Or maybe the achy and sleepless toss-and-turn-fest the night previous explained her reticence. She hadn’t been stalking Marcus, not exactly. Reverse-engineering the message headers from his texts to infer how far from the observatory he had wandered—better than a thousand kilometers as the photon flew; much farther, she imagined, driving across such rough terrain—wasn’t stalking. It did not become stalking, she kept assuring herself, until she began spying through lunar satellites.
“Are you okay, Professor Clayburn?”
“I’m not a professor,” she reminded him.
“Sorry. Doctor Clayburn.”
“Valerie,” she said, not that her past efforts at informality had had any effect.
“But are you okay?”
She followed his averted gaze to the swirled mess on her plate. “Not hungry, I guess.”
“But surely, Doctor, I mean, … you must need … I mean, umm, the baby must need ….”
“I’m fine, Jay.” But not prepared to discuss pregnancy with you. “So, about neural nets?”
On that topic, he spoke without hesitation. Only his neural net, while making some headway with matching known observations of particular asteroids, had achieved less success with orbit prediction. She nodded along, kept him talking with the occasional question, still trying to grasp the bigger picture. (Marcus snickered whenever he caught her using that metaphor. What picture was bigger, he would tease, than astronomical?)
“So,” Jay was saying, “I’ve been training the neural net with a subset of NASA’s primary database from the Near-Earth Objects Program. I’m struggling with the weights to give various classes of asteroids within the database. The thing is ….”
She listened with one ear, sensing he was onto something and, at the same time, that some larger context eluded them both. (Marcus, whatever the hell was up with him, having vanished but for the occasional text, would no more have let larger context go by without some wisecrack than bigger picture. Too bad.)
And that larger context was what? Neural nets? Maybe. She had studied programming, of course, back in her university days. She had written her fair share, and more, of computer code. But neural nets? Multitudes of neurons and synapses simulated on digital computers? Computing modeled in some way on the brain? That was nothing like anything in her experience.
One piece of the puzzle, though, had fallen into place. Like a baby, you taught a neural net. Like a baby, you hoped for the best and, after the fact, judged by results. What went on under the hood, or inside the cranium? No one knew.
Hmm. Babies. There’s no great mystery what’s going on inside my cranium.
So: back to Jay’s difficulties. If the neural net refused to perform as expected, that might be because it was the wrong tool for the job. She had no opinion to offer about that, much less any insight, one way or the other. But what if the net hadn’t been taught right …?
“Your training set,” she said. “Near-Earth objects, right?”
“Right. We’re looking for PHAs”—that was NASA-speak he had picked up: potentially hazardous asteroids—“and that database holds what we know about them.”
“Yes, but.” She paused for a sip of water. “The thing is, Jay, PHAs are a transient set of rocks. In general, one hits—with luck, burning up in the atmosphere—or something perturbs its orbit and sends it away.” And with bad luck, a rock punched right through the atmosphere. When a big enough rock did that, you got—just ask any dinosaur—global disaster and mass extinctions. Which was why any improved means of spotting PHAs and predicting their orbits was so important.
“Something. Such as a gravitational interaction with another planet?”
“Could be. Or with the Moon, or even another asteroid. Or a close encounter with a solar flare. With rocks as large as ten kilometers, sunlight itself can change orbits over time.” And what were the chances of a PHA larger than ten klicks having gone unnoticed? She jotted Yarkovsky effect on a paper napkin and slid it across the table. “Not my main point, but check this out. Anyway, I’m thinking it might be a worthwhile experiment to expand the neural net’s training set. Go beyond near-Earth objects. A broader population of asteroids will exhibit more consistent orbital behavior.”
“Thanks.” He tucked the napkin, neatly folded, into his shirt pocket. “I’ll do that. Any suggestions for where I should go for related data?”
