by Allen Steele
“It’s kind of a long story…”
“I got time.” He yawns. “Not a lot of patience, maybe, but time.”
I sip my coffee and wince; it tastes like boiled ink. Guess I’ve gotten spoiled on better stuff. “Ever heard of a guy named Mister Chicago?”
“Pasquale Chicago? Who hasn’t?” He yawns again, this time managing to cover his mouth. “What’s this got to do with him?”
“I’m running away from him.” Furland stops yawning in mid-gape. In fact, it looks as if the caffeine just kicked in; his eyes go almost as wide as the captain’s. “See, I stole that EVA pod from his asteroid just a few hours ago, and—”
“Hold on. Wait a minute. You just stole a pod from Pasquale Chicago…you’re trying to get away from him…and now you’re on my ship?”
“That about sizes it up, yeah.”
“Oh, hell…” He puts the mug down on the table and wipes his hands across his eyes.
“I’m sorry about this. If I had known…”
My voice trails off. Of course I couldn’t have known…whatever it is that I’m supposed to know.
Furland lifts his face from his hands. “Okay, I take it back. I don’t have plenty of time, and neither do you.” He jabs a finger at me. “You’ve got two minutes to give me one good reason why we shouldn’t jettison your sorry ass.”
He’s not joking. He’ll actually do it. If he didn’t believe his captain when she brought up the notion that I was in cahoots with pirates, then he’s dead serious about the prospect of shielding a fugitive from Pasquale Chicago.
So I start talking as fast as I can.
I have to start from the beginning, though, so it takes longer than two minutes. While I’m still explaining how I awoke in a white room with no real memory of who I was or how I came to be there, Jeri Lee-Bose returns to the wardroom. The captain listens while she sticks two adhesive patches on either side of Furland’s neck, then places a cup of water in front of him. I’ve just made it to the part where Mister Chicago killed John when the first officer turns green; he stands up quickly and hastily exits the compartment. The captain lets me hold that thought and help myself to a refill from the coffee maker, and presently the first mate returns from the head, looking a little pale but much more sober. He resumes his place at the table and tells me to finish. About ten minutes have gone past by then, but the captain’s still wearing her rapier, and the distance between the wardroom and the airlock isn’t very large.
When I’m finally done, the two of them are silent for a long time before either one speaks. Finally, Jeri turns to me. “You know what kind of position this puts us in, don’t you?”
I start to nod, but change my mind and shake my head instead.
“Pasquale Chicago is the most powerful person in the outer system.” she says. “Not only does he own the biggest shipping fleet in the Belt, but he also controls the largest voting block in the TBSA, along with the majority of shares. The association holds the lien on this ship, which means that he could have the Comet repossessed and scuttled.”
Furland clears his throat. “That’s not all. You know about the Zodiac, right?” I do, of course, but feigning ignorance seems to be to my advantage, so I just shrug. “Well, the Zodiac is the most powerful organization in the Belt. Forget the Pax and the Ares Alliance…out here, the Zodiac rules. And make no mistake…Pasquale Chicago is the Zodiac, and the Zodiac is Pasquale Chicago.” He snaps his fingers. “Word of this gets out, and Jeri and I can disappear like that. No one would know.”
He sighs, rubbing his eyelids with his fingertips. “Wish I’d stayed drunk. Might have made this decision a little easier to make.”
Despite the warm coffee mug in my hands, I suddenly feel a chill. “What do you mean? You’re going to put me out the airlock?”
He glances at Jeri. “Much as I’m tempted to do so,” she murmurs, “that’s something I can’t do. Not if I wish to sleep well.”
“It might not be as risky as we think.” Furland gets up and goes to pour himself some coffee. “If they’re tracking the pod, then they might think Tucker…”
“Alec.”
“…Alec is still aboard. It might not occur to them that he bailed out or that we rescued him.”
“I tend to agree.” I’m surprised to see a smile on her face. “I’ve got to admit, that was quite an armstrong you pulled, especially for someone with no previous flying experience. How did it occur to you to do this?”
“A little voice told me.” I’m not about to let on about Chip. He’s my ace in the hole.
