by Allen Steele
I take one last look around the barren room, then head for the door. It’s been a long day, and I’ve just taken a stroll through my own graveyard. Time to get something to eat…and, what the hell, maybe blow a few lox down on the Strip.
Back when Clarke County still belonged to the consortium that built it, when its major purpose was tourism, the Strip was the hottest hangout in the system: a miniature Las Vegas built within a torus on the north side of the colony. Just to have a tattoo from the Lagrange Bar & Grill on your arm (or a less public part of your body) meant that you were terminally hip; anyone can lose money in Atlantic City, but to casually mention that you once blew a wad at the Low Gee meant that you were a high-roller. The prostitutes were vaccinated, the marijuana was legal, and with the right bartender you could have an upside-down margarita without getting a crimp in your neck. If you wanted to marry the hooker you just picked up, then the Church of Twentieth-Century Saints was willing to oblige, and Elvis Himself would officiate your fifteen-minute ceremony.
Like the rest of Clarke County, though, the Strip fell on hard times when the Monarchists took over. They were smart enough not to criminalize the Strip’s vices, but when Parliament voted to raise taxes on everything from beer to broads, its businesses were forced to raise their prices on goods and services. Militia soldiers, dragonfly drones, and fear of the Titan Plague did the rest; the more flashy tourists stopped coming from Earth, and it wasn’t long before the Strip lost its glitz.
The promenade is less crowded than it had been a half-century ago, and far less glamorous. The Low Gee has shut its doors; the Lagrange Bar & Grill advertises all-you-can-eat dinner specials, if you happen to like algae salad and cod sandwiches for two kilolox. Sullen whores hang out in front of the Beam jack, trying to lure horny Belters fresh off the boat from Ceres. A beat-up robot beeps down the walkway, futilely trying to snag all the trash in its way; ceiling fans creak against the mixed odors of stale booze, sweat, and broken dreams. Everything looks cheap and run-down; the only people who come here anymore are moondogs, spacers, and losers like me.
I buy a kielbasa-and-onion hoagie from a cart that looks reasonably sanitary, carry it to the cheapest taproom I’ve found here in the last two months, and scarf it down with a pint of homebrew beer. The bar is dimly lit and jammed with guys shouting at a fuzzy wallscreen: a team handball game is on, the Tycho Massdrivers versus the Descartes Patriots. Twelve guys bounce each other off the walls of a volcanic bubble somewhere on the Moon. It’s a big sport up here, I know, but somehow I’ve never gotten into it. I miss baseball season at Busch Stadium; at least then you could look up and see blue, open sky.
I finish my hoagie, think about going home, decide instead to get another pint. At six centilox, it’s the cheapest beer on the Strip. If I keep this up, I may have to pull some overtime on the window patrol, but I’m in the mood to get bombed tonight. I’d rather get laid, but I did that last month; the hooker I hired put me back twenty kilolox and she faked her orgasm.
So I’m sitting in this dumpy bar, drinking beer that tastes like goat whiz and trying to get interested in jock stuff, when Chip’s voice interrupts my depression.
“Alec, I have the information you’ve requested.”
“Is that a fact?” The Massdrivers are ahead by four points, but a Patriots lineman just kneed their center in the groin. “Anything interesting?”
“A private company identified as Cislunar Shipping was responsible for moving the material assets of the Immortality Partnership from Torus N-9. Cislunar is based at Descartes City. On March 15, 2096, the firm removed one hundred and sixty-five cryogenic dewars from Torus N-9. Thirty of those dewars were transferred immediately to a vessel owned by Transitive Starlight, a shipping firm…”
“Owned by Mister Chicago.” I’m already sitting up in my chair. “Gotcha. Where did the rest go?”
“Cislunar moved the remaining one hundred and thirty-five dewars to a lunar freighter. Its final destination, according to flight plans logged with Descartes Traffic Control, was a Royal University research facility located on the Moon. The facility is located at…”
Everyone stands up and bellows as the Patriots score a point on the Massdrivers. I cup my hands over my ears. “Come again? I didn’t hear that!”
