Clarke County, Space

by Allen Steele

  “Officer Hoffman, what happened here?” Schorr demanded again. His right hand waved to take in the room. “How did this …?”

  “Take it easy, Neil.” Witherspoon stepped forward to head Schorr off. “He doesn’t know either, he’s just as much in the dark as …”

  With uncharacteristic violence, Schorr impatiently shoved the doctor aside. “You know what’s going on!” he shouted into Hoffman’s face. “Four people are dead, including three of your officers. Now, where the hell is Bigthorn?”

  Hoffman raised his eyes from the floor. “I don’t know,” he said slowly, “so fuck off, you little twerp.”

  “Holy smokes,” Morse murmured from behind them. They turned to see him standing over the Skorpion lying on the floor; it had gone unnoticed in the confusion. He looked up at the three men, fear and bewilderment evident in his face. “What kind of a maniac got in here?” he asked no one in particular.

  “The Golem,” replied a hollow voice.

  Their heads turned toward the holding cell. Macy Westmoreland, still squatting next to the bed, was staring at them with dark-rimmed eyes. The paramedic was holding the syringe-gun at the ready over her forearm; he looked irritably at Witherspoon, but the physician quickly shook his head and the paramedic pulled away.

  “Excuse me, miss?” Witherspoon asked gently. “What did you say?”

  “He asked what kind of maniac got in here,” Macy replied in a detached tone, as if speaking from a great distance “and I’m telling him. The Golem.”

  “Who are you?” Schorr snapped, walking towards her. Witherspoon grabbed his arms from behind; this time he refused to let go, restraining Schorr from getting any closer. “Who’s the Golem? Where’s the sheriff?”

  The phones on Bob Morse’s and Wade Hoffman’s belts chirped simultaneously. Hoffman didn’t seem to hear, but Morse snatched up his phone and held it to his face. “I told you who the Golem is,” Macy said steadily, ignoring the phones, looking straight at Schorr now. “He’s gone after the sheriff. So fuck off, you little twerp.”

  Under any other circumstance, the reiterated insult would have been funny. Neither Schorr nor Witherspoon laughed now. “Ma’am, we need to know,” Witherspoon asked, as if trying to pry loose a secret from a small child. “Who is the Golem?”

  Macy’s mouth trembled. Tears began to run down her cheeks as she hugged herself tightly, but she didn’t look away. “The most terrible thing you could ever imagine,” she replied almost inaudibly.

  “No,” Bob Morse said, “he’s not.”

  Again, the three men looked toward the selectman. He was holding the phone in his hand; his expression seemed to match Macy’s. “Things have just gotten worse,” he said.

  “The Golem?” Witherspoon asked.

  “No.” Morse took a deep breath which seemed to rattle in his throat. “Icarus Five.”

  A graphic projection of Icarus Five’s trajectory was spread across a wall-screen in Main-Ops. Standing in the back of the vast room at the shift supervisor’s desk, Rebecca Hotchner found herself transfixed by the display, although her eyes should have been on the camera lens in front of her, which was transmitting her image back to Earth. Had not Dallas Chapman said something, she probably would have ignored the lens entirely.

  Just as the round white spot representing Icarus Five moved forward another inch on the screen, the board chairman of the Clarke County Corporation cleared his throat. Rebecca, is there something else that requires your attention? he asked with stern politeness.

  “No, there’s not,” Hotchner said, pulling her eyes away from the wall-screen to look at the small monitor in front of her. Maybe she thought this was the way a jackrabbit feels, when it’s standing in the middle of the road at night, hypnotized by the headlights of an onrushing car.… She shook it off, forced herself to pay attention. “I’m sorry, Rock. What were you saying?”

  “Rock” Chapman, the former NASA astronaut who had left the agency to become a prime mover in the space industry, stared at her from the screen, with the cool appraisal of a pilot assessing an in-flight emergency. He was wearing a polo shirt and shorts—Chapman had been contacted at his weekend retreat on Sanibel Island in Florida—but he could just as well have been wearing a NASA jumpsuit again.

  I said, I’ve got the numbers here in front of me, he repeated, motioning below the range of the camera to the portable computer that rarely left his side, but I need a quick synopsis of the situation. How does it look from where you stand? Has anyone up there managed to gain control of the bomb?

