Clarke County, Space

by Allen Steele

  As soon as the meeting was called to order, Neil Schorr made a motion to skip the first sixteen items on the docket and begin discussion of Items 17 and 18. Shepard seconded the motion, but it was immediately opposed by Rebecca Hotchner, who made the countermotion (seconded by Pynchon) to have both items tabled until a future meeting, after the appropriate studies were conducted by ad hoc subcommittees.

  She might have gotten away with this maneuver under any other circumstances. But Bob Morse noticed general unrest from the unusually large audience, which obviously wanted these items discussed sooner rather than later. In the best parliamentarian fashion, Morse first called Hotchner’s motion to a vote by the Board, then he and Wu sided with the Big Sky representatives in voting against it, with Hotchner and Pynchon voting in favor. The same two-thirds majority won when, subsequently, Schorr’s motion was voted upon.

  The mood of the crowd became apparent when they applauded and cheered the votes. Morse banged the gavel again and sternly reminded them that this was an official government function and not a basketball game. The crowd hushed itself, but the look on their faces told the truth: they were here for a public debate, and were not interested in maintaining political decorum and restraint.

  As Hotchner gazed stonily at him, Morse yielded the floor to Neil Schorr. Schorr stood up for his speech; this was not customary practice at the meetings, but it caught the attention of the audience. Morse and Wu remained impassive while Shepard grinned and Hotchner made a histrionic display of appearing disgusted, which Pynchon obligingly aped. The meeting was hardly ten minutes old, and already the lines of battle were drawn.

  “Members of the Board, fellow residents of Clarke County, comrades of the New Ark …” he began.

  “Friends, Romans, countrymen …” Pynchon stage-whispered, which earned him a few laughs from the pews and a scowl from Morse. Pynchon shut up, smiling smugly.

  Schorr ignored him. “My wife, Jenny, entered a motion for public discussion at this meeting, regarding whether Clarke County should declare itself as a self-reliant, independent nation.” He looked down at the table for a moment. “As some of you know,” he continued, “she was critically injured last night in an explosion in Big Sky … of unknown origin, or at least so we are told.”

  Another pause. The room was absolutely still. “However, there’s good reason to believe that she was the intended target of forces which oppose the idea of independence for Clarke County,” Schorr said. “In short, someone wanted Jenny dead before she could spread her message. The identity of the culprit is still unknown, but the motive is obvious. If they could silence her voice, then they could silence an idea.”

  It was as if the bamboo pews had been electrified and someone had thrown a switch to send a few volts through the buttocks of the audience. Suddenly, everyone sat up straight, their eyes locked on Schorr. For once, Rebecca Hotchner had discarded her air of detachment; she looked as if she were ready to leap out of her chair and throttle Schorr. The rest of the selectmen stared at the New Ark leader with looks of bewilderment or outright anger.

  In the back of the room Bigthorn found his own jaw going slack. Did Neil actually believe that the bombing which had put Jenny in the hospital was an act of political terrorism?

  He flashed upon Schorr’s parting remark that morning at Clarke County General, during their brief encounter outside the ICU ward … “I already know who did it.” No, he didn’t. He couldn’t. The Golem’s existence had deliberately been kept secret. Schorr didn’t have a shred of evidence to support his allegation. And yet, without any evidence, he was insinuating that the Clarke County Corporation was behind Jenny’s “attempted assassination.”

  Perhaps he doesn’t need proof, Bigthorn thought. He looked at the alert faces of the crowd, then caught the expression on Becky Hotchner’s face: stunned, bewildered, defensive yet speechless. No wonder Schorr’s been a leader for most of his life, the sheriff reflected. He knows how to rile people, how to manipulate emotions against logic. Maybe he doesn’t believe it himself. Hell, maybe it doesn’t matter whether he believes it.…

  Neil’s making his grab for power. The thought occurred to the sheriff with sudden, diamondlike clarity. The son-of-a-bitch’s wife lands in the hospital, and he uses it as political leverage. Even if he has to lie about why it happened, he’s spotted his big chance.

