Ben Bova - The Trikon Deception

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The Trikon Deception opens up the next frontier in technothriller excitement with a page-turning novel of intrigue and assassination in high orbit—co-written by the former commander of Skylab. 1998: Trikon is a vast steel island in the vacuum of space, the first industrial research laboratory to be built in orbit, designed as the only risk-free environment for genetic experiments too controversial—or dangerous—to be performed on Earth. Devised by a visionary scientist and industrialist, Trikon is a shared project of North America, Japan, and United Europe. In theory, the international companies that make up the Trikon consortium are supposed to be working together for the betterment of all humanity; in reality, espionage and sabotage are Trikon’s major projects. Mankind has gone to space, but he has brought all his greed and deceit, all his lust and violence, with him—and the hidden conspiracies aboard Trikon may bring the gigantic space station crashing down upon the innocent and the guilty alike. No one can write about space like someone who’s been there, and The Trikon Deception is an authentic space age thriller on the cutting edge of tomorrow.

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Suddenly, Lorraine had the maddest, most uncontrollable urge to be with Dan. Her heart swelled in her chest. Soft laughter bubbled in her throat. This was utter nonsense. She was a doctor, a medical officer on a space station. She wasn’t a schoolgirl.

Nonsense aside, she sailed to Dan’s office door. Biting her lip to keep her laughter at bay, she peeled off her hairnet and opened the collar of her shirt enough to reveal a hint of cleavage. Steady now, she told herself, no time to be immature.

Poised to dive into his arms, she gracefully swept open the door. The office was empty except for the bonsai bird fluttering in the sudden breeze. Of course, she remembered, he had gone to the observatory for some silly reason. But she could reach him on Channel D. D for Dan. She undipped the headset from the comm console and called to him over the radio.

“Hi, Dan. Oh, I can’t believe I’m saying this. I want you to know that I really do care about you. Maybe it’s because I can’t see you right now. Sometimes it’s easier to say things over a gadget rather than in person.”

“Lorraine,” he said.

His voice sounded so sweet, so kind. She wanted to caress him, nuzzle him, press her lips over every inch of that beloved face. Instead, she hugged the headset against her breasts. She closed her eyes and rocked her arms as his words poured directly into her heart. He was shy, he told her, and unsure of himself after his divorce. For months he had watched her from afar, wanting her but uncertain how to approach her. So he clothed his words in jargon and buried his feelings in a professional relationship. But all that had changed— he had changed. He had developed a new appreciation for her. Oh hell, he might as well say it. … He loved her.

“I love you too,” she whispered as she cuddled the headset. “I love you too.”

She had no idea how many times she repeated her words. A hundred times, maybe a thousand. She felt her body swaying back and forth, as if she were in her grandfather’s wonderful old rocking chair. She opened her eyes and saw him at the command and control center, still dressed in his space suit, like a knight in pure white armor.

She flung herself out of the office, and suddenly the module tilted drunkenly. Lorraine put out her hands to cushion her fall to the floor. Dan’s feet were anchored beneath the computer console, his gloved fingers flicking across the keyboard like a grand maestro, but he too swayed and had to grab at the edge of the console to steady himself.

“Dan,” she said. “Oh, Dan, you’ve come back!”

He paused, the gold visor of his helmet regarding her like the eye of a strange god. The reflection of her own distorted face smiled stupidly in the heavily tinted glass. Then he turned back to the keyboard.

She could not believe her eyes. He was ignoring her, rejecting her, mere minutes after professing his love for her. He couldn’t be Dan. He couldn’t be the man she loved.

She dove at him, pressed her eyes against the helmet. The face that loomed out of the shadows was hard, cruel, set in anger.

Lance ripped her from his shoulders and sent her spinning. She leaped back toward him, but he swatted her backhand across the mouth. Her eyes seemed to pop out of their sockets, and then they slowly closed.

Lance shoved her down the aisle. Then he went back to the command console and continued pecking out a new program for the translation thrusters.

