The Second Chrononaut Default Chapter Title, a seven days fanfic

THE SECOND CHRONONAUT

TITLE: The Second Chrononaut (Part 2)

AUTHOR: R. Franke

E-MAIL: rbfranke@juno.com

RATING: R (Language and Violence)

SPOILERS: Through Lifeboat (Season One Finale)

DISCLAMER: See Part 1

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The following takes place approximately two months after the events in Part 1.

THE SECOND CHRONONAUT

PART II

"Colonel, I think you should perhaps examine this."

Matt MacCauley looked up as the voice came through his helmet speakers "What is it, Sergei?" he radioed back.

The spacesuited figure held up a four-foot long piece of metal. "This is one of the support legs for the secondary communications dish."

"Please tell me it's an extra one and you want to use it for a limbo pole."

"I'm afraid not, Colonel. It just came off in my hand."

"I do not believe this," Olga grumbled as the zipper on her skirt refused to close. "I've been exercising." She took the skirt off and threw it on her bed, pulling another one out of the closet. "Thank God for elastic waistbands."

"Olga?" Ballard knocked tentatively at her door. "You ready?"

"Just a minute," Olga called. She quickly slipped into her labcoat, checked her appearance one last time in the mirror and grabbed her laptop on her way out of her quarters. "Is it finished?"

"The computer's building the latest model as we speak," Ballard replied.

"Morning guys."

"Oh, shut up Mr. Parker," Olga snarled as she stalked past him.

"Another duck and cover day?" Frank murmured softly.

"Pig," Olga called over her shoulder. Ballard gave Frank a sympathetic grimace in reply and continued down the corridor.

"Maybe if I'm really, really lucky she'll find somebody else to be pissed at today," Frank muttered as he took a sip of his coffee.

"You heard me, Houston," MacCauley said. "Captain Bondarev and I found twelve separate cases of advanced metal fatigue. I'm sending you the list now."

"Roger that, ISS. Houston is receiving," replied the ground controller.

"And tell your bosses I don't care how loud the budget boys scream, if they want this station to stay together they'd better send some replacements up on the next shuttle."

"I mean, what did I do?" Frank complained. "What the hell do I ever do?"

"Damn if I know," Donovan replied, signaling the waitress for another round. "But whatever it was she sure as hell chewed you a new asshole."

"Hell, if we didn't know she was dead I would've thought she was that Galina chick again," Ramsey slurred. "She's probably just on the rag."

"For almost two months now?"

"You know, Grant looks a lot like Bradley," Donovan commented, pulling a fifty dollar bill out of his wallet. "Or Bradley looks like Bradley. Or Grant. Whatever."

"No way man, you got- Oh yeah, it is your turn," Frank said. "Damn, he does, doesn't he?"

"You think you got problems?" Ramsey continued. "Try doing twice as much work with your staff slashed in half. ' While the Backstep program is on hiatus only minimal security will be necessary'," he mimicked. "In the meantime Mr. Ramsey, keep doing everything you've been doing, and guard the braniacs 24/7 as well." He took a swig of Jack Daniels. "Fucking Commie beancounters."

"Fucking aliens and their fucking computer virus," Ballard replied.

"Hey," Donovan exclaimed, peering owlishly at the two men. "That sounds like work. No fucking work."

"You boys want me to call you a cab?" the waitress asked as she set the drinks down on the table.

"Wasting away again in Margaritaville," warbled Ballard, occasionally coming near the actual notes of the song. Meanwhile, the jukebox was playing Freebird.

"Nah," Frank replied. "Our chauffeurs will take care of us."

The waitress looked at the two agents sitting in a corner, sipping sodas. "All right," she replied, taking the money from Donovan. "I'll be right back with your change. And tell your friend to quiet down or we'll have to ask you to leave."

"Some people claim that there's a woman to blame."

"Hey, Parrothead," Frank swatted at Ballard's arm, connecting on the third try. "Here's your fucking margarita. Now shut up. I mean, what the hell did I do? And then the other day, I got her a cup of coffee. I mean, a cup of goddamn coffee. She hugged me. I mean, she had tears in her eyes. And it wasn't even good coffee."

"You know what your problem is, Parker?" Ramsey replied. "You are so fucking far in love with her it doesn't matter what she does. You'll take it."

"Oh, like you're so successful in the romance department, " Donovan jeered.

"Up yours."

"But it's a real beauty, a Mexican cutie."

"Shut the fuck up, ya spastic-ass cripple!" one of the other patrons yelled.

Ballard wheeled over to a large bearded man dressed in leather. "Hey, you want a piece of me, asshole?"

"Just shut the fuck up, dickbreath," the bearded man said. "Shouldn't let pencil-neck geeks like you in here anyway."

Ballard's eyes narrowed as he rolled his chair back slightly, then drove it forward into the bearded man's shins. Ballard's fist slammed into the bearded man's face as he doubled over from the pain, and catapulted him into another table, who responded by hitting the bearded man again. Several other men dressed in leather came up off their barstools and attacked the men at the table. Ballard backed up and slammed his chair forward into somebody else's shins.

Frank grinned wolfishly as he stood. "Been a hell of a long time since we took bikers on, bro."

Donovan stood and grinned back. "I'm game if you are." The two men turned and looked at Ramsey.

Ramsey knocked back another swig. "Ah, what the hell." He stood and followed the other two as they dived into the melee Ballard had started.

"To be able to travel back in time must be a wonderful thing, Andrei Ivanovitch. This Backstep program is astonishing. It is a pity we have nothing like it."

"But we do, sir. Or rather, we did."

"Oh? I assume you have more information?"

"Of course."

"The very next file? I fear I am becoming predictable." The slight rustling of turning pages and a light tapping from the radiator were the only sounds in the room. "The base is still intact? And the equipment?"

