Outland

by Alan Dean Foster

  "Bellows?"

  "Yeah, this is him," came the reply.

  "This is Sheppard. We've got to talk."

  On another keyboard O'Niel made an entry: BELLOWS—MAIN STATION TRANS-JOVIAN SPHERE OF OPERATIONS. TRACE.

  "Goddamn right we do," the man named Bellows agreed belligerently. "What the hell has been going on over there?" He sounded upset. O'Niel's gratified smile widened.

  "Just a little trouble," Sheppard told him.

  "Your trouble is becoming big trouble," Bellows informed him gruffly. "You're getting some people upset who shouldn't be upset."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean that some people think you don't know how to take care of your own operation. From what I've heard lately I can't say I blame them."

  "Tell them I can take care of everything. I just need to borrow a few of your best men for a couple of days. Just a couple of days."

  "What about the two you had?" Bellows wondered. "I thought they were doing a good job?"

  "They were . . . up to a point. They weren't the best. Send me the men and I'll get everything straightened out. I only need them for a little while, then they can go back."

  Bellows mulled over the request, sounded reluctant when he finally replied, "My people are not going to like this."

  "They want everything smooth again, don't they?" said Sheppard persuasively. "Then do it. Tell them I'll have it all straightened out fast."

  "When do you need the men?"

  "I want them on the next shuttle. The sooner the better, and the sooner everyone will be happy again."

  There was a pause, during which Sheppard did his best not to squirm or look concerned. O'Niel thought the General Manager did an excellent job.

  "I'll see what I can do," Bellows finally announced. "It won't be easy. They're hard to convince."

  "Just a couple of days," Sheppard reminded him. "That's not much to protect the investment they have here."

  Bellows agreed reluctantly. "I'll try. Call you back on this line later."

  There was a series of rapid clicks, then static. Sheppard's image dissolved into electronic mush.

  O'Niel played the conversation back in his mind as he stared absently out into the squad room. The deputies were gone, headed to their duty stations. So was Ballard, most likely to supervise a further check on the breaking and entering business.

  He turned back to the console, typed in: RESPONSE TO SHEPPARD, MARK B. MESSAGE JUST PLAYED?

  The console replied immediately: AFFIRMATIVE. RESPONSE 18:30 HOURS.

  REPLAY UNSCRAMBLED O'Niel directed it.

  There was more humming, more static, followed by the beep signifying that interspatial contact had been made. Sheppard's face reappeared on the screen.

  "Sheppard here."

  "This is Bellows," declared a now recognizable voice. "You've got the men you want. It wasn't easy. My people are very unhappy with you. This could cause trouble for them on all the other mining stations."

  "I don't see how," Sheppard replied. "This strictly a local problem."

  "Like hell." Bellows made a rude noise. "If the Company got wind of what's going on out your way they'd clamp down on us like a vise. As long as our operations are run quietly, they'll leave us alone.

  "But they can't afford any bad publicity. You know that. It could cost them their ore concessions. You know how this kind of thing would look if the media got ahold of it. It'd be the end of the Company's operations out here.

  "That could put my people out of business, and my people like being in business."

  "So do I," said Sheppard reassuringly. "Tell them not to worry. How good are the men you're sending over?"

  "The best. That's what you asked for, wasn't it? Well, that's what you're getting. They'll be on the shuttle arriving there Sunday."

  "They have their own weapons?" Sheppard's voice was very professional. He might as easily have been talking about the arrival of a dozen new lifters. "I can't afford to issue them any here. Too many questions would be asked, Too many people would know who might be asked awkward questions later on."

  "They know that. You think you're getting a couple of dummies? These aren't lower-grade punks like Yario and Spota, you know. These guys are class."

  O'Niel studied the screen, slowly rubbing his beard with one hand.

  "They're bringing everything they need," Bellows went on. "All you have to supply are instructions. I'll pass them on. Then you sit back and stay out of their way and let them do their job, understand? Anything changes when they get there, they'll turn right around and come back."

  "Don't worry about that," Sheppard assured him. "I've no intention of changing anything in mid-stream. I want this done and over with fast.

