Clarke County, Space

by Allen Steele

  As he neared the crest of the hill, he smelled wood smoke, tasted on his palate the sharp tang of burning cedar. He paused, crouching in the underbrush, searching for the firelight. He could no longer see it for some reason … but then, as he carefully moved a few feet closer, the fire appeared again. Was it inside something?

  He moved very cautiously now, sliding his feet across the ground to avoid breaking any twigs, turning his body sideways to edge past low branches. He held the Ruger in both hands with his elbows angled, ready to swivel and fire at the slightest noise. The firelight grew closer, its orange glow casting dim rays through the smoke.…

  Then, unexpectedly, he found himself at the edge of a small clearing. In its center was a little house. Light seeped through the cracks in its bamboo walls; through its low door he could see the fire itself, burning in a pit in the middle of the floor. The fire snapped and crackled as he watched from the shadows. His view of the interior was limited, because three walls of the cabin’s six sides, the ones closest to the door, were angled against his line of sight.

  It was a trap. That much was obvious, but the Golem knew, because it was a trap his quarry must be somewhere close.

  From his crouch, holding his gun at the ready, the Golem cast his eyes around the edges of the clearing, glancing behind him, peering up into the branches of the trees. Nothing. Dead silence. Behind the cabin, then, perhaps … or inside.

  Looking at the hogan again, he saw something he had missed before. Inside, against one of the walls nearest to the door, a still, slender form opaqued the translucent light seeping through the bamboo. A man-shaped form, like someone waiting just within the door …

  The Golem lowered his gun, aimed carefully at one of the figure’s legs. First, a knee. Immobilize him, then do the rest of the job a little at a time. He didn’t even need to use his gun; he still had his knife strapped to the inside of his right calf. Why not enjoy it …?

  Allowing himself a smile, he squeezed the trigger.

  The shot, though muffled, was loud in the stillness; the Ruger jolted in his hands, and the figure behind the thin wall toppled forward. He heard an agonized cry from the hogan.

  The Golem leaped up from his crouch. He raced across the clearing, ducked, and launched himself through the low door into the hogan. He straightened, turned around, and aimed the Ruger down at …

  An empty pair of jeans and a uniform shirt, tied together at the waist and tails, draped over a cruciform of bamboo reeds that had been propped up on a fire extinguisher.

  At that instant, the door slammed shut behind him.

  The Golem whirled around, dropping to one knee, bringing up the gun to fire straight at the door. Bamboo splintered as the bullet punched through, and he twisted to his left, then his right, firing at the walls again and again. Behind him, a noise on the other side of the back walls …

  He twisted around and fired in that direction, hot shells pitching out of the gun’s chamber. Silence, then. He heard nothing.

  Anger overwhelmed him. Screaming in frustration, the Golem whipped around again, shooting at the sides and front of the hogan. He was out there, outside the hogan! Somewhere out there, he …

  The gun’s hammer clicked as it fell against the empty chamber. Suddenly, it registered on the Golem that he had emptied the Ruger. How could he have lost count of …?

  Then there was a bloodcurdling howl as something wild came through the ceiling.

  Bigthorn came through the chimney hole in the apex of the roof. His bare feet hit the packed-dirt floor just beyond the edge of the fire-pit; he landed with his knees bent, and he used the momentum to hurl himself at the Golem.

  The killer was unprepared for the attack. Clumsily he tried to swing his unloaded gun at the sheriff, but Bigthorn ducked and swatted it out of his hand as he slammed into the Golem. The gun hit the ground across the room as the two men crashed to the floor, locked in a savage embrace.

  Ostrow’s knee jerked upwards, aimed at Bigthorn’s groin. This time the sheriff was prepared; he twisted to the left. He avoided the blow, but it also freed the Golem from his grip. Ostrow rolled to the right; he was on his knees and about to stand, when Bigthorn flung himself again at his opponent.