"Yes sir. And, most of it. The important pieces. Everything else can be easily replaced."

"What about personnel?

"Of the senior personnel two are dead, one has retired, one is working for the Iranians, three more are working in relatively low-paying jobs, and one has emigrated to the United States."

"Which one?"

"This one."

"Impressive. Could she be persuaded to return?"

"I'm sure something could be arranged."

"Would anyone care to explain exactly why I was woken up at three thirty am this morning?" Talmadge asked the four men standing in front of his desk.

"Well, sir," Frank began, "there we were, sitting peacefully at the bar having a few drinks when-"

"I don't want to hear it," interrupted Talmadge. "I've already talked with the chief. I'm docking each of you a week's pay and you don't go back there for thirty days. Is that understood?"

"But Bradley, that's the only place around closer than a hundred miles."

"Would you care to try for two weeks and sixty days, Mr. Parker?" Talmadge snapped.

Frank straightened. "Sir, no sir. Week and thirty, sir. Understood, sir."

"Good," Talmadge growled. "Do the rest of you have any problem with that?" A chorus of "No sirs" answered him. "Go home and get yourselves cleaned up," he ordered.

"We couldn't get your package together in time to make Intrepid's launch window, Matt."

"Damn it, Ben," MacCauley shot back. "Did you see that list? We lose too many more components and this station's going to come apart."

"Yes, I did see it," Ben Pearce replied testily. "And if you would allow me to finish, I was saying we couldn't get it on Intrepid in time, but we can get it to Baikonur. The Russians have already been told and are rearranging their payload."

"Oh. Sorry," MacCauley apologized.

"We've added some metallurgic equipment as well," Pearce added. "We want you to go over everything with a finetooth comb while we've got some extra hands up there."

"Got it," MacCauley replied. "Have you told Colonel Matryenko and the new guy yet?"

"They're being briefed now," Pearce answered. "One question though," Pearce licked his lips nervously. "From what you see up there, is this a problem for our engineers? Or should we call in the FBI?"

There was a long pause before MacCauley finally replied. "I'd hate to believe it, but this is one hell of a lot of coincidences. See what you think when you get the pieces I'm sending down." MacCauley paused again. "But yeah, I think you're going to want the Bureau in on this."

"Roger that, ISS, Houston out."

"One week's pay," Ramsey grumbled as he stepped from the car. "One whole goddamn week's pay."

"Did you need me to wait for you, sir?"

"Did I ask you to wait for me?" Ramsey snapped.

"No sir, you did not sir," the driver replied, putting the car in gear and backing out of the parking space. "Asshole."

"I heard that," Ramsey yelled. "I'm putting you on report." He turned and headed for his townhouse. "Damn punk."

"Well, Natty boy, I see you still have those fine people skills of yours."

Ramsey sighed. "You again. How much money do you need this time?"

"What makes you think I came here for money?"

"Well gee Dad," Ramsey replied, limping past him to unlock the door, "maybe it's because the only time any of us ever see you is when you're broke."

"There's no need to be sarcastic about it," the elder Ramsey said, following his son into the townhouse. "Can't I have turned over a new leaf, seen the error of my ways, and be looking for a chance to rejoin my family?"

Ramsey grunted. "Spare me. If you don't want money then you want a place to hide out from some pinkie-ringed mouthbreather you swindled at cards."

"Natty, I'm insulted. I seriously do want to turn my life around."

"Yeah, well forgive me if I have my doubts." Ramsey retorted. "You turn your life around so often you're like a damn pinwheel."

"This time it's different, I swear."

"Come in, Dr. Mentnor. I'll be finished setting up in just a moment."

"Will it be safe to have Mr. Parker in here for these tests?" Mentnor asked.

Olga blushed. "I was perhaps a bit excessive yesterday, wasn't I?"

"I'm sure Frank managed to re-attach his head without too much trouble," Mentnor replied dryly.

"Isaac, I do apologize."

"It's not me you need to apologize to, my dear."

Olga sighed. "I know."

"Claire had similar symptoms," Mentnor began.

Olga froze. "Symptoms?"

"Emotional volatility, although admittedly she tended more towards weepiness than anger, recurring nausea, and a general feeling of malaise."

"I-it's just some sort of bug I picked up," Olga replied weakly. "It's nothing, really."

Mentnor raised his eyebrows. "If you say so, my dear."

"Hey guys."

"Oh my God, John. What happened?" Olga's nose wrinkled. "And what is that smell?"

"My lunch," Ballard replied in a hoarse whisper. "Just please don't talk so loudly. Sardines, pickles and onions with peanut butter on white. It tastes better than you might- Olga?" he asked as she rushed past him to the bathroom. The two men could hear her retching through the closed door. "Wow, she's still got that bug?"

"I'm sure she'll be fine," Mentnor replied. "Now, how did you acquire that absolutely picture-perfect example of a black eye?"

MacCauley saluted the man coming through the airlock. "Welcome aboard, Colonel. I hereby cede command of this station to you."

Yuri Matryenko returned the salute as his feet made contact with the Velcro strip running the length of the docking module. "Thank you, Colonel. I accept command responsibility for this station. May I present my second-in-command, Major Wilkins?" he added somewhat less formally.

MacCauley nodded. "Major. I believe you know my second, Captain Bondarev."

Matryenko nodded in turn. "Captain. Is the situation as serious as I was told, Matthew Andreivich?"

MacCauley snorted. "They probably didn't tell you the half of it, Yuri."

Olga examined the test results again. "Oh God. " She brought her hands to her mouth and looked down at herself, making a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob "Oh my God. I can't- I'm- Oh God." Her cell phone rang. "Olga Vukavitch," she answered distractedly.

"Did you forget about this afternoon's staff meeting, Dr. Vukavitch?" Ramsey asked.