  "As to instructions, the target here is O'Niel, the local Marshal."

  "Jesus." For the first time Bellows sounded concerned instead of merely upset. "I thought it was some big-mouth miner or Admin assistant or someone who'd got wind of the operation. But the local Marshal . . ." His voice took on a note of anger.

  "I'm warning you, Sheppard, you better not mess this up."

  "I won't." The General Manager was quite confident.

  "Okay then. It's your party." Bellows sounded as though he didn't envy Sheppard the days ahead.

  "Yes, it is."

  "How much help will he have? Not that it would make much difference to the guys you've got coming over, but they ought to know."

  "None."

  "You sure?"

  "Yeah, I'm sure." Sheppard smiled thinly at the pickup. "Nobody here will stick their neck out for anyone. Oh, during a fight at the Club, sure. Piss-ant stuff like that. But they're not stupid. They're all here to do their tour and get the hell out.

  "It's just this one new Marshal who's causing all the trouble. The man's a mental case." The General Manager shook his head sadly. "Once the word is spread that these guys coming over are pros there won't be any trouble, and I've got somebody on the inside who will spread the word. Don't worry. He's a dead man. As dead as our temporary little difficulties here."

  O'Niel ground out his cigarette in the ash tray, crushing tobacco and paper to a thin disk-shape.

  "Sheppard, I've got to tell you something. Something you probably already know." Bellows' voice was level, noncommittal. "If this doesn't work, the next guys who come over for someone will be coming for you."

  "No problem." Sheppard smiled at the screen, outwardly unconcerned at the threat. "If I didn't think it would go over smoothly I'd never have asked. Tell your people to relax. I'll call you when it's over."

  There was a click, then static and mush. O'Niel folded his hands across his belly, leaned back in the chair and regarded the blank screen thoughtfully.

  Time began to pass more slowly the next day, when the large digital readouts located throughout the mine started to come alive. They'd been provided for the enjoyment of the workers. Watching the various clocks count down the minutes was a pleasant way to pass some time in anticipation of the next shuttle arrival.

  An incoming shuttle meant new films, mail tapes, private packages from wherever home was, new workers arriving, old hands with tours completed checking out: all sorts of delightful things.

  This particular shuttle carried something more unusual and less delightful.

  The double bulkheads outside the shuttle dock were cleaned and checked for leaks in anticipation of arrival. Over the main access hatch the readout announced: SHUTTLE LOCATION—STATION GREEN. The readout had remained unchanged ever since it had newly come to life.

  Now it flashed anew: SHUTTLE—IN TRANSIT. ARRIVAL 70 HOURS 00 MINUTES.

  Men and women crowded around the cafeteria tables noticed the readout above the serving counter as it came to life: SHUTTLE—IN TRANSIT. ARRIVAL 69 HOURS 58 MINUTES.

  It didn't matter what section of the mine you were in; the readouts were everywhere, insistent and inescapable. You could see one from your bunk, from your station in the crater, in a corner of the video screens at
the ends of the locker room aisles. Some professed to see the countdown in their sleep.

  And if you didn't see it, if you somehow managed to turn your eyes away from each new readout, someone was sure to mention it to you.

  O'Niel looked up from the console he'd been processing paperwork on to stare out into the squad room. Two deputies had ceased running down a list of checkpoints that needed to be inspected that afternoon. Their attention was on the wall readout which calmly announced: SHUTTLE—IN TRANSIT. ARRIVAL 69 HOURS 56 MINUTES.

  They looked at each other, muttered something, then glanced toward the office. When they saw O'Niel staring out toward them they hurriedly returned to their work. So did O'Niel, albeit more slowly.

  It was night again in the club. Within the transparent, floating cylinders a new pair of dancers undulated to the beat of fresh music, bathed in hot lights and their own sweat. The crowd milling around the bar and tables was as thick and boisterous as ever.

  O'Niel walked in, spent a minute surveying the crowd before starting toward the bar. A few patrons near the entrance noticed him, began to converse in low tones. The comments spread. His presence was like a rock dropped in a pond. Ripples of conversation spread out in all directions from the common center of O'Niel.

