Space Inc (anthology)

Field Trip by S. M. and Janet Stirling

Lereesa Norton watched the yellow-and-black shuttle complete its docking maneuver and sighed, only partly at the delicate beauty of the winged rocket-plane’s movements against the silver glitter of the stars and the blackness of space, the stabbing flicker of the guidance rockets, and the remnant red glow of its vents.

When I got this job… an actual chance to work in space! What’s that old saying? Be careful what you wish for: you may get it.

What she’d wanted was to work for the station in a real job, not as a glorified shepherd for groundlings. She felt like a fraud in her stone-gray close-fitting ship suit.

Here I am on the glorious high frontier… bored now, she thought, running a hand over her close-cut, loosely-curled black hair—she was of North American-Columbian-Zulu-English descent, a wiry brown young woman with regular, high-cheeked features and green eyes. She’d never imagined men that she could be so bored.

God, I’d almost welcome a catastrophe!

Boredom had an actual physical sensation, something like a low-order tension headache combined with indigestion and sleepiness. It was like a cold—it made you feel stupid and lethargic without actually crippling you. Just being in space wasn’t all that thrilling, once you’d been here for a while. The endless shiny whitish beige of the corridors and compartments, the recycled antiseptic cleanliness of the air and everything else, seeing the same people every day— unless you were doing something unusual, it was far too much like being imprisoned in a submarine. Granted the view was better, but a good holo could give you something so close you couldn’t tell the difference.

The tourists she guided were carefully steered away from the station’s real functions—where her interest lay—and were enthusiastically encouraged to visit and stay in the civilian entertainment and medical areas, which most preferred to do anyway. That was like New Disney World, only with low gravity.

A little more than half the station was devoted to civilian pursuits. That half paid for a lot of the rest of the station. There, travelers were offered the ultimate in luxury accommodations, food, and drink. Live entertainment by the best and most popular actors, singers, and comedians on Earth in every language and culture was available. Plus unique attractions like zero G ballet and “flying” with strapped-on wings.

There was also what Lereesa called, to herself and her friends, high-end sleaze. What some unkindly referred to as “hot and cold running whores.” The station had its own laws about recreational chemicals, too—and they could be enforced, in this antiseptic environment. And good old-fashioned gambling was offered in elegant surroundings reminiscent of a time when the rich were safely separated from the hoi polloi by the simple expedient of being somewhere ordinary people couldn’t afford to be.

“I couldn’t afford to be here,” she muttered. “When everyone can afford to go to Monte Carlo, Monte Carlo goes to space.”

She couldn’t afford a drink of water in those places. Even the charge for air was higher in the big clubs. Not that she had to worry about the air charge; that was the tourists’ concern.

Sometimes all Lereesa could think about was escape. Just a day away from here, where I could see blue sky, feel a breeze, a rainstorm, see a bug! It wasn’t until you’d left Earth that you realized how much everything there changed from day to day.

“I know I won’t break down. The psych tests said so. Unfortunately!”

And the station was safe. Zero tolerance described a generous policy next to the station’s attitude. This wasn’t the Wild West; management controlled everything.

As she waited for her party, Lereesa switched the viewport beside her to an Earth view; there weren’t any actual viewports in the long domed corridor of the passenger shuttle dock. She sighed again and activated the notebook computer that was part of her uniform sleeve to check the names of her new charges one more time. Ms. Lorraine Tosca, a high school science teacher and her four: Gina Mancuso, Russell Moore, Christine Wu, and Greg Baca. High school kids.

Lereesa had actually groaned when she pulled this assignment. These kids would be seeing parts of the station that most tourists weren’t even remotely interested in, and would rarely be allowed to visit even if they were. They’d be wandering through the guts of the station and they’d even be allowed onto the original station, preserved in the center of the ring. The places she’d have liked to visit—on her own.

The kids were here on a special scholarship, so she supposed she could expect a certain degree of decorum. Meaning perhaps they wouldn’t try to duck out of the tour to catch some of the action in the adult entertainment section. I hope. The only thing worse than being bored by the tourists was having them do something so reckless it would stop your heart. And who better to do that, Lereesa thought, than teenagers?

A couple of handlers came along and said hello as they stationed themselves on either side of the white-coated hatch. One of their jobs was to assist passengers from the zero G of the shuttle to the station’s near-Earth-normal gravity. After so many months she knew them both well.

“I guess this has been one of those hell trips,” Pete said with a grin.

Lereesa raised her brows.

“Some kid puked his guts out all the way up, I hear,” he said. “Apparently, he sparked off an orgy of upchucking.”

“The head stewardess said they’d have to fumigate the shuttle before it could be used again,” said the other handler.

Oh, boy, she thought, her heart sinking. Please let it be somebody else’s kid.

The hatch opened with a hydraulic hiss and passengers began to disembark, along with a faint sour odor, despite the best the airscrubbers could do.

First out was a black youth who was an interesting grayish-green shade. He staggered and almost fell, but the handlers kept a grip on him until they were sure he was steady. The kid lurched to the bulkhead opposite and leaned his forehead against it, swallowing and wiping at the clammy sweat on his face. Active misery made him look younger than he was, and Lereesa felt a stir of compassion.

This was Russell Moore, one of her guests. He was followed by an anxious-looking woman of about twenty-five; olive-skinned, with a curved nose and intelligent dark eyes. Lorraine Tosca, the chaperone. The other three members of Lereesa’s group followed rapidly, looking both bored and shell-shocked, something she was sure only teenagers could manage.

“Hello,” she said to the teacher. “I’m your guide, Lereesa Norton. We can take Russell down to the clinic if you like, to see if he needs to be rehydrated.”

“Lorraine,” the woman said. “Tosca. That might be a good idea. He’s had rather a rough trip.”

Other passengers filed by, casting resentful glances at the group.

“It wouldn’t have been so bad,” a pale Christine Wu muttered, “if he hadn’t been so loud.”

“It wouldn’t have been so bad,” Greg Baca returned, “if he hadn’t started out by boasting how his astronaut uncle had never been sick once in space, and how he was looking forward to seeing us puke our guts out.”

“Well, he sure got to see that,” Gina Mancuso said with a grimace.

