The Attachment Race

by Kevin Bliss

  “Belinda! Belinda!”

  The voice that called out was immediately identifiable as Grace. Belinda spun in all directions until she spotted her now-former roommate in line for a space elevator ready for boarding. Without a thought as to the trouble it might bring her, she dashed over and got as close as the chains separating the elevator queue from the rest of the field would allow.

  “Grace! What happened to Alisson?”

  “She’s okay. A dislocated shoulder, but they got a doctor in and she’s leaving in a couple days once it’s had a chance to heal. Where did you go?”

  Grace was being nudged along as the line advanced, winding closer to the ramp which would take her and the others in her group to the cabin of the space elevator.

  “It…I got caught up in the people running. It’s hard to describe. I’m sorry!” Watchers were now at Belinda’s side, telling her that she had to return to her own group. She gestured, pleaded and nearly fell to tears for just the brief chance to say goodbye to Grace.

  “Belinda, where are they sending you?”

  “Callisto. You?”

  “I’m going to the near side of the moon,” Grace said.

  Belinda told her that was great news – even as it hit her gut like a stone. Grace seemed to be thinking of something to say that wouldn’t sound disingenuous about Belinda’s plight.

  “They’re…they’re letting Alisson join me on the moon. We’re going to be roommates again!”

  The Watchers were starting to pull at Belinda and Grace received the same treatment from those who wanted the line for her space lift to keep moving.

  “What about her attachment?” Belinda asked, resisting the efforts of the Watchers.

  Grace hesitated and looked around, as if gauging how safe it was to speak. Finally, she shook her head and let loose:

  “Spryte shot the man. Shot the man who was supposed to attach with Alisson. I don’t know the whole story…but I guess she figured it was better than making a girl that young be forced to attach.”

  With that, Grace became swept up in the push for her line to keep moving. Belinda looked over her shoulder as the Watchers guided her back to the group bound for Callisto. She kept an eye on Grace until she disappeared into the mass of people on the ramp which rose upward twenty meters to the entry point of the elevator.

  Once in line with Charlie, Belinda began to worry about the trip just ahead. Strange how she hadn’t given thought to the question of how likely it was that the space elevator would suffer a split cable or spin off kilter at high speed (it hadn’t happened in more than fifteen years). And if it wasn’t the elevator, it could have been the displacement drive vessel they’d ultimately board for their final destination. An amazing development in technology, the drive made a flight from Earth to Callisto just an hour in length. But what really happened to human beings in vessels traveling via displacement drive? It wasn’t as though if something went wrong word would make its way back to Earthers. People don’t come back from space – there wouldn’t be any need to frighten the public with stories of how displacement scrambled brains or paralyzed extremities.

  Charlie caught Belinda’s eye, easily reading the anxiety. It wasn’t as though the majority of people in line with them (or anywhere else on the grounds, for that matter) were at ease. But she was his only real concern any longer.

  “It was a nice thing you did,” he said to her.

  “Nothing to do with nice.”

  “Whatever it was…I’m grateful.”

  “Didn’t anyone ever bet on you before?” Belinda said softly.

  “Sure. They made me a safety inspector.”

  Seats in the cabin were assigned by uniformed staff. Each passenger was strapped in expertly by an attendant. Masks were distributed, tested for oxygen flow and placed around the face and ears. Belinda had a flashback: a recollection of pictures from years earlier shown by her paternal grandfather – around the time the first massive lift fields were being constructed. Turns out, people actually rode somewhat tamer versions of space elevators for enjoyment. Her grandfather had been among them. Laughing, some screaming, many with hands raised in the air. It was such good fun, he’d told her.

  Of course, the old man conceded, you didn’t fly tens of thousands of kilometers off the ground. A couple hundred meters would do for the amusement rides. And, it would be important to note, you always returned to terra firma (as he called it).

  Nevertheless, Belinda thought of the parallels. There was no one in the cabin who had anything resembling enthusiastic anticipation in their eyes. Terror, dread, abject sadness – all of those were plentifully available. But no happiness.

