Transformation Protocol Page 2

  I slapped my key over the lock, and the door to my apartment slid open. Howard's Lofts was an exclusive three-by-seven-meter slumber pad on fortieth, frequented by traveling business people, hookers, junkies, drop-outs on universal wag, and people like me who didn't much care where they slept. At least I wasn't selling my body parts... yet.

  "Hi, honey, I'm home," I called out to the refrigerator that was bolted to the countertop. My words bounced around the cold, gray concrete walls. The tight confines of the apartment didn't worry me—no one who's worked or lived in space could ever be claustrophobic. What bothered me was how big it was in its emptiness. I slumped in the meager dining area—in reality a half-meter plastic table attached to a pair of equally plastic chairs—also bolted down—and littered with empty bottles from previous nights. I needed to clean house but switched on the 3V instead.

  The seal on the vodka broke with a crack, and I threw the first shot down in a single gulp. It didn't taste of anything, but after the second swallow, who cared? Drinking alone was always considered unhealthy, but what's the alternative when you're on your own and don't want new friends? Loneliness can't be cured by other people—it's on the inside, and no one can make you feel less lonely, except yourself—something that was beyond me.

  So, yeah, things get better? It was a lie long before we poisoned the environment that gave us life. It died out long before the petty bickering and onslaught of imagined slights tore nations apart, pitting generation against generation, old against young, one race against another and, always, rich against poor, strong against weak. The haves against the have-nots. Perhaps things do get better for some people, but I've never met one.

  Dollie had left me one hundred and sixty-three days and fourteen hours ago. Not that I was counting. Today was also her birthday, though I never knew how she figured that out—her early background was as murky as mine. I poured another shot and threw it down my throat to join the first. "Happy birthday, Dollie."

  Technically, I suppose you could say I left her. In the sense that we'd been sharing an apartment at the time, and after six months of bitter recriminations, arguments, sniping, and more arguments, I'd left and checked myself into this dump. Dollie blamed me for what happened to our unborn child, even though the Geneium doctors said they couldn't have saved the baby. She also blamed me for letting them save her.

  And the worst of it was, I agreed with her. I blamed myself too.

  Chapter Two

  I should never have let Dollie go into space with me. I should have left her on the High-Rig when we transferred to the Sarac. I should have knocked her out cold. Or tied her up. Reported her to SecOps for security violations. Anything to prevent her making the trip that had cost us our unborn child. Of course, stopping Dollie from doing anything was like trying to persuade a hydrogen-rich white dwarf not to go nova.

  I poured another drink, looking for something—anything—on the 3V to distract me from my thoughts but the universe didn't want to play ball. Every channel was full of the same news. I was already half-buzzed by the cheap booze and had trouble focusing on the tiny display. Sure, 3V service was one of our Universal Access Rights, but nobody said it had to be comfortable to use. I flopped down on the Lilliputian couch, laughingly described in the room advert as a "two-person love seat." It might have been, if one of the people was a long-extinct spider monkey, which would push the concept of love into unfathomable and potentially illegal depths.

  "...ADF vessel Yukawa returned from its trial flight today. The ship first made a Jump to the Marduk Atoll at Alpha Centauri B, then stopped at the O'Connell Outpost at Ross 154, followed by the fledgling Wright Atoll at Wolf 1061 before finally visiting Rhoda Station, the research base orbiting Barnard's star. The flight has been successfully completed and proves the new design to be viable. Congratulations were sent to Captain Brackeen over the outcome of the trials—"

  The Yukawa was an AF-11, one of the new generation of ships coming from the Atoll shipyards since the release of the Ananta data. The Atolls initially tried to adapt their regular cruisers to work with the Jump drive, but the design severely restricted the length of the Jump, even after major structural changes. The Yukawa's layout was closer to the Shokasta and Ananta, though as was often the case with the Atolls, there were a number of different design features. There were no doubt good reasons for the configuration choices, but they were kept under wraps—the Atolls had a distinctly one-way concept of sharing.