4 SEPTEMBER 1998

TRIKON STATION

SUSPECT KILLED IN ESCAPE ATTEMPT

COALINGA, CAA murder suspect being transported from San Francisco to Los Angeles by sheriffs deputies was killed early this morning while trying to escape on a lonely stretch of Interstate 5 in Fresno County.

Deputy Luther Green and Deputy Hector Andujar were returning the suspect to Los Angeles to face charges in connection with the murder of a Topanga woman.

The suspect, Harold Meade, reportedly worked free of his handcuffs. He slugged Deputy Andujar, and in the ensuing struggle with Deputy Green the car overturned in a roadside gully.

Police said Meade disarmed Green and was preparing to kill him when Andujar shot him through the neck with his service revolver. The deputies sustained only minor injuries in the struggle.

Meade was arrested in San Francisco yesterday in connection with the sexual assault and murder of Stacey Hollis, a 32-year-old Topanga woman who died from a massive injection of an animal tranquilizer. Meade, a British national, was apprehended at San Francisco International Airport while attempting to board a flight to Melbourne, Australia. In a routine inspection of luggage, airport security officials found a supply of the same type of animal tranquilizer used in the Topanga murder.

— Fresno Bee, 4 September 1998

Dan and Hugh O’Donnell felt as if they were in a runaway elevator. The airlock surged with sudden weight again and they tumbled against its outer hatch in a flurry of flailing arms and legs and curses.

Dan cut his EMU comm link with the station’s alarm system. He didn’t need those damn bells and Klaxons to remind him that all hell had broken loose. The other channels were silent except for an occasional crackle of static.

“What’s that noise?” O’Donnell’s voice muttered in Dan’s helmet earphones.

Dan heard it. A low-frequency hum, like a giant bronze statue of Buddha intoning its mantra. The feeling of weight shifted again and they both slid to what had once been the airlock’s overhead.

“What is it?” O’Donnell repeated.

“The whole damned station is vibrating,” Dan replied grimly. “Like a big tuning fork.”

“Jesus! Will it break up?”

“If we let it.” Dan climbed to his booted feet. “Come on.”

He guesstimated the station’s sudden gravity to be around one-sixth g, like that of the moon. It didn’t sound like a tremendous change-theoretically, he was capable of jumping six times farther or lifting objects six times heavier than on Earth. But after nine months of micro-gee, he felt like the circus fat man.

“We’ve got to get through the hatch,” Dan said. “Give me a lift.”

Grunting, O’Donnell boosted him within reach of the inner hatch. Dan reached for the small wheel that controlled the locking mechanism. The airlock lurched again and his gloved fingers slipped from the wheel. He came banging down hard, O’Donnell sprawling painfully beside him.

The suits aren’t built for punishment, Dan knew. But they sure hand it out when you thump around inside them.

“Laurel and Hardy open a hatch,” O’Donnell muttered. Dan did not need to tell him to get up and start again.

It took two more tries, but finally the wheel turned, the lock released, and the hatch popped open. O’Donnell pushed Dan through. Then Dan reached down and hauled O’Donnell into the connecting tunnel. They were both drenched with sweat.

“Command module,” Dan said.

“I’m going to The Bakery,” responded O’Donnell. “My lab.”

In microgravity the tunnel had been a long corridor that they could swim through. Now it was a long slanting tube that they had to climb up. Laboriously, on their hands and knees, they started up opposite sides of the tunnel. The space suits felt as if they weighed tons.

“Like climbing Mt. Everest,” Dan grunted.

O’Donnell’s panting voice answered, “Look out fur the Abominable Snowman, pal.”

For Chakra Ramsanjawi, the first indication that something was amiss occurred when an orange-colored liquid spilled out of a vial. Rather than separate and disperse into a thousand orange beads, the liquid held together like a tongue-shaped river and streamed toward the bulkhead. It formed a puddle into which Ramsanjawi, suddenly drifting himself, splashed belly first. The lab door, still held by its padlocked hasp, slammed shut against its disconnected hinges.

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