Murder in Orbit

  Murder in Orbit

  Bruce Coville

  For my brother, Brian,

  who has always had his head in the stars

  Contents

  Chapter 1 Trouble in the BS Factory

  Chapter 2 The Most Disgusting Thing I Ever Saw

  Chapter 3 Witness for the Decayed

  Chapter 4 The Colony

  Chapter 5 Dr. Puckett

  Chapter 6 The System

  Chapter 7 Make a Face

  Chapter 8 Cassie

  Chapter 9 Back in the BS Factory

  Chapter 10 One-Way Ticket

  Chapter 11 The Stars

  Chapter 12 Deep Breaths and Fast Spurts

  Chapter 13 Elmo Explains

  Chapter 14 Conference

  Chapter 15 Bootleg Research

  Chapter 16 More Problems

  Chapter 17 The Sex Queen of Outer Space

  Chapter 18 Disaster

  Chapter 19 The Interview

  Chapter 20 Midnight Excursion

  Chapter 21 Dr. Twining

  Chapter 22 Air Ducts

  Chapter 23 Dr. Durkin

  Chapter 24 Forbidden Research

  Chapter 25 Millie

  Chapter 26 The Last Details

  Chapter 27 The Stars

  A Personal History by Bruce Coville

  Chapter 1

  Trouble in the BS Factory

  If the dead man in the waste converter had really existed, I never would have gotten into this whole mess.

  But he didn’t, at least not as far as ICE-3 records went.

  So I did.

  Get in trouble that is.

  My name is Rusty McPhee (actually, it’s Edward, but everyone calls me Rusty, on account of my hair) and ICE-3 is where I live. The ICE stands for “International Colonization Effort”; the “3” indicates that this was the third colony to come on line.

  You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you all this. I mean, everybody knows about the ICE colonies, right? Well, maybe. But my grandfather, who’s been writing science fiction since way back in the 1980s, keeps reminding me that just because we all know something now, it doesn’t mean people will still know it in ten years. He says I should never underestimate the human capacity for ignorance, and if I want people to read this book ten years from now, I’d better make everything clear.

  So bear with me while I fill in the details.

  Actually, Gramps is the reason I’m writing this down at all. He keeps telling me he would have given his eyeteeth to have lived through something like this when he was a kid. My usual response to that comment is that it’s a lot more fun to read about something like this than it is to experience it.

  The whole thing began on June 27 of this year (2018, for those of you reading this some time yet to come). School had closed for semester break the week before, but my mentor program, which is where I’m getting my real education, was still going on. So early that day I signed out a two-seat Space Scooter from ICE-3 and flew over to the small Bio-Science Lab orbiting nearby.

  The Bio-Science Lab (known affectionately to ICERS as the BS Factory) was headquarters for my mentor, Dr. Antoine Twining, whose research required special low-gravity conditions.

  I had been flying solo since I turned sixteen, two months before, but I still wasn’t entirely comfortable piloting the scooter by myself. As I drew close to the lab I stuck the tip of my tongue between my teeth and bit down lightly. (It’s a family trait, according to my mother; she claims every McPhee male does it when concentrating.) At first I wasn’t even aware I was doing it—primarily because my entire attention was focused on the absurdly tiny docking space in front of me.

  Docking a two-seater isn’t actually that hard. But the maneuver wasn’t second nature to me yet, so I was trying to be extra careful.

  Unfortunately, I wasn’t quite careful enough. I made a slight miscalculation, and the front of the scooter struck the right edge of the port. (The bump made me bite down, which was when I realized I was sticking out my tongue—primarily because I bit it. Hard.) I muttered angrily and waited as the scooter bounced gently off one side of the entry and then the other before finally stabilizing in the center of it.

  I was really disgusted with myself. The bump wasn’t going to cause any damage. But I was certain whoever was inside monitoring my arrival would be smirking at the error—laughing about “kid pilots.”

  I hate it when older people are condescending.

