Outland

by Alan Dean Foster

  "We had drinks and a fabulous dinner. Even the dessert was good. He looked over at me and I looked at him and we both knew it was over. Over cognac." She tried to smile but couldn't. "Our marriage was civilized, but over.

  "He said, 'You know, I will always love you. I want you always to be happy. I hope you find someone else.' " She laughed lightly in remembrance.

  "Class. That guy had what it takes in all departments, let me tell you. When you really care for somebody, you want them to be happy." She traced an invisible design on the floor.

  "I looked back at him, smiled, and said, 'I hope you're miserable, and I hope your nose falls right off your face!' Then I got drunk."

  "Does all that have a point?" O'Niel eventually inquired gently.

  "Sure it does. You think I'm just wasting air? You see, if I really had what it takes, I would have said the right thing. If I really had what it takes, I would never have wound up in this god-forsaken place. I'd be working on Luna, off-Earth but in luxury.

  "What I'm trying to say is that if you're looking for sterling character you're in the wrong place. I don't qualify." He didn't say anything.

  She leaned forward, spoke earnestly. "Listen, if you're the kind of man you're supposed to be you wouldn't stick around either. That's why they sent you here."

  O'Niel said softly, "They made a mistake."

  Lazarus shook her head again, her voice full of disappointment. "I was afraid you'd say something like that." She tried to peer beyond the quiet mask, past the beard and the dark eyes, but she couldn't find it, couldn't see what was driving him.

  "You think you're making a difference by doing what you're doing here?"

  He shrugged, bounced the ball a couple of times and considered the wall.

  "Then why, for God's sake?"

  O'Niel hesitated, then looked over at her. His whole manner was solemn. "Because maybe they're right. They sent me here to this pile of shit because they think I belong here. I've got to find out if they're right." He stopped bouncing the ball. When he spoke again there was more emotion in his face than she'd thought possible.

  "Lazarus, there's a whole machine, a whole rotten stinking machine that works only because everybody connected with it does what they're supposed to. I found out I'm supposed to be a part of that. I'm supposed to be something I don't like. That's what it says in the program. That's my rotten little part in the rotten machine." He caught his breath, looked away.

  "Well I don't like it. I don't like the machine and I don't like the part I'm supposed to play in it. So I'm going to find out if they're right." He turned on her.

  "What do you think of that?"

  She stared appraisingly back at him. "I think your wife is one stupid lady."

  O'Niel tried to smile but only made it halfway. It was a triumph, of sorts.

  "You want to go get drunk?" she asked him. She pointed at the racket. "Or you want to stay here and beat the hell out of a rubber ball?"

  He didn't hesitate and tossed the racket and ball into a corner.

  She struggled to her feet and headed for the exit, feeling good without really knowing why.

  "At least you still have some sense left."

  "Is that your professional opinion, doctor?"

  "Are you kidding?" She broke into a twisted grin. "Professionally, you're mad as a March Hare. The other opinion, that's personal."

  "Personally," he said as they left the court, "I tend to agree with the first . . ."

  Time passed slowly at the mine. It was as if someone had jimmied the clocks. They continued their relentless march toward tomorrows, but the minutes now seemed like hours, the seconds stretched into minutes.

  The jokes and complaints and arguments the miners indulged in acquired a forced air. Once in a while some wit would venture a joke about the cause of the strain, get pained or angry looks instead of the expected laughs, and slink quietly back to work.

  It wasn't just the miners. Everyone in the mine was on edge, from Adinin down to Sanitation. There was a charge in the atmosphere that didn't come from a leak in the storage batteries.

  When the Marshal walked through a crowded area, the tension fairly crackled.

  Off in the distance on the western horizon an enormous volcano, a dark yellowish growth, suddenly became active. It heaved a blue white cloud into the black sky. There was a momentary crack in the psychological web that had enveloped the mine as this new concern took precedence.

