Saturn (6 page)

Eberly had sat for more than two hours, utterly bored, as each of the habitat's sixteen department heads gave their long, dull weekly reports. Wilmot insisted on these weekly meetings; Eberly thought them pointless and foolish. Nothing more than Wilmot's way of making himself feel important, he told himself.

There was no need to spend two or three hours in this stuffy conference room. Each department chairman could send in his or her report to Wilmot electronically. But no, the old man has to sit up at the head of the table and pretend that he's actually doing something.

For a community of ten thousand alleged troublemakers, the habitat was sailing on its way to Saturn smoothly enough. Most of the population were relatively young and energetic. Eberly, with Holly's unstinting help, had weeded out the real troublemakers among those who applied for a berth. Those whom he accepted had run afoul of the strictures of the highly-organized societies back on Earth one way or another: unhappy with their employment placement, displeased when the local government refused to allow them to move from one city to another, unwilling to accept a genetic screening board's verdict on a childbearing application. A few had even tried political action to change their governments, to no avail. So here they were, in habitat
Goddard,
in a man-made world that had plenty of room for growth. They turned their backs on Earth, willing to trek out to Saturn in their ridiculous quest for personal freedom.

The trick is, Eberly thought as the chief of maintenance droned on about trivial problems, to give them the illusion of personal freedom without allowing them to be free. To make them look to me for their freedom and their hopes for the future. To get them to accept me as their indispensable leader.

It's time to begin that process, he decided as the maintenance chief finally sat down. Now.

Yet he had to wait for the security director's report. Leo Kananga was an imposing figure: a tall, deeply black Rwandan who insisted on being addressed as "Colonel," his rank in the Rwandan police force before he volunteered for the Saturn mission. His head shaved bald, he dressed all in black, which accented his height. Despite his impressive appearance, he had nothing new to report, no great problems. A few scrapes here and there in the cafeteria, usually young men making testosterone displays for young women. An out-and-out brawl at a pickup football game in one of the parks.

"Sports hooligans," Kananga grumbled. "We get fights after vids of major sporting events from Earth, too."

"Maybe we should stop showing them," suggested one of the women.

The security chief gave her a pitying smile. "Try that and you'll have a major disturbance on your hands."

Great God, Eberly thought, they're going to argue the point for the next half hour. Sure enough, others around the table joined the discussion. Wilmot sat in silence at the head of the table, watching, listening, occasionally fingering his moustache.

Which of these dolts will be loyal to me? Eberly asked himself as they wrangled on. Which will I have to replace? His eyes immediately focused on Berkowitz, the overweight chairman of the communications department. I've promised his job to Vyborg, Eberly thought. Besides, Berkowitz would never be loyal to me; I couldn't trust a Jew who's spent all his life in the news media.

At last the teapot-tempest over sports hooligans ended. Without a resolution, of course. That type of discussion never produces results, Eberly believed, only hot air. Still, I should remember sports hooligans. They might become useful, at the proper moment.

Wilmot stroked his moustache again, then said, "That completes the departmental reports. Have we any old business to take up?"

No one stirred, except that several people seemed to eye the door that led out of the conference room.

"Any new business? If not
—
"

"I have a piece of new business, sir," said Eberly, raising his hand.

All eyes turned toward him.

"Go ahead," Wilmot said, looking slightly surprised.

"I think we should consider the matter of standardizing our clothing."

"Standardizing?"

"You mean you want everyone to wear uniforms?"

Eberly smiled patiently for them. "No, not uniforms. Of course not. But I've noticed that great differences in clothing styles cause a certain amount of... well, friction. We're all supposed to be equals here, yet some of the people flaunt very expensive clothing. And jewelry."

"That's a personal decision," said Andrea Maronella. She was wearing an auburn blouse and dark green skirt, Eberly noticed, touched off with several bracelets, earrings, and a pearl necklace.

"It does cause some friction," Eberly repeated. "Those sports enthusiasts, for example. They wear the colors of the teams they favor, don't they?"

Colonel Kananga nodded.

Berkowitz, of all people, piped up. "Y'know, some people show up at the office dressed like they were going to work on Wall Street or Saville Row, while the technicians come in looking like they've been dragged on a rope from lower Bulgaria or someplace."

Everyone laughed.

"But isn't that their right?" Maronella countered. "To dress as they choose? As long as it doesn't interfere with their work."

"But it does interfere with their work," Eberly pounced, "when it causes jealousy and rancor."

"Those hooligans wear their team colors just to annoy the buffs who root for other teams," Kananga said.

"I think that if we offered guidelines about dress codes," Eberly said, calm and reasonable, "it would help considerably. Not mandatory codes, but guidelines for what is appropriate and expected."

"We could offer counseling," said the chief of medical services, a psychologist.

"And advice about style."

They wrangled over the issue for more than half an hour. Finally Wilmot put it to a vote, and the board decided to generate voluntary guidelines for appropriate dress during working hours. Eberly graciously accepted their decision.

The first step, he told himself.

T0: All personnel.

FROM: M. Eberly, Director, Human Resources Dept.

SUBJECT: Dress codes.

