“Wilco.” I smiled. Fly ball to center, outfielder caught napping. All I had to do was make it to first base.
I carefully guided the container into Lee's hold, where it would join the nine others already aboard. Keeping an eye on the comp, I took a quick look around. As I expected, the hold was deserted. The two other pods that had assisted me earlier were gone, and with the countdown this close to zero, the crew member assigned to overseeing the load-in—who just happened to be the fellow who'd showed me around the ship—would have already cycled through the airlock so that he could get out of his suit before the captain sounded general quarters. Just as he'd told me he usually did.
So I was alone. My suit was sealed, the cockpit depressurized. I felt a slight bump as latches on either side of the hold seized the container and locked it into place. A double-beep from my console confirmed this. Safe on first, and the ball still in the outfield.
“All right, it's in.” I reached forward, typed a command into the navigation subsystem. “Gimme a sec and I'm outta here."
I grabbed the horseshoe bar of my chest restraint, pushed it upward. A stab of the thumb against the buckle of my waist strap released me from my seat. Floating free within the cockpit, my own private countdown underway. Four ... three ... two ... one...
Obeying the preset program I'd surreptitiously entered into the comp, the pod's manipulators released the canister. A second later, the RCS fired a brief burst lasting only a second. Through the forward porthole, I saw the canister slowly receding as the pod moved away.
“Roger that, X-Ray Juliet Two-Four,” Trafco said. “You're looking good."
No doubt I was. A camera within the forward bulkhead monitored everything I was doing, its image relayed to both the traffic controller and a junior officer aboard Lee's flight deck. Everyone was ready to relax; the last container was loaded, and once my pod was clear of the hold the crew would shut the hatch.
“Copy, Trafco,” I replied. “I'm ... aw, damn!"
Right on the dot, the pesky starboard RCS thruster misfired again, once more rolling the pod around. This time, though, the accident caused my pod to pitch forward so that the bottom of its hull faced the camera.
And that was when I popped the canopy hatch and bailed out.
* * * *
III
I love baseball. It's a game that seems relaxed, almost effortless, yet as with any great performance art, timing is everything. When a player steals second, for instance, he has to pick that moment when the pitcher is looking the other way. Sometimes that occurs in the split-second after the ball has left the mound. That's when the guy on first makes his move.
Although I'd worked over this part of my plan to the last detail, a dress rehearsal was impossible. So my heart was pumping as I pulled myself free of the cockpit. Grabbing hold of a fuselage rung, I twisted myself around until I was able to slam the hatch shut with my free hand.
“X-Ray Juliet! What's going on out there?"
I kept my mouth shut, and a moment later I heard my own voice through the headset. “Hang on, it's just that damn thing again. I'm ... okay, here it goes..."
That was my cue. I kicked myself away from the pod, careful to keep it between myself and the camera. Perhaps there would be a minor, tell-tale perturbation caused by my kick-off, but I was counting on it being corrected by the pod's thrusters. I didn't look back to check as I sailed toward the containers neatly arranged in triple-stacked rows just below me. They were less than twenty-five feet away, yet I knew that I was exposed, if only for a few seconds. With any luck, though, anyone watching the screens would be too distracted by the runaway pod to notice what was going on in the background.
I just managed to insert myself into a four-foot gap between two of the topmost containers when I heard Trafco again. “All right, roger that, Two-Four. Get out of there and bring it home. We'll have someone..."
“Thanks. Sorry about that.” My prerecorded voice cut off the controller before he was finished. “Need to take a breather here. X-Ray Juliet two-four out."
I let out my breath. From my hiding place between the containers, I looked up to see the pod rising from the hold. The autopilot would safely guide it back to its port within Alpha Dock; in the meantime, any further queries from Trafco would be met with my own voice, saying noncommittal things like we copy or roger that. The pod's polarized windows wouldn't reveal that its cockpit was vacant, and if Lady Fortune continued to stay on my side, no one in the maintenance crew would check out XJR-24 for at least ten or fifteen minutes after it docked. Even then, it was a safe bet that that it would be a while before anyone put two and two together as to why Lucius Guthrie was AWOL. At least not until they checked the bar where I hung out, and that might take some time. The foreman was a nice guy, but he wasn't all that swift.
