Anthony, Piers - Tyrant 1 - Refugee

by Anthony, Piers

  We spotted the edge of the escarpment that sheltered the observation dome. This rose into a mountain not more than two kilometers high, but it was as jagged as the other. There should be shelter from wind and lava in its lee, as this was not a volcanic structure. It seemed that solid rock floated on the half-molten crust of the planet, much as continents were supposed to do on planets like Earth. We were very glad to have this solidity amidst this horribly living surface. Security was hard to come by, here in Hell!

  It was effective. The wind cut off as we passed into the mountain shelter, and the ground was more stable here. We stayed at the base, close in, knowing better than to try to climb the impossibly steep slope looming beside us. Therein was the final error in our judgment of Io.

  The foot of the mountain was not a straight line; it wound in and out in a series of sculptured bays. It was really quite pretty in its fashion, with the sulfur changing shades of orange depending on the angle of the sunlight and shadow and the direction from which we viewed it. Massive and somber, an island of stability in this ocean of violence, it seemed almost to lean over us protectively. The sun rose slowly higher as we walked, further warming the region. The yellowish atmosphere was thickening.

  Then the avalanche started. I think a volcanic tremor actually set it off, but it was the softening sulfur snow that made it ready to happen. Too late, we realized what we had been flirting with when we cozied up to this mountain.

  The entire face of it seemed to slide. Snow flew up in a yellow cloud, obscuring the more solid motion, but we could tell by the rumble that shook our bodies through ground and vapor that there were massive boulders within it. This probably happened every morning as the mountain warmed, while at night the sulfur dioxide solidified and coated it again. The mountain was more or less eternal, as this region went; not so its clothing of snow.

  I knew that avalanches tended to flow in channels, as the material took the easiest route down. Thus it would concentrate mostly in one bay or another, by the time it struck the bottom. But which bay? Our survival depended on our choice of locale.

  By common consensus we drew into one bay. We would ride it out together. But Helse, at the end, suddenly unlinked herself and bolted, terrified. She had panicked and done the worst possible thing.

  I set out after her—and was brought short by the rope that linked me to the three women. With anger and desperation I untied myself, while the rumble swelled around us. Then I launched after Helse. I didn't know whether I could catch her and fetch her back in time, but I had to try. I suppose that was brave of me; I really didn't think about that at the time. I just knew I had to save Helse.

  I sprinted after her, making better time than she in the clumsy suits because I had more power. But by the time I caught her, it was too late. The avalanche was upon us.

  I wrapped my arms about her and threw her down, seeking to protect her with my body, though knowing it was useless. The mass of the falling material would crush us both to death in an instant. My last thought was that this was as good a way to die as any: embracing the woman I loved.

  But—it didn't happen. A few chunks of discolored snow fell beside us; that was all. The noise was all about us, however, swelling to a crescendo—which then stifled out. The horrendous fall of sulfur had come—and we were alive.

  We climbed back to our feet, somewhat dazed. I wondered how I had been able to hear so much, and realized that the atmosphere had filled out considerably as the snow sublimated; sound was indeed possible in the normal fashion, now.

  The avalanche had settled in the other bay, where the three women waited. Now that bay was filled with the rubble of the mountain.

  We examined the monstrous orange pile, cogitated a moment, and went on. As usual, Io had given us no other course.

  We trudged on, burdened more by the horror of twenty-five women dead than by the fatigue of the trek. But now we walked some distance out from the base of the mountain, though that put us at the fringe of the wind and belching ground. We knew how far out we had to be to avoid the main mass of an avalanche, because we had just seen an avalanche. We could walk within that range, but had to be ready to bolt out of it at the first sound of a slide.

  Sure enough, before long we felt the rumble of another avalanche, and saw the clouds of yellow snow. We were clear of it, but I was developing a profound dislike for that color. I think for the rest of my life I will associate yellow with Hell.