In an effort to reduce tensions arising from differences in apparel, the following dress codes are suggested. These codes are not mandatory, but voluntary adherence will help eliminate frictions arising from apparent differences in clothing style, expense, accessories, etc.

1. All personnel are required to wear their identity badges at all times. These badges include name, job position, a recent photograph plus electronically stored background data from the individual's dossier on file in the Human Resources Department. In an emergency, such data is vital to medical and/or rescue teams.

2. Suggested dress codes are as follows:
a
. Office workers should wear a solid-color tunic and slacks, with personal adornment (such as jewelry, tattoos, hair styling, etc.) kept to a minimum.
b
. Laboratory workers should dress as in (a), above, except that they should wear protective smocks, eye shields, etc., as required by their tasks.
c
. Factory workers...

Pancho paced across her office as she spoke, feeling frustrated because there was no feedback from the person she was addressing. Communications beyond the Earth/Moon vicinity were almost always one-way affairs. Even though messages flitted through space at the speed of light, the distances to Mars, the Belt, and beyond were simply too great for a real-time, face-to-face chat.

So Pancho rattled on, hoping that Kris Cardenas would reply as quickly as possible.

"I know it's a lot to ask, Dr. Cardenas," she was saying. "You've spent a lot of years there at Ceres and made a life for yourself. But this migration out to Saturn is a chance to build something brand new for yourself. They'll be happy to have your expertise, you can count on that. There's probably a million ways your knowledge of nanotechnology will help them."

By force of habit Pancho glanced up at the image floating in the middle of her office. Instead of Kris Cardenas's face, it showed only her own neatly typed words.

"I'll personally pay all your expenses and add a big bonus," Pancho went on. "I'll pay for a major expansion of your habitat out there at Ceres. She's my little sister, Kris, and she needs somebody to watch over her. I can't do it; I'm hoping that you can. Will you do this for me? Just for a year or so, just long enough so Sis gets squared away and can stand on her own feet without doing anything foolish. Will you help me on this, Kris? I really think it'll be to your advantage and I'd appreciate it enormously."

Pancho realized she was practically begging. Almost whining. So what? she asked herself. This is Susie I'm talking about.

But she took a breath and said more evenly, "Please get back to me as soon as you can on this, Kris. It's important to me."

In her cozy quarters aboard the habitat
Chrysalis
in orbit around the asteroid Ceres, Kris Cardenas intently watched Pancho's earnest face as the Astro Corporation board chairman paced back and forth across her plushly furnished office. Cardenas noted the tension in every line of Pancho's lanky body, every gesture, every word she spoke.

I don't owe her a thing, Cardenas told herself. Why should I uproot myself and trundle out to Saturn on that weird expedition?

Yet, despite herself, she felt intrigued. Maybe it's time for a change in my life. Maybe I've done enough penance.

Despite her calendar years, Dr. Kristin Cardenas looked no more than thirtyish, a pert sandy blond woman with a swimmer's shoulders and strong, athletic body, and bright cornflower-blue eyes. That was because her body teemed with nanomachines, virus-sized devices that acted as a deliberate, directed immune system that destroyed invading organisms, took apart plaque forming in her blood vessels atom by atom, and rebuilt tissue damaged by trauma or aging.

Cardenas had won a Nobel Prize for her research in nanotechnology, before the fundamentalist governments of Earth succeeded in banning all forms of nanotech on the planet. She had carried on her work at Selene for years, helping the lunar nation to win its short, virtually bloodless war against the former world government. But because she had taken nanomachines into her own body she was not allowed to return to Earth, even for a brief visit. She lost her husband and children because they dared not come to Selene and risk being exiled from Earth with her. Cardenas bitterly resented the shortsighted attitudes of the "flatlanders" who had cost her her children and grandchildren, a bitterness that had led her to homicide. She had allowed her knowledge of nanotechnology to be used to sabotage a spacecraft, which caused the death of industrialist Dan Randolph.

The government of Selene locked her out of her own nanotech lab. She fled to the mining station on Ceres, in the Asteroid Belt, where she remained for many years, serving as a medical doctor and eventually as a member of Ceres's governing board. Penance. She helped to build the miners' community at Ceres, and she had refused to do any nanotech work since fleeing from Selene.

Am I being foolish? she now asked herself. Should I apply for a slot on the Saturn expedition? Would they take me if I did apply?

Staring at Pancho's engrossed image frozen on her wallscreen, Cardenas decided to try. It's time to begin a new life in a new world, she thought. Time for a new start.

The cafeteria was a strange place to hold such a sensitive meeting, Eberly thought. Yet, on the other hand, the clattering, bustling cafeteria was one of the few places in the habitat that would be virtually impossible to bug with listening devices. Too much background noise, too many people moving about.

"I understand that you are from Rwanda," Eberly said pleasantly, as he picked at the salad on the table before him.

"Col. Kananga was a high official in the national police force," said Morgenthau, whose plate bore an arrangement of fresh fruit slices.

"So I gathered from your dossier," Eberly said, with a smile. "It's unfortunate that you were asked to leave the country."

