Michael McCollum - Gridlock and Other stories

GRIDLOCK

AND OTHER STORIES

(A Collection of Shorter Fiction)

By

Michael McCollum

Sci Fi - Arizona, Inc.

Third Millennium Publishing

A Cooperative of Online Writers and Resources

FOREWORD

When an author becomes successful, the publishers leverage the sales of his books by printing

collections of his short fiction. For whatever reason, my publisher never seemed interested in doing a

collection of my shorter works (perhaps they didn’t think I was sufficiently successful).

With the introduction of Sci Fi - Arizona, I have decided to remedy that oversight. This book is a

compendium of most of my short stories, novelettes, and novellas. The only works not represented here

are the two sequels toBeer Run that make up the last two-thirds ofA Greater Infinity .

This book is intended for two audiences. The first, of course, are people who like the way I write.

Here you will find 13 shorter works that I hope you will enjoy as much as the novels you have read.

The second group is those newer writers who take part each month in Sci Fi - Arizona’s Writer’s

Workshop. In theAuthor’s Notes that follow each story, I will try to give you a sense of how the work

came to be and discuss the writing techniques that make each story a successful piece of fiction. And, of

course, I hope to entertain you. That is, after all, what a professional writer is supposed to do!

Finally, as a bonus, I have included the first chapter of my latest novel,Gibraltar Earth , as a

preview to what you can expect to find at Sci Fi - Arizona in the future. Gibraltar Earth is the first book

in theGibraltar Stars Trilogy. With it, I hope to prove that fiction distributed on the INTERNET is

every bit as good as what you find in bookstores. Look for it in 1999, right here on Sci Fi - Arizona!

-----Michael McCollum, Tempe, AZ, April 24, 1998

DUTY, HONOR, PLANET

A story of love, honor, courage,

and the Strategic Defense Initiative...

Jan Pieter Heugens had been a hod carrier, a sailor, a revolutionary, and a hard working diplomat in

his time. As he stood before his spacious office window and watched the rain sluice down on New York

from leaden skies, he reviewed his checkered career with a mood that matched the gloom of the

weather. In the last dozen years, he had seen famines, and floods, and revolutions aplenty -- all of which

the UN had somehow weathered under his stewardship as Secretary-General. As he watched the

rivulets of water cascading down the glass wall in front of him, he wondered if either he or the UN would

last long enough for his term of office to reach a dozen and one years.

The oaken door behind him opened and his secretary ushered a ragged figure inside. Heugens took

a deep breath and turned to face the man he was careful to think of only by his code name, “Bernard.”

Bernard peeled off a threadbare raincoat and tossed it over the back of one of the leather chairs in

front of the Secretary-General’s desk.

“Did you have a good flight down?”

“Average good for a re-entry, Mr. Secretary-General. A little bumpy on final approach to the

Cape,” Bernard said, seating himself in the other chair. “I see by theTimes that the Security Council has

scheduled a vote for next Wednesday.”

“Don’t believe everything you read in the papers. Torres is not about to let it come to a vote. The

Motion to Censure is dead. It just hasn’t laid down yet.”

“Then we go as planned?”

“We go as planned. Have you found your man?”

Bernard nodded. “Yes. Of course, a thousand thingscould go wrong.”

“Such as?”

“Our intelligence could be faulty. Maybe Torres is on to our scheme and feeding us what he wants

us to hear.”

“In that event, Bernard, we’d better prepare for the firing squad.”

“What about Warren? Can we trust him?”

“Heis the President of the United States. If not him, who?”

Bernard’s response was a rude noise.

“When can you get the ball rolling?” the S-G asked, tamping tobacco into his pipe. His doctor

would not let him light it, but the act of holding it clenched between his teeth relaxed him.

“Forty-eight hours.”

Then we start operations two days from now. You put our plan into action.”

“Order acknowledged, Mr. Secretary-General.”

Heugens sighed. Now that the decision had finally been made, the burden on his shoulders felt

lighter than it had in days.

“How about a glass of sherry before heading back?” asked his visitor.

“A whiskey’d go down better.”

“Then whiskey it is!”

#

The Earth was a blue-white jewel poised against the jet-black canvas of open space. Occasionally a

patch of brown or green, or gray would poke through the all-encompassing white bands of clouds that

girded the globe and obscured the familiar outlines of the seas and continents.

