The sky was without color, and both the stars and sun were in it at the same time.
It was very hot inside the pressure suit.
His knee hurt.
Something about his surroundings nagged at Trent, but he was unable to decide what it was.
Finally he fell, and did not rise again.
* * *
The Wall
* * *
2069 - 2070
No miracle has ever taken place under conditions which science can accept. Experience shows, without exception, that miracles occur only in times and in countries in which miracles are believed in, and in the presence of persons who are disposed to believe in them.
--Ernest Renan
Vie de Jésus, 1863 Gregorian
* * *
15.
Trent was thirsty.
That was the first thing he noticed.
Aside from being thirsty, Trent felt fine.
Some time later Trent realized that aside from being thirsty he didn't feel anything.
His eyes were still closed, and Trent knew there was some very good reason why he should not open them.
Trent opened his left eye.
He closed it, and opened his right eye.
He let that eye droop shut, and then, cautiously, opened both eyes at once.
Each time he saw the same thing.
He was lying on something soft, on the floor of the strangest room he had ever seen in his life. The ceiling was lit with soft yellow sunpaint, that was normal enough; there were four walls, and a doorway without a door in it.
The decor was ... odd.
The walls were cut from some sort of stone, and two of the three walls that Trent could see had been smoothed and polished. The third wall was in the process of being smoothed; it was simply rough cut stone over nearly a third of its surface.
There was furniture in the room: one webchair, a small table of unpainted steel. They appeared strictly utilitarian, except for their odd delicacy; they could not, Trent thought, support any weight to speak of. Perhaps, he speculated shrewdly, the furniture was not designed for use by adults, but rather by, say, very tall, skinny children--or, thought Trent, pleased with his own cleverness, by elves.
Yes, elves.
As in many fairy tales, there was a monster in this one. It walked in as Trent was speculating about the furniture, carrying Trent's briefcase in one hand. It was large and bulky, ugly to a truly remarkable degree. It had a single huge, dark eye, and a large horny antenna growing out of its forehead.
Through a dry throat, Trent said, "You are the second ugliest thing I have ever seen in my life." He focused blurry eyes on the monster. "You are not as hairy as Booker Jamethon."
The monster proceeded to pull its head off, and hang the detached head on a hook growing out of the wall. It seemed that the monster had swallowed a hugely muscled, dark-skinned male human, fifty or sixty years of age, with wiry, steel gray hair. The man was not, thought Trent, what one would expect to find inside a monster.
Trent suddenly remembered where he was. "Ah," he said reasonably, "I knew there was a good reason not to open my eyes."
The man in the pressure suit looked at Trent. "Indeed?" He was unzipping the pressure suit, wriggling out of it. "I've often thought that myself, opening my eyes in the morning. What a lovely day it is, I'll think, and then I get out of bed and it's ruined." With his pressure suit off he no longer looked like the second ugliest thing Trent had ever seen. He did not spit on the floor even once while Trent was watching. "But by the time I know just how bad the mistake was it's usually too damn late to go back to bed." Pulling the chair over to where Trent was lying propped up against the wall, the man seated himself. "How do you feel?"
"Numb." Trent studied the man. Distinctly AmerIndian features, a compact frame; strong hands. "You don't look like a Peaceforcer."
The man blinked. "I should hope not."
Trent nodded. "Okay." Alive, apparently not in custody.… "What day is it? What time is it?"
"Thursday. About 10:30 p.m. What's your name, son?"
"Trent. Trent the thief. Where am I?"
"Luna."
"That's not funny."
"The fair planet Luna, western foot of the Caucasus mountain chain, United Nations territory, in the bolt hole of a man whose name is Nathan Dark Clouds." The man whose name was Nathan Dark Clouds leaned forward in his webchair, hands on knees. "And an odd thing you are, Trent the thief. I have so many questions I hardly know where to start."
"Wait." For the first time Trent noticed that he was no longer wearing the pressure suit, or the female Peaceforcer's uniform. "I only have a few. Can I ask mine first?"
Nathan nodded. "Go ahead."
