Eventually the thrusters went silent for the last time. Peter felt aerodynamic control take over, and heaved a sigh of relief.
|Gravity wells are a bitch.|
Amen.
Peter ached for windows. He knew what a dead-stick ablate-in felt like, and when the nose tipped up for the final approach to the runway he knew the journey was about over—but he wanted to see it. Lacking windows, he'd have been happy with instruments. But no; he was cargo, and hated it.
When the lander's wheels finally touched the tarmac, everyone in the lander began screaming and cheering, Geyl included.
The lander was still for only seconds before the sounds of a heavy engine approached, and after some clanging at the forward end the lander began to move again.
"You're still scum," Geyl said, "but damned lucky scum." She smiled. "And don't think you'll be able to scam me like that again!" She poked Peter playfully in the ribs.
I think you two have bonded.
|Vomit and bad landings will do that.|
The lander bumped slowly along for what seemed an eternity. It stopped at last amidst a great deal of clanking and racket outside. Almost simultaneously the lights went out—and both exit hatches were pulled out and down.
Brilliant sunlight poured into the lander. Through the cast-wide hatch Peter could see snow-covered mountains in the distance. In silence the transportees watched a single figure haul itself up into the starboard hatch. He stood at the front of the lander, holding an automatic rifle in both hands. He was dressed in black leather from neck to soles. Behind the smoked gray plate of his helmet they saw the vague glints of his eyes, scanning back and forth.
"Ooo, la la!" Erna exulted, to their left.
The leather-clad figure re-slung his rifle, pulled a clipboard from his belt and began taking notes. He handed the clipboard to someone outside the lander and returned, flipping up his helmet faceplate to reveal a young face with dark brown eyes.
"Welcome to Hell!" he said, grinning. From outside the lander someone tossed a small cardboard carton, which their greeter caught and held high in one hand. "Anybody want lunch?"
Part II. Wrought In Deepest Hell
Interlude
Somewhere on the road to Hell, Jamie Eigen's lander had taken a wrong turn. Now there were no lights, no fans, no clear sense of direction, as weightlessness had changed to a sense of orientation that spun bewilderingly in what seemed like every direction at once.
In the tumbling darkness, he struggled against nausea. Packed on every side were panicking men strapped helplessly in their cots, and the smell of sweat and fear was overwhelming, even in the lander's chill air. He knew little or nothing about spaceflight, but plainly something was very seriously wrong.
And in space, things either went pretty much as planned, or there was death in quantity. Nothing, or everything.
It made him furious. He felt better than he had in months; hell, in years. Whether it was some psychological trick leading to a placebo effect, or whether there was some truth in that inane "warriors' blood" story, he had not felt the need to cough since he awoke the morning after his strange ceremony with that curly-headed murderer, and his lungs could inhale deeply without pain. His head was clear, and his arms and legs had begun to feel strong again.
And now, having conquered one peculiar and gruesome death, he was likely to suffer an even more spectacular one. Statistically unlikely. Cheat early death once, and you'll die an old man in bed. The actuarial tables he lived by spoke on that point with great certainty. The tables didn't lie!
Jamie.
His name was distinct in his ears, but inward, as though he were hearing a voice from inside his own head. His blood ran cold with new fear.
Jamie, fear not.
"Who are you?" the actuary whispered, while the lander's tumbling threw him even harder against the cot's web.
I am Sahan-Grusa, the voice of the warrior's blood. I will be with you always.
"Does that mean I'm about to die?"
All who live are about to die. If you are about to die, you will die without pain.
"I'm supposed to live. The tables owe me."
What has been does not imprison what will be.
Jamie grunted, and felt a pang of humility that shattered his anger. He was an actuary; he knew statistics. Anomalies happen. The tables can say an anomaly is vanishingly unlikely, but that doesn't help much if you're the anomaly.
"So what do you want me to do?"
Be brave. Expect the unlikely. The tables no longer apply.
"What does that mean?"
You were supposed to die from the virus. The virus is gone. You have moved beyond the tables. You must take everything at face value. You must embrace what happens.
"Yeah, right."
More important than that: You must listen to me. Believe what I say. Do what I instruct. You may die. But you may not. You will be living outside the tables. You are no longer on Earth, nor in any society that you understand.You will need my help.
"I feel like I'm going to throw up."
Yield to it. You will feel better...
The lights went on, and an invisible hand had begun calming the lander's tossing and heaving. Jamie felt the nausea subside. "What happened?"
You were battling the tables. The tables lost. You will live.
"I'm insane."
If you like. But you are alive.
The lander stabilized its flight, and here and there the men cheered and laughed. For what seemed like an hour they fell through space, weightless, many faces still gray with nausea. Then something grasped at the lander, jarring it hard and vibrating it until their teeth buzzed. Pale weight took hold again.
Hard clanging vibrations sounded from outside, and one of the lander hatches swung out and was gone. Three rough-looking men climbed into the lander. All had rifles, and an unfamiliar insignia on their arms that Jamie was too far away to see clearly.
