“Mr. Mathews,” Patrick began.
“Call me John, I’m not much for formality.”
“Okay, do you and NASA think that my girlfriend was responsible for bugging my system? Because I don’t believe it. She wouldn’t do something like that to me. There has to be some other explanation.”
“That’s what we’re trying to determine, Patrick. No one wants to make any false accusations, nor is anyone going to be judged guilty before a fair and proper examination of the facts.”
“Are you some kind of cop?”
John laughed. “I was. I’ve been off the force for more than ten years now.”
“I thought so. You talk like a cop. Okay, what should I do next?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Why’s that?” asked a confused Patrick.
“Because now that we’re watching, should it happen again we’ll be able to find out who or what is responsible for bugging your system. So, no acting different, no mentioning anything to your girlfriend. Just go about your daily routine the same as always if that’s at all possible,” John advised.
“You’re kidding, right? Just do what I normally do? What if it is Melody, what’s going to happen to her?” he asked, mild panic creeping into his voice.
“Easy now. There’s no proof she’s actually involved so let’s not go off half-cocked.”
“Easy for you to say. Melody’s just about the best thing that’s ever happened to me. If things go south, that’s gonna really suck,” said Patrick miserably.
“Like I said, let’s just see how things play out. Here’s my card, better yet, put my number in your phone,” suggested John.
Patrick copied John’s number and email address into his phone’s contact list, leaving off the last name. When he returned the phone to his pocket, he saw John stand up.
“I’m going to take off, I have a couple of things to do, not the least of which is taking a tour around the space station mockup. Remember, go about your business like you always do. If something comes up I’ll be in touch,” he said, reaching out to shake Patrick’s hand.
When John left, Patrick closed his door, then sat down at his desk. He turned to look out the window at the NASA campus, mulling over everything Milton and John had revealed to him. He came face to face with the seriousness with which security concerns were taken by both GST and the government. And being the subject of an investigation was troubling, especially in light of the fact that he had never really thought much about security before. Other than the normal necessities of safe computing in the Internet age, this level of caution scared him more than he cared to admit.
* * *
Two old friends were having a quiet drink in the colony’s bar. Actually, Sherman’s was the only bar outside Earth’s orbit and was as well appointed as any upscale venue in the best cities on Earth.
“When was the last time you took a close look at our former home?” Phillip asked Lucius.
“You know I keep track of who’s who and what’s what. The sad part is that nearly all of my old friends there have passed away in the decade since I arrived. The conditions are worse, not better, than when we left. No jobs, no science, nothing that gives anyone hope except that the NASA mission is somehow going to steal the science and medical breakthroughs we have here.”
“Fat chance of that. Chris will never let it happen. And with the defensive technologies everyone’s been working on since we arrived, there’s nothing they can do to force us to give anything up. How did they let everything get so bad down there?” Phillip lamented, shaking his head. “All the signs were there. The economic failures in Europe should have been warning enough that things were going off the rails. Taking away your faith in people and putting it on wealth is a sure fire recipe for failure. I wasn’t America’s only ethicist; hell, progressives had been screaming for a generation about the country going in the wrong direction.”
“The United States made their bed, now they have to lie in it,” Lucius said.
“I keep going back and forth in my mind over whether we have an obligation to try to help. We left everyone behind, not just white folks,” Phillip said sadly.
“You heard I’m going back on the shopping excursion, didn’t you?”
“I did. How do you feel about that?”
“At first I didn’t have any interest in going at all. But I have to admit I’m kind of curious about seeing how things are on the ground. Even though I’m supposed to be a doddering old man in my 90s, I’m the only one here whose name they never got.”
“Ha! I had completely forgotten about that. And I even helped Chris draft the farewell message sent to Earth when we picked you up. You going to try to pass as you?” Phillip asked, laughing.
“That’s not funny. You have no idea what I had to do every few weeks to stay looking close to my official age after Chris made me take the retrovirus. I don’t expect to have to do too terribly much like that for this trip. Genesis is going to handle as much of the paperwork as possible. I may have to be around to pay off some dock or warehouse workers to get stuff moved from point A to point B to get it loaded into a ship, and get it all back here. Fortunately, better heads than mine are working on the logistics,” said Lucius.
At the same time, Sydney was in deep discussion with Genesis, working through the details of a new project.
“Is there any way to reduce the communications lag between here and the Earth? That appears to be the only problem in real-time communications,” she asked the A.I.
“Unfortunately, there is not. I can communicate without a noticeable lag if I move a kernel of my higher cognitive functions to one of the two satellites remaining at the L4 and L5 points in orbit. However, if you want real-time communications with someone on Earth, there will be a noticeable lag in response time both ways.”
“Genesis, are there any other facilities on the moon that can be made livable without too much trouble?” Sydney inquired. “Something that was functional when you all lived there and was decommissioned when the colony left?”
