"What do I have to feel bad about?” growled Gibbs to the empty room. “I'm no different than most people on this miserable planet. Just a guy trying to make ends meet.” With that, he stood and returned to his dinner that was growing cold.
After finishing dinner, Gibbs gathered the old plates from the table and placed them in the recycler. Mindlessly, he puttered around the apartment, cleaning. Were one to ask him what he was doing or why, he wouldn't have been able to answer. He simply felt compelled to put his life in some order.
A while later, Gibbs dropped onto his cot, exhausted. The teleholo continued to play news updates about the Cluster. In the meantime, he dreamed he was married to Louise Sinclair. Their grown son, Jeremy Williams—no Jeremy Sinclair-Gibbs—was home for a visit. They sat down to a dinner that looked more like it was from the 20th century than the 30th. A turkey steamed in the middle of table, surrounded by bowls full of potatoes, green beans and cranberry sauce. Gibbs’ subconscious had pulled the image of the meal from stories of the first Thanksgiving when colonists had come from England to the United States. Certainly, Gibbs had never experienced food set out as he saw in the dream.
Someone banged at the door. Gibbs excused himself from the table and answered. His jaw dropped open when he saw his mother. She pointed an accusatory finger at her son. Charlotte Gibbs’ skin began to dry and decay on her skeleton. Her jaw, no longer attached by muscle, fell open in a silent scream.
"Mom,” called Gibbs. “You're still alive?"
A voice croaked from the recesses of the open mouth. “No. I died ten years ago.” The mummified vision of Timothy Gibbs’ mother moved past her son and turned. “I've come to ask why you never tried to contact me. Why didn't you try to find me? Didn't you love your mother?"
Gibbs gasped for air. “Of course I loved you, Mom. The government took you to a retirement home. They didn't tell me where."
"Why didn't you ask?"
"It wouldn't have done any good. You owed too many taxes. I couldn't help. I wanted to, but there was nothing I could do.” Gibbs hugged himself, trying to keep his emotions at bay, trying to keep from being overwhelmed.
"You could have fought the government,” said Gibbs’ mother. As she spoke, Charlotte Gibbs desiccated further, becoming little more than a skeleton.
"No one can fight the government. I would have been destroyed!” Gibbs chewed on his finger.
"Your body might have been destroyed, but you would have proven that you had a soul. You would have proven your worth as a human being. You would have proven you cared about something besides yourself."
Timothy Gibbs woke in a cold sweat, clutching his sheet to himself. He stood and rushed over to the table with the hologram of his mother, picked it up and hurled it to the floor, smashing its micro-circuitry. The image of his mother was gone forever. “Leave me alone!” he shouted to the smashed holographic display. “I'm only a guy doing his best to make it in this world! Leave me alone!"
[Back to Table of Contents]
DOOMSDAY
The next morning, Nicholas Sanson arrived at Alpha Coma Bereneces. Repairs to the Sanson proceeded immediately under the supervision of Chief Engineer Mahuk. The space-suited repair crews swarmed about the ship like gnats around a light post. Many of the people on the repair crew shook their heads at what they perceived to be an amateurish job of rerouting the conduits. Many commented that it was a miracle that the ship had not simply vaporized upon leaping into the fourth dimension of space-time as it returned from the globular cluster. It would take nearly two weeks for the crews to return Sanson to her former grandeur.
The Nicholas Sanson was an elegant and beautiful ship. Most star ships in the 30th century were simple and functional black cylinders with engines glowing blue at the stern. Those ships were like arrows in the night, designed to shoot through the fourth dimension as quickly and efficiently as possible. The Sanson, on the other hand, was designed to map the fourth dimension, feeling its way along, charting the subtleties of gravity's ever-changing pathways, ultimately allowing all other ships to thrust their way through the void. Like the other ships, she was built of black Erdonium: the only material known that could withstand the ravages of the fourth dimension. She was also generally cylindrical, but she bulged in places Navy ships did not and attached to her hull were eight fan-like sensor arrays that swept back toward the vessel's stern—almost like sails. They pivoted subtly, sensing the gravitational interactions of many stars. Each of those arrays controlled a seemingly petite engine. The glow from each engine surrounded the ship like a halo.