Wedging myself between the containers, I used my wrist unit to access the primary com channel. For the next couple of minutes, I eavesdropped on the chatter between the Lee and Highgate controllers. No sign that my trick had been detected. Cool beans. I was safe on second.
Exactly two minutes after I made my escape, I felt a vibration against my back and the soles of my boots. Looking up through my helmet faceplate, I watched the enormous doors slowly lower into place. The moment they shut, the interior floodlights shut down, and the hold was plunged into darkness.
I was still wary of the camera, though, so I didn't switch on the suit lights. Instead, I opened a pocket on my left thigh and pulled out a small UV penlight. Lowering my helmet visor, I activated its ultraviolet filter, then used the light to guide myself, hand over hand, between the containers until I reached the airlock in the forward bulkhead.
The airlock was already depressurized, just as I expected. Climbing into the tiny compartment, I shut the hatch behind me. A glance at the heads-up display on my faceplate: less than twenty seconds to spare. Grasping elastic loops on the walls and tucking the toes of my boots within the foot restraints, I braced himself for MCFA.
I couldn't hear the warning bells, but the Millis-Clement field activated on schedule. Gravity returned as an abrupt sensation of weight, welcome after two and a half hours of zero-gee. Even as my boots settled against the floor, though, I detected a faint rumble through the deck plates. The Lee was being released from its berth; in another moment, tugs would begin hauling the starship through the mammoth sphere of Alpha Dock, guiding it toward the giant hangar doors that had confined the vessel until then.
Time to make a run for third. Unsnapping a shoulder pocket, I pulled out a miniature tool kit. Within it was a small flat-head screwdriver that I used to pry open the service panel beneath the airlock controls. Part of my preparation included learning how to circumvent the internal sensors; it took less than a minute to locate the proper wire, which I cut with a pen knife. Now I'd be able to pressurize the airlock without anyone on the bridge taking notice.
The tugs had detached their cables and peeled away from the Lee when a green lamp on the airlock panel lit, telling me that the compartment was fully pressurized. I released my suit's collar latch and pulled off my helmet, then went about removing the rest of my suit. Beneath it were ordinary clothes: dress shirt and cravat, travel jacket, trousers and a thick pair of socks. All woven from cotton microfiber, they provided almost as much warmth as the single-piece undergarment I normally wore inside my suit, albeit without the luxury of internal waste-removal systems; for that, I'd taken the precaution of not eating or drinking for two hours before I went on duty.
From the thigh pocket of my discarded suit, I pulled out a pair of faux-leather boots. I put them on, then stood erect and checked my appearance in the glass window of the inner hatch. What I saw pleased me: a young guy in his early twenties, well dressed and obviously wealthy, but otherwise inconspicuous. Not an immigrant nor a tradesman, but rather the sort of person who'd have enough money to spend on a vacation to the new world. No one would guess that I was a former Union Astronautica officer desperate enough to escape from Earth
to stow away aboard a starship with little more than the clothes on his back.
Yet I was more than what I wore. Once again, I patted the inside pocket of my jacket. The documents I'd need to prove my identity were there, along with L2,000 that I had converted into Colonial dollars—C1,200 at the current rate of exchange—at the BanqueAmericano branch on Highgate just two days ago. These things would come in handy once I reached my destination.
For now, I was a stowaway. Very soon, though, I'd play the role of a passenger ... and once I set foot on Coyote, I'd become a defector.
* * * *
IV
Four bells through the loudspeaker, followed sixty seconds later by a vibration passing through the floor, told me that the Lee had activated its differential drive. The ship was now on the way to rendezvous with Starbridge Earth.
A quick glance through the hatch window to make sure I was alone, then I turned the wheel counter-clockwise. Beyond the airlock lay an EVA ready-room, its walls lined with suit lockers. I found one that was empty and shoved my suit inside, then eased open the door and peered out.