  She shook her head. “No. This isn’t an engine misfire, Rock. Someone managed to contact Icarus Five and plant deliberate, explicit instructions in its guidance computer. Whoever it was, they were smart enough not only to include a password, but also to tell the nuke to lock out any attempts to interfere with the computer. So although we’re hailing Five on the correct frequency … that’s two-two-eight-two-point-five megahertz … the bomb isn’t listening to us. Period.”

  As she spoke, Hotchner glanced away from the camera again. Most of the activity in Main-Ops was concentrated at the communications carrel, where nearly a dozen controllers were clustered around two work stations, still trying to penetrate the defenses that had sprung up around Icarus’s telemetry systems. “They’ve received the old command codes from NASA and are trying to find a back door through the system,” she continued, “but it’s become obvious that whoever reprogrammed the nuke’s computer was using the same codes. All the former deactivation and safe-arm toggles had been disengaged. Unless they can find another way to beat the system at its own game …”

  Okay, I get the idea. Chapman’s thin lips tightened as he paused to consult his own computer. Well, we should have plenty of time, shouldn’t we? There’s still approximately one hundred sixty thousand miles between it and Clarke County. Don’t we have even a couple of days in which to do something? Maybe an intercept mission from …

  “We don’t have a couple of days. If this was a normal spacecraft, we would have the luxury of time. But Icarus Five isn’t a normal spacecraft.”

  Chapman’s eyebrows rose. But the distance …

  “Distance isn’t the key factor here, Rock,” Rebecca insisted, her voice rising. “It’s velocity. Icarus Five isn’t coasting like a normal spacecraft, with only occasional RCR firings to correct course. It doesn’t need to conserve fuel for a return mission, and since it was intended to serve as the standby in case the first four Icarus interceptors didn’t deflect the asteroid, Five was designed to reach Icarus as quickly as possible. So every two hours its main engine fires again, Five accelerates a little more, and as the delta-V changes …”

  I understand, Chapman interrupted. What are your people projecting as the time of rendezvous and detonation?

  Hotchner swallowed a hard lump in her throat. “It’s not certain, but the conservative estimate is 0800 hours tomorrow, local time,” she said. “That’s less than eleven hours from now.”

  She hesitated. “It could be more than that, or less, depending on the delta-V profile, but that’s the conservative estimate. It won’t be much off the mark.”

  God damn, Chapman murmured.

  “As for your second question …” She took a deep breath to steady her nerves. “A rendezvous mission is feasible, but my people have informed me that intercepting Five is going to be difficult because of its velocity changes. Even though we know its trajectory, its delta-V … the rate at which it changes velocity … is uncertain.”

  So launching a disarming team is possible, but actually managing to rendezvous with Five is going to be tricky at best. Chapman’s frown deepened, the creases around his mouth becoming more defined. I can appreciate the problem from my flying days. The orbital mechanics are going to be a bitch to figure out. He thought it over for a moment. Has anyone thought about moving the colony itself? Maybe getting it out of range before …?

  “They’ve already considered that option,” she replied. “The problem is that Clar
ke County’s maneuvering rockets aren’t designed for drastic orbital changes. We’re not like a spaceship, either. Besides, when—if that thing blows, the Shockwave is going to be felt over thousands of kilometers. Even if we’re a thousand miles away, the blast will tear us apart. Even a near miss …”

  She stopped. Her legs were beginning to ache, and she sank into a chair behind the desk; the camera tilted to follow her. “Anyway, we’re working on an intercept mission as our prime alternative. We can use one of the OTV ferries that take our people out to the free-flyer factories, and we’re recruiting from the construction crew for the job itself. NASA has sent up the specs on Five, so if the team …”

  She caught herself, and said, “When the team reaches Five, it should have no problem opening the payload hatch and defusing the bomb.”

  Hotchner sighed and rubbed her temples with her fingertips. She felt a nasty headache coming on. It had been a long, hard night. “I don’t get it, Rock,” she said, gazing down at the desktop. “Why didn’t someone defuse Five earlier, after Icarus was deflected and it was left in parking orbit? Somebody could have removed the detonator, at least, and we wouldn’t …”

  Her voice trailed off as the answer to her own question occurred to her. As she raised her eyes to the screen, she saw Chapman nodding his head.

