A King of Infinite Space

by Allen Steele

  “About what?”

  “The other sleepers.”

  Another chill. “What about them?”

  “He thinks you might know where they’re located.”

  “I don’t have a clue, man. Really. I don’t.”

  I’ve answered too hastily, and Shemp has known me for too long. One look at me, and he knows I’m lying. “Alec,” he says, putting his elbows on the table and cupping his hands together, “don’t bullshit me. You can make this a lot easier on yourself if you’d…”

  The Massdrivers knock up another point; once again the crowd goes berserk. That’s when I throw over the table.

  Shemp yells as the table crashes forward, sending his glass straight into his lap. His howl isn’t as loud as Vlad’s; the edge of the table has mashed one of his oversized, sensitive feet. Anna leaps out of the way before my own pint ruins her dress, but she trips and falls down backward, sprawling against two moondogs sitting at the table behind her.

  I don’t give myself a chance to gloat; I’m already out of my chair and charging through the crowd as I sprint toward the door. I’ve got my head down and my elbows up, prepared to bull my way through the bar, but everyone gets out of my way; within seconds I’m out the door and running like hell.

  A quick turn to the right takes me down the alley beside the bar; another turn to the left leads to a narrow service lane behind the Strip. With any luck, Shemp will take off down the main concourse. I’ve got surprise on my side, at least for a few moments.

  A quick look over my shoulder; no one’s following. I dash down the service lane, my footfalls echoing against terra-cotta walls, dodging trash barrels, outrunning a small dog who gives up the chase after trying to nip my legs, until I reach the back door of a closed-down strip joint that I recognize as being directly across the promenade from the tram station entrance. A quick jog through the adjacent alley, then I stop and peer around the corner of the building.

  No one out there but people strolling down the promenade. Shemp can’t be far behind, and Vlad the Impaler with him, but maybe the pedestrian traffic will slow him down. No choice but to take a chance; I duck out of the alley and walk quickly across the concourse to the tunnel leading down to the station.

  Another jog takes me to the platform; running toward the axial center makes me go faster. Two long minutes pass before the next northbound tram arrives; I spend them sagging against a support column, wiping sweat off my face as I try to catch my breath, peering around the column every few seconds. The tram finally glides into the station; the doors whisk open and I almost dart aboard, but play it cool when I spot a couple of uniformed militia officers among the disembarking passengers. One glances curiously in my direction as they stroll past, but apparently he takes me for a drunk. He murmurs something to the other guy and they laugh at my condition, then they’re gone and I lurch onto the tram just before the doors shut.

  I’ve collapsed into a seat and the tram’s beginning to move when, through the windows, I spot Shemp at the tunnel entrance, with Vlad right behind him. I duck and keep my head down until the tram has picked up speed. No telling whether they’ve spotted me or not.

  Not that it makes any difference. They know where I live; my apartment is located only six tori away from the Strip, and the next northbound tram will arrive at the Strip in ten minutes. I’ve got that much of a head start on them, at the very least, but even if I had ten hours, they can always catch up with me. Clarke County’s big, but it isn’t limitless. Sooner or later, they’ll find me.

  Time to get out of Dodge, pilgrim.

  “Eyes-up, Chip,” I gasp, triple-blinking as sweat drips down from my brow. “I need help.”

  How may I help you, Alec?

  “Good question, m’man.” I fall back against the seat and give myself a second to think about it. Only one option occurs to me. “Need a way off Clarke County, mucho prompto. When’s the next ship to the Moon?” A pause. “Sosigenes Center, if possible.”

  A few seconds pass while Chip accesses the central database, then a columned chart appears before my eyes. A column at the top of the chart is highlighted in pink.

  A LunaCorp shuttle to Sosigenes Center departs from Highgate at 0800 CMT tomorrow. The next ferry to Highgate departs from North Dock at 2130 CMT, thirty-two minutes from now.

  A narrow squeak, but I might be able to make it. “Can you book me seats on the ferry and on the shuttle? Do I have enough lox to cover it?”

  Round-trip or one-way?

  I manage a wan smile. “One way. End of the line.”