  As soon as I was in position, powerful magnetic guidelines drew me into the BS Factory. Once the scooter had made it through the port, the door irised shut, closing out the void behind me. A moment later I felt the scooter being lifted to press against the top of the air lock. When the door seal was in place, I pressed a button. The top sprang open.

  “Nice landing, Russ,” said Millicent Carter as I stepped out of the scooter. “Remind me to have you give my kid driving lessons next year.”

  I smiled. “No problem, Mill. Heck, you’ll probably get an insurance rebate when they find out who you hired.”

  I didn’t mind this kind of teasing when it came from Millie. A tall, good-looking, middle-aged woman, she was the kind who could let you know she was laughing with you instead of at you—even while she was dumping all over you. Millie was pretty much in charge of the Bio-Science facility. She wasn’t a scientist, or an administrator, or anything fancy like that. She was just the one who kept things working.

  “Where’s the doc?” I asked.

  “In his lab. Waiting for you.”

  When I heard the emphasis she put on the last words, I sighed. It seemed no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t manage to get here—or anywhere else—on time. I stepped into the hallway and began trotting along the curving outer wall of the substation, using the careful space-jogger’s technique to keep myself from bounding up to the ceiling in the lab’s reduced gravity. Outside the door to Dr. Twining’s laboratory I grabbed one of the loops sticking out from the wall to slow myself down.

  I was about to go bursting into the room, full of apologies for being late, when I pulled myself up short. I could hear Dr. Twining arguing with someone. Things sounded pretty tense. Late or not, I decided I had better hold my horses.

  The door muffled the angry voices enough so that I couldn’t hear what was being said. But after a few minutes I was able to recognize the other speaker. It was Pieter Durkin. Like Dr. Twining, Dr. Durkin was one of the BS Factory’s seven senior scientists. (Millie and I referred to the group as “the Mad Scientists” Club.”)

  I felt bad that they were arguing. Dr. Durkin and Dr. Twining were both fine scientists. And they had both been very good to me.

  The voices got louder. Suddenly the door slid open and Dr. Durkin came storming out. He was carrying a chimpanzee in his arms, and his usually pale skin was flushed with anger.

  “Hello, Rusty,” he growled. Then he ran a hand through his thinning blond hair and tried to smile, as if he realized that whatever was bothering him wasn’t my fault. “Sorry to intrude on your lab time,” he muttered. He lowered the chimp to the floor and hurried off down the hall.

  The chimp, who was named Ron, turned and signed a little message to me: “Got to go. Bye-bye.”

  “Bye-bye, Ron,” I signed back. I smiled as I watched him scurry down the hall.

  Ron was one of my best friends. If nothing else, I could always count on him for a smile and a hug—which is more than you’ll get from some people.

  I stood in the hall for another minute or so, figuring it wouldn’t hurt to give Dr. Twining a little more time to cool off.

  When I finally thought it was safe to go in I poked my head through the door and said, “Sorry I’m late.”

  Dr. Twining stood at a lab table, his tall, ganglin
g frame huddled over whatever he was working on. When he answered me, his voice was almost unnaturally calm. “It’s all right, Rusty,” he said, without looking up from his work. “Actually, I’ve gotten so I count on your being late. It was nice to know I would have the twenty minutes I needed to finish this experiment without being interrupted.”

  Obviously we weren’t going to talk about his fight with Dr. Durkin. Well, that was his privilege.

  I crossed the room and peered over Dr. Twining’s bony shoulder. “More limb regeneration?” I asked, looking down at the mouse he was examining. The poor thing had three good legs and a bud where the fourth should be.

  Dr. Twining rubbed his long, thin nose and nodded soberly. “Between the low-gravity effect and the hormones we’re learning to generate up here, I think we might actually crack this thing before long.”

  I nodded back. I was well aware that even though the prosthetic device Dr. Twining wore at the bottom of his left leg worked nearly as well as the real thing, he continued to dream of growing back the foot he had lost in an Earthside car accident some twenty years back.

