H
olly led Nadia Wunderly down the high-ceilinged corridor of the storage facility. On either side of them the walls were blank, except for long strings of numbers on each closed and locked door. Strip lamps along the ceiling lit the corridor brightly, but to Wunderly the place seemed dusty, gritty from disuse, and eerily quiet.
“So who’re you going with to the New Year’s Eve bash?” Holly asked, as they prowled along the corridor.
“One of the computer techies,” Wunderly replied cheerfully. “Da’ud Habib.”
Holly felt impressed. “He’s the head of Urbain’s computer team. From the University of British Columbia.”
“You know him?” Wunderly asked, surprised.
“Only from the human resources files.”
“Oh.”
“He’s a Moslem.”
“But he’s no chauvinist,” Wunderly countered immediately. “He’s really kind of a sweet guy.”
They walked on through the silent, dusty corridor. Wunderly eyed Holly’s lean, long-legged figure. Bet she’s never had to use a treadmill in her life, she said to herself. Still, though, her own figure was looking better every day—thanks to Cardenas’s nanos, she thought. And she was taking the enzyme injections to make her skin turn golden, just like everybody else, so she wouldn’t look so pasty. Almost everybody else, she realized. Holly doesn’t need enzymes: Her skin’s a wonderful toasty brown already.
“It’s like a maze down here,” Wunderly murmured, as Holly walked assuredly beside her.
“Just down another two cross-corridors, and then we turn left. Two doors in, that’s it.”
Clear admiration showed on Wunderly’s dimpled face. “You’ve got it memorized?”
Holly smiled gently. “Got it all memorized, Nadia. The whole layout. Everything and everybody in the habitat.”
“Memorized?”
“I’m a reborn, Nadia. Hope that doesn’t bother you.”
Wunderly’s eyes widened slightly. “Cryonics? How long were you in?”
“A little over twenty years.”
“But I thought reborns’ memories were pretty much wiped out when they’re revived.”
Nodding, Holly replied, “Yep. I don’t remember anything from my first life. Oh, maybe a snatch of something or other, but no connected memories.”
“Then how come—”
“The rehab team gave me a lot of RNA treatments and memory boosters. Didn’t work, far’s as remembering my first life’s concerned, but it surely gave me a near-perfect memory now. I see something once and I’ve got it forever, pretty near.”
“Eidetic,” Wunderly murmured.
“That’s what the psychs call it, yeah.”
They turned at a cross-corridor and stopped before the second door on their left.
“This is it,” said Holly, so flatly certain that Wunderly didn’t question her. “Manny has the combination,” she added, peering at the keyboard lock set into the door.
“He ought to be here,” said Wunderly, glancing at her wristwatch. “We said nine-thirty.”
Holly grinned. “He prob‘ly got lost.”
The overhead lights flickered once, twice, then quit altogether, plunging them into total darkness. Wunderly’s breath caught in her throat, but before either of them could say a word, the lights came on again at full brightness.
Wunderly’s brows knit as she glanced up at the ceiling. “They shouldn’t do that,” she said.
Whatever it is that Eberly wants from me, thought Ilya Timoshenko as he walked from his apartment building to the administrative offices, it can’t be very urgent. Instead of meeting me last evening, after my shift, he set the meeting for this morning.
Timoshenko walked with his shoulders hunched, his head thrust slightly forward, in a slightly rolling gait like an old-time sailor. He looked burly, aggressive, and while he was ordinarily as quiet and withdrawn as any introspective engineer, when he drank too much he became loudly combative. He was taller than he seemed at first glance, and his limbs were long and gangling. His face bore such an intense expression of skepticism that most people, on first meeting him, pegged him as a haughty know-it-all. His dark brown hair was thick and wiry, his stubborn chin usually bristly. It wasn’t until you looked into his wolf-gray eyes that you saw what a tormented soul he actually was.
The administrative offices were quiet, a picture of calm, unhurried bureaucrats going about their leisurely business with the least possible amount of actual effort. Drones, Timoshenko snorted silently, as he strode through the aisle that separated their desks. More of them at the coffee machine than at their workstations, he noticed disdainfully. At least there are only a handful of them, he saw. Back in St. Petersburg every government office had swarms of drones lazing around, doing their best to avoid exerting themselves. Plus the Holy Disciples psalm-singers hanging around to make certain nobody broke any of their moral rules. Working hard wasn’t one of their rules, Timoshenko growled to himself. Taking a salary for doing as little as possible didn’t break any of their commandments.
He strode past their desks without asking for help, knowing that if he did they’d make him wait, just to show their authority. He knew where Eberly’s office was; you could see his door with his name on it, back at the rear of this drones’ bullpen.
“Sir,” called one of the drones, a woman. “Sir, you can’t go in without being announced.” She was dressed in a brown tunic and darker slacks, just like all the others, men and women.
Timoshenko, wearing the one-piece coveralls of his profession, walked right past her with a gruff, “Eberly’s expecting me.”
“But you’ve got to be announced,” the woman insisted as he brushed by her. All the others froze where they were; no one moved to stop him.
“You can’t—”
Timoshenko rapped on Eberly’s door once and slid it open. Eberly, behind his desk, looked surprised for an instant, then quickly hid it with a forced smile.
“Exactly on time,” he said. “Please come in and take a chair.”
Timoshenko went to the pair of cold-looking chrome and leather chairs in front of the desk and sat in one. He heard the door slide shut behind him. Whether one of the drones closed it or Eberly did it with a remote control, he didn’t know, nor did he care.
“You wanted to see me,” he said. “Here I am.”
Eberly’s smile showed teeth. “You’re very punctual.”