"How far am I from Free Luna?"
"You were headed there?"
"Yes."
The older man nodded again, thoughtfully. "I thought. We're a fair piece from there. The nearest enclave is at the edge of Bessel crater, in Serenitatis. Damn near 750 klicks southeast, and you have to get up over the Caucasus mountains first. Say, two days by crawler."
"Okay ... how long ago did I crash?"
"About eight hours ago. They say that any landing you walk away from is a good one, and you walked away from that one, so that must have been a good landing." Nathan shook his head. "There's something wrong with that saying. I saw that landing; I was out in my chameleon, heading here, when your ship went down. I changed course, found you lying in the sun about an hour or so after the crash, picked you up, and headed here." He looked straight at Trent. "That craft, it ran off an antimatter-initiated reaction?"
"I don't know how it works. It was a Rolls-Royce. There were bottled positrons."
"That was my guess. If I'd had any idea ... well, you'd still be lying out there in the sun. We were about eight kilometers from the crash site when the containment went on the positrons." He seemed to shiver. "I poked my head outside just before you woke up. That whole section of the mountains is still glowing. That was a military ship you crashed in." It was not a question. "You don't need to bottle that much antimatter for anything except a weapon."
"You must know the Peaceforcers are after me."
"I guessed. About four o'clock yesterday, there was a Level Four alert down here; restricted travel, check in with the local Peaceforcers, all that crap. I headed out for my bolt hole, figuring to be as safe as possible if the PKF was planning a sweep of the undesirables. Among which number am I." The man shrugged. "They should not find us. I sprayed dust all the way back from where I picked you up."
"Sprayed dust?"
"No wind, Trent. You lift dust up as you go, spray it over your tail where you've been. It's a damn expensive mod to have done to a crawler, and using it costs a fair piece too, but if you want to assure you don't get followed it's a necessity."
Trent nodded. "What are you going to do about me?"
"Well, I wouldn't turn any man over to the Peaceforcers. They killed my wife. Beyond not turning you in, I haven't thought."
"Last question."
"Yes?"
"Can I get something to drink? Anything? Lots of anything?"
Nathan stood. "I think I can manage that. You be getting your story ready. I do love a good story." He vanished through the open doorway.
Trent sat upright more slowly, ignoring the quick sharp pain in his ribs. Nathan had taped his ribs, he noted, and splinted one finger of Trent's right hand; the skin of his face was sunburned, one cheek was swollen and tender, and there was a terrible pain in his knee again. Trent tried to remember when he had re-injured the knee...the memory returned slowly.
Nathan came back shortly, a pair of squeeze bulbs in one hand. He tossed them to Trent, the bulbs performing a strange slow tumble as they fell.
Trent caught them left-handed, without thinking. He stared up at Nathan Dark Clouds. "Did I ... fall ... down the mountain?"
"The ship did. Whether you were in it I have no idea."
"Oh, slith." With his broken
hand Trent gingerly touched his swollen knee. "I remember...." His voice trailed away. He felt himself shaking. "Never mind. Just never mind." He looked at the squeeze bulbs for the first time. "Thanks." He turned the ring on the first bulb--water--sucked it dry and then drank the second bulb only slightly more slowly.
Nathan leaned forward again, hands on knees. He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. "Now, Trent the thief, you're breathing my air and drinking my water. I've saved your life and bandaged your wounds. Now, tell me if you will, Trent the thief, how it is you come to be crashing a military spacecraft some few kilometers from my bolt-hole, with a briefcase full of sophisticated electronics, wearing a PKF p-suit that says Lieutenant Charbrier, a female Peaceforcer's uniform, and a pair of SpaceFarer boots from the Flandry."
"How do you know that?"
"It's my turn to"
"How do you know that?"
Nathan sighed. "You're going to be a hard man to get along with, Trent the thief. The p-suit says PKF on it, the uniform is cut for a girl with tits, and the boots are gray with green threading. Ugliest damn thing I ever saw."
"You recognize SpaceFarer colors?"
