Rock Killer (14 page)

Trent moved closer to her. “Linda, please.”

Charlie smiled. “Linda.”

Trent reached out for Charlie’s arm. “Come here, Shari. Tell me about yourself.”

***

Mitchel studied the picture on his computer screen. The woman was pretty, he noted, with thick brunette hair. She didn’t look like a terrorist. He berated himself for judging her by her appearance; he didn’t do that to men nearly as often as he did to women.

He looked at her school record. She’d been what was internally referred to as a political trainee. Most Americans that applied to SRI were products of the degenerate education system in the U.S. and ended up in security simply because it was the least technical job in SRI. But every new employee was scrutinized for intelligence with a simple logic test that required no knowledge. Those that tested well were trained in technical jobs no matter what their education level. This meant the Boulder school, which started as a rock climbing school for SRI security and miners, taught everything from basic math and algebra to advanced space navigation. This was an attempt to get Americans into better jobs than security and dissuade the popularly held belief, in the U.S. at least, that the Japanese-owned Space Resource Incorporated discriminated against Americans. That perception had actually prompted some American politicians to call for economic sanctions against SRI. SRI did enough business in America to warrant action to counter that threat.

The need, the political need, for such a double standard bothered Mitchel. SRI would train in the space-skills that no terrestrial university had yet bothered to add to their curriculum. But, anyone, other than an American, coming into SRI had better know their math and science first.

Knecht had done well and learned fast. Her navigation instructor indicated she did so well on her training cruise to the Moon and back she should be assigned to a trans-lunar shuttle as a third navigator.

Knecht took some vacation time and failed to return. Only a terse computer call resigning, long after she was due back, indicated she was still alive–until she showed up on the Moon with the GA.

That’s strange
, Mitchel thought. Why she would give up a promising career in SRI for the Gaia Alliance was a complete mystery.

The computer beeped, suspending Mitchel’s ruminations.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Mitchel,” Meyoung said over the terminal in voice mode only, “I have a call from Mr. Lloyd of the liaison office in Moscow.”

“Russia?” Mitchel asked. “Put him through.” The SRI logo on the desktop monitor was replaced by an unfamiliar face.

“Yes?” Mitchel asked.

“Mr. Mitchel, this is David Lloyd,” the caller said. He was wearing a business suit but was using an SRI Security code.

“Yes?” Mitchel repeated.

“I am,” Lloyd stated, “the SRI liaison officer to the Russian Federation.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Lloyd,” Mitchel said. “What can I do for you?”

“The Russian Space Command informed me that their ship, the
Peter the Great
, found ten missiles two days ago.” A blue box appeared in the lower left-hand corner of the screen. It was covered with groups of ten alphanumeric characters. “Those are,” Lloyd continued, “the serial numbers from the missiles.”

“Just a moment,” Mitchel said. He had his computer call up the data on the
Rock Skippers
’s last load-out of probe missiles. Another box appeared in the lower right-hand corner of the screen with those numbers. The screen was getting too complicated so Mitchel transferred the numbers to the wall screen where they lined up next to each other. He had the computer sort both sets alphanumerically.

They matched.

“Mr. Lloyd,” Mitchel asked, “did the Russians say where these were found?”

“They were in Earth orbit at an altitude of about 150 thousand kilometers.”

Mitchel wondered briefly what the Russians were doing out there.

“The Russians,” Lloyd added, “will return the missiles for standard rescue fees.”

“I can’t authorize that,” Mitchel said.

“Then who can?”

“Nakata or Yamada; I can connect you.”

“Thank you, that would be fine.”

Mitchel used the computer. “Meyoung, transfer this call to the Director of Space Operations and if he’s busy, to Nakata.”

“Yes, Mr. Mitchel.”

Mitchel sat back and thought. They’d need to jettison the missiles on the
Rock Skipper
. It was just dumb luck the Russians found them. Or was it? No, if he thought that way he’d be chasing shadows. But this confirmed that the Syrian ship,
Baath Revolution
, rendezvoused with the
Rock Skipper
. It was only a matter of time before the GA used those Puma missiles somewhere.

