Anyway, after that, everything was back to normal. Totally screwed up.
A BID FOR FREEDOM
The earth starts looking a lot smaller as you approach Geostationary. Not farther away—just smaller. It's an optical illusion, because the eye and the brain don't handle infinity very well, especially the brain, so beyond a certain distance, everything is just far. Geostationary point is 22,300 miles high. 36,800 klicks. That's a distance nearly equal to the circumference of the planet. It's almost three times the diameter. We were rising to a point almost three Earth-diameters above Ecuador.
From One-Hour, the Earth was a wall that filled half the sky. Now it was just a big blue marble that was so bright it was hard to look at. The Line still pointed down at it. We still hung above it. It was just much smaller than before. For the first time, I was beginning to feel as if we'd jumped off the planet ... and were falling away into endless space. That squeezy uncomfortable feeling kept coming back, now more than ever.
But at least from here the hurricane looked a lot smaller. And a lot less dangerous. I couldn't tell, but it looked like it was starting to break up against the Andes. It had lost a lot of its circular shape. After a while Stinky got bored and we went back to our cabin. Dad was trying to raise the El Paso station again, but it was temporarily out of service due to the hurricane. Then he started channel-strafing and found out that all the groundside channels were shut down. Which seemed weird, because they could have been rerouted a dozen different ways, but that was what the channel board said. Temporarily out of service. And that didn't make sense at all, because they'd already told us that the hurricane couldn't disrupt Line communications.
Later, Mickey came back for the breakfast cart and asked Dad for our boarding passes. Douglas came back with him, looking grim, but not as angry as when he'd left. Mickey said there was some paperwork to take care of before we arrived. He handed Dad some forms to fill out and told us to be sure to watch the departure instructions on TV. He acted like everything was perfectly normal. So did Dad. So did Douglas. I couldn't believe it. But then again, what else were we supposed to do? Have another fight? No thanks, we didn't need any more practice.
So we watched the departure instructions. I suppose it would have been very interesting if we'd cared to pay attention. It was that red-haired comedian again. This time they were showing how to navigate through micro-gravity and customs and get down to the spinning sections of Geostationary, or to our connections outward. There was also a whole section on how to find your way from one part of Geostationary to another. The station was big, and getting a lot bigger every year as they kept adding more and more disks to it. And then, the show segued directly to shots of our arrival—views from the top of the car, as well as from Geostationary's underside cameras.
Arriving at Geostationary, they played, On the Beautiful Blue Danube, by Richard Strauss. We watched it on the screen in our cabin. They timed it perfectly. The car had been slowing down for the past thirty minutes, so it worked out that just as the huge disks of Geostationary came into view above us, the music surged and built joyously, coming to its final climax just as we locked into place. And then the inevitable voice, in six languages: "Welcome to Geostationary. For your own safety ... blah blah blah."
I'd expected that we would get out almost immediately, but no—the car has to be brought aboard the disk, moved around, locked into place, washed, and anchored, before passengers can disembark. The whole process takes forty-five minutes. But during that time, the attendants come by with more cards that have to be filled out for customs and whatever other last-minute instructions are needed.
When Mickey came by again, we were already packed and waiting. There wasn't much to pack anyway. We'd left most of it behind. We looked like refugees—like those people in Montreal.
Mickey hardly glanced at me; he spoke mostly to Dad and Douglas. "We have a problem," he said grimly. "Station Security knows you're here. Somebody alerted them. Somebody on this car—"
"Hidalgo?" Douglas asked. He looked to Dad, angrier than ever.
Dad shrugged. "Give him credit, he works fast—"
"No, it wasn't Hidalgo." Mickey said. "That's not his style. This was an anonymous tip. Very childish. Do you have any other enemies?"
Urk—I suddenly realized who had done it. And why. We were in big trouble now. I opened my mouth to apologize—this was all my fault.
"Never mind. Worry about it later," said Mickey. "Right now, there are officers outside waiting to take you into custody and send you back down the Line."
"They can do that?"
