by Allen Steele
The stock of a rifle swung into his stomach. He was instantly slammed back from the door by the painful impact, the breath knocked out of his lungs. Ostrow crashed backwards into a desk chair, toppled over it, fell on his back onto the carpeted floor. The coarse fabric burned the bare skin of his back; he gasped, tried to sit up as tiny white and blue stars filled his vision … and froze as he heard the menacing, unmistakable cha-click of a gun’s safety being disengaged.
“Freeze,” a voice said.
Lying on the floor, Ostrow gave himself a moment to size up the intruder. A police officer: he wore a blue uniform with a silver badge, like so many other blue uniforms with silver badges he had seen in his lifetime. The cop was armed: the rifle was a Remington Crowdmaster, a nonlethal but nonetheless efficient weapon in trained hands. A Taser, a stunrod, and two grenades were clipped to his belt. The cop was big—over six feet tall, young and muscular, with the steady air of purpose and authority that separates the pros from part-time night watchmen, bodyguards, and rent-a-cops. As an abstract footnote, he also noted that the man was an American Indian.
“I’m frozen,” Ostrow replied. He then remembered to turn on the proper response to this violent intrusion. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he yelled. “What … who the hell are you?”
“Clarke County Sheriff’s Department,” the intruder said evenly. “Shut up.”
“How dare you …?”
The cop stepped back a couple of feet and, with his hands keeping the stun rifle leveled at Ostrow, kicked the door shut with his heel. “Because I’m the law here, Ostrow, that’s how,” he answered.
It was not the first time that during an assignment taken under an assumed identity someone had addressed him by his real name. The response was standard, because one could always hope that the cop—especially if he was a local—would have second thoughts, doubts as to whether he had nailed the right person.
“What?” he said querulously, injecting the right amount of bewildered terror into his voice. “I don’t know what you’re … What the hell are you talking about?” He shook his head and motioned vaguely towards himself. “Are you talking to me?”
“Yeah, asshole, I’m talking to you.” The rifle didn’t waver even a fraction of an inch. “Don’t waste my time with that lame shit. Your name’s Henry Ostrow. You’re also known as the Golem.”
Okay. So much for the mistaken identity shtick. Ostrow didn’t even glance in the direction of his suitcase. Even if it wasn’t zipped and sealed, it was much too far away for him to get to his weapons. Perhaps if he could make this guy feel more comfortable …
“I’m unarmed and on the ground, officer,” he said calmly. “You’ve got me. See? Could I just sit up and …?”
“No,” the cop commanded. “Stay on the floor. Make a move and you’re off to sleepy land.”
So much for that approach, too. This guy was professional. Ostrow had to admire that, even if he wanted to snap the red bastard’s neck right now.
“Maybe I’m Ostrow, and maybe I’m not,” he replied easily. “If you think you have something on me, make an arrest. I’d like to see you make it stick, considering how you just broke through the door.”
The man in the uniform—J. Bigthorn according to his nameplate—only shrugged. “There’s not going to be an arrest, Ostrow. Nobody’s ever been able to make anything stick on you. At the same time, I know this conversation isn’t going to leave this room. That’s because you’re the sort of person who likes to keep a low profile.”
“I don’t quite understand you.”
“It’s very simple,” Bigthorn replied. “You’re a torpedo for a slug named Tony Salvatore, and you’re here to kill a woman named Macy Westmoreland. Now, I don’t expect you to suddenly become candid, but you know, and I know, and the FBI knows that’s the situation.”
Ostrow immediately, instinctively opened his mouth to deny the charge. “Shut up,” Bigthorn snapped. “You’d only be wasting my time. Just listen to me. You’re Number One on my shit list. I’ve got your number.”
Ostrow shrugged. “Big deal. You’re boring me, Bigthorn.”
“You want a deal?” the Indian asked. “Okay, here’s your deal. The woman goes unharmed while she’s here. Got it? If she turns up dead, if she’s harmed in any way, you’re not just a suspect. You’re the man, and I’m coming after you.”
“Whatever happened to due process of law?” Ostrow asked.
