by Allen Steele
He doesn’t have to finish the thought; we all know what he means. After seven months of sweeping, scrubbing, mopping, polishing, planting, weeding, fertilizing, hauling, and doing whatever else we’re told to do, we can’t wait for the next bit of fun John has in store for us.
The bundles contain one-piece blue overalls with elastic bindings on the wrists and ankles and enough pockets to satisfy a kleptomaniac; it must be cold at the hub, because the fabric is thick and quilted. John has us change into them right there. We trade our sandals for soft booties with Velcro-like soles and small weights sewn into their ankles.
The breast pocket of our outfits is emblazoned with a small omega. Once again, I wonder what this means; the same character is at the center of the mosaic floor of the Great Hall, and I’ve also seen it here and there in the habitat. The symbol holds some significance to Mister Chicago, that much is certain.
Once we’re dressed, our robes littering the corridor floor around us, John gives each of us a small headset. “Once you’re at the hub,” he explains, “you’ll need to use these to hear your associate. Your eyes-up will continue to function, but…”
“Radiation shielding?” Russell asks, and once again John looks perplexed. “Our associates will function because of their onboard memories, but transmissions from the Main Brain will…oww! shit!”
He grabs at his temples and doubles over in pain. Instant headache, courtesy of Hal. John watches him dispassionately. “Okay, okay,” Russ gasps. “No more questions…”
“Very good, Russell.” John triple-blinks, then his lips move silently. Russ lets out his breath, then slowly stands erect again. There’s a calculating look in his eyes. For whatever it’s worth, he’s just learned something significant.
That’s weird. Why doesn’t the Main Brain want us to ask questions about radiation shields?
“All set? Very good.” John turns to the cart and touches its keypad; the cart stops humming as wheels descend from its undercarriage. John presses a button on the wall next to the hatch behind him; it irises open with a faint grinding noise, and he leads us into a large cab. Its walls are encircled by polished brass handrails and large windows; past our reflections in the thick glass, I can make out the glimmer of starlight.
Russell notices it, too. “Glass elevator,” he whispers to me. “We’re outside the habitat.”
We make room for the cart, then our associates tell us to grasp the rails tightly and plant our feet firmly against the carpeted floor. The hatch sphincters shut; there’s a slight jolt, and then we start to rise.
What we’ve first taken to be an elevator is, in fact, a cable car.
As it ascends one of the thick cables tethering the habitat to the asteroid, I look out the window next to me and see the vast roof of the habitat sprawling out below us. I catch a brief glimpse of the castle through the skylight, now reduced to a small brown cross surrounded by tiny gardens and groves, before it vanishes from sight when the skylight becomes obscured by a dense forest of cables.
Upward we rise, our weight diminishing with each passing moment as the cable car climbs to an ungodly height. Within minutes we’re suspended a mile above the habitat. Background stars slide past the cables; it’s now uncomfortably obvious that the entire structure is rotating like a gargantuan merry-go-round. We aren’t going upward, but sideways…
A pair of frisky chipmunks start playing tag in my stomach. I wrench my eyes away from the window and stare down at the floor. I’m nauseated; something acidic threatens to surge out of my throat. Shemp and Sam are groaning; only Russell and John remain calm. I try shutting my eyes, but that doesn’t help much; each passing vibration tells me we’re still in motion.
“Oh, God,” I murmur, “I’m going to be sick…”
Chip flashes a message against the inside of my closed eyelids:
Open your eyes. Look directly at the colony’s hub.
“No way!”
Open your eyes, Alec. Look out the window.
Don’t look down. Fix your eyes on the hub.
Chip wouldn’t tell me to do something that’s bad for me. He’s my guardian angel, my friendly neighborhood omniscient being. I take a deep breath, turn my head toward the window next to me, open my eyes to gaze upward.
4442 Garcia is now a scarred boulder that fills the sky. Dead-center is the massive shield of the colony’s hub, a tortoise caught in the middle of a spiderweb. Although the hub steadily grows larger, at least it isn’t moving; in fact, it’s nice and stationary, and it’s now apparent that the cab is descending toward it.