"Meeting?" Olga looked at her watch. "Oh, the meeting. Yes, the meeting. I apologize," she continued, sweeping the test results into her notebook and racing out of the lab. "I will be there immediately." She hung up as she reached the conference room door. "Mr. Talmadge, everyone, I do apologize," she said as she entered the conference room. "I was working and I lost track of the clock."

"Track of the time, my dear," Mentnor corrected. "You lost track of the time."

"Track of the time yes, thank you."

"We'll have to leave immediately after the meeting if we're going to make our flight, Miss Vukavitch," Talmadge said. "I hope you're already packed."

"Yes sir," Olga murmured as she took her seat.

"John, you were saying?" Talmadge continued.

"Ahem, yes." Ballard cleared his throat. "Once we found it, the virus was surprisingly unsophisticated, obviously something kludged up on the spot."

"Well that doesn't make sense," Ramsey interjected. "I mean, if they're so much more advanced than we are, shouldn't this be child's play for them?"

"Ramsey's got a point, unbelievable as that may be," Frank added. "Can we be sure this wasn't what we were supposed to find? I mean, could it be covering something else?"

"Oh butt out, Parker," Ramsey sneered.

"Tell you what, Nate," Frank snapped. "Next time, why don't you be the one diving out of the Sphere just ahead of a damn fireball and I'll be the one standing around with my thumb up my ass!"

"Enough," growled Talmadge. "John, Isaac, what about the possibility that this was a decoy program?

Both men shook their heads. "Highly unlikely," Mentnor replied.

"In fact we're pretty sure the fireball was unintentional," Ballard added.

"Pretty sure?" Frank asked. "I'm pretty sure I don't like the sound of that."

"The virus was meant to completely erase all files relating to Backstepping," Mentnor explained. "And only Backstepping."

"They were very careful to avoid anything having to do with control of the physical plant, or personnel records," Ballard added.

"They did however, add something to the medical computers," Olga interjected. "Information which appears to be leading to the possibility of a cure for many common forms of cancer."

"Appears?" Donovan asked.

"Most of the information is encrypted, and is being released on a schedule we have no way of knowing."

"Can we break the encryption?" Frank asked.

"We tried that one time," Mentnor replied. "Big chunks of the still-encrypted data started disappearing."

"Same thing started happening when we tried to remove the virus," Ballard added. "Hell of a choice the aliens have left us."

"Let me get this straight," Frank said. "This new group of aliens seems to be willing to give us the cure for cancer, right?" Mentnor and Ballard nodded. "But only if we give up Backstepping."

"So it seems," Mentnor replied.

"And that's why you think the explosion was unintentional."

"Yeah," Ballard replied. "In computer terms, they tried to write the great Babylonian novel. In cuneiform. Not surprising they made a few mistakes."

"The NSA panel is meeting to decide our response," Talmadge said. "Olga and I will be answering questions in Washington for the next few days. If the panel decides Backstep is more important, how long until we would be able to use the Sphere safely?"

"All the physical repairs have been completed," Mentnor replied. "As for the rest, it depends on how many programs the virus has corrupted. I'd have to say two to three weeks at a bare minimum, all the way up to six months if we have to do a complete dump and reload from the master disks in the archives."

"Very well," Talmadge gathered his notes and stood. "I'll report your findings to the panel. Olga?"

"I will be with you in just a moment, Mr. Talmadge," Olga said as everyone got up from the table. "Mr. Parker? May I speak with you?"

"What is it?" Frank asked warily.

Olga waited until the others had left. "Frank, I would-" she stopped, then started again. "I would like to apologize. My behavior towards you these past weeks has been inexcusable." She laid her finger on Frank's lips as he opened his mouth to protest. "Let me finish. When I get back, we need to talk. A serious talk."

"About?"

"About us. About our-" she swallowed heavily, "our working together, and, and other things, and-"

"Miss Vukavitch." Talmadge knocked on the door. "We need to leave now."

"We will talk when I get back," she promised. She leaned forward and kissed him. "Good-bye Frank." His hand went unconsciously to his lips as he watched her hurry out the door and down the hall.

Svetlana gasped as the heavyset man sat down at her table. "Hello, my dear," he smiled. "It's been a long time."

She swallowed nervously. "What do you want?"

"You haven't been to see your sister in a while, have you?"

"What have you done to Olga?"

"My dear, I'm hurt you would think such things. The good doctor is perfectly safe. I merely wanted to suggest a little sisterly reunion might be in order." He signaled for the waiter. "Coffee, please. Black, two sugars. After all," he continued, "it is a terrible thing for a family to be estranged."

Svetlana waited until after the waiter had brought the coffee and left. "Somehow you've never struck me as being the family values type."

"You'd be surprised," he replied. "The truth is though, we need you to deliver a message to your sister."

"So I'm Western Union now?" Svetlana asked, a trace of bitterness in her voice.

The heavyset man looked at her, a slight smile on his face. "You still feel you're overshadowed by your sister?" He shrugged. "No matter. Just tell her a position as head of research and development is waiting for her at her former place of employment."

"I doubt Olga's looking to return to Russia."

He shrugged again. "Perhaps not. But the offer is there." He stood, and laid some money on the table. "Allow me." He turned as if to leave, then turned back to Svetlana. "One more thing, my dear. Not as smart as the esteemed Dr. Olga Vukavitch does not translate into stupid, by any means. Organizations such as ours are always looking for recruits, especially ones with your demonstrated abilities."

Svetlana smiled bitterly. "I understand. I believe the Americans refer to it as a package deal."

"Not at all. The offer to you is open, whether or not your sister accepts hers."

"Olga, is there anything I should know?" Talmadge asked as he raised the clear plastic privacy divider that separated them from the driver of the limousine. "About you and Frank?"

Olga looked up from her notes. "I am not sure what you mean, Mr. Talmadge," she replied, her voice wary.