“How’m I gonna get home?” Russell asked with real horror.

Ms. Tosca blinked.

“It might not happen again,” Lereesa reassured him. “Or if you do get sick it might not be as severe. Try not to think about it,” she suggested. “Why borrow trouble?”

“Yeah, maybe it was a fluke,” Gina said.

Russell slid down the wall and rested his head on his knees. “I’ve got a headache,” he complained quietly.

“Then he probably does need to be rehydrated,” Lereesa said to Ms. Tosca.

The teacher rose from Russell’s side and nodded. “Okay. Why don’t you escort us down to the clinic, then you can take the kids to their rooms. We haven’t got anything scheduled tonight but settling in and a quiet din…”

“I know,” Lereesa said with a smile. “I’ve got your schedule.”

“Of course. What about our bags?” Ms. Tosca asked distractedly.

“They’ll be delivered to your quarters,” Lereesa assured her. After they’re thoroughly inspected.

There were more than a few fanatical groups who would love to blow up what they called the “Babylon of the sky.” Since there was no easy way to determine who might be a member of said fanatical groups, everything that came aboard was checked and rechecked for possible weapons or explosives. And since most of their guests had to be handled delicately, the station simply pretended that delivering their bags to their quarters was for their convenience instead of for security. A pleasant fiction that everyone conspired to accept.

After they’d dropped off Ms. Tosca and Russell, Lereesa escorted the others to their quarters. The facade facing the corridor was grand with synthetic stone and lights, but within…

“My closet is bigger than this room!” Greg said in awe.

“So was mine when I lived in Seattle,” Lereesa agreed. “These are just like the staff’s quarters.”

There were six of the tiny rooms opening into a small sitting room.

“Unbelievable,” Gina said, shaking her head. “Good thing I’m not claustrophobic.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t have been allowed up here if you were,” their guide explained. “The station is very careful about potential lawsuits.”

“Hey.” Christine came out of her cubby/room. “Can we, like, go out?”

“Yeah!” Gina said. “I don’t need to rest Can we explore a little?”

“I suppose so,” Lereesa said understandingly. “Let’s go down and cheek with your teacher,”

Sick bay was slightly less cramped than the students’ hostel, and it had a different odor—a slight trace of ozone and the chemicals which made sure that no mutant superbug lived long enough to divide.

Ms. Tosca left Russell’s side. “He’s going to be fine, I’m sure,” Lereesa said with a smile.

“Yes, he is,” Ms. Tosca said, with a trace of well-hidden anxiety. “But I’d like to stay with him for awhile.”

“The kids want to stretch their legs,” Lereesa explained. “I thought I’d take them to the arcade. It’s an area cleared for adolescent entertainment, full of games and age-appropriate V.R.” She caught Christine rolling her eyes and grinned. “This is good stuff; you won’t be disappointed.”

“I’ll bet,” Greg muttered.

“I’d appreciate it if you’d keep them entertained,” Lorraine Tosca said. She made a torn-in-two gesture. “I wouldn’t feel right leaving him, but…”

Lereesa reassured the teacher; it was something she had to be good at, in her line of work.

The arcade was one of the open areas of the station, a huge central area with balconies opening up to the twenty-fifth level of this module. At the farthest edges, the gravity was light enough to allow some spectacular bounds and the floor consisted of trampoline fabric, carefully calibrated to prevent head contact with the floor of the balcony above. The teens were instantly immersed; signs flickering and flashing in brilliant colors, air that pulsed with the latest music, subliminals catching at the corner of the eye. Game zones and restaurants and shops and booths to inspire the shopaholic hidden even in teenage males surrounded them.

Seeing her charges’ eyes light up, Lereesa smiled. They might be very sophisticated and very smart, but there was still a lot of common-or-garden mallrat left in there.

She knew they’d be safe here—even better, they wouldn’t go home bearing tales of nameless debauchery. At least they wouldn’t if they didn’t stray, so the guide laid down some ground rules and gave them a place to meet her in two hours—enough time for them to feel trusted and responsible, but not enough time to get into trouble or wander too far.

“And remember,” Lereesa said sternly, “no wandering away from this area.”

They assured her that of course they wouldn’t think of such a thing and, after a moment, scattered like a handful of dropped beads, disappearing into the crowd too quickly for her to follow.

Half an hour ago I was bored, Lereesa thought, with a stab of anxiety—mere should have been another adult helping her, and subtracting the sick kid didn’t make up for losing the teacher. She keyed her computer to the surveillance cameras.

I prefer bored.

Greg stopped at a game terminal with an exclamation of awe; the visual portal projected images of a huge blond warrior flourishing a sword that dripped realistic gore, while two pneumatic beauties in highly unrealistic scraps of fur clung to his massive calves.

“Crom Thunder! This isn’t even out yet, man!” In an instant he was plugged in and playing, his eyes dreamy as the machine fed him neural impulses that counterfeited reality.

Gina and Christine continued on their way with barely a glance at his discovery. There were times when it could be funny to watch someone plugged in, in a grotty sort of way, but they had a different agenda today.

“Boys,” Gina said, throwing back her reddish-brown hair.

“Geek boys,” Christine replied, wrinkling her snub nose.

“Young geek boys,” Gina said, topping her.

“He’s our age,” Christine pointed out.

“That’s pretty young, for a boy. He’s not going to miss any good killing or bikini time, that one isn’t.”

“And we’re not going to achieve program in this environment,” Christine said. “Let’s look for—”

In the crowd of sleek, well-dressed teens, he stood out like an Alsatian at a poodle convention. Soft black vat-leather, glittering with implanted spikes, and swirling motion from the tattoos on a slimly trim body nearly as hairless as theirs.

“Hey, those are great!” Gina said admiringly.

“Did you have them done here?” Catherine asked.

He looked them up and down for a long moment and asked, “Parlez vous Français?”

The girls looked at one another. “Uh, petit pas,” Gina said dubiously.

The boy laughed. “If that,” he said in English with a distinctly North American accent.

“Sprechen zie deutsche?” Catherine muttered, and they all broke up.

“Sorry,” he said, “just tryin’ it on. Who knew you knew petit pas.” He held up his thumb and forefinger almost touching.