“Sosigenes Center, located in the Sea of Tranquillity.” Chip’s voice is a little louder now. “The Royal University School of Medicine maintains a research facility there. It is possible that…”
I don’t catch the rest. I’m already out of my seat, pumping my fist in the air as I scream at the top of my lungs. Everyone in the bar turns to stare at me; the goal was made a minute ago. What am I, a Patriots fan?
I don’t care. Now I know where all the other sleepers went. Erin has to be one of them. If she’s one of the handful that were revived by the Pax, then maybe…
No. Too much to hope for, at least right now. But I can’t stay here any longer. One way or another, I’ve got to find a way to the Moon. I mean, it’s only the fucking Moon, isn’t it…?
Worry about that later. I slug down the rest of my beer, leave the table, start making my way through the crowd toward the door. How much do I have in my credit account? Enough for a one-way ticket to the Moon? Can I catch a shuttle straight to Sosigenes Center, or do I have to go through Descartes City? That’s the nearest place, isn’t it, or is there a direct…?
A hand falls on my forearm. I start to pull free, but the hand is insistent; it tightens on my elbow. Aw, shit, it’s the fucking militia. Reaching with my free hand for my card, I turn around…
“Hey, dude. Long time, no see…”
And there’s Shemp.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
* * *
GUILTY
It is impossible to argue in good faith with a fool.
—Michel de Montaigne, “On the Art of Conversation”
Hi, Alec,” says Shemp. “Long time, no see.”
Reality becomes unglued; the world reels around me. Shemp’s the very last person I ever expected to see again. Elvis walks past me every day and I no longer give him a second glance, but my best friend—former best friend—shows up in a taproom, and I can’t believe my eyes. But here he is, smiling at me like this is a simple coincidence.
This is no coincidence.
“Yeah,” I mumble. “Long time, no see. Umm…”
“Good to see you too. Surprised?”
“Uh, yeah. Something like that.” Shemp’s dressed to the hilt: purple silk shirt, black tights and calfboots, brocaded codpiece, hooded turquoise cape. His hair has grown out since I last saw him; now it’s tied back in a ponytail, and there’s a silver ring in his right ear. Next to me, dressed in dingy work clothes, my hair knotted and unwashed, he looks like Prince Valiant.
Got to be a way out of here. The door is about fifteen feet behind him, and there’re plenty of people in the way. If I can shove past him, maybe throw him to the floor, then I can bolt through the crowd and get out the door before he can catch me. It’s a long way to the tram station, but there’s an alley behind the bar; if I stay out of sight, I might be able to…
“Alec, man, don’t think about it. Don’t.” He pushes back his cape a little, giving me a glimpse of the sheathed rapier on his belt. I haven’t carried mine since I first got here. “No sense in making this tougher than it already is. All I want to do is talk.”
The room is unbearably warm. “What makes you think I want to talk to you?” Fifteen feet, maybe less than that. And I’ve always been able to beat up Shemp…
His smile fades. “Before you do something stupid,” he says softly, “look behind you.” I hesitate, reluctant to take my eyes off him. “Go on. Look.”
I turn my head. Seated at a table about twenty feet away is Anna. Standing behind her is none other than Vladimir Algol-Raphael. They’re both watching us through the crowd.
“They came in through the back door while I was talking to you.” Shemp hasn’t moved an inch. “That’s why you missed
seeing them. Now, you might be able to get past me, but I wouldn’t even try getting past Vlad. Son of a bitch is fast when he wants to be, and he’s still pissed off at you.”
The Superior glowers at me from across the room; his hand rests on the pommel of his rapier. It’s been almost a year since I nearly made him eat steak tartare. “Can’t take a fucking joke, can he?”
“No, I don’t think so.” Shemp lowers his voice as he bends a little closer. “Man, I just got through nine months on that schmuck’s ship. You wanna talk about hardship or what?”
He should try washing windows sometime. I’m in no mood to be Christopher Meyer’s long-lost buddy; twelve months ago, he sold me down the river for Mister Chicago, and it looks like he’s ready to do so again. “Nice suit, Shemp. Buy it on your own, or did Pasquale give it to you?”
His face darkens. “All I want to do is talk. We can do it here and now, or we can do it later. Later’s fine, if you want to do it that way. We can always catch up with you.”