As she spoke about datasets and asteroid populations, her attention kept wandering toward the dining area’s entrance. With so many great restaurants in downtown DC, she had not elected to eat in for the culinary experience! There was something she needed to know, and she did not see how to inquire about Marcus’s expedition without coming across as a crazy, hormonal preggo. But one of the people most likely to have her answer should be coming through that doorway any minute. Rajiv believed in belts, suspenders, and Krazy Glue, and it took a lot to perturb him from his daily orbit. When he showed, if she somehow steered the conversation ….
And there, at last, grabbing a takeout tray from the stack at the front of the serving line, was Rajiv. When he emerged from the cashier end of the line no more than two minutes later—arriving just before the cafeteria closed was part of his routine—she waved him over.
“Rajiv, please, join us for a minute. I’d like you to meet someone. Jay Singh is ABD”—all but dissertation—“at GWU. Jay, this is Rajiv Bhatari, our chief engineer.”
Looking less than happy about it, Rajiv sat. “Nice to meet you, Jay.”
“Doctor Bhatari,” Jay mumbled. “Sir.”
“Jay’s dissertation involves an innovative new approach to orbit determination of asteroids,” she said.
She got the men talking, long enough (or so she hoped) to cover for waylaying Rajiv, then interrupted. “Jay. I hadn’t intended to keep you so late. Let’s do this again next week.”
Jay took the hint. “Thanks for the guidance … Valerie. Doctor Bhatari, I enjoyed speaking with you.” Seconds later, he was on his way.
“How are things on the ninth floor?” she asked before Rajiv, he of the disposable tray, excused himself to finish the meal at his desk.
He gave a hands-turned-palms-up, you-know-how-it-is gesture.
“That well?” She laughed. “Not anything to do with me, I hope.”
He hesitated. “No.”
Meaning Farside? Meaning Marcus? And here she had wondered how, nonchalantly, to turn the conversation that way.
“It would appear my uninvolvement is ambiguous. I’m guessing the observatory has fallen even further behind schedule.”
“Uh-huh.”
She took the plunge. Anyway, subtlety was wasted on either of them. “To be honest, Rajiv, I was shocked when you approved the prospecting trip. Please don’t quote me to my husband, but I never saw how removing staff from Daedalus could help. If they had found exploitable concentrations of carbon on day one, it wouldn’t mean more steel on hand for, well, months.”
“Uh-huh,” punctuated this time by the vicious impaling of French fries.
Ah. “You don’t approve of their little road trip, do you?”
“Between you, me, and the lamppost? No.”
“Your staff, then? You went along with their recommendation.”
“They agree with me. Ditto both academic experts on lunar mining I consulted. Not that any of us got a look at this supposed super-duper algorithm for locating buried carbonaceous chondrites.”
That left … the administrator herself. “You were overruled?”
“Sonja took me aside and told me, ‘It’s Marcus’s show up there. That makes it his call.’ After a week’s prospecting in which they had found zip, I opined that, as far from the observatory as they had by then wandered, if they did hit pay dirt, it would be too remote for them to exploit. You know what? Sonja didn’t give a shit.”
Disregarding tech staff and her most
senior technical adviser? Letting a late project become even later? Both were so unlike the administrator’s famed CYA style that Valerie was at a loss where to begin. Was it possible Sonja Velasquez, too, had been overruled?
Valerie’s confusion must have shown.
“Yeah.” Rajiv smiled. “I was speechless, too.”
Speechless? Perhaps so. But also more curious—and worried—than ever. Maybe it was time to start stalking Marcus via lunar satellite.
* * *
The overdue call found Yevgeny working out in Base Putin’s always crowded gym. A quick swipe dismissed the call with a canned I’ll get right back to you text. Then, as soon as he felt would not have him seem hurried, he went to his room to return Paul Sokolov’s call.
“They threw me out,” the stocky trucker began without preamble. He sported a fresh shiner. The holo projected over Yevgeny’s datasheet was too small to show detail, but perhaps there was other, less dramatic facial bruising. “And Lunar Trucking has me up for a disciplinary hearing the day after tomorrow. If they don’t fire me and send my ass back to Dirtside, it’ll still be awhile before anyone at Site Tango confides in me again. I hope you’re happy.”
