Escape Velocity

by Christopher Stasheff

  “Easy.” Muscles pointed. “Two camera ops, one electrician, one engineer for each set of camera controls, one engineer for audio, one for the holo-mole recorder, and a staging director.”

  “That's only eight.”

  “You're good at arithmetic.”

  “But there're at least sixteen here!”

  “Well, every position's gotta have a backup. You know, somebody might have a heart attack.”

  “Yeah, like the accountant who has to keep track of the budget for this show. What do you do?”

  “I'm the shop steward.”

  “Oh . . . Uh, thanks.” Dar turned away to Whitey. “You sure we didn't stumble into a mattress factory by mistake?”

  Whitey frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “There's so much featherbedding.”

  In the far corner, a small man in a business coverall came through a narrow door. “Rise, citizens, for your Executive Secretary.”

  Those of the crew who were sitting (twelve, at the moment) hauled themselves to their feet.

  “Oh, don't be ridiculous, Hiram!” A tall man with white hair and a craggy, handsome face strode briskly in, the fabric of his modest coverall glowing with the quiet sheen of luxury.

  “We don't stand on ceremony here.” To prove it, he sat down at the desk.

  Dar swallowed around a sudden bulge in his throat. The Executive Secretary himself! Even out on a marches planet such as Wolmar, he'd seen pictures of that face so often that virtually every wrinkle in it was embedded in his memory. To suddenly be in the same room with the man himself was unnerving; he didn't quite seem to be real.

  “You've come damn near a hundred light-years to talk to this man,” Whitey muttered in his ear. “Go to it!” Aloud, he said, “Go check and see if he's got any problems with his lines.”

  Dar swallowed thickly and stepped forward, holding the script before him like a shield. He hovered just behind the staging director, dimly aware that the lady was chatting with the Exec, but not at all sure what she was saying. Finally, the Exec nodded, and the staging director stepped back, calling to Dar, “Ready any time.”

  “Are there . . .” Dar's voice broke into a squeak; he swallowed and licked his lips. The Exec glanced up at him in irritation. Dar cleared his throat and tried again. “Any problems with the script, sir?” He dropped his voice down just above a whisper and poured out the rest in a sudden rush: “Boundbridge, Satrap, and Forcemain aren't going to wait for an election. They've had a coup d'etat planned for months. I have the codes that will unlock the proof of their complicity. Save democracy, sir!”

  A slow grin spread over the Exec's face. “Had that memorized, did you?”

  Dar swallowed, and nodded.

  The Exec nodded, too, and rose, clapping Dar on the shoulder. “It's always a pleasure to meet a genuine patriot.” But his hand tightened, and he called out, “Did you hook up those cameras?”

  “Yes, Mr. Secretary.” The staging director looked frightened. “We're patched into network. You can go live to all of Terra whenever you want.”

  “Good, good.” The Exec let go of Dar just as harder hands laid hold of him. Looking up, he saw the shop steward and one of the assistants holding him, each one leveling a small but efficient-looking pistol at his torso. Whitey was suffering the same treatment; and the whole crew, except for the camera operators and the staging director, had pistols out.

  “All right, then. Put us on,” the Exec said. He smiled into the camera in front of him, seeming suddenly warm and weary, but solemn. The staging director raised a hand, palm flat and stiff, gazing off into space, listening to a voice talking into his ear-button. Suddenly his arm swung down like a sword, to point at the Exec.

  “Fellow citizens,” the Exec intoned, “we are happy to be able to announce that we have arrested the vile telepath who has been stalking relentlessly through the planets, to Terra. He is here.”

  The red light on his camera went off, and the corresponding light on the other camera glowed to life—pointing straight at Dar. With a sudden, horrible, sinking feeling, he realized everyone on Terra could see him.

  “My Executive Guards caught him just in time,” the Exec went on, “right here, in this studio, attempting to assassinate me.”

  A sudden horrible chill seized Dar's intestines as he found a pistol in his hand. How . . . ?

  Then, suddenly, he realized what the Exec was saying, realizing he was being identified as the horrible, vicious, telepathic assassin. He screamed, “N-o-o-o-o!” and threw his weight frantically against the hands that held him. They bit into his arms like steel clamps, and he writhed and twisted, bellowing in outrage, trying to shake them off.