  Seismologists checked to make sure the tectonic activity was localized and that it presented no danger to the mine or its inhabitants. Everyone took time to watch the distant, silent eruption, the newcomers nervous, the old-timers lazily leaning against the quivering mine scaffolding or catching a quick nap inside their suits.

  Though spectacularly violent, the eruption lasted only a few hours. Then Io's internal instability shifted and the activity moved a hundred miles southwestward. The all-clear sounded and everyone returned to work.

  They were not particularly grateful for the respite. It was worse to stand around Outside with no work to do, more unsettling to consider Io's explosive innards, the nearness of space and the looming presence of Jupiter overhead than to grumble over a job. Work focused the mind and kept nervous threads of introspection from probing unpleasant regions.

  For the next couple of days especially, it would be better not to do much thinking.

  O'Niel tried to do the same, but there were no breaks in his routine to take his mind off the inexorable countdown of the clocks.

  If anything, there was less trouble than normal. Fewer drunks and almost no fights. For whatever reasons it was as if there was an unspoken conspiracy among the workers not to cause trouble. Trouble would require the attention of the Marshal, and nobody wanted to make his acquaintance just then.

  Involuntarily, O'Niel found himself looking up from his desk, out across the squad room at the readout set in the opposite wall. SHUTTLE—IN TRANSIT it read. ARRIVAL—22 HOURS 15 MINUTES.

  He reminded himself that he wasn't going to do that anymore. Irritated, he bent back to his work.

  There were compartments to inspect, lock-seals to check, small complaints to be processed and minor arrests to make out reports on. Each passed a little more time, caused it to slump forward a little faster. He checked out every surveillance camera in the complex personally, and then did it a second time. He filed reports and scanned personnel files, looking for clues to the identities of those coming to do Sheppard's dirty work.

  But no matter how hard he tried, no matter how assiduously he buried himself in busy-work, he still found himself glancing from time to time at the nearest readout.

  It was the end of another shift and the deputies were filing out of the squad room. O'Niel sat at his desk, ignoring their by now open stares. He was eating a sandwich that had been left sitting too long. It had a consistency flattering to a fencepost, not digestion. The sawdust taste carried the analogy still further.

  He rubbed his eyes and stared at the computer readout. All the names were running together, an endless chain of imponderables. The list was drawn from the personnel files of Station Green. Somewhere on the list was the name of one professional hitperson, probably more.

  He didn't really expect to identify them by scanning the lists. A professional assassin would carry professional cover. But it was something to do.

  Nuts. The names had melted into a single blur. It was time to rest, whether his brain wanted to or not. His body insisted.

  The digital readout in his apartment was flashing steadily as he entered and turned on the lights. SHUTTLE—IN TRANSIT. ARRIVAL—9 HOURS 37 MINUTES.

  Long day, long hours. He was so damn tired and the room was so empty. It was so quiet he could hear the couch fabric squeak when he sat down.

  The beeping of the communicator was the last thing he expected to hear. A red light started flashing above the monitor. In the room's silence the erratic sound was startlingly loud.

  It paralyzed him for a mome
nt. The call was on his personal line, not the one linking his quarters to the office.

  If he didn't move himself he'd never find out who it was. He stood, hurried to the console, and acknowledged the call.

  The screen cleared, displaying large letters. O'NIEL, W.T, TELECOMMUNICATION—STATION GREEN—REAL TIME TRANSMISSION.

  He stared at the letters as though at any moment they might band together snake-like to jump out and bite him. Automatically his hand went to the top of the console to adjust the tiny video pickup positioned there, to make certain it was pointing at him. The pencil-sized camera hummed as its innards came alive.

  He sat down, typed into the console O'NIEL, W.T. together with his personal code, then, PROCEED.

  The letters vanished and were replaced with bright wavy lines indicative of momentarily confused electronics. The lines cleared, straightened, and he found himself staring at Carol. She looked back at him. He knew his own pickup must be working because she hurried to replace her look of concern with a smile.

  "Hello there."

  For a long moment he didn't reply, just stared at her, drinking in the vision. Her face was less haggard than it had been the last time he'd looked at it, via the taped message she'd left him. When she'd left him.