Friedrich Stassel gazed absently at the viewscreen at one end of the mess hall and noted the trailing

terminator was near the western salient of Africa. He hurriedly gulped down the last of his tea. Two

quick bites finished off the last of his toast and peach marmalade. It was late and he was due on duty in a

few minutes.

Unnoticed by Stassel, Major N’Gomo, the Station Executive Officer, stepped through the messhall

hatch and surveyed the crowded room with sharp eyes. He spotted the young German and moved

quickly through the clutter of tables and subdued conversation to stand beside him. Stassel looked up to

see a set of flashing white teeth set in a face of darkest ebon.

“The Commandant would like to see you, Fred,” the Ghanaian said.

“Yes sir,” Stassel replied. He looked quizzically at N’Gomo, but the Exec’s face was an aloof

mask as always. No one could ever tell what went on behind those yellow tinged eyes. Stassel gathered

up his tray, standing slowly to keep the cup and silverware in place in the one-third gravity of the space

station, and headed for the main hatch. As he passed the disposal chute, he stuffed the utensils into its

gaping maw with a clatter of steel on steel.

The Commandant’s office was ninety degrees spinward around the Station’s rim from the officer’s

mess. Stassel quick stepped his way around the rising curve of the Alpha Deck corridor, hurrying as fast

as the in-station traffic laws would allow. He chewed his lower lip and wondered about the summons as

he walked, mentally reviewing all of his activities for the last week. Had he committed an offense serious

enough to warrant being called on the carpet by the Commandant himself? Offhand, he could not think

of anything.

Of course, just because you did not know about it was no sure indication of a clear conscience as

far as General Heinemann, the Commandant, was concerned. More than one officer had walked jauntily

into Heinemann’s office, only to emerge a whipped man. Rumor was that the Commandant could see

through steel bulkheads up to a centimeter thick. Stassel had no reason to doubt it.

Outside the Commandant’s office, Stassel stopped to check his uniform in the mirror provided for

just that purpose. A blond young man with Heidelberg dueling scars around his scalp, a serious face, and

soft blue eyes that ill befitted a soldier peered out of the mirror at him. The picture was completed by an

asymmetric nose -- the result of ejecting from a burning plane at too high a speed in pilot training -- and a

spotless black and silver uniform. He carefully brushed a couple of imagined wrinkles from his tunic and

rubbed mirror-polished boots on pants legs for insurance.

Then he took a deep breath and knocked on the Commandant’s door. A few seconds later he

heard a muffled order to enter. Stassel marched to the front of the Commandant’s desk, snapped to

attention, and saluted. Heinemann was making notes on a yellow note pad and continued writing as

Stassel held the salute.

After a few moments, he put down the pen and looked up, his steel gray eyes more tired than

Stassel could remember having seen them before. The Commandant returned the salute and leaned back

in his chair.

“Have a seat, Friedrich. Smoke if you like.”

Stassel was momentarily startled by General Heinemann’s use of his first name. He had not known

that the Commandant knew it. He hesitantly took one of the gray UN issue chairs in front of the desk,

politely declining a cigar from the Commandant’s humidor.

“How is your dear mother? It’s been almost five years since I’ve seen her,” Heinemann said, puffing

a stogie alight and blowing a blue cloud of smoke toward the ventilator shaft. “I’m afraid I have been

derelict in not visiting since your father left the service.”

“Mutteris fine, Herr General.”

“I served under your father inboardGraf Von Bismarck . Did you know that? I was his Executive

Officer and his friend.”

“My father used to talk a great deal about his days in space aboardBismarck, Herr General. He

spoke of you often, and only with highest regard.”

“I was sorry to hear of his death last year, Friedrich. An accident on the autobahn is a tragic end for

a spaceman, no?”

“Yes sir. Most tragic.”

“He was a good German, your father. In your great grandfather’s time, that was a term of derision,

Friedrich. Did you know that? It has been men like Hans Erich Stassel who put some respect back into

the wordDeutschlander . Why as late as fifteen years ago, a Luftwaffe officer could never have worn

black and silver. To do so would have been to invite comparison with Hitler and his maniac

Schutzstaffeln, the dread SS. Do you understand what a handicap we have had to overcome,

Friedrich? It was no easy thing to re-earn the respect of civilized folk after having lost it so thoroughly.”

“Yes sir.” Stassel wondered what the Commandant was getting at. The old martinet did not

usually give himself over to reminiscing. It was a bad sign.