“Sooo,” Gina said, her eyes roving over his colorful arms and shoulders. “Did you have any of this done here?”

“Check it out,” he said, and flexed a bicep. A colorful band glowed into life around his upper arm. It glistened with some antiseptic barrier and stood out from the others—the little flock of geese seemed more alive, and the deep waves crashing on a rocky shore were so green and frothy you could feel the cool spray.

He pinched it slightly and the colors began to flow, giving the coiled design the illusion of movement, surge and retreat of the sea, the graceful flex of wings…

“Oh!” cooed Gina. “It’s a cybertat! That’s just what I want!”

“It’s gorgeous,” Christine agreed. She reached out, one finger hovering above the glowing band. Then she realized what she was doing and, with a laugh, withdrew her hand.

He grinned. “No problem. My name’s Joe.”

“Well, that’s prosaic,” Gina said.

“I knew you two were geeks the minute I saw you,” Joe said with a grin.

He had a very nice smile. That and his being a year or two older took some of the sting out of his words.

“C’mon,” he coaxed. “Don’t look so sour. Who else would use a word like prosaic?”

“Well,” Christine said, looking down her nose, “you look like the kind of guy who has a name like Slash or something.”

He clutched his heart and mimed a dying fall. “Nah, Slash is what groundsiders think a guy like me should be called,” he said. “That is like, sooooo pressurized.”

“So,” Gina said. “Where can we get a tat like yours?”

“That could be a problem,” Joe said thoughtfully. “You don’t have an appointment and he’s a busy guy. How long are you gonna be here?”

With a grimace, Gina said, “Just four days.”

“Yeah,” Christine nodded, “and this is the most free time we’re likely to have.”

Joe looked at them and raised one eyebrow; the row of spikes above it made a rippling, musical sound at the movement and he smiled to see Christine’s mouth open in unconscious appreciation.

“Look,” he said, “I’ve got an appointment for Lazro to finish up some work on my back, but I’m gonna be here for another week, so I can reschedule. If you have a couple of hours right now, I’ll let you have my appointment.”

Cries of joy and delight met his suggestion and he rose from his seat.

“C’mon then, we’ve got some traveling to do. You won’t find anybody like Laz here in cotton candy heaven.”

Joe gestured contemptuously at the affluent crowd around them. “Not a tat showing.”

The shop was named Torture Tattoo, as a holo with a faint sonic undertone of screaming proclaimed outside. Most of the storefronts along this corridor were dark, and it was as close to a run-down neighborhood as the station boasted, with color-coded conduits thick on the low ceiling. Inside, it was long and narrow, with a smell much like the hospital’s, but with a harder edge of disinfectant and old, old metal.

Laz was more of a pattern than a person. He was tall and wide and bald, covered with swirling, flashing colors worked into fanciful designs everywhere except the parts covered by a twisted cotton loincloth—and, Gina thought with a start, probably there, too.

He’d chosen bands of designs rather than building out from a single image.

Christine whispered in Gina’s ear. “An unkind person would say he looks like the bargain bin in a ribbon shop.” Their giggles had a nervous edge, and Laz reacted not at all.

His face was hard to read with all that motion going on; actually it was hard to even see his features, as wild horses in galloping motion were superceded by abstract patterns. But with a flick of a muscle his visage was suddenly naked.

And he was still hard to read, all massive bones and coarse pores, but no trace of beard stubble. The gold rings in his ears moved slightly as he raised his eyebrows.

“We… I want a tat,” Gina said, fighting an impulse to turn half away and talk to him over her shoulder. “A cybertat.”

“That’s the reason people usually come here,” Laz agreed, nodding. He looked at Joe. The boy in leather—and he suddenly looked much more like a boy to both of them— spread his hands.

“They’re only here for four days, Laz,” Joe explained. “I said they could have my appointment. I’ll make another for… say the first week in June?”

“It’s your money and time,” Laz shrugged, with the slightest hint of a smile, before turning to the girls. “Bye.”

He didn’t say much and that was said curtly, and his prices were sky-high, but Gina immediately fell in love with a display of a three-color mandala that swirled clockwise and changed shades, simultaneously, never repeating itself.

“How does it do that?” she said.

Laz smiled again, with a quirking curve of his thick lips. “Chaotic pattern,” he said. “The algorithm is simple, but the permutations are infinite. I call it seminfinity. It runs off your body heat, like the others. Lasts indefinitely.”

“Oh, yeah,” she replied dreamily.

He considered her with a technician’s eye. “It would just about fit on your stomach,” he said. “Use the navel as the pivot, and—”

“No!” Gina said. “What’s the use of a tattoo you only show in the shower?”

“Or to your boyfriend,” Christine said, chuckling even more at Gina’s quelling look.

“I want it in the middle of my forehead.”

He shrugged. “In order to center it right, it’s gotta be smaller, so there’ll be less detail.”

Gina pouted. “I really like this design.”

Laz shrugged. “It’ll be seventy less for the smaller version—the detail’s there, but you’d have to let your friends get real close and use a ‘scope to see it all. We’ll put the control here,” he said, tapping her lightly on top of her head. “That way you won’t turn it on and off by accident every time you change your expression.”

“Sold!” Gina said instantly. She had a hundred and seventy-five in her account—half a year’s scrimping, so she could afford to bring back something from this trip. His original price would have left her with nothing. Now, at least, she’d be able to afford an extra soda now and then.

Two hours later Gina was in the shop’s tiny and not very sanitary bathroom wondering why she was feeling so drained. Worse. She felt logy and very faintly nauseous— the sort of sensation that made you hungry but the thought of eating repulsive.

Well, she reassured herself, it’s kind of like an operation. Not to mention all those hours on the vomit comet getting here.

Gina sighed and laid her head against the cheap extruded synth of the partition behind her, a sensation neither hard nor soft, cold nor hot.

Then she heard voices coming through the wall. The nausea was forgotten as she pressed her ear to the synth. The material was very strong, but so thin it acted like a giant hearing membrane at close range.

“Okay, so what’s the story? What’s so important that you can’t talk to me in a completely empty store?”

The voice was male and young, with an accent she didn’t recognize until she thought of holo actors playing spacemen.