“Screw that,” Bigthorn responded. “I’m the only judge and jury you’re getting here, bugfucker. Get this through your head. If the Westmoreland girl so much as has a bad dream, you’re the one I blame. Don’t even think about trying to arrange an accident. You better just hope she doesn’t have any on her own.”
Ostrow couldn’t help but sneer back at him. He had heard tough-cop routines before, and you couldn’t even dance to this one. He nodded his head towards the rifle in Bigthorn’s hands. “What are you going to do if she does? Trank me with your little air gun?”
“Yeah, I’m going to trank you with my little air gun,” Bigthorn said calmly. “Then I’m going to get my little wheelbarrow and put you in it, and then roll you down to my little airlock and shove your sleazy ass inside. Then I’m going to push the button and blow you out. If I get pissed off enough, I might even wait until you’re conscious before I hit the button, so you’ll be awake to feel the whole thing.”
It was a vivid image. Ostrow did his best to block it from his mind. “Then you know what happens to you? A murder rap, that’s what.”
“For you?” Bigthorn shook his head slightly. “No, I kind of doubt it. Nobody minds when a killer finally gets what’s coming to him. The only reason why nobody’s done it before is that they’ve been hampered by that ‘due process’ stuff. Ain’t no due process up here. The worst thing they’ll probably do is fine me for using an airlock to throw out some garbage.”
“Tough talk,” Ostrow replied. “I wonder if you can walk the talk.”
Bigthorn was quiet for a couple of moments. The Indian was looking thoughtfully away from him, and the hit man took the opportunity to study the floor space between the soles of his feet and Bigthorn’s legs, gauging the distance from his legs to Bigthorn’s knees. About three, maybe four feet. With luck, he could throw himself forward and, with the right amount of power behind his kick, break one of the big red fuck’s knees. One strong kick and the joint would snap like a dry tree limb. Once he was down, Ostrow could get the gun away. Then he could ice the cop. No worries about completing the assignment after that.
“No, you’re right,” Bigthorn said then. “You should wonder whether I’m tough enough. I think you need a demonstration.”
The Indian stepped back a couple of feet—in an instant, putting himself out of range of Ostrow’s counterattack—and raised the rifle to his shoulder, aiming straight at the hit man. Ostrow had just enough time to involuntarily suck in his breath before Bigthorn squeezed the trigger.
There was a pneumatic thuffft!, and a sedative dart buried itself in Ostrow’s gut, just below the rib cage. All life seemed to drain out of his limbs, and he collapsed on the floor.
Just before he blacked out, Ostrow heard Bigthorn say, “Stay away from the girl.”
Then he was out cold.
8
Macy Drops Out
(Saturday: 12:45 P.M.)
The first space hotel, when it was finally built in Clarke County, was nothing like that which had been anticipated by space buffs or science-fiction writers. It looked just like a hotel.
During the twentieth century, everyone’s favorite idea was to make the first hotel in space an orbital station all by itself. In fact, the Hilton Hotel chain at one point announced plans to develop an orbiting hotel, although that might have been no more than the hubris of its public relations staff. Later, in 2028, a small consortium of Saudi Arabian, Kuwaiti, and Lebanese businessmen purchased Skycorp’s Olympus Station, the dilapidated and almost abandoned GEO habitat which had
housed the beam-jacks who built the first orbital powersats. The Arabs had announced plans to refurbish “Skycan” as a space hotel, but continued political unrest in the Middle East deterred other investors from backing the project, and the plan eventually died from lack of funds.
It was not until Clarke County was built that the first space hotel became reality, financed by the Clarke County Corporation. TexSpace and Trump, who had invested in the colony in hopes of establishing large-scale space tourism, were particularly responsible for LaGrange Hotel. Along with Larry Bird Memorial Stadium, it became the centerpiece of LaGrange, the biosphere’s resort community. To nobody’s surprise, the hotel resembled nothing more or less than any large Hyatt back on Earth. So much for zero g swimming pools.