“Oh? A little voice, is it?” Her enormous eyes triple-blink, then she raises her mug to her lips, but doesn’t take a sip. Chip suddenly goes eyes-up on me:
COMLINK MESSAGE RECEIVED:
Is this your little voice, Alec?
Shit. She’s figured it out, and managed to use the Brain to access Chip. “How did you know?”
Furland glances from me to her in confusion. “Backslash that?”
“He’s wearing a MINN,” Jeri replies. “In fact, he’s already used it to tap into the Brain. I just sent him an eyes-up message by the same route.” She looks back at me. “Rohr overheard you talking to someone in your cabin. I had a hunch you might have an associate, so I confirmed it with the Brain while I was getting a soberup. I also had him access your MINN and run a memory scan. He’s fresh apples.”
“Nice to know.” Furland frowns at me. “Anything else you want to tell us, Mess’r Tucker? So far I’ve kinda liked you, but I hate it when people I take into our home start keeping secrets from us. Makes me not want to trust them.”
My face warms. “Nothing else. Sorry. I just didn’t know whether I should trust you, either.”
“Hmm. Guess I shouldn’t blame you, considering.” He takes another sip from his mug, grimaces, and stands up to reheat what’s left with a top-off from the pot. How they can drink this stuff is beyond me. “Is Chicago as crazy as everyone says he is?”
“I dunno. Craziest dude I’ve ever met, if that’s what you’re asking. Or at least as nuts as some of the Superiors he hangs out with. They’re…”
Jesus. I keep forgetting who I’m with. “Sorry,” I add quickly, glancing at the captain. “Didn’t mean it that way.”
She shakes her head, a gesture I’ve never seen any other Superior make. “Don’t worry about it. Most of my fellow googles think I’m insane for marrying an ape.”
Married? Oh, boy, this is new…although it explains a lot. Furland reads the expression on my face; he gives me a rueful smile. “Jeri was expelled from her clan for consorting with Primaries. Superiors can be pretty icy about these things. So can baseliners, for that matter. The Comet’s the only TBSA ship that would take her as a crewman. It used to belong to someone else who was even more crazy, but when he died and left it to her…”
“What Superiors were you referring to?” Jeri interrupts, almost as if she’s dodging the subject. “Anyone in particular?”
“Well, there was one who didn’t like me much. Guy by the name of Vladimir Algol-Raphael…”
Both of them nearly drop their mugs. “You met Vladimir Algol-Raphael?” Jeri demands.
“Well, yeah. In fact, he damn near killed me the first time we met.” I tell them about how Vlad the Impaler drew his rapier on me in the cable car, and about all the petty humiliations I endured from him afterward. Furland laughs when I get to the part about almost tricking him to eat meat during the party, but Jeri’s face is somber.
“You’re very lucky to be alive,” she says when I’m finished. “Vladimir leads the most powerful clan in the Belt, and the Algol clan is at the forefront of the Omega Point movement. None of the other clans dare cross him. I would be thankful to your friend for stopping him from killing you.”
I’m not ready to thank Shemp for anything except unwittingly giving me a chance to escape. “What’s this about an Omega Point? I mean, I heard it mentioned a couple of times, and Pasquale has an omega sign in the floor of the ha
ll of his castle.”
“It’s difficult to explain.” She sits down, easily folding her double-jointed legs in a yoga position. “Superiors are raised to believe in the philosophy of extropy. That is, humankind has the capability of resisting the natural laws of entropy, and that we’ve already started to do so through planetary colonization, nanotech, neurosuspension, and so forth. The fact that Superiors are the result of genengineering is regarded as the highest expression of this principle, and most Superiors regard themselves as the next stage in evolution.”
“But you don’t.”
A smile flickers across her face. “Actually, I do. But I’m a little different from most of my fellows. I believe we should help our poor, unfortunate Homo sapiens cousins, and not simply cast ourselves apart.” She winks at Furland. “I’m better than my husband, and not only because I’m female. I just don’t rub it in.”
Rohr coughs in his hand. “As she never stops reminding me.”