  We were beyond the threat of the snowslide, but sympathetic vibrations in the ground opened new crevices at our feet, and we hastened right back toward the mountain snow. Scylla and Charybdis, the perils of the left and right—we had to be alert and quick to avoid them both!

  Then we rounded an outcropping and spied the station dome. Never had a structure looked more beautiful to me! We bounded up to it, to the tiny-seeming lock at its base—and were met by a suited man.

  He didn't even try to question us. He conducted us right inside, and soon we were in a blessedly warm chamber, breathing fresh air, feeling full Earth gravity. The gravity around the dome must have been reduced, as it was wherever a gravity lens focused the waves, but we hadn't noticed. That shows how far gone we were.

  Best of all was the feeling of security. There were no storms in here, no jetting vents, no lava flows, and no avalanches. We could relax without risking prompt extinction. It was like a crushing burden evaporating from our bodies.

  The head scientist showed up immediately to question us. He was an older man, obviously from Jupiter. He had short gray hair, large spectacles that would have been fashionable half a millennium ago, and of course he spoke nothing but English.

  Our original plan was no good, despite our ability to speak the language. The fake bomb had been lost with our companions and we had no way to hijack this station, even if we had wanted to carry through. Too much had happened; we did not care to honor the memory of the women who had sacrificed themselves by the commission of a crime. Perhaps this was illogical, but it was the way I felt, and I believe Helse agreed. So we simply told the scientist the truth.

  The man shook his head in polite amazement. "They actually towed you back out to space?" he asked, referring to an earlier part of our story. "I find that awkward to believe!" That was the word he used: awkward. He was trying to avoid implying that we were not telling the truth.

  "Believe it, Mason," an associate told him. "The new administration has instituted a get-tough policy on immigration. No more Hispanics."

  "But the governments of the moons are notoriously repressive!" the scientist said. "What other recourse do these people have?"

  "Evidently to die in space," the other returned wryly. It was obvious that the scientists were humanitarians, unacquainted with the specifics of political policy.

  The scientist, Mason—I was not certain whether that was his given or his surname—returned his attention to us. "So you plotted to hijack this station to obtain supplies—to go where?"

  "Hidalgo," I repeated.

  "But that's impossible! Hidalgo is on the far side of the Solar System at the moment!"

  "We had planned to get an ephemeris to locate it exactly," I said. Such details hardly mattered, now that we had failed.

  Mason went to a computer terminal. "Here is our ephemeris," he said, punching buttons. The screen illuminated, showing three-dimensional coordinates. "See—Hidalgo is just about as far away now as it is possible to be. You could travel more readily to Mars or Earth at the moment."

  My weight seemed to increase. "We didn't know. We thought it could be close to Jupiter."

  "It is close—in season. You happen to seek it at an inopportune time."

  "Then we have nowhere to go," I said, thinking again of the twenty-five women who had given their lives for this hopeless mission. We had never had a chance, from the outset. Perhaps some other year I would be better able to appreciate the irony.

  Mason pondered. "Politics is not my specialty. But I think you would be well advised to seek asyl
um on Leda. There is a Jupiter military station there whose commandant is of Hispanic descent. I suspect he would interpret the law more liberally than did those you encountered before."

  "You're not arresting us?" Helse put in.

  The scientist refocused on her. "Arrest you? For what you have told me? That would be self-incrimination! As I explained, I am not a political man, and if I were, I suspect I would not endorse this particular brand of politics." He shook his head, smiling. "Besides, you remind me too much of my niece."

  Helse's face froze. I realized she was thinking of the supposed uncle-niece relationship she had had as a child prostitute. For all the apologies she had made for that system, it was evident that she wanted no more of it.

  "Leda," I said quickly. "The next moon out from Callisto, but too small to house a population..."

  "Indeed," Mason agreed, returning his attention to me. Helse relaxed, realizing that the scientist's remark had been innocent. "Its diameter is hardly ten kilometers. That would be about six miles in your measurement."

