скачать книгу бесплатно
She traversed the majority of the hall before the airlock she’d come through hissed open once more. Figuring it was none of her business, Vanhi didn’t turn to see who else was keeping late hours.
Their shoes made a sharp tit-tat on the cement floor.
The noise was irritating—like a mouse scratching or a sink dripping—but she was only a few more hall lengths from her door, almost within sight of the narrow cot that took up most of her room. She was so ready for her head to hit the pillow.
But then the tit-tat of the stranger’s shoes picked up their pace. Vanhi’s heart rate jumped in response, matching the rhythm.
You’re on the freaking Moon, she reminded herself. This isn’t some dimly lit parking garage that anybody can slither into.
But she knew that stride, the focus of those steps. Every woman who’d ever been alone in an alleyway with a figure close behind knew those heavy, quick footfalls meant danger.
Her room lay one more hall away. Not far at all. She slipped her card through the next airlock reader, scurrying by, hoping the door would shut and the seal would take before her follower could slide in after.
No luck.
Almost there, almost there.
The footfalls trailing her came faster, fell heavier.
She picked up the pace in turn, heart thumping like timpani in her ears.
“Stop,” slurred a high-pitched voice behind her.
Vanhi did not stop. Her quick steps evolved into a jog.
Coming to her door, she took a breath, but did not look up. Sometimes not making eye contact was the key. Just get inside and everything will be fine.
She pressed her thumb to the ID pad, trying to keep calm. Trying to look calm.
“Unable to process, please try again,” chirped the lock.
She scraped her thumb down the textured paint of the hall wall, hoping.
“Unable to process, please try again.”
“Son of a—”
“You.”
It didn’t matter that Vanhi was prepared for the fingers digging into her arm. Didn’t matter that she knew she’d be spun—that immediately after she’d be pushed against the wall or yanked down the hall. Her gut still roiled at the audacity, sank like a stone because of the intrusion, burned like a coal knowing that no matter how prepared she was for an attack, she was never really prepared.
Her heart hammered in her ribs, and she drew in a sharp breath. A hot, quick flash of panic flared through her extremities as she tensed.
Her shoulder blades cracked solidly against the metal door as a woman trapped her against the frame. Vanhi could have fought back, could have struggled, but she wanted to de-escalate. Her blood thrummed in her body, flushed her cheeks, flooded her muscles. She bit back the immediate swell of rage, the urge to kick and punch.
“I told myself I wouldn’t do this,” the woman gritted out centimeters from Vanhi’s face, Australian accent heavy. Sour whiskey fumes rolled off her in waves. “But I have to know why. Why me? Why did you and Kaufman ruin my career, out of all the … What did I ever do to you?”
“I don’t know who you—” Vanhi stammered to a halt, realizing that wasn’t true. “Doctor Chappell?”
She was the xenobiologist in charge of the original Convoy Twelve mission. The one who’d falsified data.
A surge of anger roared through Vanhi’s arms. She shoved Dr. Chappell away, fuming. The larger woman stumbled into the far wall. “You’re not involved in the missions anymore, how did you get in here?”
The answer dangled from Chappell’s neck: a construction badge. Either she’d gotten a job as a ship builder, or she’d stolen the creds off some poor worker.
“Did you seriously come all the way from Earth to get in my face? You ruined your own damn career,” she said darkly.
C beeped from her purse. “Should I call security?”
“Absolutely,” Vanhi spat, turning to the door once more.
Dr. Chappell wailed, sliding heavily down the wall until she slumped in a pile of akimbo limbs. “It should be me giving that speech tomorrow. Me.”
“Yeah?” Vanhi kept her tone haughty, but she was rattled. She couldn’t keep her hand steady as she tried the lock again. “Maybe you shouldn’t have cooked your books, then.”
Thump.
Something large, but not weighty, struck Vanhi in the small of her back. For a moment, she froze, assessing the damage—but she wasn’t hurt. Holoflex-sheets now littered the hall. The manila folder they’d come in lay at Vanhi’s feet.
“How many times are you going to spew that shit line?” Chappell shouted. “You fucking liar!”
“That is not appropriate workplace language,” C chided.
Of course I get the confrontation with the psycho lady. Of course. Not Kaufman, oh, no. Because he’s the big important dude. Who wouldn’t choose to pick their fight with the little Indian woman instead?
His assigned rooms were just a hall over. Not far. Not far at all.
Vanhi’s door finally opened. She didn’t go inside.
“You know what?” she said, turning around.
Mascara ran down Dr. Chappell’s face.
“Screw you. Screw Kaufman. Screw everyone. I haven’t done a damn thing to you. So, screw off back to Earth.” She bent to swipe a sheet off the floor. “What even is this?” she demanded, creasing it in her fist. “What am I supposed to do with these?”
“They’re the original results of my study—not your doctored bullshit, which I have for comparison.”
“What are you talking about?”
Dr. Chappell gathered her legs under her, pushing herself upright, swaying like a rag doll from the waist up. Here on the base, the air was thin, the pressure low—it probably hadn’t taken more than a single shot of whatever she was drinking to get her in this state. “You and that figjam got ahold of my work—stole my work—and you’re going to stand there and deny it?”
A little seed—one that had long ago been buried in Vanhi’s gut—sprouted. Its little spring-green tendrils pushed up, up, budding leaves with labels on them: doubt and recognition.
“I don’t know where Kaufman found your original work, but he had a duty to expose you. You put all of us to shame.”