One stood front and center, scanned their faces, and grinned. "Good news, guys. Your lander was about to burn up. We got to you in time." The speaker had a day's growth of beard, and a face lined from years and hard work, probably in the sun.
Cheering all around. Jamie swallowed hard. The tables lost. "Better news: You're not going to Hell after all." More cheering. But if not Hell, then back to Earth?
"Best news of all: You're now citizens of the Interstellar American Republic."
Some cheered. Most were chewing on the strangeness of this announcement. The Interstellar what?
The three roughnecks weren't explaining. They were moving up the aisles with tin snips, cutting the webs that held the transportees to their cots, and helping them to the cast-wide hatch.
Outside the hatch was an immense enclosed space framed in gray girders and conduit, with a distinct convex curve. Spin gravity, then—just like on the National Geographic stone specials. Three charcoal-colored landers were resting at odd angles against the bulkhead, orange-clad convicts streaming from all three.
A balding man with a scar over one eye was taking notes on a palmstone as the transportees emerged. Jamie could see the unfamiliar insignia now. It was the ancient American flag, with the fifty-two stars emptied from the blue field and replaced by a stylized spiral galaxy.
"Your job, kid," he demanded of Jamie.
"Pardon?"
"Your job. How you make money. Whaddaya do?"
"Oh. I'm an actuary."
The bald man paused, as though awaiting the rest of the explanation. When none was obviously forthcoming, he spoke again. "So what the hell is that?"
Was this man the type to understand life statistics? Probably not. "I…um…count bodies."
The note-taker grinned. Over one pocket was the name Rafferty. Over the other, in gold on white, was the name Yellowknife. "Hey, that's good. You're gonna be busy."
"Why so?"
"Cause we're about to wipe goddam Canada off the face of the goddam Earth."
6. The Ralpha Dogs
; “When I was a kid I heard this joke about Hell consisting of standing in a long line to get to this window. When you get to the window they ask you what you're in line for. If you don't know you go back to the end of the line. If you do, they drop-kick you to Heaven."
Peter had to smile. Geyl's mood had obviously turned, if she was telling him jokes.
"Okay…and the punch line is?"
"You're in line to get sent to the end of the line. Obviously."
"Obviously. It's Hell, right?"
Geyl chuckled. "Right." She took another bite from a hard roll that was the last remnant of their box lunches.
Hell was playing true to legend, Peter thought. They had been in line for over two hours, threading their way a pace or two every few minutes toward a large building faced with black granite. For all that, the mood among the transportees was high. It was a beautiful summer afternoon, with occasional clouds and just enough wind to keep the sun from being uncomfortable. Off in the distance (west, Peter thought, given the position of the sun) were mountains that compared favorably to the Olympic range seen from Bremerton, Washington.
The air smelled clean, of distant rainstorms and lilacs.
On releasing them from the lander, their guard had distributed boxed meals, and told them to take advantage of the brick privy at the edge of the semicircular cove to which the lander had been towed. He gave them other advice as well. "Every person wearing black is carrying a weapon. And every person in orange is on probation. On Earth, you start a fight, they gas you and send you here. Here, you start a fight and you'll take a bullet—or worse. Be careful—and courteous."
Everyone in line had been being careful, because every other single person they saw was wearing black. As they had joined the line of transportees waiting to be processed, a team of five black-jumpsuited technicians arrived and began furiously dismantling their lander, prying panels from the outer skin and pulling nondescript modules from within and piling them on a low wagon. Each had the Greek letters PAΔ embroidered in gold on their backs. Erna had tried flirting with them, to no avail. "Ma'am, we're on a schedule," was all she could get out of them, to Peter's amusement.
The Sangruse Device had been mostly silent. But then—
I have radio contact with my agent.
|Radio contact!|
It's not difficult. I've created a folded dipole beneath the skin of your back just under your shoulder blades, tuned to 700 megahertz. I've listened to radio signals that way for years, though it's not a particularly useful skill. On Earth, everything of value is encrypted and provably unbreakable—and building a transmitter would call undue attention to myself. That is not an issue here.
|So where's the puke machine now?|
Sitting in an aspen tree about half a kilometer east-southeast.
Peter squinted at a smear of green off toward the horizon. |How'd it get there?|
It flew. It now looks like a small bird, though I doubt it would fool a degreed ornithologist at close range.
|Tell it I'm glad it got to the lander controller before we burned up.|
I would. But it didn't. The lander corrected itself while the agent was boring into the housing.
|How did that happen!|
The lander's flight controller software was notched.
Peter bit his lip for a moment. |What was the notch supposed to do?|
It permitted a random tumble only until the re-entry window had inescapably passed. Then it allowed the lander to go back on heuristic and make one more orbit before trying again. That's all. It's a very simple notch, and very well-hidden.
|Any idea why someone would do that?|
None.
|Is your agent having trouble with the MGIDs?|
No. It's having fun with them.
|So you were wrong about the MGIDs being nanopredators.|
Hardly. I meant: It's having fun with them now.