  But we wouldn’t have a nuke in orbit, would we, Becky? the executive finished. Our friends in the Pentagon have always wanted to find a way around the U.N. Space Treaty, and so they got one. A little one hundred megaton wild card, just in case those Russians went back to their nasty old ways.

  Hotchner blinked. “But you knew,” she breathed. “You knew about it, and you didn’t do anything to stop them.”

  Chapman shook his head briskly. Nobody likes a whistle-blower, dear. I’m sorry. It would have been bad for business.

  So is a nuke heading straight for your prime investment, Hotchner thought. “We can discuss that later,” she said aloud, unable to keep the recrimination out of her voice. “The point is, the intercept mission might not make it in time. We should talk about evacuation.”

  Chapman had his eyes shut. He didn’t respond. “Rock?” she urged. “Did you hear me? We should consider …”

  I heard you. Chapman opened his eyes. Do it, he said firmly. You’re authorized to evacuate Clarke County. Get everybody off that you can, as fast as you can. Launch the lifeboats and use every vessel you can spare, and start on it ASAP. We’ll arrange for pickup flights to be launched from Descartes Station and Earth, and we’ll get something worked out with the Soviets.

  Hotchner nodded. She felt relieved and frightened at the same time. “Got it, Rock. We’ll start at once.”

  You’re in charge, Becky. You’ve got my full authority to do whatever it takes. He hesitated, then added, God be with you.

  “Thanks,” she said. “We’ll be in touch.” Chapman was gazing silently at the camera when she ended the transmission and sank back in the chair.

  Hotchner took another deep breath and closed her eyes, letting her mind go blank for a few seconds, knowing it was going to be the last moment of rest she was going to get for many more hours to come. Then she stood up and clapped her hands loudly.

  “May I have your attention please …?” she called out, as heads began to turn in her direction. “We have some new instructions.…”

  22

  Bigthorn’s Last Stand

  (Sunday: 9:35 P.M.)

  The night was a dark sanctuary, the forest a deserted cathedral, yet he knew he could not hide there for very much longer. John Bigthorn lay painfully against the trunk of a small elm tree on Rindge Hill and waited to die.

  He had not yet surrendered his will to live. Once he caught his breath, he promised himself, he would get up and keep running. Perhaps he could still make it to South Station. Once there, anything was possible: one of the trams could take him to some place in South Torus where he could hide. The jig wasn’t up yet. As long as he could even crawl on bloody hands and knees, he was committed to staying alive.

  At the same time, though, he knew that he was soon going to die. Somewhere out there in the farmlands—among the rows of corn, or even closer, just farther down the hillside—the Golem was stalking him. Bigthorn’s nuts still throbbed from the hellacious kick the assassin had delivered to his groin, and he was exhausted, out of breath from his run out of Big Sky. Henry Ostrow was unhurt, probably not even winded. Moreover, the sheriff was completely unarmed, while the Golem still had at least one of his guns. The odds against him were ridiculous.

  Bigthorn’s hogan was just a short distance away, farther up the hill, but there was nothing in there he could use as a weapon. There was no question that Ostrow was still after him, or that he knew Bigthorn was somewhere out here in the Southwest quad. The sheriff’s escape from Big Sky had been narrow; only his familiarity with the town’s layout had given him any edge. If it were anyone else chasing him, the sheriff wouldn’t have been worried.

  But the Golem was too skilled a manhunter to lose him, Bigthorn had already spotted him once, running across Heinlein Bridge over the river just a couple of minutes after the sheriff had jumped off Western Avenue and attempted to escape into the farm fields. The Golem was well behind him now, but like a mountain lion following the scent of a wounded bighorn sheep, the killer was patiently tracking him down. Since he had been resting here, catching his breath in shallow gasps and feeling the warm sheen of perspiration on his face grow cold in the night air, Bigthorn had heard the distant, random sounds of something moving in the fields: the brittle snap of a boot heel stepping on a corn husk, the dull slosh of feet moving through an irrigation ditch. The Golem didn’t need to be overly careful, after all. His prey was wounded and relatively defenseless.…

  And cornered, too, Bigthorn realized dismally, staring down the hillside at the lights of the town. Goddammit, he thought, I don’t dare leave this area even if I could. There’s at least four dead people back there, all shot just because they got in Ostrow’s way. He’ll waste bystanders if they get between us, or even use them against me. He’s that kind of crazy. I’ve got to keep this where it’ll be just between me and him.…

  “Between me and him,” he repeated under his breath. “You’re going to die, aren’t you, pal?”

