by Allen Steele
Ostrow grinned. This show always cracked him up. Buck and Bertha dived into their red-and-green winged spaceship. It bounced across the planetscape, brown smoke farting from its rear and rivets shaking loose from the seams, before puttering into the sky. Then Buck’s maniacal face appeared in a halo as the announcer’s voice came on: Tune in for the next episode when Buck and Bertha face danger, death, and sexual confusion on … “Planet of the Zygotes!” Buck’s rickety spaceship roared past the screen as the announcer shouted: “Buck Existential in the Twenty-fifth Century!”
Henry Ostrow laughed aloud. At least he could get a last little bit of comedy out of life before he left it behind. He reached out to turn off the set, when suddenly the screen began to flicker and waver. Satellite problems, obviously. His hand was halfway to the power switch when the screen straightened out …
And there was Macy again.
The double doors banged open as Wade Hoffman marched Macy Westmoreland into the offices of the Clarke County Sheriff’s Department. As Sharon LeFevre, the duty officer, stood up from her desk and hurried to the front counter, Hoffman was already shouting orders.
“Get those doors sealed!” he yelled at Sergeant LeFevre. She stopped, confused and uncertain for a moment, staring over Hoffman’s shoulder at the angry mob advancing down the hallway towards the cop shop. “Do it now!” Hoffman insisted, and she fumbled under the desk for the button which would automatically lock the front doors. She stabbed the button, and there was a sharp chikk! as the doors swung shut and locked themselves, only seconds before the mob collided with the thick lunar glass.
The doors were secure, but not soundproof. Behind them, they could see and hear a dozen men and women shouting, pounding at the glass, shaking the handles. LeFevre rested her forefinger on the next button on the hidden panel. “Do you want to dose them?” she asked Hoffman.
Hoffman brought Westmoreland to the booking-counter, dropping her nylon shoulder bag on the polished surface. “Uh-uh,” he replied quietly. “As soon as you get her processed and out of sight, let ’em in. I don’t want anyone to say we didn’t …”
“That’s okay,” Macy said softly.
Both officers looked at her. She was obviously rattled, yet at the same time she seemed to be relieved. She shrugged a little, hefting her wrists where Hoffman had cuffed them behind her back. “I don’t care,” she added. “They’re nothing to me. Just get these things off me. Please.”
LeFevre and Hoffman were looking doubtfully at each other, when they heard a voice behind them. “It’s okay. She doesn’t need to be booked. Just get the cuffs off and get her out of sight.”
John Bigthorn came out of his office to stand behind them. His face and hands were still lightly bandaged from the burns he had received, his gait a little unsteady, but his voice was authoritative. He walked to the counter and gazed impassively at Macy as Hoffman pulled out scissors and unclipped the plastic one-use handcuffs.
“Mary Boston,” he said. “Or is it Macy Westmoreland …?”
“Macy,” she replied wearily. She gently massaged her wrists. “Am I under arrest?”
The sheriff thought about it for a few seconds, then shook his head. “No,” he answered, “you’re not. You’ve caused us a lot of trouble, but you’re not under arrest for anything.” He smiled a little as he turned his attention to his deputy. “Unless it’s resisting arrest, of course. How did it go, Wade?”
“She was fine,” Hoffman said as he removed the cuffs and wadded them in his hands. “She was in the shop off O’Neill Square, right where Blind Boy told us she would be.…”
“Who?” Macy asked. “Who told you where I was?”
“Nobody you know,” Bigthorn said. “A friend of the department … as much as I hate to admit it.” LeFevre grinned behind his back and Hoffman coughed into his fist to hide whatever remark he was about to make. “So she came along quietly?” Bigthorn asked Hoffman.
Hoffman recovered his poise. “No problem with her personally, though I handcuffed her just to be on the safe side.”
Bigthorn nodded. “The friends she was with threw a shit-fit, though,” Wade continued. “They surrounded us when I escorted Ms. Boston … Ms. Westmoreland … to the cart, and ran down here after us.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the mob on the other side of the doors. “No harm done. One of them knocked off my cap, but that was it. She was fine.”