If the barb hurt Kananga, the tall, lean Rwandan gave no indication of it. He said merely, "I was asked to clear up a difficult situation, and once I did so, I was rewarded with a choice between a public trial for police brutality or permanent exile."

Eberly pursed his lips sympathetically. "Politicians," he murmured.

"Yes," said Kananga, his voice like the rumble of a lion. "Politicians."

Morgenthau forced a smile. "Col. Kananga is interested in working with us, Malcolm."

"Good," said Eberly, without taking his eyes from the Rwandan's dark, impassive face. "You could be useful in the government we will set up once we arrive at Saturn."

"I would expect to keep my position as chief of security," Kananga said flatly.

"I don't see why you shouldn't," Eberly replied. Then he added, "If you can follow my orders absolutely and without fail."

Kananga allowed the trace of a smile to curl his lips slightly. "I know how to follow orders."

"Good. If you are loyal to me, I will be loyal to you. You'll find me a trustworthy leader. I won't turn on you for doing your job."

The Rwandan's smile broadened enough to show some teeth. "Even if I am ... eh, zealous, let us say, in carrying out your orders?"

"Zeal is no sin," Morgenthau said, "when you're doing God's work."

Eberly said, "Just follow my orders, do your work well, and you won't have to worry about being shipped back to Rwanda once we've arrived at Saturn."

Kananga nodded wordlessly.

When she received Cardenas's request, Holly raced from her desk to find Eberly. He was in the office complex's cafeteria, sitting with Morgenthau and a lean, skeletally thin man whose complexion was darker than her own, the nearly purple black of the true African. They were deep in an intense discussion, their heads leaning forward like conspirators.

Holly scurried up to their table and stood at Eberly's elbow. None of them paid any attention to her. They continued to talk in hushed, confidential tones, too low for Holly to hear their words over the clatter and conversations that clanged off the bare walls of the busy cafeteria.

She waited several moments, fidgeting impatiently, then broke into their tête-à-tête with, "Excuse me! Malcolm, I hate to interrupt but
—
"

Eberly looked up sharply at her, clear displeasure in his piercing eyes.

"I'm sorry, Malcolm, but it's important."

He took a breath, then said, "What is important enough to intrude in my discussion?"

"Dr. Cardenas wants to join us!"

"Cardenas?" asked Morgenthau.

"Kristin Cardenas," Holly said, grinning enthusiastically. "The nanotech expert. She won the Nobel Prize! And she wants to come with us!"

Eberly seemed less than pleased. "Do we need an expert in nanotechnology?"

"That's a dangerous area," said the black man. His scalp was shaved bald, Holly saw, although there was a fringe of a beard outlining his jawline.

"It's outlawed on Earth," Morgenthau agreed, adding a muttered, "Unholy."

Holly was surprised at their obtuseness. "Nanotech could be really helpful to us. We could use nanomachines to do most of the habitat's maintenance work. And healthwise, nanomachines could
—
"

Eberly stopped her with an upraised finger. "Nanomachines are outlawed on Earth because they could run wild and devour everything in their path."

"Turn everything into gray goo," Morgenthau muttered.

"Only if somebody programs 'em to do that," Holly countered. "Those flatlanders back Earthside are scared of terrorists or nutcases going wild with nanomachines."

Morgenthau glared at her but said nothing.

"Shouldn't we be concerned about that, as well?" Eberly asked mildly.

"We've screened everybody aboard," Holly said. "We don't have any violent types here. No fanatics."

"How can we be sure of that?" Morgenthau was obviously unconvinced.

Looking at Eberly, the black man said slowly, "Properly used, nanomachines could be of great help to us."

Eberly stared back at him for a long moment. "You believe so?"

"I do."

"Would Dr. Cardenas agree to work under our terms, I wonder?" Eberly mused.

"We could ask her and find out," Holly prompted. "She's on Ceres now. We could pick her up when we go through the Belt. I checked the flight plan; we'll be within a day's flight of Ceres. She could buzz out to us on a torch ship, no prob. I could get my sister to set up a flight for her, betcha."

Eberly stroked his chin. "Even though we have a full compliment now, I suppose we could make room for one person of Dr. Cardenas's caliber."

"If Wilmot approves of it," said Morgenthau.

"Wilmot." Eberly almost sneered. "I'm in charge of human resources decisions, not Wilmot."

"But something like this
—
"

"I'll take care of it," he insisted. Turning to Holly, he said, "Inform Dr. Cardenas that I would like to discuss this with her personally."

"Cosmic!" Holly blurted.

She was about to turn and head back to the human resources office when Eberly grasped her wrist.

"You haven't met Colonel Kananga, have you?"

The black man got to his feet like a jointed scaffolding unfolding. He was almost two meters tall, a full head taller than Holly.

"Our director of security, Colonel Leo Kananga, from Rwanda," said Eberly. "Holly Lane, from Selene."

Kananga extended his hand. Holly took it in hers. His long fingers felt cold and dry. His grip was strong, almost painful.

Kananga smiled at her, but there was no warmth in it. Just the opposite. Holly felt an icy shudder run down her spine. It was like looking at a skull, a death's head.