“Look at this,” another male answered; his voice was gruff and deep but carried the same slight everywhere-and-nowhere twang.

There was silence, then, “Holy… you can’t be serious!” the young voice said.

“As explosive decompression.”

“Man.” The young voice was filled with awe. “This will blow the whole station wide open—peel it like a banana!”

“Yeah,” the gruff voice said. “And, sadly, they’ll never see it coming.”

“They should’ve hunh?” younger voice said.

“If they weren’t idiots they would have. They deserve to be blindsided.” The deep voice was bitter. “‘That’ll teach ‘em to make fun of me.”

“This’ll teach ‘em all right,” younger agreed.

“And too late to do ‘em any good.” There was a deep laugh that matched the voice. “They’re gonna regret it, all those jokes, the lousy quarters. I’m gonna make them so sorry.”

“Whaddaya mean?” the younger voice asked.

The answer was spoken so low that Gina couldn’t make it out.

“You’ve got to be kidding!” younger said. “You can’t do that!”

“Gina, are you all right?” Christine asked, banging on the door.

Gina jumped and gasped. She heard the sudden silence on the other side of the wall as threatening and fumbled with the lock. She rushed from the lavatory; snatching Christine’s wrist to drag the other girl out of the shop and hustle her down the corridor.

“Whoa!” Christine said, digging her heels into the rubbery nonslip flooring; it was slightly worn here Gina suddenly noticed, which meant this part of the station was ancient.

So ancient it doesn’t have surveillance? She thought, frightened—all the books and holos she’d read containing menacing conspirators and secret agents coming back with a rush.

“What are you doing?” Christine cried.

Gina turned to look back down the corridor. Laz had closed his door—they’d paid by retina and voiceprint, as usual—and nothing else was moving.

“We’ve got to keep going!” she hissed. “I think I just heard someone plotting to blow up the station!”

A man’s head popped out from between two shops, looking both ways.

“That’s him!” Gina said.

“Hey!” the man shouted. “Wait!”

The two of them ran, bounding like long-legged gazelles in the low gravity and holding their hands over their heads to keep from hitting them on the conduits.

Ms. Tosca sat down at Lereesa’s table with a heartfelt sigh. “First day and I’m exhausted,” she said.

“I’m not surprised,” Lereesa said sympathetically. “Have a cup of coffee. I take it Russell is okay.”

Ms. Tosca nodded as she tapped in her order on the table’s keypad; it was one of a dozen on a flying cantilevered platform overlooking the concourse. The view of the teeming, brightly-dressed crowd was excellent, but if you moved your head quickly, it blurred a little, the sign of a privacy screen. The palm-sized crimson-black-orange genegineered butterflies avoided the field as well.

“I got him bunked down in one of the cubbies at the hospital, with a sleepyfield on him. He looked like he might sleep until it’s time for us to go home, even without it.”

“Hah! He’ll be up and raring to go by the time you get back,” the guide said. “Kids are amazingly resilient.”

“You said it.” Ms. Tosca looked around. “And he’ll be ready to use the suppressor net this time—no more Mr. Macho. Where are the others?”

“I saw Greg playing some game about twenty minutes ago. But I haven’t seen the girls since we got here. Which, given the kind of clothing shops around here, doesn’t surprise me.”

Ms. Tosca checked her watch. “I’m just feeling anxious. Field trips are always insane, but we’re not even on Earth. It adds a certain something. You know?” Her cup of coffee slid out of the table’s surface and she drew it toward her, blowing on the hot frothy surface; it gave off a faint pleasantly bitter odor, slightly touched with cinnamon.

“I can imagine.” Lereesa pointed. “Here they come now.”

The two girls approached the table at a near run, looking sweaty and gasping for breath; to Lereesa’s surprise they actually bumped into a few people on the way.

They were graceful enough before, she thought. Twenty-five wasn’t so far from fifteen that she couldn’t remember the horror of public embarrassment. Then she saw what swirled on the auburn-haired girl’s face.

“Omighod!” Gina managed to say between huge gulps of air. “Omighod!”

Omighod is right, Lereesa thought faintly, hearing a slight choked sound from the teacher beside her. Omighod!

Christine frowned at her friend and cast a nervous glance at their teacher.

Ms. Tosca stared at the blazing mandala tattoo as though hypnotized. Meanwhile, Gina poured out her story as best she could being so out of breath. Then she demanded, “What are we gonna do?”

Christine took in the fascinated horror in the two women’s expressions and slapped Gina on the top of the head; Laz had demonstrated how that would make it disappear.

“Ow!” Gina glared at her.

The tattoo was still visible, if no longer moving; Christine raised her hand again.

“I’ll do it,” Gina said and tapped her head lightly, dismissing the design.

The spell was broken; Ms. Tosca and the guide blinked and looked at one another.

“Explain,” the teacher demanded.

“I just did!” Gina half-whined. “Weren’t you paying attention? We’ve got to do something!”

“About the tattoo?” Ms. Tosea asked, frowning.

Christine rolled her eyes. “Gina thinks she heard someone planning to blow up the station.”

Lereesa sat up straighter. “That isn’t something to joke about,” she warned, her voice stern. It wasn’t. That sort of joke was a criminal offense. “A false alarm could get you heavily fined, possibly jailed, and banned from the station for life.”

“I’m not making this up!” Gina insisted. “One guy said this will blow the station wide open and the other guy was talking about how they’d all regret making fun of him!”

“Maybe we’d better report this,” Lereesa said. She activated her telephone implant with a twitch of her ear-cocking muscle.

“Security,” she said. Machines read her voiceprint and routed the call. “Possible 7-4. Repeat, possible 7-4.”

7-4 was breach of hull integrity, and it was about the dirtiest word on a station. Only fire on one of the ancient wooden ships of Earth had quite the same ring of horror.

“Do you think she heard?” Ray Cowper asked his friend Bob Masud, wiping sweat from his face with a palm.

“Ye-ah,” Bob said with doleful certainty, his voice oddly young. “That wall is paper-thin. The only way she couldn’t have heard is if she’s deaf.”

Ray could see that Bob didn’t understand. “She’ll tell!”

With a sigh Bob pushed himself away from the counter of his shop, a big-shouldered troll-like bronze figure that seemed to go with the racked machine parts in their cubbyholes.