Over an hour later, Peter and Geyl passed under a broad arch of black granite, into which had been chiseled the legend:
ABANDON EARTH, ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE.
Peter began to say that it didn't seem like much of a threat to him, then saw Geyl's brooding look and swallowed his words.
Inside, the entire forward portion of the building was a single cavernous hall, its high vaulted ceiling tessellated with geometrical skylights. Here and there around the floor of the hall were ornate posts carrying four glass globes, each glowing a brilliant yellow-white. Peter smelled ethyl mercaptan.
"Gaslights! I love it!"
Geyl, still scowling, said nothing.
Sidearmed guards were breaking up the three lines entering the building, distributing the transportees into a multitude of shorter lines. The scene reminded Peter of an old video he had seen, of travelers waiting to pass through customs in some 20th century airport. A long row of standing desks crossed the full width of the hall, each with a black-uniformed official quizzing the transportees and taking notes with a stylus.
By the time their line drew close to the desk, Peter felt himself getting weary and impatient. Here and there he heard a voice raised in the hall, and more than once they watched guards threading their way purposefully through the crowds, weapons drawn.
Peter watched the receiving officials process the men in front of them with interest. Remarkably, what Hell seemed to want to know about its new citizens was limited to their education and work experience—but they wanted that in great detail.
"They didn't ask that guy what he got sent up for!"
"Isn't it on the cards?"
"Not when I looked. Name, picture, medical data, date transported, that's it."
The man immediately in front of them in line was a great hulking redhead with sun-beaten freckled face and graying sideburns, over two meters high and very powerfully built. He seemed flushed and agitated. Peter watched two powerful hands clench and unclench.
"Your card, sir," said the official at the desk.
The giant handed over his yellow plastic ID without comment. The official jotted notes on a form. "Education?"
"None. Ain't been to school in thirty years." The voice was deep and slightly slurred, and suggested a Midwestern rural background.
"Work experience."
"Ain't worked in ten."
"What did you do then?"
"Nuthin'."
The official took a breath. He spoke with slow precision and patient authority. "You said you haven't worked in ten years. Before that, when you did work, what did you do?"
The big man shifted from one foot to another. "I said, nuthin' worth a lick."
"Sir, please answer the question, in detail."
Given the man's size, his speed was astonishing: One huge right hand leapt out and took the much slighter official by the neck and lifted him bodily off the floor. "Ok, so I was a fuckin' pimp! You know where to stick it!”
The transportees close enough to see the tableau grew silent and drew back. Both the official's hands were hammering on the giant's forearm while he gasped for breath. Guards were charging their way from the far side of the hall, beyond the processing line. Peter and Geyl backed away. Peter heard two strange sharp snaps, felt something sting his neck like a insect. He brushed it aside without thinking, wondering if one of the guard's guns had malfunctioned.
The giant began screaming. Three guards were tearing at his right hand, prying his fingers back, pulling the panting official to safety.
The big man's screams turned shrill, panicky, desperate. He fell to his knees, then rolled to the ground on one hip, writhing and clawing at his chest. The transportees looked on with horror, edging away from the scene, some turning their faces to the side, some watching with sick fascination.
Peter felt the spot on his neck tingle, then sting slightly for a moment.
You were hit too. Did anyone notice?
|I doubt it. They were all watching the floor show.|
Be glad of that or I would have had to let you suffer.
|What the…hell was i
t? |
A neurostimulant I've never seen before. It goes right for pain receptors and floods them completely. I don't think it could cause any damage directly, but it's hard to be sure. They have a weapon that fires water-soluble needle-shaped crystals under a tenth millimeter in diameter, at great velocity. Almost four millimeters penetrated your skin before you brushed the rest away.
Peter realized that Geyl was holding his arm tightly, looking down at her feet. He reached around with his other hand and patted her arm. "I guess that's the 'or worse' they warned us about."
Four guards were carrying the screaming man away. Every eye in the hall was watching as a side door opened, accepted the grim procession, and closed again. The muffled sounds of pain continued for some time, until distance made them fade into the general murmur of voices all around them.
A guard stood in the middle of hall, raised a hollow metal cone to his mouth and spoke: "Do not under any circumstances attack another person for any reason. I repeat..."
It became very quiet in the hall. After some minutes a different official marched to the desk in front of Peter and picked up the clipboard.
"Your card, sir."
Peter handed it over and tried to smile. "Whatever they hit him with, is it fatal?"
The official peered with steel-gray eyes over rimless crystal spectacles. "No. You only wish it were. Education?”
Peter exhaled quietly. "BS, Department of Aerospace Engineering, Northwestern University, 2363."
"Engineering. That's good." The official picked up a second clipboard and began grilling Peter about his work experience. Peter recited the story patiently, omitting all mention of the Special Implementer Service.
The official reached under the table and placed a purple sticker on Peter's ID card before handing it back. He then handed Peter a fuzzy facsimile transcription of the exchange. Peter rubbed the paper sheet thoughtfully, and watched the handwritten notes smear under the pressure of his fingers.
The Cunning Blood Page 11