He triple-blinks, briefly raises a hand to his mouth. “Your name’s John Ulnar,” he continues when he drops his hand again. His eyes have filmed over; in the dim light of the bar, tiny luminescent lines crawl across his pupils. “You’re living at the North County Hostel, Torus N-17, Room 350. You’re employed by the General Services Bureau as a window-washer. The number of your temporary visa is TX-78235-M.” The left corner of his mouth inches upward. “Retarded. Nice touch. Think that up yourself, or did you have help?”
The crowd goes nuts as the Massdrivers score another goal; everyone surges to their feet to scream at the wallscreen. Someone jostles Shemp, making him lose his balance for a moment. If there’s ever a chance to make a break for the door, this is it…
Pointless. Totally pointless. Shemp’s got my number. I don’t have to ask how he’s accomplished this feat; all he had to do was show a picture of my face to the colony AI and request a matchup. How he figured I’m in Clarke County is another matter entirely, but it’s certain that I’ll soon learn the answer. If I’m not skewered by the end of the game, that is…
“Are you buying?”
He shrugs. “For an old friend, why not? I don’t think Vlad will mind.”
“Okay, then. Let’s get a drink and talk about this.”
Walking on the legs of a dead man, I turn and lead the way to the table.
Anna’s looking good. She wears a long white gown that graces her body, a beaded choker around her slender neck, her long brown hair done up in the back. But there’s something in her eyes that’s guarding her emotions; when I sit down across the table from her, she casts me a look that’s both sensuous and frightened before she quickly looks away.
I don’t get it, but that’s not my major concern right now. Vladimir Algol-Raphael hovers over the table like an anvil suspended by a thread. He doesn’t sit down when Shemp takes a seat next to me; his right hand never moves away from his sword. I avoid looking at him; this is a man who would dearly love to kill me, but who hasn’t been given permission to do so.
“Beer?” Shemp asks. “Or something better? Vlad, I know I don’t have to ask about you.” Anna shakes her head and Vlad says nothing, so Shemp tells the service bot to bring us two pints of the house lager. Then he sits back in his chair, crosses his legs, and studies the taproom with aloof disdain. “This is where you hang now? Jeez, man, you used to have more class than this.”
“Look who’s talking.”
Anna looks up sharply. Maybe she thinks the remark was aimed at her. It wasn’t, but it could have been. Shemp makes a face. “You talking about someone you know? Oh, you must mean my employer, the wealthiest man in the system.”
“You’re his employee? Funny. I thought the relationship was a bit different…you do what he says, and he doesn’t kill you.”
Shemp half-closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Alec, you’ve got the man all wrong. Pasquale isn’t a bad guy, once you get to know him. Your problem is that you came at him from the wrong direction.”
“On my feet instead of on my knees, you mean.”
“Does it look like I spend a lot of time on my knees?” He thumbs the collar of his shirt and smirks at me. “Besides, to coin a phrase, look who’s talking.”
So much for snappy comebacks. Shemp’s changed even more for the worse since the last time I saw him. If it wasn’t for his seven-foot buddy, I’d lean over and smack that shit-eating grin right off his face. “Why are you here, Shemp?”
“Christopher. Remember?”
“Unless you can make me drop dead just by pointing your finger at me, your name’s Shemp as far as I’m concerned.”
Didn’t have to hit him after all; that arrogant smile vanishes as if a switch had been thrown. “That can always change, man,” he says quietly, cocking his head toward Algol-Raphael. “Don’t push it.”
The Superior glares at me, his enormous eyes framed by the sword tattooed across his broad forehead. I return his gaze. “What about you, Vlad? You haven’t said much. Like taking orders from Mister Chicago’s favorite pet, or what?”
Algol-Raphael remains as stoic as ever, but there’s something in his stance that tells me that he doesn’t enjoy it very much. “What is necessary for extropy, I do, deadhead.”
“Deadhead no more, god wuss. Free kind now. Copy?” I’ve picked up a little more of Superior patois since I’ve been away, including the term for an overly pious google. I don’t know which startles him more, the fact that I’m speaking his lingo or that I’ve just insulted him. His thin lips writhe as he reaches for his sword.