"Lately, you seem to be finding it difficult to work with Frank, indeed with any of your colleagues. "

Olga looked out the window. "I-I realize I have been less than polite at times, especially to Mr. Parker."

"Your responsibility is the physical and psychological well-being of the chrononauts, is it not?" continued Talmadge.

"Yes sir."

"In your professional opinion, Doctor, is Chrononaut Vukavitch suffering any physical or psychological impairment as the result of her Backstep?"

Olga swallowed nervously. "May I have some time to consider my answer, sir?"

Talmadge sighed and rubbed his chin. "I am willing to give you as much time as you need," he replied. "Your abilities and insights have been vital to the current success of the Backstep program." He held up his hand to forestall Olga's reply. "At the same time, if you become too much of a disruptive influence, I will have no choice but to remove you from your position. However much I may personally regret doing so."

"I understand, sir."

"Frank man, what are you doing?"

"Touch that switch and you die," Frank answered, not taking his eyes from the glass in his hands.

"All right," Donovan replied. "If you explain why you're sitting here in the dark drinking," his eyebrows rose, "100 proof vodka. That's not your usual drink."

Frank continued looking at his drink. "Shut the door," he ordered, then waited until Donovan sat down. "Do you remember what she was like when she first came back from her Backstep, once things calmed down?"

"Olga?" Donovan leaned back in his chair. "Yeah. When she wasn't answering questions for the panel or working in the lab, she was hanging around you. She got real nervous if she didn't know where you were."

Frank smiled wryly. "Yeah. Affectionate too. I got more little touches from her that first week than I ever have. Even a couple of hugs." He looked up at Donovan. "I started thinking wow, something big must have gone down between us back there."

"We all noticed she was kind of emotional," Donovan replied. "I figured it was just a reaction to everything she went through."

"So did I," Frank said. "So I backed off, toned things down. You know, give her a chance to recover. Then she started getting mad at me about the stupidest things. And it made me start to wonder."

"About?" Donovan asked when it seemed Frank wouldn't continue.

"About whether I've just been making a fool of myself and she's just been putting up with me, being kind."

"Wow," Donovan replied. "What brought this on?"

"She wants to have a talk when she gets back. A serious talk. About us."

"Oh Christ man, I'm sorry."

"What the hell are you sorry for?" Frank asked. "It's not like you had anything to do with it."

"I know, but hell, I thought the two of you really had something."

"So did I," Frank replied. "So did I."

Fred Wilkins touched down at the base of the B support pylon for the station's portside solar array. Standard procedure called for him to shove off again in a slightly different direction to get into position for the next step in docking the massive Proton supply rocket with the station. This time the pylon collapsed. The other four pylons, weakened themselves, could not absorb the sudden stress and collapsed in turn. A jagged spear of metal thrust through Wilkins, killing him before he could call out a warning.

Sergei Bondarev died when the array struck his back, crushing him against the rocket's nose. The bursting of his air and propellant tanks slewed the rocket around and sent it crashing through the station.

Yuri Matryenko struggled against the gale of escaping air and grasped the lever that released the magnetic clamps holding the station's emergency reactor on. He never noticed the station had started a slow tumble.

Roberta O'Hara had enough time to radio a single Mayday call before another piece of the solar array smashed through Intrepid's front windows.

Matt MacCauley watched as the station came apart, the severed end of his tether floating less than ten feet away. He looked down and wondered if anybody would see the brief flare as his body burnt up in the atmosphere.

"All rise," the bailiff announced.

"Dr. Vukavitch, if you would please remain standing, the rest of you may take your seats," the judge said as he settled in behind the bench. "Having reviewed both the evidence presented in this hearing and the decisions of my predecessor concerning this case, I can see no reason not to extend Dr. Vukavitch's Resident Alien Permit and work visa. Furthermore," he continued, "at the next hearing on this matter, unless the government can provide this court with a clear and convincing reason, backed by either tangible evidence or sworn testimony that Dr. Vukavitch's rather unique status should be continued, I shall order any and all restrictions on Dr. Vukavitch be lifted and she be free to pursue citizenship in this country, remain as a resident alien or leave this country if she so desires."

"Your honor," protested the government's representative, "the facts in this matter have not changed in any way. Dr. Vukavitch remains a security risk. The fact that she has already betrayed one country is-"

"The phrase, counselor, is 'defected from'," the judge interrupted. "Something this court thought the United States wished to encourage Soviet citizens to do."

"Under normal circumstances that would be true, your honor. In this particular case, however, due to Dr. Vukavitch's position and the highly classified nature of Program B22-Z11-A, certain additional security measures were deemed necessary."

"I have read the government's report. If Dr. Vukavitch was, and remains, such a security risk, why was she even allowed access to B22-Z11-A in the first place?"

"I-I believe the head of research and development at the project specifically requested her, your honor."

"Yes," the judge replied, donning a pair of reading glasses and looking through his notes. "That would be Dr. Isaac Mentnor, would it not?"

"I believe so, your honor."

"You believe so, Mr. Hsing?" the judge replied, looking sternly over the top of his glasses.

"I mean- I mean yes, your honor."

"I notice Dr. Mentnor has filed several protests in this matter, as has Mr. Talmadge."

"This arrangement was originally proposed by Mr. Talmadge's then head of security, Ira-"

"I took the liberty of requesting a deposition from the current security chief," the judge interrupted. "Mr. Ramsey's reply was interesting, to say the least."

Olga hung her head. "Oh no," she muttered.

"I beg your pardon, Doctor?"

"Nothing, your honor. My apologies."

"Hmm." The judge adjusted his glasses. "Mr. Ramsey has provided this court with an accounting of your transgressions. It is an exhaustively detailed list."

"Yes, your honor," Olga murmured.

