The Trikon Deception Read online

  One of those valleys corkscrewing through the green was the Huallaga, the coca-producing capital of the world. He remembered the short days and endless nights of his own addiction. He would read of the DEA or the border patrol seizing tons upon tons of cocaine discovered in safe houses or barns. The law of supply and demand should have pushed the street price upward after such massive seizures. But the price never rose; sometimes it even declined. Were the drug kingpins dumb? Did they fail to notice that oil companies routinely used the news of even a minor spill as a pretext for jacking up prices? No, O’Donnell finally had realized. There was so much shit around that a twenty-ton seizure was as annoying as a fly alighting on the back of a bull.

  The Andes slipped below the edge of the wide window, their spines deepening in the dying sunlight. O’Donnell activated the control that closed the clamshell. The session in the blister had not lit a path around the wall that suddenly had sprung up in front of him. But he felt strong enough to resume bashing his head.

  O’Donnell headed toward the lab by way of Hab 2. The turkey he had eaten for dinner had been tough and stringy. He could feel the strands between his teeth.

  He anchored himself in front of a hand basin and worked his toothbrush over his teeth and gums. The toothpaste had a slightly milky taste and seemed grittier than usual, but he didn’t mind. The grittier the paste, the cleaner his teeth. He rinsed his mouth with a jet of water that he spit into the vacuum vent of the basin. He was ready to attack his lab.

  A strange sensation coursed through his body. The air around him suddenly thickened to the consistency of gelatin. His legs went numb. His arms filled with sawdust. The aisle tilted upward.

  By the time he reached his compartment, he felt as if a helmet had closed over his head. His vision diminished to a pair of blurry pinholes swimming in a sea of purple. He groped for the door latch and tumbled inside, crashing into the far wall with enough force to cause pain. But the impact of the metal on the base of his neck felt like a punch through a pillow. The toothpaste and brush bounced out of his numb hand, whirling in the suddenly dazzling light from the passageway outside his compartment. The light was so bright that it hurt his eyes. He pawed at the door until it somehow closed.

  In a detached way he knew what had happened. Someone had slipped him some shit. Powerful shit, and a lot of it. He tensed his muscles, gulped air into his lungs, tried to keep those two blurry pinholes from dissolving into the purple.

  But it felt so good. So damned good. Why fight it?

  Fuck the lab, he thought. So what if I lose a day. So what if I miss the deadline. I’ve worked hard. So very very hard. I need to rest.

  The words seeped slowly through his brain, like heavy oil through a ton of cat litter. They stretched like long, never-ending strands of taffy. All he wanted was to drift… and drift… and… drift…

  The sound of laughter awoke Lance. He could not tell if it had been in a dream or real. His eyes snapped wide open in the darkness. His compartment felt like the inside of a coffin, too confined, too close to the other people who shared Hab 2. He heard conversations, laughter, music. He knew that if he could find a quiet place away from everyone else, he would feel much better. He eased himself into the aisle, still in his sleep-rumpled coveralls. At the aft end of the module, two Japanese techs spoke quietly as they waited to use the Whits. He did not return their waves.

  The connecting tunnel was in its nighttime lighting mode. Circles of light played out from the hab and command modules. Lockers and compartments cast jagged shadows. Lance wanted to find the most secluded area of the station. He glanced at his wristwatch: 2107 hours. The ex/rec area usually was occupied well past midnight. The rumpus room was usually lit regardless of the hour. And the Mars module definitely was out of the question.

  His eye caught a flash of movement. A lanky figure topped by a head of blond hair knifed through the alternating bands of light and shadow from the vicinity of the Mars module. Lance shuddered. She was coming. Carla Sue was coming. A thousand thoughts raced through his head, everything from tearful forgiveness to unbridled rage.

  But Carla Sue proved to be a trick of the eye and the heart. As the figure moved closer, it resolved into one of the European techs. He waved cheerfully at Lance before turning into Hab 1.