  Bigthorn folded his arms across his chest, shaking his head in admiration despite himself. “I’ll be dipped in dogshit,” he murmured.

  As if he’d heard Bigthorn’s comment, Schorr stared straight across the room at the sheriff. “This attack occurred at the home of John Bigthorn, our county sheriff, who’s sworn to protect us all,” Schorr said, his voice gradually rising to gather the force of moral outrage. “The fact that our senior law officer stands among us tonight, relatively unscathed, while my wife lies in a near-coma, facing death …”

  He paused, as one set of eyes after another fastened upon Bigthorn. “It cannot help but cast doubts on his ability to protect us,” Schorr went on.

  Whatever admiration Bigthorn felt for Neil Schorr instantly vanished. The little bastard knows better, he thought. He knows why Jenny was at my house, and now he’s going for revenge. Son of a bitch!

  Neil turned back to the audience. “Yet our first priorities must rest elsewhere, at least for the time being.” His voice was lowered now. The matter-of-fact voice of calm and reason. “We are all familiar with the situation I refer to. Clarke County is a colony, but it has been effectively colonized not by the United States, but by those who sit in corporate boardrooms in New York and Huntsville, Tokyo and Bonn and London.”

  Murmurs of agreement from the audience. “Their principal interests are not our own,” Schorr continued. “We are concerned with finding a good life for ourselves and our families, with carving out a home on a new frontier, with building a community based on hard work and personal sacrifice.…”

  He stopped and sighed expressively. “Their interests, however, begin and end with making money. No more, no less. The most expedient measures are preferred over the slower, evolutionary task of homesteading. Any profit which we … each and every one of us, as individuals … may make from our labors, inevitably flows back to them, in the form of ever-rising rents, surcharges, and tariffs. And meanwhile …”

  Schorr grinned ruefully and shook his head. “Meanwhile, they send us another shipload of Elvis Presley cultists, who sit in our town square and tell us not to step on their blue suede shoes.”

  Scattered laughter from the crowd. Everyone had seen the Church of Elvis protesters on their way into the meeting. Bigthorn smiled grimly. Neil was tapping a deep, long-dormant vein of frustration here.

  Becoming somber again, Schorr held up his hands for silence. “Ladies and gentlemen, the time has come for us to make an important decision. Will Clarke County … our home, the first community in space … be guided by forces not in our own hands? By forces that do not necessarily reflect our own best interests? Shall we submit to being tools of remote economic powers which care little for our own needs and those of our children?”

  Again he paused, allowing everyone to chew on that thought, while he cast his eyes around the room as if to ask the question of each individual whose gaze he met.

  Then, in an abrupt fury that shattered the calm, he crashed a balled fist down on the tabletop. “Or shall we declare independence?” he shouted.

  That was it: the moment he found the right button to push.

  Half of the crowd surged to their feet and shouted back: “Yes!”

  When the police had come to take her into custody, Oliver Parker knew that in the long run Mary Boston would be nothing but trouble. He was certain of that when the maintenance man showed up at the Big Sky town hall. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

  If he’d had a choice in the matter, he would not have led a vigil outside the town hall to protest her arrest: All things considered, he would much rather have returned to the Strip toni
ght, this time to get ripped and comfortably screwed as only the Dark Elvis could. But when Mary Boston, or whatever her name was, had been apprehended in that little gimmick shop in LaGrange, she had not been alone. When the police hauled the woman away, her brothers and sisters from the Church had followed.

  So now here he was: sitting in the town square; surrounded by his followers, who insisted upon singing every song Elvis Presley had ever recorded; waiting either for the police to release Sister Mary (fat chance) or to die of terminal boredom (much more likely). It was a good thing he was wearing his sunglasses; otherwise, someone might have seen from the look in his eyes that the Living Elvis was filled with anything but holy rage.

