Boundary 2: Threshold (6 page)

"On target, Captain,"
A.J. said after a minute
. "Radar scans show all clear, not that there's ever anything to hit out here. And Joe isn't on board this time to jinx everything."

"True enough. All stations, report in. Everyone strapped in for full acceleration?"

The full acceleration wasn't actually the problem, as even with a million-pound thrust the
Nobel
couldn't exceed about a quarter-gee. The concern was if something went wrong. There were only five people aboard, but that was still a major portion of the skilled space personnel available to the Institute.

"Good," Bruce said after everyone had confirmed readiness. "
Nobel
, as programmed: all ahead full, twenty second burn."

When you were used to weightlessness, a quarter-gravity acceleration was actually pretty impressive, Jackie thought.
Nobel
seemed to lunge forward, the hissing rumble of the NERVA-derived engine transmitting itself through the main supports of the ship. A few seconds later, the jets cut off. In the rear-view cameras, Phobos Base was shrinking. By space standards, of course, the
Nobel
was barely moving at all; that burn had added a puny forty-nine meters per second to her orbital velocity of over two kilometers per second. Still, it had stressed the entire ship along its main axis as much as anything ever should. "Anything to report, A.J.?"

"Minor tightening and tweaks will probably be needed later,"
the sensor specialist answered a few minutes later, after examining the data.
"I'm seeing nothing to worry about on any important components, though. I think we're go for Operation Cartwheel."

"Then Cartwheel it is.
Nobel
, initiate."

"Operation Cartwheel," as A.J. had whimsically termed it, was the major active structural test. Since the habitat sections were spinning, any attempt to turn
Nobel
would be fighting against the gyroscope effect, causing a lot of stress across the entire ship.
Nobel
would be using several short periods of vectored thrust from the main engine to attempt to turn in different directions while the wheel spun.

A few minutes later, A.J.'s voice reported with great satisfaction,
"Everything important's intact. Might want to shore up some of the connecting areas—I've highlighted them in the model—but unless you plan on flying like that a lot, I don't think it's necessary. Congrats, Jackie, Bruce—you've got yourself a ship!"

Jackie let out a whoop of relief and exultation.

"Congratulations,
Nobel
. A lovely test flight, even if you didn't get to go very far, and that tail-shaking maneuver looked kinda fun. Maybe I'll have them do it on
Nike
before we head back."

"It probably looks more fun than it is."

"Yeah, probably helps if you already look like a Ferris wheel."

"Watch it, Captain Hathaway!"

"Sorry, sorry. Really, it's a great ship."

She gave him a chuckle. "You're right there, Ken. So, when are you heading out?"

"A couple of weeks. We're waiting for some artifacts they're shipping back, and I have to send a couple guys over to
Nobel
to do the inspection."

"Oh, come on, Ken!"
A.J. grumped.
"Do they really think we're putting super-duper deathrays on this workhorse?"

"No, not really. But the regs clearly state what you can have as armaments in any space vehicle, and that at least one of the major powers has to inspect any new space vehicle after construction to ensure it meets those regs. And since I have every intention of keeping my job, I'm going to make sure the inspection's done."

"No worries, mate. I don't have any guns, bombs, missiles, or even loose sharp sticks on this crate." Bruce said. "Come on over and we'll have dinner."

"That sounds like it could be an attempt to bribe an officer of the United States."

"Righto, I'll just offer you some vegemite."

"Ahh,"
said Hathaway in a tone filled with grim vindication,
"I knew it. Biological weapons hidden on board. I may have to have my inspectors confiscate any and all biological products connected to Captain Irwin."

Jackie giggled. "Heard about Bruce's interplanetary beer stash, sir?"

"Pressurized containers. Very dangerous. Could be classed as explosives, Mr. Irwin. I'm afraid I will have to inspect some of them. In person."

Bruce gave a heavy sigh. "Yeah, that'd be right. Suppose you'd better just come over an' get it done, then. Eight tomorrow all right?"

"My inspectors and I will be ready."

Helen unlocked the pressure-cooker cover. A hiss of fragrant steam billowed out as she took the cover off, filling the dining room with the warm brown scent of . . . 

