A King of Infinite Space

by Allen Steele

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Say, ‘Yes sir, Chris.’”

  “Yes sir, Chris.”

  “Good. Now go put on another robe. You look like shit.”

  He starts to walk away, then he stops. “And one more thing,” he adds. “Stay away from Anna. I’m having her moved into my quarters tonight, so you won’t be seeing her much. She’s still on housekeeping, but I don’t want you messing with her. She’s mine. Understand?”

  That’s weird. Anna and I are friends—and yes, I’ve secretly desired her—but I’ve never “messed” with her, if you didn’t count all the times we were in the showers together before our memories came back. Never once have I ever laid a hand on her. So what the hell is that about?

  “Yes sir, Chris.” Fuck you, Shemp.

  “Very good.” There’s gloating in his voice. “Now get back to work. Chop chop. Time waits for no one.”

  And, to quote Mick Jagger, it won’t wait for me.

  Whatever else happens, I have to get off Garcia. It’s no longer simply a matter of being terrified by Mister Chicago’s insanity; now my best friend—my former best friend—has been corrupted by the same madness. I instinctively know that it’s only a matter of time before the master of the house grows tired of playing with me. If he knows about the connection between Shemp and me, it’s entirely possible that Mister Chicago will get rid of me in a suitably entertaining manner. Perhaps another poolside chat, with Shemp as the finger man.

  If I’m going to escape, it has to be soon.

  Fortunately, Shemp has unwittingly given me my means of escape. In assigning me to be a bellboy for the next batch of guests, he’s also allowed me unconditional access to the cable cars. That same afternoon, when I join Sam, Russell, and a couple of other deadheads at the same cable car station on Level D where we embarked on our first trip to the hub, I make sure that I’m the one who opens the hatch to Access AH-12. Chip lets me do so without question or interference; one word, and the hatch irises open. Good. That means I’m now authorized by the Main Brain to use the cable car.

  But will that always be the case? I can’t count on it, especially since the plan I’ve started to develop calls for me to make my escape at a time when the hub is likely to be empty and no ships would be arriving. I’d contemplated sneaking aboard one of the ships before it left the asteroid, until I realized that the risks of being discovered as a stowaway are unacceptably high. If its crew doesn’t return to Garcia, then it’s possible that they may simply toss me out the nearest airlock, or even allow someone like Vladimir Algol-Raphael to use me for rapier practice.

  No, I’ve got another idea in mind, but it means entering a cable car without alerting Chip, and therefore beyond range of my associate’s radio link with the Main Brain.

  In the days that followed, whenever I was sent to the hub to greet new arrivals, I made certain that I always used the same cable car, even when others were closer and more available, and that I always followed the same route to Access AH-12. Each time I walked to the station on Level D, I carefully counted how many paces it took for me to get from the servants’ quarters on Level B, and memorized the figure. Many hours later, once I was alone in my room, I added that figure to a short list of others like it that I had written on a notepad and left under my pillow.

  Once I had made four trips, I averaged the figures together. It took approximately seven hundred and eighty paces for me to travel from the servants’ quarters to Access AH-12. To test this, the fifth time I went to the cable car station, I walked with my head down, never raising my eyes from my feet while I silently counted the number of times they hit the floor. This took considerable concentration—I ignored offhand comments by other servants by pretending to be in a sulky mood—but when I reached seven hundred and eighty, I looked up and found the cable car hatch no more than five feet away.

  Whether or not I could do this same feat in the dark was another matter entirely. And that was only the first step…or rather, the first seven hundred and eighty steps.

  During my third trip to the hub, I let the rest of the welcome wagon get in front of me, which gives me a chance to hang back. Once they’re out of sight, I stop next to one of the EVA pods I spotted during my first trip. Its hatch opens easily with a simple clockwise twist of its locklever; no alarm bells ring when I peer inside the tiny cockpit.

  The instrument panels are just as intimidating as the first time I saw them; for a moment my courage falters. This is fucking insane. Then I take a deep breath and go eyes-up.

  “Chip,” I whisper, “do you know how to fly one of these things?”