“I forgive you, love. You can’t help being an ape.” Jeri reaches across the table to give him a forgiving pat on the hand, then she returns her attention to me. “Extropism isn’t a religion, but in the last few years several clans—the Algols among them—have embraced the idea that biogenic evolution isn’t the final stage of extropism, and that the conquest of death itself is the ultimate objective.”
“Thought you achieved that already,” I say. “Look at me.”
“Neurosuspension is only a temporary solution, and only a crude one at that. Or at least that’s the way they see it.” She leans back in her chair, picks up her coffee mug with the elongated toes of her left foot, and passes it to her right hand. I’ve seen Superiors do this before, but it still gave me the willies. “They believe that, at the end of time, when the universe has collapsed into much the same primordial state that preceded the Big Bang, all souls who have ever lived will be reincarnated at the creation of the next universe. That moment is called the Omega Point.”
Furland makes a flatulent sound with his lips. “Mouseshit.”
“Can’t say I disagree,” I add, and he gives me a thumb’s-up.
Jeri ignores him and gives me a querulous look. “I rather thought you might be familiar with this,” she says. “The Omega Point Theory was developed in the late twentieth century, about the same time as extropism.”
“News to me. Never heard of either of ’em.” I watch as she uses her right foot to place the mug back on the table. Sooner or later, I’ll get used to this. “All I know is, Mister Chicago made a speech during the party about leading humankind to some final destiny at the Omega Point.”
“Really? And you say he had an omega sign on the floor of his castle?” I nod, and she pensively cups her hands together beneath her chin. “That’s disturbing. The Omega Point Theory has been embraced by only a few clans. If Pasquale Chicago believes this, and he’s allied himself with the Algol clan…”
She doesn’t finish the thought; she stares pensively at her coffee mug. I point to a half-empty wine bottle on the table. Both of them nod and I reach for it; I need something a little stronger than coffee right now. “One more thing,” I add. “The time we were in the elevator, Mister C said something to Vlad about some kind of a project. I dunno what it is, but it has to do with all the deadheads he’s been reviving. Any clue what he might have meant?”
Furland shakes his head; he looks queasy when he sees me slug back some wine. “Nyet. Nobody knows what Chicago or the Zodiac are going to do until they do it. His asteroid is off-limits to anyone who isn’t given express permission to dock there…though I’m sure the Pax would be interested in anything you want to tell it.”
“And I wouldn’t go to them, if I were you.” Jeri raises her head. “First, you’d have to explain what you were doing on Garcia in the first place, and that means admitting you’re a deadhead. Otherwise they’ll believe you’re a defecting Zodiac member.”
“Yeah? So?”
She frowns. “If they believe you’re a Zodiac member, they’ll lock you up on general principles and think of charges later. And even if they believe that you’re a revived deadhead who’s managed to escape, then they’ll do the same thing. Either way, they’ll likely turn you over to Pax Intelligence, and you’ll be interrogated until you drop dead.”
I shrug. “Been there, done that. Doesn’t hurt much after the first few minutes.”
Furland gives me a cold look. “Kiddo, don’t screw with the Pax…especially not with Intelligence. They’re not very nice to their own citizens. That’s why Jeri and I stay out here in the Belt. And they’re ruthless when it comes to the Zodiac.” He points a finger at me. “Trust me on this one. The next time someone lops off your head, you might be alive for the experience.”
The mouthful of wine I’ve just taken suddenly tastes vile. I swallow it with an effort and put down the bottle. “Okay, then…where does that leave you and me?”
The captain looks across the table at her first mate. A moment of silent communication: these two have been together so long that Jeri has stopped talking like a Superior and Rohr can read the mind behind the butterfly mask. Their partnership would have put my parents’ marriage to shame.
“Here’s the deal,” Jeri says at last. “We’ll get you to Highgate—”
“Clarke County.”
“Clarke County? That’s the Pax government center.”
“I have to get to Clarke County. I need to find somebody there.”
They look at me strangely; I shake my head. “I’ll explain it later. Believe me, it doesn’t involve you…but I have to get to Clarke County.”