  The noise dimmed noticeably. All eyes were on him, staring at something extraordinary. The impact would have been less had a three-headed giraffe suddenily ambled into the Club and demanded a gin and tonic.

  Q'NieI acted as though nothing out of the ordinary was happening. He sauntered over to the bar, the men and women packed in front of him parting as neatly as ice before a hot wire.

  He leaned over the bartop and stared at the tender.

  "What'll you have, Marshal? the man finally asked.

  "Beer. House." He smiled thinly.

  The bartender nodded, turned, and drew a glassful from a gleaming spigot.

  O'Niel accepted the glass, lifted it to his lips, then hesitated. Everyone was still staring at him. He smiled inwardly. It was a silent toast, of a sort. He started in on the beer, ignoring the stares.

  Gradually it dawned on the crowd that nothing exceptional was about to happen. In twos and threes they resumed their conversations. The men standing on either side of O'Neil picked up the broken threads of former arguments. Women workers chatted amiably with each other or their male counterparts.

  But the intensity was down. Everyone sounded and acted slightly self-conscious. From time to time this man or that woman would glance over a shoulder to see if the Marshal happened to be staring at them.

  He wasn't. His attention was on the steadily ticking readout glowing greenly on the far wall.

  There were several deputies hard at work in the squad room. Ballard was behind the sergeant's desk, studying dispatches from the previous day, making a note here and there on acrylic boards, going over the assignments for the evening patrol.

  After an hour or so of such paperwork the new sergeant found himself feeling itchy. He looked up and over at O'Niel's office to discover the Marshal staring directly at him through the glass partition. O'Niel motioned to him.

  Ballard nodded, arranged his work neatly on the desk. He rose and moved into the Marshal's office.

  "Yes, Sir?"

  "Sit down, Sergeant." O'Niel was puffing on a cigarette as he motioned him to a chair.

  Ballard sat. O'Niel put his feet up on his desk and did nothing. Just sat there, staring at the ceiling and puffing on the butt. Eventually he finished, discarded the stubble.

  Ballard suspected what was coming. O'Niel was just taking his time getting around to asking the inevitable.

  "How many can I count on?"

  Ballard shifted uncomfortably in his chair, wishing he was somewhere else. "I . . . I don't know, Sir. It's a difficult situation."

  O'Niel crossed one leg over the other and continued to regard the ceiling. It was an interesting mosaic of grid work and exposed conduits. He studied the patterns a while longer, spoke without looking at the man seated across from him.

  "What about you?"

  Ballard said nothing. After awhile O'Niel's gaze dropped, locked on the sergeant.

  "Most of us," Ballard said hurriedly, "most are . . . we're young. We have families."

  "I have a family," O'Niel quietly reminded him.

  "I know, Sir. Except your family is . . ." He broke off at the expression on the Marshal's face. "I'm sorry, Sir."

  "That's okay." For a moment O'Niel's gaze was elsewhere. Then he was staring unaccusingly back at the sergeant. "It's true." There was another pause. Ballard was the best of the bunch, the biggest, and maybe the toughest. That was why he'd made him sergeant after Montone. Of all the deputies only Ballard didn't seem to tremble every time Sheppard's name was mentioned.

  But if he wouldn't stand up now, then O'Niel knew the rest were useless. His tone changed to one of curiosity as he watched the sergeant.

  "Tell me something. Think about it a minute. Do you," he gestured toward the half-filled squad room where arriving deputies were filing in, chatting and joking with each other, "do any of you care if the bad guys win?"

  Whatever Ballard's reactions were he didn't . . . or couldn't . . . voice them. He looked away and said nothing, keeping his eyes on the floor. O'Niel found himself nodding slowly.

  "Well . . . at least we all know where we stand. Thank you, Sergeant. You can return to your regular duties. You have a shift roster to announce. That will be all."

  Ballard rose, mumbled something incoherent as he retreated from the office. His eyes never rose to meet O'Niel's and he forgot to salute.

