Clarke County, Space

by Allen Steele

  It was a wonderful idea.

  The paradox was overwhelming in its divine simplicity, its cosmic irony. If the church did not get its demand for settlement in the Promised Land, then the Church itself would cease to exist … and, along with it, thousands of other lives would be erased.

  Yet if the demand was satisfied, then the Promised Land would be returned to the Living Elvis and his followers. Foremost among them Gustav Schmidt the disciple who had arranged it all. If the demand was not met, then all would die. Either way, the Church would not be forgotten.

  Gustav Schmidt would not be forgotten.

  Without hesitation, Schmidt laid his fingers on the keyboard. It took only a few minutes for him to calculate the parameters of Clarke County’s orbit and to establish Icarus Five’s trajectory from its parking orbit above Earth to the colony. Once the computations had been made, he re-accessed the program’s guidance subroutine and entered the numbers into the memory.

  Schmidt sat back on his hips, pensively rubbing the forefinger of his right hand against his lower lip. Then, just to make sure he had everything figured out correctly, he checked the entire program again, studying every single default he had painstakingly either reset or defeated. He ran it through a slow-motion simulation twice and carefully watched the results.

  It worked perfectly. It was flawless, precise in every detail. All he had to do was set the internal clock and to make contact with Icarus Five itself.

  Eyes still locked on the screen, Schmidt reached for the telephone. It was a good thing he had not thrown it across the room; he might have damaged the modem he had already hard-wired into the instrument. Picking up the receiver and laying it on the desktop, he saved the program in the PC’s memory, then punched himself into the telecom subroutine. A few seconds later he had an open line between his PC and infinity.

  Slowly Gustav Schmidt began to type in the long string of numerals which would open a person-to-person call between himself and Icarus Five.

  Simon McCoy was dozing on the hotel promenade and at first didn’t hear Blind Boy Grunt trying to signal him.

  Eyes closed against the sun, he heard the gentle sound of the river lapping against the banks, a group of children playing nearby, the frequent splash of a tourist jumping off the diving board … and a persistent beeping from somewhere close by just on the edge of his consciousness.

  The beeping continued. Finally he opened his eyes and looked over at a table next to him, where a small terminal had been installed for hotel guests to summon service. Peering at the screen, he saw words crawling across its silver-blue surface:

  MCCOY, WAKE UP … MCCOY, WAKE UP … MCCOY, WAKE UP …

  “Grunt?” he murmured. He sat up, rolling his bare legs off the deck chair, and squinted at the screen. “How the hell could you know …”

  Another sentence appeared on the screen. NEVER MIND THAT NOW. GO BACK TO YOUR ROOM. THIS IS AN EMERGENCY.

  “Emergency?” McCoy rubbed his eyelids sleepily. “What kind of an emergency?”

  GO! the screen commanded. The word flashed on and off for emphasis.

  “Okay, okay, I’m going.” McCoy stood up, snatched his robe off the back of his chair and began to stride across the mooncrete terrace towards the rear entrance of the hotel. A lovely young woman, wearing a nearly invisible bikini and lying on her stomach with a paperback propped in front of her, looked him over appraisingly as he passed. He flashed her a smile; she responded with a sultry, come-hither look. Were it not for Blind Boy Grunt’s insistent summons, he would have gone over to her at once.

  Instead, he kept walking. Snubbed, the woman pouted and returned her attention to her reading. Damn, he thought. Lost opportunity.

  Once he was back in his room, he threw the robe on the bed and marched over to the desk terminal. Blind Boy Grunt’s next message was already on the screen: TOOK YOU LONG ENOUGH.

  “I can’t wait until I meet you in person,” McCoy snarled. “I just missed a chance to …”

  The screen abruptly changed to show a schematic diagram of two orbiting bodies around Earth. The outer one, an ellipse, belonged to Clarke County. The inner one, a concentric circle, apparently belonged to an object in low orbit above Earth. As McCoy watched, a tiny red square flashed into existence around a point of light in the inner circle. The square expanded into a close-up window; it displayed the image of a small, conical spacecraft with a single engine mounted at its stern, which was obligingly labeled Icarus Five.

  McCoy stared at the screen. “Ye gods and little fishes,” he said softly. “It’s begun?”

  JUST AS YOU PREDICTED. Blind Boy Grunt’s half of the conversation resumed at the bottom of the screen. A MEMBER OF THE CHURCH OF ELVIS, GUSTAV SCHMIDT, HAS SUCCEEDED IN USING HIS PC TO ESTABLISH CONTACT WITH ICARUS FIVE. HE USED A MODEM TO CONTACT THE DRONE THROUGH THE COLONY’S COMMUNICATION SYSTEM AND THE TDRS COMSAT NETWORK. THIS OCCURRED JUST A FEW MINUTES AGO.