"You know they can. Until you set foot aboard the station and pass through customs, you're not under starside jurisdiction. You're legally still on Earth and they can yank you back down with a subpoena. In about fifteen minutes, dirtside marshals will be coming aboard to serve your ex-wife's papers." And before Dad could ask how he knew so much, Mickey explained, "Douglas told me everything. Tell me—did you accept your Sierra bid?"
Dad looked unhappy. "I tried to. I sent in my acceptance last night. When I checked my e-mail this morning, it came back refused. The bid had already been withdrawn. My wife's lawyer filed some kind of a claim and Sierra backed out. They have all kinds of protection clauses in their boilerplate."
"What?" said Douglas, anger rising. "Are you saying we have no place to go? You knew that—and you turned Hidalgo down? I can't believe this!"
Dad looked resolute. "Douglas, I can't sell him what I don't have! And even if I did have it—whatever it is—I still couldn't sell it to him. I don't care if you believe me or not—"
"We could have had a sponsor!"
"We could have opened a window and jumped out!" Dad snapped right back.
"Stop it, both of you!" said Mickey quickly. "There are other sponsors. Better ones." He glanced to me and nodded. "I made a phone call." To Dad and Doug: "I can get you into the custody of an agent who places people. All I have to do is get you legally on the station. It's a different jurisdiction—different bidding rules, a lot easier. But you'll have to go right now."
"Will it work?" I asked. I was desperate. I'd screwed up really badly this time.
"I learned this trick at my mother's knee," said Mickey. He picked up my backpack and shoved it into my arms. He turned to Dad. "Your agent is waiting, Mr. Dingillian. We're running out of time. Are you coming?" Mickey glanced at his watch. "They'll be opening the forward hatches in six minutes."
Dad looked to Douglas, to me, to Stinky.
"Can we trust him?" Dad asked Douglas.
Douglas nodded, tight-lipped. So did I.
Mickey said, "Look, I'm trying to make up for some of the trouble I've caused—" He looked to me when he said that last.
"All right," said Dad, reluctantly. "Let's go. Charles, get your backpack on. Bobby, don't forget your monkey."
STATIONARY
When a car docks at Geostationary, first it slides up through a service tube so tight there's only a few centimeters of clearance. The service tube takes it up through a series of three or four air locks, and then finally up to the docking chamber where the carriage of the car slides sideways off the line and onto a special delivery track that curves around like a cesta—that curved basket thing that jai alai players wear on their hands. The car moves out and around on this delivery track and onto a stationary holding frame, just inside the disk hub—it looks like a curved wall, sliding slowly past. All the cars are docked here while they're unloaded, serviced, and reloaded. They look like cans lined up in a rack, while the whole station rotates around.
Mickey said that we had to stop thinking of Earth as down. Up and down are the same as in toward the hub and out toward the rim. The only two other directions inside the disks of the station are dirt-side and starside—and those are sideways directions.
Mickey led us down the corridor toward the service hatch. There are hatches at both ends of the car. Passengers use the top or forward hatch. Crew and cargo use the bottom or aft hatch. So wh
ile the marshals were coming in through the front, we were already leaving through the rear. There was a service attendant waiting there. He frowned when he saw us, but Mickey said to him, "Thanks, Joe. I really appreciate this."
He shook his head in disapproval. "I wasn't here," he said. "I was taking a leak."
"And we never saw you."
Joe grunted and stepped away from his service panel. He disappeared back down the corridor.
"In through here," Mickey pointed.
"Is this a real hatch?" Stinky demanded. "It doesn't look like it."
"It's a service hatch. Most people never get to see this, Bobby. This is where supplies and cargo come aboard and waste is removed—all through this hatch."
"Are we going out in a Dumpster?" I asked.
"Nothing that dramatic. Watch that light. As soon as it goes green, I punch this button and that door opens. There'll be a woman standing there holding a document. As soon as your dad signs it, you'll be under the full legal protection of Partridge Colonial Enterprises."