The Commandant cleared his throat, and snubbed out the burning cigar, attacking it as if it were an

enemy. “I have orders, Hauptmann Stassel. You will report to the shuttle docking portal immediately

after your meeting with the Briefing Officer. There you will take the in-orbit shuttle to Peace Control

Satellite Alpha-Nine for duty until relieved. Your personal gear is already aboard.”

“Alpha-Nine, Herr General? Robertson has Alpha-Nine on the duty roster next shift.”

“Robertson is in the brig with Garcia. They got into a disagreement in the Lounge last watch and will

be cooling off for the next ten days or so.”

“Robertson and Garcia? I can’t believe it. What started it?”

“What else?” the Commandant asked, staring idly at the blue and white UN flag that decorated one

side of his office. His voice was weary with too much strain and work.

Stassel did not have to ask what he meant. Robertson was an American and Garcia a Mexican.

Their fight had started over the border crisis, of course. They were too good friends to let anything other

than women or politics come between them.

“It’s getting bad, isn’t it?” he asked.

Heinemann sighed. “Worse than you might think, Hauptmann. Even the ranks of the Peace

Enforcers are not immune to these internecine squabbles that have broken out all over the face of the

Earth. If it is not the North Americans against the South, then it is the Australians versus Indonesia, or

Japan against China and West Russia. I tell you the whole world is going to Satan in a hand trolley.”

Heinemann glanced at the chronometer on the bulkhead behind Stassel. “The time is getting short,

Hauptmann. You still need to be briefed.”

“Yes sir.”

“Before you go, Friedrich. Do you know why I am picking you for this assignment instead of the

backup astronaut?”

“No sir.”

“Because, like your father, you are a good German. And the world needs more of us. We know

how to follow orders without question. Few other people do. It is a much-maligned trait, Friedrich. The

Yankees and French are always making snide comments about blind Prussian obedience to orders. Do

not let them faze you. In the current situation, blind obedience to orders is the only thing that is going to

save us. I need men in orbit who can keep their heads and do their duty. Can you?”

“I think so, sir.”

“So do I, Friedrich. You are your father’s son. Now you had better see the Briefing Officer in

Compartment One-Twelve. You are minus minutes for that shuttle launch. They’ll hold it if you’re late,

but they won’t like it.”

“Thank you, Herr General.”

Wing Commander Livingston was on detached service from the RAF. His powder blue uniform

looked out of place next to Stassel’s silver and black. Stassel sat in an aluminum chair and took notes as

Livingston reeled off figures in his clipped, Oxford accent.

“ … Your area of responsibility will include Longitudes 100 West to 120 West, Captain. Your

satellite will be in an alternating synchronous orbit with Beta-Nine, of course, and you will have prime

responsibility in the Northern Hemisphere during even watch periods and Southern Hemisphere during

the odd. Luckily, south of the equator there is only empty ocean between 100 and 120 West, so you’ll

be able to get some rest.

“You are hereby directed to pay especially close attention to the situation around the US--Mexican

border...” Livingston looked up, the podium light casting shadows on his face. “Watch your ass on that

one, Fred. It is a tinderbox. The Mexicans are bound to try a raid between now and the Security

Council vote on Friday.”

“I thought the vote would be Wednesday,” Stassel said.

“Wouldn’t bet on it if I were you, chap. Besides, I have Friday afternoon in the pool. So I can

hope.”

“How do you think the Council will vote, Livingston?”

“I’d say they will turn the resolution down flat. Too many people do not like the Yanks for it to

pass. They enjoy the sight of the Mex dwarf tweaking the Giant’s nose, and they will vote against it just

to keep the pot boiling. However, to make sure, you can bet the politicians in Mexico City will try to

score another coup to intimidate the rest of the Council into voting their way. God knows it’s easy

enough to do.”

“And if the Mexicans keep it up?”

“Then it’ll come to war quick enough. With Warren in the White House, it is practically

preordained. He barely scraped by last election with strong Ecocrat support. The Mex’s are punching

the Ecocrats right where it hurts. Warren is going to have to act quickly or else lose his base of power.

And if it comes to war, you know what that will mean.”

Stassel nodded.

It had started as an argument over import quotas on Mexican sugar beets. In the bad old days,

nothing would have come of it. The Mexicans would have complained to Washington, only to be

ignored. A storm of injured Latin pride would have boiled up in Mexico, but they would have been

powerless to act.