  "...the station was no longer intact. Unofficially sourced reports say there are no survivors."

  "What? Wait." I fumbled with the controls, winding the broadcast back a few minutes.

  "In news that has shocked not only the Atoll community but the nation-states of Earth, Captain Brackeen reported that the Wright Atoll at Wolf 1061 had been destroyed. Communications regarding the destruction were transmitted directly to the Atoll council but were intercepted. Our information suggests that debris was found at the location, but the station was no longer intact. Unofficially-sourced reports say there are no survivors.

  "Speculation around the cause of the destruction is widespread among the security, political, and scientific circles, but it is too early to suggest any nefarious cause, and no one was willing to make an official statement. Although the Atolls seeded the station, it was considered a neutral scientific base, and while most of the staff were Atoll citizens, there were dozens of scientists from all the nation-states and no consensus—"

  It might be "too early" to speculate, but in time-honored tradition, that was exactly what they were about to do. There's nothing more rampant than a bunch of journalists with a juicy story and no answers. Even in my somewhat lubricated state, I was shocked. Although exploration beyond the solar system was in its infancy, the technology of survival in space had a solid track record for over a century and a half—stations didn't typically blow up on their own, especially Atolls. The fact that it was so far away didn't change that—it just made direct communication and rescue practically impossible. If we were lucky, we might get a clue in around six years—if Wright Station had broadcast anything. Assuming they even knew what was about to happen.

  I paused the report, lifted the bottle, and took a deep drink of the caustic vodka. Since the Ananta data release, everyone had gone space nuts—and not only in the form of official Earth projects. I'd heard several stories of orbital ships being retrofitted with cobbled together Jump drives and shooting for the stars, usually leaving nothing to show for their grand plans except a swarm of orbital debris for the clean-up squads.

  My Scroll buzzed. It was Logan, and I picked up, though I probably shouldn't have.

  "You've seen the news?" His face looked grim.

  "Just caught it. A lot of people will be looking for answers. And I'm guessing our Atoll friends won't be very cooperative."

  He nodded, the camera-tracking making it look as though the walls behind him were bouncing up and down in an earthquake. "There's more, Joe. Don't ask me how I know. But one of our ships, the Sacagawea, is overdue."

  I'd never heard of it, but that didn't surprise me given the fact I was exiled from working space-side. And besides, Logan had his own special connections. "MilSec or SecOps?"

  "You drunk, Joe?" He pantomimed sniffing the air. "I wouldn't know anything about that."

  "Right..." I toasted him, despite his frown. "I'm higher than the Oort cloud right now."

  "They were on long-range reconnaissance—operating as far out as five parsecs."

  "That's a long way, even with the Jump. Maybe they got held up sight-seeing."

  "They're under strict orders. They should have been back two months ago. The authorities have been keeping a tight lid on it, but with this latest news it's bound to come out."

  He was right. Regardless of whatever deals they'd done to hide the news, the press would be all over the story like guano at a bird sanctuary.

  "I'm sure they'll send out ships to investigate." I tilted the bottle in a bitter salute. "Good l
uck to them."

  "It could have been an engineering failure, but it might be more." Logan paused. "They want me to take a look."

  "That's a dangerous journey, my friend." I felt a pang of jealousy. Despite what had happened on my last journey, I still yearned to head out and boldly go where generations before me had only dreamed of. "Watch your back."

  The remains of my vodka disappeared in a single swallow. I didn't care if it upset Logan. He was leaving, and I was staying behind. After everything else that had happened, it was just one more miserable entry in Ballen's Bad Luck Journal.

  My ears fizzled as the vodka burned, and I didn't hear Logan's next words clearly. "Say again?"

  "Come with me." Logan spoke deliberately. "I can pick my own crew. You could be one of them."

  I was about to say "hell, yes," when I skidded to a halt.

