Greenberg, Martin H.

s.p.a.ce Stations.

INTRODUCTION.

by John Heifers.

It's amazing what the human race can accomplish when we put our collective minds to something. Whether it's exploration, fighting disease, inventing new technology, or changing society, mankind can be an awesome power when it chooses to be.

Consider s.p.a.ce exploration, for example. While scientists have been studying the stars for centuries, getting a man to walk among them has been quite a different matter. As the study of our universe goes, it is one of the most recent fields of scientific endeavor, primarily because of the advances in technology that have made it feasible. Since the launch of the first satellite by the Soviet Union on October 4, 1957, the United States and the rest of the world have been looking to the skies, and the universe beyond, as the ultimate last frontier.

And what an incredible forty-seven years it's been. Since the first s.p.a.ce race between Russia and the United States, the world has seen men land on the Moon, the first unmanned exploration of the surface of Mars, China join the other s.p.a.ce faring nations, and a renewed interest in the vast galaxy beyond our own planet.

Along with this activity comes new ways to study and explore s.p.a.ce.

From the Hubble s.p.a.ce telescope to the Voyager and Galileo deep s.p.a.ce probes, we have pushed farther and farther past the boundaries of what we once knew.One of the best ways to do this is right in our own backyard, so to speak.

No matter how sophisticated the technology, satellites and machines cannot replace man when it comes to exploration, at least, not completely. s.p.a.ce stations, platforms where men and women can study the galaxy around the clock, have become the best way to gain practical results from s.p.a.ce, whether it is manufacturing new medicines and materials in the weightless conditions, or exploring the heavens and planning to use the s.p.a.ce station as a jumping off point fop trips beyond.

There have been several permanently manned s.p.a.ce stations during the history of s.p.a.ce exploration. The Russians beat America into s.p.a.ce again with the launch of the first orbiting station, Salyut, in 1971. A Russian crew was the first to live in s.p.a.ce for approximately twenty-four days, but tragically died upon returning to Earth. The U.S.'s first s.p.a.ce outpost, Skylab, was launched in 1973. It was not intended to be a permanent station, but was used to study long-term effects of s.p.a.ce and weightlessness on humans and animals. The longest-running manned s.p.a.ce station, the Russian Mir station, managed to stay aloft for fifteen years despite being used for years after its proposed duration and suffering several accidents that at times severely hampered its capabilities. In 2001 Mir was guided back into Earth's atmosphere, where it was destroyed.

The most exciting development in the field of manned s.p.a.ce exploration today is the International s.p.a.ce Station, a joint project that began construction in 1998. Funded and supplied by sixteen countries around the world, its purpose is to create a permanent station to take the world's s.p.a.ce program into the next century and millennium. When the station is completed in 2006, we will have the best platform to begin the next stage of exploration, leading back to the Moon, perhaps to Mars, and beyond.

The ISS has fired the imaginations of people around the world, and science fiction authors are no different. Fourteen of today's best writers have given us their ideas of what the next generation of s.p.a.ce stations will look like. From Timothy Zahn comes a story of a station that everyone thought was past its prime, until the time came for it to take part in a most unusual battle. Alan Dean Foster explores a s.p.a.ce station that takes care of even its smallest inhabitant in a very special way. Brendan DuBois takes us to a future Earth where the dream of s.p.a.ce stations took a detour that grounded humanity forever. And Gregory Benford reveals a completely different view of a s.p.a.ce station in our final story.

Fourteen visions of the future created by the finest authors of speculative fiction. So turn the page and prepare for adventures beyond your wildest imagination on these s.p.a.ce stations of tomorrow.

THE BATTLE OF s.p.a.cE FORT JEFFERSON

by Timothy Zahn

Timothy Zahn was born in 1951 in Chicago and spent his first forty years in the Midwest. Somewhere along the way toward a Ph.D. in physics, he got sidetracked into writing science fiction and has been at it ever since. He is the author of over seventy short stories and twenty novels, of which his most well-known are his five Star Wars books: The Thrawn trilogy and Hand of Thrawn duology. His most recent book is the Star Wars novel Survivor's Quest, published in 2004. Though most of his time is now spent writing novels, he still enjoys tackling the occasional short story. This is one of them. The Zahn family lives on the Oregon coast.