  “He knew what I was going to say next,” the Exec said grimly, “that the danger is not over. For he has confederates, fellow citizens—traveling unseen and unknown, here on Terra itself! Where these vicious assassins will next strike, we cannot tell—nor who will be their next victim. Probably myself—but it also might be any one of you.”

  His voice deepened, ringing with conviction. “They must be stopped! For you, my fellow citizens, do not have a corps of guardsmen to protect you day and night. They must be stopped—but your Civil Police cannot arrest the people whom they know to be dangerous telepaths, because of the restrictions of civil rights laws! The only way to end this peril is to grant me full emergency powers, so that I can have your police clap these criminals into jails, where they belong. Today I will ask the Assembly for those powers—but I will not receive them without your support. Call your Elector now! Tell him to give me the powers I need to protect you! So that mad-dog renegades, such as this one, can be banished to the farthest reaches of Terran space!”

  He stared solemnly into the camera, the perfect image of a good but troubled man, until the red light went out.

  Then he thrust himself to his feet, grinning, and turned to Dar. “Thank you, young man. You timed your struggling perfectly.”

  “It's you!” Dar burst out. “You're the one who planned the coup!”

  “No—but I will be the one who takes power. If there's going to be a dictator, I intend to make sure that I'm it.”

  “You don't even care about saving democracy!”

  “Why so surprised?” The Exec's smile was gentle, sympathetic—and underscored with contempt. “You poor, naive idiot! Did you honestly think any politician really cared about anything but personal power anymore?”

  Dar stared at him, horrified.

  Then the frustration broke, and the rage leaped through it. He threw himself at the Exec with a howl, fingers curving into claws—but the guards' hands held him back, and a cold spray hit his face, filling his head with fumes that spread darkness through his brain.

  12

  “WHY DID YOU ESCAPE FROM WOLMAR?”

  The voice blasted through into Dar's nice, warm nest of unconsciousness. An idiot monotone was singing in his right ear, and a cricket with absolutely no sense of rhythm was chirping into his left.

  “HOW DID YOU LEAVE THE PLANET WOLMAR?”

  “I hopped into a courier ship,” Dar answered truthfully. He levered his eyelids open, squinting against the light.

  Five of them, actually—red, blue, green, yellow, and orange—hitting him with stroboscopic flashes that didn't quite have a rhythmic pattern—but it was a different nonrhythmic pattern than the cricket's. Dar stared, dazzled.

  “WHAT IS YOUR NAME?”

  It was ridiculous, but he couldn't think of it. All he could think of was that he wanted someone to turn the lights off. “I don't know!”

  “EXCELLENT,” the unseen owner of the voice purred. “WHICH OF YOUR TRAVELING COMPANIONS WAS THE TELEPATH?”

  “The what?”

  “DO NOT SEEK TO MISLEAD US! WE KNOW THAT AT LEAST ONE MEMBER OF YOUR GROUP WAS A TELEPATH. AND DO NOT TRY TO READ OUR MINDS; THE SENSORY DISTRACTIONS YOU ARE EXPERIENCING WILL PREVENT YOU FROM BEING ABLE TO CONCENTRATE SUFFICIENTLY FOR TELEPATHY!”

  “We hope,” someone n
ear the voice muttered.

  “I can't read anybody's mind!”

  “SEE?” the voice boomed to someone else. “THE LIGHTS AND NOISES DO WORK!”

  “I never could read anybody's mind! I'm not a telepath!”

  The voice was quiet for a moment; then it boomed, “WHEN WERE YOU LAST A TELEPATH?”

  “Never! Never, so help me!”

  “He could be lying,” the voice muttered.

  “Not with that sensory assault you've laid onto him,” the other voice answered. “Poor fellow can't even close his eyes now. I don't think he could concentrate enough to think up a lie.”

  “That was the other purpose of this system,” the first voice admitted. Then it boomed out again: “OUR AGENTS FOLLOWED YOU ALL THE WAY FROM WOLMAR TO TERRA, OF COURSE. HOW DID YOU FORCE TOD TAMBOURIN TO AID YOU?”

  “I didn't! I didn't force him at all!” Then, suddenly realizing they might accuse Whitey, Dar added, “I conned him!”

  “He is only a poet,” the other voice murmured. “Probably true. Besides, you'd better get back to the main question before he goes catatonic on you.”

