by Allen Steele
Hell, maybe I’d get a chance to go back and give her hand. I had payback coming.
“Is there something you find amusing?” Jarvis asked.
He had opened the door to leave, but something in my face gave him pause. I hadn’t realized I was smiling. “Me? No, no, nothing at all. Just a passing thought.”
He gazed at me for another moment. “Not much of a hero, are you?” he murmured. “See you around, Captain Future.”
And that’s the last time anyone called me by that goddamn name.
He’s another guy, although I can’t say I don’t miss him, because I would be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy some of the perks of fame. It was fun while it lasted, but Jarvis was right. I’m not much a hero, when it comes down to brass tacks, and fame is a quality which is wasted upon me. All I ever did with it was cadge drinks, and you can’t do that very well when you’re a dude who pushes old ladies out airlocks. But Jeri has always been the boss, after all, and she was the one who managed to get us contracts once the heat finally blew over. We moved back out to the Belt, and we got along, and we survived.
Eight months later, the volcanoes of Venus went berserk and discharged waves of fresh lava all over its surface. It took a couple of years for the lava fields to finally cool down, but when they did, countless new lodes of rare metals were revealed, none of which the Pax Astra had any claim. Although the space-mining market went into turmoil when lunar and near-Earth asteroid resources began to be devalued, the Monarchists weren’t toppled overnight. Perhaps it was too much to hope that Her Majesty would be cast off her throne by something as trivial as a planetary catastrophe, yet the royalists did lose considerable clout in the Pax, and it wasn’t long before Neil Schorr was forced to step down from being Prime Minister. Someone should have told him that no one gets to stay a hero forever.
TBSA freighters vied with one another to receive one of those precious new Venus contracts with ConSpace, but the first ship to win a major bid was the Comet. That was when we finally made the trip back to Evening Star, and the first person to meet us at the east airlock was Jenny Pell. We had her over to our ship for dinner. By then I had finally learned how to cook an omelette.
This time, Captain Future is really dead, and if I have anything to say about it, he’s staying that way. Vaya con dios, amigo. You were a better man than I, even though you never really existed.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The quoted excerpts from the original Captain Future stories are reprinted with permission of Edmond Hamilton’s literary executor, Eleanor Wood, and the Spectrum Literary Agency.
0.0G Sex:
A User’s Guide
Welcome to the Pax Astra Argosy Selene Queen. For a complete list of passenger services and facilities, please touch F1
Welcome to Passenger Services and Facilities. Please touch any menu item.
Fornicatorium: Introduction and Guidelines:
The Pax Astra Argosy Selene Queen is equipped with four fornicatoriums, located on both the starboard and port sides of the Promenade just aft of the Recreation Deck (touch F2 for Map). Although lovemaking is permitted in First Class staterooms and Second Class berths, for your own safety it is strongly recommended that you use the fornicatoriums. Public sex is not permitted anywhere aboard the Selene Queen, and is expressly forbidden in access shafts, storage compartments, lifeboats, and airlocks.
Fornicatoriums are open at all hours, except for brief periods during main-engine ignition, when the ship may accelerate in excess of 3.0G. Passengers are warned not to engage in sexual intercourse during these periods, or severe injury may result.
Due to their popularity, passengers are encouraged to reserve fornicatoriums in advance (touch F3). Access to fornicatoriums is limited to 2-4 male/female/hermaphrodite passengers age 18 or over (Gregorian). No minors permitted. Passenger IDs must be used to gain entry, and you may also be asked to submit to a retina scan.
Sessions are limited to one standard hour. Extra time may be purchased, if no other parties are presently waiting to use the same compartment.
Fornicatoriums are spherical chambers five meters in diameter, with thick padded walls. Colored hexagonal panels arranged around the room have various specialized functions:
*Orange panels: fornicatorium control systems, including lighting, atmosphere controls, music options, window shutters, timer, and ship comlink.
*Green panels: clothing lockers.