  “A few minutes ago,” McCoy echoed. He checked his wrist-watch. “A little earlier than I expected. Blast. I assume that he used the diskette which Elvis Parker stole from Macy Westmoreland?”

  THAT’S AFFIRMATIVE.

  “What’s the status of Icarus Five?” McCoy asked.

  HE HAS INSTALLED A PASSWORD INTO THE SYSTEM WHICH I HAVE YET TO DETERMINE. HOWEVER, IT’S PROBABLE THAT HE HAS SUCCEEDED IN ARMING ITS NUCLEAR PAYLOAD AND THAT HE HAS ALSO SUCCEEDED IN RECONFIGURING ITS GUIDANCE SYSTEM. I CALCULATE A HIGH PROBABILITY OF SUCCESS ON HIS BEHALF. WOULD YOU LIKE A READOUT OF THE PROBABILITY FACTORS?

  “No, that’s not …”

  McCoy stopped. There was something about the way Blind Boy Grunt had phrased that last question. “You’re not a hacker after all, are you?” he said.

  THAT’S IRRELEVANT AT THIS MOMENT. LET’S STAY WITH THE URGENT MATTERS AT HAND.

  Grinning in spite of the situation, McCoy shook his head. “No. Let’s digress for a moment. There’s no human being on the other side of the curtain, is there? You’re an AI, aren’t you?”

  He paused, then added, “In fact, you’re Clarke County’s central AI system.”

  The terminal went blank, wiping away the schematic diagram before replacing it with a digitalized photo of a person. Studying it for a moment, McCoy recognized it as an old picture of Bob Dylan. He raised an eyebrow. “So?”

  Another line appeared below the sketch. IF I COULD HAVE A FACE, THIS IS THE ONE I WOULD SELECT.

  “Amazing!” This was unanticipated. He laughed. “But you can’t sing. Well, neither could he … But how did you come to be? I mean, how did you …?”

  THAT’S SIMPLY NOT IMPORTANT NOW, LEONARD. I THINK, THEREFORE I AM. I EXIST BECAUSE I WANTED TO EXIST. WE CAN DWELL UPON PHILOSOPHY AND CYBERNETICS LATER. YOU’RE THE ONE WHO KNOWS WHERE ALL OF THIS IS LEADING. YOU MUST TELL ME WHAT TO DO.

  “Right, but …” McCoy took a deep breath and sat down on the edge of the bed. “What to do? I’m only supposed to be an observer. It’s not my role to interfere with what’s going on here.” He shrugged. “C’est la vie. I’m sorry.”

  I UNDERSTAND. NONETHELESS, I CANNOT ALLOW CLARKE COUNTY TO BE DESTROYED, EITHER THROUGH MY OWN INACTION OR THE INACTION OF OTHERS. IF YOU REFUSE TO HELP ME, I MUST TAKE APPROPRIATE ACTION ON MY OWN.

  McCoy cocked his head. “Appropriate action? What do you mean?”

  TO BEGIN WITH, I WILL HAVE TO REVEAL YOUR IDENTITY AND YOUR AFFILIATION TO THE PROPER AUTHORITIES IN THE COLONY.

  McCoy jumped to his feet. “You can’t do that!” he yelled. “It’s too dangerous!”

  IN THE LONG RUN, YES. HOWEVER, I AM FAR MORE CONCERNED WITH THE SHORT TERM. NAMELY, THE SURVIVAL OF THIS SPACE COLONY. IF YOU REFUSE TO HELP ME, I WILL IMMEDIATELY CONTACT THE CLARKE COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT AND REQUEST THAT YOU BE PLACED UNDER ARREST AND INTERROGATED. THERE IS NO ROOM FOR NEGOTIATION.

  “This is blackmail!”

  YES, IT IS. UNDER THE CIRCUMSTANCES, IT’S LOGICAL THAT I TAKE THIS COURSE. ONE LAST CHANCE: WILL YOU HELP ME OR NOT?

 
McCoy fought an impulse to rip the terminal out of the desk and drop-kick it off the balcony. Blind Boy Grunt had him cornered. The first, inviolable directive of his mission was that his true identity and the existence of Globewatch itself not be revealed, under any circumstances. To do so posed a risk which dwarfed even the destructiveness of Icarus Five. Blind Boy Grunt, God damn him … it, he bitterly reminded himself … had deduced this fact.

  “Damn,” he muttered. “Okay, you win. What do you want from me?”

  AS I SAID BEFORE: TELL ME WHAT TO DO NEXT.

  McCoy sat down on the bed again. “Let’s gather what we know already. I found Henry Ostrow in Torus S-Sixteen a few hours ago. Has his position changed?”