  They had been here for about four hours now. If it had been his choice, Parker would have said, “Well, okay … we’ll come back tomorrow, gang, and see if we can post bail. Let’s go get something to eat.” However, he couldn’t do that. He was constrained by his own role; he had to be perceived as leading his followers in the good fight. Religious persecution and all that …

  So, even if his buns were aching from sitting on the hard pavement for so long, he wasn’t at liberty to suggest that it was time to give it up. Or even to second the motion to adjourn, had it been proposed by one of the flock … which hadn’t yet occurred. Fueled by self-righteous anger, they were determined to see this crusade through, even if it meant sitting here all night.

  It looked as if that was exactly what was going to happen.

  Sometimes, being a messiah was a pain in the ass.

  The ragged chorus of “Heartbreak Hotel”—the fourth time it had been sung in so many hours—had just died out when the electric cart rolled to a stop in front of the town hall. Parker looked over his shoulder to see a tall man in gray coveralls, work vest, and cap climb out of the driver’s seat. He began walking around the crowd to the door. No one did anything to stop him; the Church of Elvis protesters knew better than to interfere with anyone going in and out of the building. Parker had made sure of that. Besides, this man was obviously the night custodian, coming to mop the floors and empty the wastebaskets.…

  Yet, as he walked by, Parker did a double take. There was something oddly familiar about the man. As he climbed the front steps, Parker tipped down his shades to get a better look. As he did, the custodian briefly turned in his direction.

  Even under the brim of his cap, his face was instantly recognizable to Parker. It was the guy whom he had met yesterday in the TexSpace Third-Class lounge. Another tourist.

  Now this was weird. What the hell was he doing here, dressed as a janitor?

  As the Church members swung into “Good Golly, Miss Molly,” the man stopped at the front door and slid a keycard into the slot. As the door buzzed and he opened it, he seemed to sense that someone was watching him. He looked over his shoulder and stared straight at Parker.

  Parker felt a chill run down his spine. He had never seen eyes that were so …

  Dead.

  Then the “janitor” looked away. He entered the building, stepping through the door like a robot, letting the door shut behind him, unlocked.

  Oliver Parker had an uneasy feeling that something was wrong. Something that had to do with Mary Boston.

  Without really thinking about it, he stood up and began walking towards the door. The singers stammered; a few people reached up to touch his legs, to ask him what was going on. Parker ignored them. There was something wrong here … and there was a woman inside who was a member of his Church. Like it or not, he was responsible for her. His followers had made that clear to him.

  “Elvis …?”

  “Living Elvis, what’s …?”

  “Is there something …?”

  “Why are you …?”

  He turned around, raising his hands to calm them. “It’s okay, brothers and sisters,” he said soothingly. “Elvis just wants to see about something. He’ll be right back.”

  Then he hurried up the steps, pulled open the door, and walked into the town hall.

  The corridor was dark. The ceiling panels were turned off; the only light came from the far end, through the glass doors of the Sheriff’s Department offices.

  The hallway was empty.

  Parker took a few steps forward, the heavy soles of his platform shoes tapping loudly on the tiles. He could see nothing, hear nothing but his own breathing. Suddenly, he was afraid. He stopped and swallowed.…

  “Hello?” he said. “Is anyone there?”

  An indistinct figure suddenly stepped out of an alcove several yards in front of him, blocking the light. Parker reflexively raised his hands.…

  There was a muzzle-flash, a high rattle of gunfire, and Parker felt the bullets ripping into his chest and stomach.

  The pain was explosive and brutal. His body slammed backwards into the door, then he slid slowly down its cool surface, leaving a long red streak on the glass.

  Parker’s head lolled forward on his neck. As the pain enveloped him, as time itself expanded, he heard someone scream from somewhere behind him, a scream that seemed to last forever.…

  Then darkness, numb and endless, enveloped him. Ollie Sperber had time for one clear, final thought …

  Ladies and gentlemen, Elvis has left the building.

  20

  The Hour of the Golem

  (Sunday: 8:17 P.M.)

  At first, Bigthorn didn’t pick up his phone when it buzzed; he couldn’t hear it over the bedlam which had broken loose in the meeting hall.

