Sidney's Comet

by Brian Herbert

  Onesayer smiled lovingly, said, “I feel . . . closer to you than ever before.”

  “We are one,” Uncle Rosy said. “You will find a clean robe on the ledge behind my chair. The wearer commands my meckies.”

  Onesayer felt the blade quiver in his grasp, asked, “How do I stop aging?”

  “Look within yourself, Onesayer Edward. It is your second test.”

  “And the first . . . is killing you?”

  “That is correct.”

  “There will be other tests?”

  “Always, Onesayer. There will be no end to them.”

  Onesayer closed his eyes and lunged forward, plunging the knife deep into Uncle Rosy’s chest. Onesayer felt ribs cracking and flesh tearing away. He released his grip on the knife and pulled back in revulsion at what he had done.

  Uncle Rosy’s face was contorted in pain—holding both hands against his chest, he gasped: “Finish it!”

  Onesayer bit his upper lip hard, pulled the knife out. He held it with two hands now, samurai style, and plunged the blade again and again into Uncle Rosy’s face and torso. Uncle Rosy gurgled as he swallowed his own blood, gasped and slumped dead over the Zero Handle.

  “No!” Onesayer yelled, only half-conscious that he was speaking to a corpse. “Do not touch it!”

  The Zero Handle began to move down toward contact under Uncle Rosy’s enormous weight. Onesayer dropped the bloody knife and lunged for the handle. With both hands and all the power of his legs and back, he tried to stop the handle from proceeding farther. It slowed, but continued to drop. Releasing one hand from the Zero Handle, Onesayer tried to push the corpse away. But the weight was too great.

  “I can’t . . . hold . . . this . . . much longer!” he gasped, seeing the point drawing dangerously near. “Earth is going to blow!”

  In a desperation move, Onesayer released the handle entirely and knelt under the corpse’s shoulder. With blood dripping on him, Onesayer mustered all his remaining strength and pushed the corpse up and off the Zero Handle.

  THUD! Uncle Rosy’s lifeless form slumped to the floor.

  Then, afraid to breathe or make a move, Onesayer stared wide-eyed at the Zero Handle. It had stopped less than a centimeter above contact! He lifted the handle carefully, and this required all the strength he had left. Panting, he felt great gears in the mechanism move with painstaking slowness, like megalithic tumblers. Finally the Zero Handle was back in place, and he breathed a deep sigh.

  An unexpected test, Onesayer thought. And the Master’s body is not yet cold,

  He glanced at the Orbital Handle, then back to Uncle Rosy’s crumpled form, which lay in a pool of blood. Blood ran down the steps. First things first, he thought. I must get him into my robe.

  Onesayer removed Uncle Rosy ‘s torn and blood-soaked robe, tossed it into a disposa-tube next to the chair. Then he pulled a black jade ring off Uncle Rosy’s finger, replacing it with his own brown-and-black-striped onyx ring. Inside Uncle Rosy’s ring; Onesayer read the gold scroll inscription: “For my good friend, Willard . . . from Alafin Inaya.”

  Identical to the knife inscription, he thought. Onesayer tried the ring on several fingers, settled on the forefinger of his right hand.

  Wonder who Alafin Inaya was, he thought, pulling off his own robe. He stood in his shorts now, still wearing about his belly the second sash he had used to secure the knife to himself. The ends of the sash dangled against one leg. Onesayer stared down at Uncle Rosy’s body, then took a deep, agitated breath and set about performing the remaining distasteful task.

  With great effort, he dressed Uncle Rosy’s body in the brown sayerman’s robe. When the garment was on, Onesayer slashed the front of it to make it appear the victim had been killed while wearing it. He considered throwing the black pearl handled knife into the disposa-tube, but instead wiped the blade on the sayerman’s robe and slipped it into the sash about his waist.

  By this time, Onesayer was hot and breathing heavily. After wiping his hands on a clean portion of the sayerman’s robe worn by Uncle Rosy, Onesayer used both hands to wipe perspiration from his own forehead and eyebrows.

  It is done, he thought, not feeling particularly proud of himself. Now where is that Master’s clean robe?

  He rolled around behind the chair, located the ledge Uncle Rosy had spoken of before he died. He selected one of three neatly stacked white robes, slipped it on.