“Okay, let’s go next door and find out who she was from Laz. Then, when you find her, you can ask her not to spread the word.” He smiled, showing thick yellow teeth he’d never bothered to have cosmeticized. “If you ask the right way, she’ll be real quiet. How’s that?”

Ray brushed his sleek black hair back and took a couple of anxious steps back and forth, a thin man who moved like a whippet. That showed the degree of his agitation; usually he had the distinctive stillness of a spaceman used to single-handing utility craft, the habit of those who spent much time in confined spaces crammed with delicate controls.

“Yeah,” he said after a moment. “Good idea. Let’s go.”

“Coupla high school kids on a field trip,” Laz said. “Why do ya wanna know?”

“Ray was telling me something confidential and he wants to ask the kid to keep it quiet, if she heard.”

“Yeah?” Laz’s face turned toward Ray. “What was it?”

“He finally got a positive reading,” Bob said.

Ray punched him in the arm. “What are you doing?”

“Look,” Bob said, rubbing his arm, “with Laz you’ve got to give to get. Okay?”

Ray scowled at Laz. The thickset man’s eyes had opened wide enough that they could easily be seen among the myriad flashing, rolling patterns, a trace of cold blue that did not waver.

“Are you serious?” Laz asked.

“As explosive decompression,” Bob said airily.

Ray cast him a nasty look.

Laz said, “So what exactly did you get?”

Looking trapped, Ray demanded, “You gotta swear not to tell anyone.”

Laz shrugged. “Sure, whatever.”

It wasn’t the firm commitment that Ray had been hoping for. But I figure it’s the best I’m going to get. He reached inside his coverall and withdrew a file; he bit his lips, then handed it over.

“Hard copy?” Laz said.

“You can’t take a disk in or out of that section,” Ray explained. “Nobody pays much attention to printout—you’d need a dolly and a lifter to get out hard copy of any really valuable data.”

“Hunh.” Then there was silence as the tattoo artist read the file. “My God,” he said when he was finished. He shook his head. “Bozhemoi.”

“Proof positive of intelligent alien life,” Bob said proudly. “I had pretty much the same reaction.”

“You can’t tell anybody,” Ray insisted.

“Why not? This is the biggest news since… ever!” Laz said.

“Yeah, and everybody is gonna know. But there’s somebody I’ve gotta tell first.”

“Lloyd Witham,” Bob said.

“That guy who goes the VR porn?” Laz asked, a slight edge of scorn in his voice. “What’s he got to do with this?”

“He offered a prize—ten million after taxes—to the person who could prove the existence of other intelligent life in the universe,” Ray explained. “On the condition that the proof was given to him first.”

“Is this ethical?” Laz asked.

“That depends on what I intend to do with the money,” Ray said. “You know I was about to lose my funding. I was going to have to leave the station in less than a month.”

“Yeah, but with this,” Laz said, spreading his hands, “they wouldn’t just stop the funding. Why would they?”

“Because once this comes out, the world governments will step in and they’ll kick me aside like a junkyard dog.”

“Melodramatically phrased,” Bob nodded, “but probably true.”

“But if I’ve got ten million credits I get to stay here and keep tabs on what the governments are doing. This is definitely something that needs a watchdog.”

Laz and Bob looked at one another. “Well, Ray, here’s a miracle,” Laz said. “I actually agree with you about something besides the fact that Schiller isn’t really beer. So these kids overheard you telling Ray about it and now you’re afraid they’ll tell station security or maybe the media about it and you’ll lose your chance.”

“Yeah.”

“And all you want to do is ask them to not tell anyone, right?”

“Yeah.”

Laz tapped a few keys on his computer. “She’s Gina Mancuso, lodged on deck five, section thirty-eight, suite twelve thirty-eight. High school student, NE Megplex, on a tour. Don’t make me regret giving you this, Ray. If I do, so will you.”

“I won’t,” Ray promised. “I just want to keep my edge.”

“So you didn’t actually hear anyone say, ‘I’m going to blow up the station’?” security officer Loh asked.

He was a slight, slender, amber-hued man with lines in his face and white in his close-cropped cap of black hair; somehow he took less than his share of the narrow space at the hostel, despite the holstered stunner on the belt of his plain gray coverall.

“What he said was, ‘this will blow the whole station wide open,”‘ Gina insisted. “Which sounded close enough to me.”

She heard the edge of a whine in her voice and corrected it. The officer didn’t seem to be taking her very seriously, but that was no reason to sound like a brat. “And he chased us.”

Christine nodded. “Chased us for, oh, a couple of corridors. We really had to run, but then he got into a place with lots of people and stopped.”

“I’ll check it out, ladies,” Loh said, rising. “It may be a misunderstanding. At least I hope it is. Thank you for filing a report; all threats are taken seriously here.” He turned to look at them from the doorway. “But this had better not be a prank. We take that seriously, too.”

“It’s not a prank!” Gina said, almost shouting in frustration. “If it was a prank, I’d have made an anonymous call. What am I, an idiot?”

Loh smiled. “No, miss,” he said. “If you were an idiot, you wouldn’t have earned this trip. But smart people make the worst sort of fools.”

He thanked the teacher and the guide and left. At least he hoped she wasn’t an idiot. He called in a report and headed for the Torture Tattoo parlor.

“This space is illegally divided,” Loh told the tattoo parlor’s proprietor. “I’m going to have to write you a ticket.”

“The place was like this when I subleased it,” Laz said. “I can show you my contract.”

In fact, Loh could have scanned it from the Station files, and they both knew it. There would be no point in lying.

“How was I supposed to know?” the thickset artist went on, scratching idly at a design that slowly transformed itself from Nude Descending A Staircase into Holman Hunt’s The Awakening Conscience.

“This is just a ticket,” Loh replied reasonably. Something to make you sit up and pay attention, the security officer thought, like a shovel in the face in the old days on Earth. With some people you have to use visual aids. “The original leaseholder is going to find himself in big trouble.”

He finished writing and the imager at his belt purred as it printed out a hard copy, registering the ticket with security’s ROM data bank at the same instant. “Now, about this underage girl you tattooed without her parents’ permission.”

