2.1
01 February 2057
Clementine Cislunar Fuel Depot
Earth-Moon Lagrange Point 1
Cislunar Space
“It’s the purple star,” the new astronomer said. “Just above Alpha Centauri.”
“I know where it is,” said the trillionaire Grigory Magnusevich Orlov.
Glowering was something Orlov did often and well, and he did it now, because this new hire, this twenty-five-year-old PhD, was relentlessly cheerful and encouraging, and Orlov found it condescending. And since Orlov was the owner of this space station, and the multinational energy company that controlled it, he was not a man to whom one could safely condescend.
Orlov Petrochemical ran oil refineries and fusion energy plants around the world. Orlov Petrochemical controlled twenty-four percent of the world’s electricity supply. Orlov Petrochemical was also the premier asteroid mining company, and this facility—Clementine Cislunar Fuel Depot—supplied volatiles like oxygen and hydrogen and ammonia and cyanogen, to the Moon and to low Earth orbit, and every point in between.
But Orlov’s gatherbots were venturing farther from Earth these days, for larger, richer prizes, and so he needed an astronomer. Another mouth to feed, another pension to pay out, if this man should survive to the end of his career.
“On these recordings, I see the black space between it and the star shrinking, day by day,” the astronomer said, making a motion as if pinching the two dots on the screen. “Soon, the two will merge into a single point!”
“Yes,” Orlov said.
But why? That bastard, Igbal Renz, had built himself a starship. A starship! And it was headed toward Proxima Centauri, except not really. It was only a two-year mission—not nearly long enough to reach the star. Or anything else. It was a trip to empty space.
Orlov and the astronomer were in the station’s new astronomy module, which had been shipped up from Earth and still smelled of metal and fresh polymer. The lighting was dim, as Orlov preferred it, but virtually every surface was covered in video screens, showing views from all the telescopes. Clementine was balanced permanently at the EML1 Lagrange point, between the Earth and Moon. Clementine had the high ground, and a good vantage point for seeing what everyone else was up to.
Because Orlov was paranoid, Clementine had high-powered, negative-refraction telescopes pointed at every object of interest: one for each settlement visible at the Lunar north and south poles. One for Igbal Renz’s ESL1 Shade Station. One for the asteroid 101955 Bennu, where Orlov’s gatherbots would soon be landing. One for the Earth itself—trackable to any of the stations in low Earth orbit. One for H.S.F. Concordia, the cycler transport, currently en route back from Mars. And now, one for this insane starship of Renz Ventures.
“It’s called Intercession,” the astronomer said. “I don’t know why, or what it means.”
“I know what it’s called,” Orlov said, in a tone that was briefly more weary than menacing. “Can you get me a closer view than what’s recorded here?”
“No, sir. Even with the fancy optics, at this point it’s just a single bright pixel.”
“And you’re certain it’s on a direct course toward the Alpha Centauri system?”
“Yes, sir. Specifically, toward Proxima, the closest of the three.”
Three! Yes, people spoke of Alpha Centauri as though it were a star—the closest star, the brightest in the sky. But it was three! And that bastard Renz was headed there. Only not really.
“It can’t get there,” Orlov said.
“No, sir. At their present acceleration, on a two-year, straight-line out-and-back mission, they’ll barely reach the inner edge of the Oort cloud. That’s a small fraction of the distance to Proxima, although, you understand, still very far from here.”
Orlov’s growl was calculated to intimidate, and he used it now. “What’s out there? An ice planet, hiding in the dark?”
“Not that anyone’s ever heard of,” the astronomer said. He didn’t sound intimidated.
“And what would they want with one, anyway?” Orlov demanded. “That ship cost trillions of dollars. What could be worth all that? Not ice. Something else.”
The astronomer grinned and shrugged. “Officially, they’re just testing the ship. It’s a shakedown cruise.”
Orlov growled again, and said, “Remind me of your name.”
“Boris, sir.”
“Well, Boris, there are a hundred frozen people on that ship.” He stuck his rollup under the astronomer’s nose, showing him a stolen schematic of Intercession. He jabbed his finger at the screen and said, “Here. This space, right here. Hibernation Bay. I don’t know who they are, or how they were selected, or what they are meant to do out there. And I have tried very hard to find out.”
“I’ve heard some crazy rumors,” the astronomer admitted.
As had Orlov. As had everyone.
“Hmm. Renz Ventures has always been the subject of crazy rumors. Many rumors. Your opinion?”
“There’s nothing to indicate another vessel out there.”
“Another vessel,” Orlov said. “An alien vessel. That’s what you’re talking about, yes? Don’t be coy with me. Do you think it’s possible?”