*Blue panels: gift shop and minibar, containing a wide variety of recreational items and refreshments which may be enjoyed during your session. Removal of any of them will constitute purchase, and the ship’s purser will hill them to your account.
*Red panels: first aid equipment. Please use only during an emergency.
Many passengers enjoy opening the porthole during their sessions; it is three meters in diameter, and affords stunning views outside the vessel. Porthole shutters are operated by controls within the Orange Panel. The glass is shatterproof and resistant to cosmic background radiation; it automatically polarizes against direct sunlight.
Atmosphere controls within the Orange Panel allow you to choose from a broad range of scents: Peppermint Patty, Mountain Forest, Ocean Spray, Arctic Mist, Martian Morning, Desert Twilight, New Orleans Evening, Lunar Midnight, and New Car. Temperature levels and internal lighting will automatically adjust to preset levels appropriate to these atmospheres; however, you can adjust both lighting and temperature to your taste.
The music menu offers an almost infinite selection of styles and artists, including classical, jazz, rock, country, bluegrass, zydeco, lunar, and atonal constructs. Many have been preset into the available atmosphere selections, but you may wish to choose your own music.
In order to save time during your session, you may want to preprogram the fornicatorium in advance. This may be done when you make your reservation.
For your convenience, flexible hand rungs and foot restraints are scattered throughout the compartment. Don’t be reluctant to use them; even those who have considerable experience with their partners usually find it often useful to gain leverage while lovemaking in 0.0G. At minimum, one person should grasp a hand rung while the other hooks a foot into a nearby restraint, at least during foreplay. Press F4 to view a demonstration of various techniques.
Accidents may occur if partners attempt exotic positions within zero-g conditions. Please be careful. Should it become necessary to request medical assistance, please use the Orange Panel to contact the infirmary.
Items contained with the Blue Panel are for entertainment purposes only. The management and crew of the Selene Queen accept no liability for their misuse. Touch F5 to examine legal disclaimer.
You may choose to record your session on a holodisk. For this purpose, the fornicatorium has been outfitted with laser imaging equipment. You may activate this service through Orange Panel, and purchase the disk later from the Blue Panel gift shop.
In the event of a solar-flare alert, fornicatoriums will be evacuated by ship stewards or other crew members. If this occurs, please allow the stewards to escort you immediately to the nearest available shelter. Crew members are authorized to open fornicatorium hatches without prior permission of passengers. Press F8 for full explanation of emergency procedures.
It is highly unlikely that the Selene Queen will experience an emergency which would require evacuation of the entire ship. If this were to occur, though, the fornicatoriums have been designed to double as lifeboats, and can be jettisoned from the ship’s superstructure. If you hear a Bridge Alert during your session, do not panic. Please dress immediately, unlock the hatch, and wait for stewards.
Emergency occupancy of the fornicatoriums is rated at 10 persons for 12 standard hours.
Have fun, and enjoy your voyage aboard the Selene Queen!
Working for Mister Chicago
One hundred and two years after he choked upon a McDonald’s cheeseburger and died at his office desk, Paul McLafferty found himself on his hands and knees, pol
ishing the floor of the Great Hall in Mister Chicago’s palace.
The Great Hall was a large rotunda whose walls were draped with priceless tapestries and whose dome ceiling, supported by tall Doric columns, was painted with a reproduction of Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel mural. The floor was a mosaic comprised of thousands of tiny pieces of multicolored ceramic and quartz, with long threads of hammered gold outlining its elaborate patterns. When he sat up on his haunches to rest his aching back, McLafferty was able to see that the mosaic formed a heliocentric map of the solar system, the orbits of the planets and major asteroids forming spirals around the Sun, the constellations of the Zodiac forming a starry background.
McLafferty scrubbed the floor of the Great Hall once a week, squatting on all fours with a horsehair brush and a pail of soapy water, working at the dust that found its way into the tiny cracks between the tile work, polishing every inch of the mosaic until he could see the reflection of his rejuvenated face. Although he always came away from this chore with chaffed fingers and sore muscles, he had never ceased marveling at the craftsmanship that had gone into the making of this beauty.