"However," the judge continued, "I would like to quote from his concluding remarks. 'Any loyalty that must be enforced at the point of a gun, no matter how metaphorical that gun may be, is not only worthless in and of itself, it is also inimical to the continued loyalty and effectiveness of other persons within the organization.' He goes on to state that in his opinion you should have never been granted access to Project B22-Z11-A, but now that you have been, you should be held to the same standards as every other member of the project. He also states that while you have violated numerous security regulations, your transgressions do not rise to the level of active treason. Dr. Vukavitch? You seem surprised."

Olga closed her mouth with a snap. "I am. Your honor."

"The purpose of this court is to balance the legitimate security needs of the government against the rights of the individual." The judge leaned back in his chair and removed his glasses, massaging the bridge of his nose where the glasses had rested. "My initial reaction was to immediately lift the restrictions on Dr. Vukavitch. I have a deep aversion to the use of what can only be called the tactics of extortion and intimidation by our government."

"Your honor," protested Hsing.

"Nevertheless the government does have a legitimate security interest in this matter, so I will provide the government with an opportunity to present its views. In the meantime, any deportation proceedings or restrictions on Dr. Vukavitch's movements beyond those already in place must be approved by this court." He picked up his gavel. "This court will reconvene in three months time to hear testimony from both sides and to render a final verdict in this matter. The Clerk will confer with both parties to determine an optimal date and time." He rapped his gavel on the bench. "This court is adjourned."

"Isaac?" Ballard wheeled over to where Mentnor was leaning against one of the tables, his eyes closed. "Isaac?"

Mentnor's eyes snapped open. "I'm fine, John. Just taking a little rest." He chuckled weakly. "Sometimes it's hard for an old man to keep up with all you energetic young people."

"You're awfully pale," Ballard replied worriedly. "Are you sure you don't want me to call a doctor? Or Claire?"

Mentnor shook his head. "No, no, she'll just worry over me. I just need to rest for a bit, that's all." He straightened, absentmindedly rubbing his left arm. "I just have a little work I need to do in my office." He shuffled slowly out of the lab and down the corridor.

Ballard watched him go, then wheeled in the opposite direction until he came to the security station. "Hey guys, mind if I ask a favor?"

"Sure Doc, what is it?"

"Could you guys kind of keep an eye on Dr. Mentnor?"

The two agents looked at each other. "You mind if we ask why?" the second one replied.

"He," Ballard groped for the right words. "He just seems to be getting tired awfully easily these days."

"Sounds like maybe you ought to be talking to the medicos, Doc," the first agent said. "Instead of us."

"He says he's just tired, and it's nothing to be concerned about," Ballard replied. "Or bother his wife about."

"Don't worry, Dr. Ballard. We'll make sure everyone knows to keep an eye out for him."

"Tell Sal she'll get her money, Lou. I just need a little more time."

Lou smiled slightly as his partner tied the elder Mr. Ramsey's hands with the telephone cord. "Seems to me she's given you a lot more time. But that's not why we're here, Pat."

"What do you mean?"

"Most institutions of lending expect a certain percentage of the loans they grant will never be repaid," Lou explained, pacing calmly back and forth. "As long as that percentage stays fairly low, say one, or at most two percent of all loans, the institution continues to make a profit." He chuckled. "Needless to say, most lenders fail to mention this to their clientele. After all, if word gets around, well…" Lou shrugged and spread his hands. "It's real easy to eat up your profit margin that way. Now, your so-named legitimate institutions of lending have all the apparatus of the legal system and indeed, the metaphysical weight of our entire society to use against anybody who chooses to default on one of their loans. On the other hand," he continued, "persons of an entrepreneurial nature who opt to do business in a less, shall we say, closely regulated environment, tend to discover the necessity of alternative methodologies for dealing with deadbeats such as yourself."

"My son, he's got a good job," Patrick babbled desperately. "With the government. I'll get the money from him. I can have it by tomorrow. Day after at the most."

Lou shook his head slowly. "Patrick, Patrick, Patrick," he sighed. "I fear you have come to an erroneous conclusion. Close your mouth," he ordered. Lou carefully placed a strip of duct tape over the older man's mouth. "Sal's decided your loan is essentially irrecoverable, and she's decided to be satisfied with what she has." The two watched dispassionately as Patrick struggled against his bonds. "Howsoever," he continued, "in order to prevent this from being a total loss, we are going to use you as a sort of educational aid for some of Sal's other clients who are in arrears."

His partner gripped Patrick from behind as Lou pulled out a knife and plunged it into Patrick's stomach. "They say a stab wound to the gut is a long and painful way to die," he continued, calmly pulling out the knife and wiping it clean on Patrick's shirt. "Well, how about it, Paddy me boy?" he asked as his partner let Patrick drop to the floor. "Are they right?"

"Were you able to get any indication of what the panel will decide, Mr. Talmadge?" Olga asked.

"From what I hear they're still pretty evenly divided," Talmadge replied. "More wine?"

Olga shook her head. "Thank you, no. One glass is more than enough." She idly stirred the food on her plate with her fork. "The International Space Station was very expensive."

Talmadge smiled wryly. "NASDAQ and the other high-tech markets are already starting to freefall. It won't be pretty." He sighed. "On the other hand, the Chairman's daughter is in chemo for breast cancer. And at least two other members have lost close relatives to cancer."

"I don't envy them this decision," Olga replied. Talmadge made a noncommittal noise in reply. "This is a very nice restaurant," she continued. "Very relaxed. How did you ever find it?"

"Allison and I used to keep our boat down here," Talmadge replied, obviously happy to change the subject. "Every nice weekend we could, we'd slip out of work early, collect the kids from Allison's mother and head out Pennsylvania Avenue. We'd have dinner here, spend the night on board and in the morning I'd take her out with the watermen. Sunday afternoon we'd come back in, let the chef work his magic on our catch and listen to these guys play Dixieland. Place hasn't changed a bit." He smiled as the coronet player struck up the opening notes of When The Saints Go Marching In. "Not one bit."