  What would the people of those amusement days think of a ride like this? Belinda considered what it might be like to talk to one of them. To see the world as they saw it. As a society, things must have been wonderful.

  Never mind that her grandfather could sometimes get out-of-sorts when talking about the past. He was an older man, and older men are supposed to be disagreeable from time to time.

  The last of the passengers to board the cabin were heard before they were ever seen.

  “This is asinine! Light side of the moon my ass!”

  Through the goggles on her mask, Belinda spied the arrival of two more assigned to Callisto. Peg and thin-haired, blue-eyed Conrad – the man who had told Belinda she was fourth on his list of possibles. The man who would be a denizen of the moon on his way to being rightfully returned to Earth. The implication was clear: these two had attached. And whether it was Peg dragging down Conrad or vice-versa, the couple was bound for Callisto.

  Once everyone was aboard and strapped down, the attendants departed the lift cabin and the sound of compression began. Ears plugged and popped, skin went slightly cold and the hum of the space elevator’s mag strip started in, softly…and grew to a low whine. Belinda was glad for having no windows on the theater. She said her last goodbye to Earth and looking every few seconds for a last possible view would have raised the anxiety in her beyond tolerance. She had, in her mind, already left. Earth was as far away as it could be and the deed was done.

  The rumbling of the mag strip initialization caused the theater to vibrate. Belinda knew the vibration would end once they’d broken free of gravity’s pull – just one of those things she’d picked up over the years. That meant, of course, gravity was currently in effect, that the atmosphere outside the walls of the theater were filled with oxygen and smells and filtered light emitted from the sun and had a temperature appropriate for human beings and she began to cry because that was the saddest thought she could ever recall having in her life.

  The theater began to rise. Everyone aboard could feel it. Slowly, at first, as the lifts always went. Then, once it had reached a height of two hundred fifty meters, it picked up speed. Gradually. Gradually. More intense. Faster. For a first timer, it would seem that no greater speed was possible with the pressure bearing down, pinning all to their seats. But it did move faster. And faster still.

  Belinda’s thoughts could no longer rest solely on what she’d lost. She waited for the lift to reach top speed. But it continued to accelerate. Was that a scream she heard? No. It was the theater itself, creating a shrill sound as it went even faster up the tresanium cable – faster than people were intended to travel, she thought. Was this normal? Were they in danger?

  Belinda closed her eyes and tried to relax, despite the weight pushing down on her. And then, as if things were melting away, she felt nothing.

  Epilogue

  Neither the breakneck ascension up the space elevator nor the subsequent jump to Callisto had any lasting impact on Belinda. That is, nothing which didn’t happen to anyone else being forcibly removed from their home.

  Callisto wasn’t a source of perpetual suffering and it didn’t completely lack opportunities to laugh (however briefly), enjoy the company of others (even if there were relatively few with whom Belinda could bond) or extract sensory pleasures from life entirely. Ever
y day that passed had Belinda, Charlie and others in the settlement to which they’d been relocated farming frozen water for export to Earth. Blocks upon blocks of ice were sent to the home planet in an effort to replace all that had been used up by the billions who no longer resided there. It was Earth’s chance at a new start, and the captives of Callisto were told what an integral part they played in aiding that new beginning.

  Some, including Belinda, would occasionally toss a lock of their hair, cut fingernails or some other disposable part of themselves between the cakes of ice that ran down a conveyor to the vessels tasked with carting them to Earth. It began as a joke. Not that once the frozen water was melted, filtered, purified and distributed that their bits and pieces would remain. The detritus would be purged from the earliest stages. But over time, the symbolic effort of transporting parts of oneself back to Earth became the sort of coping mechanism which maintained ties to the only planet the people had previously known. The bond remained delicately in place. It worked even better than Vroo.

  Did you enjoy this book? You can make a big difference

  Believe it or not, reviews are the most powerful tools at my disposal when it comes to drawing attention to my books. Although I’d like to have the financial resources of a big New York publisher, I don’t. I can’t take out full-page ads in magazines and newspapers or plaster billboards.

  (Maybe someday.)