  He rammed his right fist straight into the Golem’s sternum, following it with a blow to the solar plexus with his left fist. With a harruph! of pain, Ostrow doubled over, clutching his stomach as he fell backwards against the bamboo wall. Bigthorn was about to slug him on the chin, when he saw Ostrow’s hand dart to his right calf, snatching for something hidden under his trouser leg.…

  Bigthorn didn’t allow himself to think. Since the moment he had kicked the door shut and raced for the back of the hogan to climb up on the roof, the one thing he had held in his mind was Jenny’s face, the instant before the Golem’s bomb had gone off. He twisted sideways and kicked his right leg as hard as he could, aiming for Ostrow’s head.

  The sole of his foot connected solidly with the Golem’s skull; the killer was again slammed against the wall. The bamboo cracked, and before Ostrow could recover, Bigthorn grabbed his right wrist with both hands and twisted it around behind his back, using the leverage to force Ostrow to his knees. Then, without mercy, the sheriff raised his left leg, took aim, and kicked down at the back of Ostrow’s elbow with all of his might.

  There was a cruel, organic snap, like the breaking of a tree branch, as the Golem’s elbow shattered. Ostrow screamed. He thrashed in terror and in agony, and still Bigthorn gripped his wrist, twisting further until blood jetted from broken arteries and the white edge of broken bone split through the skin.

  The Golem’s face hit the dirt; screaming, his mouth chewed the sand. He struggled to rise, but Bigthorn planted his right knee on his back and pinned him face-down on the floor. Ostrow’s legs kicked uselessly; the sheriff heard something small drop to the floor of the hogan.

  He looked around and saw the switchblade which had been concealed in his trouser leg, laying on the floor.

  Still holding Ostrow’s broken arm behind his back with his right hand, Bigthorn used his left hand to pick up the knife. He moved his finger across the tiny button on the onyx handle and six inches of razor-sharp stainless steel clicked out of the handle, shining like evil in the firelight.

  Ostrow must have recognized the sound even if he could not see the knife. He fought like crazy, desperately trying to dislodge Bigthorn. The sheriff let go of his broken arm, reached down and wadded his fingers around a clump of Ostrow’s hair. Savagely he yanked the Golem’s head back as far as he could, exposing his throat.…

  Bigthorn remembered the time when he was eleven years old and the family had gathered at Grandfather’s house for dinner. There had been a young goat tied to a stake in the backyard; its fur was matted with mud and shit, but he had been allowed to pet the goat for a little while as Grandmother tended to the fire nearby. He had been thinking about asking his father if he could keep the goat, to make it a household pet, when Grandfather had walked over, kneeled down on the other side of the goat, and showed him the knife in his hands. The old man had said nothing to him, merely held out the pitted old bowie knife with the indelible bloodstains on its blade, and at once he understood.

  Relatives and friends were gathered around in a semicircle, impassively watching them. Grandfather nodded mutely towards the goat, his eyes questioning. He held the knife in his open palm: an invitation. At the same moment, the uncomprehending goat had looked at him with its square-shaped pupils: soft and devoted, like the eyes of a puppy who had found a new master. He looked from the goat to his grandfather; the old man gently shook his head, but still held out the knife. John knew that he loved the goat. He also knew that he was being tested.

  Are you a man? Grandfather wanted to know.

  Saying nothing, he had reached forth and taken the knife.…

  In the same way that he had stared down into the goat’s eyes, Bigthorn now gazed into Henry Ostrow’s eyes. He saw horror, and more: madness, and hate. But mos
t of all, there was fear. The pulse in Bigthorn’s ears pounded like the slow beat of kettledrums.

  “You haven’t got the nerve,” Ostrow managed to whisper through his dirt-caked lips. “You can’t do it.”

  Bigthorn said nothing. Words would have been meaningless.

  He sank the tip of the switchblade into the Golem’s neck and slowly began to pull the knife in a straight line across his jugular vein.

  It was just like killing the goat. Only a little easier.

  23

  Elvis EX Machina

  (Sunday: 10:42 P.M.)

  Imagine seven thousand eight hundred sixty-three men, women, and children holding a Chinese fire drill, and that was what the evacuation of Clarke County looked like to Wade Hoffman. If there was anything orderly about it, it was purely accidental.