When the three-wing hotel was built, convention facilities such as a few meeting rooms and a modest ballroom were added almost as an afterthought. No one really expected LaGrange to attract conventions. Occupancy of the hotel was limited to about 1,000 persons, and while the price of space travel had dropped drastically, it was considered unlikely that groups would want to book the LaGrange Hotel for meetings. In its advertising brochures the convention facilities were mentioned only in small print; the hotel’s management did not even have a full-time convention liaison.
So it came as a considerable surprise when a demand arose for LaGrange as one of the choice locations for the annual gatherings of everyone from the American Meteorological Society to the Shriners to the Cookie O’Toole International Fan Club. Shoehorning conventions into the hotel without sacrificing the regular tourist trade required careful juggling of schedules by hotel management. Finally, the hotel stipulated that conventions had to cap their membership at 700 persons (preferably far less) and that the conventions could be held only during weekends, leaving the hotel vacant during weekdays for ordinary tourists. An organization requesting use of the convention facilities also had to put down a non-refundable deposit of $200,000 in advance, with no guarantee that it would get an opening within the next five years.
The Clarke County Corporation thought these restrictions would discourage most of the unwanted convention traffic. To a certain extent, it did: Mensa, the Baker Street Irregulars, and the World Science Fiction Society promptly dropped their bids, and even the National Space Society decided that Detroit was a bit more affordable.
However, to everyone’s chagrin, the First Church of Twentieth Century Saints was more persistent.
Elvis Presley stood twenty feet tall in the center of the hotel mezzanine, a goliath with a guitar and a curled upper lip, towering above the heads of all those around him. His holographic image slowly revolved on the dais so that his grin was cast upon everyone in turn, while above his head a blue-white halo shimmered softly. Wade Hoffman paused on his way to the elevator to look at the giant hologram. As it rotated in his direction, the King of Rock and Roll winked at him.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Hoffman murmured.
“Elvis never kids anybody, officer,” a German-accented voice next to his shoulder said with great solemnity.
Hoffman turned to see a thin, intense-looking young man standing beside him. He wore a sweatshirt with—what else?—Elvis Presley’s image; on the young man’s feet were the obligatory blue suede shoes of a true believer. Hoffman had already seen a few Church of Elvis members since he had entered the LaGrange Hotel, but this was his first close encounter with one of the worshipers. This one wore a plastic name tag: HI, MY NAME IS GUSTAV SCHMIDT.
The deputy started to say something innocuous, but the young German rushed on. “Do you know,” he asked, “that if you take a deep breath, you stand a ninety per cent chance of inhaling the same molecules that the Prophet breathed in his last moments on this Earth?”
Schmidt waited for a reply. Hoffman thought about it for a moment before answering. “This isn’t Earth,” he said.
The follower shook his head impatiently. “It doesn’t matter. Elvis is everywhere. And soon the day shall come when he brings the faithful to his shrine, his Promised Land.”
“Oh. Okay.” Hoffman started to edge away. Bigthorn wanted him to get to Macy Westmoreland’s room and place her in protective custody, and he had lingered here too long. Yet his curiosity forced him to ask one more question. “Umm … where’s the Promised Land?”
Schmidt’s face expressed the blissful radiance of one who has seen the Light. “In the land men call Memphis,” he intoned. “The home of the Prophet Elvis, Graceland Mansion, where his earthly form lies buried.”
He then smiled conspiratorially. “Or so it has been alleged. There were, of course, the sightings of the Prophet in Kalamazoo and Las Vegas, ten years after his supposed death. And then there were the tapes of his voice, and the government-suppressed discovery of a singing statue of the King on Mars, which leaves many of us to believe that …”
“Yeah. Right.” Hoffman coughed and took another step away. “Well, if you’ll excuse me …”
Schmidt nodded his head. “Go then, and may Elvis be with you,” he said in benediction.
The law officer turned away and began walking to the nearest row of elevators. Weird business, indeed. Next to listening to that wacko, finding Macy Westmoreland and taking her into custody should be a snap.
Macy’s suite was enormous, almost the size of Tony’s bedroom in the mansion, and as plushly furnished as a first-class hotel suite can be: cherry oak bureau, canopied four-poster bed, Queen Anne writing desk, French tapestries on the walls, and a Mitsubishi entertainment center that took up one side of the room, discreetly concealed by a Chinese silk screen.