  "What's the catch?"

  Logan's eyes dropped, and his head turned away a little. This was a first—Logan Twofeathers embarrassed.

  "It would have to be a package deal. You... and the Shokasta."

  Suddenly it made sense. I'd left the ship at the High-Rig with a random Jump programmed, her systems locked with an encrypted biometric key. SecOps couldn't risk losing the ship by breaking the lock, so it stayed there, floating above the Earth like a lost puppy waiting for my return. While the technology wasn't a hundred percent, it would take a lot to break it. It was my bargaining chip. Originally put in place in case of fallout from my rather unorthodox return to Earth with Dollie. But since then, it had taken on a much greater significance.

  I refilled my glass. "I'll be happy to unlock the ship. You know the conditions as well as they do."

  Logan nodded. "You've seen the news?"

  "About the Atoll Station? Yes."

  Logan's grim expression provided all the clue I needed. I scrambled for the 3V controls, punching up my solitary programmed search—labeled "Paek."

  While the search ran in the background, the news came up focusing on the other issues of the day. Krystal Bliss had announced plans to marry her long-time companion of two weeks, Robert Romney III. The wedding was to take place on Heaven, the luxury orbital station famous as the tax-free residence of the richest corporate heads. The couple were reportedly "finding the time" in between him filming his latest action flick, Hard Stud 5, its two sequels, and her extensive concert tour of Luna.

  The search results for Paek came up in a few seconds, and I punched the play button on the newest.

  "In other news, Xselsia Corporation announced the appointment of its new off-world development director, Ewin Paek. Unusually, the former Atoller has renounced his citizenship to take up his new role. CEO Garth Hump-Inge said this appointment demonstrated the corporation's commitment to equal opportunities and heralded a new era..."

  I'd stopped listening as soon as Paek's face appeared. His narrow jaw and high cheekbones were engraved on my brain as permanently as if etched by a laser cutter—the man who had killed our unborn child through his racist-inspired attack on the Shokasta at the very edge of the solar system.

  The glass of vodka splintered against the corner of the screen, and the display flickered several times, the bottom left corner blacking out.

  "Paek announced plans to establish a new processing plant to develop the rich Anglada asteroid fields around Proxima Centauri. Commercial development of the fields is estimated to be worth over seventy billion credits annually.

  The image switched to a broadcast of Paek at the press conference.

  "This is a historic moment for myself and for Earth-centered space development. I'm humbled to have been chosen by Xselsia to lead their diversification program and feel sure this will initiate a new era of cooperation. Working together, I believe we can create a future of greater collaboration between—"

  The screen exploded as I hurled an empty vodka bottle into it. "When did you find out?"

  "On my way down the Elevator. At the same time I read about the Yukawa." Logan's long face looked more somber than usual. "We tried to get him, Joe."

  "Not hard enough. Not by a long shot." A volcano five seconds from eruption felt like it was burning in my gut. My fists clenched, and I pulled away from the Scroll pickup. "Maybe Earth doesn't care what happened. But I do."

  "They tried, Joe. We tried. There's no extradition between Earth and the Atolls. You know that. The Atolls handled it internally."

  "A demotion doesn't feel like justice. What happened to working collectively? I see that shit all the time in the newsfeeds."

  "It's a political game. We asked them to turn him over to face charges in the USP—they refused."

  "He's a criminal. And now he's with the Corporates, so still untouchable."

  "Even more so than before. They're arranging an All-Parties Conference. Everybody will be there: Atolls, USP, PAC, Old Europe, United Africa—even the goddamn Muscat Alliance. They're deciding the ground rules for carving up space itself."

  "And screw Joe Ballen and the Charter of Justice."

  A tremble ran through my legs and arm, as if a series of electric shocks were galvanizing the muscles. Neuralgic shock. It had been happening more frequently recently. Alcohol interfered with the neural bridges, breaking them down—a good reason to bite the bullet. I fought to suppress the shakes, not wanting to let Logan see me flopping around on the floor like a choking fish.