I was on Deck 1, the ship's lowest level, about one-third of the way back from the bow. The central passageway was deserted, yet I knew that it was only a matter of minutes before the captain called an end to GQ and the crew would be able to move about freely. Closing the hatch behind me, I moved quickly down the narrow corridor, heading toward the bow.
From either side of me, I heard voices from behind the closed doors of various compartments. If an encounter was unavoidable, I was prepared to play stupid: whoops, silly me ... you mean this isn't the way to the lounge? Yet I didn't run into any crew members before I found the ladder leading to Deck 2. A quick jog up the steps, and from there it was a short walk down another passageway until I reached the hatch to the passenger section.
I peeked through the window. No one in sight. I took a moment to straighten my cravat and run my fingers through my hair, then I grasped the wheel. The hatch opened with a faint sigh as I stepped out into the narrow alcove leading to the restrooms. The signs above the doors showed that they were all unoccupied. I quietly opened the door of the nearest one, shut it just loud enough to be heard, and then commenced down the center aisle.
Before it was seized by the Coyote Federation during Parson's Rebellion—an incident that was something of a coda to the Revolution—the Robert E. Lee belonged to the European Alliance, where it'd been known as the EASS Francis Drake. Once it was rechristened and became the flagship of Coyote's fledgling navy, the vessel had undergone a major refit. It now served as the principal means of transportation from Earth to the new world. Although most of Earth's major governments had signed trade and immigration agreements with the Coyote Federation, the easiest way to get to 47 Ursae Majoris was to buy passage aboard the Lee. Tickets were cheaper, tariffs were lower, and—provided that one possessed the proper credentials—the customs hassles were fewer.
When I arrived on Highgate ten months ago, I didn't have a ticket, nor did I possess a tourist visa. Circumstances made it impossible for me to obtain either one, at least not by legal means. Over the course of the last ten months, though, I'd scraped up enough money to buy first-class passage aboard the Lee, and the same sources who'd provided me with Lucius Guthrie's identity were happy to do the same again, this time with fake documents proving that I was a gent by the name of Geoffrey Carr. The real Geoffrey Carr was a naive young lad from England who'd become stranded on Highgate after failing to make a living as a nightclub comedian. As luck would have it, he'd run into Lucius Guthrie, who'd been willing to provide him with a ticket home for a little subterfuge on his part, with no questions asked.
So it was Geoffrey Carr who had a private cabin reserved for him aboard the Lee, along with the visa that would allow him to pass through customs once he reached Coyote. All he had to do was show up at the right gate at the right time, present his credentials and ticket ... and once they were scanned, disappear into the loo just before the passengers were allowed to board ship. If Geoff did all that, he'd find a third-class ticket back to Earth waiting for him in my abandoned quarters, along with forged documents that he'd use to establish his identity as Lucius Guthrie.
This was the only part of my plan that depended upon me trusting someone else. I was confident that Geoff wouldn't let me down—in his own way, he was just as desperate as I was—but nonetheless I couldn't help but feel a certain twinge of anxiety as I strolled through the second-class cabin. I distracted myself by sizing up my fellow travelers. Seated four abreast on either side of the aisle, some were immigrants heading for a new life on another world; mothers and fathers held their childrens’ hands as they gazed through the portholes, taking one last look at the planet they'd called home. A pair of clergymen in black suits, both wearing the helix-backed crucifixes of Dominionist missionaries. A couple of rich tourists, dressed in expensive clothes, speaking to each other in German. Business people in business suits, studying business notes for business meetings in hopes of making business deals on the new world. And dozens of others, of all nationalities—except, of course, citizens of the Western Hemisphere Union, who were forbidden under law to use space transportation not chartered by the WHU—whose reasons for being aboard I could only speculate.
I'd almost reached the front of the cabin when a uniformed steward stepped out of the galley. Surprised to see a passenger up and about, her eyes widened when she spotted me. “Sir, what are you doing out of your seat?"
“Very sorry. I had to use the ... um, facilities.” I feigned embarrassment. “Just a little nauseous, I'm afraid,” I added, clutching my stomach. “Shouldn't have eaten before coming aboard."