Captain John Mark Ellis, weary from his encounter with the Cluster, trudged through the decks of the Sanson. He found his way to the command deck and entered Kirsten Smart's office at the rear. With some work, he persuaded Kirsten Smart not to press charges against G'Liat. “Under one condition,” said Smart. “Tell him to go to Rd'dyggia immediately. I never want to see his face again."
Ellis proposed the terms to G'Liat. “I will go to Rd'dyggia soon, then,” said G'Liat. “The planet is in grave danger if what you told me of your vision is correct.” The warrior paused for a moment, thoughtful. “But what will you do if our paths cross again?"
Ellis bit his lower lip and considered his answer. “I think that depends on what the Cluster does,” he said. With that, he turned and left the cabin.
G'Liat activated the computer interface and pulled up a list of companies that chartered spacecraft. Admittedly, he could simply take a commercial flight back to Rd'dyggia, but he wanted solitude and quiet so he could decide his next move. He limited his search to those companies with Rd'dyggian names. The warrior was growing tired of the charade of acting like a human. He wanted to be among his own kind for a time.
He called the first company on his list and was pleased when a Rd'dyggian answered. “Money I have,” said G'Liat bluntly in his native language. “Ships you have. I will return to Rd'dyggia. I require retrieval from a human ship in orbit, the Nicholas Sanson."
The Rd'dyggian on the other end bowed. “Understood, my Lord G'Liat. A ship will be dispatched immediately. Be ready.” The Rd'dyggian terminated the call.
G'Liat stood, knocked the burning end from the incense, packed his few belongings in a small, metal traveling case, and then sat down to await the arrival of the transport from Alpha Coma. The warrior continued his reflections on John Mark Ellis and his tale of the Cluster's communications. Though G'Liat wanted to see the Cluster eliminated, he began to wonder if the Cluster could be used—at least temporarily—to eliminate other barriers to Rd'dyggian dominance of the galaxy. If so, perhaps elimination of the Cluster could be delayed.
* * * *
On Earth, Timothy Gibbs awoke in his apartment with red-rimmed eyes. Not bothering with breakfast, he swept up the remains of the holographic display unit he had smashed the night before and put them in the garbage incinerator. He dressed quickly, grabbed his own malfunctioning teleholo unit, and then went into work.
He stifled a squawk when he saw Louise Sinclair. Her normally impeccable store uniform was rumpled, as though she had slept in it. Her eyes were bloodshot and she wore no makeup. She smiled bravely at him. “I see you didn't get much sleep either."
"Bad dreams,” he said as he moved past her to the employee's lounge. She followed and found him staring at the wall, pouring coffee until it was over-flowing the cup. Gently she helped him put the coffee pot back on the warmer.
Gibbs looked into Sinclair's eyes and sighed. “If I asked, would you go out to dinner with me?"
Sinclair staggered back, away from him. Conflicted emotions played across her face. Finally, she straightened her jacket and forced a certain resolve. “Mr. Gibbs, you realize that I could report you for making such a suggestion at work."
Timothy Gibbs looked down at his feet. “I know,” he whispered. He picked up the over-full coffee cup and took a sip. Some of the coffee spilled onto his uniform. Louise Sinclair made as if to reach for a towel—as if to help and try to c
lean it up. Instead, years of training kicked in and overrode human instinct. She stormed out of the break room, an indignant look of shock forced onto her features.
Timothy Gibbs dropped into a chair and sipped his coffee. Twenty minutes later it dawned on him that Jerry Lawrence hadn't come by to shuffle him off to the repair shop. He crumpled the paper cup and threw it into the trash, picked up his teleholo dais, then trudged out of the break room. He saw Louise Sinclair staring out of the big window to the street beyond. He couldn't quite tell from where he stood, but it looked as though tears glistened on her cheeks. Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door of the workshop and stepped inside.
Jerry Lawrence sat, staring mutely at the control chip of a teleholo. He held a test probe listlessly in his hand.
