government still gives us equipment nearly fifteen years out of date."
Ellen yawned and massaged the back of her neck.
“You're on the mission crew for this medicine run to Mars, aren't you?” David said.
She nodded.
“Well, go get some sleep, for God's sake. I'll finish the maintenance checks."
“It's all right, really—"
He cut her off. “Don't make me order you, Ellen. It makes me twitch. Go catch some Zs."
She scurried off. David shook his head. More work he'd bought himself. Still, at least it wasn't paperwork, and at least the outgoing shuttle would have someone competent and wakeful on board during acceleration. He pushed the toolkit into his pocket and continued his inspection, wondering how much of his time this VIP would demand.
* * * *
David tried to mask his exasperation. He'd shown Gin's bureaucrat around the platform and been as polite as possible. In return, she'd spoken barely two words, spending their meeting alternately nodding and snorting at his explanations of how things worked, and taking notes on a handheld computer. Not even the magnificent spacescape from David's office window served to soften her, since she refused to look at anything except her handheld display. After five hours, David could feel a headache building.
Her name was Dr. Victoria Porter. A severe bun of dark hair gave her an older, all-business air, but only the tiniest of lines showed at the corners of her large, dark eyes and pouty mouth, and David guessed she might be in her mid-forties. High cheekbones and an aristocratic nose echoed a tall, willowy figure. With different hair, David could even have thought her attractive—until she'd spoken. Now he only thought her a nuisance. A malignant nuisance. He'd rather have been helping repair the Mars shuttle, not stuck in an office with a bureaucrat firing pedantic questions at him.
“Dr. Porter, occasional minor discrepancies in bookkeeping are unavoidable in any large organization. I can't tell you why July's LEO manifest differs from what was loaded onto the Mars pod, but most likely a breakage occurred and the schedule didn't allow time for a replacement. It's not economically viable to replace non-vital equipment on an emergency basis."
A message alert flashed on David's monitor. Porter made no move to leave, but continued scowling at her handheld screen.
David keyed the message. Gin's face appeared, worry lines creasing her brow. “Gin, good to hear from you. I'm with Dr. Porter. What can I do for you?"
Her expression tightened. “David, the Mars shuttle has an intermittent short in its navigation system. The technicians are swapping out parts to nail down the faulty component."
David whistled. “A sequential fault check could take days. No other indication of the origin?"
Gin shook her head.
David understood her frustration. A few days’ delay launching would mean arriving almost two weeks late. “Looks like someone else will have to take the colonists their aspirin. What's your plan?"
“We've no choice. The only other suitable shuttle is twenty days away. We're sending the McAuliffe."
“Wait a minute. Six hours ago you bumped the McAuliffe from the maintenance roster, and now you want to send her on an emergency mission? What's wrong with this picture?"
“Come on, David, this isn't an emergency, but we can't afford several days’ delay. The McAuliffe's in shape, isn't she?"
David snorted. “No thanks to Maintenance. Who's going to fly her?"
“We're transferring the command crew from the Mars shuttle, along with a replacement lander pilot. Karl Masters'll be flying the front chair."
“Masters?” David exclaimed. “Give me a break. Just because he's good in transit shuttles doesn't mean he can fly an old tub like the McAuliffe. At least send someone qualified."
Gin's brow creased further. “I've contacted Earth. Ben's down with the flu, and Seamus just left
on vacation. As soon as they locate him, they'll send him up to take the McAuliffe out. I'd like you to get her ready to fly."
“Seamus O'Brien? A man who once quit a vacation on Easter Island because it was too crowded? If he's vacationing within a thousand miles of a launch site, it'll be the first time. Why not let me take the McAuliffe over to Mars? I'm the best qualified, and I can have her space-worthy inside two hours."
“David, is that sensible? How many flight hours have you logged since your last assessment?"
“I designed half the ship, Gin. Do you think I've forgotten how to fly her? Come on, it's a milk run. The planetary alignment couldn't be better, so every minute waiting for Seamus is about three lost at Mars.” David glanced up at Dr. Porter, and leaned close to his monitor. “Let me do some real work for once. May be my last chance."