A sympathetic nod, yet her eyes remained suspicious. A quick glance past my shoulder told her that all the second-class seats were occupied. “Where are you supposed to be?"
“That way.” I nodded toward the bow. “Cabin..."
All of a sudden, I realized that I'd forgotten its number. After everything I'd just been through, that one small detail had slipped my mind. “Sorry, can't recall,” I mumbled. “But it's just over here...."
I started to step around her, but the steward moved to block my way. “Let me help you. May I see your ticket, please?"
“Of course.” I reached into my jacket, pulled out the plastic wafer. There was a scanner attached to her belt. If she used it to examine my ticket, she'd see that, although Geoffrey Carr had passed through the passenger gate, for some reason his ticket hadn't been processed before he entered the pressurized gangway leading to the ship. If that happened, I'd have to hope that my only possible excuse—someone at the gate neglected to process my ticket; why, is that a problem?—would be enough to convince her.
Yet the steward didn't unclip her scanner. Instead, she glanced at the name and number printed on the card. “Cabin 4, Mr. Carr,” she murmured, then glanced up at me. “Wonder why I didn't see you earlier."
“My mistake.” I essayed a weak smile. “Haven't been to my cabin yet. Went straight to the head soon as I came aboard.” I hesitated, then moved a little closer. “You may want to have the other passengers avoid using it for awhile. I switched on the fan, but still..."
“Yes, right.” The steward hastily turned toward the passageway leading to the first-class cabins. “This way, please...."
My accommodations were no larger than the airlock I'd cycled through, with barely enough room for two persons. Two seats facing each other across a small table, all of which could be collapsed into the bulkheads to make room for a pair of fold-down bunks. It's questionable whether being able to stretch out and sleep during the sixteen-hour voyage was worth two months’ salary as a longshoreman, but the added measure of privacy was priceless. However remote the possibility that I would encounter someone who'd met either (the fake) Lucius Guthrie or (the real) Geoffrey Carr, that was a risk I didn't want to take. Hence the private cabin.
The steward showed me how everything worked, then inquired whether I would like a
nything from the galley. My throat was dry, so I asked for orange juice. She left, returning a few minutes later with my drink. Another admonishment for not being where I should've been during launch, but this time it was only a mild rebuke, like that given to a mischievous child. I accepted the scolding with good grace, and then she left me in peace, sliding shut the door behind her.
Alone again, I settled back in the forward-facing seat, sipping my O.J. as I watched the Moon drift past the starboard window. Too bad I wasn't seated on the other side of the ship, or I could have bid Earth a fond farewell. Perhaps it was just as well, though, and maybe even appropriate. I'd turned my back on home a long time ago....
Considering this, I chuckled under my breath. No, that wasn't quite right. I had covered the bases. Now I was about to steal home.
* * * *
V
It took nearly six hours for the Lee to reach Starbridge Earth. I passed the time by playing solitaire on the table comp, now and then glancing up at the small wallscreen on the bulkhead. It displayed the ship's trajectory as it traveled from Highgate toward the starbridge, with occasional departure-angle views of Earth and the Moon. The steward stopped by to offer the lunch menu. I ordered Swedish meatballs with spinach pasta, and after I ate, I switched on the DO NOT DISTURB light, put my legs up, and took a nap.
A bird-like chirp woke me. I opened my eyes just as a woman's voice came through the wallscreen speaker. “This is Commodore Tereshkova from the flight deck. We're now on primary approach to the starbridge, with final approach to hyperspace insertion in about ten minutes...."
I sat up a little straighter. I wondered how many of my fellow travelers recognized the captain's name. Anastasia Tereshkova, former commanding officer of the Drake and, before that, the EASS Columbus, the first European starship to reach 47 Ursae Majoris. After she'd led the Drake's crew in mutiny against the European Alliance, Captain Tereshkova had defected to the Coyote Federation, where President Gunther had subsequently appointed her commodore of its navy. To be sure, her fleet consisted of one starship and small collection of shuttles and skiffs, but nonetheless I was surprised that she was still on active duty. Apparently the commodore wasn't ready to hang up her astronaut wings quite yet.
Asimov's SF, October-November 2007 Page 29