Energized Read online

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.

  Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  For Katie, May your future always be bright.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Dramatis Personae

  Earth and Vicinity, 2023 (Map)

  PROLOGUE

  CONVICTION

  CONVERGENCE

  CONFLAGRATION

  CONQUEST

  EPILOGUE

  Afterword and Acknowledgments

  Books by Edward M. Lerner

  About the Author

  Copyright

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  NASA (including contract employees), Earth-based

  MARCUS JUDSON Support contractor; assistant to government program manager, Powersat One (PS-1) program

  PHILIP MAJESKI Kendricks Aerospace engineer; PS-1 program manager

  ELLEN TANAKA Government program manager, PS-1 program

  BETHANY TAYLOR Kendricks Aerospace engineer; PS-1 chief engineer

  NASA (including contract employees), Phoebe-based

  DINO AGNELLI Kendricks Aerospace engineer, PS-1 program

  THADDEUS STANKIEWICZ Kendricks Aerospace engineer, PS-1 program; deputy station chief

  IRV WEINGART NASA manager; station chief

  National Radio Astronomy Observatory (NRAO), Green Bank

  PATRICK BURKHALTER Onetime principal investigator, Verne space probe; radio astronomer

  SIMON CLAYBURN Valerie’s son

  VALERIE CLAYBURN Radio astronomer

  AARON FRIEDMAN Radio astronomer

  IAN WAKEFIELD System administrator

  PS-1 Independent Inspection Team

  OLIVIA FINCH Professor, Caltech; quality assurance engineer

  SAVANNAH MORGAN U.S. Air Force civilian employee; computer security engineer

  REUBEN SWENSON Department of Energy employee; power systems engineer

  U.S. government, non-NASA

  DEVIN GIBSON President of the United States

  GERALD HENDERSON Director, Central Intelligence Agency

  CARLOS ORTIZ Colonel, U.S. Air Force; computer security engineer

  TYLER POPE CIA analyst

  CHARMAINE POWELL CIA analyst

  VONDA RODGERS General, U.S. Air Force

  Russo Venture Capital Partners (RVCP)

  KAYLA JORGENSON President, Jorgenson Power Systems (an RVCP-backed company)

  LINCOLN ROBERTS Technical adviser; electrical engineer

  DILLON RUSSO Principal partner, Russo Venture Capital Partners

  FELIPE TORRES Technical adviser; communications engineer

  JONAS WALKER Technical adviser; software engineer

  Other Americans

  ROBIN BRILL Socialite; sister of Thaddeus Stankiewicz

  GABRIEL CAMPBELL First geologist to explore Phoebe; deceased

  Russians

  YAKOV NIKOLAYEVICH BRODSKY Deputy trade representative, posted to the Washington embassy; undercover agent of the Federal Security Service (in its Russian acronym, the FSB)

  IRINA IVANOVNA CHESNOKOVA Yakov’s longtime assistant

  DMITRII FEDEROVICH AMINOV FSB station chief, posted to the Washington embassy

  ANATOLY VLADIMIROVICH SOKOLOV Ambassador to the United States

  PAVEL BORISOVICH KHRISTENKO President, Russian Federation

  PROLOGUE | 2020

  Saturday, February 22

  Earth hovered, almost at full phase, breathtakingly magnificent. Distance concealed the works—and blights—of man, and the globe seemed pristine. Its oceans sparkled. Its cloud tops and ice caps glistened. And it was huge: the natural moon, had it been visible, would have appeared only about one-hundredth as wide.

  Earth seemed close enough to touch through the exercise room’s tinted dome, but Gabriel Campbell held firmly to the handles of the stationary bicycle. Not that he relied on the strength of his grip: he wore a seat belt, too, and straps bound his feet to the pedals. This world had too little gravity to notice.

  His eyes alternated between the vista overhead and the image of Jillian, his fiancée, which he had taped to the bike’s digital readout. Strawberry blond hair cascaded down her neck and shoulders. Freckles lay scattered across that most adorable, pert little nose. Her clear green eyes—and more so, her smile—all but outshone the Earth.