“Okay.” Bigthorn stepped back, cocking his finger at Macy to summon her to the other side of the counter. “Let me get her into my office, then we’ll deal with the crowd.”
LeFevre looked nervously at the door. “Sharon, take her bag away and get it out of sight, but don’t touch it till I tell you to.” Bigthorn nodded towards the door. “Then you and Wade get out there and handle the crowd. Herd them out of the building. They can demonstrate all they want, but I want them out of here. Zap ’em if anyone gives you trouble, but nobody gets in here. Comprende?”
They both nodded uneasily. As Macy walked behind the counter Bigthorn asked her, “Is there anyone out there you want to talk to? About getting an attorney or anything?”
She hesitated. “I thought you said I wasn’t under arrest.”
“You’re not,” Bigthorn said softly. “You’re in protective custody, that’s all. But you might need legal counsel before this is over. I have to advise you of that right, at least.”
Macy shook her head. “No, I don’t want any of them to help me. Not that there’s a bright light among them anyway.” She cast a disdainful look at the mob behind the doors, then glanced sharply at the sheriff. “This is about Tony, isn’t it? Tony Salvatore?”
Bigthorn nodded, and she let out her breath. “Thank Christ,” she said. “I’ve got a lot to tell you about the bastard.” She looked at Sergeant LeFevre, who was spiriting her bag away. “Just make sure that bag’s in a safe place,” she added.
LeFevre, overhearing her remark, pointed towards the safe, located in the rear of the office. Bigthorn nodded his head again. “Don’t worry about it,” he replied as he put an arm around Macy’s shoulder and led her in the direction of his office. “Not even the Golem’s going to get to it.”
Macy suddenly stopped, twisting out of his grasp and staring at him. “The Golem?” she nearly shouted, her subdued manner gone now. “Henry Ostrow? You mean he’s here?”
Before Bigthorn could reply, Rollie Binder looked up from his computer terminal. “Bad news, John. Blind Boy Grunt heard about her arrest. He’s put the word out on all the communications channels.”
The sheriff stopped. “All the …?”
“Everything,” Binder nodded. “Not just the bulletin boards and the mail system. He’s even co-opted Channel Two.”
They looked over Binder’s shoulder. On both his computer terminal and his TV monitor, Macy’s TexSpace mug shot looked at them. Below the picture was written: MARY BOSTON, A.K.A. MACY WESTMORELAND: MEMBER, CHURCH OF TWENTIETH CENTURY SAINTS; TAKEN INTO CUSTODY BY CLARKE COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT.
Suddenly, Wade Hoffman broke out laughing behind them. They turned to see the same photo and caption displayed on all the TV surveillance screens. The sheriff stared speechlessly at the monitors.
“What the fuck is going on here?” he whispered at last.
Binder held up his hands. “I dunno how. He’s never done this before. Somehow he got hold of the TexSpace picture of her and …”
“For chrissakes, Rollie, I can see what he’s done!” Bigthorn yelled, lashing his arm out at the TV monitors as Binder recoiled in his seat. “It’s why that gets me!”
He took a deep breath. No one else in the office dared to breathe. He glared around the room, then quickly ushered Macy towards his office. Now, however, she balked at the hand on her shoulder. “He’s here?” she repeated, her voice rising in panic. “He knows where I am?”
Bigthorn let out his breath. “I would be lying if I told you he couldn’t know,” he admitted.
Macy stared him in the eye, then cast her gaze at the Church
of Elvis followers behind the door. “Goddammit,” she said. “I should have stayed with them.”
Bigthorn shook his head. “No. You’re safer here.”
“Uh-uh.” Her eyes were fastened on the doors. Not on the crowd, but on some force beyond them. “Sorry, Sheriff. I don’t think so.”
For perhaps the final time, the transformation had been made. Invisible except in his mind’s eye, tangible as a faint cool spot on his forehead, the aleph was traced in saliva on his skin just below his hairline. Henry Ostrow, for all practical purposes, had ceased to exist. Only the Golem remained.
As he climbed the ladder up the narrow shaft leading to South Station, he heard the bell in the Big Sky’s meeting hall bell tower peal seven times. Night had fallen within the biosphere by the time he twisted the handle on the hatch and pushed it open.