"Was everything okay with your meal, ma'am?" the visibly pregnant waitress asked.

Olga looked down at her still full plate. "Yes, I'm sorry, everything is fine. I didn't mean to cause you any problems. I was perhaps not as hungry as I thought I was."

The waitress waved away Olga's apology with a dismissive snort. "Oh please. My husband and I have five kids already, plus this little fellow whenever he decides to come out. I come here so I can get a chance to relax. Would you like me to box that up for you?"

"Yes, thank you," Olga replied. "Six children?" She shook her head. "I don't know if I could even handle one."

The waitress shrugged. "Keep 'em fed, keep 'em clothed, whack their butts when they get out of line, and never, for one second, let them doubt you love them." She smiled. "Pretty simple really. And they're worth it. Would you like some coffee? Or an after-dinner drink?"

"I'll take a cup of decaf, please," Talmadge replied. "Olga?"

Olga started in surprise. "Hmm? Oh no, nothing for me, thank you."

"I'll take the check as well, please," Talmadge continued.

"Thank you very much," the bandleader said over the applause of the patrons. "Come back and see us again next week."

"I see Saints is still the final song," Talmadge smiled.

"Yes sir," the waitress smiled in return. "Been that way for thirty-four years now. Doubt it's going to change any time soon." She picked up Olga's plate and signaled a busser to clear the table. "I'll be right back with your decaf and the check."

Olga stood as the waitress left their table. "Pardon me, Mr. Talmadge."

Talmadge watched the two women walk away. "No," he murmured to himself. "She can't be."

The communications tech waved frantically at Pearce. "Sir, sir. It's Intrepid, sir."

"What?" Pearce demanded as the tech switched the output from her headphones to the Control Center's speaker system.

"…anybody hear me? This is the United States Space Shuttle Intrepid. Mayday. Mayday. If anyone is receiving this, please respond. This is the US Shuttle Intrepid."

Pearce grabbed the microphone. "Intrepid, this is Houston, we are receiving you, what is your situation?"

Everyone in the control room waited as the mayday call was repeated twice more. "Houston, this is Peter Longreve aboard the Intrepid. I believe myself and Dr. Adele Ngumbe to be the only survivors. What do we do?"

"Damn," Pearce muttered. "They're both mission specialists. Find out where they are," he ordered. "Who's up next and how long 'til we can launch?"

"Atlantis," his assistant replied. "We can't do it in less than ten hours."

"Dr. Longreve," Pearce continued, thumbing on the microphone. "Are you in control of the craft? Are either of you injured? Can you tell us anything about what happened to the shuttle or the ISS?"

There was another long pause before Longreve replied. "We are not in control, Houston. The hatch to the flight deck is sealed and reads zero pressure. I'm talking to you through a suit radio patched into the main antenna. Dr. Ngumbe is preparing to go out and see if she can discover anything. I have a broken arm. We don't know what happened."

"Sir, we've triangulated their position," the communications tech said.

"Well?" Pearce asked. The technician shook her head, her face grave. "God help them."

Olga answered her ringing cell phone. "Olga Vukavitch."

"Greetings, big sister."

"Svetlana?"

"Where are you?" Svetlana asked. "I'm at your house and there is somebody else living here."

"We're driving in from the airport," Olga replied. "Why are you here? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I just thought I'd come see my favorite sister."

Olga snorted. "I'm your only sister." She covered the mouthpiece of the cell phone with her hand. "Mr. Talmadge?"

"I don't see why not," Talmadge replied, taking out his own cell phone and dialing. "Just let me make sure nothing's come up."

"So why aren't you living here anymore?" Svetlana asked.

"I had to move," Olga replied. "It is a very long story." She looked at Talmadge as he closed his cell phone.

"Frank's out for the day," Talmadge said. "He's going to be at the regular meeting place at Fifth and Broad at six. Why don't you meet up with him there and you can ride back to NNL together. That should give you most of the day with your sister. We'll call your cell if anything changes," he added as she hesitated. "It's not like we're in the saving-the-world business anymore," he finished bitterly.

Olga smiled in sympathy. "But we did pretty well at it when we were, didn't we Bradley?" Talmadge smiled wanly in reply. She spoke into her cell phone again. "Where exactly are you right now?"

"What we gonna do, man?" the shorter of the two men whined. "We need some rock."

"I know, I know," his partner snarled. "Hey, that raghead, the one runs that store over on Fifth. Fucker's got to have a lot of money there. I say we need it more than he does."

"Oh no," the first man said. "No way, man. He's got a gun."

"Well, I got one, too," the second man replied. "Motherfucker makes one move I'll pop his camelhumping ass."

"Has Olga," Talmadge paused, searching for the right word, "mentioned anything to you, Isaac?"

"No, she hasn't," Mentnor replied. "Though I think," he added with a smile, "you and I are entertaining similar hypotheses."

Talmadge smiled in return. "We could be wrong."

"Yes, we could."

"If we were right," Talmadge continued, leaning back in his chair, "Frank would be all puffed up. He 'd make a rooster look shy."

"She might not have told him yet," Mentnor commented. "If we're correct."

"True, very true. Drink?" Talmadge asked, pulling out a bottle. "Irish single malt. I've been meaning to try it."

"Single malt Irish whiskey?" Mentnor replied. "Sounds interesting."

Talmadge poured a generous amount into each glass. "I didn't think their relationship had progressed that far," he added as he handed one glass to Mentnor.

"Neither had I," Mentnor replied as he took the glass. "But it is their relationship." He held the glass up to the light. "Beautiful color. We really shouldn't be sitting here gossiping like a couple of old women," he added. Talmadge smiled in reply and raised his glass. They both sipped from their glasses. Mentnor sighed. "As much as I know it will benefit humanity, shutting Backstep down like this just doesn't feel right."