However, the bad old days were long gone. Two things had occurred to permanently change the

balance of power in the world, and not necessarily for the best as far as the current situation was

concerned.

The first was the rise of the powerful Ecocrat lobby. Growing out of the environmental movement of

the late twentieth century, they were a power in every democracy in the world. In the US particularly,

they represented a large, powerful, and vocal voting bloc dedicated to the proposition that all things

ecological were sacred. They were one-issue voters, ready to kick politicians out of officeen masse for

the slightest ideological impurity.

The second development was the formation of the UN Peace Enforcers following the twenty-day

scare of the Misfire War. The Peace Enforcers were a multinational force with a single mission: To stop

any aggressor who struck against any UN member state. Their unofficial motto was, “You start the war

and we’ll finish it!”

In theory, any act of aggression by one nation against another would be met instantly by the orbital

lasers and Peace Enforcer fusion rockets. However, in practice there was a threshold level of violence, a

tripwire effect, below which the cumbersome Security Council machinery would fail to respond.

These two facts were the natural precursors to the current crisis on the North American continent.

Lone Mexican Air Force planes -- officially piloted by bandits and renegade officers -- had struck

north at a series of unusual targets designed to put intense pressure on the administration in Washington

in the sugar beet dispute. Instead of hitting cities or centers of military and industrial power with the

nuclear weapons Mexico was rumored to have, the planes struck against targets that the powerful

Ecocrat lobby considered irreplaceable national treasures.

Carlsbad -- where a single smart bomb had penetrated the visitor center and elevator shaft to

explode in the cavern below, causing massive destruction. And more importantly, sealing the caverns

for a hundred years due to radioactive contamination by the Cobalt 60 powder that had cladded the

high explosive bomb.

Lake Mead -- where a specially developed film of evil smelling resin lay on the surface of the lake,

killing fish by the millions, leaving their rotting bodies to wash ashore and provide graphic pictures for

the television cameras.

The Tonto National Forest -- thirty percent destroyed in a firestorm started by Mexican incendiary

bombs.

Such limited violence was primarily psychological in its impact and well below the tripwire level that

would galvanize the Security Council to action. Instead of hard action to stop the raids, the Council had

indulged in bombast and recriminations. Complicating the matter were a number of small nations who

supported Mexico for reasons of their own. Supported her to the point where they refused to believe the

irrefutable evidence provided by Peace Control Satellite cameras. When a Resolution of Censure was

finally introduced, the small nation delegates had fallen to bickering over the placement of commas.

There the crisis stood, stalemated and explosive. But should the situation develop into a shooting

war -- in other words, should the Americans attack -- Stassel had no doubt of the UN response.

The Peace Enforcers would be ordered in on the side of the ‘innocents’ being invaded. Weapons of

mass destruction laboriously stockpiled in orbit would be ordered used. Every attacking missile and

aircraft would be lasered out of the sky. Every ship would be destroyed at sea. If simple surgical

destruction did not work -- and against the Americans, there was every reason to think it would not --

then the less selective weapons would be released. Fusion warheads that had slept in the bellies of

Peace Enforcer ships for twenty years would be unleashed against the “aggressors.”

To do otherwise would split the UN into a dozen squabbling factions. The majority had always held

that no provocation could be great enough to go to war.

Except in this case, the ‘aggressors’ would be in the right and every man and woman aboard the

space stations and satellites knew it. Worse, the Americans were not the minor league imperialists the

PEs had been formed to stop. They had ground-based lasers of their own. The Peace Control Satellites

were few in number and in fixed orbits. No one knew who would eventually win the fight, but one thing

was certain. When the smoke cleared, the UN Peace Enforcers would be in no condition to continue

their mission and war would have been unleashed once more upon the world.

“Maybe the Council will approve the Resolution of Censure,” Stassel said, as the Briefing Officer

struck a match and lit a cigarette.

“Care to back your opinion with cash?” the Englishman asked, grinning. “I hate to take advantage

of a babe in the woods, but that is too good a chance at profit to pass up.”

“Bet with you, Livingston? Do you think my mother raised stupid children?”

“Hmmm ... I’ll not answer that.” Livingston glanced at the chronometer on the wall. Its red

glowing numerals read 08:31-- except one of the LED’s had burned out and the numeral one was

missing half its height. “You haven’t got much time, Fred. The shuttle leaves in twelve minutes.”