Gibbs cleared his throat, but his supervisor didn't respond. “Mr. Lawrence?” he said, tentatively.
At last, Lawrence looked up. “Sorry, Gibbs ... I guess I was lost in thought. What do you need?"
"I was wondering what you wanted me to start on,” said Gibbs.
Lawrence set the test probe down and looked up into Gibbs’ eyes. “It almost seems pointless, doesn't it? I'll be surprised if we have a single customer come in today, even to pick up things that are promised."
Gibbs stepped over to the workbench and sat his malfunctioning teleholo unit down. “Sir, do you have any kids?"
"I don't know,” said Lawrence with a wan smile. “Although, now that you mention it, I had a dream about a daughter last night."
Gibbs snorted. “I had a ... a dream, too ... at least I guess it was dream. It was about my son. Then I had a dream about my mother."
Lawrence nodded slowly. “My daughter was a prostitute in Central Texas. She looked at me with drug-clouded eyes and accused me of being a bad father; of leaving her to an abusive mother instead of raising her myself.” Lawrence looked down at his hands. “I didn't even know I had a daughter. I have no idea who her mother is.” He took a deep breath then let it out slowly. Finally, he looked up at Gibbs. “I hope your dream was better than mine."
Gibbs stood and moved over to the storage shelf and stared at it. After a moment, he grabbed a teleholo dais at random. He took it back to his workbench. “I think I need to work, whether or not we have any customers today,” he said. “It'll help take my mind off bad dreams."
Lawrence nodded. “You're right.” He looked at the teleholo dais Gibbs had taken from the shelf. “That one's got a particularly tricky problem. I was going to assign it to you. Judging from the symptoms, I'd say the central processor is malfunctioning. However, I've tried replacing the processor and the problem doesn't go away."
"Sounds like fun,” said Gibbs, his smile genuine. He set the teleholo dais on the workbench, glad for anything that would take his mind off of his dreams. He retrieved his tools and turned on the diagnostic computer then let his mind escape into the puzzle.
* * * *
At the end of the workday Timothy Gibbs found himself dreading the return home. He feared another dream about his mother or something worse. With unaccustomed sadness, he downloaded his end-of-the-week pay and stepped out into the showroom, just remembering to retrieve his own teleholo dais that he'd stayed late to repair; though, he hadn't actually been able to find anything wrong with the unit. He saw Louise Sinclair getting ready to step outside. Their eyes met briefly, but she flushed red and quickly averted her eyes, then ducked outside. His brow creased when he realized that she normally turned right to go home. Instead, she turned left. Gibbs shook his head to clear it of pointless speculation, and then strode across the showroom and out the door himself.
As he walked toward his apartment, his mind began filling with dark thoughts. He wondered if he had abandoned his son and his mother. He wondered how many children he had, in fact, abandoned. Gritting his teeth, he tried to clear his mind of the pointless thoughts, telling himself that he hadn't abandoned anyone; he simply lived life the way most people in the thirtieth century lived life. However, that caused his mind to take an even darker turn. He found himself questioning the very point of human existence. If humans are so horrible to one another, he thought, do we even deserve to live?
Gibbs gasped at that thought, shaking his head, and remembered his success with the problematic teleholo earlier in the day—the one with the broken central processor. He'd managed to solve the problem and even received accolades from Jerry Lawrence. For a moment, Gibbs felt pride in his accomplishment. Then he looked across the street and saw two teenage boys playing a game on a portable teleholo; both sets of eyes glazed over. Holographic guns blazed, sending up all-too-realistic looking sprays of blood. Gibbs gripped his own teleholo dais more tightly and walked on, feeling that he was in part responsible for the orgy of fantasy killing.
A few minutes later, he realized that he had passed his apartment complex and was standing in front of a weapons’ shop. He licked his lips and thought about turning around but, instead, found himself entering the shop. The clerk behind the counter didn't look much better than Gibbs felt.
Numbly, Gibbs found himself staring at the array of heplers, laz-rifles, and stunners on display. “I'm going hunting,” he lied.