“Must have taken years,” he murmured.
“I’m telling you, it only took four hours,” Yeats answered. He was arranging flowers in the Grecian urns that stood beneath the columns. “One of the chambermaids told me. It was nano…nano…it was little bitty robots. They spilled a bottle of ’em on the floor, threw in the raw materials, stood back…” He raised an arm. “Fwoosh! Off they went! Four hours later…”
“Instant masterpiece,” McLafferty finished, unconsciously reiterating the same line Yeats always used. They had discussed this many times before, although neither man had more than the barest recollection of having done so. He shook his head. “I understand what you’re saying, but I still don’t accept it. How can you program something smaller than a dust mote to make…something like this?”
Yeats didn’t look up from his work. “Hey, you’re the rocket scientist,” he murmured. “You tell me. I just…”
“Do stocks and bonds,” McLafferty finished. He shook his head again, this time in faint bewilderment. Déjà vu. Had he heard this before? “Where did you say you used to work?”
“Umm…” Yeats had to concentrate for a moment. “New York Stock Exchange. Munici…municipals? Does that sound right? And you…”
“I used to work at NASA. Right.” McLafferty frowned. Sometimes it was so hard to think. “Some place in California.” He snapped his fingers. “Pasadena. JPL. That’s it.”
“Like I said…a rocket scientist.” Yeats gave him a sharp look. “Hey, have we talked about this before?”
“Probably.” McLafferty picked up his brush and bent over again to hide his embarrassment. “Maybe last week.”
“Yeah. I think so, too. Are you…?”
The faint sound of approaching footsteps, coming from the upstairs corridor leading to the master’s private chambers. Both men fell silent as they pretended to concentrate on their work, neither of them daring to glance up. The footsteps grew louder until they entered the circular balcony overlooking the Great Hall. There they paused for a few moments, and McLafferty could feel contemplative eyes at his back.
Then the footsteps turned and receded, going back down the corridor. Mister Chicago had come to check on them; satisfied, he had left them alone once again.
Neither of them spoke after that. The message was clear. The master was having his party tonight, and wouldn’t tolerate anything that interfered with its preparations.
McLafferty was almost grateful for the interruption. It saved him the further embarrassment of having to admit that he couldn’t even remember Yeats’ first name.
The only reason why McLafferty knew his own name was that someone had told it to him, during the long days of re-education that had followed reanimation.
This much he knew for certain: his name was Paul Joseph McLafferty, and he had been born at Worcester City Hospital in Worcester, Massachusetts, on July 21, 1946. His father’s name was Bruce, his mother’s name was Emma, and he had an older brother named Richard and a younger sister named Catherine. He had earned his B.S. in engineering from Worcester Polytech, then gone on to earn his M.S. and Ph.D. at Stanford. He had married a woman named Elizabeth…he faintly recalled knowing her as Liz, and that she was a blonde and very pretty…and they had a son named Bruce, whom he had last seen playing with some toy figures called Mighty-something-Power Rangers on the kitchen floor.
And then he had died on February 21, 1995. Cause of death was accidental choking, or so he had been told. He had the vaguest memory of the taste of a cheeseburger, of helplessly fighting for breath, of a dull roar in his ears and darkness closing in around him…
Everything else was a mystery, his only clues a few barely glimpsed forms and shadows swathed in thick black smoke that parted only for a moment at a time. Sometimes, when the long work day was done and he lay awake in his bed in the servant quarters—the lights dimmed, the silence undisturbed except for someone snoring in his sleep—he would stare at the ceiling, struggling to remember his former life.