  Hoffman sat alone in the deserted cop shop. Legs propped up on the console below the monitor screens, a bottle of tequila he had hidden in his desk now cradled in his hands, he watched as the colony slowly went to pieces before his very eyes.

  The computer screens displayed the red-lettered EVACUATION notice, under which emergency instructions were given. Every public terminal in the colony was showing the same screen. The surveillance monitors displayed scenes from various points around Clarke County; every few minutes he randomly tapped into another set of cameras, just to see what was going on elsewhere.

  “Great show,” he commented dryly. “Should do well in the ratings.”

  Wade was drunk as a monkey, and he didn’t give a righteous damn who knew it. But what was he supposed to do? Try to keep order? Christ, half the police force was dead, and it was Hoffman’s guess that the sheriff had bought the farm as well. So only three cops were left in the whole colony. Wade was no fool. He knew an exercise in futility when he saw one.

  Bellevedere and Cussler, at least, were still trying to do their jobs. They were at the lifeboat stations in Torus N-7, trying to maintain order. Hoffman could see them even now: two figures in blue uniforms, arms outstretched, uselessly attempting to keep the multitude of people around them from running, pushing, shouting, et cetera. Ignored by everyone, Lou was being helplessly swept backwards along the concourse between the lifeboat hatches, while Dale was trying to break up a fight between several people who were trying to get into the same lifeboat. Way to go, guys. You’re a credit to the department. Hey, maybe we can make it up to you with some overtime pay.…

  “Give it a rest, boys.” Wade took another pull from the bottle, hissed between his teeth, and tapped in another set of cameras. The screens changed, and he ran his eyes across the monitors.

  North Station: several hundred people were jammed together on the parapet, waiting for trams to return to take them to the lifeboat torus. They were remaining calm … or at least they were so far.

  The lobby of the LaGrange Hotel: now here was chaos. Tourists were packed together near the front desk, all trying to check out at once—what were they expecting, refunds?—struggling against each other, carrying suitcases and bags which they would inevitably have to ditch before boarding the lifeboats. A fistfight had broken out in the back of the crowd, probably for no sane reason. The harried hotel staff behind the front desk looked as if they were about ready to close down and run for it. Every sightseer for himself.

  Southeast quad, the livestock pens: a sad scene, this one. The animals were not going to make it out of here—no room for them on the lifeboats or any other spacecraft. A handful of New Ark members were trying to placate the animals, giving them food and water, tearfully petting them, saying goodbye. Maybe it would have been merciful just to slaughter the goats and pigs and chickens, but Hoffman couldn’t blame the farmers for not doing that.

  South Dock: every OTV ferry, tug, and construction pod that could be mustered was being readied for flight in the giant hangar. Dozens of spacesuited technicians were floating around the spacecraft, attaching or detaching fuel and power lines, anchoring airlock sleeves. As he watched, a launch cradle carrying a cylindrical OTV, containing probably a dozen colonists, was being extended towards an open hatch. Goodbye, farewell, bon voyage.

  The Strip: totally deserted. All the lights were on, the doors were all open, but not so much as a hooker was in sight. No ragtime band to play “Nearer, My God, To Thee.” Sorry, folks, but there will be no last call for drinks tonight.

  Exterior shot, from a camera mounted on the outer hull of the biosphere: the first of the lifeboats were being launched. Squat cylinders, each holding ten persons—twelve if two were children—were being jettisoned from the torus. As the pods moved away from Clarke County, their main engines automatically fired, thrusting them towards lunar orbit. The lifeboats had sufficient oxygen aboard to last for two days, as well as radio homing beacons. Unlike the Titanic, there were theoretically enough lifeboats to get everyone off and away. At least, as long as all the lifeboats were filled to capacity.

  Big Sky town center: just outside, Settler’s Square was deserted. The doors of the meeting hall were wide open. Hoffman looked closer at the statue of the beamjack, and laughed out loud. In the middle of all this, someone had not forgotten to put a pair of sunglasses on his face.…

  “There’s always a little bit of humor, even in a disaster area,” he dryly observed. He raised his bottle to the screen in a silent toast and was about to drink, when he glimpsed, in the screen’s foreground, a figure moving past the camera. A second later he heard the front door open and slam shut. Footsteps came slowly down the hall.