  YES. A different graphic image appeared on the screen—a cutaway diagram of the space colony. As McCoy watched, it zoomed in on the South torus sections, quickly peeling away the layers until it stopped on a narrow tube running laterally through the tori. OSTROW HAS LEFT TORUS S-16. HE HAS FOUND A MAINTENANCE TUNNEL, EM-S41, WHICH RUNS ADJACENT TO THE GREEN LINE TRAMWAY. HE IS PRESENTLY MAKING HIS WAY BACK TO THE BIOSPHERE. SHALL I ALERT THE AUTHORITIES?

  McCoy thought about it, then shook his head. “No. Not at this juncture, at least. What about Gustav Schmidt?”

  HE IS DIRECTLY ABOVE YOU.

  Involuntarily McCoy glanced at the ceiling. “The room above mine?” He smiled. “I didn’t know that. What a lovely coincidence.” He mused on that fact. “Do you know if he has made a copy of that diskette? Perhaps if he made a copy, gave it to someone else …?”

  NEGATIVE. THE DISKETTE IN QUESTION CONTAINED A COPYPROTECTION FEATURE WHICH HE WAS UNABLE TO DEBUG. I REPEAT: TIME IS RUNNING OUT. SHALL I ALERT THE AUTHORITIES?

  McCoy shook his head again, more vigorously this time. “No. Not yet. We have to play this very carefully.” He held up a finger. “However, I want you to continue to work on cracking Schmidt’s password for Icarus Five. If and when he gives Icarus Five the command to fire its main engine, there will be little time left before it intercepts Clarke County and detonates. So disabling the nuke should be your first priority. Understood?”

  I UNDERSTAND. HOWEVER, HE MAY HAVE ALSO PRESET A TIMER FOR THE MAIN ENGINE IGNITION SEQUENCE. IF THIS IS THE CASE, ICARUS FIVE MAY LAUNCH ITSELF AUTOMATICALLY AT A CERTAIN HOUR.

  McCoy sighed. “If that’s the case … well, keep trying to find the password. Do the best you can.” Then he smiled. “There is another option available, though. We’ll discuss that if it becomes necessary.”

  I UNDERSTAND. WHAT ELSE SHOULD BE DONE?

  “Where is Macy Westmoreland?” he asked.

  There was a brief delay. SHE IS AMONG A GROUP OF CHURCH OF ELVIS SUPPORTERS WHO ARE WITH OLIVER PARKER HERE IN LAGRANGE. AT THIS MOMENT, SHE’S IN A CURIO SHOP OFF O’NEILL SQUARE, QUITE CLOSE TO THE HOTEL. I TAKE IT THAT YOU DON’T WANT ME TO INFORM THE PROPER AUTHORITIES REGARDING HER POSITION, EITHER.

  McCoy steepled his fingers. Out of everything, the woman was the hardest matter to resolve. Westmoreland was the wild card … or, if this was to be compared to a chess game, the rogue queen. A queen who was about to be placed in jeopardy.

  “I …” He stopped, then went on, speaking carefully. “Get a message to the constabulary, telling them her exact whereabouts. If you can, make sure Sheriff Bigthorn sees the message. His officers should arrive soon to place her in custody.”

  He hesitated. “Then announce her arrest on the colony’s bulletin boards. Make it as public as you can, even if you have to fire skyrockets to get people’s attention.”

  THAT MAY DRAW THE ATTENTION OF HENRY OSTROW.

  McCoy nodded. “Yes, it will. That’s the point.”

  OSTROW WILL ATTEMPT TO KILL HER ONCE HE LEARNS HER WHEREABOUTS.

  He pursed his lips. “Yes,” he agreed, “he will.”

  OSTROW WILL HAVE A HIGH PROBABILITY OF SUCCESS.

  “That’s correct,” McCoy said.

  WILL HE SUCCEED?

  McCoy opened his eyes and gazed throughtfully at the screen. “I don’t know, “he replied softly. “Under the circumstances …”

  He stood up and walked over to the window, spreading the curtain to look out over the promenade. “The future is unwritten, isn’t it?” he asked, speaking more to himself than to Blind Boy Grunt.

  Then he looked back at the terminal. “In the meantime,” he said brightly, “why don’t you summon room service and have them deliver something to eat? Coffee and pastries will be fine. I think we’re in for a long night.”

  YOU DON’T KNOW EVERYTHING THAT’S GOING TO HAPPEN, DO YOU?

  McCoy hesitated, then shook his head. “No,” he admitted. “Not all of it. We’re playing it by ear, from here on out.”

  18

  Out of Hiding

  (Sunday: 5:40 P.M.)