  Yes, Alec, this information is available to me.

  “How difficult would it be for me to learn this stuff?”

  It would be extremely difficult. You have no previous experience with piloting an EVA pod.

  I expected that. “Yes, but if you helped me, could I fly this thing? I mean, could you talk me through it?”

  This would be unlikely, unless you had some prior training in piloting an EVA pod.

  However, it would still be very dangerous.

  Damn. “Okay…say that I had information on how to fly an EVA pod, and you were to assist me as a copilot? Could I fly this thing then?”

  This is more feasible. However, it would still be quite hazardous.

  “More feasible” and “quite hazardous” sound like better odds than “unlikely” and “very dangerous.” I glance over my shoulder; no one’s spotted me, and the rest of the group hasn’t noticed my absence yet. “Can you download that information into your system?”

  Yes, but not at this time.

  Crap. Of course he can’t; he’s beyond comlink range with the central AI. And if I ask Chip to retrieve that info when I’m in the habitat, the Main Brain might blow the whistle.

  Another notion occurs to me. “Can you get it later, if I ask you to do so now?”

  Yes, I can do this, if you tell me when you wish to have it downloaded.

  I sigh in relief. “Download it six hours from now, and make it available to me on eyes-up. Okay?”

  Affirmative. Pilot tutorial for a General Astronautics Model 6-1B EVA Repair Module will be downloaded to your MINN six hours from now.

  “Cool. Thanks, Chip. Eyes-down.”

  I slam the hatch shut and practically run down the corridor to catch up with the rest of the group. They’re already gathered in the gateway, waiting for another episode of Motherfuckers On Parade. Russell asks me what I had been doing; I tell him I went looking for the head.

  The ship is just coming in: a large vessel not unlike the Anakuklesis in general shape, but a little smaller. Servants and ground crew loiter around the reception area; we still have a few minutes to kill before it mates with its docking collar. I spot a uniformed crewman near one of the windows, watching the ship as it glides into port. He’s bored and all by himself, so I wander over to him.

  “Where’s this one coming from?” I ask.

  He barely glances my way. “What’s it to you, deadhead?”

  “Hey, just wondering. This stuff is new to me…space and all that, I mean.”

  He smirks. “I’m sure it is.”

  “Sure is. Hey, did you ever see The Empire Strikes Back? The second Star Wars movie, all that?”

  “Sure. Classic ciné.” He’s a little more interested. “You see it when it was new?”

  “You bet. My dad took me to it on opening day.” Which is the truth; it’s one of my few childhood memories of my father that doesn’t suck. “Remember that asteroid chase scene? I dunno, but does the Belt really look like that?”

  He barks laughter, then explains that the average distance between asteroids in the main belt is about a million miles, so no one ever collided with a rock. However, there’s distinct travel routes—synodic periods is the technical term—between one populated asteroid and its neighbors, and they in turn comprise traverses, the interplanetary shipping lanes used by spacecraft moving through the Belt toward the inner sy
stem. Freighters, mining ships, passenger ships, private yachts like this one—they all use them.

  Wow, that’s cool, I say, and he warms to the subject. The traverses change all the time, depending on the perihelions and aphelions of individual asteroids. When an asteroid is close to perihelion, it’s near a traverse. In fact, he says, 4442 Garcia is now close to one of the major traverses between the Belt and the inner system. That’s partly what’s making this bash possible; ships can get to Garcia more easily now than when the synodic periods are askew.

  I listen carefully, and ask questions, and remember everything he tells me.

  Late that night, after I’ve returned to my room and put my aching body to bed, I finally do what I’ve been wanting to do for the last ten hours. I shut my eyes, take a deep breath, and go eyes-up. Then I tell Chip to run the tutorial program for the EVA pod.

  Against the darkness of my closed eyelids, the cockpit of a tiny spacecraft reappears like a photographic negative image, with a horizontal bar of command icons arranged across the top of my private computer screen.