  He was here, on Phoebe, to make a future for both: the Earth and the love of his life. In just one more month, he would go home. Then he and Jillian would marry and they would never be apart again.

  Basking in earthlight, his legs pumping furiously on the bike, Gabe was pleasantly tired, professionally fulfilled, emotionally satisfied—

  Unaware that before two hours had passed, he would be dead.

  * * *

  Phoebe completed an orbit around the Earth in just less than six hours, and as Gabe pedaled darkness crept across the face of the world. The changing phase of the Earth told him he had been working out for almost two hours.

  Sweat soaked his Minnesota Twins T-shirt, and still ahead of him was a stint on the not-quite weight machine: the resistive exercise device. Without exercise, muscles atrophied and bones lost mass in Phoebe’s miniscule gravity. Four hours of daily workout were mandated, but he would have worked out anyway. He patted Jillian’s picture. “I’ll be plenty fit for you when I come home.” Fit, and horny as the devil.

  And with no way up here to spend a dime, he would have banked six months’ salary with which to build their future. The pay was damned good, too, much higher than anything he could get on the ground. He tried not to think of the premium as hazardous-duty pay.

  The bike whirred. A damper rattled in the ventilation system. Voices, indistinct, blended with dueling music players. And then, from the comm unit clipped to his sleeve, soft chimes. Gabe tapped the unit. “Campbell.”

  “We’ve got a bot in trouble,” Tina Lundgren said, her voice throaty. She was deputy station chief of Phoebe base and in command on the night shift. Not that day or night had any meaning here. The station followed Eastern time for the convenience of folks on the ground. “In sector twelve.”

  “And it’s my turn to go outside.” Hell, Gabe was happy to go out. Only a handful of geologists had ever left Earth, and he was one of them. Had there been any way to get Jillian up here, he would want to stay forever. “What’s the problem?”

  “Stupid bot tangled itself up in a rock jumble. Otherwise, it’s healthy.”

  Likely a thirty-second task, after an hour or so to suit up and trek halfway across the moonlet. Good deal.

  Tina contacting him meant that he was in charge of the excursion. But no one went outside alone—too many things could go wrong. Gabe asked, “Who else is on call tonight?”

  “Thaddeus and Bryce. Shall I give one of them a holler for you?”

  “I’ll take Thad. Newbie could use the practice.” Gabe eased off his pedaling. “And no, don’t call. I’m in the gym. I need to cool off first.” Outside was not the place to get stiff and inflexible.

  After winding down for a few minutes, Gabe unstrapped his slippers from the pedals, unbelted, and, carefully dismounting, firmly planted a slipper on one of the deck’s Velcro strips. Trailing damp footprints he crossed the exercise room, the Velcro pads on the soles of his slippers zip-zipping with e
ach step.

  At the hatchway he took hold of the handrail that ran along the corridor ceiling. The Tarzan swing was the quickest way through the station. Many of his crewmates would be asleep, and he kept a Tarzan yell to himself.

  Thaddeus Stankiewicz was not in his quarters, the tiny common room, or the even tinier sanitary facilities. When Gabe tried the machine shop, the hatch squeaked on its hinges.

  Thad was new to Phoebe and micro gee; his surprised twitch launched him from his stool and scattered whatever he was working on. Gabe saw cordless soldering pistols, metal tubes, metal rods, wire coils—and, writhing free at the end of its oxygen and acetylene hoses, a cutting torch tipped with blue flame.

  Gabe leapt, catching the torch by a hose and with his other hand giving Thad a firm shove clear. The push—equal and opposite reactions—brought Gabe to a near halt at mid-room, above the deck. About a foot: call it thirty seconds hang time. That was plenty long to give Thad a tongue-lashing for his carelessness.

  Newbie looked so flustered that Gabe relented. He killed the torch and merely glared as Thad, who by then had grabbed a bench edge, began gathering parts (of what?) and cramming them into his pockets. Stankiewicz was short, broad shouldered, and intense. His thick black eyebrows and deep-set eyes made him seem perpetually brooding. He wore a standard station jumpsuit, the royal-blue version, with its integral Velcro slippers.

