Mutineer's Moon

“All right,” he said softly. “Tell me.”

“I wish I didn’t have to ask this of you,” Colin said, anxiety tightening his voice, “but I do. Have you collected my effects from Shepherd yet?”

Sean was taken briefly aback by the apparent change of subject, then shook his head. “NASA sent me a box of your stuff, but I didn’t collect anything.”

“Then I want you to,” Colin said, withdrawing a pen from his shirt pocket. “There’re some personal files in my office computer in White Tower—I doubt anyone even bothered to check them, but we can arrange for you to ‘find’ a note about them among my papers and Major Simmons will let you through to White for Chris Yamaguchi to pull them for you.”

“Well, sure,” Sean said. “But why do you need them?”

“I don’t. What I need is to get you inside White Tower with this.” He extended the pen. Sean took it with a baffled air, and Colin smiled unhappily.

“That’s not exactly what it looks like, Sean. You can write with it, but it’s actually a relay for my own sensors. With that in your pocket, I can carry out a full spectrum scan of your surroundings. And if you take the L Block elevators, you’ll pass right through Geo Sciences on your way upstairs.”

“Oh ho!” Sean said softly. “In other words, it’ll get you in by proxy?”

“Exactly. If Dahak is right—and he usually is—somebody in Geo Sciences is in cahoots with the mutineers. We think they’re all Terra-born, but whoever it is may have a few items of Imperial technology in or near his work area.”

“How likely is that?”

“I wish I knew,” Colin admitted. “Still, if I were a mutineer, I’d be mighty tempted to give my buddies a leg up if they need it. There’re a lot of fairly small gadgets that could help enormously-test gear, micro-tools, mini- computers, maybe even a com link to check in if they hit a glitch.”

“Com link?”

“The Imperium hasn’t used radio in a long, long time. Give your boy a fold-space link, and you’ve got totally secure communications, unless somebody physically overhears a conversation, of course.”

“I can see that, but do you really think they’re going to leave stuff like that just lying around?”

“Why not? Oh, they’ll try to keep anything really bizarre under wraps—I mean, the place is crawling with scientists—but who’s going to suspect? Nobody on the planet knows any more about what’s really going on than I did before Dahak grabbed me, right?”

“There’s that,” Sean agreed slowly. “And this gizmo—” he waved the “pen” gently “—will let you pick up on anything like that?”

“Right. Unfortunately—” Colin met his brother’s eyes levelly “—it could also be picked up on. It doesn’t use radio either, Sean, and I’ll be using active sensors. If you pass too close to anyone with the right detection rig, you’ll stand out like a Christmas tree in June. And if you do…”

“I see,” Sean said softly. He pursed his lips and drew the relay slowly through his fingers, then smiled that same slow smile and slid it neatly into his shirt pocket. “In that case, you’d better jot down that ‘note’ of yours in case Major Simmons wants to see it, hadn’t you?”

* * *

The sentries carried slung assault rifles, and artfully camouflaged auto-cannon covered Sean’s old Caddy as he braked gently at the security barricade’s concrete dragon’s teeth. The last major attack by the Black Mecca splinter faction of the old Islamic Jihad had been over a year ago, but it had killed over three hundred people and inflicted a quarter-billion dollars’ worth of damage on ConEurope’s Werner von Braun Space Control.

The First World had grown unhappily accustomed to terrorism, both domestic and foreign. Most of the world—including the vast majority of Islam—might condemn them, but Dark Age mentalities could do terrible amounts of damage with modern technology. As Black Mecca had proven when it used a man—portable SAM to knock down a fully—loaded ConEuropean Valkyrie just short of the runway … onto a pad twelve minutes from launch with a Perseus heavy-lifter. Terrorism continued to flow in erratic cycles, but it seemed to be back on the upsurge after a two-year hiatus, and the aerospace industry had apparently become Black Mecca’s prime target this time around. No one knew exactly why—unless it was the way aerospace epitomized the collective “Great Satan’s” wicked, evil, liberalizing, humanizing technology—but Shepherd Center was taking no chances.

“Good morning, sir.” A guard touched the brim of his cap as he bent beside the window. “I’m afraid this is a restricted area. Public access is off Fountain Boulevard.”

“I know,” Sean replied, glancing at the man’s neat NASA nameplate. “Major Simmons is expecting me, Sergeant Klein.”

“I see. May I have your name, sir?” The sergeant raised an eyebrow as he uncased his belt terminal and brought the small screen to life.

“I’m Sean MacIntyre, Sergeant.”

“Thank you.” Klein studied his terminal, comparing the minute image to Sean’s face, then nodded. “Yes, sir, you’re on the cleared list.” A raised hand beckoned to one of his fellows. “Corporal Hansen will escort you to White Tower, Mr. MacIntyre.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.” Sean leaned across to open the passenger door for Corporal Hansen, and the guard climbed in and settled his compact assault rifle carefully beside him.

“You’re welcome, Mr. MacIntyre,” Klein said. “And may I extend my condolences on your brother’s death, sir?”

“Thank you,” Sean said again, and put the car back into gear as Klein touched his cap once more.

The remark could have been a polite nothing, but Klein had sounded entirely sincere, and Sean was touched by it.

He’d always known his brother was popular with his fellows, but not until Colin “died” had he suspected how much the rank and file of the space effort had admired him. He’d expected a certain amount of instant veneration. It was traditional, after all—no matter how klutzy a man was, he became a hero when he perished doing something heroic—but Colin had been one of the varsity.

Colin’s selection as the Prometheus Mission’s chief survey pilot had been a measure of his professional standing; the grief over his reported death, whether it was the loss felt by his personal friends or by men and women like Sergeant Klein who’d never even met him, measured another side of him.

If they only knew, Sean thought, and barely managed to stop himself before he chuckled. Corporal Hansen would not understand his amusement at all.

The corporal guided Sean through three more checkpoints, then down a shortcut through the towering silver domes of Shepherd Center’s number two tank farm, where vapor clouds plumed from pressure relief valves high overhead. The distant thunder of a shuttle launch rattled the Bushmaster’s windows gently as they emerged on the far side, and White Tower’s massive, gleaming needle of mirrored glass loomed before them. Clouds moved with pristine grace across the deep-blue sky reflected from its face, and not even the clutter of communications relays atop the tower could lessen the power of its presence.

Sean parked in the indicated slot, and he and the corporal climbed out.

“Take the main entrance and tell the security desk you’re here to see Major Simmons, sir. They’ll handle it from there.”

“Thanks, Corporal. Are you going to get back to the gate all right?”

“No sweat, sir. There’s a jitney heading back in about ten minutes.”

“Then I’ll be going,” Sean said with a nod, and strode briskly through the indicated entrance and its metal detectors. A trefoil-badged holo sign on the wall warned of x-ray scanners, as well, and Sean grinned, appreciating Colin’s reasons for recruiting him for this task. Even if no one recognized him, his various implants would undoubtedly give the security systems fits!

The security desk passed him through to Major Simmons. Sean and the major had met before, and Simmons shook his hand, his firm grip a silent expression of sympathy for his “loss,” and handed him a clip-on security badge.

“This’ll get you up to Captain Yamaguchi’s office—it’s good anywhere in the Green Area—and she’s already pulled Colin’s personal data for you. Do you know your way there, or should I assign a guide?”