Clarke County, Space

by Allen Steele

  From his wraparound console positioned in the middle of the stadium floor, Gustav Schmidt nodded and gave him the thumbs up. “That’s nice, my man,” Parker said. “Can you give me a big picture of my home now, please?”

  Schmidt bent behind his computer terminal. The holographic generator, an enormous round bank of lasers suspended above the stage and hidden behind the upper curtains, hummed quietly, and the front portico of Graceland Mansion appeared in three-dimensional glory behind Parker. The faithful cooed their approval of this glimpse of the mansion and Parker almost nodded his own satisfaction, until he noticed that the backup band, concentrating on their tune-ups, were apparently moving in and out of Graceland’s walls.

  “No!” he shouted. “No, no, no!” He turned and, angrily waving his arms, stamped towards them. “Look, where did I tell you people to set yourselves, huh? Tell me where I told you to set up, somebody!”

  The backup band were not among the faithful. They were the best Nashville session musicians his organization could audition and sign, but they were still hired mercenaries: a drummer, a lead guitarist, a bassist, a keyboardist and the three black female singers who, while not exactly the Sweet Inspirations, could provide righteous harmony. The band stared back sullenly at him.

  “You told us to set up on the stage,” the bass player said.

  “No, I didn’t tell you that,” Parker said coldly. “I told you to set upstage-left. That’s the right side of the stage, in the rear.” He pointed and the band looked dutifully in the right direction. “Okay? Now, where are you going to set yourselves up?”

  “Upstage-left,” the musicians muttered.

  “Well?” Parker asked. “What are you waiting for?”

  Again there were barely concealed looks of loathing from the band and singers. Parker turned and snapped his fingers at a couple of stagehands hanging around nearby; they came forward to disassemble the band set and move it to the right side of the stage. As he turned back around, he heard the drummer murmur something about how Elvis should return to the grave. Parker ignored the jab, at least for the moment. Maybe the Dark Elvis could punch him out after the show.

  His flock were still silently watching him, the familiar expressions of fear and anxiety on their faces. Good. Turn up the heat a few degrees at a time; get them worried that the Living Elvis was once again being tempted by the forces of evil. By tomorrow night, when they were in the front rows, it would help them release their pent-up emotions for the cameras.

  “Let’s take five,” he said, ostensibly to the stage crew. “Wait for the band to get their act together.”

  Parker jumped off the stage, dug a pair of sunglasses out of his jacket pocket and slipped them on, walked past the front rows to slump alone in a chair. He was careful to keep the “troubled Elvis” expression on his face, but actually he was satisfied with how matters were progressing. When the band was settled again he would rehearse a couple of songs: “Suspicious Minds,” maybe “Hound Dog” to work the kinks out of the band. Singing was one of the pleasures of this job. Even though his face had been rebuilt to resemble Presley’s, he was proud that his voice was all his own.

  Of course, he had to continue to build the necessary illusion. Parker had a couple of red capsules in his pocket—placebos, loaded with nothing more habit-forming than sugar—so perhaps he would allow himself to be glimpsed swallowing one or two to reinforce the image that Elvis was sliding into darkness again. It would be the closest he would come this morning to rehearsing the real shtick, his on-stage drugs-and-booze breakdown that was the vital part of the revival. He made a mental note to make sure that there were plenty of white scarves within reach.…

  “Living Elvis?” a shy, familiar voice said from behind him.

  He stifled a sigh. He was never left alone for very long. Presley, though, had spent decades being smothered by his fans. They smothered him even after he was dead. So who was he to complain? “Hi, Sister Donna,” he said as he turned around. “How can I help you?”

  Not that he didn’t have some ideas already. Of the female members of the flock, Donna Atkins was one of the better-looking lamb chops. Parker had often been tempted to lure her into bed; he would have done so already, were it not imperative that he keep a certain distance from Church members. Rock stars can have groupies, but all messiahs can have are nuns. Too bad, especially since Donna had once ripped off her shirt in spiritual ecstasy during one of his services.