Above and around him, constellations glowed in the darkness, interspersed with the denser bands of starlight: the Milky Way, reflected by the primary mirrors through the windows. The sight was staggeringly beautiful, but the Golem did not have the ability to appreciate its wonder. Such aestheticism was now completely foreign to his dead soul.
A few people, tourists mainly, were on the mooncrete veranda, but no one noticed him as he crossed the platform. The maintenance worker’s uniform he had stolen from the locker room was perfect camouflage. People seldom notice janitors, repairmen, or plumbers. His face was half hidden by the brim of his cap; the Ruger was strapped to the inside of his right calf, underneath his utility vest. It was a good disguise.
Balancing himself carefully against the lesser gravity, he slowly trudged down the ramp to the public vehicle depot. He found a service cart parked in a slot. After unhooking the recharger cable, he climbed into the driver’s seat and pulled from a vest pocket the keycard he had found in the supervisor’s desk. The key started the cart and he pulled away from South Station. Just ahead, Western Avenue led into the darkness of the farmland. Beyond that, up the curving plains of the horizonless world, lay the lights of Big Sky.
Eyes fixed straight ahead, the Golem drove along the roadway. He didn’t hurry, for his patience was vast. The long night was only starting.
19
The Town Meeting
(Sunday: 7:07 P.M.)
Although the monthly Big Sky town meeting was officially convened to conduct business pertinent only to Big Sky, it had in practice evolved to include public issues affecting the entire colony. LaGrange, North Torus, and South Torus were theoretically supposed to have their own separate sessions, but their meetings had been subsumed in the Big Sky meeting for a number of reasons. The affairs of the communities were simply too interlocked for the business of each one to be conducted independently of the others; since Big Sky was the county seat, it made sense for the monthly “town” meeting to be held there. So, in reality, it was a county meeting; the name remained unchanged only because the session was modeled after the traditional New England town meeting system.
Big Sky’s meeting hall was the site of the monthly gathering. The long building in Settler’s Square, with its gabled roof and steepled bell tower, served as a nondenominational church on Sunday mornings and as a Hebrew synagogue on Saturdays. Once a month the altar was removed and replaced with a long table for the six elected members of the county Board of Selectmen. A mike stand was set up in front of the table for use by members of the public.
Three cameras were set up in the hall to televise the proceedings on Channel 2. Because the meetings could be watched at home, attendance was generally sparse. In fact, the majority of the colony’s residents paid little attention to the monthly town meeting. Except when elections were held of when the annual county budget was being determined, few of the residents troubled to show up.
It was no wonder. The monthly agenda was usually concerned with prosaic, necessary, and boring matters: construction permits for new housing in Big Sky or South Torus, commercial licenses for new businesses in LaGrange or on the Strip, reports on soybean production by the Ark, discussion of the proposed purchase of updated tutorial software for the county school, and debate on whether to curb bicycle racing on Broadway during nighttime hours. All in favor say aye. All opposed shall signify by snoring loudly.
This month’s meeting was going to be different.
Standing in the back of the hall behind one of the TV cameras, John Bigthorn watched as the bamboo pews began to fill with residents. Already most of the seats were taken, and many people were standing against the wall. Thanks to Blind Boy Grunt and the rumor mill, word had gotten out that tonight’s meeting was going to be important. Maybe even interesting.
The agenda was printed on the docket being handed to each person as they walked through the door. At the bottom of the long sheet of paper, underneath routine items like a proposed surcharge on imported soap and a declaration to have October 5 made a legal holiday in honor of Robert H. Goddard’s birthday, were two late additions. Once again, Bigthorn glanced at the sheet in his hand:
“Item 17: (Schorr, J., for the Public)—Calling for a declaration of independence by Clarke County as an independent, sovereign nation.”
“Item 18: (Schorr, N., for the Board)—Calling for a vote to dismiss John Bigthorn from his position as Sheriff of Clarke County.”