Nathan stared at him. "Trent, lad, you don't seem to understand the situation here. This is my"
Trent interrupted. "Okay, don't get stuffy. Let's see." He paused. "I was going to steal a spaceship ... no, no, that's too far in. See, there I was in the Down Plaza and...." He stopped. "I'm not sure where to start."
"The beginning?" the man suggested.
"You see, there was this Peaceforcer and he wouldn't listen to me," Trent said earnestly, and then stopped again. "It's a long story."
"We have lots of time."
"They think I killed a Peaceforcer."
Nathan Dark Clouds said mildly, "Trent the thief, other people have killed Peaceforcers. None of them triggered a Level Three Earth-Luna alert, a Level Four Lunar alert."
"Brass balls."
"What?"
"He was a Peaceforcer Elite."
Moving slowly, Nathan turned to face Trent squarely. His right eyebrow climbed exactly one centimeter. "What?"
"It was a mistake."
"A mistake."
"An accident."
"An acc--"
"He was trying to kill me and he fell."
"Fell ..." Nathan repeated.
"Well, jumped. Off a spacescraper." Trent shivered, remembering. "It was a really long way down."
Nathan's eyes wandered aimlessly around the room before settling on Trent again. "Trent. Trent the thief. Tell me what has happened. Start at the beginning. Work your way to the end. Take all the time you need."
Trent leaned back against the wall behind him. It was rough and unpolished. He started off with a reasonably detailed outline of the events of the last several days, not mentioning Denice. At first he was not certain that Nathan Dark Clouds was listening to him; the man sat quietly through the first telling of the story, and only then started asking questions. He started at the top of Trent's story and worked his way down, calmly, without fuss, as though he did not attach any great significance to Trent's answers.
Nathan Dark Clouds was very, very good. They were nearly half an hour into it when Trent realized he was being interrogated, forty-five minutes into it when he knew how well it was being done. Trent found himself backtracking, answering questions about subjects he had already lied about, fielding questions about other unrelated subjects, re-answering re-phrased questions he had already lied about twice. Nathan fed him back his own answers, subtly distorted, and waited for Trent to correct him. Two solid hours passed in the telling and re-telling of the story; when Nathan announced himself satisfied with Trent's final version of what had happened to him, Trent was shaking with exhaustion.
Only once in the course of that two-hour interrogation did Trent see the man at a loss for words. "There was a waldo waiting for you inside the store? Those damn things are more indestructible than an Elite."
Trent mumbled an answer.
Nathan said, "What?"
"There was a bazooka in the bathroom," Trent said more loudly.
"Say again?"
"I think it was a bazooka. I don't really know a lot about weapons."
"In the bathroom," said Nathan without inflection.
"I only kept it," said Trent defensively. "It wasn't even mine. It was there when I moved in. I don't know why."
At the end, when Trent was yawning hugely, Nathan stood. "Trent, you are just maybe the fastest-thinking young man I've ever met."
"Thank you."
"Lying to the man who's just saved your life," said Nathan Dark Clouds softly, "who's of half a mind to put you up in death pressure in the first place, is probably not wise."
Trent could not think of anything to say.
Nathan said, "Good night, lad." Without further comment, he scaled the sunpaint down to blackness, and left Trent alone.
In the dark, Trent pulled his briefcase to him, opened it, and checked his supplies. He had a curiously naked feeling, and for a moment could not decide why.
Just before sleep claimed him, Trent swore at himself sleepily. "You stupid genejunk. You lost the squirt gun."
He jerked awake twice, to darkness and panic, to a sensation his body insisted on interpreting as falling. Both times Trent oriented himself, remembered where he was and why he was there, and settled back down on the soft padding to sleep.
He awoke the third time to a generalized ache. He sat up slowly and rested in the darkness against the wall at his back. The darkness was incredible. Trent held his hand in front of his face and could not see a thing. The lack of sound was nearly as absolute; if he strained he could make out the gentle whisper of the ventilators forcing air through the room. He sat motionlessly for a while after that, just letting himself acclimate to the absurd feeling of lightness, listening to his body. He hurt literally everywhere, in every muscle in his body, as though somebody who really knew what he was doing had worked him over. His knee was out again; Trent could barely stand to straighten it fully. The rib he had broken was bearable so long as he breathed shallowly.
