Martin Greenberg: Space Stations

And since the public lapped up everything Ukukho said or did, that meant that billions of people who’d never even heard of Space Fort Jefferson were going to be brought face-to-face with it.

And what billions of people saw, millions of people went touristing to. Or so went the theory. Bob took another bite from his bagel, visualizing the list of improvements and renovations he would be submitting to the Park Service as soon as the crowds started arriving. At the top of the list would be to finally finish the renovation of Decks Three to Six that had been started two years ago and never completed. The mess made the fort’s original gunnery control area nearly impossible for even the rangers to get to, and visitors always liked seeing control rooms.

There was a gunshot-crackle from the intercom. “Bob?” Kelsey’s voice came distantly.

Bob reached over and flicked the switch. “Yes?”

“Bob?”

Muttering under his breath, Bob flipped the switch off, gave the side of the box a sharp rap with his knuckles, and flipped the switch back on. On second thought, maybe it would be the intercom that would head the replacement list. “Yes?”

“Got a ship coming in to dock,” Kelsey reported.

“The GenTronic Twelve?” Bob asked, frowning. The yacht had been on their scopes for the past thirty-two hours, bringing in the latest batch of off-season tourists. But last he’d checked, it shouldn’t be here nearly this soon.

“No, they’re still three and a half hours out,” Kelsey confirmed. “This is a Fafnir Four.”

Bob felt his eyebrows lifting. “A Fafnir Four?”

“Yep,” Kelsey said. “Government issue, fully stealthed—Hix didn’t even spot it until it hailed.”

“Yes, but a Four?” Bob repeated. With the President on his way, the Secret Service would naturally be stopping by to check things out, and Fafnirs were the ship of choice for most government agencies.

Problem was, a Fafnir Four only held two people, not nearly enough for a Presidential advance team. The advance team for the advance team, maybe?

“It’s a Four, all right,” Kelsey insisted. “I’m in Dock Obs, looking straight at it.”

Reaching to his recorder, Bob flipped the switch from “standby” to “off.” He’d finish the log entry later. “I’ll be right up.”

The two visitors were already in the entryway reception room by the time he arrived.

The older man, about Bob’s own youngish forty-five, was studying one of the

information plaques lining the wall. The other, twenty years younger, was standing at a sort of stiff at-ease, his eyes shifting between the door and a nervous-looking Hix.

Apparently, he didn’t have the time or the interest for anything as job-unrelated as mere history.

“Good day, gentlemen,” Bob greeted them cheerfully as he stepped into the room. “I’m Ranger Bob Epstein—Ranger Bob to our visitors. What can I do for you?”

“We’re not visitors, Ranger Epstein,” the younger man said, his voice as stiff and government-issue as his posture. “We’re here on official business—”

“At ease, Drexler,” the older man said dryly, straightening up from the plaque he’d been looking at and giving Bob a slight smile. “I’m Secret Service Agent Cummings, Ranger Epstein; this is Agent Drexler. We’re here to check things out for the President’s flyby.”

Something seemed to catch in Bob’s throat. “His flyby?” he asked carefully. “We thought—”

“That he would be visiting the station,” Drexler said briskly. “I’m afraid that’s been changed. The organizers realized that a stop would take up too much time and fuel, so Space Force One will merely be flying past.”

“I see,” Bob said, trying hard to hide his disappointment. Hix wasn’t nearly so good at it; his face was a map of crushed hopes and expectations. “May I ask when this decision was made?”

“That’s none of your concern—”

“A week ago,” Cummings spoke up. “I know this must be something of a disappointment for you.”

Bob took a deep breath. A week. Seven days. They could have told him. “We’ll get over it,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t give you any kind of heads-up,” Cummings went on. “But the President’s itinerary isn’t the sort of thing you broadcast across the Solar System.”

“I understand,” Bob said, glancing over at Hix. The big man still looked like he wanted to cry, but he was starting to pull himself together again. “It’s not like Space Fort Jefferson is an indispensable part of a historic Presidential tour.”

“Or of history itself, for that matter,” Drexler added.

Bob felt his face settle into familiar lines. “That’s hardly fair, Agent Drexler,” he said.

“Space Fort Jefferson has had a long and hardly insignificant history.”

“Really?” Drexler said, regarding Bob coolly. “Which part do you consider to have been significant? The thirty glorious years it spent as a prison for the Archipelago? The fifteen it did duty as a jabriosis quarantine center? Or the twenty-two it’s now spent as a tourist attraction?”

Bob took a deep breath, his mental argument center loading Defense Pattern Alpha—

“All right, Drexler, you’ve made your point,” Cummings put in quietly. “It’s not Ranger Epstein’s fault that Space Fort Jefferson never got to serve in its primary capacity. Not really Space Fort Jefferson’s fault either.”

Drexler snorted in a sedate, government-issue sort of way. “Maybe if the designers had had the foresight to build particle shielding into the hull, they’d have gotten some actual use out of it.”

Bob sighed. He got so tired of going over this same territory with people who’d never bothered to check their history. “Particle weapons hadn’t even been developed when they started building the station,” he said.

“He’s right,” Cummings agreed, tapping the plaque he’d been studying. “Construction began in 2082. The first successful test of a particle weapon wasn’t until 2089.”

“The shielding they put in was more than enough to handle anything known at the time,”

Bob added. “If Xhong hadn’t made his technical breakthrough when he did, Space Fort Jefferson would have been a perfect defender of the Ceres-to-Earth shipping route.”

“Perhaps,” Drexler said. “But part of a designer’s job is to anticipate future trends and incorporate them into his plans.”

“But we didn’t come here to discuss history,” Cummings interrupted diplomatically. “We need to give the station a quick once-over for any possible danger to Space Force One and its escort. Just routine, of course.”

“After all, we wouldn’t want a section of hull to fall off and float into their path,” Drexler said under his breath.

Cummings sent him a strained look. “For what it’s worth, I understand the commentators will be giving some of the station’s history during the approach,” he said. “I know it’s not a Presidential visit, but at least it’s something for your trouble.”

“Yes, sir,” Bob said, nodding. “I’m sure we all appreciate it.”

Cummings nodded in return. “Now, if you’ll take us to the main control complex…?”

“Of course,” Bob said, swallowing his annoyance and gesturing through the door. “This way, please.”

A full self-guided tour of the station, including a reading of all the information plaques, was timed to take about five hours. Adding in a lunch break—carry-on bubblepack or back aboard your own ship; the visitors’ cafeteria hadn’t been open for ten years—the whole thing was a pleasant day’s touristing.

Cummings and Drexler didn’t bother with the plaques, and they weren’t interested in lunch. But unlike standard tourists, they also insisted on seeing the rangers’ living quarters, workshops, and storerooms.