"EIGHTEENTH April, 2230," Ranger Bob Epstein said into his log microphone. "Morning report. Three more days to President Ukukho's visit."

He gazed with satisfaction at the sentence on the screen as he picked up his slightly stale bagel covered thinly with cream cheese. A little lox would have been nice, but lox was hard to come by on United Colonies s.p.a.ce Fort Jefferson.

Actually, pretty much everything was hard to come by on s.p.a.ce Fort Jefferson. Tourist-free tourist attractions, as he'd often been told over the past seven years, rated very low on the Park Service's priority list.

He scowled as he set the bagel back onto its plate. It wasn't a fair a.s.sessment, as he'd argued back for most of those same seven years.

Granted, for much of its four-point-three-year orbit s.p.a.ce Fort Jefferson was largely deserted, with only its five-ranger crew here to keep the decks and empty weapons emplacements company.

But for the four months when its elliptical path carried it near the asteroid belt's Anchorline Archipelago, there was quite a bit of activity on the old fort. Granted, it wasn't Disney Ceres, but it was still busy enough to keep the rangers hopping. And even during the long down-time, there was always a trickle of visitors willing to endure the long and boring trip to set foot on a piece of genuine, if obscure, history.

But that was going to change now. Earth President Ukukho himself was on his way; and for the first time in a hundred years, someone in actual governmental authority was going to visit the station.

And since the public lapped up everything Ukukho said or did, that meant that billions of people who'd never even heard of s.p.a.ce Fort Jefferson were going to be brought face-to-face with it.

And what billions of people saw, millions of people went touristing to.Or so went the theory. Bob took another bite from his bagel, visualizing the list of improvements and renovations he would be submitting to the Park Service as soon as the crowds started arriving. At the top of the list would be to finally finish the renovation of Decks Three to Six that had been started two years ago and never completed. The mess made the fort's original gunnery control area nearly impossible for even the rangers to get to, and visitors always liked seeing control rooms.

There was a gunshot-crackle from the intercom. "Bob?" Kelsey's voice came distantly.

Bob reached over and flicked the switch. "Yes?"

"Bob?"

Muttering under his breath, Bob flipped the switch off, gave the side of the box a sharp rap with his knuckles, and flipped the switch back on. On second thought, maybe it would be the intercom that would head the replacement list. "Yes?"

"Got a ship coming in to dock," Kelsey reported.

"The GenTronic Twelve?" Bob asked, frowning. The yacht had been on their scopes for the past thirty-two hours, bringing in the latest batch of off-season tourists. But last he'd checked, it shouldn't be here nearly this soon.

"No, they're still three and a half hours out," Kelsey confirmed. "This is a Fafnir Four."

Bob felt his eyebrows lifting. "A Fafnir Four?"

"Yep," Kelsey said. "Government issue, fully stealthed-Hix didn't even spot it until it hailed."

"Yes, but a Four?" Bob repeated. With the President on his way, the Secret Service would naturally be stopping by to check things out, and Fafnirs were the ship of choice for most government agencies.

Problem was, a Fafnir Four only held two people, not nearly enough for a Presidential advance team. The advance team for the advance team, maybe?

"It's a Four, all right," Kelsey insisted. "I'm in Dock Obs, looking straight at it."

Reaching to his recorder, Bob flipped the switch from "standby" to "off."

He'd finish the log entry later. "I'll be right up."

The two visitors were already in the entryway reception room by the time he arrived. The older man, about Bob's own youngish forty-five, was studying one of the information plaques lining the wall. The other, twenty years younger, was standing at a sort of stiff at-ease, his eyes shifting between the door and a nervous-looking Hix. Apparently, he didn't have the time or the interest for anything as job-unrelated as mere history."Good day, gentlemen," Bob greeted them cheerfully as he stepped into the room. "I'm Ranger Bob Epstein-Ranger Bob to our visitors. What can I do for you?"