  That sent a chill trickling down Dar's spine.

  “Right,” the voice muttered; then, “WHO IN YOUR GROUP WAS THE TELEPATH?”

  “There wasn't any! There aren't any! There never have been any!”

  “WE KNOW BETTER,” the voice said scornfully. “WHO WAS IT?”

  The flashing lights bit into his brain; the thousand-hertz tone bored straight through from ear to ear, while the random clicks tripped up every thought that tried to flow. “I can't think!” Dar yelled. “I can't think who it could possibly be! For the life of me!”

  “IT MAY BE JUST THAT. DO YOU REALLY EXPECT US TO BELIEVE . . . ?” The voice broke off in midsentence. “WHO'S THAT? GET HIM OUT OF HERE!”

  “My credentials, gentlemen.” It was a fulsome voice, growing louder as it came closer. “If you doubt them, you may verify me through the computer.”

  “Why?” snorted the other voice. “They're computer-fed, anyway . . . Chief Torturer?”

  “To Mr. Horatio Bocello, yes.”

  “He's just a billionaire, not a politician! Why would he need a torturer?”

  “Industrial espionage, mostly.”

  “INDUSTRIAL NUTHOUSE,” the nearer voice snorted. “HE'S ONE OF THOSE CRAZY BILLIONAIRES WHO DRESSES UP IN ARMOR AND TRIES TO PRETEND THE MIDDLE AGES'RE STILL GOING ON.”

  “But we can't let some civilian come in here and . . .”

  “WHY NOT? MAYBE HE'S GOT JUST THE CAN OPENER WE NEED. TAKE OFF YOUR COAT AND GET TO WORK, MR. RICCI.”

  “Well, thank you, gentlemen. Where's the coatrack? Ah, there. Now, which way to the vict . . . ah, subject? Ah, there's the door. . . .”

  Father Marco! Dar nearly yelped with joy at the thought of a familiar face. But he managed to hold it in; some wavering remnant of good sense remembered not to let the cat out of the bag.

  The priest drifted into view. “Now, then, fellow! When did you stop being a telepath?”

  “When did I . . . never!”

  “Then you still are one!”

  “No, of course not! I never . . .”

  “When did you first become a telepath?”

  “Never, I tell you! Never.”

  “When did you begin to associate with telepaths?”

  “Never! Never!”

  “He's being recalcitrant,” Father Marco sighed, “just as I feared. Well, get rid of these lights and noises—they aren't doing any good.”

  “BUT . . . BUT, MR. RICCI . . .”

  “Turn them off, I say! They're not getting any answers out of him—and they're driving me crazy! Turn them off!”

  “WELL . . . I HOPE YOU KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING.

  The lights and sounds died. Dar could've wept with gratitude.

  “Now, then! Let's try the old-fashioned methods!” Father Marco clapped his hands, and two giants shuffled into the light. Each was a head taller than Dar, and musclebound. You could tell, because they were both stripped to the waist. On top of that, they were shaven bald. And they both wore black masks.

  They unfastened the straps that held down Dar's wrists, ankles, and chest, and yanked him to his feet. “But . . . what . . . where . . .” Dar sputtered. He had his answer in a second; they hustled him through the nearest doorway while Father Marco followed, calling, “Thumbscrews! The Boot! The Iron Maiden! The Rack!”

  They burst into the torture chamber, the two men rushing him so quickly that his feet scarcely had time to touch the floor. Grim, vicious-looking instruments blurred past him, covered with cobwebs and rust. In the dim light, he could see that the stone blocks oozed drops of water. Then they burst through another door and twisted down an angling corridor.

  “Wh . . . didn't I miss my stop, there?”

  “Nope,” the black mask to his right answered. “You ain't even in your cab, yet.”

  And sure enough, they burst through a final door, and there stood the pregnant-teardrop shape of a cab, glistening in the muted light that filtered down to the underground cavern.

  “No one'll notice y' here,” the other muscleman growled. “They scarcely still know it exists.” He yanked open the door, and his mate booted Dar through it. “But,” the young man sputtered, “what . . . why . . . ?”

  “Because Horatio Bocello promised them berths on his spaceship, of course.” Father Marco slid in beside Dar. “They couldn't resist an offer like that.”