Sweat didn’t hide the designs on the artist’s skin, but it did give them a rippling sheen in the harsh bright light of the parlor’s cubicle-office.

“She had a notarized recording of her mother giving permission,” Laz said. “I took a copy.” He tapped a few keys and a holo image of a thirtysomething blonde woman hovered above the table.

“I authorize Gina to have any nonpermanent body modifications of Level III and below she wishes,” the woman said, smiling indulgently. “Subject to immediate payment from account #—”

Loh looked at the artist and raised his eyebrows. “Non-permanent?” he said. “Level III?”

“Hey, give me a break,” Laz said, shrugging and making a symphony of color run from his bald head to his toes. “Do you think I was giving the tourist girl this?”

“Could be a fake,” Loh said, nodding toward the holograph that repeated its message.

“It’s notarized,” Laz pointed out. “Our beloved Station Security comp can check the encryption. Query groundside if you want.”

Loh nodded. “Could you make me a copy for our files?” he asked. “Notarization and all?”

“Sure,” Laz said wearily. “I never would have done it if it hadn’t been notarized. What am I, an idiot?”

Loh smiled politely. “I seem to be hearing that phrase a lot lately. Of course you aren’t—but if nobody was an idiot, what would we need Security for?”

On the other side of the illegally divided space, Loh confronted Bob. The place sold small machine parts and consisted of a front counter and, visible through a doorway, rows of storage shelves.

“There’s been a report of a very alarming conversation taking place here today,” the security officer said.

“Oh, yeah?” Bob said. “Alarming, huh? What was it about?”

“Something about blowing the station wide open.”

Bob widened his eyes and gave a choked little laugh.

“Hey, somebody has big ears. A buddy of mine came over to share some hot gossip, and I used the expression, this will blow the station wide open. Nothing to do with actually blowing anything up.”

“What was this piece of gossip?” Loh asked, in his best Dubious Official Tone.

Bob looked uncomfortable and shifted Ms feet. “I’d really rather not say. It’s kind of personal and I don’t feel comfortable talking about it.”

“I see. Well, perhaps your friend will feel more comfortable talking about it to me.”

Loh was writing out a ticket as he spoke and Bob kept shifting nervous glances between the officer’s face and his pad. After a moment, the pad spit out a ticket and Loh held it out to the storekeeper.

Bob backed away. “What’s that for?”

“It’s a ticket for the illegal division of a commercial space.”

“Just because I don’t want to repeat gossip? You can’t do that.”

“No,” Loh said, allowing himself to look surprised. “The ticket is for having an illegally divided commercial space. For not telling me how to find your Mend, you might be charged with… oh, obstruction… assault on a constable—”

“What assault?”

“The assault you’ll commit when I’m through thinking up things to charge you with.”

“I didn’t say that I wouldn’t tell you about Ray! I just said I didn’t want to repeat something he told me in confidence.” Bob brushed his hair back. “He’s Ray Cowper.”

“The nut?” Loh said, straightening.

“He isn’t a nut,” Bob said. “I don’t know where he is right now.”

“I’ll find him,” Loh said, laying the ticket on the counter. “The Station thanks you for your cooperation.”

Ray Cowper, Loh thought, as he walked out into the deserted corridor. This is as good a place as any.

He called up the man’s file on the screen built into his sleeve; the problem with having information always accessible was finding a quiet moment to absorb it without distraction or someone looking over your shoulder.

Cowper was an independent scientist searching for deep space signals that might indicate intelligent life outside the solar system. Due to poor financing, he had access to a very, very narrow band of space. Records indicated that his financing was about to run out—and his space on the station was eagerly sought after by a number of Earth’s governments and businesses. It was unlikely the station would renew Cowper’s lease even if he could come up with the money.

“This looking for aliens crap really doesn’t fit the staid image the station likes to project for its science section,” Loh muttered to himself.

Cowper had lodged numerous, increasingly angry complaints about the situation. He seemed to be exactly the kind of person who did things like blowing up space stations. He was certainly intelligent enough, having degrees in electronic engineering, computers, and chemistry.

All of which suggest unpleasant possibilities, Loh thought.

I shall have to talk to the man.

Loh didn’t like possibilities. Most of the random possibilities possible on a station couldn’t possibly be good.

He allowed himself a quiet chuckle at the thought as he began the search for Mr. Cowper.

“I don’t see why I have to stay in,” Greg said, looking around the bare confines of the hostel. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“And I wasn’t even awake,” Russell protested. “I missed out this afternoon. I want to see the station.”

“We didn’t do anything wrong!” Christine added her voice.

“What about that thing on Gina’s forehead?” Ms. Tosea demanded.

“What thing?” Gina reasoned. “It’s turned off, you can’t see anything.”

“What about the fact that you sure didn’t acquire it at the arcade,” Lereesa snapped. “You promised me you wouldn’t wander.”

“And I didn’t,” Greg said. “That’s my point.”

Ms. Tosca slapped her knees and rose. “You know what, Greg? You’re right. You and Russell deserve more time in the arcade if you want it. But you two,” she pointed a finger at the girls, “are going to stay here.”

There were the expected cries of dismay, growing increasingly shrill until Lereesa put a stop to it by saying: “If Security wants you again, they’ll want to speak to you in confidence. You’re staying here.”

The girls looked at one another, pouting.

“Okay,” Gina said.

“You can order dinner sent up,” Ms. Tosca told her. “Just keep it under budget, okay?”

They left the suite to resentful mutterings of “Yes, Ms. Tosca.”

Outside the suite, Lereesa tapped a code into the key panel. “That will keep them inside unless there’s a station emergency,” she explained.

Ms. Tosca raised her eyebrows. “Don’t be too sure about that. Those two are good with that sort of thing.”

“Maybe so,” Lereesa said, “but they’d have to access this panel. I’m betting their cutting-through-walls skills aren’t up to their computer abilities.”

Ms. Tosca laughed, and Lereesa chuckled herself.

Behind her, the two boys looked at each other and smiled slightly.

Ray watched the small group walk down the corridor and hop onto the people mover, dodging past a group of biotechs. He licked his lips nervously, tasting the acrid salt of nervous sweat.

The two girls aren’t with them.