  Onesayer smoothed a wrinkle out of the robe and sat in the great chair. Continuing to perspire, he settled down into the chair’s leather cushioning. Presently he began to cool down and to feel better. A sense of supreme satisfaction came over him.

  I am Master! he thought, suddenly exhilarated. Lord of all. . . .

  He recalled the terrible peril of the comet now, stared down to his right at the middle chrome handle. All things can be controlled, he thought. Even this.

  Onesayer pressed the handle all the way forward and down to its contact point, read a chart next to the handle and mentoed: Orbital coordinates, B-six-seven-seven, normal . . . planetary speed one-point-one-two-five . . . rotation one-point-oh-oh, normal.

  Sitting back in the chair, he thought, No one will feel that extra bit of speed. Just enough to get Earth out of the comet’ s path.

  Onesayer mentoed for a meckie, recalling that the wearer of the Master’s robe commanded Uncle Rosy’s mechanical servants. Shortly, a black tuxedo meckie appeared at the base of the steps. Six tiny white lights down the front of its body blinked as it awaited instructions.

  “Yes, Master?” the meckie queried.

  It calls me Master! Onesayer thought. Speaking in the resonant voice of Uncle Rosy, Onesayer said, “Onesayer Edward tried to assassinate me. I killed him instead. Send the body to Astro Disposal and have it launched in an unmarked cylinder.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Tell no one of this disgraceful act.”

  The meckie wrapped the body in plastic and dragged it down the ramp and out of the chamber. Moments later, it returned to clean the blood that had spilled.

  At the moment of Uncle Rosy’s death, Sidney was seated in Admitting Room Two at an autopill dispensing application machine. An admitting clerk stood nearby, watching intently.

  A woman approaching forty, the admitting clerk had frost blue hair and a matching, icicle-cool personality. Sidney glanced out of the corner of one eye at the scowling woman, then quickly looked back into the mechanical face of the application machine.

  “Take two more capsules, dosage AA-nine,” the machine instructed, pushing forth a tiny tray containing two yellow pills and a water tablet.

  Sidney obeyed, felt a cool surge of water as the water tablet opened and expanded inside his stomach. Now Sidney felt the machine probing his thoughts again, heard it report in a hesitating, impersonal voice: “Con-reading* ninety-four-point three.”

  “May Hoover take you,” the admitting clerk cursed. “Wait here,” she instructed tersely. Then she spun and rolled through a double swinging door to the outer hallway. Fully conscious, Sidney watched her leave.

  Moments later, Sidney heard low, anxious voices outside the door. He smiled to himself, pleased that he had been able to resist all attempts thus far to break down his will. Sidney closed his eyes, tried to connect with the voices in his brain. You must help me find Tom, he thought. Please. . . . Getting no response, he thought: They come and go as they please.

  “He’ll fill out that blasted app!” a woman’s voice boomed.

  Sidney opened his eyes as the doors squeaked open, saw a black woman in a yellow tweed suit. The woman rolled toward him at a fast pace with an angry expression on her face.

  The admitting room clerk was close behind. “Wait, Mayor Ogg,” she urged. “Maybe we should try something else.”

  “I’ll try something else,” Mayor Nancy Ogg snapped, grabbing Sidney forcefully by the collar. Sidney felt sharp surges of pain as she backhanded him across the face four times.

  “Wait, Mayor Ogg,” the admitt
ing clerk pleaded. I’m not sure we should—”

  “Silence!” the Mayor rasped.

  Sidney tried to grab Mayor Nancy Ogg’s hand before she could strike again, but she was too strong for him. “You’ll fill out the app, won’t you, you weakling little creep,” she demanded, slapping Sidney hard across both cheeks.

  Sidney pulled his head back, tried to protect his stinging face with his hands. A crushing blow struck him on the temple, knocking him out of the chair and tearing his smock where the Mayor had been grasping it. As Sidney tumbled to the floor, he saw a hazy impression of the Mayor’s and clerk’s feet.

  *Consciousness reading.

  “Uhhh,” Sidney groaned, half-conscious. He saw Mayor Nancy Ogg’s foot lash out at him, but could not move out of the way. An excruciating pain cut through his rib cage. “Aaaagh. . . . ”

  “I’m rather enjoying this,” a tenor voice in Sidney’s brain said.