Dad turned to Mickey. "There's supposed to be a three-day grace period, isn't there, during which time I can back out of the deal?"
Mickey grinned. "Yep, there is. But by that time, you can be on your way to Luna, so—" He laughed. There was no need for him to finish the sentence.
The green light went on and Mickey hit the button. All three doors of the hatch whooshed open and two big men stepped in immediately, scaring us with the hard way they looked and the quick way they came rushing right in, because at first we thought they were security agents, or maybe worse—some of those people that Dr. Hidalgo had hinted about—but they weren't. They were just service technicians. They brushed past us and went straight up the corridor as if we weren't there.
A stocky older woman carrying a big business bag came in immediately after. Her dark hair was even shorter than theirs. "Don't worry about those fellows," she explained. "They didn't see anything either. I'm your lawyer. My name is Olivia. You're Max Dingillian?
Pleased to meet you. Sign here, here, and here." She pulled a camera out of her purse.
"You kids, up against the wall. I need your pictures." Snap, snap, snap. Dad too; one more snap. "Raise your right hand. Do you solemnly swear that the information provided in these documents is true to the best of your knowledge, so help you? Thank you. Congratulations, you are now clients of Partridge Enterprises. Would you thumbprint this, please? Right here. And here. Thank you. You kids too, please?" She folded the papers and stuffed them into her purse, then turned to Mickey, wrapped him into her big arms, and gave him a hug that I thought would crush him. "How're you doing, sweetie?"
"I'm fine, Mom. How's business?"
"Lousy. That dirtside son-of-a-bitch is playing games again. I've had it with him. I'm filing a complaint with the Board of Ethics. I'm going to have that scumbag's balls for a paperweight, just as soon as we find them—"
Mickey grinned at Dad. "Mom's the best. She eats human flesh. Raw, if she's really hungry. She can strip a full-grown cow to the bone in seven minutes."
"I can believe it."
Olivia turned back to us, all business again. "All right, you slaves—don't take that personally, it's a joke—let's get you out of here. This way, quickly. Bring your bags. You, the little one—Bobby, is that your name? Is that your monkey? You'd better carry him for now. Or why don't you let me carry him, okay? Let's go. I'll see you later, Mickey. Don't be late for dinner." She shoved the monkey into her bag and we all followed her.
Leaving the car is a tricky process. There are transfer pods at each end of the elevator; they spin to match the rotation of the cylinder, and you get aboard. Then the pod disengages from the car and stops spinning—and the passengers feel weightless. The pod points itself so that its "floor" is outward, which means soon it'll be downward. It connects itself to a track on the rotating inner wall of the hub and then slides outward. It feels "downward." The farther "out" it goes from the hub, the heavier you feel. It's centrifugal force. The same thing that holds the Line up—only the Earth is the hub for the Line.
The departure video had shown us that there would be seats in the transfer pod for ten people at a time, only we were in a cargo pod which was set up differently, and there were no seats in it at all, only handholds set into the wall.
Olivia directed us to hold on tight, then hit the Go panel. Nothing happened first; then we felt like we were getting lighter and lighter. "The pod-drum has disengaged from the cabin. It's slowing down now. As the spinning slows, we lose pseudo-gravity. Bobby, don't try floating. You could hurt yourself. Just hold on, please." For a moment, we were weightless, or close enough that the difference was insignificant. It kind of felt like we were falling, but not quite. After a moment that sensation went away and we weren't falling at all, we just kept feeling like it. Stinky started giggling. I felt like I was going to puke.
Something outside thumped softly and Olivia said, "The transfer pod is now moving off the drum. And another one is taking its place." She hesitated a moment, as if she were listening to the feeling of the room. "Now the pod is lowering down toward the main levels of the disk. Outward is down, just like in the cabin of the elevator car. Feel that?"
That was pseudo-gravity starting to come back. Olivia said, "You'll have the feeling of weight in just another few seconds. Main level gives you one-half your normal weight, just a little more than on the elevator car." Even as she said it, we were already sinking down to the floor.