  Finally touching down, Gabe slid his foot until it engaged a Velcro strip. “What are you working on?”

  Thad shrugged, looking uneasy. Embarrassed? “Personal project.”

  The station offered precious little privacy, so Gabe let it go. “A surface rover got stuck. You and I are up to extract it.”

  “Okay.” Thad kept grabbing and stowing the scattered pieces of his project. “Almost done.”

  “Leave that, Newbie. We have a job to do.”

  They made their way to the main air lock. The closer they got, the more dark streaks and splotches marked the gray metal panels that lined the corridor. You couldn’t help but track Phoebe’s dust and grime into the station, and once inside the stuff found its way everywhere. The crew vacuumed endlessly, but it was a losing battle.

  Their spacesuits were filthier than the interior halls and no longer permitted in most of the station. Once you couldn’t change in a closet-sized cabin, bracing yourself between opposing walls, the best place to suit up was inside the air lock.

  In the air lock, back to back and studiously ignoring each other, the two men stripped. Even more studiously they ignored jostling and brushing into each other.

  The body suits fit snugly against bare skin. Donning a very elastic body suit in the all-but-nonexistent gravity was like squirming into a sausage casing—underwater. Every nudge and bump sent them careening off bulkheads and decks and each other. Still, these mechanical counterpressure suits beat the hell out of bulky, pressurized spacesuits. Gabe had tried an old-style suit once in training. It was easier to get into, but way more massive. Inertia varied with mass, not weight, and fighting that much inertia was exhausting.

  Gabe finally wriggled into his suit and helped Thad finish getting into his own. “Check me out,” Gabe said. He launched himself, with a bit of practiced footwork, into a slow, midair pirouette.

  “You look fine,” Thad said.

  The answer had come too quickly. Anywhere that the suit failed to settle securely into place, fluid would pool beneath. Gaping was the major issue with the skin suits, with the crotch area especially problematical. It wasn’t as if Gabe wanted another guy checking out his crotch, but he wanted even less to have blisters down there from an ill-fitting suit. “Check it again,” he snapped.

  Done properly, spacesuit checkout took time. Eventually, though, their suits were wrinkle-free and without sags or pouching. They mounted and sealed the compression neck rings to which their helmets would attach. They slipped on their backpacks and checked readouts for everything: oxygen, heating, sensors, radio, batteries. Their helmets and air hoses were locked into place.

  They stowed their indoor clothes, Thad’s pockets clanking, in lockers near the air lock, buckled on tool belts and tether reels, stuck emergency maneuvering guns in their holsters, and pulled on gloves and boots. Ready at last, Gabe configured the air-lock controls for surface access.

  “Oscar, end-to-end system check,” Gabe said. Status messages, the text all green, scrolled down the inside of his helmet visor. He had named the voice-activated user interface Oscar as a nod to the suit in Have Spacesuit, Will Travel, a book he had loved as a child—and because, crammed into this suit, he knew how a sardine must feel.

  “Comm check, Thad,” Gabe radioed on the public channel.

  “Back at you,” Stankiewicz said.

  Gabe called, “Tina? Two robot wranglers set to go outside.”

  “Happy trails,” Tina answered, yawning. “Stay in touch.”

  “Roger that.” Gabe tapped the air-lock control panel. Pump noises faded as air was sucked into holding tanks. He felt the first stirrings of warmth from the heating elements in the thermal layer of his suit. Light poured inside as the outer hatch opened. Shrunken to a crescent, the Earth still shone more brightly than a full moon. For now, the moon itself remained hidden behind the Earth.

  Newbie gestured at the ladder. “Age before beauty.”

  “Pearls before swine.”

  Gabe grabbed the ladder rails and climbed. He paused on the third rung, with only his head and shoulders above the surface. The horizon was freakishly close. Despite earthlight, the landscape was only a dim presence, less reflective than asphalt. Without its coat of rocks, soot, and hydrocarbons, Phoebe’s ice—the ice they were here to mine, the ice that could change everything—would have streamed off as a spectacular comet tail.