The telephone rang, interrupting Talmadge's reply. "Talmadge," he answered. His face grew somber as he listened. "Yes sir. Immediately sir." He hung up the telephone. "Backstep is a go."

"Why?" Mentnor asked.

"They've finally managed to activate the transponder for the station's reactor."

"It should be translunar and heading for the depths of space at this point," Mentnor replied.

Talmadge smiled grimly. "Should."

Mentnor straightened in his chair. "Oh no. Where?"

"Guangdong Province," Talmadge replied. "Sometime within the next six hours."

"Oh good lord. The Chinese will say it was deliberate, won't they?"

"No, no, no," Olga said "I am telling you, you get the biggest bubbles from the grape flavor."

"Grape?" Svetlana replied. "Grape? Oh no. Watermelon. That's the one you get the huge, gigantic bubbles from."

"You think so, huh?" Olga grabbed two packs of bubble gum off the rack. "We'll just see about that."

Svetlana grinned. "Prepare to be-"

"Nobody move," yelled the man in the ski mask as he burst through the door, pistol aimed at the clerk. "Anybody moves, they die." A woman in the back of the store screamed and dropped the jar she was carrying. The man swung around, pistol moving reflexively towards the sound. He started to swing back around as he saw the storekeeper pull out a sawed-off shotgun. His hand spasmed, squeezing the trigger as the shotgun pellets slammed into his body.

Svetlana dove for the floor when she heard the shotgun blast. She looked up to see her sister thrown back against the rack of candy by the robber's bullet, an ominous stain spreading across her lower abdomen. "Olga!" she screamed, scrambling to catch her sister's collapsing form. "Somebody call an ambulance. Please God, somebody call an ambulance!"

"Right, got it," Frank said. "I'm about a block away. We'll be back shortly." he closed the cell phone, then started running when he saw the ambulance in front of the store. He barreled past the officer on crowd control, sliding to his knees beside the gurney. "Olga."

"Oh God, please no," Olga gasped in Russian, her voice high and breathy with shock. "Not again. Please God, not- Frank?" She held out her hand. "Frank?"

"Shh, shh," he soothed, taking her hand in his. "It's all right."

"Oh God. Frank, I am so sorry," she said, switching back to English. "Everything would be different this time. I was going to take such good care- Oh God!" she gasped.

Frank shook his head. "Whatever it is can wait. Let-"

"Sir," interrupted one of the EMTs. "We have to take her now."

Olga shook her head violently. "I'm pregnant." The EMTs grabbed the gurney and shoved Olga into the ambulance as Frank fell back, his shock and hurt plain on his face.

"One of you can ride along," the EMT said. "Just one."

"Frank," Olga called from inside the ambulance.

"Go," he ordered Svetlana. She glanced at him, then clambered into the back of the ambulance as the EMT pulled the door shut.

"Agent Parker?" Nichols said as she came up. "We have to-"

"And just where the hell were you?" Frank snarled. He stalked over to the Suburban and yanked open the driver's-side door. "Move." The driver took one look at Frank's face and slid over into the passenger seat.

Olga struggled to sit up, reverting to Russian as she spoke. "I have to talk to him. I have to tell him- Oh!" she gasped in pain again.

"He knows," Svetlana soothed. "You told him. Lay back."

"He doesn't know its his."

"Ma'am, please lie down," ordered the EMT.

"What?" Svetlana asked. "Never mind. Tell me later."

"There won't be a later. He's going to Backstep, I know it. I have to-"

"Ma'am, stay down or I will strap you down."

"The Duma's vote a year ago on whether to continue with the ISS or to refurbish Mir was widely seen as a referendum on President Putin's policies, especially on Russia's relationship with the West," Talmadge said. He paused momentarily as Frank snorted in derision, then continued. "While the final vote could hardly be considered a ringing endorsement of his policies, Putin did manage to keep Russia in the ISS, albeit with some compromises."

"The main compromise NASA agreed to was to make the Mir capsule an integral part of the ISS," Mentnor added. "While that may have been a political triumph for the Russian president, from an engineering perspective it was a less than ideal solution."

"Try disaster," Ballard interjected. "Not only is Mir's technology incompatible with ours, it's also incompatible with current Russian technology. The amount of jury-rigging they've had to do is astounding."

"Do we know what happened?" Donovan asked.

"No," Talmadge said. "And incompatible technology is only one possibility. Nate?"

Ramsey started. "Huh? Oh. Command of the ISS rotates between us and the Russians on a six week schedule, with the commander of one nationality and the second of the other." he reported dully. "The last American commander was a Colonel Matthew MacCauley. Colonel MacCauley reported several components with unusually advanced metal fatigue." He paused, rubbing his red-rimmed eyes tiredly. "We've traced most of the affected components back to the same two companies. American companies. And the same small group of inspectors."

"I thought there were supposed to be safeguards set up to prevent that sort of thing," Donovan said.

"There were," Talmadge replied. "But everyone concentrated, for reasons that seemed obvious at the time, on the Russian side of the supply line."

"So those are our choices, huh?" Frank said. "Incompatible technologies or good old American greed and corruption."

"We also haven't ruled out a good old-fashioned accident," Mentnor replied. "Or sabotage."

"There is a small but vocal minority in Congress that feels the current relationship between the US and Russia is not in America's best interest," Talmadge explained. "And a sizeable minority in the Duma with similar feelings concerning Russia's best interests. It's possible supporters of either or both of these groups decided to remove the most visible and concrete symbol of cooperation between the two countries."

"In short, all we've got are a bunch of theories," Frank said. "Wouldn't be the first time." He stood. "Let's go."