  But then he took one look at the woman standing beside her and he forgot all about Sister Donna’s comparatively bovine charms. No two ways about it; even if she looked a little emaciated, this woman was a first-round knockout. She looked exhausted; the white jumpsuit she wore was smudged and hung on her as if she had been wearing it for days. In spite of all this, she was one of the sexiest women he had ever seen.

  “This is Mary Boston,” Donna said, her arm around the newcomer’s shoulders.

  “Well, hello there, Mary Boston,” Parker said. He put out his hand. “I’m Elvis.”

  “Hi. Pleased to meet you.” Mary clasped Parker’s hand, palm down. Her grip was firm, Parker noticed. He had learned well the art of sizing up prospects within a few seconds. Politeness, but no fawning. There was longing in her eyes, but not for a religious savior. And more than that, she was obviously educated and cultured. Not the kind of person who usually joins nut cults. Donna, a veteran of every fringe group from the Scientologists to the LaRouchians to the Shirley MacLaine Society, was the type, but not this woman.

  “Mary and I met last night,” Donna was saying. “We stayed in my room in the hotel and I promised her I would bring her to meet you the first thing this morning and, oh Elvis, she has seen the light and I think she …”

  Donna had a tendency to babble. “I see,” Parker said. He turned his attention solely to Mary Boston. “Well, Mary … have you seen the light?”

  She nodded, almost impatiently. “Uh-huh, I’ve seen the light.” The smile on her face was plainly forced. “Sister Donna, with my great appreciation for bringing us together, will you please excuse us now?”

  “Huh?” Donna stared at her, then looked at Parker, then did a double take at Mary. “I don’t … what …?”

  “I wish to make my confession to the Living Elvis,” Mary said without a trace of reverence. “It’s a private matter. I’m sure that you understand.”

  “Whu … whu …?”

  Now Parker was even more intrigued. He reached out and touched Donna’s forehead in the Church-prescribed manner of healing and benediction. “Bless you and keep you, Sister Donna,” he said solemnly. “Have a nice day.”

  Donna looked at both of them in bewilderment, then she sulked away. Parker watched her go, then looked back at Mary Boston. “You know, the Church doesn’t tolerate rudeness among its members,” he said.

  “I’ll try to remember that,” she said. “Is there a place where we can talk a little more privately?” She smiled coyly. “About business, of course.”

  Parker blinked at her audacity, then quickly looked around. He did not want to leave the stadium with her. Rehearsals were still going on; besides, he had to keep any more church members from becoming suspicious. He saw that the control booth was unoccupied except for Gustav Schmidt, who was concentrating on his work. He nodded toward it and stood up, but Macy led the way.

  As they entered the booth, Schmidt looked up, but Parker waved him back to his console. “Keep right on doing what you’re doing, brother,” he said, and Schmidt turned again to his computers. Parker sat down in a chair and looked at Mary Boston. “You have a confession to …?”

  “Let’s cut the shit, shall we?” Macy Westmoreland said softly, looking straight into his eyes. “This Elvis bit is pure crap and we both know it, but your Sister Donna is right. I want into your church and I want in now.”

  “The Church is an instrument of divine inspiration,” Parker said smoothly. “We welcome true believers. What makes you think that those who truly believe in the miracl
e of Elvis should welcome one such as you?”

  She smiled tightly. “Let’s put it this way,” she whispered. “Elvis sings, but money talks. How does fifty grand in cash, right now, sound?”

  Parker stared at her, his breath caught. “Fifty thousand dollars? On what bank account?”

  “The bank account I have in this bag.” Macy Westmoreland propped up her right leg on a chair, opened her bag, and lifted a wad of hundred-dollar bills for Parker to see. “Fifty grand in cash, tax free. Now. I won’t even ask for a receipt. With only a couple of stipulations.”

  Parker’s eyes were glued to the wad. “The Church of Twentieth Century Saints is always willing to accept tithes from its faithful.…”

  “I thought so,” she interrupted. “And I’m sure the Living Elvis can buy a whole lot of blue suede shoes with this kind of loot.” She dropped the cash back into the bag. “But as I said, there’s some strings attached.”