  “Malloy doesn’t seem like such a clown anymore,” the other, deeper voice said. “Maybe we should give him half a chance. . . . ”

  Grimacing in pain, Sidney heard the voices argue heatedly. Then Sidney thought-said: Help me out of here! We’re running out of time! But there was no response. He felt himself slipping off, into deep sleep.

  “I think he’s unconscious,” a distant woman’s voice said. It was the admitting clerk.

  “Get a con-reading! Quickly!” a man yelled.

  Sidney envisioned himself as the hero of a military-political movement, leading the twisted and pitiful slushpile of human garbage that Earth did not want. He controlled an immense army of cappies which threatened to attack Earth. The people of Earth begged for mercy, sent two emissaries from the Council of Ten to see Sidney.

  “I hate the way he plays hero” the tenor voice said.

  “It is a bit irritating” agreed the other. “Still, I’ve grown rather attached to him.”

  Sidney heard the voices argue again inside his skull, but they faded quickly. Come back! Sidney thought, finitely. Come back!

  “Over a hundred! He buried the needle!”

  “What the Hooverville? No one could have a con-reading that high! Check the equipment!”

  Hearing these words in an awakening haze, Sidney knew they were not the voices he wanted to hear. Suddenly his awareness surged, and he almost felt able to stand up and moto-shoe around the admitting room. But the surge was short-lived, and soon he felt himself sinking once more. The evil thought-probing machine was at it again now, trying to tear away his innermost secrets.

  “Don’t give in, fleshcarrier!” the deeper voice in his brain said. “This is making you stronger!”

  Sidney experienced another vision, imagined he was being given a private audience with Uncle Rosy. In a darkened chamber, Uncle Rosy sat upon a great chair, looking down at him with kindly, concerned eyes. . . .

  “You are the only one who can do it,” Uncle Rosy said in the vision. “A holy mission lies ahead!”

  “I’ll do it!” Sidney said in the vision. “Thank you, Master! Thank you! . . .”

  “There he goes again,” the tenor voice said, irritably. “The Chosen One, the hero. Why, this fleshcarrier doesn’t even understand his own motivations!”

  “Give him a break,” the deeper voice said. “He’s only a fleshcarrier. You’re using OUR standards.”

  “True,” the tenor voice said. “But when will he realize he wants these things for himself, not for the good of others?”

  “In time,” the other voice said. “In time. . . . ”

  Sidney heard the voices fade, saw himself as President of a bright AmFed nation, populated by contented, consumptive citizens. He felt the joys of Freeness, Job-Sharing and Leisure Time. It was a brilliant society, showered with all the wonders of advanced technology.

  “He has a nasty looking gash,” a far off voice said. “We’d better get him into Emergency.”

  “But he hasn’t been admitted to Bu-Prog yet! How can he be treated?”

  “The equipment checks out.”

  “Put him on an autocart,” Mayor Nancy Ogg instructed angrily, “and get him out of my sight!”

  Sidney felt strong arms lifting him from the floor, heard a cacophony of voices. He struggled to open his eyelids, but they seemed weighted.

  The cart was rolling now, and someone said, “What’s the difference, anyway? He’s only a cappy.”

  Managing to lift one eyelid, Sidney squinted angrily in the glare of bright hall lights. He tried to sit up, wanting to tell that person that cappies would get even someday. But a terrible pain in his ribcage kept him from rising. His head throbbed, and he cried out in agony before falling back on the cart.

  “The client is awake,” a woman said, her tone condescending.

  “Who cares? By all rights, Mayor Ogg should have killed him.”

  I’ll get them! Sidney thought. He felt something warm and wet on the side of his head, touched a throbbing temple with one hand. Then he looked at the hand. It was bloody! He felt weak, closed his eyes.

  “Put him in detention,” one of the enemies said. “We’ll hold him until he fills out the app. No medical treatment until he cooperates!”

  “Each cappy supports seven-point-three-two-five government workers,” another said, “and this doomie creep won’t fill out the form!”

  “It’s positively un-AmFed!”

  “I have a better idea,” a female voice said. “A call just came in from Hub Assembly. They need a disposable cappy for an in-flight job.”