Furland glances again at Jeri. She shakes her head. “Highgate,” she says. “That’s where the Comet usually moors. If we request permission to dock at Clarke County, too many questions will be raised. Freighters usually don’t moor there.”
“But we can arrange for you to get from Highgate to the County,” Furland quickly adds. “At least that’ll get you into Pax space. After that, we’ll cut you loose. You’re on your own.”
Not much a choice, but the only one I have. “Okay. So what’s the rub?”
“The rub?”
“Umm…the string? The other shoe?” Both of them look bewildered. “What do I got to do?”
The captain smiles. She settles back in her chair, folding her hands and feet together. “Well,” she says, “our usual passenger fee is five hundred kilolox…”
“I don’t have that.”
“Coincidentally, our usual pay rate for an unrated crewman also comes to about five hundred kilolox. This includes cabin, meals, air, water…”
“Okay, I get it. What do you want me to do first?”
“Oh, nothing right now.” The captain stretches, then pushes back her chair and stands up. “Your first duty is to return to your cabin and get some sleep. The Brain will call you at first watch and tell you what to do. Rohr?”
“Well…” The first mate looks around, then rises to follow his captain to the door. “I understand you’re pretty good at cleaning.”
“Umm…yeah?”
He waves at the mess he’s left behind. “You start tomorrow, with this compartment.” He grins. “And, by the way…Happy New Year.”
The door closes behind them, leaving me alone in a trashed wardroom. I sigh, and reach for the bottle.
Might as well not let it go to waste.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
* * *
BETWEEN PLANETS
A coward dies a thousand deaths. A brave man dies but once.
—Medgar Evers
And this was how, on the first day of the twenty-second century, I became second mate of the TBSA Comet.
The rank, of course, was as fictitious as my traveling name. Since Jeri would have to account for my being aboard her vessel, and it was too risky for me to travel under my own name, she picked a name out of thin air—John Ulnar, a character from a space adventure from the early twentieth century that she was shocked to learn I hadn�
�t read—and temporarily gave me the position of second officer. If anyone asked, the story would be that she hired Ulnar as a temporary crewmember just before the Comet left Ceres, and that Ulnar’s final destination was Clarke County. The union had rules against this sort of thing, but apparently it was done often enough that no one in the TBSA looked twice, so long as a few kilolox made their way into the proper hands.
But being the second mate was much less glamorous than it sounds. A spaceship quickly becomes a smelly, dirty place during a long voyage. Sweat, dandruff, carbon dioxide, and dust conspire to make bulkheads grimy and table surfaces greasy; if left unchecked, the living quarters soon reek like an outhouse. Despite dehumidifiers, water vapor can seep into microcircuitry and thousands of miles of electric cable, causing shortouts. There were two heads aboard the ship which had to be cleaned every day, and one of them was in the bridge, where there wasn’t any gravity; if you’ve never experienced the wonder and joy of a zero-gee toilet, let me introduce you to my friend Mr. Sponge. There were no mops or buckets aboard the Comet—too wasteful of water—but there were plenty of disinfectant pads in the storage compartment. If anyone asked me how I made my way across the solar system, I could safely say that it was on my hands and knees.
But it wasn’t an unpleasant trip. I was used to dirty work by now, and Jeri and Rohr weren’t Mister Chicago and Shemp. After the first few days, they realized that they didn’t have to order me to do anything; once I learned the ropes, I went about my daily tasks without them having to tell me to do so. It helped to have Chip linked with the Brain, because if I had any questions, my MINN would consult the AI, and they would give me a quick reply. And as tedious as my chores were, at least I didn’t have to worry about getting a migraine if I screwed up; it’s amazing how self-motivated a former slave can be, when he knows the whip has disappeared for good. This came as a surprise to Rohr and Jeri; they had given up on hiring temps as second officers because most of them usually did as little as they could get away with, and had tried for the last few voyages to rely on robots and their own efforts. The Comet had never looked or smelled so good before I came aboard. By the end of the third day, I was on a first-name basis with both of them, and after a week they stopped regarding me as a shiftless castaway and accepted me as a member of the crew.