Which might mean that they had stayed behind, the voice of hope struggled to convince him. But it might also mean they were at Security headquarters telling anyone who would listen about his secret.

When the group was out of sight, he snuck over to the door of their quarters and, after a swift, nervous glance around, pressed the call button.

An Oriental girl’s image appeared on the screen. “Did you forget something?” The question was followed almost immediately by screaming as his image appeared on the inner screen. “I’m calling security!” the girl said.

“NO! Wait!” Ray said desperately. “Just give me a chance to talk to you. It’s very important. Please.”

“I heard what you said!” Another girl’s face appeared beside the first’s. “You want to blow up the station!”

“What!” Ray had trouble getting his mouth to close for a moment. “I do not!” he insisted. “Where did you get that idea?”

“Your friend said so!” the one who must be Gina told him. “This will blow the station wide open. I heard him!”

“Nooo,” Ray said, his eyes bulging. “He only said that as a metaphor.”

That stopped them cold. Neither girl could believe that a mad bomber would use a word like metaphor.

“Please, wait, let me explain,” Ray begged. “Just give me a minute. But you’ve got to let me come in—I can’t talk about this in the corridor.”

The girls looked at one another. “There are two of us,” Christine said.

“I don’t like it,” Gina said. “You didn’t hear him.”

“I don’t want to hurt anybody,” Ray said, his voice falling in despair. “Believe me, I don’t think that the station canceling my lease is reason to kill a lot of innocent people. I may be a little, umm, peculiar, but I’m not a murderer.”

“What do you think?” Christine asked Gina.

“I think you’re going to let him in whether I like it or not,” Gina snapped.

“It’s the only way to get to the bottom of this.”

Gina threw her hands up. “All right, do what you want. If anything happens, it’s your fault.”

“Like, it’s ever not my fault?” Christine asked. “Was it not my fault when you jacked the game screen at the football match to show—”

“I jacked the screen? Soooo not! I helped when you—”

Christine’s thumb hit the open key with unnecessary violence; she muttered a word under her breath and shook it. Apart from that, nothing happened except that Ray’s face in the screen grew more desperate.

“It won’t work!” Christine said.

Gina came back to her side and tapped it a few times. “Unless you broke it,” she said. “But I don’t think one thumb could do that.”

“They locked us in!” Christine said in astonishment. “I can’t believe they locked us in.”

“I can take care of that,” Ray offered.

“Well, so could we, if we could get at the keypad,” Gina said. “It can’t be too hard.”

Ray gave them a haggard grin. “I’m sure you could. You probably hacked your way out of your playpens.”

“No,” Gina said. “But I got this set of cydolls when I was six, and I hacked their controller so I could make them run all through the house and hide things.”

Ray stopped in the middle of unclipping an instrument from his belt. “You didn’t!”

“She did,” Christine affirmed. “I was there. The cat climbed on top of the porcelain cabinet and wouldn’t come down for days.”

“Well,” Gina pointed out, “it was your idea to make them carry matches like a torch relay race.”

Ray tore his attention away and shuddered. “And to think I’ve regretted not having children,” he muttered, and set the square featureless box over the keypad. “With my luck and genes, they’d probably be brilliant and depraved, like this bunch.”

The little box beeped contentedly as it achieved electronic communion with the hostel’s system. In a few seconds, he was tapping in a code and the door swished open.

The girls glanced at one another and relaxed. He was smaller than they’d thought, and skinnier. They both thought they could take him with one hand tied behind their backs.

“I’ve got something I guess I should show you,” he said.

“Like… a gun, maybe?” Christine asked. “Or a knife?”

Ray rolled his eyes and began unzipping his coverall. “Of course not,” he said impatiently.

“I guess it’s the other thing that strange guys always say they’ve got to show you,” Gina muttered. “Now I’m definitely calling security.”

“Wait,” Ray said and reached for her wrist.

Before he knew what was happening, Christine gripped his wrist, half-turning it with a thumb pressed down on the sensitive spot above his thumb.

“Wait—”

Gina grabbed the other hand in an identical grip. “We tied for second place in self-defense class,” she said. “Hey, this really works!” she went on, as he sank to his knees and made a choked sound.

The girls quickly stuffed a roll of spare socks into Ray’s mouth. “Does this count as an Adventure in Outer Space?” To Ray: “No, don’t try to get up. You could hurt yourself pushing against the joint like that.”

“Urruruk!” Ray agreed.

“I don’t know,” Christine said seriously. “I mean, it could have happened on a trip to, oh, Marseilles, just as easily. Have you got something we could tie him up with?”

“Tights?” Gina suggested with a shrug. “I’ve got plenty of extras. I really don’t like that pair with the spangles now, anyway.

“I guess if we pull them tight enough,” Christine said skeptically. “We can’t leave enough stretch for him to work loose.”

In less than a minute, Ray was trussed at ankles and wrists. The two girls each held an extra pair of tights and discussed whether they should tie his wrists to his ankles.

“Arrgh! Pffffthtt!” The roll of socks, somewhat damp, spat across the room. “Wait a minute,” Ray said in a hoarse exasperation. “This has gone far enough. I am not dangerous!”

“Well, you aren’t now,” Gina said. “Ms. Kourosoppolu always said to immobilize a potential danger first. Then figure out what else to do.”

“I do not have any kind of a weapon on me. I have no intention of threatening or hurting you or anybody else! Where did you get these crazy ideas?”

“From you,” Gina said offhandedly.

“All I want to show you is a file I have tucked into the top of my coverall.” He rolled onto his side and the girls could just see the tip of the paper folder leaning out from his open zipper.

“What the heck is it?” Gina asked.

Christine reached down and very cautiously slid it out and opened it.

“It looks just like that plaque they put on the Voyager spacecraft,” she said, looking at what was inside.

“Yeah,” Gina agreed, “but…”

“Different,” Ray finished for her, “Very different, if you check it against the original from Earth.”

The girls looked at one another and then at him. Christine whistled. “You know, Gina, I think maybe this does qualify as an Adventure in Outer Space. Cool!”

“Yeah, if it’s not a fake. Where did it come from?” Gina demanded.

“The data stream came from the direction of Epsilon—”

“That’s over seven light-years away.”