  Lance shoved off toward the labs. Jasmine was lit and occupied as usual, but both ELM and The Bakery were dark and empty. He decided on ELM for a start. He groped his way down the aisle and tucked himself into a cubbyhole beneath a workstation. He kept his eyes trained on the hatch. Occasionally someone flitted past, but no one entered. ELM was far more quiet than Hab 2, and for the first time since that afternoon he felt relaxed.

  But he could not keep Carla Sue out of his mind. Eventually they would meet; the station was just too small. Scenarios played before his eyes like waking dreams. In each, he was a gallant warrior and she was a weak woman begging for forgiveness. His hair streamed in the wind and his narrowed eyes were fixed on a distant horizon while she clung to him from behind, weeping and bussing his shoulders with kisses.

  2 SEPTEMBER 1998

  TRIKON STATION

  CYSTIC FIBROSIS CORRECTED IN LAB

  Two teams of investigators have used gene transfer to correct the cystic fibrosis defect in cells in culture, opening the door, at least a crack, for gene therapy. “We are talking about years, not decades any longer,” said a clearly elated Robert Bealle, vice president and medical director of the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation. “We hope this will move CF up the list of diseases that are candidates for gene therapy.” Cystic fibrosis is the most common fatal genetic disease in North America.

  —Science, 28 September 1990

  When Aaron Weiss returned to his compartment after dinner, he found an envelope containing a note and a small power-driven screwdriver. The note instructed him to remain in his compartment until 2345 hours. If he had not received any further instructions in the meantime, he could proceed with the plan. O’Donnell’s absence was guaranteed; but if anyone else wandered into the vicinity, he must refrain from entering the lab. The screwdriver was needed to remove the door hinges; it would be cleaner than fooling with the padlock. He also was to destroy the note.

  As Weiss waited for the further instructions that never came, he entered every fact he could muster into his laptop computer. Then he ran a program popular among investigative reporters. The computer played out a series of hypotheses in flowchart fashion. But each hypothesis found a dead end. Question marks filled the screen. The cursor blinked maddeningly as if unsure where to go.

  He didn’t need the goddamn program to tell him there was an unknown, an x factor, something other than Fabio Bianco’s superbug waiting to be uncovered on this station. The plants in O’Donnell’s lab were the first sign; Chakra Ramsanjawi’s checkered past the second. The connection between these two men will be very interesting, Weiss thought as he closed the laptop. Very interesting indeed.

  At 2340 hours, someone rapped on the compartment bulkhead. Despite himself, Weiss jerked with surprise and a little fear. Something’s gone wrong, he thought. His first instinct was to hide the screwdriver. Looking rapidly around the narrow compartment, he shoved it into the belt of his jeans. Then he slid the door open.

  Kurt Jaeckle floated obliquely in the aisle. Weiss felt a rush of relief, then hostility. Before Jaeckle could say a word, Weiss snapped: “Look, I told you in the wardroom, I’m not interested in Mars.”

  “But I have a story that will make you famous,” Jaeckle said.

  “Stories don’t make me famous.”

  “This one will.” Jaeckle shouldered his way into the compartment. “Some weeks ago one of my scientists discovered signs of life in a Martian soil sample.”

  “How interesting,” said Weiss. He checked his watch. Four minutes.

  “Didn’t you hear me? Life! On Mars!”

  “I heard you.”

  “The story is yours, exclusively, if you’ll feature the Mars Project.”

&nbs
p; “I don’t have time,” said Weiss.

  “Look, I’ll be candid with you.” Jaeckle anchored himself in the doorway. “My man’s finding was very tenuous—too tenuous to report through the usual scientific channels. But you could report it! You’ll be the first man to break the story of life on Mars!”

  Weiss could have barreled through Jaeckle’s feeble blockade, but the scientist would have yapped at his heels all the way to The Bakery. It was time to play the trump card Zeke had dealt him. He opened the compartment’s desktop and unfastened a tape recorder from its Velcro stay.

  “All right,” he said, starting the tape. “I’m here on Trikon Station speaking to the man many believe will lead the first human expedition to Mars.”

  Jaeckle arranged himself as if posing for a camera.

  “Dr. Jaeckle,” continued Weiss, “what benefits would an expedition to Mars offer the man in the street?”