"We're not visitors, Ranger Epstein," the younger man said, his voice as stiff and government-issue as his posture. "We're here on official business-"

"At ease, Drexler," the older man said dryly, straightening up from the plaque he'd been looking at and giving Bob a slight smile. "I'm Secret Service Agent c.u.mmings, Ranger Epstein; this is Agent Drexler. We're here to check things out for the President's flyby."

Something seemed to catch in Bob's throat. "His flyby?" he asked carefully. "We thought-"

"That he would be visiting the station," Drexler said briskly. "I'm afraid that's been changed. The organizers realized that a stop would take up too much time and fuel, so s.p.a.ce Force One will merely be flying past."

"I see," Bob said, trying hard to hide his disappointment. Hix wasn't nearly so good at it; his face was a map of crushed hopes and expectations.

"May I ask when this decision was made?"

"That's none of your concern-"

"A week ago," c.u.mmings spoke up. "I know this must be something of a disappointment for you."

Bob took a deep breath. A week. Seven days. They could have told him.

"We'll get over it," he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

"I'm sorry we couldn't give you any kind of heads-up," c.u.mmings went on. "But the President's itinerary isn't the sort of thing you broadcast across the Solar System."

"I understand," Bob said, glancing over at Hix. The big man still looked like he wanted to cry, but he was starting to pull himself together again. "It's not like s.p.a.ce Fort Jefferson is an indispensable part of a historic Presidential tour."

"Or of history itself, for that matter," Drexler added.

Bob felt his face settle into familiar lines. "That's hardly fair, Agent Drexler," he said. "s.p.a.ce Fort Jefferson has had a long and hardly insignificant history."

"Really?" Drexler said, regarding Bob coolly. "Which part do you consider to have been significant? The thirty glorious years it spent as a prison for the Archipelago? The fifteen it did duty as a jabriosis quarantine center? Or the twenty-two it's now spent as a tourist attraction?"

Bob took a deep breath, his mental argument center loading Defense Pattern Alpha-"All right, Drexler, you've made your point," c.u.mmings put in quietly.

"It's not Ranger Epstein's fault that s.p.a.ce Fort Jefferson never got to serve in its primary capacity. Not really s.p.a.ce Fort Jefferson's fault either."

Drexler snorted in a sedate, government-issue sort of way. "Maybe if the designers had had the foresight to build particle shielding into the hull, they'd have gotten some actual use out of it."

Bob sighed. He got so tired of going over this same territory with people who'd never bothered to check their history. "Particle weapons hadn't even been developed when they started building the station," he said.

"He's right," c.u.mmings agreed, tapping the plaque he'd been studying.

"Construction began in 2082. The first successful test of a particle weapon wasn't until 2089."

"The shielding they put in was more than enough to handle anything known at the time," Bob added. "If Xhong hadn't made his technical breakthrough when he did, s.p.a.ce Fort Jefferson would have been a perfect defender of the Ceres-to-Earth shipping route."

"Perhaps," Drexler said. "But part of a designer's job is to antic.i.p.ate future trends and incorporate them into his plans."

"But we didn't come here to discuss history," c.u.mmings interrupted diplomatically. "We need to give the station a quick once-over for any possible danger to s.p.a.ce Force One and its escort. Just routine, of course."

"After all, we wouldn't want a section of hull to fall off and float into their path," Drexler said under his breath.

c.u.mmings sent him a strained look. "For what it's worth, I understand the commentators will be giving some of the station's history during the approach," he said. "I know it's not a Presidential visit, but at least it's something for your trouble."

"Yes, sir," Bob said, nodding. "I'm sure we all appreciate it."

c.u.mmings nodded in return. "Now, if you'll take us to the main control complex...?"

"Of course," Bob said, swallowing his annoyance and gesturing through the door. "This way, please."