“I seriously doubt Voyager could have gotten that far,” Christine sneered.

“Exactly,” Ray said smugly. “But without a doubt, that’s how far away the closest star in that direction lies, and the figures prove that the signal came from a vast distance. It’s not one of my fellow scientists jerking me around. That was the first thing I checked.” He looked up at them. “Do you realize what this means?”

Gina’s face began to turn pink. “It means I misunderstood what I heard,” she muttered. “I’m very sorry.”

“Sorry enough to untie me?” he asked, somewhat sharply.

Just as the girls bent to untie him, the door opened. Ms. Tosca entered, saying, “I’ve changed my mind, girls…”

She stopped cold and stared. Behind her, Lereesa and the boys took in the very peculiar scene.

“This is the guy I overheard this afternoon,” Gina said quickly. “But he’s explained everything. I was totally mistaken.”

“Mistaken to the point of tying him up?” Ms. Tosca asked weakly.

“Yes,” Ray said cheerfully. “But it’s all cleared up now.”

“Not exactly,” Lereesa frowned. “How did you get in here?”

Ray grinned sheepishly. “I figured out the lock code.”

“Oh, you did, did you?” Lereesa said grimly. “I think we’d better call security,” she told Ms. Tosca.

“NO!” the two girls and the scientist shouted.

Ms. Tosca pressed her hand to her forehead. “Maybe we should allow them to explain,” she suggested.

“Could I be untied first?” Ray asked plaintively. “I can’t feel my hands anymore. They got all of the stretch out of these tights. Ms. Kourosoppolu would be very proud.”

“Isn’t this a bit unethical?” Ms. Tosca asked when the explanations were done. “I mean, shouldn’t you tell your support group first?”

“I and my colleagues have spent everything we have on this project,” Ray said. “If I tell them first, we’ll lose a chance at ten million credits, and we need those credits to keep going. I think it would be more unethical to blow this chance, and I’m convinced my colleagues would agree.”

“Um, but you’ve already blown it,” Russell said. “You’ve told us, and your friend earlier today.”

Ray’s shoulders drooped. “You’re right,” he said. He buried his face in his hands. “You’re right.”

“Not to mention station security is probably looking for you,” Lereesa said. “If you attempt to make a call to Earth, they’d probably block it and find you in seconds.”

Ray lowered his hands, there were actual tears in his eyes. “For all I know, it was a scam anyway,” he said, his voice choked.

“That’s right,” Gina said, patting his shoulder consolingly. “Lloyd Witham is a pornographer, after all.”

“Wait a minute,” Greg said. “There’s no reason he has to know that we’ve been told. I mean, I won’t tell anybody; what about you guys?”

They looked at one another. “Sure,” Russell said, “I don’t mind. Ray did some major work on this. He deserves to get some of the credit. Not to mention the ten million. Hey, man, what you going to spend it on?”

“A Foundation,” Ray said. “We need an independent agency to communicate with—”

“There’s still the problem of getting a message past station security,” Lereesa pointed out, shifting slightly in her seat, visibly uncomfortable at the rising enthusiasm.

“And we still don’t know if this guy would pony up once you do show him proof,” Christine said. “I mean, Gina’s right. He is a sleazebag.”

Ms. Tosca cleared her throat. “Actually,” she said, “in my opinion, Lloyd is a stand-up guy.”

They all looked at her.

“I used to go with him in high school. Until my parents found out about these soft porn movies he was putting on the internet.” She bit her lip. “Lloyd said he understood. My father was a minister, after all. But I always felt like a coward.”

Lereesa put a sympathetic hand on her shoulder.

“Cool,” said Gina brightly. “Then you can call Witham for Ray and say he didn’t think he’d be able to get through on his own.” She looked around at their solemn faces. “What?”

“Just that the lies are getting pretty thick on the ground here,” Lereesa said. Was it just this morning she was so bored?

“But this is our chance to do something important—”

“I… I…” Lereesa stammered.

“Hey, you’re qualified,” Ray pointed out.

The hushed tinkle of cutlery came from other parts of the restaurant. It was one the guide had never been able to afford; some of the paneling was actual wood, shipped all the way up the gravity well from Earth. The ambience was lost on her right now, and even the savory smells of a meal worth every exorbitant penny.

“I’m a tour guide!” she blurted.

“The Outsider Foundation’s going to need PR work,” Ray said. “The Lost Gods of the Galaxy know I’m not fit to do it. I mean, imagine me dealing with the media, VIPs who want tours—”

Lereesa blanched slightly. “Okay,” she said. “I do have a degree in Communications.”

“And you earned it,” Ray said earnestly. “If you hadn’t helped convince Ms. Tosca, there wouldn’t be an Outsider Foundation to handle establishing communications with the Outsiders. It’d all be official—and me and my friends would be reading about it on the newswebs.” He paused and smiled brightly. “And pretty soon, you’ll be working with some other old friends!”

“Oh?” Lereesa said cautiously.

“Yeah! Gina, Christine, Greg, and Russell are taking the prelim courses. They’re all bright as tacks—they want to work for the Outsider Foundation. I mean, so do all the other bright kids in the Solar System now, but we owe—”

The thought of working with those four made Lereesa hesitate, but not for long. Her thumb came down on the signature patch with an audible thump. Boredom in space wasn’t going to be her problem much longer.

Terror, embarrassment, sheer funk, yes, she thought happily. Boredom, no.

Stephen Michael Stirling has been writing science fiction and fantasy for more than fifteen years, producing such excellent novels as Marching Through Georgia, Snow-brother, Against the Tide of Years, and most recently The Peshawar Lancers. He has also collaborated with many of the best authors in the business, including Judith Tarr, David Drake, and Harry Turtledove. He was born in Metz, Alsace, France, and educated at the Carleton University in Canada. He lives with his wife Janet in New Mexico.

Born Janet Moore in Milford, Massachusetts, Janet Stirling has been a science fiction buff since her teens. She sold her first story to Chicks in Chainmail, an anthology of amazonian fantasy edited by Esther Friesner. She married S. M. Stirling in 1988, after a courtship conducted largely at World Fantasy conventions, and now lives with him and their two cats in Santa Fe, New Mexico.