Neil must have gotten the clerk to add Item 18 only this morning. Jenny had submitted Item 17 yesterday, before …
Bigthorn blinked and pulled his eyes away from the docket. The lung transplant had been a success and her internal hemorrhaging had been stopped, but Dr. Witherspoon still had Jenny on the critical list. If the sheriff thought about it too much, he might agree with the last-minute motion submitted by Neil Schorr to have him fired. He couldn’t help but feel responsible for Jenny’s predicament. If he hadn’t challenged Ostrow …
Enough of that, he scolded himself. You were doing your job, whether Neil knows it or not.
Remembering the Golem, Bigthorn unclipped the phone from his belt, pushed a couple of numbers, and held it to his face. “Station Thirteen, report,” he said softly.
Station Thirteen here. Wade Hoffman’s voice came over the line. We’ve got a hot time in the old town tonight, John.
Hoffmann was out of sight, but closer than anyone but Bigthorn and a few other department officers knew. He was staked out in the bell tower on top of the meeting hall, where he could see all of the square, including the front and sides of the Big Sky town hall just across Settler’s Square. “What’s going on out there?” Bigthorn asked.
The Elvis nuts are still camped out in front of Town Hall. Parker’s got some sort of sit-in going but Sharon still has the front door locked. And there’s more people arriving for the meeting.
“It’s getting a late start.” Bigthorn glanced around the room again. “I don’t see the Exec Board. Are they out there?”
Yeah. There’s some politics going on out here. Neil Schorr’s talking to a few people near the statue. He looks pretty worked up about something. Probably you. And Becky Hotchner’s right below me with another bunch of folks. You can bet they’re talking about the independence move.
“Never mind that now,” Bigthorn insisted. “Ostrow’s the only thing I want you to worry about. Have you checked in with the others?”
Affirmative. Rollie and Sharon are in the station. Rollie’s working on the diskettes the girl brought us. Danny’s on foot patrol around town, and Cussler’s holding down the Strip. I just talked to them. No one’s seen anything yet.
“Tell ’em to keep sharp,” Bigthorn said. “Ostrow won’t be wearing a name tag, y’know. If you …”
There was a mild commotion at the door. Bigthorn looked up to see Rebecca Hotchner, Neil Schorr, and their supporters filing into the room. Bob Morse, who had been sitting in a pew with a couple of other people, got up and walked over to the table, where the three other members of the Board of Selectmen were already seated.
“The meeting’s about to start,” Bigthorn said. “You’ve got the ball. If someth
ing happens out there …”
I’ll give you a buzz. Good luck, Chief.
The sheriff smiled. Wade knew how much he hated the word. “Thanks,” he replied. “Station Twelve out.”
He clipped the phone back on his belt. It was a standing-room-only crowd in the meeting hall, but nobody seemed to want to be near him. Indeed, a few people were studying him with sidelong glances. It was no wonder; he himself was an issue at this meeting. By the time it was over he would either still be the sheriff of Clarke County, or he would be out of a job.
Bigthorn ignored the covert attention. He settled his back against the wall and stuck his thumbs in the corners of the trouser pockets. “Okay,” he muttered, “it’s showtime.”
It was one hell of a show. From the moment Bob Morse banged his gavel and called the meeting to order, there was trouble.
The Board of Selectmen was a curious entity: three vocal members of the Executive Board sitting with three quiet junior members, each of whom was politically allied with one of the Executive Board members. Morse, as board chairman and Mayor of LaGrange, was supported by Kyle Wu, the other elected representative from LaGrange. Both were moderates. Neil Schorr found his political ally in Lee Shepard, another member of the New Ark and the representative of the South Torus community, which was largely populated by New Ark members. Whatever Neil said, Shepard automatically seconded. Their position was nearly always on the far left. And while Rebecca Hotchner in her role as liaison for the Clarke County Corporation was seated as a non-elected member, she was supported by Frederick Pynchon, a Skycorp engineer who represented North Torus. His constituency was the smallest in the county, but nearly all of the North Torus residents were employed by one of the consortium’s member companies. Hotchner and Pynchon, therefore, constituted the Board’s conservative vote.
Which meant that Clarke County’s government was less of a board of six members than a subtle troika of three duos. When all three parties were working toward the same goals and had the same broad interests, docket items were quickly discussed and voted upon. This was usually the case, but this meeting was one of the exceptions.