Zero-G by Alton Gansky Page A

work of men. Space travel? Never should be. We men have enough to do here on the ground.”
    Tears rolled, twisting and turning as they followed the crags of the seventy-year-old’s face.
    There had been a big funeral in the United States. Leaders from around the world went to the memorial ser vice; many others visited Arlington to stand by the graves of the dead astronauts. Funerals for heroes.
    Not Vinny. Not his Vinny. Pistacchia insisted his son’s body be returned to Italy where he could bury him on the property of the Pistacchia estate, the largest in the small country.
    NASA offered to pay for the trip, offered to fly Pistacchia to the US so he could return with his boy’s body. He would have none of it. He didn’t need their charity.
    â€œThey said it would pass, Vinny — that the pain would go away and life would go on even though you lay here in the ground. I knew then they were wrong. I knew . . .” More tears. “A year, my son. A year and now all the investigating is over and they say it is an accident — a mixup in the medication on that patch they forced you to wear. No one is guilty. No one, they said.”
    He turned his head and spit on the ground.
    â€œCriminals investigating criminals. Murderers pretending to care.”
    A light rain began to fall, each drop whispering a sound as it struck the grass-shrouded ground. The wind picked up. The old man didn’t move.
    â€œI grieve for you, Son. Day and night, I cannot forget what happened. I have been robbed of you. First your mother so many years ago, and now you. Dead and in the ground. A man should not live beyond his only son.”
    The image of Vinny trapped in his space suit, dead and brought back to Earth in the payload bay like a sack of onions dug at him, chiseled his granite heart like the mason had chiseled the black marble that bore his son’s name.
    â€œThere is more to be done, Son. What days I have left, I will spend making sure the responsible pay.”
    Soft footsteps approached from behind. A gentle, polite cough. Pistacchia didn’t bother turning. “This is what I wanted you to see. This is what I want you to avenge.”
    â€œI understand.” The voice came in a calm baritone. “Are you sure this is what you want?”
    â€œYes. He is out there — the one who did this. I will have my payment. Do you understand?”
    â€œI do.”
    Pistacchia tilted his head enough to see the man who stood by him. Tall, thick, head shaved, and eyes dark as a moonless night. He gave a short bow, then left.
    A tiny flame of regret sparked in Pistacchia’s soul. He looked back at the grave. The flame died.

    When Garret Alderman first met Diane Melville, CEO of MedSys, he thought of Lauren Bacall. Not the lithe, give-a-man-shivers looker from the old Bogart movies, but the aged beauty that time had created. Diane Melville wore her hair parted in the middle, letting the gray locks frame her lined face, and still projected a hypnotic beauty that mesmerized even a midthirties man like Garret Alderman. Today, she exuded that same beauty, but he could also see the anger simmering behind her tired blue eyes.
    â€œSit down, Garret,” Diane said. She motioned to the foot of the table in the large board room. Seated to her left was the short, balding president of MedSys, Burt Linear.
    Garret sat as ordered. He knew the drill. Diane was a master of dominating her space and using everything, including furniture, to gain an advantage.
    â€œI received your message. You found him?”
    â€œNo, not specifically. I think I know his basic location.” Garret placed a small laptop computer on the table and opened it. “As you know, this guy is as slippery as an eel — ”
    â€œAnd far more dangerous.” Linear looked nervous. Perhaps eager. It had been ten months since MedSys hired Garret’s security firm to track down the man responsible for making