“There were three outposts in addition to the one currently inhabited by the navy SEALs. All power generating and air reprocessing equipment was removed from those installations in preparation for initiating Project Relo. I have no remote sensors available in either of those installations. I estimate they may retain some atmosphere. However, I would not count on the atmosphere to be breathable. May I inquire for what reason are you in need of close communication with Earth?”
“The council is interested in drafting a workable means of recruiting additional people to join the community. I’m looking into the possible logistics of remotely contacting candidates. It’s just not optimal. As a matter of fact, I would never consider trying to recruit anyone without meeting them face to face. I can’t see any way this is going to work unless we can find someone on the ground whom we can trust to take up where Lucius and I left off. It’s a long shot. Do you have any ideas?”
“The main impediment to regular contact with Earth is their ability to track G-wave-equipped spacecraft. Any attempt to return to Earth will be tracked by the U.S. military. Avoiding attack or capture on every trip to meet with or pick up candidates increases the complexity of each mission.”
Sydney sighed. It was looking more and more like the task of further recruitment was impossible.
“Thank you, Genesis. I’m going to have to go back to the drawing board. Unless we reinvest in an outpost much nearer Earth, or even on the planet itself, transportation is going to be the constant sticking point. That will be all for now.”
* * *
President Laughlin’s chief of staff wasn’t thankful at all that the president had given the job of screening mission commander preliminary selections on her. She was also convinced that her criteria were very different from his own, so she decided to submit them all. The final selection was going to be
vetted by the president, NASA, and most likely GST. No matter who was selected, there were going to be legions of people and special interest groups that were going to be disappointed.
Despite the notion that military and ex-military candidates were going to be frowned upon, two of the people she had in the mix were a retired general, a black aviator who had worked his way up through the ranks, and a retired naval commodore, also black.
Looking over the full list, very few of her preferred candidates were white. Realizing that this expedition could very well be lost based on the temperament and color of the mission commander, it would be pointless to send any white military personnel. The only other candidate who had served time in the armed forces was a second-generation South Asian, although she wasn’t convinced that a Pakistani was going to have automatic traction with the separatists either. She was realistic enough to acknowledge traditional prejudices within the black community toward immigrants from both India and Pakistan, and vice versa.
One potential candidate she kept returning to, even though she wasn’t exactly sure why was Dr. Susan Roscoe, currently a department chair at MIT. In both President Bander’s cloistered commission on the then-incoming asteroid that ended up crashing into the back of the moon, and the working group studying the separatists, Roscoe’s leadership stood out. She was obviously blessed with a keen intellect, and judging from the committees she chaired, she was nobody’s fool.
Roscoe had led a work stoppage when “white” and “colored” signs appeared at the cafeteria water fountains in the underground military facility where the commissions were housed. And she had no paucity of words directed at President Bender when he made a surprise visit to the underground shelter to read everyone the riot act, promising, in his words, ‘that kind of bullshit is not going to be tolerated, and if anyone is caught pulling anything like that stunt again, they are going to serve time.’”
President Bender’s private notes on her leadership and smarts were highly complimentary. He also expressed serious regret that he was not able to convince her to serve in his administration.
Dawkins was uncertain whether or not Roscoe would even entertain the idea of heading up the mission. Laughlin’s administration and NASA could do a hell of a lot worse. She was head of the math department at MIT, and according to the background file, Roscoe was fifty-two, young enough to easily pass the physical for the mission as long as she didn’t have some congenital condition not mentioned. Of the eight candidates accumulated so far, Roscoe was the one Dawkins was secretly pulling for.
Several days later, President Laughlin called her in to review the candidates she had gathered so far.
“Eight so far,” Laughlin said, paging through the brief profiles.
“It’s not easy, Stuart. Nearly all the former shuttle commanders are military. And I hesitated to look at anyone from the Fortune 500. And looking at the more obvious African American leaders at the forefront, I can’t see them doing much useful for the mission, just the kind of posturing that even I find nauseating,” said Dawkins. “And, there’s the fact that they would be out-of-pocket for two years, more or less. That’s a long time to be away from home, let alone the planet.”
“I can’t speak to that as well as you can, Debra. But this is a working diplomatic mission so unprecedented there’s no past example to draw from. And Lord knows that failure on any front is just going to be magnified a hundredfold.”
Laughlin removed his reading glasses, tossed them on the desk and scrubbed his eyes in tired frustration as Dawkins waited him out.
“Talk about your damned if I do, damned if I don’t. No matter who I select, assuming they will be vetted by NASA, someone’s going to be pissed off at my choice,” he said tiredly.
“Maybe not,” Dawkins offered.
“Oh?”
“Look at the last candidate, Dr. Susan Roscoe. She’s about the only nonmilitary, nonpolitical candidate that wouldn’t be likely to piss off the people the mission is designed to meet. Frankly, I’m somewhat surprised she’s still at MIT and not out past Mars’ orbit.”