  “Jaeckle blinked once, as if he had not expected exactly that question, but he immediately launched into his reply, “Economic reasons leap to mind first.” His voice resonated in the tiny compartment. “The project itself will employ hundreds of thousands of people. There are also scientific reasons. We can learn much about our own planet by studying the geological and meteorological history of Mars. Then there are the intangibles, the idea that mankind has spread its seed to another planet. And—”

  “Interesting image,” said Weiss, cutting Jaeckle off before the scientist became too wound up in his own oratory. “What about the idea that Mars may be a penal colony, like Australia was centuries ago.”

  Jaeckle was not flustered. “Well, of course, there are societal aspects—”

  “I’m talking specifically about a penal colony for perverts and sociopaths. For men accused of having incestuous relations with their daughters?”

  Jaeckle’s sunny smile turned to a trembling, white-faced mask of hatred.

  “So she got to you, huh? The bitch already got to you.”

  He pulled himself into the aisle and sailed away.

  “Au revoir, Kurt Jaeckle,” muttered Weiss. He still had two minutes to spare.

  At precisely 2345 hours, Weiss left his compartment. Hab 2 was silent except for the hiss of a full-body shower. The screwdriver was still tucked into the belt of his jeans, and he held the Minicam with one hand to prevent it from banging against the lip of the entry hatch.

  Shadows ribbed the pastel-green walls of the connecting tunnel. Weiss shot himself to the hatch of The Bakery. No one was in sight. The only sounds were the whoosh of the ventilator and the occasional groan of the module’s skin stretching in the sunlit void of space.

  Weiss pulled himself through the hatch. His heart thumped at the base of his throat and he steadied himself in the corner opposite O’Donnell’s lab until his anxiety passed. The hinges were each held to the door frame by two screws. Their rounded edges reflected tiny beams of light filtering in from the tunnel.

  Enough time had passed for anyone who might have seen him enter The Bakery to follow him inside. Weiss opened a button and wedged the Minicam beneath his shirt. Then he worked the screwdriver out of his belt. Cupping it to his chest, he gave the tool a burst of power. The blade spun slowly and silently.

  And Weiss spun in the opposite direction, just as slowly and silently, until he whacked the ceiling with his hip. He stifled a string of curses as he realized that, in micro-gee, he who is not firmly anchored by foot loops will be spun by a power screwdriver while the screw remains stubbornly unmoved.

  Grumbling under his teeth, Weiss straightened himself out and started to slide his feet into the nearest floor loops. Then the module groaned, and once again his heart rushed to a gallop. He pushed himself into the corner formed by the lab and the forward bulkhead, his eyes fixed intently on the entry hatch. He remained fro/en until he was certain no one was coming. Listening carefully to the groans and whooshes, he familiarized himself with the harmless sounds and hoped he would hear nothing else. Slowly, he rotated himself into position at the lower hinge. He wormed his stockinged feet firmly into the nearest loops. He had to lean forward and sideways quite a bit to fit the screwdriver’s blade into the notch of a screw. He applied power. The screwdriver’s blade danced across the door with a series of agonizingly loud scratches.

  Weiss gathered himself into the corner again. He had performed several routine micro-gee tasks since boarding the station, but had not imagined loosening four screws could be a major project. The problem suddenly seemed obvious: the screwdriver imparted its torque to the object providing the least resistance.

  Weiss cast a quick glance out the hatch before resuming. The connecting tunnel was still empty. He returned to the hinge, anchored himself in the loops, and this time braced himself with his back against the forward bulkhead. He applied a shot of power; the screw turned slightly. Aha! He adjusted himself for leverage and shot again. The screw rose out of its hole. Worried that it would fly free, he performed the last few turns with his thumb and forefinger, then discovered that the screw was tethered to the hinge by a fine plastic wire that revealed itself only on the very last turn. These astronauts thought of everything.

  The second screw came out quickly. He pulled the hinge away from the frame, leaving its other half still attached to the accordion door itself.

  The loose hinge allowed some play in the door. Weiss pulled it back enough to see inside. The leaves of the plants floated in the strong beams of the lamps. Some of the leaves were shiny, almost waxy; others were curled, drooping, their edges brown.

