Ben Bova: The Trikon Deception

“Tree knocked down a power line,” he said. “Me and Lance, we’re gonna take a walk to find someplace that can cook us some food. Wanna come?”

“In this?”

“We dodge the branches. Be fun, eh?”

O’Donnell looked at the sky and scowled.

“C’mon, man.” Freddy flipped up into a handstand and began a set of vertical push-ups. A huge gold crucifix fell from the collar of his jumpsuit. It dangled from his neck and clicked against the rail with each repetition. “What you gonna do, sit in your room all day and count the walls, eh? They is only four.”

“Give me a minute so I can shave,” said O’Donnell. He paused at the door. “Hey, Freddy, do people dream in space?”

Dan Tighe raced down the passageways and through the hatches toward Trikon Station’s command module, grabbing handholds and literally flying weightlessly past startled technicians and crewmen, his feet never touching the deck.

All of the station’s energy and environment control systems were regulated by the life-support program in the station’s mainframe computer. The life-support program monitored air quality in every one of the ten pressurized modules and regulated the circulation fans and carbon-dioxide absorbers on a second-by-second basis. Heat, electrical power, air, water—every breath taken by every man and woman aboard Trikon Station depended on the uninterrupted operation of the life-support program.

If whoever copied Nutt’s files tried to upload the stolen data, Stu Roberts’s hug would cripple the thief’s computer and spread to the mainframe. The life-support program would be stopped along with everything else. They could all die within minutes.

Tighe pulled himself into the command module, banging his knee on the entry hatch and tumbling toward the floor.

“Ouch!” said Dr. Lorraine Renoir. Her infirmary was adjacent to the hatch. Her accordion door was open, and she was floating freely inside the cubbyhole making notes on a clipboard.

Tighe ignored both the comment and the pain in his knee. Before his body hit the floor he pushed with his palms and redirected his momentum down the length of the module like a swimmer barreling off the bottom of a pool.

The command and control center was located in the aft end of the module, adjacent to the space shuttle docking port. It contained the main computer terminal, manual controls for all systems, and the viewing ports.

Tighe curled his feet into the loops at the base of the computer and hurriedly typed in his password. The computer beeped. Tighe breathed a sigh and entered the emergency code. A series of options played across the screen.

WHICH ONE, COMMANDER TIGHE? asked the last line. The cursor blinked.

“What’s going on, Dan?”

Dr. Renoir steadied herself in the doorway to the command section. A French braid of chestnut hair floated from the back of her head.

“We have a real problem, Lorraine. I’ll explain in a minute.”

Tighe selected the option that read: AUX COMPUTER/AUX POWER/ESSENTIAL UTIL ONLY. The lights in the command module went out. He heard a gasp of surprise from Lorraine, behind him. Then the emergency lamps came on, substantially dimmer than the normal cabin lights.

Tighe flicked on the station intercom.

“This is Commander Tighe. A situation has arisen that requires a transfer to the station’s auxiliary power supply. All essential utilities such as life support will continue to operate at normal levels. However, nonessential utilities will remain inoperable until the situation is rectified. I am ordering everyone to remain where you are until full power is restored. The only exceptions are crew members Jeffries and Stanley. They are to report to the command module immediately.”

Tighe clicked off the intercom.

Lorraine was staring at him, eyes wide with either surprise or fear. Or both.

“Some idiot scientist stole files from the computer terminal in The Bakery. Turns out that a bigger idiot’s infected the files with a bug that’ll jam the computer of anyone trying to access those files.” Tighe patted the computer terminal. “If it gets in here and starts to replicate, then we’re in deep yogurt.”

“Can you keep it out?”

Nodding, Tighe forced a grin. The old command philosophy: Instill confidence in the crew. Maintain their morale and you’ll automatically maintain their respect. It occurred to him that he wanted Lorraine’s respect. She was an intelligent, level headed woman whom he could depend on. Even though she was the physician who could permanently ground him.

She smiled back at him. She looked much better in micro-gee than she had on Earth. Back on the ground her face had been handsome, strong features and dark brows, her figure slim, almost boyish. The fluid shift that microgravity caused had served her well. Her brown eyes had an almost oriental cast to them now; her face was rounder, more feminine. Even her body seemed to have filled out better beneath the royal-blue jumpsuit she wore.

Abruptly, Jeffries and Stanley slid through the hatch. Jeffries, a rangy, long-limbed black from Virginia Polytech, was Tighe’s most experienced crewman, with more than a year in space, the last six months on Trikon Station. He would be rotating back to Earth when the shuttle finally arrived, and Tighe would be sorry to lose him. Stanley was the station’s only Aussie: sandy hair, lazy grin, the powerful build of a swimmer. Neither man had ever experienced an emergency power-down. They both looked worried.

Lorraine backed away from the doorway so the two crewmen could enter. Tighe quickly explained the situation, unconsciously spicing this version with more jargon than the account he had given Lorraine.

“Okay,” he said, taking a breath. “Stanley, you stay here with Dr. Renoir. I want nobody, and I mean nobody, to enter the command module except for me. Jeff, you and I are going to conduct a complete search of the station.”

Jeffries shoved off. As Tighe followed toward the hatch, Lorraine floated back to the infirmary and started to unlock a pharmaceutical compartment. Tighe stopped his momentum and cocked his head.

“Preparing tranquilizers,” she said in response to his unstated question.

“Good thinking,” said Tighe, and dove after Jeffries.

Wordlessly Lorraine watched him disappear down the passageway.

Hugh O’Donnell cast a dubious eye at the roadhouse. Its windows were boarded with plywood and its cratered gravel parking lot was empty except for a single pickup truck.

“Looks like it’s closed,” shouted Lance Muncie over the growl of the relentless wind.

Freddy bounced off the skateboard he used for long-distance treks and clambered up an awning post to an uncovered section of window.

“Somebody inside,” he said as he cupped a hand against the glass.

Muncie was young and big, varsity-football big, with heavily muscled arms and powerful hands. Yet he looked almost baby-fat soft: short-cropped blond hair and pinkly cherubic face. He frowned at the tattered sign clinging to the doorjamb, advertising topless dancing, and at the photos, censored with black squares across each woman’s chest.

“Let’s try another place,” he said, pulling himself away from the peeling poster.

A cardboard box smacked against O’Donnell’s legs, then flew across the parking lot. “There isn’t any other place,” he snapped, already regretting that he had accepted Freddy’s invitation.

Freddy slid down the post until he was eye level with Lance.

“’Scuse us a second, eh, O’Donnell?” he said.

O’Donnell moved out of earshot, which was only a few feet away in the thundering gale. Apparently Freddy knew how to handle this Muncie kid. Freddy spoke earnestly, and some of the hardness drained from Lance’s face. Lance shrugged. Freddy shot a stage wink at O’Donnell and bounced onto his skateboard. Lance held the door as Freddy rolled through.