“I’m an engineer. In my business we try to be exact.”
“Yes, I see.”
“So?”
“The reason I asked to see you is about your being an engineer. As I understand it, there’s not much to do in the navigation center anymore.”
Timoshenko grunted. “That’s why I volunteered to help Urbain’s people. Turns out there’s not much to do there, either, except wonder what’s gone wrong with his probe.”
“So you’re not doing much useful work, then.”
“There’s not much to do.”
“Do you fill in the time with planning for the next election campaign?”
Timoshenko felt truly surprised at that. “The next election? Not me! Once was enough. You won, I lost. That’s the end of my political career.”
Eberly steepled his fingers in front of his face and studied Timoshenko for a few moments, as if trying to determine if he were telling the truth.
“No hard feelings about losing, then?” he asked.
“To tell the truth, I was relieved. I’m not a boss, and I don’t want to be a boss.”
“But you’re a very talented engineer, and we’re not using your abilities to their fullest.”
Timoshenko thought, Here it comes, whatever it is that he wants from me.
“How would you like to head the maintenance department?” Eberly asked, turning on his smile again.
“The janitors?”
“Come now, you know the maintenance team is responsible for the operational integrity of this entire habitat. It’s an important position, much more important than filling in at one of Urbain’s consoles.”
Nodding warily, Timoshenko reluctantly agreed, “Maintenance is a big job, true enough.”
“Now that we’re in orbit around Saturn,” Eberly said, “the maintenance team has the responsibility for keeping the habitat’s outer shell in good condition.”
“Abrasion from the ring particles,” Timoshenko muttered.
“Ah! You’re aware of the problem.”
“It’s not that big of a problem. The abrasion rate is well within the scale that was calculated before we left Earth.”
“Yes, but it still requires constant vigilance. And repairs, when necessary.”
“You’re worried about the radiation shielding.”
Eberly looked blank for a fleeting moment, then nodded vigorously. “Precisely. If the superconducting shield fails, we’d all be exposed to dangerous levels of radiation, wouldn’t we?”
“Dangerous?” Timoshenko almost smiled. “Lethal, more likely.”
“So you can see what an important job this is.”
“But isn’t Aaronson in charge of maintenance? He’s doing a decent job.”
“It’s too big a job for him,” Eberly said. “I’m getting complaints daily about electrical power failures, mechanical breakdowns, things that shouldn’t be happening but are. It’s only minor, of course, but it’s irritating. Our facilities should be running much more smoothly than they are.”
Timoshenko said, “That’s why you have a maintenance department: to take care of such problems.”
“Yes, I know, but the responsibility for exterior and interior maintenance is too much for one person,” Eberly went on. “I’ve decided to split the maintenance department into two groups, interior and exterior. I want you to head the exterior section.”
Timoshenko sank back in the armchair. Why is he doing this? he wondered. What’s he up to? He’s a slippery one, and he doesn’t do things out of the goodness of his soul. Or for the good of the habitat, either, for that matter.
Yet a voice in his head countered, It’s a responsible position. It’s a necessary task, you know that. Ice and rock chunks are pinging this eggshell all the time. We’ve got to be able to repair any damage they do.
“It’s better than sitting around and doing nothing,” Eberly coaxed.
“That’s true enough,” Timoshenko muttered.
“It’s a very important position. Lots of responsibility. Do you think you’re up to it?”
Timoshenko felt a jolt of anger Hare inside him. But he suppressed it and said merely, “I can handle it.”
“You’ll do it, then?”
Feeling that he was being maneuvered, but not knowing why or how to get out of it, Timoshenko shrugged heavily and said, “Okay, I’ll do it.”
“Good!” Eberly shot to his feet and extended his hand across the desk. Timoshenko took it in his thick-fingered hand, careful not to grasp too tightly.
“I’ll tell Aaronson about it,” Eberly said, smiling broadly. “He’ll be relieved.”
Another drone, Timoshenko thought, as he left Eberly’s office.
As his office door closed behind the engineer, Eberly thought happily, That ought to keep him out of my hair. He’ll be too busy with exterior maintenance to bother me, and the job’s not so big or glamorous that it will draw attention to him. Aaronson can concentrate on these niggling little complaints so things will be running smoother as we come up to the election. Good!
As he left the administration building and stepped into the morning sunlight, Timoshenko thought, Maybe he wants to get rid of me. Maybe he thinks I’ll get myself killed outside. It could happen.
Holly heard light footsteps padding down the corridor around the corner. Must be Manny, she thought. But then they stopped.
Stepping into the main corridor, she saw Gaeta peering at a wall screen map, tracing a finger across its screen.
“Manny, here we are,” she called.
Gaeta trotted to the two women. “I got lost,” he admitted sheepishly.
“I would have, too,” said Wunderly, “if it weren’t for Holly’s photographic memory.”
“At least I remember the combination,” Gaeta said, tapping on the keyboard lock.
The door popped slightly ajar and Gaeta swung it all the way back. The overhead lights came on automatically in the bare little room. Before them stood the excursion suit that Gaeta had used for many of his daredevil stunts. It loomed over the three humans like Frankenstein’s monster, like an inert robot, massive and intimidating.
“Hey amigo,” Gaeta said softly as he stepped up to it and slid a hand along one of its dimpled cermet forearms. “We’ve been through a lot, this suit and me,” he murmured. “A helluva lot.”
“Climbed Olympus Mons on Mars,” Wunderly said.
“And skiboarded down the reverse slope,” added Holly.
“And
surfed Jupiter’s cloud deck.
And
skydived through Venus’s clouds.”
“What was the toughest stunt you did?” Wunderly asked, her eyes glowing.