“Yes sir,” Stassel said, gathering up his notes and a situation briefing tape to be studied on the trip

to the satellite. He got up to leave.

“Not so fast,” Livingston said, his bantering tone suddenly turned serious. “The guardian of our

virtues wants to see you.”

Stassel strained to keep his expression neutral as Livingston pressed a buzzer. Within a few

seconds, the cabin door opened and a dumpy, hard-faced woman in the uniform of a UN Political

Officer strode in. Stassel avoided looking at her. Colonel Irma Shetland was not one of his favorite

people. She was a dour faced American with a nasty habit of delving into other people’s confidential

files. Stassel had spent an uncomfortable hour with her when he’d first come aboard the space station

and he had not forgotten the experience. His face still turned red with anger when he thought about it.

“Good morning, Hauptmann Stassel,” she said in her flat, emotionless voice.

“Colonel Shetland,” he replied.

“I understand you are going into one of our hot spots. I am sure you will do well there.”

He remained silent.

“It is my duty, however, Herr Hauptmann, to inform you of the penalty for violation of Peace

Enforcer regulations should you decide to get involved without authorization.”

“I have read the regulations, Colonel,” he said.

“I hope you have. In addition, I hope you remember that thirty-five years in a UN prison is a long

time. So stay out of it no matter what your personal biases.”

“Should you fail us in this,” she said, pausing to let the import of her words sink in. “I will order

Alphas Eight and Ten to laser you out of the sky. Got that?”

“Yes, Colonel,” he said aloud. Silently he let the word he never dared say in her presence float to

the surface. Gestapo! It was the worst insult he could think of.

“Then get out. I have important things to do. Seems the UN is sending up another bigwig observer

and I’ve got to hold his hand,” she said.

Stassel hurried to a spoke entrance a hundred meters spinward from the briefing cubicle and

punched for the lift. He frowned, considering Shetland’s warning to him. He could see cautioning an

American against taking sides. However, why talk to him about it? He was nominally neutral in the

dispute. Was his psychological profile so clear that she could read his thoughts? Was her warning

merely a precaution, or did she have hard information that he was not as disinterested as he pretended to

be?

Did she know about Alicia? Stassel shuddered at the thought. How could she possibly know? He

was nearly positive that his personnel file did not list her. Could the Political Office be investigating him

for suspected disloyalty?

The lift whooshed him upward toward the station axis. The familiar, ever changing Coriolus force as

he approached the axis clamped his stomach muscles in a familiar vise. At the zero gravity axis, Stassel

kicked off and floated to the docking port at the north pole of the station and through a flexible tube to

the shuttle.

The shuttle was a standard orbit-to-orbit supply bus -- three spherical sections assembled as though

they had been skewered onto a shish-kabob sword with a hydrogen-fueled rocket at one end and the

personnel cabin at the other. The shuttle was used to transfer personnel and consumables from the

mid-Atlantic Space Station (and her mid-Pacific counterpart) to the orbiting Peace Control Satellites.

The station was in synchronous orbit 37,000 kilometers above the equator so that it hung

perpetually over thirty degrees west longitude. The Peace Control Satellites also orbited 37,000

kilometers out, but in two separate orbits, each inclined sixty degrees from the plane of the equator and

from each other. Each satellite thus described a figure eight over a stationary strip of land, taking one day

for the full traverse across the face of the planet. The satellites climbed to the latitude of Hudson’s Bay in

the north and dropped to the northern tip of Antarctica in the south. Spaced every ten degrees of

longitude - or 7500 kilometers apart -- in their orbits, the satellites passed over every industrialized and

developing nation on Earth four times daily. The seventy satellites and two space stations in orbit gave

the UN’s hundred gigawatt lasers overlapping fields of fire against any conceivable opponent. War was

impossible.

At least, that was the theory.

#

“How you doing, Krauthead?” Smiley Burgess, the shuttle pilot greeted him as he floated into the

cabin. Burgess spoke in a slow Texas drawl that Stassel found irritating. In fact, Burgess embodied

most of the characteristics he found objectionable in Americans.

“I am fine, Mr. Burgess,” he said. He noted the six empty couches around the pilot. “Where are

the rest of your passengers?”