  Yeah, a voice whispered from nearby, I would say that you’re screwed.

  Bigthorn looked around. In the underbrush, a small dim form lurked. A pair of yellow eyes peered at him from the gloom. A hallucination, he thought. Sure. I can live with that.

  “G’way, Coyote,” he hissed. “I don’t need your shit right now.”

  That’s right, you don’t need me to help you die, Coyote’s voice chided inside his skull. All you need to do is roll over, let some crazy Anglo blow you away. You don’t want me? I’ll go away. I’ll come back later and piss on your grave.

  “Then tell me what I’m supposed to do, you flea-bitten excuse for a god,” Bigthorn muttered. He let his head fall against the smooth bark of the tree. “I don’t have a gun and he does.”

  Is that any way to talk to a god? Coyote needled. Let me give you a little advice, you shit-for-brains excuse for a man. You depend on gods too much. You expect us to do all the hard work for you. So you say you want to live? Save yourself. You don’t need my help.…

  “Yeah, well, how am I supposed to do that?” Bigthorn whispered. “I don’t have a gun.”

  The yellow eyes grew more intense. You’re thinking like a white man again. They need things that go boom and shoot pieces of metal at people because they’re too soft to kill with their bare hands. You’re one of the Dineh. You’re a red man. Do it the red man’s way.

  Bigthorn gazed into the unblinking golden eyes. “My bare hands?” he asked softly. “But how am I to …?”

  Your house, Coyote replied. Your house is a weapon. Do I have to tell you everything?

  Again, there was a rustle from the bottom of the hill as something moved through the cornstalks, not so far away now.
Bigthorn glanced in that direction, then looked back at the brush. The shadowy form with the glowing eyes was gone. Jeez, he thought. I used to have to eat peyote to get conversations like that.

  Your house is a weapon.…

  My hogan, he realized. Coyote was talking about the hogan. But how can that be a …?

  Inspiration hit him even as he was clambering to his feet. Yes, there was a way. Ignoring his pain, Bigthorn began to move quickly farther up the hill, padding silently through the woods. Stay back there for a few more minutes, Golem, he prayed as he worked his way across Rindge Hill. Give me just a little time, and I’ll show you how a Navajo deals with dung like you.…

  A coyote howl broke the silence of the hillside.

  The Golem jerked around as the eerie sound drifted through the boughs, ducking into a low squat behind the trunk of a tree as he brought his gun up in a two-handed firing position. He kept absolutely motionless, staring up the hill in the direction of the howl, and listened intently. After a few moments, he heard its distant echo from the far side of the biosphere, but his ears picked up nothing else from above him.

  He heard nothing … but he saw something through the trees. He peered at it: a flickering, intermittent yellow light from somewhere near the crest of the hill.

  The Golem immediately headed for it, gliding as soundlessly as he could up the wooded slope as he focused on the light with an intensity brought on by rage and frustration. His quarry was somewhere out here, but his exact position was unknown; that sense of being denied his target fueled the killer’s rage. Whatever the source of the light was, he instinctively knew that it would bring him to Bigthorn.

  Everything else was forgotten: Macy Westmoreland, the diskettes he was supposed to either recover or destroy, the civilian and the police officers he had slaughtered in Big Sky, even his own survival. All he wanted to do was to murder the sheriff. It was a personal vendetta. Perhaps Henry Ostrow would not have allowed himself to be absorbed by such an unprofessional obsession, but Ostrow no longer existed. He was a name, an abstraction of the past, nothing more or less. There was only the Golem, and the Golem would not rest until he had killed Bigthorn. Even the reasons were forgotten; they no longer mattered.