The chipmunks get sleepy and go back to bed. I take another breath. That was close. “Thanks, Chip,” I whisper. “I owe you one.”
“Look over there,” Russell murmurs, pointing out another window. “Left side of the hub.”
At first, I can’t tell what he’s talking about. Then I spot something that vaguely resembles a pair of white half-liter bottles glued together end to end, nestled within a metal cradle against the side of the shield. A broad cone opens from the rear end of the object; bright lights glimmer from tiny windows scattered across the front section.
“Is that a spaceship?” Okay, so I’m a little slow on the beat.
“Mister Chicago’s yacht,” John replies. “The Anakuklesis. It berthed just a few minutes ago.”
“That’s what we’re meeting?” Shemp asks. He’s just as green-faced as I am, but he’s also peering out the windows. Moe must have given him the same instructions. “Little sucker, ain’t it?”
“Yes, it is rather modest…only eighty-five meters. Freighters and passenger liners are larger, but it suits the master’s purposes.”
For the life of me, I can’t tell whether John’s being sarcastic or not. Shemp must have been fooled by the yacht’s relative size; for my part, I can tell that it’s a big sucker. “What’s it called, the…ana-kook-whatsis?”
“Anakuklesis.” This from Sam; he’s also peering out the windows. “Ancient Greek term…the ‘Eternal Return,’ if I remember my classics correctly.”
There’s an odd expression on Russ’s face when Sam says this. He opens his mouth as if to add something typically professorial, but then he seems to think better of it. He stares out the windows instead. “Little bit of the old Omega Point Theory, eh, John?” he says, less of a question than a prod.
If John knows what Russell means by this remark, he doesn’t show it. So far as I can tell, though, he’s just as clueless as the rest of us. Shemp and I glance at each other, then at Sam, hoping that he’ll give us an answer. But Sam just shrugs and raises an eyebrow; he doesn’t know what Russell is referring to, either. And Russell isn’t saying.
Russ has figured something out. If it makes him want to deliver one of his lectures, but also shuts him up because of what his associate might do to him, then it has to be awfully important. Time to start paying attention.
The cable car decelerates and slides into a sleeve within the hub’s outer hull. It eases to such a gentle halt that we barely realize that it’s stopped until its hatch irises open. John touches the cart’s keypad again and sends it out into the half-lighted corridor on the other side of the hatch, then he turns to us.
“You need to know several things before we go any farther.” Fred Rogers has taken off his sneakers; it’s no-shit time in the neighborhood. “First, for your own safety, keep at least one foot on the floor at all times. If you pick up something large, or if it’s handed to you, be careful with it. Something that looks like it may weigh a hundred pounds will only weigh less than ten here, and it may fly away if you pick it up too fast. Do you understand?”
We all nod. This is something we’ve already noted. Although we’re not floating, our bodies feel lighter. It seems as if the only thing keeping me from banging my head against the ceiling is the clutch of my shoe soles against the thin carpet. But it isn’t a totally unfamiliar sensation; it’s much like the time I inhaled a half-dozen whippits in my car just before going into the Plant and Pag
e show.
“Second,” John continues, “you need to go eyes-up now, and stay in that mode until we’re through. Your associates have already downloaded all the information you’ll need to know, so you’ll probably not have to ask anything. Just follow their instructions. Understood?”
So this was how Chip anticipated my vertigo and told me how to deal with it. Nice little suckers, these MINNs. Wish I had one when I was taking college exams. Everyone triple-blinks; their pupils grow less distinct as their nictitating eyelids clamp down.
“And third…” John hesitates. “You’ll see some people who may seem very strange to you. Whatever you do, don’t react in any adverse way. Simply accept them as they are. Do whatever they ask you to do, at least within reason, and—”
“Okay if I do this?” Shemp holds up his right hand in a Vulcan salute.
Russ, Sam, and I crack up. My man Shemp. Veteran of a thousand Star Trek episodes. Klingons, Ferengi, Romulans, Cardassians, the Borg…he’s seen ’em all. Christ, he even sat through the entire first season of Deep Space Nine.