Gin threw up her hands. “All right, you've convinced me. I'll change the crew roster, but you be careful."
“I'm sorry, Gin, okay? But you did say it was important, right?"
She nodded. “Go on, get to work. Here's the Mars incident report. I'll see you on the return run.” She gave a weary smile and vanished, replaced on-screen by a document.
David scanned it. “Dr. Porter, I must apologize, but a situation has arisen requiring my attention. We can continue at a later date, or you can address the remainder of your questions to one of my colleagues. If you wish to leave immediately, we can beam your shuttle down to the LEO Platform before accelerating the McAuliffe. Otherwise, you'll have a four hour delay before the beam is available again."
She set down her computer. “Mr. Longrie, has the White House been informed of this ‘little problem’ on Mars?"
“Dr. Porter, my understanding is that someone in the colony has spilled a drink, and they need us to deliver them some paper towels, nothing more."
“I'm sure the director could give me a more detailed explanation. It may have some bearing on my overall evaluation of the program."
David sighed. “There's been a minor chemical leak; just the kind of incident you could encounter in any lab. Some fungicide siphoned into the water supply, and a few people bathed in it. A couple of the scientists have a rash, and the colony medical center doesn't have the medication it needs, so we're shipping some over. It's just a routine supply mission with a tight time-limit, so if you'll excuse me—"
David keyed the number for the shuttle crew station. Ellen Francis’ Botticelli countenance appeared on-screen. “Ellen, you've heard the news?"
She smiled. “I've always liked riding in vintage cars. I didn't realize we were getting a vintage driver as well."
“Thanks a lot. You'll be hearing about that one in your APR. Look, we launch in three hours, so can you get over to the McAuliffe and start packing her up? The cargo came with the maintenance crew, along with some lander pilot. You can rope him in to help. I've got to go through the preflight checklist, so I'll see you at the loading bay. Okay?"
Ellen nodded. “Sure. I didn't plan on spending this run in a flying toolbox; I'd better be getting time-and-a-half. You must be mad as a snake."
David glanced aside as Porter looked pointedly at her wristwatch. “Yeah, of course. I've gotta go; see you in a few.” He cut the connection. He wanted to call the gym to check on Timmy's fight, and he knew he should apologize to Anna for missing the birth of his first grandchild, but he couldn't spare the time.
* * * *
When David arrived at the docking bay an hour later, his hackles rose. Gin hadn't mentioned the name of the lander pilot. Threading between jumbled piles of net bags holding everything from circuit boards to dehydrated fruit juice, and crates of medical supplies, he made his way to the McAuliffe's loading bay doors. Ellen, her arms full of bags, frowned up at another man dressed in a flight suit with US Navy pilot's wings on the collar. A shock of blond hair topped over six feet of muscle and sinew, and a pungent cologne pricked David's nostrils.
Ellen set down her bags. “David Longrie, this is Captain Xavier Beaume—"
“Yes, thanks, Ellen. The captain and I have already met.” Neither man extended a hand. David swept an arm around the chaotic bay. “What is this?"
“We're loading the supplies,” Beaume replied.
“Loading? It looks like my room in college. Why aren't you using the pre-packed pallets?"
“They don't fit on this archaic rust bucket,” Beaume said. “Worthless piece of trash should have been scrapped years ago. Which old geezer are they sending up to fly it?"
David's hands curled before he restrained himself. One shot was all it would take, he was sure. Beaume was built like a wrestler, but David would have bet a month's wages he was hiding the glass jaw to end all glass jaws. What had Gin ever seen in him?
“This ship might be old, Captain, but if you treat her with respect, you'll find she's more than capable of doing her job. And if you look, you'll find her cargo bay stacked to the roof with empty pallets made to fit her. I suggest you get a power loader and bring some of them out, because those bags'll shift so much during acceleration we could end up on Jupiter."
Beaume's color rose, but he cut off a retort when Ellen slapped his arm.
“Sorry, David. I should've thought. Come on, Beaume, let's get to it."