  Bob Morse had already destroyed his gavel trying to restore order. The fourth time he had slammed it down on the table, the head had splintered off from the stem. Nonplussed, the chairman had resorted to yelling for quiet but was unable to get anyone to listen to him. Supporters of the independence movement, who had stood and cheered when Neil Schorr had made his pronouncement, had found their foes in the colonists who perceived a threat to the status quo, if not their own jobs with the Corporation. Both sides were now engaged in shouting-matches in the aisles and across the pews, the fact that they were at a formal public hearing all but forgotten.

  Meanwhile, at the front of the room, Rebecca Hotchner had left her own seat and was now locked in an angry personal confrontation with Neil Schorr. Bigthorn couldn’t hear what they were saying, but from the amount of finger-pointing by both of the colony’s leaders, he could surmise the gist of the dispute. The other three selectmen had left the table and had taken sides with their supporters on the floor.

  Democracy in Clarke County looked as if it was about to degenerate into a barroom brawl. Bigthorn, still leaning against the wall, had never seen such bloody-minded bickering since the time the Lukachukai town council had been unable to agree on whether to conduct business in the Navajo tongue or in English. He was wondering if he was going to have to haul out his Taser to break things up, when he suddenly realized that the phone on his belt was buzzing.

  Irritated, he pulled the phone off his belt and held it to his ear. “Station Twelve,” he said. “Don’t worry, Wade, it only sounds like they’re going to …”

  John, get over to Town Hall quick! Hoffman’s voice was barely audible. There’s been a shooting, I … someone’s in … gunfire, man down in … Station Ten not responding, there’s …

  “On my way!” he snapped.

  He whirled around to dash for the door. One of the Ark farmers was coming the opposite way down the aisle. The two men collided and the phone was knocked out of Bigthorn’s hand; it hit the floor and skittered under a pew.

  Bigthorn started to grab for it. No time! Instead, he launched himself towards the door. Someone picked up the phone and tried to give it back to him, but he was already across the room, shoving people out of the way. Two women were arguing in front of the door; he elbowed one of them aside and knocked the other to the floor, then jumped over her to make it out the door. She was screaming at him when he leaped off the meeting hall’s front porch and hit the pavement running.

  Hoffman had just made it down from th
e bell tower; he was waiting uncertainly in the square, rifle ready in his hands. “Take the door and cover me!” Bigthorn yelled as he sprinted towards the town hall, tugging his Taser from his holster. “Call for backup!”

  They were halfway across the square when they heard full-auto gunfire from inside Town Hall.

  “Rollie, get down!”

  Sharon LeFevre grabbed her Crowdmaster rifle and threw herself into a crouch behind the front counter. Raising the rifle into firing position over the top of the counter, she aimed at the locked glass doors. “Cover the—!”

  A fusillade of bullets ripped through the doors, shattering the thick lunar glass as if a grenade had been thrown at it. The police station had not been designed to withstand an armed assault; the steel-jacketed bullets punched through the counter as if it were cardboard. Roland Binder, who had been sitting at his computer terminal, was only halfway out of his chair when he saw Sharon fall back from the counter; her body disappeared behind a desk.

  As he fumbled for his Taser, his hand fell against the pile of diskettes he had been reading. They tumbled off his desk and scattered across the floor as he stared down at LeFevre’s bloodsoaked uniform.

  “Sharon?” he whispered through numbed lips. He was frozen in place, stunned by the suddenness of the violence. Behind him, he heard Macy Westmoreland scream from the holding cell where she had been sleeping. Her voice sounded as if it were coming from the end of a long tunnel. Rollie’s eyes were fixed on the bullet-riddled corpse half-hidden behind the desk. “Sharon, I don’t … I don’t know how to do this, I …”

  There was a crunch as a foot stepped on broken glass beyond the counter. Binder looked up to see a man in a maintenance uniform, a submachine gun nestled in his hands, stepping through the door. The muzzle was pointed straight at him.

  “Please …” Binder began.

  The Skorpion in the Golem’s hands rattled again, and as Rollie Binder was hurled backwards by the impact of the bullets, Macy screamed again.