Free Clade by Mark Budz Page A

or two at most, to make sure everything’s shipshape. Naturally your team will accompany you. That should make things somewhat easier.”
    “They’ve agreed to go?”
    “We haven’t talked to them yet,” Ajisa says. “We wanted to discuss it with you, first.”
    In other words, get his answer. “What about the rest of the vats we’re in charge of down here?” Rigo asks.
    “Don’t worry about it,” Ajisa says. “You’re covered. This is far more important right now. A priority.”
    “Would there need to be any special training? None of us has worked in zero-g or a vacuum before.”
    “You’re already used to working in biosuits. So that won’t be a problem. As far as zero-g, it might slow you down a little in the beginning. But I spec you’ll adapt fairly quickly. Of course, you’ll be claded for the ecotecture. You won’t have to take antipher shots. Too risky in that type of situation.”
    “Think of it as an adventure,” Whipplebaum says with cheery import. “A chance to broaden your horizons.”
    No way he can say no. Not if he wants to position himself for further advancement. Besides, if he doesn’t agree to head up the team they’ll just ask someone else. Rana or Antoine. Ajisa and Whipplebaum know that as well as he does. So his answer is a foregone conclusion, the discussion a formality. Interesting that they felt the need to ask him, give him a choice instead of just telling him to pack his bags for the trip.
    “All right,” Rigo agrees. “Sounds exciting.” And it is. A great opportunity, no doubt about it.
    “I knew we could count on you.” Whipplebaum brims with enthusiasm and an almost paternal sense of approval that leaves Rigo feeling starched with pride.
    After the meeting, Rigo gives Whipplebaum a tour of the warm-blooded vats. His crew specs the situation right away and are on their best behavior. They fall into an antlike rhythm. Quiet, efficient, single-minded, as if they can sense something important is about to go down . . . that they’re being inspected as much as the facility and the plants. It never hurts to make a good impression.
    “One of the biggest concerns we have with zero-g flora,” Whipplebaum says, “is assuring their integrity.”
    “I’ll bet.” The two of them are standing in the vat building that houses the main greenhouse plant.
    “That’s why the sensor data you’ve been transmitting is so important. It establishes a baseline against which we’re able to measure the progress of the plants in orbit.”
    “I see,” Rigo says. This is the first he’s heard of what the data was actually used for.
    “What we’ve found,” Whipplebaum continues, “is that most plants react to zero-g in much the same way that people do. They suffer the vegetative equivalent of bone loss and reduced circulatory efficiency.”
    “So, you’ve had to tweak them genetically. The way workers get tweaked when they live in space.”
    Whipplebaum runs a gloved finger across the lens-dimpled surface of the plant, as if caressing the cheek of a newborn. “Structurally, we need the plants sturdy enough to withstand both gravitational and rotational stress.”
    “Gravitational?” It doesn’t sound like Whipplebaum’s talking about micro-g’s here.
    “It’s conceivable that emigrants to the belt might want to install mass drivers on the asteroids to move them about, nudge them into slightly different orbits. During that time the plants will undergo acceleration and deceleration.”
    “Is that one of the things you’re going to test on Tiresias?” Rigo asks.
    Whipplebaum turns toward Rigo. A white picket-fence grin flashes behind the faceplate. Rigo takes that as a yes.
    “How would you like to live in the Kuiper belt?” Whipplebaum says.
    Rigo can’t tell if the question is rhetorical or a genuine offer. “I don’t think so,” Rigo says.
    Behind the faceplate, Whipplebaum’s helium-filled enthusiasm appears to burst, as if his whole raison d’être has