  Passage on the ferry will cost mgl. 5. Passage on the shuttle will cost mgl 1.5. You currently have mgl 2.025 credited to your account. Do you wish for me to reserve passage to Highgate/Tranquillity Station?

  Great. I can buy a one-way ticket to the Moon, but I’ll only have two and half centilox once I get there. Two and a half centilox buys you a grilled cheese sandwich in Clarke County, a little more if you skip the cheese. I can’t imagine that it’ll be much different on the Moon.

  But if it’s enough to get me away from Shemp and his gruesome buddy, then it’s worth the price. “Yeah, do it…but, hey, can you book me under another name?”

  I’m sorry, Alec, but I can’t do that. Your credit is valid only under your pseudonym, and you will need to present your John Ulnar ID when you pass through Pax customs at Sosigenes Center. Do you still wish for me to make the reservations?

  I pound the seat with my fist. Shemp found me in the first place because he was able to discover my John Ulnar alias. If he figures out that I’ve fled Clarke County and headed for the Moon—and there’s no reason why he won’t, he’s a smart puppy—then he can track me straight to Sosigenes.

  Fucked if I do, fucked if I don’t. “Yeah, okay. Book ’em, Dan-O.”

  The chart flashes from pink to blue. A tiny icon showing the LunaCorp logo appears before my eyes.

  Your reservations have been made. You only need to present your card at the gate. NOTE: maximum luggage at this fare is kg. 45.5 (1 g. standard).

  Luggage? Oh, hell! I can’t do this without my stuff. I don’t have much, but I’m going to need another change of clothes. Once I’m on the Moon, I won’t be able to afford to purchase so much as toilet paper. And I’ve already regretted not having my rapier. “How much time do I have before the ferry leaves?”

  31 minutes, 12 seconds, and counting.

  A half-hour until the ferry to Highgate leaves from North Dock. But my torus is only three tram stops away from the docking sphere, and the hostel is close to the tram station. If I run for it, I have just enough time to grab my shit before the posse catches up with me.

  I’ll have to take my chances. Like I haven’t already.

  It takes me eight minutes to get to my room at the hostel. As I’m throwing my few belongings into my duffel bag and replacing my work boots with the stikshoes I haven’t worn since I first got here, Chip reminds me that I still have a security deposit in escrow. I’m going to need the money, so I put him onto checking me out of the hostel while I buckle the rapier around my waist. Fortunately, this doesn’t involve having anyone inspect the room; as soon as I shut the door behind me, my thumbprint is erased from the door’s memory, and Chip informs me that fifty kilolox has been credited to my account.

  I’ve got a little more money now, but this is the least of my concerns. Twelve minutes have elapsed so far; the Highgate ferry leaves in less than twenty minutes. As I dash down the tunnel leading back to the tram station, dodging around people who gape at the man recklessly running down a gravity grade, it occurs to me that Shemp and Vlad could now be walking across the very platform I’m racing toward. Maintenance tunnels connect the tori to one another, but I don’t have time to look for one of them, and it’s a longer route anyway. I’m going to have to take my chances.

  But they’re not on the platform, and the northbound tram has just slid into the station. I hurl myself through the doors, nearly colliding with an old lady who curses at me.
I excuse myself, then slump into a seat as the tram begins to move. Seventeen minutes left, and the tram will be at North Dock in less than ten.

  I might just make it after all.

  Eight minutes later, the tram pulls into North Dock. The ceiling voice reminds us that areas of the docking sphere are in microgravity and that we should be careful. I’ve already strapped my bag across my shoulders and shifted my rapier so that it won’t get in the way; I’m out of the tram as soon as the doors open, and I start walking as fast as my stikshoes will allow.

  A short corridor beneath a sign marked Departure Area—Gates N1-N8 leads me to a carousel; I squeeze in with several other outbound passengers, and after a quick ride the hatch opens onto a large spherical chamber.

  The carpeted walls and ceiling are lined with iris hatches, each marked with a sign announcing different flights. No chairs; no need for them here. The departure area is crowded with people heading for various destinations; they walk and float toward one hatch or another, pass their cards before a scanner, and wait until the hatch opens to allow them through. With everyone at different angles from one another, the place looks like an Escher painting.

