Zero-G (17 page)

“Everything has to be inventoried. More than once, a family member has tried to get the best of the county by accusing us of stealing rings or money. So we log everything.” He looked at the material on the table. “Make it quick; I have work to do.”

“It will only take a moment. I'll be done before you have Ms. Sellers's stuff bagged.”

Short looked at the clothing as if they had slipped his mind. He moved to a cabinet and removed a large paper envelope that looked like a mailing envelope on steroids and turned his attention to the clothing.

Alderman took the wallet, opened it, and spread its contents across a bare area of table. He lined up Mason's driver's license, a medical insurance card, and several credit cards. He also removed all the money from the bill compartment: a ten and two fives. Removing his cell phone from his belt, he began to take pictures. He had no interest in anything but items Quain could have passed to the bartender. The only thing that fit was the money.

He took photos then returned the phone to his belt. He picked up the wallet and returned the driver's license and other items to their place. He picked up the money, opened the wallet, acted as if he was placing the money in the bill compartment, but before releasing the paper, he deftly folded it in half and palmed it like a magician doing a coin trick. Using the bag to conceal his next move, he crumpled the three bills until he concealed them in one hand.

After dropping the wallet into the item bag, Alderman replaced the keys and penknife. He closed the bag. He turned to the locker from which Short had removed the material. “You want me to put this back?”

Short had paused his activity, allowing his gaze to rest on the clothing of his dead workmate. Alderman placed the bag into the locker and removed his gloves. “Yeah, thanks.”

“I'm sorry for your loss, Dr. Short. I wish I could say more.”

Short nodded. “I'll show you out.”

“No need, Doctor. I can find my way. At the moment, you have more important work to do.”

Alderman gave the tall man a pat on the shoulder, then left.

FIFTEEN

T
here you go, buddy, one officially autographed
Tower
of Terror
.” Roos handed the small plastic-wrapped copy of the video game to Gary. “And so you don't have to destroy the signature by opening the package, here's another one for you to use.”

“This is too cool, Mr. Roos. Thank you.”

Tuck thought he could see Gary swelling with joy. It was late afternoon, and they were seated in a small, sparsely furnished office just off the foyer they had passed through when they first arrived. Tuck sat in a cheap fiberglass chair. Gary did the same. Roos leaned against an old metal desk. No art hung on the walls, and the white paint looked freshly rolled on. A thin window in the concrete exterior wall let in a stream of late afternoon light. To one side of the office was a drafting table with rolls of plans resting on its surface.

“You have a sister, don't you?”

Gary seemed surprised. “Um, yeah.”

“Well, since she didn't get to come along, I have a gift for her as well.” He rounded the desk and opened the large drawer that most people used for files and extracted another plastic-wrapped game package. “I don't know if you know this, but selling video games to females is far more difficult than selling to males. Most tire of shooting things.”

“That's because they're girls.”

Roos laughed and looked at Tuck. “I take it your boy hasn't rounded the corner.”

“Any day now.” Tuck smiled.

“What are you guys talking about?” Gary frowned.

“Just that your opinion of girls is going to change soon.” Roos winked. “Anyway, my company has designed a new game aimed at teenage girls, and I would like her opinion.” He removed a second game from the desk and stepped close to Gary. “This one is for her and this one is for both of you. Here's what I'd like you to do: Review both games and shoot me an e-mail about what you think. Be brutally honest. If it stinks, then it stinks. I'll pay each of you two hundred bucks.”

“Two hundred dollars?” Gary's mouth dropped open.

“Mr. Roos —,” Tuck began.

“Don't say it, Commander. I'm not bribing your kids. I pay my consultants. ‘A workman is worth his hire,' my father used to say. He said that was from the Bible. I don't know anything about the Bible, but the words made sense and have served me well in business.” He looked at Gary. “Deal?”

“Deal!”

“Just be sure you both understand that I want the truth. Don't tell me what you think I want to hear; tell me what I need to hear.”

“Sound advice,” Tuck said.

“I'm glad you agree, Commander.” Roos pushed himself up on the desk, using it as a chair.

“How so?”

“Because I'm going to tell you what you need to hear instead of what you prefer to hear.” His gaze shifted to Gary. “Do you mind if I have a word or two with your dad? Audrey can take you over to the lunchroom. We have a few arcade-style video games there — a couple of old-school games as well as two newer ones. I promise we won't be long.”

Gary looked at his father, and Tuck gave a nod. A few moments later, Tuck and Roos were alone. Tuck expected him to assume the position of the dominant executive, plopping down behind the desk. Tuck had seen the suits at NASA do it many times. Instead, Roos turned the seat Gary had just vacated to face Tuck, sat, then leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He looked more like a man about to confess his sins to a counselor than the head of a billion-dollar company and CEO of a leading space tourism firm.

“Listen, Commander, I imagine you've seen through my little ploy to get you out here. I could have sent the games and autograph by Fed Ex.”

“It's a little transparent.”

“That's the way I am, Commander. I don't like pretense and hate putting on airs. I am what you see and not much more.”

“I admire that.” Tuck knew what was coming. “You want me to reconsider your offer.”

“You've seen what we're doing. You've seen things no one outside the firm has. I've not asked you to sign a nondisclosure agreement or anything else to keep you from broadcasting to the world what you've seen. I know I'm asking a lot of you — ”

“You're asking me to resign NASA and my Navy commission. Yeah, I'd say you're asking a lot.”

Roos straightened, and for a moment, Tuck thought he had offended his host. He thought that until he saw the smile. “Three months from now we will do our first full test of
Legacy
. I want you on that flight. Not long after that, we'll take our first passengers into space.”