***

The next morning Charlie took a long shower; she had to.

The water came out of the showerhead at about the rate a baby drools and around the same temperature at its hottest.

Charlie got out of the shower and was drying when Trent walked in. She kissed Charlie on the mouth.

“You shouldn’t take such long showers,” she said. “Wastes water and energy.”

“I’m sorry,” Charlie said, wondering how these people got clean.

“Don’t be,” Trent said. “You’re still learning. Breakfast is soon.” She dropped her robe and climbed into the shower. She was out before Charlie thought she had time to get wet.

Breakfast was fruit and homemade cereal. Some fruit was going bad and Charlie was about to throw it out when she noticed her hosts were actually consuming it.

Charlie forced herself to eat it but wondered why the fruit was going bad when there were so many ways to keep it fresh.

During the meal Vera didn’t meet Charlie’s eyes and Trent noticed.

“This is wonderful,” Trent said joyfully.

“How’s that?” Vera asked sullenly.

“Us three women,” Trent explained, “united for Mother Earth.”

“Oh,” Vera mumbled.

“You know, Shari,” Trent continued, “as women we have a special bond to the Earth and a special responsibility. We are the givers of life and the nurturers, just as the Earth nurtures us and gives us life. Men, on the other hand, exploit the Earth just like they exploit women, and abuse the Earth just like they abuse women. Women must band together to protect the Earth, and each other, from the violations of men.”

Charlie nodded as if she understood, but knew that Trent’s libel of all men was as invalid as every other racist or sexist stereotyping she had ever heard.

“Shari,” Trent said, “I want you to stay here while Vera and I go into Washington to work. Don’t leave this house, don’t answer the phone–understand?”

Charlie nodded, thinking, “Phone”? Since the early part of the century the phone, television, and computer had all been pretty much integrated into one instrument usually called the computer; although some people were starting to call them “‘puters” for short and even “putes.” She wondered if this meant Trent had an actual voice only, antique and obsolete-as-hell telephone. She would have to have some kind of converter to convert digital fiber optic signals to analog copper wire, but why bother? The house was old but most older houses had been retrofitted with central computer systems. Charlie hadn’t noticed until then that this one didn’t. She later found the “phone” and it was just a simple computer with a handset.

Later Vera and Trent left. Charlie could hear them arguing outside before they got in the car.

“I don’t want her here,” Vera growled angrily.

Charlie couldn’t understand Trent’s reply that came just before she heard the car doors slam shut and the car scrape against the pavement as it pulled into the street.

Charlie searched the small house looking for... anything.

It was an arduous task. Judging by the clutter, Trent and Vera were a couple of pack rats. Every room was filled with clutter composed mainly of books, magazines, and articles. The house was clean, but messy. She was amazed at the amount of paper in the house. Apparently Trent and Vera didn’t use tablets to read like most everyone else. She was surprised to find some magazines still printed on paper that had to be hand delivered. H
ow inefficient is that
? she thought to herself.

Not uncovering anything Freeman or Mitchel would find interesting, she looked for a way to pass time. She finally found a computer but it was a portable model with password protection. Charlie had taken the information security class at Boulder but that was more on how to protect data than extract it. She tried a few obvious passwords but nothing worked. Without a computer, downloading any entertainment off the net was impossible. Also, there might be something useful on the computer. It frustrated her that she couldn’t get in it.

There were the books, though–actual paper books. She looked at the authors: Commoner, Mills, Carson, Li, Chomsky, and Foremand. She didn’t recognize any of the names but the titles told her what they were all about. Most were environmental; some were just straight politics and always, it seemed, the discredited ideas that wreaked so much havoc in the twentieth century. She skimmed some shorter, environmental ones thinking that if anyone quizzed her on her environmental commitment she’d have a few things to say.