Laughlin put his glasses back on and read through the two-page profile before saying anything. When he was finished, he leaned back in his chair and considered the pros and cons.
“You know that choosing her is going to piss off nearly everyone in Congress, the military, the Fortune 500, the Klu Klux Klan, the Daughters of the American Revolution—hell I can’t think of anyone who won’t be upset with me except for a very narrow group of academics,” he said, shaking his head.
“And that’s why she’s so perfect. You can’t be accused of being biased or preferential to anyone with her. She’s the only candidate I could come up with a completely nonpolitical background. To be honest, I can’t see history calling you anything but brilliant for choosing her.”
Laughlin was quiet again as he thought it through.
“Okay,” he said after a few moments. “Any idea if she’d even consider it?”
“She served on Bender’s commission, which we spin as a positive from the start well before someone tries to tar her with the same brush as President Bender. I’m sure she knows a mission is being sent. I think a personal invitation here to ask her would go a long way in tilting the odds in your favor. She’s sharp, she’s going to know something is up, but I doubt mission commander is in the top ten things she’ll guess. I can make the call if you’d like,” Dawkins offered.
“You’ve met her?”
“No, but she’s bound to have heard of me. Tell you what. Go through the rest of the profiles tonight and let me know if there’s anyone who looks better to you.”
“You’re giving me homework now?” Laughlin said with a laugh.
“Just like the good old days when you were running for the office. I’ll keep looking for anyone else to add to the group, but I’ve been at this for over a week now. I would characterize what you have there as the best of the best. Unless you can think of somewhere else I should be looking, I’m pretty much tapped out. That’s not to say there’s no one else who would meet these pretty rarified criteria, but how else can I find and dig them up?”
“That’s not what I’m worried about. I can’t imagine you missing a bet. I’ll study these tonight and get back to you in the morning, but hold off calling Roscoe.”
“Not until you give me the word. Anything else?” she asked.
“No. It’s past time to knock off for the day. Beat it!” he said, shooing her out of the office.
“What about you?” Dawkins said, pausing at the door.
“I’m shooting for some of that overtime they pay around here.”
“Yeah, right! I’ll catch you in the morning, chief,” she said, pulling the door shut.
Laughlin studied the rest of the candidates as carefully as he had Roscoe, checking some of the ancillary background information available on the Internet for the more well-known prospects.
He took almost five pages of notes and disqualified four of the eight for differing reasons. By the time he was through it was going on 9:00 P.M. He called the kitchen and ordered a small salad, then wondered why his wife hadn’t called him to see if he was coming upstairs for dinner. Then he remembered that she was at a fund raiser in New York.
He had just enough time to grab something to eat before the habitual 11:00 P.M. call she always made when she was away. He pulled off his tie, unbuttoned his collar and decided to bring his notes and the profiles to the dining room. Before he reached the door, it was opened by his personal Secret Service agent.
“Another long one, eh, Mr. President?”
“Aren’t they all, Tim?”
“Pretty much goes with the territory, sir.” Then quietly into his radio, Agent Andrews said, “Jaguar is on the move,” as they left the office.
“By the way, Mr. President, your wife appears to have knocked them dead at the fund raiser.”
“Is that so? Good, she needed to get away for a day or two. When are they due back?” Laughlin asked.
“Just before noon tomorrow, sir.”
“Thank you, Tim. I’m going to head up.”
“Yes, sir. Your dinner is waiting. Will that be all for tonight?”
“Yes, good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Good night, sir.”
* * *
“One meter to acquisition …”
“Roger that, Barnes. Your video is five-by. Ready to ghost it in?” mission control inquired.
“Roger that. Everyone clear? Sound off if you’re not. We’re going to lose daylight if we don’t get a move on,” Barnes warned.
Clyde Barnes was the lead engineer in orbit on Project Jove, supervising a crew of six engineers and so-called space mechanics attaching the final ion propulsion module to the massive spacecraft.
NASA’s mission control in Houston was at full capacity, doing its part to ensure that nothing would go wrong from their end. And supervising the extra-vehicular mission was none other than Patrick Jenson, the designer of the ion propulsion units. He was seated at the console to the right of Sam Levy, the voice of mission control for this phase of the construction of the spacecraft.
Covering his microphone, Levy leaned over and said, “I’ll bet you wish you were there now, don’t you?”
“Um, well, not exactly,” Patrick answered with a barely visible shudder. “If something goes wrong I’ll need to be with my team here to get it straightened out as soon as possible.”
Levy just raised an eyebrow, looking somewhat askance at Patrick.
The main screen in the vast control room showed the view from Barnes’ helmet camera, currently focused on the ion engine, floating less than a meter from its attachment point at the rear of the spacecraft.
“Okay, going to apply a half-second burst from the MU, mission control.”
“Roger that. We read, intend a half-second burst from the maneuvering unit. Proceed when ready.”
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