Naturally, it had been very expensive to import such luxury from Earth to LaGrangian orbit. The daily rate for the suite was more than families in some countries earned in a year. Naturally, it had gone on the Mary Boston credit card; the Salvatore bookkeeping computer would unquestioningly pay the bill as usual. Macy appreciated none of this, however. She had come to expect opulence at every turn in her life; she never questioned who put the silver spoon in her mouth. All that mattered to her was the privacy which the suite afforded.
Before she had checked in, she had dropped into a store in the tourist shopping area across O’Neill Square from the hotel, and had bought some fresh clothes with the Amex card. Now, having showered, she zipped up the front of a white linen jumpsuit and pulled around her shoulders and neck a Scottish red wool scarf as she admired her reflection in the mirror. For something bought off the rack, the clothes fit her well.
A sliding glass door led out to a wide private balcony with a wrought-iron railing, overlooking the river terrace and the hotel’s private beach on the New Tennessee River. Absently adjusting the scarf, she walked over to the door, slid it open, and walked out onto the balcony. The immense panorama of the biosphere rose before her. Across the river she could see goats and sheep grazing in the distant, upwardly curving pastures. On the promenade below, a cocktail party was taking place. She admired the view for a few moments, then strode back into the suite, leaving the door open to admit the warm breeze of the colony’s perpetual summer.
Her eyes fell upon the dresser and the black nylon bag lying on top of it. The lid of the writing desk concealed a small computer terminal. Now that she had the chance, maybe it was time to see what was on those diskettes.
Macy reached into the open bag and pulled a diskette out, at random. It was Number 7. Juggling the little plastic wafer between her fingers, she walked over to the desk, pushed back the cover, and started to slip the diskette into the drive.…
At that moment there was a knock. Macy jerked away from the desk, clutching the diskette in her hands, and stared across the room at the door. For a few moments there was silence, then the heavy rapping came again, followed by a man’s voice: “Hello?”
“Who’s there?” Macy called out, unable to suppress the quaver in her voice.
“Clarke County Sheriff’s Department,” the voice replied. “Open up, please, Ms. Westmoreland.”
No
t for an instant did Macy consider that it really was somebody from the Sheriff’s Department. Every bit of identification she had used since escaping from the Salvatore compound had Mary Boston’s name on it; no one here should be addressing her as “Ms. Westmoreland.” Also, there was no reason why the colony’s police department would want anything to do with her. Finally, she knew that Tony’s goon squad was capable of masquerading as virtually anyone, from a hotel porter to another tourist to a police officer.
So there was no doubt in her mind that the Salvatore family had followed her to Clarke County, and that at this moment a killer—possibly even wearing a cop’s uniform—was waiting on the other side of the door. Whoever it was, though, had made a mistake: he had addressed her by her real name.
She took a deep breath. “Just a minute,” she said, trying not to sound alarmed. “I’m not dressed.”
It was a lame excuse, but if it bought her just a few moments …
In a couple of quick steps, Macy was across the room, dropping the Number 7 diskette back in the shoulder bag as she hurriedly picked up her high-heel sandals. She glanced over her shoulder at the balcony. Thank God she had left the sliding door open. There would be no noise to give her away. She grinned crazily, put her shoes in the bag, then grabbed the zipper and tugged. All she had to do was …
The zipper moved down the plastic track an inch, then snarled on a piece of fabric. Impatiently, Macy hauled at it … and the zipper broke. Now the bag, with its bundles of cash and diskettes inside, would not close. “Oh, goddammit!” she swore.
Again, the killer was knocking on the door. “Ms. Westmoreland, open the door, please.”
“I’m coming, dammit!” she shouted, frustrated and recklessly angry. “Give me a second, okay?”
“It’s urgent that we speak to you, ma’am,” the voice replied as she bundled the shoulder bag under her arm and quickly, quietly, ran across the carpet to the balcony. “We have reason to believe that you’re in extreme danger.”