“You’re late,” Yevgeny countered. Happiness did not enter into their relationship. “Explain. Be specific.”
“You said to hurt Larry Erlich.” The American shrugged. “I hurt him. In the dining hall, after a few beers, I picked a fight. About baseball, if you can believe it. The Cubs have a shot this season, at least if you look at the standings. Larry comes from Chicago, and I told him the Cubs suck, that they’re more than capable of blowing a five-game lead. Shoved him good when he argued. He called me drunk and turned to walk away, so I called him a pussy. He took a swing at me. I hit him back. Yadda yadda yadda, I broke his arm. Snap. As they say, what a happy sound. Is that specific enough?”
Happy sound? What? Yevgeny intuited it did not matter. “And then? And why am I only hearing from you now?”
“Because this is the first privacy I’ve had. Right away, the call went out to the Aitken ER and soon after to Donna Rousseau, the wandering base paramedic. I know, because at first everything was live over the base intercom. They let her know of their medical emergency, that a shuttle was prepping to retrieve her. The head honcho nixed that, said the hospital here at Aitken could just retrieve Larry.”
Here at Aitken? That could wait. “How serious was the injury?”
“Left arm, and he’s a southpaw. A snapped ulna. The EMT on the medevac flight called it a nightstick break. I gather it’s what often happens when someone raises an arm to ward off a blow. Anyway, Larry is in surgery as we speak. I don’t know that you’ll care, but I was glad to hear they expect him to make a full recovery.”
Yevgeny knew about defensive injuries, but had to guess what a nightstick was. The perversity of English never ceased to amaze him. “A blow with what?”
“A sturdy beer bottle. It’s what I had handy.”
“That was enough?”
Sokolov shrugged. “On Earth, maybe not. On the Moon, though? After however many months of being casual about the prescribed exercise, it would seem Larry’s bones aren’t what they used to or should be.”
“And you know all this how?”
With an index finger, twice, Sokolov lightly tapped a cheek. He had quite the shiner coming on. “Some of Larry’s friends decided they didn’t appreciate my behavior. After registering their disapproval, they locked me in a storeroom till the ambulance landed, after which—and this will dispose of another of your questions—I was evacced on the flight with Larry. Till the hospital discharged me, not an hour ago, I haven’t had any privacy to count on. And not that you asked, but I’ll also be fine.
“On the flight to Aitken, Larry was pretty damn chatty after, I have to believe, a happy pill or three too many out of the first-aid cabinet. Not delighted to see me, but, and here’s the interesting part, he wasn’t pissed at just me. The ER doctor here had asked for an X-ray of the arm before sending a ship—but Judson wouldn’t excuse his paramedic from their little camping trip. She was ready, expecting, to go.” Sokolov raised an eyebrow. “Donna’s a cute little number. He might have a thing for her. Or maybe that’s just me.”
“Judson overruled the paramedic?” Yevgeny asked. “You’re certain?”
“The last things I overheard were Donna expecting to return and Judson muting the link. That’s about when Larry was taken to the infirmary and me to a dark and lonely corridor. But yeah, I’m sure. It’s what Larry was told.”
By way of Icarus, Yevgeny had personnel files for everyone at the observatory. That was how he had chosen the astronomer—the paramedic’s understudy—as Sokolov’s victim. Donna Rousseau was an experienced paramedic and a professional. Depriving her post of medical support would not sit well with her. Neither would delaying care for a colleague, for hours.
“Anything else?”
“Yeah,” Sokolov said. “Also worth noting is that Lunar Trucking put a driver on the flight to Daedalus. He’s to return with my rig to Aitken, what with me being ‘injured’ and all. My pay will go to him till he gets back with my rig, and I can’t see he’ll be motivated to hurry. The way I figure—”
“You will be compensated.” Because Sokolov was too useful, despite the tiresome greed, to lose. “And I am sorry for your injuries. You did an excellent job.” That final sentence was meant as both compliment and dismissal.