"Pot roast!" exclaimed Nicholas, leaning forward in astonishment. "With . . . actual vegetables. Cooked right here. I'm utterly astounded, Helen."

"You should be," A.J. said with reflected pride in Helen's achievement. "Not only have Helen and Joe been spending off-hours time trying to figure out ways to duplicate the effects of on-Earth cooking in our habitats—which carry a lot less pressure for a lot of reasons—but also a lot of the rest of us have to put in hours getting those greenhouses to work."

"First major crops grown in Martian soil—or mostly Martian, anyway." Helen started serving. "Some of these are imports—besides the beef, I mean—but this is a special dinner. And when A.J. says 'us,' he means it. Not that his sensing and tracking talents aren't pretty much omni-useful around the colony, but the colony still needs plenty of good old-fashioned pioneering muscle. Which," she continued, giving A.J. a kiss on the cheek as she passed, "my trophy husband here happens to be willing to use even if it does make him in danger of being viewed as a real worker instead of a lab geek."

Nicholas laughed. "Helen, A.J., thank you so much for inviting me. I can't tell you how happy I am that both of
you
still seem happy."

A.J., just recovering from grinning rather fatuously at Helen, nodded. "Yeah, I guess you might have wondered how long this odd couple would last. But we've both got so much to do, and what we do . . . Well, we do it best together."

Helen sat down. "Shall we eat?"

A few moments passed in appreciative chewing. Helen could see, however, that Nicholas was also studying the Baker household. "Like the house?"

"Quite a bit, yes. From the outside it looked like almost a pair of domes under the Martian soil . . . but I had to step quite a ways down. And these walls certainly aren't rock."

"Basic structure's two hab cans buried for insulation and sealing support," A.J. supplied. "Plus we've done some extension underground. Digging's a pain, but it's really worth it—oh, and lemme say thanks again for the help there."

"And for the thousandth time, it was our pleasure," Nicholas said easily. "We knew getting settled was a major proof-of-concept priority for you, and it would help us out in the long run."

A.J. grinned. "Yeah. And survival priority, since we weren't sure we'd be able to count on any of the governments giving us a hand. Power was actually the first priority, and with things getting competitive we couldn't rely on doing things the fancy way. Yeah, Ares has got a couple small nuke reactors for the colony, and we're hooked in, but solar is much more the way to go here. LED lighting indoors, when there isn't a way to pipe in sunlight. I've spent a lot making it comfortable, and it's roomier than I thought it might be. Now that
Meru
's cranking stuff up, we'll be a lot better off."

"Not luxury accommodations, perhaps, but I've stayed in much, much worse." Glendale surveyed the curved dining/living area. It was clearly heavily modified from the base hab can, but the underlying structure was the same. He took a bite of potato and chewed thoughtfully. "Interesting. There's a subtle difference of flavor . . . almost peppery, but not like the pepper I know you used in the roast."

Helen nodded, remembering the first hesitant tasting of the Mars crops. "Joe's positively ecstatic about that. The gourmet in him was afraid that we'd be barely able to raise stuff that's edible, and now he's finding some subtle changes in taste that he can use. Possibly, if things get to the point of routine travel in the next twenty years, we'll have a small export trade in food—not that it would counterbalance the imports."

"But we do intend to be independent, even if it takes a long time. As you well know," A.J. added.

"Yes. I am glad that Ares and the IRI were able to reach an accord."

Helen smiled. Despite the inherent friendliness between some of the principals, A.J., Glenn, Hank, and Joe had spent a lot of tense days trying to hammer out all aspects of that agreement, and she'd had to absent herself from those discussions since she herself was, naturally, an employee of the IRI. With the tiny pool of skilled people on and around Mars, it was actually more the rule than the exception for the formal, or informal, families that existed to include rather divided loyalties. This did make it awkward when there were potential conflicts of interest, and both the Institute and Ares knew they had a lot of legal landmines to negotiate around when they were trying to arrange a deal that would keep Ares mobile and independent, maintain the IRI's reasonably neutral position, and yet make it possible for both groups to get most of what they wanted.