  I raise my hand, touch one of the panels above its oval window; it zooms into sharp focus. The panel is marked with stuff I can’t begin to understand—Tk. 1 Prs., Tk. 2. Prs., RCR Man. Eng., Auto. Prg./On/Off—but when I tap each one in turn, a vertical bar scrolls down from above, giving me a full rundown what each one of these things means.

  I almost laugh out loud when I see this. Fucking rad. Windows 2099. Bill Gates, eat your heart out.

  Nothing about this is going to come easy. I have to memorize all this stuff PDQ, and I still don’t know exactly where I’m going. Next trip to the hub, I have to talk Chip into downloading astrogation charts for the nearest traverse. Maybe I can find something that will help me. And there’s a dozen other details that I still have to figure out. If I screw up any one of them, my ass is fried.

  But now the way is clear, and it’s time to fly.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  * * *

  CHAMPAGNE SUPERNOVA

  “New Year’s Eve is amateur night.”

  —Murphy Brown

  And then, quite suddenly, it was December 31, 2099.

  Across the length and breadth of the inhabited solar system, humankind celebrated not only the coming of the new year, but also the new century. On Earth, this occurred in one-hour increments as measured by the planet’s axial rotation; on Mars, most aresians observed the event as Gemini 1, M.Y. 75, in accordance with the Zubrin calendar. In space, though, where everyone kept Greenwich Meridian Time, the parties were simultaneous and everywhere, from the space stations orbiting Earth to the underground cities of the Moon, from the Pax Astra capital at Clarke County to small outposts scattered across the Jovian moons, from Evening Star in orbit above Venus to remote and lonely Hershel Station on Titan.

  But none of these celebrations matched Mister Chicago’s ball on 4442 Garcia.

  At 2000 hours, the ceiling filaments suddenly go dark and the habitat is plunged into the weightless gloom of space, a black abyss broken only by starlight that gleams through the skylight. Near-total silence descends on the crowd gathered outside the castle; hundreds of eyes turn upward, anticipating the spectacle to come.

  A brilliant pink flash on the asteroid’s surface, bright as a supernova, erases all shadows in a single instant. An artificial thunderclap roars through artfully concealed loudspeakers; unwary guests drop their wineglasses as castle windows tremble in their frames. Multicolored streamers break loose from the ceiling rafters, gently unfurling as their ends plummet downward to the crowded terraces and walkways. The guests, sated from the lavish six-course dinner they had just finished, dazzled by pyrotechnics and deafened by sound, applaud and cheer.

  As the supernova fades, a spotlight lances upward through the darkness, capturing a lone human figure in the ceiling rafters high above the castle: a woman in a spangled skintight outfit, her arms spread apart.

  She arches her back, then launches herself into space.

  Gasps of terror and horror. No safety cord, no net, nothing between her and the ground. A falling angel captured in a shaft of light, she plummets down, down, down…

  A man in an identical outfit—upside down, legs folded over a trapeze bar, arms outstretched—appears from nowhere. Another spotlight catches and follows him as his body describes a perfect parabola until, in an instant of flawless synchronicity, he intercepts the falling woman. Their hands meet, clasp each other’s wrists; she bends her legs upward and tucks in her knees. Her feet slice the air only a few dozen yards above the heads of the partygoers.

  Up and away, they soar, the spotlights tracking them as the trapeze lofts them to a small platform hidden in the ceiling. They stop there, almost lost in the rafters, and turn to raise their hands to the audience far below. The applause is even louder than before.

  Then a spotlight falls upon a castle parapet. A figure dressed in shirt, waistcoat, cape, and tights as white as his skin patiently awaits the attention of his guests.

  With regal humility, Mister Chicago allows his friends, lovers, and business acquaintances to clap, whistle, and shout his name before he raises his hands and gently chastens them to silence. When he speaks, his voice is carried by the same speakers that only a minute earlier had brought forth thunder.

  “My friends…” His voice echoes off the habitat walls. “My friends, welcome to the last hours of this century…our century.”