“Vlad, don’t do it,” Shemp murmurs.
“Oh, no, go ahead! Kill me!” I open my hands defenselessly. “That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? Then let’s get it over with!”
Maybe it’s the beer. Maybe it’s the sudden realization that, even in this dump, they can’t commit murder without having to answer later to the militia. Maybe I’m just pissed off. Whatever it is, I’m not afraid of these guys anymore. Vlad’s a big lug who thinks with his rapier, and Shemp’s the fat kid who used to get rat-tailed in gym class. I don’t know how I feel about Anna now, except growing contempt for her submissive silence.
Almost as if she’s read my mind, she finally speaks up. “We’re not…they’re not here to kill you, Alec,” she says, almost too softly for me to hear her. “They’re here for something else.”
“Now we’re…”
I’m interrupted by the bot coming to the table with two pints of beer. In Clarke County, one always shuts up when a bot is present; you never know who might have tapped into its audio subsystem. Shemp picks the glasses off the tray, then reaches into a pocket of his cape, pulls out a kilolox coin and drops it in the bot’s trough. “Run a tab,” he murmurs.
“Now we’re getting to the point,” I continue once the bot has glided away. “How did you find me, and why are you here?”
“God, this stuff sucks.” Shemp has taken a sip from his pint; he makes a sour face. “Well, it’s a long story, but—”
“Not you, motor-mouth. I want to hear from Anna for a change. Her, I trust…I think.” I turn to her. “You’re on. Start talking.”
Anna’s hesitant. She glances at Shemp, receives a nod, then looks at me. “They’re not here to kill you,” she repeats. “That is the last thing anyone wants to do, least of all Mister Chicago.”
Vlad’s presence doesn’t help convince me of that, but I don’t mention it. “Then you’ve been sent to bring me back.”
She shakes her head. “That’s not it either. If you’d gone to Mars, or even another asteroid colony, then he would have given up on you as an escaped…” another furtive glance at Shemp “…as a missing employee, and that would have been the end of it. But then a Superior ship came across the pod you used for your getaway, and when you weren’t found inside, Mister Chicago’s people worked out the variables and finally figured out how you managed to get aboard that freighter…”
“The TBSA Comet,” Shemp adds
, smug and self-confident. “Bound for Highgate. Which made it logical that you’d head for Clarke County.”
A chill runs down my back. That’s the last thing I want to hear. Rohr and Jeri were kind enough to take me aboard even when they knew that they were putting themselves in danger; they cut me loose this way to minimize their risk. “And, of course, you told him that I was interested in this place,” I reply.
A complacent shrug. “Didn’t have to. You pretty much told him that yourself, the day you made that scene down by the pool. Remember?”
“When did you…he figure this out?”
“Oh, it was only about a month or so later. By then the Comet was out of reach.” He scratches behind his ear. “I’ve gotta admit, Pasquale was livid pissed when he found out you’d gotten away. Ripped his bedroom apart and everything.”
“He killed Sam,” Anna says, ever so quietly.
The crowd roars as another goal is made.
I stare at her. “Sam…?”
“Shut up,” Shemp hisses.
Ignoring him, she takes a deep breath, nods her head. “For no real reason. He was having a tantrum, like Chris says, and Sam was outside his room. He went in to see what was going on and…well, he just did it. Because he was your friend, I guess. That’s all.”
For once, Shemp has nothing to say. Maybe he knows that his benefactor could very well have snuffed out his own life, had he been in the same place at the same time. I can’t help but think of Sam MacAvoy, a poet who unwillingly made a voyage into another century where his words were obscure or forgotten, yet nonetheless managed to maintain a wry sense of humor. Now he’s gone, and this time there’s no coming back…
“Go on.”
Anna stares down at her hands. Her eyes won’t meet mine. “When he realized that you were going to Clarke County, he had another idea, so he let the freighter bring you here. While you were in transit, he…”
“He requested that Vladimir transport me…and Anna, of course…to Clarke County.” Shemp’s no longer quite so self-satisfied. If anything, there’s a certain remorse. I can’t tell if it’s feigned or not. “We’re supposed to find you, and…well, and talk to you.”