  “ ’Course not,” the second man agreed, sliding into the front seat. “If anybody'd want to go back to the Middle Ages, it'd be the torturers.”

  “You can say that quintuply,” his mate agreed, clapping a chauffeur's cap onto his head. “These namby-pamby lights and noises and dripping water—faugh! I wanna hear those bones crunch!”

  His buddy clicked the hatch closed and advised him, “You can stop acting now.”

  “Good.” The first breathed a sigh of relief. “But I do hate this job. Me, I can't even stand to set mousetraps! Just give me a chance to escape from this sick society!”

  “I did,” Father Marco reminded him. “You jumped at it.”

  The cab swooped out of the shadows of the cavern into evening sunlight, up into clouds gilded by sunset and industrial waste.

  Dar looked around him, recognizing the plush upholstery and computerized bar. “This is no cab—it's Bocello's limousine!”

  “I never woulda guessed it.” The righthand torturer yanked off his mask. “Pass me an akvavit, will ya?”

  13

  The “cab” dropped down and landed them on Bocello's back lawn, right next to an elongated dome big enough to have been a small spaceship. As Dar stepped out, Lona slammed into him with a hug that would've given a grizzly lumbago. “Thank Heaven you're safe! We were so worried!” Then she shoved back, holding him off at arm's length, and he was amazed to see tears in her eyes. “You poor, brave, dear idiot! Next time you have to go fling yourself on a sacrificial altar, do it for something worthwhile, okay?”

  He couldn't spare the energy for an answer; he was too busy falling into her eyes. Apparently she had noticed his existence. . . .

  Then Whitey was slapping him on the back, and Sam was craning up to plant a kiss on his cheek. “I should've known the system'd swallow you up!”

  He grinned back at her and squeezed her hand. “Yeah, but you didn't let it chew me up and spit me out!”

  “No.” Sam caught Horatio's arm and beamed up at him. “No, we didn't.”

  “Well, give some praise to the real heroes of the rescue,” Horatio laughed, clapping Father Marco and one of the torturers on the shoulders. “I only provided the car, and the code for getting into the Gamelon! Hurry and change, boys—the last shuttle's lifting off in ten minutes.”

  The torturers grinned and trotted away.

  “Nobly done. Father,” Whitey agreed. “I don't know how you managed to bluff the real torturers.”

  Father Marco shrugged. “Nothing to it,
when the computer said I was genuine.”

  “Yeah.” Dar frowned. “How did you manage that?”

  “My versatile granddaughter,” Whitey sighed. “Every time I despair of her because she can't make a sonnet, she does something like this.”

  “Oh, it's nothing that big,” Lona said, irritated. “I just made a little addition to an existing program, that's all.”

  “Just a ‘little addition' that added Father Marco's name to a list of top security clearances,” Whitey corrected.

  Dar stared. “How'd she get past the security blocks?”

  “Trade secret,” Lona said quickly, “though I don't really see what all the fuss is about. I mean, computers may be fast, but they're really not very bright, the dear little things.”

  The two “torturers” came trotting back, dressed in plush overalls, and Horatio shooed them toward the dome. “Aboard the yacht, now, quickly—time's wasting! If we don't move promptly, the Executive Secretary will be the Executive Dictator, and we won't be allowed to lift off from Terra! Hurry, hurry—the Brave New World awaits!”

  He meant it literally—the Brave New World was the name the dozen plutocrats had given their newly purchased government-surplus FTL spaceship. (In memory of Shakespeare, not Huxley). They saw it lying in the middle of Serenitatis Plain as they came in for a landing: a quarter of a mile long and eight hundred feet wide, glistening like a promise of the future. They landed near it and dropped down into an underground concourse with beige, textured walls and a burgundy carpet. Horatio hurried them along till the hallway widened into a circular bay with a double door in the far wall. A line of people in sturdy coveralls, with packs on their backs, was filing through it, to drift quickly upwards in a negative-gravity field.

  “Up there is the ship,” Horatio explained. “They should be almost done loading now. Are you sure you won't join us?”

  “I'll go.” Sam beamed up at him. “Anywhere you do.”

  He smiled down at her tenderly. “That's very touching, my dear, especially since I'm not taking my money with me. But really, I don't think you'd be very happy, stuck in a primitive society with an old goat.”