“That seems a tad fast.”

“It's not. As I've said, we've already had several successful tests. When you come on board, I'll show you the video and test results.”

“
If
I come on board.”

Roos's smile broadened. “At least you're thinking about it.” He paused and the smile dissolved. “So far, I've been very good at guessing the results of events I haven't seen. I'm no psychic but I am incredibly insightful. Things have deteriorated for you at NASA. Am I right?”

“I'm not free to discuss such things.”

Roos nodded. “I understand. Let me cut to the chase. I don't think you'll ever fly for NASA again. I think they've grounded you, either formally or informally. In either case, you're about to be strapped to a desk. Here, Commander Tucker, you could be flying in three months. Three months.”

Tuck didn't respond, didn't show a flicker of emotion that might reveal his hurt and anger.

Roos pulled his mouth tight and his eyes narrowed. “Commander, you can lead the vanguard or you can let them retire you to flying an easy chair.”

“You assume too much — ”

“Of course I do. Do you think a spaceship like
Legacy
gets built by someone who cares about what other people think? Do you honestly believe that a normal man would undertake the impossible and sink his personal fortune into the task? I've faced the facts about myself a long time ago. The world sees me as borderline crazy, a risk-taker beyond all risk-takers. They're right — absolutely, spot-on right. I care nothing for the standard approach. I want to be on the edge of things. For guys like me, that's where life is — on the bleeding edge. Tell me you're not the same kind of man.”

Tuck said nothing.

“You can't, can you? If you're not reaching beyond your grasp, then you're unhappy, unfulfilled, hollow.”

“You don't know me that well.”

Roos swore and stood. “Of course I do, Tucker. Life has cut us from the same cloth. Granted, the cloth is burlap, but who cares. Look at your life: Annapolis, flight school, combat pilot, test pilot, astronaut. A lesser man would have gone to a standard four-year college, and if he wanted to fly would have taken private lessons and ended up chauffeuring airliners around the country with paying customers crammed in the back of the aluminum tube.”

“Nothing wrong with being an airline pilot.”

Roos dropped in the chair again. “Look me in the eyes, Tucker. Look me square in the eyes and tell me you'll be a complete man sitting at a desk or behind the yoke of a commercial airliner.”

Tuck didn't blink. Again, he held his tongue.

“You can't, Commander, can you?” Roos lowered his voice. “I can't offer you the Moon, but I can offer you the edge of space now and later much more. I've already told you that the money will be good. You'll sit on the board of several cutting-edge companies, you'll speak at packed venues around the country, you'll rub elbows with the wealthiest people in the world, and you'll fly high once again.”

The image of black space caressing the blue curve of Earth flooded his mind, and for the first time in his life, Tuck wished it hadn't.

SIXTEEN

G
arrett Alderman argued with himself all the rest of the afternoon. No words came from his mouth, but the dispute warred in his skull nonetheless. He had returned to his hotel room, inserted the bills stolen from the medical examiner into a plastic bio bag, sealed it, inserted it in a padded mailing envelope, and sent it to MedSys in Houston via Fed Ex.

He then sent an encrypted e-mail to his employers. The encryption was foolproof, but the fact that such concealment had been undertaken would raise eyebrows should any of this get out.

Getting information out was the catalyst that fired up the internal debate rattling in his brain. By most factors, Alderman was an honest man who valued justice. For twenty-five years he'd served honorably in Air Force intelligence. Then, itching for a change, Alderman retired early with a full pension. His monthly check gave him enough to live on while he started his security business, an enterprise tailored to Fortune 500 companies. He was just forty-three. Now at forty-nine, he was the head of an operation that made him several million every year.

Twenty-five people called him boss, each with very special skills. Some jobs, however, demanded his personal touch.

It was during his days in Air Force intelligence that he learned that ethics rode a sliding scale. Things were said and done that not only affected business executives but many innocent people who worked for them, not to mention stockholders.

Here Alderman's conscience ran aground on the unyielding reef of practicality. MedSys was a publicly held company. If the world learned that one of its employees slipped a cog and poisoned an entire Shuttle crew, then the business would fold faster than a house of cards. The lawsuits could last a decade, government oversight organizations would close the business down, and thousands of investors would lose their money. In the end, everyone lost. He understood the need for secrecy, and once the journey down that path had begun, more secrecy became imperative. If they were discovered, jail sentences loomed for the key execs and probably for Alderman as well.

Still, a part of his mind argued the converse: not only were five astronauts dead because of Quain, but now a bartender, one of his acquaintances, and a medical examiner's aide were dead as well. And those were just the ones Alderman knew about.

Alderman had used every resource of his firm to find Quain, but he still lagged behind. Quain was as smart as he was twisted, as devious as he was insane. He remained not a step ahead, but miles ahead of Alderman, and that ate at him. Every day the nutcase remained free was another day one or more people might die for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Alderman liked to plan. Anticipating problems and creating contingency plans were his greatest skills, and this situation pushed those abilities to new levels. He carried the confirmation numbers for five first-class airline tickets to five cities with connecting flights to five other cities, all in his name. If things went bad, he would kick-start the plan. Five of his operatives would use the numbers and fake ID to travel under his name to Madrid, Berlin, Buenos Aires, Caracas, and Moscow. Authorities would have a tough time following a trail with a five-pronged fork in it.

Of course, Alderman would be on none of those flights. Instead, he would charter a private jet to an overseas city of his choosing, then ultimately make his way to South America. But it was the last thing he wanted to do. . . .