  His grandparents still talked about where they were, what they had been doing, when they first heard that President Kennedy had been shot. For his parents’ generation, and even for some of Gabe’s own, the event seared into the collective consciousness was 9/11. The World Trade Center towers crashing down had marked Gabe, too—he had been sixteen that day—but the news that had truly marked him, had changed everything for him, even more than 9/11 or the Crudetastrophe, had come a mere five years ago.

  As though it were yesterday, he remembered: a rumor at first, run rampant on the blogosphere, then the hastily called presidential address. A space rock, a big one, was headed Earth’s way. It was not dinosaur-killer-sized, not quite, and the likelihood it would hit Earth was only one in a thousand—but no sane person would leave home against those odds, let alone bet the future of civilization. The rock had to be deflected, and despite its many woes only the United States had the capability to tackle the job.

  But the excitement, the game changer, was this: rather than deflect the rock away, NASA would undertake to aim it more precisely at Earth. To ensure capture of the object. To exploit its resources and forever change space exploration.

  And to hell with whether anyone else thought this was a bad idea. Gabe had never encountered much in the way of presidential leadership. It was exhilarating.

  He had long ago lost his youthful interest in the space program. Decade after decade of pointlessly circling the world, scarcely skimming the top of the atmosphere: what was the point? No one cared anymore.

  But suddenly there was a reason. Saving the planet. Maybe, in the process, pulling the country out of an economic abyss. And to be honest—adventure. Faster than the president could finish speaking that night, Gabe had vowed he would be an astronaut. Somehow.

  That rock—only it had turned out to be far more complex and interesting, a dormant comet—was now Earth’s second moon. Was Phoebe. And once again, he was about to explore its ancient surface.

  “The view here is less interesting,” Thad radioed from the bottom of the air lock.

  “Sorry.” Gabe unreeled four feet of tether, clipping its carabiner around the staked cable labeled SECTOR TWELVE. He clipped a second tether to the guide cabl
e before grabbing handholds outside the hatch and pulling himself up and out. He waited ten feet along the cable until, gopherlike, Thad’s head and shoulders appeared.

  “Two tethers,” Gabe reminded the newbie.

  It was easier by far to fall off this toy world than to cross it. Phoebe was roughly a sphere a mile and a quarter across—where rough better described the body than sphere. It was round in the sense that a popcorn ball was round, with stony lumps taking the place of popped kernels and veins of frothy ice—and in spots, only vacuum—taking the part of molasses. And in the sense that a popcorn ball remained a ball after it had been whacked a bit, dented here, flattened there. Phoebe was less a single object than a rubble pile loosely bonded by its mutual gravity. If its orbit had dipped much lower, the tidal forces from Earth’s gravity would have ripped the little moon to shreds.

  “Two tethers,” Thad repeated. “Done. After you, Pearl.”

  Gabe pulled himself hand over hand along the cable, coasting above the inky surface. His eyes insisted he was soaring up a cliff face. Gravity’s feeble tug told his inner ears he was falling into the cliff face. His gut wished eyes and ears would come to some agreement.

  After twenty yanks Gabe stopped pulling. “Coasting,” he radioed the newbie.

  “Thanks. The view from behind is unattractive enough without climbing up your butt.”

  Gabe slowed with gentle hand pressure against the cable at the first glint ahead of a piton anchored in the rock. Carefully he unclipped one carabiner and snapped it back onto the cable on the opposite side of the ring. He did the same with his second tether. He made sure the newbie followed the same fail-safe procedure before resuming the trip to sector twelve.

  The surface lights, antennae, and trash dump of the station dropped behind the too-close horizon. But a status icon in his HUD shone a steady, reassuring green, confirming connectivity with Tina and the command center. The metal guide cable did double duty as an antenna.

  Every hundred or so feet a piton interrupted their glide, and in such short increments they made their way toward sector twelve. After ten minutes Gabe checked in with Tina. Twice he saw survey robots—their silvery, octopoid shapes unmistakable—creeping along the surface. The second bot’s instrument suite must have sensed a buried ice seam, because the machine was staking a radio beacon. Had Gabe cared to tune to the proper frequency, he would have heard soft beeping from the marker.