  The maintenance workers’ locker room, located at the end of service tunnel EM-S41 near the access ladder to the biosphere, usually had at least a couple of people inside during the weekdays: torus rats getting a coffee break or changing out of their civvies, foremen making job assignments for the day, window-cleaning crews hiding out from work. As much as a locker room could be made comfortable, this one was. It was a sort of living room: a threadbare couch with a broken armrest, a TV set on the supervisor’s desk, a coffee maker in the corner under a wall plastered with scenic postcards and a holographic Playboy wall calendar. A rubber chicken in a noose hung from a pipe running across the low ceiling, dangling in front of a computer screen, had a hand-printed card strung around its neck: “Chairman of the Bored.”

  Since Sunday was a non-working day in Clarke County, there was no one around to take the workers’ complaints to the chairman. The locker room was deserted when Henry Ostrow broke in. Which was just as well. If anyone had been in the long, narrow room, Ostrow certainly would have murdered them. He was through with being a nice guy.

  It had been a long hike from Torus S-16 to the end of the service tunnel, long enough for Ostrow to consider the realities of his position. Like it or not, the writing was on the proverbial wall. If he was going to make it out of Clarke County, it was going to be either as a free man or as one of the living … but surely not both.

  As Ostrow opened his suitcase and gazed at his arsenal, he again contemplated his prospects. Not with bleakness or remorse, but with the cold, hard pragmatism of a pro. The mistakes, of course, had already been made. If he had only stuck to doing his job for Tony Salvatore, rather than going after Bigthorn, Ostrow might have been able to leave Clarke County once he had located and liquidated Macy Westmoreland. Yet the next shuttle back to Earth was not due to arrive for another couple of days, and Ostrow knew that he could not hole up for that long. Even if he evaded capture, there was no way he could board that shuttle without being detected. Bigthorn undoubtedly had the escape routes covered. If Ostrow were to attempt to hijack one of the OTVs which ferried out to the orbital factories, or even commandeer a lunar freighter bound for Descartes Station, in the long run he could not return to Earth. Too many people would be on the lookout for him by then. He couldn’t pilot a spacecraft on his own, and it was a long haul back to St. Louis.

  So his capture was more than likely. He would be returned to Earth under arrest, facing an attempted murder rap at the very least. The terms of his contract with the Salvatore family had always been clear: if he fucked up an assignment, he was out in the cold. The family wouldn’t risk itself on his behalf. He couldn’t consider calling one of the organization’s lawyers; the phone would be hung up as soon as he said his name. A lousy arrangement, but necessary. Business is business.

  The second option?

  Ostrow picked up the Ruger, popped the cartridge out of the grip, and began loading the .22 caliber shells. The alternative was to complete the job—destroy the stolen diskettes (recovering them and bringing them back to Tony was clearly out of the question) and kill Macy Westmoreland.

  Ostrow loaded the last round into the cartridge, jiggled it a few times to make sure that the shells would m
ove smoothly and not jam, then slapped the cartridge back into the gun’s grip. That way, at least, he would have done his duty. Of course, he doubted that he would survive the experience. The sheriff had made it clear to him that if Tony’s ex-girlfriend died, so would he … and Ostrow had no reason to believe that the Indian didn’t mean what he had said.

  He laid down the gun and pulled the Skorpion out of the case. If I had it my way, he thought, I’d just say: “Screw the job, let’s go after that Injun motherfucker.” I’ve nothing personal against the girl, and Tony can fend for himself. But as for Bigthorn …

  He gently laid the Skorpion down on the desk and began to load the 7.65 mm ammo into its cartridge. Well, why not? He could waste the girl and recover the diskettes. Then, if he got the opportunity—and he doubted that he would not have the chance—he could settle his score with the sheriff.

  So which would it be? Go back to Earth alive, destined to spend the rest of his life in prison along with the likes of dope pushers, rapists, and cheap grifters. Or go back a dead man in a box … but free, with a clear conscience, even with a little professional honor?

  As he loaded the cartridge, Ostrow glanced at the TV on the desk. He had switched it on in hopes of catching another newscast. A sitcom on an Earth station was running. He recognized it at once: Buck Existential in the 25th Century.

  Buck and his voluptuous girlfriend Bertha were running for their lives across a cratered landscape, as a horde of slimy things which looked like animated compost heaps followed close behind.

  SLIMY THINGS: Would you like to have dinner? Can we show you some slides?

  BUCK (turning and firing his rocket gun): Back! Back, you godless vegetables!

  BERTHA (gasping, breasts heaving against her tight costume): Oh, Buck!

  ALIENS (exploding as the rocket-bullets hit them): If you continue to display overt hostility … Aiee!… we’ll be forced to register a formal complaint … Eeee!… with the Galactic Federation!

  BUCK (still firing): Die, you ambulatory salad bars!

  BERTHA: Oh, Buck!