"I should have thought of the laser link earlier," the Russian went on. "The hard-liners tried to seize the main communications and power centers."
"Tried to?"
"Yes. There was some shooting, I'm afraid we had to kill a few of them. But it's over now. We are in firm control."
A collective gasp of relief from everyone in the office.
"Fine, Pete, fine," Kinsman said soberly. "We've got this end of Selene under control, too."
For the first time Leonov smiled. "Congratulations, then. We must toast the birth of Selene, the newest nation of humankind!"
"Not yet," Kinsman said. "Not until we take command 434 of the space stations. Without them, what we've done so far is meaningless."
Leonov shook his head slowly. "That cannot be done overnight, you understand. But I am already picking reliable men for the task. And the stations themselves are manned by a great variety of peoples—Ukrainians. Uzbeks, even a few Poles and Czechs."
"Really?" Kinsman could feel the tension among the people around him fading. "How did that happen?"
His smile returning, Leonov answered, "A few years ago I served a tour of duty as personnel director for orbital operations. I managed to place emphasis on training, educa- tion, and technical skill, rather than Party affiliation and nationality. Enthusiasm and Leninist ideals—although basi- cally correct, you understand!—are no substitute for techni- cal capabilities when you are in a space station."
"Agreed." Kinsman felt himself relaxing a little, too.
"One unhappy thing." Leonov's face grew somber again, "Those two girls I brought to your birthday party. They were security agents! One of them shot me."
"Holy hell. Where? Is it serious?"
The Russian scowled. "In the back . . . lower back. I think she was trying to humiliate me. At any rate, the doctors tell me I will live and enjoy life—but I won't be sitting comfortably for a few days."
They all roared. But even while Kinsman was laughing his mind was warning him. The space stations. We've got to take them quickly. Or fail.
Tuesday 14 December 1999:
1200 hrs UT
LIEUTENANT COLONEL STAHL STOOD before the main screens of Space Station Alpha's cramped communications center. "Holiday traffic's starting to build up, I see."
Major Cahill smiled weakly at his boss's joke.
The comm center was a shoebox of metal and plastic with six monitor desks nested so tightly that if one of the techni- cians tried to stretch an arm it would knock the headset off the person next to her. When they spoke to the spacecraft that were approaching or leaving the station, it was in the low, whispering, economical Jargon of flight controllers every- where.