  He went to work on the top hinge. As he removed the first screw, he thought he heard a sound in the back of the module. Dismissing it as the groaning of The Bakery’s walls, he turned his attention to the last screw. The blade of his screwdriver never reached the slot.

  The blow to his neck hurt for only an instant. In the split second before darkness fell, the chemicals of his brain formed an illogical memory. He was a boy, climbing a tree toward a nest that held three blue robin’s eggs. As he reached out his hand, the branch beneath him snapped.

  3 SEPTEMBER 1998

  TRIKON STATION

  WASHINGTON, D.C. (UPI)—Democrats in Congress garnered enough votes last night to override a Presidential veto of the controversial foreign aid bill. The bill, as originally submitted to the President, indefinitely suspended all foreign aid to Bolivia, based on its failure to eradicate 100 million acres of coca-producing fields in 1997.

  Aid to Bolivia reached a high point of $200 million in 1993. Virtually half of the aid went to equipment and training for security forces and cash subsidies for farmers. Farmers received onetime payments of $2,000 for every 2.47 acres on which coca plants had been eliminated. Continuation of the aid in subsequent years was conditioned upon the Bolivian government certifying that acreage quotas had been met.

  Earlier this year, the DEA reported widespread fraud in the subsidy program. Farmers reportedly pocketed the subsidies, then returned their acreage to coca production with the complicity of local officials.

  In 1995, Bolivia ranked second to Peru in world coca production. It has been estimated that production in 1995 yielded $2 billion, one-quarter of which circulated the country in the form of hard currency. National foreign-exchange earnings for the same year totaled $500 million.

  In vetoing the foreign aid bill, the President urged that suspending aid to Bolivia would be tantamount to creating an official safe haven for international drug traffickers. In pleading for the override, both the Senate Majority Leader and the Speaker of the House stated that the American public could no longer afford to pay for another nation’s corruption.

  —The Washington Post, 2 September 1998

  Sleep came in fits for Lance. Each time he awoke he felt the pattering of his heart and sensed with animal certainty that something evil was pursuing him. He tacked about from module to module like an animated chess piece. His thoughts, even when he was certain he was awake, were as disjointed as dreams. He saw himself as a c
hild, his head hanging in the chipped enamel bedpan his mother kept under his bed. He saw the toothy face of Dr. J. Edward Moorhouse perched atop a pair of tiny shoulders, his long arms sweeping down beneath the folds of his purple robe, his scaly hands cold on Lance’s stomach.

  “There is evil in this place,” intoned Moorhouse.

  He saw Becky on the moonlit porch on her farmhouse, her eyes closed, her lips slightly parted as her face curved up toward his. Before their lips could meet, a hand wrenched him away and cast him down into a large enamel tub of putrid-smelling vomit. He tried to pull himself out, but a horde of gnomes with blistered skin fought him back with pitchforks.

  “Man has tried to be God,” gibbered Moorhouse from afar. “But he has created devils.”

  Lance sloshed to the other side of the tub, his mouth choking with the stink. The gnomes rushed to head him off, stabbing at him with their pitchforks. Lance grabbed one of the gnomes by the neck and squeezed until he felt the tiny bones crumble between his hands. He flung the limp body at the others and they retreated. Using every remaining ounce of his strength, Lance vaulted over the side. He plummeted through a cold dark void. Above him, a tiny Trikon Station spun like a wobbly top between the huge eyes of Dr. J. Edward Moorhouse.

  “The woman is weak, Lance. But you are strong. You are strong.”

  Lance awoke with a start. Gradually, he realized that he was in the logistics module, safely nested among empty science-supply canisters and secured by a sleep restraint jerry-rigged out of his belt and shirt. He fumbled for a breath mint. As it melted on his tongue, he released himself from the restraint and peered over the top of his nest. It was morning; the connecting tunnel was brightly lit through the entry hatch. He hastily donned his shirt and hitched his belt around his waist. Speed was all-important. He wanted to be well into the day’s routine before anyone tried to talk to him. Freddy. Carla Sue. Commander Tighe. Anyone.