  I had a personal interest in his research myself. I’ve got a bum hip, a problem I was born with. Right now it doesn’t do more than slow me down once in a while. But my doctor has told me I should plan on having it replaced sometime before I’m thirty. If Dr. Twining pulls off his research, I might be able to have a real one. If not, I get to carry around a chunk of high-grade plastic inside me for the rest of my life, an idea that doesn’t thrill me—though it beats not being able to walk at all.

  I waited in silence while my mentor finished examining the mouse. After a moment or two he sighed, scooped up the small bundle of fur, and returned it to the cage at the end of the table. Then he turned to me and said, “Ready to work?”

  I nodded eagerly. My sessions with Dr. Twining here in the Bio-Science Lab were the highlight of my day.

  Within a half hour I was studying a slice of frog brain through an electron microscope, so lost in the mysteries of chemical information storage that I didn’t notice Dr. Twining standing behind me until he tapped me on the shoulder. “I’m going back to the main wheel,” he said. I saw a smile twitch at the corner of his lips. “I’m meeting with one of my private patients: Dr. Puckett.”

  He waited for me to react.

  I did. Elmo Puckett was the most famous man in ICE-3, a fabulously rich recluse who had invented nearly half the technology that made the colonies possible. Everybody had heard of him, but I didn’t know anyone who had actually seen him. According to rumors, he had huge private quarters in the center of the colony, where he kept his fingers in as many pies as possible. He never allowed himself to be photographed; any interviews I had seen showed only his hands.

  “I didn’t know you knew people like that,” I said after the shock wore off.

  “We’re old friends from Earthside,” said Dr. Twining. “Elmo likes to paint himself as a hermit, but the truth is he knows more people than anyone I’ve ever met.”

  He glanced at the clock on the laboratory wall and changed the subject. “I want you to make sure you’re not late for your job today. They tend to blame it on me when you are.”

  I promised and turned back to my work. In seconds I was so absorbed I barely heard the door close behind me.

  By the time I looked up again, two hours had passed. I spotted the clock out of the corner of my eye and slapped my forehead in disgust. Despite Dr. Twining’s request, I was going to be late. Again. I packed away my materials and dashed to the loading dock.

  “In a hurry?” asked Millicent.

  “Don’t bug me, Millie, or I’ll teach your kid to drive backward. Just get me out of here.”

  “Hey, calm down. The scooter’s all set to go. I was pretty sure that when you finally got here you’d be in an almighty hurry.”

  I relaxed. “You’re a pal, Millie. Those driving lessons will be on the house.”

  “The way you drive, they’ll be on the wall, and on the roof, and—”

  “All right, all right,” I said, hopping into the scooter. “Just open the door and let me out!”

  Chapter 2

  The Most Disgusting Thing I Ever Saw

  The great wheel of ICE-3 floated in the blackness ahead of me.

  I’ve pretty much grown up in space, so the colony is an everyday sight for me. But I always get a kick out of the way newcomers go on and on about the wonder of seeing the thing just hang there with nothing to support it.

  Actually, they don’t have that much trouble with the colony itself. It’s okay for a world, even a miniature one, to float in space. It’s the mirror that really drives them crazy.

  Like the colony, the mirror is nearly three and a half kilometers across. Unlike the colony, which consists of a tubular outer rim, an inner hub, six large connecting spokes, and a long out-thrust spindle used for docking and mechanical purposes, the mirror is nothing but a simple trapezoid less than a centimeter thick. It reflects sunlight into the colony’s interior.

  (The reason we don’t take our sunlight straight is simple: It would fry us. While Earth has a mile or so of atmosphere to soak up cosmic rays, there’s no such luxury in an ICE Burg. So we shield the wheels with a thick layer of lunar debris to soak up the rays. Then we use the mirror to bounce sunlight in through a series of C-Ray absorbing reflectors, so that by the time it gets to us, it’s no longer the kind of thing you’d wish on your worst enemy.)

  Anyway, because the mirror has no visible connection to the colony, Earth-trained eyes can’t help expecting it to either crash into us or just float away.