His right hand....
"Jesus-H.-Christ-on-a-stick." The Temple Dragons weapons instructor was an old Puerto Rican--forty, easy, thought Trent--whose name was Mitch. They were practicing that morning, all the Temple Dragons fifteen or under, in an abandoned brick warehouse across the street from the Temple. Mitch was rubbing the line of his jaw, and Jimmy Ramirez was on his knees on the mat, clutching his left hand. "Jimmy, you is such a dumb fuck." He took careful aim and kicked Jimmy Ramirez in the face and then turned to face the boys standing against the wall. "Listen up, Dragons. When you got no gun and you got to hit, I mean no choice, then you remember this. Hit hard parts with something harder. You want to use your hand, fine. You hit the man in the throat, you hit him in the nuts, you hit him right under the heart." Jimmy Ramirez was lying on the ground, curled up into a ball. Mitch kicked him again, harder. "Else you end up like this tough boy. I'm gon' have me a sore jaw all day. But Jimmy--" Mitch smiled at them, at Trent. "Jimmy, he a dead fuck."
Mitch had died shortly after that, in one of the endless property disputes with the Gypsy Macoute; until now, sitting alone in the dark beneath the surface of Luna, Trent could not remember having thought of the old Temple Dragon even once in all the years since Mitch's death.
It had taken him six years to get out of the Fringe. Six long years filled with more pain and anger than Trent allowed himself to remember most of the time.
And then, the Patrol Sectors. For all of seven months. Learning how to walk down a street again without having to check for men wearing the green-and-yellow Macoute bandanas. The simple shock of seeing Peaceforcers again, for the first time since the establishment of the Patrol Sectors had left Trent stuck on Long Island, inside the Fringe with no legal way to get out.
Dealing with the BloodSilk Boys, who thought they were tough even though they had a name with the word "silk" in it.
> Dealing with the Peaceforcers.
He sat alone, in the dark and the impossible lightness, for what seemed to him a very long time.
Thinking about dealing with the Peaceforcers.
At length he said, "Johnny?"
The voice emanated from a patch of darkness off somewhere to Trent's right. "Hi, Boss. How are you feeling?"
"I think I'll live. Once I get something to eat I might even want to. Johnny Johnny, how much free storage do you have in the handheld?"
"Not much, Boss. I stored most of our files from the apartment when you said you were coming to get me. I'd feel a lot safer if I could put it into offline storage somewhere."
"Soon, Johnny. Do you have enough left to store some books?"
Johnny Johnny snorted audibly. "You must be kidding. At the speed you read? I can store so much you wouldn't finish it this century."
Trent smiled. "Then let's get to work."
Nathan was gone.
There were three rooms and an airlock. The pressure suit Trent had crashed in was gone. One of the rooms, the smallest, was a kitchen with an airplant in it; another, the room Trent had slept in, was clearly a bedroom. The third and largest room was an equipment storage garage. Two spare pressure suits hung on its walls, and laser drills were stacked carefully in one corner next to a tool rack that held tools for, Trent guessed after a brief examination, repairs for some sort of heavy equipment.
The airlock was in the garage; Trent could find no air bottles for the spare pressure suits.
In the corner of the garage was the oldest computer Trent had ever seen in his life.
There was a note for Trent on the terminal.
* * *
Have gone to Luna City at Copernicus. Back late tomorrow. Food in cold spot in kitchen. Stove is electric grill on south wall of kitchen. First aid kit in kitchen; the medbot inside is stupid, but don't argue with it, you won't win.
Will be letting friends at Aristillus Mining Co. know that nephew is arriving shortly from Earth; I am trouble-shooter there, can easily arrange work for a man of your talents. Picking up clothing for you, soft p-suit; basic kit. Will clip you 850 Credit Units for p-suit, 15 for clothing; throw in 10 CU for trouble you're putting me to. Start thinking of way to pay me back.
The Long Run Page 21