BRIDGE OF STARS

HOUSTON, TEXAS / JULY 7, 2070 / 2317

The midi sent to pick him up at the airport was black as the night itself, with the two-digit plates that designated government vehicles. Once the unmarked jet taxied to a stop at the far end of the runway, the two Prefects who'd accompanied Jonas Whittaker from Huntsville marched him down the boarding ramp. For a moment he envied their grey overcoats and peaked caps; a warm, steady rain pelted his bare head as he walked across the tarmac, and the handcuffs caused him to slouch forward. A third Prefect waiting beside the midi held open the rear door and slammed it shut once Jonas and his escorts climbed in.

There was no conversation as the midi left the airport and hummed onto the outer belt. Although he used the lane reserved for government vehicles and Liberty Party members, the driver didn't turn control over to the local highway system, instead keeping his hands on the wheel. Now and then Jonas caught his eyes when he glanced back at him through the rearview mirror, but no one spoke to him, and Jonas tried to hide his fear by gazing out the window. The city looked familiar, but no one had told him where he was going. It was almost midnight, long past curfew, and so there was little traffic; it wasn't until he spotted a Texas plate on a passing police coupe that he knew where he was.

The driver took an exit south of downtown Houston, and before long Jonas glimpsed a long expanse of chain-link fence surrounding a cluster of featureless buildings. As the midi pulled up to a security checkpoint, he caught a glimpse of a sign: FEDERAL SPACE AGENCY—GEORGE W. BUSH MANNED SPACE FLIGHT CENTER. A uniformed United Republic Service soldier stepped out of the gatehouse just long enough to inspect the ID held up by the driver, then he raised the vehicle barrier and let the midi pass through.

The first time Jonas was here, back when he was a young post-grad fresh out of Cal Tech, this place was still called the Johnson Space Center. But that was a long time ago; now an entire generation was growing up that had never heard of NASA, and in a few years he doubted that even the United States itself would be remembered as little more than a few chapters in a history book. An enormous flag was draped above the front doors of the headquarters building. Once it had fifty stars; now there was only one. One star, one political party, one government . . . and no hope.

No. This time, Pandora hadn't shut the box quickly enough. Hope had managed to escape, in the form of a starship called the Alabama. Which was why he was here . . .

The midi glided to a halt in front of a four-story building, and Jonas barely had time to observe that most of its windows were dark before the Prefect seated to his right opened the door. Jonas climbed out of the vehicle, wincing as the Prefect to his left impatiently prodded him with his swagger stick. If anything, the rain was coming down harder now; his greying hair was plastered to his skull as he was marched up the sidewalk. Another URS soldier awaited them at the entrance; he held open the glass door, silently gesturing to an elevator bank on the other side of the lobby. Just behind a vacant admissions desk stood a large holosculpture—an idealized DNA helix, slowly rotating within a shaft of light—and that was when Jonas realized where he'd been taken.

The medical research facility. He'd never visited this building, even during his infrequent trips here from the Marshall Space Flight Center. His research in theoretical physics kept him busy on the other side of the campus, and once his security clearance was revoked and he'd been fired, no one he knew here had ever spoken to him again, lest they join in the disgrace. By then, of course, it didn't matter; his only regret was that he and his family had been unable to join the others aboard the Alabama.

But this didn't make sense. Why had he been brought here? Not just to Houston, or even to Bush . . . but here, to a building he'd never set foot in before. He'd kept his mouth shut after he was arrested, but once he learned that the Alabama had been hijacked, he'd cheerfully blabbed everything he knew about the plot. Not that his interrogators found anything he said useful; one of the strengths of the conspiracy was that most of its participants were kept in the dark about its ultimate objective, and even who its leaders were, and therefore knew little more than what they needed to know. Jonas was aware that a few of his colleagues from Marshall were involved—Jim Levin, Henry Johnson, Jorge Montero—but he had little doubt that they'd gotten away. Even after being deprived of food, water, and sleep while ISA inquisitors hammered at him under bright lights, he could tell them little in the way of meaningful information. Yes, he'd been part of the plot to steal the Alabama. And now the Alabama was gone. Any more questions?

Apparently there were. But it still didn't tell him why he'd been brought all the way to . . .

The elevator doors opened, and the two Prefects led him out into a third-floor corridor. He walked between them, barely noticing the framed photos of orbital spacecraft, until they reached a door marked CONFERENCE ROOM 3-12B. The Prefect on the left rapped his knuckles against the door; a short pause, and then it opened.

The room was dark, lit only by ceiling panels that had been turned down low. Their dim illumination was reflected by the polished surface of a long oak table that ran down the center of the room; thick curtains had been pulled across the windows on the opposite side of the room. A wallscreen behind the far end of the table displayed ever-changing images of Mandelbrot patterns, and seated before it was a lone figure, caught in silhouette yet otherwise invisible.

"Dr. Whittaker, sir." The Prefect on Jonas's left spoke, his voice low and respectful.

"Thank you. Wait outside. Close the door." The two Prefects saluted, then turned and walked from the room, shutting the door behind them. A moment of silence, then the figure gestured toward the row of empty chairs. "Sit, please," he said quietly. "I'm sure you must be weary from your flight."

Before Jonas could respond, a form emerged from the shadows behind him. Another Prefect, younger than the others and a bit taller. When he raised his hands, Jonas instinctively flinched; he thought he was about to be struck again, as he'd often been since his arrest. But instead the Prefect did the unexpected: he pulled out the nearest chair and held it for Jonas.

"No doubt you've been treated badly the last two days," the man at the far end of the table continued, as Jonas carefully sat down in the offered chair. "If it helps, I gave orders that you were not to be harmed . . . or at least subjected to physical abuse, at any rate. Anything that might have been done to you was beyond my control, and for this I apologize."

Jonas swallowed, discovered that his throat was parched. He was tired, so tired. "May I have some water, please?"

"Of course." The Prefect behind him quietly moved away, and a moment later Jonas heard liquid being poured into a glass. "I'd offer you something to eat, but . . . well, I'm sorry, but this is the best I can do. And please, don't drink much. It won't be good for you."

The Prefect reappeared at his side, offering a glass with little more than an inch of water in it. Why so stingy about giving him a drink? Perhaps this was the overture to another form of coercion. For every truthful answer, he'd get water; for every hesitation or obvious lie, water would be denied. By the time they collected enough evidence to convict him on charges of high treason, he'd have sold his soul for a full glass.

Copyright © 2005 by Allen M. Steele