  Parker forced himself to take his eyes off the bag. He glanced again at Schmidt, then dropped his voice to a whisper. “Okay, babe, what’s your story?”

  “That’s my business,” she said evenly. “Here’s the conditions. I stay with you guys until you get back to Earth. Strictly low profile, but I need people around me. I’ll bow and scrape and sing, whatever, but I need …”

  She took a deep breath. “I want people around me at all times. When you leave, I want to be on the same shuttle. When we get back, I get to cut free whenever I choose. And, of course, there’s no questions asked.”

  Parker’s eyes narrowed. “You’re in trouble.”

  “Maybe, but that’s not your problem. Like I said, no questions asked.” She smiled again. “It’s a good offer, Living Elvis. Those are the terms. Take it or leave it.”

  Parker was tempted to leave it. An experienced hustler knows how to stay clear of other people’s hassles, and someone who is operating on the fringes of legality is always careful not to do anything which will bring down the law. On the other hand, fifty thousand in cash is a difficult thing to refuse, especially for a hustler; no bank accounts to be laundered, and a lot different ways to hide the money in plain sight. And since his group did not have to go through Customs when they arrived back in Texas, it would not have to be declared. The IRS would never have to know.

  He let his eyes, hidden by his shades, wander to her bag. The zipper was broken; he could see the money, but there was something else in there. He peered closer, spotted a bunch of black computer diskettes.

  Now this was intriguing. What in the world was a young woman, desperate enough to be wearing the same clothes for at least two days, doing with not only at least fifty thousand dollars—he was sure there was more than that in the bag—but also a set of diskettes?

  He had to know, out of curiosity if not sheer avarice. Maybe the fifty grand could be considered only a down payment on something far more profitable.

  Parker looked again at Schmidt. His resident hacker was still bent over his special-effects board. “Okay,” he said to Macy. “Maybe we can find a place for you in this organization.”

  “Under my conditions?”

  “Under your conditions. No questions asked. We can arrange for the transfer of funds during less public circumstances.” He stood up and looked around. An idea was forming in his mind, but he had to act smoothly and quickly. “If we’re going to surround you with people … ah, maybe we should find something for you to do. Do you know anything about electronics?”

  He didn’t wait for her to answer, but instead took her arm and steered her across the booth to where Schmidt was sitting. She scooped up the bag and hefted it over her left shoulder. Good. “Mary, this is Brother Gustav.…”

  Schmidt looked up quickly as if someone had jerked his strings. Very good. He hadn’t been listening. “Great Elvis,” he breathed, his eyes shining. “Did the appearance of the Promised Land suit you?”

  The Promised Land? Oh, right. That was how Schmidt referred to Graceland. “Looked just like home, Brother Gus,” he replied. “One day we’ll be returning there. How ’bout punching that up for our new member of the family to feast her eyes upon? Oh, by the way, this is Sister Mary Boston, whom I’ve just accepted into the Church. Sister Mary, Brother Gustav. He wants to show you a little bit of his magic.”

  As he talked, Parker quickly stepped behind the woman, deliberately placing his right hand on her hip as his left hand lingered on her left arm, above the bag. For added effect, he lightly pressed his groin against her buttocks. Meanwhile, Schmidt was eagerly tapping his keyboard to bring a miniature animated image of Graceland onto his screen.

  Her reaction was precisely as he desired. Repulsed by his sexual moves, the young woman instinctively pulled her left hip and her butt away from him, swiveling her right hip towards him while she deliberately kept her eyes locked on the console. To balance herself, she placed her right hand on the back of Schmidt’s chair, away from her shoulder bag. She was avoiding Parker’s touch, which was exactly what he wanted her to do.

  With the practiced dexterity of a one-time pickpocket, Parker dipped his right hand into the open shoulder bag. Bypassing the money, he guided his fingers without looking until they found one of the diskettes. Carefully, moving only his elbow and wrist, he withdrew the thin plastic square and tucked it inside his leather jacket, under his left armpit. Score!

  “This may be something that Gustav needs help with,” he said. “Are you interested?”