“You’re it, Friedrich old pal.” He pronounced the name “Fred-rick,” completely mangling the final

‘ish’ sound. “I guess theHunwants to get someone he can trust into Alpha-Nine ASAP. I made a

special trip to Beta-Nine yesterday. Took off Powell and substituted that chink, Hsin Liu, in his place.

Funny thing about it, the flanking satellites all have Europeans, or Africans, or Asians in them. Not a

single American, northorsouth, to be seen.”

Stassel nodded absently. The Hun was General Heinemann.

“Strap yourself in, boy. This is going to be the fastest change of plane maneuver you ever did see.”

Stassel took a couch and fastened the safety strap across his chest. He ignored the undocking

maneuver and preliminary bursts of the attitude jets. He inserted the briefing tape into the couch reader

and tried to concentrate on the mission.

After five minutes of futile efforts, he snapped off the viewer in disgust. He cursed himself under his

breath. What was the matter? He did not usually have trouble concentrating on a briefing. Why now?

Maybe it was the irritation he felt with Burgess. Except he knew it was not. Burgess always irritated

him. He was like a mosquito buzzing around in the blackness while you were trying to sleep. It wasn’t

the actual sting that kept you awake, but rather the anticipation. With Burgess, you waited, wondering

what he was going to say to rub you the wrong way next. No, Smiley Burgess had never bothered him

so much before that he could not concentrate on the mission at hand.

Colonel Shetland was the cause of his dry mouth, and sweaty palms, and inability to concentrate.

Colonel Shetland and her not-so-stupid insinuations that his loyalty might not be completely with the

Vaterland and the UN. In that instant of honesty, Stassel felt the memory that he had tried so hard to

suppress boiling to the surface, plain for him to touch and feel, and smell.

It was the memory of Alicia.

#

Alicia Delgado. She of the raven hair and the piercing black eyes. The ready smile and the quick

wit. The soft warmth, the quick passions, and the quicker temper.

There had been those who had laughed at them, the tall blond German and the short, dark Mexican

girl. They had always looked upon Alicia and him as a joke -- two fighter pilots in helmets and flight suits

walking across the hot tarmac hand in hand, chattering lovers’ nonsense to each other.

However, Friedrich Stassel had not considered it a joke. Twice he had wiped smiles off the faces

of fellow pilots -- one German and one American -- behind the Officer’s Club after the Friday night

dance. Mostly though, he felt the haughty laughing eyes on the back of his neck and burned with anger

that he was the butt of their jokes.

Alicia just laughed back, comforting him until he had no room for anger within him.

Stassel chewed his lower lip and gazed out the shuttle viewport at the silver points of light that were

the stars. His mind flowed back to those first days of advanced fighter training in the cloudless skies of

Arizona.

He had been stationed at Luke Air Force Base a month when he had been invited to a party at the

Base Commander’s home. All the instructor pilots and foreign pilot-trainees had been invited. They

made a sizable group since Luke was one of the focal training bases of the military assistance program of

the United States. Halfway through the evening he’d found himself steered by a Major’s fat wife to a

group of young officers in civilian clothes, gathered in a tight clump around a pretty, black haired girl. He

barely noticed the men as they introduced themselves. His attention was riveted on the girl.

“Friedrich Stassel,” he had stammered, taking the warm softness of her hand in his.

“TenienteAlicia Delgado, Mexican Air Force,” she had said in a voice dripping velvet.

“You ... a pilot?” held asked lamely. “I thought…”

“That I was a wife or girl friend?”

“Well, Uh.”

“A whore perhaps? Imported for this party to entertain the troops?” She laughed, the gaiety of her

tone taking the sting out of her words. “What’s the matter, Leutnant? Don’t you think a woman can fly a

fighter plane as well as a man?”

It was then that all the bright young Yankees had first laughed. True, in retrospect he could see they

were laughing with Alicia. However, at the time it had seemed they were laughing at him. He had beat a

hasty retreat with his backbone locked ramrod straight and his ears turning bright crimson. Never again

would he speak to theverdammtbitch, he vowed.

A week later, they were lovers.

Stassel sighed as he watched the back of Burgess’ head while the American was busy with the

course computer checking over the next delta V burn. He tried to think about the mission, but the pull of

Alicia was too strong. His thoughts were drawn to their last leave together.

It had been late spring, a time when the mercury began to climb dramatically on the deserts of

Arizona. He and Alicia had managed a week’s furlough from training. The occasion was an expedition

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