  More applause. He smiles and again beckons them to be silent. “I’m honored that you, each and every one, are my guests for this momentous occasion. For the past few weeks, I’ve enjoyed your company. We’ve dined together, entertained one another, spoken of things great and small, and in this time I’ve been once again reminded that it is we who inhabit deep space…Mars, the Belt, Jupiter and beyond…who represent the future of humankind.”

  He waits until the applause subsides. “Tonight, we celebrate not only the end of the greatest century humanity has ever known, but also the dawn of one which promises to be better still. And it is we who are gathered here this evening…aresians, belters, and jovians, Primaries and Superiors alike…who shall lead humankind not only into a new era but to the stars themselves, and ultimately to our destiny in the Omega Point.”

  Mister Chicago pauses until the latest round of applause fades. “But for the time being,” he continues, “let’s not think of these things. Tonight, we cast aside our concerns and sorrows, our trials and tribulations. In these last four hours of the twenty-first century, we’ll drink and be merry…and tomorrow, we lay siege to the gates of heaven.”

  More hand-clapping and whistles. He bows from the waist, then his spotlight vanishes, taking him along with it.

  The lights come back on, revealing balconies and terraces jammed with men and women in evening finery: long slit-legged skirts, hooded capes, jodhpurs, tricorn caps, brocaded vests, codpieces, knee boots. Superiors, easily spotted in the crowd because they stand a head taller than Primaries, wear elaborate outfits designed to reveal their body art; they remain aloof from baseline humans, regarding the more inebriated guests with puritanical disdain. On the terrace below, a trio of jugglers from the Solar Circus Troupe attracts a small audience as they begin tossing clubs to one another. Mimes in costumes and nanite masks which transform them into various historical figures—Julius Caesar, Napoleon, Madonna, Richard Nixon—work the crowd. Somewhere nearby, a jazz ensemble strikes up something that sounds like “Rock Lobster” as performed by a quartet of epileptic monkeys. Couples drift away to wander down pathways lit by Japanese paper lanterns, perhaps heading for discreet tête-à-têtes in the nearby cabins. The air is fragrant with canapes, fresh-cut roses, and smoldering incense.

  I have to admit, Mister Chicago knows how to throw a blowout. Too bad I can’t enjoy it.

  A hand touches my shoulder. I automatically turn to offer the platter of pate de foie gras I’ve been lugging around for the last hour to a bald gentleman wearing a pince-nez. He pluc
ks one from the tray, but seems more interested in me. “By the way, do you happen to be one of Pasquale’s deadheads?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Ahh!” His left eyelid wrinkles above the monocle; the light reflects microcircuitry within the glass oval. “From what year, pray tell?”

  “1995, sir.”

  “Nineteen hundred and ninety-five…I see.” His lips writhe as he bites into the cracker. “A good year for classic literature, 1995. I’m something of a devotee of that period. By chance, did you ever meet Stephen King?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Oh? How about Judith Krantz?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Hmm…” He looks disappointed. “But surely you must have met Michael Crichton.”

  I shake my head. “I once saw a movie he made, though,” I quickly add. “The one about the dinosaurs. It was pretty cool.”

  He sniffs and tosses the hors d’oeuvre back on the platter. “Go away. You’re boring me.”

  I might have said that he was doing likewise, but keep my mouth shut. I start moving through the crowded balcony outside the Great Hall, picking the half-eaten cracker off the platter and tossing it in a trash can. It’s not hard for the guests to distinguish the deadheads among the waiters and waitresses he’s conscripted tonight; we’re decked out in twentieth-century black-tie, men and women alike. I’m looking sharp, but the tux is uncomfortable: the bow tie chafes my neck, the vest is tight, and the tails get snagged every time I back into something. I could have told Mister Chicago that morning coats were archaic even in my era, but he didn’t ask for my advice. I’m another of his quaint windup toys, sent out to serve finger food and answer stupid questions.

  I’m not the only one humiliated. Returning to the kitchen for another hors d’oeuvres platter, I run into Sam. He’s fuming as he waits for one of the cooks to give him a fresh pot of chicory coffee. “You know what one of those assholes asked me?” he seethes. “If I was related to O.J.”