  Don't think about that now, he commanded himself. There's not enough time left to waste any on that. Think about how beautiful she is, how warm and friendly-familiar. Not how far away.

  "Hello there yourself." He summoned up a slight grin. It was very hard.

  It flustered Carol. "I'm doing it again," she murmured unhappily. "I've had plenty of time to prepare what I was going to say. I was going to be so devastatingly clever. And here I am, looking at your face, and my mouth has gone to mush. Jesus."

  "How is Paulie?" he asked.

  She tried to regain her composure. "He's fine. I promised him he could talk to you." She gestured to her right. "He's in the next room, out of pickup range. Probably destroying the furniture."

  Her voice trailed away, leaving an awkward silence. It made little difference to O'Niel. He was quite content just to look at her.

  "Are you feeling well?" she finally asked. Anything but that torturous silence!

  "I'm okay," he lied.

  "I'm . . . ah, Paulie and I . . . our reservations have come through. We're booked on a flight home." O'Niel just nodded. She looked down, making a pretense of checking the console readouts at her end. "The reservations . . . I didn't think it would hurt . . . are for three."

  O'Niel scrounged a cigarette from a console drawer, struck the end against the metal to light it. "That was very thoughtful of you."

  "Please . . ."

  He cut her off quickly with a short, nervous shake of his head, not wanting it to go on. "I can't."

  She stared back at him, not understanding. "Why not, for God's sake?"

  "I just can't." He wanted to look at her and not look at her, hold her close and send her away. "I wish I could."

  "What is so important?"

  She was bringing it all down on him, all over again, and it seemed so unfair. They'd been through it all a dozen times before and there was no need to do it again. The knot in his belly was big enough now. It was pointless to try and explain yet again and make it worse.

  Besides, he had other things to worry about. He wanted desperately to tell her about Sheppard, about his situation, about the significance of the steadily down-counting readouts. He couldn't. It would have been unfair. He loved her too much for that.

  So he waved loosely at the pickup and said, "I'm too tired to go into it now, Carol. I just can't leave." He made a gesture of helplessness. "That's all."

  "Maybe that's all for you, but it's not enough for me," she shot back, unwilling to let it drop. "What is it? Do you think you're making a difference?" It came out half question, half accusation. "Do you think you're making the Universe a better place? Do you think what you're doing is worth giving up your family for?"

  O'Niel tried to frame an answer, failed. In all the time they'd been married he'd never been able to compose a satisfactory one. He simply stared back at her, tired and sad-eyed.

  She'd seen that look before, sighed resignedly. "You're a stubborn son-of-a-bitch."

  "Yes," he agreed.

  There was a pause. Then she must have seen something else in his face. Her voice changed and her expression turned wary.

  "Something is wrong there, isn't it? Something serious that you're not telling me."

  "No."

  "You're in trouble. I know it. Every time you start speaking in sentences of less than two words I know you're in some kind of trouble."

  He looked straight at her, forced himself to sound reassuring. "I'm okay."

  She stared back at him, spoke through clenched teeth, the frustration nearly overwhelming her. "Damn you." Then she looked away from the pickup and called out, "PaulIe! You can come in now." She faced him again, lowering her voice but not the intensity in it.

  "I love you."

  As she stepped aside an eager young face replaced hers. It lit up the screen, radiated happiness and innocence; two things O'Niel hadn't seen much of lately.

  "Daddy!"

  The knife floating in O'Niel's guts twisted. He fought to conceal the pain. "Hey, Paul. Good to see you. How are you doing?"

  "Great. Mommy let me stay up late because this was when the call went through. They told us the lines Outland are always busy." He lost some of his initial enthusiasm. "I miss you."

  "I miss you, too." The knife moved with exquisite delicacy.

  "Mommy says as soon you get done what you have to do, you're going to come home with us."

  "As soon as I get done."

  "What's it like on Earth?"