"Is this really going to work?" Dad asked, indicating Olivia's papers. "I mean, doesn't Earth have some authority up here?"
"Very little," Olivia said blandly. She patted her bag. "This goes to a much higher court. Literally."
The door popped open and we were staring at a hallway long enough that we could see how it curved up in the distance. "We're here," said Olivia. "Come on, I'll walk you through customs. Got your IDs and passports? Now, listen—you're going to be stopped by security agents. You've got to let me do the talking. Don't say anything. Nothing at all. They'll be recording everything." She looked to me, Douglas, and Bobby. "Look determined, okay? Like this is what you want. This is what you want, isn't it?"
Dad nodded. He looked to us kids. Douglas nodded. So did I. Stinky said, "I'm going with Chigger," which surprised me. I didn't know what to say in response, so I just took his hand.
"Okay, let's go," said Olivia. She took the newly-signed papers out of her purse and brandished them in front of her like a weapon. We put on our most determined expressions and followed in her wake.
"Do you get a lot of business this way?" Dad asked innocently.
"Not usually," she replied. "But once in a while my son brings home a stray puppy. Don't worry about my fee. I get a finder's commission from the colonies. We'll talk about that later. Here we are—"
"There they are—" the ugly little man saw us first and came advancing like an attack Chihuahua. He wore a wrinkled suit; it looked like he'd gotten it from his older brother and still hadn't grown into it. Two security guards came following after with bored expressions. A fourth man came running with a multi-lens vid-cam aimed at us. I said the word again.
Olivia saw them at the same time they saw us. She put on her biggest smile and said, "Howard, how nice to see you again. I understand we're getting an ambulance up here for you to chase."
"Don't be nasty, Olivia. I have a court order—" He held up an official-looking document. I guessed it was a subpoena.
"Fold it and stuff it, Counselor. I have an agency contract." She held up a paper of her own. Our contract.
For a moment, the two of them faced each other like they were about to start a sword fight—only with folded documents instead of swords.
"It's not valid—"
"Don't be stupider than usual, Howard. Of course, it's valid. How many of these have you examined already? Would you like to examine this one too?" She shoved it under his nose.
Howard, whoever he was, slapped the paper away angri
ly.
Olivia just shoved it right back under his nose. "You lay one hand on any of these clients, and I'll have you headed dirtside without benefit of an elevator. I'll have you tied up in so much paper, the only way out for you will be a good flush." She smiled and became even sweeter and gentler than before. "You know I have you beaten. Don't prolong your agony."
"I'm filing a complaint with Judge Griffith. You had unfair and unauthorized access."
"My clients requested that I meet them as soon as possible precisely to guarantee their rights of residence. That's all the authorization I needed. You know that. I violated no statutes—"
"Oh, don't give me that. Your son does this all the time, letting you aboard in violation of the Singapore Convention—"
"Don't say another word, you little turd, or I'll have you up on a slander charge as well. Legal representatives have the right to meet their clients before they disembark, precisely to guarantee their rights of representation; you know the precedent as well as I. You lost that one too, as I recall. Why don't you try another line of work, Howard? You're really not very good at this."
A crowd was starting to form. I guess we were good theater. Olivia turned her attention to the guards, incidentally making sure that she was facing enough toward the man with the vid-cam that he would have a good angle on her. "Do you fellows understand the issues involved here? My clients are under the protection of Partridge Colonial Enterprises. Whatever claims any groundside agency has against any of these individuals must come through me. I will receive service of summons forthwith—" She plucked the subpoena from Howard's hand and stuffed it in her purse. "But please be aware that under the terms of the Singapore Convention, custody of my clients may not be transferred without a hearing before Judge Griffith. You may not arrest, detain, or otherwise hinder the movements of these four people. Do you understand?"
Apparently they'd heard the speech before, because they looked bored as she went through the recitation. "Right. We know the drill." One of the guys didn't look happy, but the other said, "Are you going to be at Lemrel's party Saturday, Olivia?"
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