  “What’s the job?”

  “Who knows, but I hear they’ve been having problems keeping their cappies in line. Now they need a replacement.”

  “Sounds like a good chance to eliminate our little problem. I’ll check with the Mayor.”

  Disposable? Sidney thought, his head throbbing. What do they mean disposable?

  It was a busy morning.

  Mayor Nancy Ogg moto-shoed wearily down the wide central area of Mass Driver One, craning her neck to watch green-and-yellow-smocked client workcrews on scaffolds. To Mayor Ogg, the clients looked like bees in a honeycomb, working two to a scaffold filling individual compartments of the massive E-Cell with Argonium gas and then setting exterior valves. Voices echoed around the walls, as did the metal-on-metal ring of tools.

  Odd, isn’t it? Mayor Nancy Ogg thought, that most of an E-Cell has to be constructed by hand. . . .

  She paused to watch a Bu-Tech foreman go over a set of computer-printed plans with two yellow-smocked client workmen. “Be sure to set the gas diffraction valve on each cell,” she heard the foreman say.

  Then the Mayor recognized one client as Sidney Malloy and thought angrily: That weakling cappy! Now I’ll get rid of him once and for all!

  The foreman smiled when he noticed the Mayor, said to her in a derisive tone, “Replacements.” He flicked a sidelong glance at Sidney and the other client. Sidney heard contempt in the foreman’s tone.

  “It’s looking good, foreman,” Mayor Nancy Ogg said, glancing hostilely at Sidney. She resumed moto-shoeing, thought, Jesus! I hate these stinkin’ cappies! I hate everything about this place!

  Her thoughts were interrupted when a yellow-smocked girl rolled frantically toward the Mayor from a forward area. “We’re not coming back!” the girl screamed. “They’re going to eject us in space when the E-Cell is finished!”

  Disposable, Sidney thought, recalling the words he had heard while lying on the autocart. So that’s what they meant. . . . He glanced around nervously, saw the foreman glaring at him.

  “Pay attention!” the foreman snapped.

  “Yes, sir,” Sidney said.

  Mayor Nancy Ogg short-stepped to one side as the girl rolled past, watched a Security Brigade officer capture the girl a short distance away and wrestle her to the ground.

  “Another loony,” the security officer gruffed, looking up at the Mayor as he knelt and handcuffed the girl.

  Mayor Nancy Ogg nodded, said tersely: “Find out where the r
umor started.”

  “Yes, Honorable Mayor,” the officer said. “I know how to handle it.”

  Turning at the whir of fast-approaching moto-boots, the Mayor watched Sergeant Rountree roll to a crisp stop as he reached her. He snapped a rotating wrist salute, stood at attention.

  “The ex-pursuit craft pilots are our best bet,” Sergeant Rountree said. “That’s not saying much, but with drag therapy we can alter their doomie mentalities.”

  “The killer meckie will keep them in line, too,” she said.

  As Mayor Nancy Ogg said this, Sidney and the other replacement were being led past her to a forward area of the mass driver. Killer meckie? Sidney thought, overhearing the remark. What the hell are they talking about?

  “There are refresher tapes on mass driver mechanics aboard the Shamrock Five,” Sergeant Rountree said, out of Sidney’s hearing range. “They are rather technical, and we can only hope the pilots will understand them. . . . ”

  “Have them start on the tapes now,” Mayor Nancy Ogg said, pursing her lips thoughtfully. “But we’ll wait until the last minute before committing ourselves.”

  “Right. I saw the letter from interim Minister Larsen. The Shamrock Five can leave as late as six o’clock tonight.”

  “It’s ex-interim Minister Larsen now. My dear brother the President led a council recall move this morning. It just came in on my porta-receiver. Something about Larsen advocating anti-job measures.”

  “He was too pro-computer,” Sergeant Rountree said.

  “Now that Munoz and Hudson are out of the picture, my brother can run the operation as he pleases.” She bit at her upper lip, tried not to display emotion at the thought of Dr. Hudson. She glanced at the Sergeant’s broad shoulders. Her gaze dropped, moving down along the center of his chest to his silver and black belt.

  “I’m sure that’s true, Honorable Mayor.” Rountree caught her gaze, snapped his eyes back to attention. A little smile touched his mouth.