  "It's beautiful." It had been a long time but O'Niel didn't have any trouble remembering. "You'll see so many wonderful things and have so many friends to play with. It'll be great."

  "Mommy says on the flight they put you to sleep for a long time."

  "For a while," he replied. "It won't seem like very long."

  "Will it hurt?"

  "Not even a little. It's just like going to sleep in your own bed. You'll just wake up and be home."

  He looked doubtful. "I'm going to sleep through my birthday, mommy told me. How can I have a cake and a party if I'm sleeping?"

  O'Niel smiled. "Next birthday you'll have a double party, and you'll get twice as many presents."

  "Can't you come with us?"

  "Not right now."

  "Soon?"

  "Yes . . . soon."

  "I love you, Daddy."

  That almost did it. A child's guileless plea can crumble even an iron will. O'Niel found himself choking on his next words, struggled to keep control of himself and the fatherly smile frozen in place.

  "I . . . I love you, Paul. You take care of mommy now, until I can join you."

  "I will. See you, Daddy."

  The screen image broke apart, became a cluster of weaving, dancing lines. It looks like I feel, he thought glumly. He wasn't surprised Carol hadn't come back on. She'd already taken her best shot.

  The screen patiently declared END TRANSMISSION. O'Niel didn't deactivate it, kept staring at the words, replaying the whole transmission over and over in his mind's eye. It was quite a while before he turned it off. When he finally did so, the conversation had faded until it was just another hopeful dream.

  It was busier than usual in the shuttle loading bay. The level of activity had been increasing for several hours. Landing crews bustled about checking their equipment and instrumentation, some real work soon to be required of them. Maintenance workers assisted in the ready-up. Huge containers of ore were given a final aligning while thick-soled convoyers were freshly lubricated and warmed up

  SHUTTLE—IN TRANSIT, the oversized readout shouted above the busy crews. ARRIVAL—1 HOUR 55 MINUTES.

  The clip was plastic and so were the shells. The riot gun was designed to supply high stopping power at short range. A ga
uge and dial on the side allowed the user to adjust the velocity of each shell by modifying the solid shaped charge of propellant within. That way the wielder could do real damage to an assailant without blowing a hole through the vacuum sealed corridors or accessways.

  The empty clips were stacked next to a framed picture of Carol and Paul on the coffee table in O'Niel's apartment. A box of shells sat nearby.

  O'Niel paused a moment to study the picture, noting that for once Paul's hair was neatly combed. Carol looked radiant.

  Then he returned to loading shells into clips, his manner wholely businesslike. He positioned each shell as though his life might depend on its not jamming.

  When he was finished he turned his attention to the gun which lay in pieces on the far end of the table. He checked each section before snapping it into place, adding a drop of oil here, blowing away a speck of lint there. The barrels were spotless, the firing mechanism free-flowing, the stock set firmly in place. He rechecked the lenses on the short sight, aimed the gun, and swung it from right to left.

  He frowned and set the gun gently on the table. Using a tiny tool he adjusted the sliding weight set in the underside of the stock, moving it a millimeter rearward. Raising the weapon once more he went through the aiming procedure again, letting the gun balance in one hand. That was better.

  Rising, he reached for the loaded clips piled alongside the picture and began slipping them into his pockets. The last thing he did before leaving the room was slide a full magazine into the gun.

  The volume of sound issuing from the Club indicated that it held a fairly good-sized crowd. Music seeped out around the edges of the hatchway. The dancers would be off-duty now, O'Niel thought as he made his way through the accessway nexus. If he'd taken the time to peer inside he would have noticed that there was not a lot of mixing taking place but that the bar was exceptionally busy.

  Sheppard was finishing his coffee . . . real coffee . . . and a breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon. He glanced up at the neat digital readout imbedded in his desk monitor. It said in soft green: SHUTTLE—IN TRANSIT. ARRIVAL—1 HOUR 32 MINUTES.

  The bacon was properly cooked this morning. Crisp and not soggy. He used a piece of bread to shovel up the last of the scrambled eggs.