  Out in the squad room he moved quickly to his desk and picked up the acrylic announcement board. Then he was reading out the posts for the next shift. The deputies listened attentively. There were none of the usual moans or wisecracks about individual assignments.

  Most of the deputies kept their attention resolutely on the droning Ballard. A few found theirs' drawn to the steadily changing readout high up on the far wall. One or two sneaked hurried glances at the Marshal's office.

  All were relieved when the last assignment had been handed out and they were able to escape from the confines of the squad room . . .

  X

  Morning arrived weak but welcome. Distant sunlight outlined the mountains and sulfurous volcanoes, throwing the skeletal framework of the mine complex into sharp relief. Photons fell on the high-efficiency solar collectors. Generators began to hum, drawing and storing power.

  On the wall above the shuttle dock access hatch a readout announced silently: SHUTTLE—IN TRANSIT. ARRIVAL—40 HOURS 18 MINUTES.

  O'Niel was alone in the white canyon of the court. He bounced the ball against the floor. The sound of it ricocheting off the hard wall accentuated his isolation. He slammed it back, held up his racket to backhand the return, and managed to miss it. His swing, listless and indifferent, allowed the ball to bounce past him.

  It rolled to the back end of the court, dribbled off into a corner. He watched it, making no attempt to retrieve it even after it came to a stop.

  "That's pretty good," observed a sharp voice. "Playing by yourself and losing. That takes a considerable amount of concentration."

  Lazarus closed the court entryway behind her and strolled out onto the floor. O'Niel didn't acknowledge her presence, didn't turn to look at her.

  She stopped and studied him, her forehead wrinkling. "Looks like you'd benefit by a partner." She smiled hesitantly and gestured toward the ball. "I'd join you in this dumb game, if I could play sitting down."

  Whereupon she chose a relatively clean section of floor and sat down, crossing her legs as she did so. O'Niel walked past her to retrieve the ball. She watched him return to the serve mark and stand there, considering his next move.

  "I've been well, thank you," she said in response to the unasked question. "Pretty busy, too. Seems like there's some kind of flu going around. That's a mighty rare occurrence in this canned atmosphere because the samplers are sup
posed to constantly monitor the junk and suck out any dangerous germs or impurities. But I guess some kind of bug's finally managed to slip past them." She paused a moment. Still O'Niel didn't speak, but he didn't serve the ball, either.

  "I have no idea how many workers are going to be sick by Sunday," she continued in mock amazement. "Extraordinary symptoms. Nothing like them in my reference library." She shifted her backside on the hard floor.

  "No fevers, no stuffy noses, no aches and pains. Lots of eye trouble though. People seem unable to control their ocular muscles. They're able to look every which way except straight at you.

  "There's also a lot of shortness of breath and heightened coloring, followed by a frantic desire to leave the infirmary once the disease has been recorded. Oh yes, lots of weakness-in-the-knees, too. Sometimes runs all the way up the spine." She scratched at her forehead, grinned humorlessly up at O'Niel.

  "Yeah, it's your regular epidemic. First one I've run up against here on Io. No one seems immune. I've never seen anything spread so fast."

  O'Niel used one shoe to rub at a scuff mark disgracing the highly polished floor. The scuff mark wouldn't come out but he kept at it as he spoke.

  "What about you? Are you going to be sick this Sunday?"

  Lazarus sucked in a deep breath, let the air out in a single whoosh. When she resumed talking the words came out in a flood. It was as if O'Niel had somehow turned a key inside her.

  "You know, I was married once. I know that's hard to believe, but I was. A terrific guy. Gorgeous. Smart, clean, witty, just rakish enough in his personal likes and dislikes to keep you from getting bored.

  "Eight years. We were really happy for about four, neutral for the next two, and genuinely miserable for the last couple." Her gaze rose to the ceiling and she stared reminiscently at the white enameled sky.

  "I remember when we decided to get a divorce. It was a Saturday. The weather was beautiful. We went to a party. Really interesting people were there, which was unusual enough. Generally I hated parties. Still do, but this one was different, this one was decent.