  "No, kilometers is fine," I said. He really didn't know our culture. I realized that scientists, while certainly intelligent people, were not educated in things beyond their fields. Miles was his culture's unit of measurement, outside the scientific and technical arena, not mine.

  He smiled. "Leda would fit within the shadow of one of our sulfur mountains here! But if you can reach it, I think it would be worth your while."

  "We can reach it," I said, optimism returning. "If we can get the supplies we need, and an exact course. It's pretty far out."

  "Eleven million kilometers from Jupiter," he agreed, checking his figures on the terminal, though he surely knew them in his head. "About twenty-five times as far out from Jupiter as is Io. But I think we can let you have a good drive jet and sufficient supplies."

  Helse came alive again. "You can?"

  The scientist smiled. "We suffer frequent losses here, owing to the violence of the geography we study. This is one loss I shall be glad to sustain."

  "But we were going to hijack you!" she cried, chagrined.

  He looked at her pretty face. "You did, my dear, you did." Then, perceiving her reaction, he asked: "Did I say something wrong?"

  I realized we would have to tackle this head-on. "Do you have a picture of your niece?" I asked.

  Perplexed, Mason gestured to a desk. There was a picture of a family of three. "My brother and his charming wife, and their daughter Megan, a charming girl."

  I stared at the picture. There was an uncanny resemblance between Helse and the pictured Megan. The scientist had not been joking about being reminded of his niece. "How old is she?" I asked.

  Mason considered. "I do lose track of time, in a place like this. I can tell you quickly about the past five eruptions of Vent 37C here, but mundane details like the party of my brother's politics or the age of his child—let me see."

  "You have it on file," his associate reminded him.

  "Oh, yes. Thank you." Mason punched more buttons, and got the information. "She was born in '95; that would make her twenty now, if I have not lost track of the date this year. I fear my picture is becoming dated, too."

  So the resemblance was illusory, or at least misplaced; Megan was four years older than Helse, instead of the same age as the picture showed. Still, they might resemble each other in the manner of sisters. But I saw that Megan was full Caucasian, not mixed Latin as Helse was.

  Nevertheless, this was enough to reassure Helse. Mason really did have a niece, and obviously adored her, but she had never lived with him, and if she had, he would not have abused her. He reacted to Helse the way he would to a true niece; there was no untoward aspect. My talent told me this now. Sometimes experience makes us overly suspicious.

  Helse was blushing now, evidently pursuing a similar series of thoughts. The scientist set about providing us with what we needed, drawing on the expertise of his staff to do a far better job of it than we could have done. Our mission, it seemed, had, after all, been successful.

  Chapter 15 — WHEN WILL IT END?

  We had to wait till evening for the atmosphere to freeze out so that a bubble could safely float across the dangerous landscape of Io. By day, a chance volcano could sweep it right out of space.

  Helse and I ate and slept comfortably, reveling in the civilized facilities of the dome and the kindness of the scientists, who seemed rather pleased to be entertaining young folk like us. I think, in retrospect, that this was the happiest period of our odyssey, despite the recent deaths of the women, for now we had genuine hope. Not all men were pirates or callous officials. I think if I ever have occasion to do any scientist, anywhere, a favor, I will do it unstintingly.

  At last, refreshed, we set off. A technician transported us along with the supplies in a small bubble. In minutes we traversed the distance it had taken us dreadful hours to cover afoot. We came in sight of the nestled home bubble.

  Helse touched my arm. We were not in our space suits now; they were unnecessary. "Hope—how are we going to tell them?"

  Somehow, that aspect had been suspended from my awareness for several hours. Twenty-five women were dead, the mothers and only surviving parents of so many of the children. What could anyone say to soften that tragedy.

  "I'll have to explain," I said. The idyll of the day ended like the illusion it had been, and cruel reality returned.