About three in the afternoon the phone/computer beeped loudly. This surprised Charlie; she half expected carrier pigeons in keeping with the low-tech motif.

“Shari, pick up the handset,” she heard Vera say.

Charlie complied. “Hello?” There was no video on this small computer, apparently.

“Shari,” Vera said, “Congresswoman Trent wants to see you in her office. It’s in the Rayburn building. You need to hurry so take a cab instead of the bus.”

“I don’t have any money,” Charlie said.

“I’ll meet you out front to pay the fare, okay?”

“Okay.”

“And don’t dawdle.”

“Right.”

Charlie got a literate cab driver this time. He even knew where the Sam Rayburn building was located. In fact, he said he had a degree in civil engineering.

“They why are you driving a cab?” Charlie inquired.

“No work,” he said. “Either our government doesn’t have the will or the money to expand or even repair the country’s infrastructure. That’s why it’s crumbling and insufficient for our needs.” He said it as if making a speech.

“Spending too much on health care?” Charlie asked.

“No,” the driver said. “It’s not making the rich and the criminal corporations pay their fair share.”

Charlie wondered why “criminal” and “corporation” seemed inexorably linked in the minds of some. Also, last she heard, the U.S. corporate income tax was right around 90 percent, and the rate for those making over a million a year, like herself, was 95 percent. That was yet another reason she’d stopped calling herself an American and paid taxes in Japan.

“Why don’t you,” she offered, “apply to Space Resources. They use civil engineers, especially with this tunnel project they’re working on.”

“Are you kidding?” the driver said angrily. “A Japanese company? The Japanese are responsible for the loss of millions of American jobs. I wouldn’t work for them for anything.”

Charlie wondered why the Japanese (and the Koreans and the Thai and the Filipinos and the Rwandans and everyone else) were blamed for America’s economic problems and not the policies of the government that drove business away. She didn’t feel like arguing with this victim of common misconceptions. He raged on about “unfair competition” until he stopped his car in front of the old, ugly Rayburn building. Vera was there and she paid the fare from her computer. She lectured Charlie that she should have asked for an electric cab. Hydrogen burners produce nitrous oxides and ozone, Vera intoned. And, she continued, the burning of hydrogen fuels added water vapor to the atmosphere, increased cloud cover, and was responsible for global cooling.

Charlie apologized and followed Vera to Trent’s office.

They passed the secretary–he hardly even looked up–and entered Trent’s inner office. Trent was sitting behind her desk talking to another woman. Trent looked up.

“Oh, hi, Shari,” she said smiling. “Come in; sit down.”

Charlie sat in one of the simple chairs that dotted the room. Vera stood behind her.

“Shari,” Trent said, “this is Congresswoman Polasky. Janice, this is Shari Johnson.”

Charlie smiled at the woman. She was older, about 60 Charlie decided. Unlike Trent’s lumberjack basic wardrobe, Polasky was dressed in a stylish red business suit and her silver hair was tastefully done up, and she wore just the right amount of makeup for a woman her age. Charlie wondered what these two had in common except possibly ideology.

Polasky studied Charlie. “No, I don’t recognize her. But I’ll look into it. Shari,” she said, “do you mind?” She held a small camera in her hand.

“No,” Charlie said.

Polasky snapped the photo, looked at the camera’s display to see if she liked it, and, apparently deciding she did, put the camera in her purse.

“Thanks, Janice,” Trent said.

“I’ll see myself out.” Polasky commented simply. She walked out the door.

“Shari,” Trent said after the door closed. “I’m sending you to Los Angeles.”

“Los Angeles?”

“Yes. That’s where the headquarters of the Gaia Alliance are. You’ll be trained and educated. How does that sound?”

“I don’t want to go to Los Angeles,” she protested weakly. That was exactly what she wanted. There didn’t seem to be anything to learn here, living with Trent. She wasn’t sure how long she could put off the woman’s advances without angering her.