Now, finally, the astronomer seemed nervous. “Anything is possible, sir, but you see the purple dot, yes? The engine flare of Intercession, very bright. Bright enough to see from all the way back here. Brighter than the whole Centauri system! That’s how much energy it takes to move a starship, sir. No one has observed anything like that in the Oort cloud. And they would have to, if something were out there.”
“Unless it has some different form of propulsion,” Orlov said. “Or the ship has been there a long time. A derelict, perhaps, whose technology could fall into the hands of our enemies. That would be bad, yes?”
The astronomer was strapped to a seat, to keep him from floating away. Orlov had the tip of one shoe lightly hooked on a grab bar, because he’d lived weightless for many years now, and knew how to control his body. Presently, he put a hand on the astronomer’s shoulder and squeezed gently. Orlov came from a long line of coal miners and oil men, and he was so hopped up on zero-gee adaptation drugs that he was stronger than he’d been when he left Earth. He could cause grave injury if he wanted to. To his credit, the astronomer finally seemed to sense this.
“Anything is possible, sir.”
“Anything. Hmm. Now watch. This was recorded yesterday.”
The violet star that was Intercession seemed to flicker on its little video display. Then the brighter dot of Alpha Centauri began to flicker as well, along with some of the other stars around it. A ripple of distortion, moving across the screen.
“Ah, there! You see that?” Orlov said, pointing. “You see it?”
“Yes,” the astronomer said, sounding intrigued.
“Stealth ship,” Orlov said, “passing in front of the stars. Almost invisible. You see it?”
“I do, sir.”
Orlov was not a man who frightened easily. Some might say he was not a man who could be frightened at all, but they’d be wrong. At the sight of that distortion on the screen, even though it was only a recording, he felt his heart beating faster. He felt a little tickle from the sweat glands on his forehead. Fear, yes, even Grigory Orlov.
“How far away?” he demanded. “This bastard’s been hanging around, lurking. By my station! That’s not space aliens, either; there are men in that thing. Spies! Or murderers, or thieves. Men who mean us harm, Boris. I need you to track it for me.”
“Nothing’s showing up on radar,” the astronomer said.
Orlov pushed him by the shoulder, not gently. “I know! Nothing! Is showing up! On radar! It’s a fucking stealth ship, you moron. I need you to track it. There have been sightings of these things throughout cislunar space, and now here. Now here! Do you understand me? Am I stuttering?”
Alarmed, now: “No, sir. I understand, sir.”
Orlov could see that young Boris, here, was going to have to toughen up if he wanted to survive in a place like Clementine. Well, that was young Boris’s problem.
“And find out what Igbal Renz is doing on that fucking starship,” he said. “That’s your job, Boris, to figure things out for me.”
Nervously: “How, sir?”
Another squeeze of the shoulder. “That is something I very much hope you can tell me, Boris. If I had all the answers, where would that leave you?”
“I, uh, don’t know, sir,” the astronomer said. Then seeming to realize that was the exact wrong thing to say, he quickly added: “I’ll be useful, sir. I’ll figure it out.”
“Yes,” Orlov said, now in his friendliest tone. Which, he’d been told, was not very friendly at all. “Yes, I’m sure you will. This is a rough place, Boris, but useful men are respected.”
“I . . . don’t doubt it, sir.”
The shimmer on the video screen was gone, leaving only the purple dot, and the star system it was heading toward. The fear would take longer to fade.
“I don’t like unanswered ques—”
The rollup phone in Orlov’s hand chimed out a “message received” tone, quite loud in the confines of the astronomy module. Which was strange, because almost no one had Orlov’s SpaceNet phone number. Why would they need to? Technical and business matters would be routed through Operations, and whoever was on duty there would page Orlov if they felt it important enough. To the extent that the rollup was a telephone at all, it was reserved for personal matters.
Interesting.
On the screen’s notification bar, the sender ID said orlov, sally.
Seeing Orlov’s reaction, Boris the astronomer said, “Good, uh, good news, sir? I hope?”
“A message from my daughter,” Orlov said. He let go of the astronomer’s shoulder.
“Sounds like good news,” Boris said, recovering a bit of his earlier enthusiasm.
“I doubt that very much,” Orlov said.
With a flick of the wrist, he snapped the rollup closed and then jammed it in his pocket. “Well, it has been very nice to meet you, Boris. We’ll have much to discuss, you and I. Or rather, I hope we will.”
“We very definitely will,” Boris said, and Orlov was pleased by the respectful—even fearful—way Boris had said it. Yes, good. Orlov needed people who felt personally threatened by these mysteries around him.