Chappell’s indignant “Ha!” echoed in the narrow hall. She shook her head, eyes rolling back to gaze forlornly at the ceiling. “You won’t even admit it to my face. Why did I think you would?”
The pressurized hiss of a heavy airtight door emanated from the far end of the hall, around the corner. Two men in gray camo approached—one wore a badge of the Mongolian Admiralty Enforcement, the other of the United States Coast Guard.
“English,” Vanhi said to them, preempting their request for the party’s common language.
“We received an automated call for aid,” said the Mongolian security guard.
Dr. Chappell rubbed her eyes, smearing away the streaks in her makeup. “Yeah, yeah. Throw me in the brig. Whatever, stickybeaks. This mongrel and her mongrel mentor keep ruining my life, what else is new?”
“You assaulted me,” Vanhi said.
“And I’ll face the damn consequences, unlike you.”
“Ma’am, we need you to submit to a sobriety test,” said the U.S. guard.
“Like it’s a crime to get legless when your life is stolen from you?”
Both guards tried to steady her when she took a step up and forward, but she batted them off. “I’m coming with you. I’m leaving her alone. Don’t you put hands on me.”
“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to not be belligerent with us.”
“Doctor,” Vanhi said, not sure why their form of address bugged her. She never corrected anyone when they called her ma’am or miss. “She’s a doctor.”
“Shut up,” Chappell said, turning her back on Vanhi. “Take me to the brig, or whatever you’ve got up here. I don’t want to look at her anymore.”
Vanhi crouched again, sweeping the stray sheets into the manila folder. “Don’t forget your file.”
“Keep it,” she said. “Maybe if you stare at them long enough you’ll develop a twinge of empathy.”
“We’ll need you to give a statement,” the U.S. guard said as Chappell was led away. “But I know you’re under a lot of pressure, Doctor Kapoor. If you want to do it sometime after your press conference tomorrow, that’s fine.”
Hand tensing around the folder, she realized she was shaking. “Yeah, okay.”
“Do you need anything? Would you like a guard outside?”
“Um, sure. Thank you.”
“All right. We’ll send someone. They can call you when they’re stationed.”
“Got it,” said C.
The guard looked skeptically at her purse, but said nothing.
“Thank you. Good. Thanks.”
“There’s nothing else you need?”
She waved him away. “Some sleep. That’s all, thank you.”
He nodded curtly, hurrying after his colleague.
When he was gone she slipped through the door and shut it swiftly, collapsing against it for half a beat. She dropped her purse and clutched the folder to her chest.
“I’m so stupid. Why did I think I’d never have to talk to anyone from the original mission?”
“You’re not stupid,” said C from the dark depths. “All evidence indicates you are very intelligent.”
“That’s not what I meant,” she huffed, breath shaky.
“I had an indication, but thought reassurance the best response.”
“Thank you. I do appreciate it. Sleep now.”
Vanhi had never expected to encounter Dr. Chappell or her team, but she’d known the woman was angry, even from afar. How could she not be? If Chappell had sacrificed her ethics to get a once-in-a-lifetime job, and not only had that opportunity been ripped away from her, but all others as well, there would be no measured response. She’d feel guilty, and furious, and lost.
But that wasn’t quite right, was it? Someone who would purposefully skew their data—waste hundreds of thousands of man-hours and billions of dollars on a lie—wouldn’t be mad like that. They wouldn’t be mad about the things Vanhi would be mad about. They’d be mad someone had the nerve to question them. They’d be angry they didn’t get their way.
They might get violent.
They might be the type to get drunk on a Moon base and go after the weak link in their exposure. They’d threaten. They’d deny.
But they wouldn’t, of all things, ask “Why?”
Inside her, the leafy sprout shot up, budding—the flower of realization threatening to unfurl.
She shuffled over to the composite desk, tripping over the edge of the bed and her half-unpacked suitcase to get there. She let the folder fall to the table with a plop, and it scattered open like a wilting rose. The holoflex-sheets were creased—rainbow colors bowing away from the damage to show where the plasma nanocircuits were, in effect, “bleeding”—and everything was out of order. A few paper sheets were tucked in the mix.
Most of the pages were dated or belonged to a dated set. She fanned them out, attempting to reconstitute their timeline.
On the right she set Dr. Chappell’s “original” data; on the left she laid out the “undoctored” versions.
She was no biologist, but the results seemed clear: on one hand she had evidence that at least two of the planets in TRAPPIST-One likely had multicellular life. On the other, she had what looked like a correction to the original study, with a variable not originally taken into account added into the mix. That wouldn’t make Dr. Chappell’s results fabricated so much as uncorrected. It looked like she’d submitted the first results and suppressed the second.
It wasn’t uncommon to create an experiment and get fantastic results only to realize you’d constructed your experiment wrong. That was part of the scientific process. You learn, you correct, you learn again.
Perhaps Chappell had wanted so badly for there to be life in this system that she’d convinced herself the second set of data had to be wrong. Maybe she’d gone so far as to fool herself.
The flower in Vanhi’s gut grew thorns and poked. Because …
This doesn’t feel right.
There were grad students who’d stood up for Dr. Chappell when she was exposed, but there had been others who insisted the data she’d issued to the consortium wasn’t complete. They’d sworn she’d tampered with the results.
Vanhi stared at the pages, eyes not fully focused, as though the longer her gaze hovered over the pages the more likely she was to learn the truth.
Something clicked in the back of her mind, and she jumped for her purse. “C, wake up.”
“Yes?”
“You know that backdoor connection to Jamal he insisted on installing?”
“Of course.”