“No, I don’t think that’s acceptable.” John’s not amused. “In fact, it could be quite dangerous. I understand that gesture is considered obscene.”
“By whom?” Sam asks, but John doesn’t reply. He stares at Shemp until he lowers his hand.
“Very well,” John says reluctantly, as if he’s taking us to the guillotine. “Let’s go.” And then he leads us out of the cab and into the hub.
It’s not all that difficult, walking in low gravity; you just have to be careful and make sure that one foot is firmly placed on the floor before you raise the other foot. Wearing shoes with lots of tiny hooks on the soles helps a lot; each of us trips a few times before we get it right, but at least no one goes sprawling. For awhile, though, we look like a bunch of guys maxed out on lithium. Step, walk, step, walk, step, walk. Hey, ma, look at me, I’m walking…
John escorts us to a central passageway that curves around the inside of the hub. It’s barely wide enough for two people to walk abreast; quite a few people pass us as we march single-file along one wall. Most wear the same sort of jumpsuits we do, but a couple of times we come upon guys wearing what looks like lightweight spacesuits, carrying striped helmets under their arms.
One of them, still wearing his helmet, has just exited a round hatch in the outer wall, swinging out backward by grasping a horizontal bar mounted above the portal. He nearly bumps into me as he turns around; I pardon myself and he gives me a sour glance through his faceplate. Before he shuts the hatch, I catch a glimpse of what’s inside: a tiny single-seat cockpit. Starlight shines through an oval porthole above the dashboard. A spacecraft of some sort; except for Gemini and Apollo capsules in museums, it was the first time I’ve seen something like this close-up.
“What’s this, Chip?” I ask, pointing at the closed hatch.
This is an EVA pod. It is used for making repairs outside the colony.
“Thanks. Just curious.” I hasten to catch up with the others.
The passageway ends in a large semicircular compartment with a large closed hatch in the center of the outer wall. On the other side of broad windows is the Anakuklesis; at rest in its docking cradle, the yacht is connected to the hub by an enclosed walkway. Spacesuited figures float above its cylindrical hull, and several workmen wait in the gateway, some gazing up at monitors suspended from the ceiling. Robots resembling giant spark plugs outfitted with four double-jointed arms are parked nearby. All the place needs are travel posters, candy machines, a harried ticket agent, and a Moonie selling flowers.
We loiter for a few minutes—well, most of us do; Russ beelines to the nearest window and practically rubs his nose against it as he gloms the massive spaceship—before a couple of workmen go to the hatch, undog it, swing it open, and slide a ramp into place. They enter the walkway and are gone for a couple of minutes. When they reappear, they’re followed by two men whom, judging from their braided blue uniforms and matching tricorns, I take to be the pilots.
Proceed to the ramp. Stand in single file on the right side. Assume parade-rest posture. Do not look directly at anyone exiting the hatch. Say nothing until you are spoken to.
I do as Chip tells me. So do Shemp, Russell, Sam, even John. Shemp asks what “parade rest” means; I watch out of the corner of my eye as he squares his shoulders, places his legs apart, and folds his hands behind his back. Maybe we’re going to hear “Hail to the Chief” next.
But there’s nothing except shuffling motions from the gateway. Then a figure strides through the hatch, and I get my first look at a Superior.
He’s tall—seven and a half feet, as giraffelike as an NBA center—and twice as skinny: his slender arms and legs disappear within the dense folds of his long, brightly colored robes. His reddish hair is mowed down to the scalp, save for a braided rattail at the nape of his neck. The pale skin of his face, high cheeked and narrow, is so completely tattooed with intricate red-and-blue whorls that it resembles a false-color fingerprint, until he turns his face toward me and I see a tiny sword etched from his high brow down to the long bridge of his nose.
The Superior peers at me through eyes whose dark blue pupils are the size of quarters. In the side of my vision, I can see Shemp gaping at him—no, this was not a Hollywood extra in heavy makeup—before Moe apparently tells him to stop staring and face forward. Then the Superior addresses me, his voice thin and reedy.
“Be you alive or dead?”
I don’t know what he means.
Say: “Dead I am.” Then bow, and say: “To my home, Vladimir Algol-Raphael, welcome. Carry your bags, I may?”