"There's more," Talmadge said. "Since we don't know what happened, we need to get you on the station. John?"

"Why do I get the feeling I'm not going to like the sound of this," Frank muttered as he sat back down.

"It'll be at least another thirty-six to forty-eight hours before the Sphere is ready," Ballard replied. "Which means Intrepid and the Baikonur rocket will have already launched by the time you get there. So what we plan to do is put you where Intrepid can pick you up."

Frank stood up so fast his chair fell over onto its back. "Are you nuts? You're going to hang me up there in space on the off chance whoever's commanding Intrepid is going to be more curious than scared of some mysterious blue sphere that just suddenly appears out of nowhere?"

"Calm down, Frank," Talmadge replied. "I'm sure John and Isaac have more of a plan than that."

"Oh yes," Ballard replied as Frank righted his chair and sat back down. "We've got a new transmitter in the Sphere that will automatically align on the nearest telecommunications satellite and connect you right to us."

"And if that doesn't work," Mentnor continued, "we have a new emergency transmitter that will send us your coordinates and the Conundrum code. All you have to do is aim it Earthward. Big Ear will pick it up and we'll be able to have the shuttle to pick you up."

"A backup plan. Makes me feel so much better," Frank muttered.

"There's one more thing," Ballard added. "It's taken everything we can do just to get this launch. When you appear in the next timeline the virus will completely wipe the computers. We'll have to do a complete reload from the copies in the archives. And that could take months."

"Great," Frank replied. "I could use a vacation. Anything else I should know, or are we done?" Talmadge waved a dismissal.

"Frank," Donovan said as they left. "If you'd prefer not to- I mean-"

"I have to do this," Frank replied. "Now, especially, I have to do this."

"I'm sure she never meant-" Ballard said.

"Don't," Frank held up a hand. "I don't care. Just- Don't."

Talmadge watched as the others left the conference room. "I'm surprised you didn't say anything, Nate. I'm sure Frank would be more than willing to-"

Ramsey's mouth twisted. "It's not like I didn't expect this. Hell, I always thought he'd wind up some bum on a county slab one day, and we'd never know what happened. Maybe this is better." He smiled without humor. "Besides, as often as I've complained about Parker using these Backsteps for personal reasons, it seems a bit hypocritical for me to do the same thing."

"Hello?" Svetlana answered the ringing cell phone. "No Dr. Mentnor, she still hasn't woken up." She looked over at Olga, who was as still and pale as the hospital sheets she was lying on. "I will let you know as soon as she does." The rasp of the respirator and the steady beeps of the heart monitor were the only other sounds in the room. "Thank you, Dr. Mentnor. I will. Good-bye." She closed the cell phone and took her sister's hand in her own. "Please Olga," she whispered. "Please come back. Don't disappear for good this time."

Ramsey stood up from behind his desk. "Screw it, I'll be a hypocrite."

"Three hours ago China launched an attack across the Russian border," Talmadge said as Frank walked to the Sphere. "So far they're just using conventional forces, but those forces do have tactical nuclear weapons. And their strategic nuclear force remains on high alert." He paused. "Beijing is claiming it is a justifiable seizure of territory from an aggressor. An aggressor who has used a nuclear device against them."

"So if they use a nuke," Frank began.

"It will be second use," Talmadge finished grimly. "And the whole idea behind no-first-use is that it would result in massive retaliation."

"So why haven't they retaliated?" Ballard asked.

"Well," Donovan replied. "Beijing has always wanted greater access to the Siberian oil fields. They may see this as a chance to get control of them."

"So is this just a land grab?" Ballard asked. "Backed up by a nuclear threat to keep anybody from objecting?"

"If we thought so Frank wouldn't be Backstepping," Talmadge replied.

"It gets worse," Ramsey added as he joined the others. "Several of Russia's Far Eastern provinces, apparently led by the governor of Primorskiy, have joined together, declared independence from Moscow and allied with the Chinese."

"But the Russians hate the Chinese," Donovan said. "Especially the Far East Russians."

"Moscow's been cracking down lately, trying to reestablish their control," Talmadge replied. "A lot of the regional governors have been running their own private little fiefs ever since the Soviet Union collapsed. They probably see this as a chance to stay on the gravy train."

"And the Chinese get multiple points of attack on Japan and South Korea," Ramsey added.

"With Japan's modern industrial base, and their merchant fleet," Donovan said, "that would take care of a lot of their logistical problems."

"Not only for this," Ramsey agreed, "But it puts them in the perfect position to invade the US through Alaska and Canada."

"Um, Alaska is the US," Ballard pointed out.

"You know what I meant," Ramsey snapped.

Donovan shook his head. "I don't see it. Russia's a pretty big mouthful, even without the renegade provinces. And you've only got what, two months out of the year when a northern invasion is a viable option?"

"Do we know how long they've been talking about this?" Frank said. "You don't do this sort of thing on three hours notice."

"We'll let the Russians know what we can," Talmadge replied. "We have to let them handle their own problems."

Frank nodded as he entered the Sphere and started his checklist.

"Something's not right," Ballard muttered as they headed for the Control Room.

Donovan looked over at him. "With the Sphere?"

"Huh? No. With Olga and-" he waved his free hand vaguely in the air. "It doesn't add up."

"Oh, it adds up perfectly," Ramsey replied. "When it comes down to it, Vukavitch is a runner. When the going gets tough, she bolts."

"Checklist complete," Frank announced. "All systems go."

"Acknowledged," Mentnor replied. "Powering reactor. Reactor at 50 percent. 80 percent. 95 percent. Reactor at 100 percent. Engage."

Frank slammed his hand down.

A small satellite locked in a geosynchronous orbit above NNL fired its drive and left orbit. It quickly rose above the plane of the ecliptic, folded space about itself and headed for its preprogrammed destination in burst of familiar blue light.

END PART II

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