  Almost directly above me is a hatch marked Gate N3-Highgate. A flatscreen tells that the ferry departs in five minutes. I start walking my way up the wall toward the gate, the duffel bag prodding against my back. I’m halfway to the gate when I catch something out of the corner of my eye.

  Light reflects on tempered steel; an electric hum

  ALERT!

  and suddenly I’m throwing myself forward

  AUTODEFENSE MODE!

  as the blade cuts the air over my head.

  The abrupt motion unsticks my soles from the wall. A woman screams as I pivot in midair, whipping my rapier from its sheath, just in time to see Vladimir Algol-Raphael rebounding off the wall where I had just been.

  He lunges again, the same instant my shoes find purchase on the floor. I feint to one side, then parry his thrust. Blades collide with a sound of static electricity; the tip of his sword doesn’t reach me, but his momentum carries him straight toward me. His lips pull back in a silent snarl as he snaps his rapier around in a backhanded slash.

  I duck and roll beneath him; he sails headlong toward the opposite wall. Panicked bystanders scatter from around us; the circular walls echo their terrified voices. Some aren’t quick enough; I look around just in time to see him smash a small, portly man against the wall. For a moment, their limbs are tangled; the bystander curses at him in Italian.

  Adrenaline gushes through my veins; a wellspring of serotonin has been tapped. His left flank is exposed. My soles touch the wall, but I don’t let them stick. I kick off the wall and propel myself straight for him. Vlad turns around, sees me coming, brings up his blade to parry mine.

  Then the fat little man with whom he collided yanks something small and flat out of his jacket. In one sudden move, he jabs it against the back of Vlad’s neck. The Superior howls and jerks forward, his body wrenched in a violent spasm. The rapier tumbles from his long-fingered hand, useless as the taser blows out his central nervous system.

  I pull back my sword arm just before I slam into him. For an instant, we’re face-to-face. His breath reeks; his vast pupils dully reflect my face. Then I roll away and hit the wall next to him. For a second, I think the fight’s over…

  “Stop!”

  Anna’s voice…

  WARNING!

  I glance back. Shemp’s hurtling toward me, his sword raised.

  WARNING!

  I twist aside as my right hand involuntarily jerks the rapier straight up. Shemp’s falling toward me; in a moment out of time, I see helpless fear in his face. He’s about to die…

  “Chip, no! Disengage!”

  AUTODEFENSE OFF!

  I drop the blade, roll aside, kick blindly upward. My right foot catches Shemp square in the chest. Air whuffs from his lungs as he’s knocked aside. He loses his rapier as he doubles over to clutch his midriff.

  For a moment, all is still and silent, save for Shemp’s labored gasps as he hugs himself in a midair fetal position. A few feet away, Algol-Raphael is motionless. Still paralyzed by the Italian tourist’s taser, his eyes bore into mine, cold with fury. We’re surrounded by stunned and horrified faces; passengers cling to one another as they cower against the ceiling and walls of the room.

  Through the crowd, I catch a glimpse of Anna. Only for an instant. There’s something in her eyes…

  Forget it. I’ve got to get out of here. The ferry’s going to leave any minute now, and militia soldiers are probably already on their way. I straighten up, plant my shoes firmly against the floor, start to shove the unbloodied rapier back into its sheath. Then I remember something Jeri Lee-Bose once told me about Superiors who’ve lost a battle, but who have been spared by their opponent…

  I take two steps toward Vlad, raise my sword. He doesn’t cringe; either he can’t or he won’t, it doesn’t matter. There’s utter hatred in his face as he awaits the coup de grace that he expects, perhaps would even welcome.

  I don’t give the bastard the privilege. Instead, I lower the tip of my rapier until it lightly touches the center of his forehead, where his clan tattooed a sword on his thirteenth birthday. A look of horrified surprise replaces outrage.

  “Vladimir Algol-Raphael,” I whisper past a dry throat, “you’re without honor. Your life is mine.”

  Then I stroke the skin of his forehead, making a shallow cut that draws blood.

  His lips tremble, but he says nothing. He knows goddamn well what I mean.