“Dead I am.” I bend forward…not too quickly, lest I lose my balance. “To my home, Vladimir Algol-Raphael, welcome. Carry your bags, I may?”
The Superior stares at me, then laughs out loud.
It isn’t a nice laugh; it’s like your yuppie second-cousin hooting over the fact that you haven’t been accepted by Harvard. He looks back over his narrow shoulder as he raises his empty hands. “Stand straight cannot, nothing in hands see! Mister Chicago’s deadheads! Compost better than servants!”
I don’t need an eyes-up translation to know that I’ve just been insulted. Chip says:
Say nothing to him. Smile. Bow.
I say nothing to Vladimir Algol-Raphael. I smile like a fool and take another short bow, even though my cheeks are burning and all I really want to do is reach up and give his chicken neck a good, hard twist. The Superior marches off the ramp, making room for the people coming through the hatch.
The next person off the ship is a beautiful young woman with fashion-model looks. I might have enjoyed toting the cylindrical bag she carried off the ship, if only because my heart melts for icy blondes, but she stalks past me and approaches Russell instead. He greets her formally, but barely finishes before she drops her bag directly on his feet. The sucker must be heavy, even in low gravity; he winces.
“Let’s go, deadhead,” she snaps. “And whatever you do, just be quiet.”
“Yes ma’am.” Russell picks up the bag. He’s barely able to hide the murder in his eyes, but follows her off and away. What a bitch…
And so it goes. Human, Primary, Superior, Primary, Superior, Superior, Primary, Primary, Superior, Primary, Superior, Primary, Primary, Superior…a long procession of people and meta-people emerging from the gangway, each decked out in the finest clothes, each as rude and self-important as the last one, ignoring salutations offered by the deadheads standing at the ramp.
I later learn just who they are: Mister Chicago’s entourage, an ever-changing cast of Belters, Superiors, selenians, aresians, jovians, and just plain losers. Some are business associates and others are dilettantes or hangers-on from across the system; all are attracted to extreme wealth and power the way flies are drawn to sugar. When Mister Chicago travels, he seldom travels alone; these people come with him, and when he comes home, it’s always with a few more friends and fast-talking parasites he’s pick
ed up on the way. They reside in the castle until they’ve either concluded their business or they wear out their welcome; then they either leave of their own accord or are sent back to wherever he had found them in the first place.
Used to see the same thing all the time, back when I was a rich kid. And I never treated the hired help any differently back then, either. Now I’m the guy holding the shitty end of the stick.
Most refuse our assistance, opting instead to have robots load their stuff on the cart we’ve brought with us, but a few choose to have servants carry their bags. Shemp draws a couple of haughty women who burden him with what would have been three hundred pounds of luggage in Earth-normal gravity; he struggles to pick it all up at once. Sam gets a Superior who carries only a couple of small bags, but addresses him in a dialect so obscure that Sam’s associate has trouble translating it; the Superior berates Sam constantly as he leads him out of the gateway. John gets the worst of the bunch: a squat pig of a guy who carefully looks him up and down before he leans forward and whispers something in his ear. John’s face goes dark red; the pig guffaws loudly and winks to one of his companions as he drops two massive bags in front of him. I don’t like John very much, but I have to feel sorry for him just now…and just a little vindicated. He told us to obey the wishes of our newly arrived guests; just how far does this directive apply to himself?
About twenty passengers have disembarked from the Anakuklesis by the time I’m left alone at the ramp. Everyone else is gone, save for a couple of workmen and Vladimir Algol-Raphael, who appears to be waiting for someone. I’m wondering if I’ve missed something when I hear soft footsteps from the hatch.
And then Pasquale Chicago appears at the top of the ramp.
Six weeks ago, I had him pegged as a wealthy dude with a taste for slavery. Now I know a little better. He’s a former Pax Astra official who bolted with a stolen fortune; he’s a high member of the Zodiac, if not its leader. He’s the Don Corleone of the asteroid belt. He’s got my balls in his hand.
Welcome home, Mister Chicago. I pray that your voyage has been pleasant and fruitful.