  "This is bigger than one person."

  I held Logan's stare. "Nothing is."

  "I can't cover you anymore, Joe. You've seen it—it's moving too fast. The Corporates, Atolls, PAC, and here too. Everyone's trying to grab as big a piece of space as they can. It's like an explosion. The brass wants Shokasta in action, and they're ready to throw away the Charter to get it."

  "The lock on the ship might be tougher than they realize."

  "Grandfather used to say locks only keep honest people honest. SecOps isn't going to play straight anymore. And you're vulnerable."

  "Yeah. SecOps could withhold my alcohol supply."

  "They're talking about canceling your medical credits."

  Without the drugs I was getting through the medical system, the neuralgia would cripple me, and my drinking habits were hastening the process. I'd have months if I was lucky, more likely weeks, before my body started failing from stress-induced neural failure. I was about to tell Logan to go to hell anyway when he held up his hand.

  "They also mentioned Dollie."

  I stopped, not knowing what to say. I doubted the Geneium would stop treating her, but the authorities could make things very difficult for her as an individual and for her business. "You people are scum."

  Logan held his hands apart. "I'm only the messenger."

  "Lie down with dogs..."

  My Scroll beeped, indicating an incoming message. I had no idea what it was, but I saw Dollie's name attached to it, and put Logan on hold while I opened it.

  It was the final decree on my marriage.

  I hadn't contested the divorce. There hadn't been much point, legally or otherwise. But that didn't mean I welcomed it. I'd committed to Dollie when we got married, and my feelings hadn't changed. After losing our child, our relationship had fractured. I'd tried to hold things together, but that's hard in those circumstances, and hard becomes impossible when only one person was making an effort.

  Dollie had withdrawn, like a light shutting off. I tried to understand what she was going through and support her, but it seemed the more I tried, the more she resented me. By the time I moved out to the temporary quarters I was in now, she was almost a stranger.

  I switched back to Logan. "Message from Dollie."

  His face brightened. "You're talking again?"

  "Sure, if you count getting the big shaft as a form of communication." I forwarded the divorce notification to him.

  Logan slumped. "Sorry, Joe. I know that must hurt."

  "Six months ago it would have. Now, all it means is I'm free to chase the slitches again."

  Logan knew me bet
ter than that. "What about this job? It would be good for you to have a break."

  "Let me sleep on it, okay?"

  The background behind Logan changed, and I realized his Elevator carriage had arrived at the Earth terminus.

  "I've got a connection to make. I'll call you tomorrow. And Joe?" He paused. "Stay away from Dollie, okay? It wouldn't be good for either of you right now."

  "Do I look stupid?"

  "I'm not going to answer that one." Logan grinned, and a second later ended the call.

  I filled a new tumbler with vodka and swallowed it in one gulp, then opened my Scroll and called a cab.

  Maybe Logan should have answered.

  *

  Dollie's place was a thirty-minute hop, which gave me plenty of time to figure out what I was going to say. My plan was a combination of emotional blackmail mixed with as much pleading as she'd let me get in before throwing me out, or calling the cops. Not very dignified, but it was the best I could come up with under the circumstances.

  The cab driver didn't say a word. I knew the detectors in the passenger cabin would pick up the alcohol on my breath, so he no doubt dismissed me as a typical YAD—Yet Another Drunk—which I couldn't really argue with.

  After paying the inflated fare, I hopped out on the L7 landing pad and made my way across the balcony walkway to Dollie's apartment. Taking a deep breath, I pushed the announcer and waited, not sure if she'd answer when she saw it was me. But a few minutes later, the door slid open. She was looking the other way and giggling, holding out her credit chip.

  "Take ten for yourself," she said.

  She looked as beautiful as ever, and all I wanted to do was gather her up in my arms. "You'd be overpaying."