The clerk nodded, somberly. “Seems a lot of people are going hunting this weekend,” he said. “I don't have much left that's good for taking down animals.” The clerk brought out some street heplers—the types the gangs around the city used. Pointing to a Hepler 220-K, he continued. “I'm taking one of those hunting this weekend, myself. You have to be careful, though. You can take the head off just about anything."
"I'll take it,” said Gibbs. He entered the payment codes onto a touch pad then took the weapon and continued down the street to a liquor store. Making his purchase there, he finally turned around and returned to his apartment.
There were no signs that the gangs had been back. It was unusual. Usually, the gangs started putting up their graffiti on Thursday, and then lined the halls menacingly on Friday night. Going out on Saturday was taking one's life in one's hands. Gibbs thanked the powers-that-be for small favors.
Entering the apartment, Gibbs took the hepler from its case and set it on the table. Then he opened a bottle of whiskey and took a drink. Wiping his lips, his eyes settled on the gun. He blinked several times and backed away from the table. “I need to get a grip on myself,” he said aloud. “It's not like the world's coming to an end."
With a deliberate force of will, Gibbs retrieved his teleholo dais and sat it in the dust-free circle on its accustomed table then turned it on. A Cluster hovered over the dais. Without turning up the volume, he stared at the image, spellbound. He remembered what Louise Sinclair had told him about the Cluster. She'd mentioned something about the colony, Sufiro. Something about the planet was significant. Looking back at the hologram of the Cluster, he remembered a childhood friend named Ed Swan who wanted more than anything to be a police officer. Somehow, Gibbs knew that Swan had moved to Sufiro. Shutting his eyes, he tried to think how he could possibly know that. The last time he'd seen Swan was in high school. Still, he reached out and took the teleholo controls, shut off the news, and entered a directory search. Within five minutes, he found a listing for an Edmund Ray Swan, Deputy Sheriff of New Granada, a continent on the planet Sufiro.
Without questioning his actions further, Gibbs commanded the unit to connect to Edmund Ray Swan.
A handsome, clean-shaven face with a square jaw and strangely mismatched eyes appeared over Gibbs’ teleholo unit. “Ed Swan,” said the man in a booming baritone. “May I help you?"
"It is you,” said Gibbs, breathlessly. “You probably don't remember me. My name is Tim Gibbs. We went to school together in Southern Arizona."
Swan's steel-gray eye dilated while his brown eye narrowed. Gibbs realized that his old friend had a computer eye implant. “It's been a long time,” said Swan after a moment. “Did you ever build that ... what was it? That computer memory circuit you used to talk about in high school?"
"What? That plasma memory cell idea I did a report on way back then?” Gibbs smiled in spite of himself. “I went to college and found out it was impossible. You'd need to build it in almost absolute vacuum and it would need a very large supply of highly charged particles like you'd find around a neutron star or better yet a black hole. I don't know anyone who's interested in building a computer around a black hole."
"Lost dreams, eh?” said Swan.
"So, what about you?” asked Gibbs. “Did you ever get that law enforcement degree?"
"I did and after twenty years, I'm glad to say I'm finally living in a place where I hardly have to use it. Sufiro's a quiet place; almost a paradise—at least now.” Swan looked down at the floor, then back up at Gibbs. “So, what can I do for you, Tim?"
"I'm...” Gibbs struggled to find the words. “I'm not quite sure. I've just been feeling kind of down lately. You've heard there are four of those Clusters orbiting Earth right now, haven't you?"
"What?” Swan's mouth fell open. “There are four of them?"
"Four,” repeated Gibbs. “I don't know why, but I can't seem to stay focused. My mind just keeps drifting ... thinking hopeless thoughts. I'd go see a psychologist if I could afford one."
"One Cluster orbited Sufiro just a couple of months ago.” Swan chewed on his lower lip. “It made everyone...” The holographic image of Swan's head began to break up. Gibbs slammed his fist down on the table next to the teleholo dais, but the image didn't clear. Instead, static filled the display.
"Ed, can you hear me?” Gibbs waited a moment and didn't hear a reply. “Ed?” Swearing, Gibbs tried connecting to Swan again.
Heirs of the New Earth Page 3