  Shemp’s beginning to uncurl when I turn to look at him. He gropes for his sword, but it’s well beyond his reach, tumbling several feet away. He stares at me.

  “We know where you’re going,” he gasps.

  “Good. Then get out of my life.”

  He blinks. I could have killed him and he knows it. “You’ve changed, man.”

  “No shit. So have you.”

  Then I turn and head for the hatch. No one tries to stop me. This is why rapiers are carried in the Pax; public duels like this are not commonplace, but they’re nonetheless respected. I fumble for the card in my pocket, find it, pass it across the scanner. The hatch opens like a camera lens. I push myself through, and it closes upon the faces behind me.

  Don’t look back. Never look back.

  If only it were that easy…

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-TWO

  * * *

  SOON, COMING CLOSER

  Action from principle, the perception and the performance of right, changes things and relations; it is essentially revolutionary, and does not consist wholly with anything that was. It not only divides states and churches, it divides families; ay, it divides the individual, separating the diabolical in him from the divine.

  —Henry David Thoreau, “Civil Disobedience”

  A faint rumble from somewhere deep within the lunar shuttle. The deck shudders, then the spacecraft begins to slowly turn over. My couch creaks; for the first time in nearly eighteen hours, gravity pulls against my feet.

  It’s not much, still less than one-sixth gee; I should be used to this sort of thing by now, but I close my eyes anyway and wait for my stomach to stop flopping. Around me, other passengers murmur to one another as they cinch their harnesses tighter and put away their datapads.

  When my guts have settled again, I reopen my eyes and turn my head to gaze out the large porthole on the other side of the passenger compartment. I can’t see anything at first, save the same black sky that’s surrounded the lunar shuttle since it left Highgate about six hours ago; then a rounded gray horizon rises from the bottom of the window, quickly resolving itself into a mottled landscape that looks like the bottom of an ashtray.

  The Moon. I’m about to land on the friggin’ Moon.

  I was born too late to remember anything about the Apollo missions; by the time I learned about them in grade school, America had planted its last flag on the Moon (in my
first lifetime, at least) and had gone onto bigger and better things, like disco and The Brady Bunch. So Neil Armstrong was just another name in a history book that had to be memorized, and there was nothing more magical about the tiny piece of moonrock I saw under a magnifier during a senior class trip to the National Air and Space Museum than the gravel in my driveway. Only science nerds and Trekkers got into that stuff; cool guys like me were busy trying to score a date for prom night.

  That was over a hundred years ago, though; things change when you’re about to land in the Sea of Tranquillity. Craters and lumpy little hills swiftly glide past the porthole, but there’s no sense of scale; they could be hundreds or thousands of feet away, and I can’t hear what’s being said by the pilots in the flight deck above us. But that’s the Moon, all right, no question about it.

  “Is that where…um, Apollo 11 landed?” I ask Chip, raising my hand to cover my lips. I’m barely whispering, but the Royal Navy lieutenant in the next seat over glances at me again. I’ve been trying to avoid him the entire trip; I think he’s written me off as a harmless weirdo, but it’s made communicating with Chip difficult.

  “No, Alec,” Chip says. “Sosigenes Center is located three hundred and forty kilometers northeast of Tranquillity Station, which is where the Apollo 11 landing site is located. Would you like to see the map again?”

  “No, thanks.” I’d looked at it twice already. The Royal University research base is located between two long, parallel rills and an impact crater on the edge of Mare Tranquillitatis; the crater’s named after a Greek astronomer from the first century B.C. who was an advisor to Julius Caesar and helped introduce the Julian calendar. Yada, yada, yada. Nice to know, but beside the point.

  What matters is that Sosigenes Center was once code-named Tango Red, when it had been the secret lunar installation where the first Superiors were born. After the Monarchists came to power, the base was placed under the auspices of the Royal University, where it was expanded to become the Pax’s research center for extraterrestrial medicine. That much is publicly known; most of what is done at Sosigenes Center is classified. Yet now that I know where the remaining dewars from the Immortality Partnership were transported, it becomes clear that this is where the Pax has been conducting its cryogenic revival program. If that’s the case, then Erin must be down there.