  Hoffman winced and started to hide the bottle under the console, then reconsidered. Who cared anyway? He was going to be one of the last persons to leave Clarke County, and he was damned if he was going to get aboard a lifeboat sober. In any case, it was probably that royal asshole, Neil Schorr, coming back to …

  John Bigthorn staggered through the shattered office door and sagged against the front counter. His hands were covered with blood; dazed, he peered across the room at his deputy as Hoffman jumped to his feet.

  “Wade?” he gasped. “What the hell is going on here?”

  “John, what’s … where have you been?” Suddenly feeling sober, knocking the tequila bottle over on the desk and not caring, Hoffman started to rush across the office. Then his eye caught one of the computer terminals; what he saw stopped him in midstep.

  The evacuation notice had vanished from the screen, replaced now by a single line of computer type:

  NEVER FEAR … BLIND BOY GRUNT IS HERE!

  The LaGrange Hotel was nearly empty now. For a while following the evacuation order, Simon McCoy had heard commotion in the hallway outside his room: his fellow tourists fleeing for their lives, coaxing their children to move faster, hauling their designer luggage, and screaming at the elevators to keep their doors open. Now all was quiet. Even the staff was gone; he had tried to call room service for another pot of coffee, but no one had answered the phone.

  McCoy had laid his wristwatch on the desktop next to the computer terminal, and for the past few minutes he had watched the numbers change. It was now almost 11 P.M. He stretched his arms behind his head. “Grunt?” he said. “Are you there?”

  The reply on the screen was immediate: AFFIRMATIVE, SIMON. I’VE NEVER LEFT.

  “Have you broken the password yet?” McCoy asked.

  NEGATIVE. ARE YOU READY TO TRY THE BACKUP PLAN NOW?

  The numbers on his watch flashed to 11:00. “Yes, I think it’s time,” he said. “Is Schmidt still upstairs?”

  YES, HE IS. HE’S ON-LINE.

  McCoy yawned, cupping his mouth with his hand. “Okay, you know the plan. Let it roll.” He pushed back his chair, stood up, and started for the bathroom. Then he paused and looked back at the screen. “Umm … let me know if it doesn’t work, okay?”

  YOU INFORMED ME THAT IT WOULD WORK AS PREDICTED.

  He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “Ah, well. That’s the funny thing about history. No one really knows what occurred in the past, do they?” McCoy headed for the
bathroom. “Just let me know what’s happened when I come back, all right?”

  There was nothing left to accomplish in the name of God except to die. All the same, Gustav Schmidt wasn’t going to wait for Icarus Five.

  There was no rope to be found; Schmidt didn’t know how to tie a noose anyway, so he had to improvise with long strips torn from his bedsheets. He was knotting them together, wondering if he should try hanging himself from the shower rod in the bathroom or to attempt tying one end to a doorknob and looping the other end over the door, when Elvis came to visit him one last time.

  Elvis’s voice came to him as electronic-fuzz from the terminal, a synthesized Southern drawl from the grave.

  Hi there, Brother Gus. What’s shakin’?

  Schmidt’s back was turned to the terminal when the divine miracle occurred. The ripped, gnarled length of bedsheet, damp from the sweat of his palms, went limp in his hands. He turned around slowly, not quite able to believe what he had just heard, and looked at his PC, which was open on his desktop, still activated and interfaced with the telephone.

  On the LCD screen, etched in tiny square pixels, the Living Elvis’s face grinned at him. I said, “Hi, Gus,” the image repeated easily. Don’t you have any manners, son?

  “Praise the Living Elvis,” Schmidt said slowly. His mouth felt numb.

  Elvis shook his head. No, you’ve got it wrong there. I’m no longer the Living Elvis. You were there at the end, weren’t you, Brother Gus?

  He had to force himself to speak. A thousand conflicting thoughts were battling with each other in his mind … and, in the end, he could only accept what he was seeing now. “No, Elvis,” he replied in shame, “I was not there at the end.” He motioned with the coiled bedsheet at the computer. “Here … I was here, performing the Holy Mission.…”