“Why, exactly, did you want me to hurt Larry?”
“Thank you for your report, but I have other matters to attend to.” Yevgeny broke the connection.
Why hurt someone at Daedalus? Because now, after this little experiment, any possibility Judson and colleagues had been truthful about their trip had been eliminated. You would not withhold medical care rather than delay prospecting for a few hours, or even a few days. Not even for a stranger.
But to sustain a CIA op? That bunch seldom balked at causing some collateral damage.
Chapter 9
“I’m fine, Mom,” Simon said with practiced teenage diffidence. At least he dispensed with the customary eye roll.
“I’m glad.” Indeed, Val decided, he seemed fine. It was hard to be sure from the small holo, but he looked taller, or at least thinner, than when he’d left (could it have been only a few days ago?) to spend most of the summer with her parents. Had to be taller, she decided. Mom always cooked as if for an army, and Simon ate—and ate—as long as any food was in sight. The human Shop-Vac, Marcus affectionately called him.
Simon stood in her folks’ kitchen, as she did in her own. “You know, I wouldn’t have to call Grandma to talk with you if you’d take my calls.”
Now she got an eye roll, because no one Simon’s age spoke over the net. That was so last century. Too bad! She was his mother, she missed him, and texting was no substitute for seeing and hearing him.
“What’s new there?” she prompted.
“In Danville, Illinois?” He shrugged.
Fair enough. Try growing up there. Pre-Internet. “So, what have you been up to?”
“How’s my little brother doing?” he countered. Changing the subject, sure, but also looking sincere.
He had promised not to reveal the baby’s sex to Marcus, and she remained confident that Simon would keep it to himself. Who better than a teenage boy to withhold information? “We had a checkup a few days ago. Everything is going great.” And I’m well, too, she added mentally. “I can send you the latest ultrasound. Would you like that?”
“I think I’ll wait for the big unveiling.”
“So, what have you been up to?” Val tried again.
“Hanging out.” Another shrug. “How’s Dad faring up there? He hasn’t been texting much.”
“He’s been busy,” she managed to get out, as, without warning, a tsunami broke over her. If not as extreme as the mood swings a few weeks
earlier, this was intense enough. No, she hadn’t heard much from Marcus, not for days. Even his texts were few and far between. And she was touched, no delighted, no saddened, no conflicted that Simon called his stepfather Dad, and anguished that Simon had no memory whatever of his own father, killed in Afghanistan. When had she last told Simon what a good man, and what a great guy, Keith had been? She couldn’t even remember. Tears welled.
“Mom! Are you okay?”
With a shiver, she got her feelings under control. She felt embarrassed for the both of them. “Just pregnant. So, is Grandma still around?”
“I’m sure she is.” He looked relieved. The view shifted as he picked up the datasheet and began walking. “Here she is. Take care, Mom.”
“Bye, sweetie.”
Simon relinquished the datasheet and did not tarry.
“Hi, Mom,” Val said.
“You’re working too hard,” her mother answered.
“Just not sleeping well. You remember how that goes.”
“I remember how that was in my early thirties. Exhausting. But at your age? You need to take it easier.”
With a flash of empathy with Simon, Val changed the subject. And forty-three was not that old to be having a baby. Not with modern medicine. “How are you guys doing? Is Simon running you and Dad ragged?”
“Simon is no trouble at all, dear. We hardly see him.”
“Mom, he’s a teenage boy. Who knows what kind of trouble ….” Val trailed off as her mother’s grin registered. “Okay. What gives?”
“I guess he didn’t tell you. It’s so cliché: the girl next door. They’re cute together.”
“But if you hardly see him?”
“Relax,” Mom said. “Stacy is a lovely young lady, and her parents are good people. They keep an eye out when the kids are there together.”
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