  We watched our small bubble close on the larger one. "When I spooked and ran, there at the avalanche," Helse murmured, "why did you come after me, Hope?"

  Preoccupied by the grimness I was about to have to convey, I answered her absently. "I had to try to save you, idiot. Without you, I might as well be dead."

  "You thought we were both dead when the slide struck."

  "Yes. Shows how much I know about avalanches. You turned out to be right."

  "Blind luck," she said. "I panicked. You were ready to die for me."

  "And instead, the sensible women died," I agreed. "Pure chance. Neither of us knew what we were doing." That bothered me even in my distraction—the reminder that no merit of mine accounted for my survival. It had bothered me briefly when the woman in front of me had her suit holed; now it hit me harder, because I had no immediate distraction of survival. I was no better than any of those women who had died; only a freak of fate had preserved me. It was as though a man's boot landed on the ground where live ants walked, and three were squashed and two were spared, without the man even noticing. At times like this I wondered whether I believed in God. Surely God was not like the booted man, heedless of human welfare or merit. But if He were not, then what was He like? If He had decreed, after due consideration, that sixty men and twenty-five women should die while trying to do the right thing, while brute pirates prospered, what kind of a Deity was He?

  "I think I love you," Helse said.

  The bubble nudged into contact with the other, and the air locks kissed and held. We had arrived.

  Something penetrated my distraction. "What?"

  Helse smiled. "Never mind."

  "Did you say—?"

  She shrugged, and now the air locks opened, and my onerous duty was upon me. I could not question Helse further. But perhaps I did not need to.

  We were met at the lock by a small group of women. "Oh, they found you, Hope Hubris!" one said. I had to concentrate to remember that her name was Señora Martínez. "We were so. worried, when neither party returned—"

  Neither party? "I—we have bad news and good news," I said.

  Señora Martínez peered past me. "Where are the others?"

  "That's the bad news," I said. "Only Helse and I made it. All the others—"

  "Your mother did not find you?" Señora Martínez asked, her face drawn.

  The cold of the outside closed in on me. "My mother—went out?"

  "She led another party of twenty-five. She had a premonition you were in trouble. That there would be deaths in your party if someone didn't come to help."

  H
else turned a staring face to me. "Oh, no, Hope..."

  "There were deaths," I said dully. "My mother and her party—did not return?"

  Señora Martínez shook her head. "We thought—she would be with you."

  "When did she leave?"

  "At dawn."

  That meant the second party had been out on the surface of Io all day, following our route. All day in Hell.

  "We could look for them in the bubble," Helse suggested.

  The station technician who had piloted us here spoke up. "Anyone traveling afoot on the surface leaves a trail. The eruptions and evaporation of the day obliterate it, but if they are still alive and moving, that new trail will show up now."

  I knew with a sick certainty that nothing would be found. The odds were against any human party surviving a full day on Io's inner face. How well we knew that! Yet we had to look.

  Quickly we transferred the supplies and installed the new drive-jet. This one was much larger and heavier than the old one, and was fashioned in a circle. It would blast a ring of fire, or more properly a tube of fire, surrounding the rear air lock. It was securely fastened in place; we would not be able to move it to the bubble equator to institute spin in space. But for that we still had the old, little, single-jet drive, which we could store near the lock inside when not in use. "Be careful not to short the lead wires when it's inside!" the technician warned us. "It will jet in air as readily in space, and you wouldn't want that to happen." Yes, we were sure we wouldn't!

  The technician finished and bade us farewell. The locks sealed and the two bubbles separated. Then both took off and floated low across the hellish surface of the planet, looking for a trail.

  There was nothing. Our own trail of the morning had been obliterated, of course, and no other evidence of life showed. Sulfur was condensing on the mountain slopes and settling like snow on the plains below, leaving clear spaces around the active volcanoes. New tracks should have been evident in that fresh snow. The second party of women was gone with no more trace than the first. Killer Io had had another feast.