A full self-guided tour of the station, including a reading of all the information plaques, was timed to take about five hours. Adding in a lunch break-carry-on bubblepack or back aboard your own ship; the visitors'

cafeteria hadn't been open for ten years-the whole thing was a pleasant day's touristing.

c.u.mmings and Drexler didn't bother with the plaques, and they weren't interested in lunch. But unlike standard tourists, they also insisted on seeing the rangers' living quarters, workshops, and storerooms.It was nearly four hours before c.u.mmings p.r.o.nounced himself satisfied that s.p.a.ce Fort Jefferson was safe enough for President Ukukho to come within five miles of. What Drexler thought he kept to himself.

"We'll need to stay aboard until after s.p.a.ce Force One has pa.s.sed out of magscope range," c.u.mmings told Bob as they headed back toward the entryway. "We'd like to set up as near the main control area as possible."

"Certainly," Bob said. Ahead, he could hear a murmuring of unfamiliar voices from the reception room. Apparently, the GenTronic Twelve had arrived, and Bob tossed up a quick prayer that there wouldn't be any bored teenagers or inquisitive toddlers in the group. "The station was originally designed for a crew of fifteen hundred, you know. There's a duty dayroom just off the control complex you can use."

They came around the corner into the reception room, and Bob breathed a quiet sigh of relief. No toddlers; no teenagers; just nine youngish, pleasant-looking men in upscale bulkyjackets spread out around the room reading the plaques. Probably rich enough to be sued if they broke anything, which meant they would be careful not to. Hix was hovering nearby, looking like a combination proud mother and nervous curator, all traces of his earlier depression gone from his face. Hix loved showing off his station to visitors even more than Bob did.

"Ah-here's Ranger Bob now," Hix said as Bob and the agents stepped into the room. "I was just telling Herr Forste here what a good job you've done keeping s.p.a.ce Fort Jefferson running."

"Nice to meet you, Ranger Bob," Forste said, smiling. His English had a pleasant North European accent to it. "And who are your friends?"

Bob looked at c.u.mmings, wondering what exactly he was supposed to say here. c.u.mmings moved smoothly into the gap. "My name's Alan," he said. "This is my friend Thomas. You and your friends come from Ceres?"

"Not exactly," Forste said. "We're from Free Norway."

Free Norway? Frowning, Bob turned back to him- And caught his breath. From beneath their bulkyjackets, all nine men had suddenly produced small but nasty-looking handguns. "You will all please put up your hands," Forste said.

He smiled genially. "Especially you, Secret Service Agents c.u.mmings and Drexler."

They picked up Kelsey as he filled out duty logs in Dock Obs, Renfred as he polished plaques in the Number One Fire Control Center, and Bronsoni as he sneaked an unauthorized nap in the Number Thirteen-D torpedo launch tube.

"Which leaves only Gifford Wimbley," Forste said with satisfaction as he and four of the other gunmen herded the prisoners into the Number ThreeDefense Monitor Complex. "Where is he?"

"He's on a supply run to Ceres," Bob said. "He won't be back for another two weeks."

Forste's eyes narrowed. "Really," he said, lifting his left thumbnail to his lips and tapping the tip. "How very convenient. Sjette? You up in Command yet?"

"Yes, I'm here," a voice came back, just loud enough for Bob to hear.

"Check the duty log," Forste ordered, his eyes on Bob. "Is Gifford Wimbley off the station?"

Bob cleared his throat. "Uh... Giff usually doesn't bother to check himself out," he said. "Since there are just the six of us, and we always know where everyone is-"

"No sign of anyone checked out," Sjette's voice came back. "According to this, everyone should be here."

Forste's eyes bored into Bob's face like rust remover on a gun turret that's been neglected too long. "Where is he?"

"I told you, he's on Ceres," Bob insisted, feeling sweat starting to break out on his forehead.

"He's hiding," one of the other gunmen said, sniffing the air distastefully.

Defense Three was far off the standard tourist route, and it hadn't been properly cleaned in ages. Even for Bob, who was used to such things, the scent of old metal and new mildew was a powerful combination.