  Beyond the colony, 240,000 kilometers away, floated Earth. Even though I was born there, I don’t feel any homesickness for the planet. I hadn’t lived on its surface long enough to develop any attachment other than gravitational.

  My only regret about Earth is that my grandfather is stuck down there. My life would be a lot more pleasant if he could be up here to act as a referee between myself and my parents. Besides, Gramps has dreamed of space all his life. And while he was thrilled that my folks and I could make it, when I talk with him on the vid-phone—which is almost every day—I can see the longing in his eyes, a hunger so strong it’s like an ache. He’d give his typing fingers to be up here with us.

  Unfortunately, at this stage of the game everyone in the colonies has to pull his or her own weight, and then some. We just don’t have much need for an old-time science fiction and mystery writer up here. At least, not one who doesn’t also have some kind of technical skill.

  That’s one reason I’m working so hard at my education. I don’t plan on being left behind like my grandfather. When the human race takes the next step toward the stars, I plan on being part of it. Biochemistry was Gramps’s suggestion as a desirable skill for a starship crew member. Fortunately, it turned out to be something I love.

  But that was a long way in the future. At the moment I had to get back to the colony to do my duty at the Waste Treatment Facility—a job I had been assigned because the plant operated on biochemical principles. Skimming around the lunar debris, I headed under the torus.

  (There’s no real “under” in space, of course. But the adults have gotten into the habit of referring to the mirror as being “up.” I guess since we get our light from it, it’s too much like the sun they grew up with for them to do otherwise. Accurate or not, that leaves the other side as down, or “under.”)

  Docking at the spindle that extends out and “down” from the colony’s center, I moved quickly to an elevator that would take me the half kilometer “up” to the Hub.

  The six hollow spokes that connect the Hub to the outer rim of the colony (where most people actually live and work) are about twenty-five meters wide. To my relief, there was an elevator just ready to head out along the spoke closest to the Waste Treatment Facility. Better yet, it was an express. That meant there would be no stopping at the offices and labs along the way. Putting on a last-minute burst of speed, I made th
e elevator, which traveled the kilometer out to the Rim in slightly over a minute.

  Less than five minutes later I had punched in my access code and was walking through the door of Waste Treatment, or the “Sludge for the Stars Factory,” as my father insists on calling the place. Actually, that name is highly inaccurate. Nothing processed here ever makes it into space. An ICE wheel is a closed system. We use every atom over and over again—primarily because the cost of shipping up new materials is so high we can’t afford to waste a thing. That reality is so much a part of our daily life that “Waste not, want not” is almost a religion around here.

  The time clock made a red slash across my card as I punched in—an indication that I was late again. (That information was also entered into the colony’s main computer, of course. The red slash was strictly for my benefit, a kind of automated reprimand.)

  “Your mentor called shortly before you arrived,” said a mechanical voice as I crossed the room to get my white lab coat and gloves.

  “Any message?”

  “Yes. Dr. Twining says that while he is gratified to know you are as late for other obligations as you are for your appointments with him, he thinks it would be wise for you to start getting places on time.”

  I made a face and slipped on the protective mask I wear whenever I work in the treatment facility. (The chemicals we use to break things down are too powerful to take a chance on any unexpected spills or splashes.) Then I went to the next room, where I did a quick check of the gauges.

  Everything was in order.

  That didn’t surprise me. The computer monitored the whole facility. I was just here as a safety measure, to guard against the system breaking down—an unlikely event, since the plant has two backup systems to keep it going. I scowled as I made some marks on the chart on the wall. I don’t like playing nursemaid to a virtually infallible machine. It’s boring.

  Turning to the holding tanks, I pressed a button and watched as the lid of one of them lifted. I had gotten into the habit of peering into the tanks to see what was being decomposed. I know, I know—it’s disgusting. But it helps stave off the boredom. Besides, it fascinated me to see the stages of decomposition various things go through—especially in such a potent chemical situation. It reminded me of the time-lapse films they used to show us in elementary science. You know, the ones where you see a flower blossom in thirty seconds. Only here the process was reversed. I was watching decay instead of growth.