A dog he had once loved. He didn’t know his name, but he cried one night when he recalled how he used to bound on his bed every morning and lick his face to wake him up. A best friend—another teenager, the features of his face only barely remembered—who had his own car and was the coolest guy in town. An associative remembrance of the scent of marijuana, smoked on a warm summer night. A girl—not Elizabeth, although she had blonde hair, too—who also liked some TV show called Star Trek; they used to screw on the couch of her parents’ house while Mr. Spock watched. He thought her name was Shelly, but he could be wrong; it might be Sally or even Shelby. Another TV image: cheering along with a roomful of college kids as they watched a spacecraft rise from a distant launch pad, wishing more than anything else that he could be aboard…Columbia? was that was it was called?…right now.
Like shards of broken seashells, he collected scenes and voices from his past during those midnight strolls down the alien beach that was his mind. A long corridor of office doors (third floor, five doors down, one o’clock sharp, Mr. McLafferty); a classroom chalkboard filled with equations (a Hohmann trajectory, simply stated, is…). Taking a dump while studying a textbook (goddammit, Paul, are you dying in there?). Cool autumn wind in a graveyard (he would have been proud of you, son…). Someone shaking his hand (welcome to the team, Dr. McLafferty, we’re glad to have you…). A gold ring slipped on his finger (you may kiss the bride…). A first glimpse of palm trees (dammit, Liz, where’s the map, I can’t…). A baby crying (he’s beautiful, what do you want to…?). A long row of tall, cold metal tanks (we call it cryonic biostasis, Dr. McLafferty, not…). Liz, pissed off, shouting at him about something that he had signed (what are you wasting money on this for, we can’t…).
The taste of a fast-food cheeseburger.
Choking. Grasping at his throat. Fumbling across a desk for the telephone. Chair tipping over. Collapsing on a carpeted floor. Limbs growing numb, head pounding, ears roaring, vision becoming grey. The long, slow plummet into darkness…
Then, quite suddenly, the harsh white glare of resurrection.
And now here he was, on a space colony constructed above an asteroid called 4442 Garcia, working for Mister Chicago.
Evening came, not as a sunset upon a western horizon, but as the gradual brownout of the elongated filaments that ran down the colony’s cylindrical ceiling. In forest groves below the biosphere’s upward-curving walls, crickets and night birds struck up their nocturnal symphony, while lights glowed from the windows of the Byzantine stone palace at the center of the sausage-shaped artificial world.
Mister Chicago was holding a dinner tonight, and it wasn’t long before his guests began to arrive, walking up the lighted paths from the dachas surrounding the palace to the open doors leading into the Great Hall. Most lived in other colonized asteroids of the Main Belt, but a few had traveled from as far away as
Mars, Callisto, and Europa. If one visited the colony’s central control room, located in a sub-basement deep beneath the mansion, and peered at flatscreens arranged in long rows above banks of luminescent consoles, their vessels could be seen in orbit around the massive rock.
No one McLafferty had spoken with seemed to know exactly what Mister Chicago did or exactly how he had amassed his fabulous wealth. Most of the servants believed that he was an entrepreneur of some sort; others claimed that he was an exiled prince, although no one knew from which country. There were also whispered rumors that he was a gangster, a hermaphrodite, even an android. Whatever he was, he had enough money to buy an asteroid and have it turned into a private estate, and sufficient power that when he threw a party, rich people traveled millions of kilometers to accept his invitation.
After he had finished preparing the Great Hall for the festivities, McLafferty had been allowed a few hours to himself. He had used them wisely; after showering and catching a nap, he ate a quick meal in the kitchen along with the rest of the servants. Then, as his master required, he went back to the servants quarters to put on his attire for the evening.
Twentieth-century black-tie formal: tails, bow-tie, vest, striped trousers, faux-pearl studs and cufflinks, patent-leather shoes. Examining himself in a mirror, he decided that he looked as if he was ready to conduct a symphony orchestra. Liz should see him like this; he hadn’t looked this good since…
Liz, in her wedding gown, in his arms as they waltz across a parquet floor. “Ow,” she whispers, trying to maintain her poise. “Paul, you’re stepping on my feet.”