As his two crew members trudged off, David passed a despairing eye over the chaotic loading bay. Why couldn't they have assigned me someone useful? Beaume, a former test pilot and US Navy Fighter Weapons School trophy winner, seemed to think his star quality extended to areas he knew nothing about. The access door hissed open, and Dr. Porter stalked in, suitcase in hand. The sooner she was out of his hair, the better, too.
“Dr. Porter, your shuttle is waiting in Bay 7. You can depart any time."
Her face set hard. “I won't be leaving on that shuttle, Mr. Longrie, I'll be leaving on this one. I'm coming along as an observer."
“You're what? "
“You heard me, Mr. Longrie."
David looked at the sprawling pile of supplies, then at Porter's elegant business suit. “Forgive my asking, but are you space-qualified?"
A genuine smile almost curved her lips. “My office reports directly to the president, and she has personally assigned me to this mission."
“The McAuliffe isn't a pleasure barge, Dr. Porter. She's not got faux-gravity or mod-cons, and it's sixty days to Mars and back. It isn't like taking the Atlantic tunnel."
“I am aware of that. If you wish to protest, feel free to contact Ms. Fukazawa."
David marched to the nearest communications point.
Gin answered quickly. “I know, David, I know. Instructions just came in from way over my head; there's nothing I can do."
“Does she think the McAuliffe's equipped to haul a passenger to Mars and back? Sixty days with her is not what I need in my life right now."
“Then this should cheer you up—Seamus is at the London spaceport. We can get him back in eight hours. He says he'll fly the mission if you want."
David looked at Porter poking around among the supplies, while Ellen and Beaume struggled to repack them. “Do you really want to leave Seamus alone with Porter for two months? If she wants to can the program already, I'm not sure Seamus ‘Bungee Jump From An Airplane’ O'Brien is the best person to bunk her with. Tell him to enjoy his vacation."
“You're sure?"
David nodded reluctantly.
Gin frowned. “Okay, I'll tell him. Did you call Mike yet?"
“Next on the list. Thanks for keeping quiet about the crew assignment, by the way."
Gin rubbed her eyes. “I'm sorry, David, it slipped my mind. If it makes you feel better, Xavier's a jerk when I see him, too. Just ignore him."
“I'll have to. Or commit the first murder in space."
She didn't smile. “Save the jokes, David. Call Mike, then get back to loading. There's a launch schedule to keep.” The screen washed white.
David searched his wallet for the call code of the Orphans of Yellowstone Gym, then waited sev
eral minutes before Mike Parry's lived-in face filled the screen, blocking out the punching bags and sparring ring behind him.
“Dave,” said the big, black man, “you still in orbit?"
David nodded. “Yeah, something's come up. I've got to fly a rush mission to Mars, so I'm going to be off the map for a couple of months. I'm sorry to spring this on you, but it just fell on me this afternoon."
Parry grimaced. “Well, I can reschedule the other volunteers to fill the training roster, but the kids are gonna be awful sorry. Especially Timmy, after last night."
“I've been up to my ass in alligators ever since I fell out of bed this morning. What happened?"
“Kid just wasn't there. Started badly and never came back—lost his confidence. Got knocked down twice in the first round, and I stopped it in the second. Leaned into a right hand he'd normally slip blindfolded, and got cut under the eye. You know the kiddies’ rules when there's blood on the canvas."
“Damn! Timmy should have taken that kid to the cleaners. What did you tell him at the end of the first round?"
“Not to go toe-to-toe with the other kid, keep to the center of the ring and not get caught on the inside."
David shook his head. “Timmy's not a technical fighter; he's heart and instinct."
“What else would I have told him?"
“Go forward, bet it all on one lucky shot. Take the puncher's chance. It's what I would've done."
“He'd have got his head knocked off!"
David shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe he'd have won. Bet your life he'd have preferred going down swinging, though. How is he?"
“Not too hot. Feels like he let you down. I tried to talk him up, but he went back to the shelter pretty unhappy."
“Christ, I should've been in the corner with him. He's got all the talent in the world, but he needs help focusing. Tell him—” David looked aside as Ellen gave him a piercing whistle from the cargo hatch. “Look, just tell him he didn't let anyone down, and I'll bring him back a Martian rock, okay?"
Analog SFF, June 2006 Page 2