  “Umm …” Macy looked up from the special-effects board. “Not really. I’d rather be down there.” She pointed towards the faithful in the front rows. “With the true believers … like me,” she added with a thin smile. The look on her face told Parker that being a true believer didn’t include any favors in bed.

  “As you wish.” For once, he didn’t care. Parker looked at the stage. The band had been moved to the rear and the church members were becoming fidgety.

  “Well, let’s get this show on the road,” he said breezily. “Brother Gus, we’ll take it to the top again. I’ll be doing …” He thought for a moment. “Let’s swing through ‘Jailhouse Rock,’ see if that shakes the bugs out of the band. And Sister Mary, if you want to join the group …?”

  He pressed his hand against her ass and gave it a little squeeze. She jerked away and shot him a look that said, all things considered, she would have loved to deck him. She stalked out of the booth, but Parker didn’t follow. The last pass was just the icing on the cake; it had been intended only to get her out of the booth.

  Once she was safely out of earshot, Parker pulled the diskette from under his jacket and glanced at it. Interestingly, it was labeled only with the numeral “7,” nothing else. He bent over Schmidt’s shoulder as if to make a last-minute consultation and dropped the diskette in front of his keyboard.

  “Brother Gustav,” he whispered. “I want you to read this as soon as you can and tell me what’s in it. Tell no one what’s there except me. Understand?”

  Gustav Schmidt glanced down at the diskette, then stared up at Parker with his weird, unblinking eyes. For a passing instant Parker wondered if he had made the right choice. Schmidt, for all of his technical virtuosity, was among the most unstable individuals in the Church. On the other hand, if the contents of the diskette required any code-breaking, Schmidt was the only person within reach who could do the job.

  “I understand,” Schmidt said.

  “When you’ve read it, report to me and bring it with you,” Parker said. “As soon as possible. Don’t let anyone else know. You got it?”

  “I understand and obey.”

  “May Elvis bless you and keep you.” Parker stood up and walked out of the booth. The faithful turned to watch him stride down the aisle. Off to the side he spotted a couple of visitors: a thin guy with a shoulder-mounted TV camcorder and a woman with a microphone. It looked as if the local news media had showed for the rehearsal.

  Good. He could always use extra publicity. It was time for a little bit of the Good E
lvis to shine through. He beamed and thrust up his arms over his head. “Let’s rock and roll!” he shouted.

  16

  Above the Bamboo Farm

  (Sunday: 11:54 A.M.)

  Torus S-16 was sometimes known as the Bamboo Farm. Unlike the other agricultural tori in the colony, which specialized in either food crops or algae production and thus were lined with long rows of hydroponics tanks, the Bamboo Farm resembled the Okefenokee Swamp. Instead of tanks, the upward-curving floor of Torus 16 was covered with vast, shallow pools of water and Mississippi Delta mud, imported at great cost from Earth. From this artificial swamp grew tall, dense glades of Arundinaria Japonica: Japanese bamboo.

  The reasons for bamboo cultivation in Clarke County were simple and practical. It was necessary to maintain an inexpensive, renewable supply of building material for structures within the colony; new walls were always being built, new homes and offices were always being planned. Yet it was prohibitively expensive to import huge amounts of wood from Earth, and even genetically tailored species of timber took much too long to grow in the colony, although a relative handful of decorative trees had been transplanted and grown in the biosphere and habitation tori. While lunar concrete was a cheap and available resource—most of the larger structures, like the LaGrange Hotel, Bird Stadium, and the campus buildings of the International Space University were built with mooncrete—something less utilitarian than mooncrete was desired for houses, shops, and other small buildings.

  The New Ark came up with bamboo as the perfect substitute. On Earth, the American strain of Japanese bamboo grew to heights of ten feet; in the lesser gravity of the space colony the reeds often topped twenty feet. Bamboo grows much faster than trees, and as a cultivated crop, requires less management. Since buildings in Clarke County were not subject to strong winds or extremes of temperature and only occasional rainfall, lightweight bamboo walls were more than adequate. It gave homes in Big Sky and in the habitat tori a definite gone-native look, but the houses were sturdy and easily built.