In this case, though, the small number of people worked to their advantage. Everyone knew everyone, and respected their needs and goals. Off the record, Nicholas knew perfectly well what Ares intended to do. Off the record, Glenn and the rest of Ares knew that they had to be willing to hand over considerable control to the IRI of certain assets when conditions warranted. So when it came time to negotiate, it was mostly a matter of getting on record with hard-nosed noises of negotiation for the investors and watchdogs back home and then coming to a good gentleman's agreement and finding the most ironclad legal terms to nail it down, and thus see to it that it wouldn't be broken if one side or the other eventually ended up with less cooperative and cordial people in charge.

"How does it feel to be on Mars, Nicholas?"

"Absolutely wonderful, Helen. I cannot even begin to describe it. How very strange it is, though, that I'm here, running some kind of interplanetary research organization that has hardly anything to do with paleontology. Not a career course I could have expected."

"I'll drink to that. I'm not even sure
what
I am right now. Paleontologist, partly, but now it's more biology . . . with some guesses at behavior of alien species. A sociologist of the alien? Xenopaleoarchaeological-sociological-reconstruction-and-analysis specialist?"

"And interplanetary supermodel, too," A.J. inserted.

Helen poked him. "Which I suppose is the more important point to you?"

"I can't complain," A.J. answered equably. "And for our bank account it is arguably the most important point."

Nicholas nodded. "While there's obviously a certain element of crude sexism about it, Helen, I think it's still a rather positive thing. And there is not a man within, um, a hundred million miles that does not envy A.J. and Joe whenever one of yours or Madeline's advertisements appears."

"They do make us look good, I admit. And I can't say that I don't feel some pride in managing to break into a business usually reserved for those half my age." She raised her glass. "To changes!"

The two men joined her. "Changes!" they echoed, and drank.

There was a muffled thumping at the door, and then the intercom came on. "A.J.! A.J.! Hey, let me in, man!"

A.J.'s brow wrinkled in confusion. "Larry? What's the big fuss? I've got company right now. Can't it wait?" Regardless of the answer, Helen could see from the door telltales that he'd opened the outer lock and the cycle had started.

"No, really . . . Well, maybe, but I think you'd kill me if I just waited on this." The lock finished cycling, and the tall, massive frame of Larry Conley entered. He took off his helmet. "I—holy sheep, something smells great!"

"First Martian frontier pot roast," Helen said, folding out another chair. "Want to try some?"

Larry looked torn. "Hey, I wouldn't want to deprive you of the leftovers. . . ." His eyes wandered longingly to the steaming pot. "But, jeez, that looks a lot better than the package I was going to have later."

"Sit. Eat. But talk," A.J. said. "If it's that important, you can even talk with your mouth a little full."

"Mmm. Thanks, guys. Hey, Dr. Glendale, sorry to go busting in like this. But I think you'll be interested too. It's Ares business, though. I don't—"

Nicholas stood. "I perfectly understand. Even if we are going to be working together, there may be some things you don't want me to know right away." He turned to Helen with the same courtly grace he brought to almost any occasion. "Helen, my dear, why don't you show me around the other parts of the house? With the connecting doors insulated as they are, I'm sure it should be private enough."

A.J. looked at him gratefully. "Thanks, Nick. We really do appreciate the IRI's cooperation with us."

"And we the help of Ares. As I'm sure Jackie and Bruce have told you more than once."

Helen was obviously bursting with curiosity about what Larry found so important, but if the director wasn't going to eavesdrop, neither would she. Instead, she took Glendale into the second hab can, where the bedroom and home offices were, and took care to shut the door behind her.

"Okay, we're secure. Give."

To A.J.'s resigned frustration, now that everyone else was gone, Larry seemed to have lost his initial excitement over whatever it was that he'd discovered, and was much more excited by the pot roast and gravy. "Now, this is a meal. Y'know, I really ought to . . . mmm . . . learn to cook."

"Larry," A.J. said threateningly.

"You don't think I should?"

"Keep it up,
Doctor
Conley. Just remember who's in charge of your data feeds."

"Okay, okay. It's worth a little wait. You'll remember that I've been working with the IRI and our own departments in trying to match up Bemmie astronomical information with ours? Correspondences of various objects, trying to figure out orbits, all that kind of thing?"