  But the one thing I have which is much more powerful and rewarding than any New York publisher could offer (and what they’d like to get their hands on) is:

  A committed and loyal bunch of readers.

  Honest reviews of my books do a great deal to help bring them to the attention of other readers.

  If you’ve enjoyed this book, I’d certainly be very grateful if you would spend just five minutes leaving a review (it can be as short as you like) on Amazon’s page. You can jump directly to the page by clicking below.

  US

  UK

  Canada

  I love the opportunity to build a relationship with my readers. I send occasional updates on material about to be released. Exclusive short stories (not available on any site) and special offers. I will never spam you and any email addresses provided to me will NEVER be shared under any circumstances. If you wish to be added to this list, you can email me at:

  kevin@readkevinbliss.com

  Please enjoy the excerpt from the opening of my book, False Witness at the end of this ebook.

  Preview of

  False Witness

  A novella by

  Kevin Bliss

  © 2014 by Kevin Bliss

  All Rights Reserved

  Chapter 1

  People have called me Connie since grade school. That suits me fine. Born Cornelius Philbin, my name always felt wrong. A bit off and much too fancy. A girl in high school once told me that I was what Jimmy Stewart would be like if he was shorter, had less charm and couldn’t act.

  I chose to take that as a compliment.

  In a town such as Tyler City, Iowa, any comparison to a movie star is automatic praise. Around sixteen thousand people lived in Tyler City at the time of my birth. Twenty-eight years later, as I begin my fourth year of employment at the Dunnigan Typewriter Ribbon Company, Tyler City is only a fraction larger.

  I’m one of four salesmen at Dunnigan. We could do with five, but I suppose it gives us job security to remain a quartet. I’m definitely not complaining. If it weren’t for Wallace Wilford Dunnigan, I might not have had reliable employment since graduating from Tyler City Business College’s night school program.

  Mr. Dunigan likes us in sales to include a pitch that claims, “Great ideas, great words begin with a genuine Dunigan typewriter ribbon”. They’re pretty good and all, but I figure the great words and ideas would still come along with or without our ribbons. Still, I say what I’m supposed to say. That’s me in a nutshell.

  The top boys in our company sometimes sell to places in St. Louis, Chicago – one even has a couple of clients in New York. Imagine that. That’s not bad considering that we’re only sixteen thousand in Tyler City – a solid half hour from Des Moines. Most of my work is done within fifty miles of town. I tend to operate over the phone and through the mail. It’s not all that challenging, really.

  And then, when I think life is a series of repeating routines along a well-worn path, Arnold Trussphink dies. Dallas and Houston are up for grabs. Mr. Dunnigan lets me have them on a trial basis. First task: a sales trip in November. I’ll be back in time for Thanksgiving.

  It’s hard to explain the thrill that comes with an opportunity like this. A flight out of Des Moines (my first since attending an aunt’s wedding in Minneapolis), rental car and decent accommodations. Seven clients and a handful of prospects to visit in five days with a weekend in the middle when I can see the sights.

  Three ties, six shirts, a cardigan sweater and plenty of socks and underwear in the leather suitcase I’ve had since age fourteen and I’m ready to go. What makes it even sweeter is the bit of news I get the day before leaving: the President of the United States is going to be in Dallas during my stay. John Kennedy is visiting Texas. I’m going to see the President. Damn, that’s exciting.

  Chapter 2

  I curl a copy of Esquire magazine around a paperback version of the latest Mike Shayne – one of the sort with a topless beauty in panties facing away from the reader. The Esquire comes from an airport newsstand. Mike Shayne has been wedged under my mattress for the two weeks since I got it (in the off-chance that my aunt comes over to tidy up my place while I’m at work). Mike Shayne is not welcome with my aunt. He’s not welcome with most anyone in Tyler City, for that matter.

  Aboard the plane, there’s a runny-nosed kid with a white cowboy hat peeking over his seat at me – Kilroy-style. His mother pulls him back into place, but it does no real good. He’s eyeballing me again in seconds, as if he’s spotted the person onboard who least belongs here. He may be a world traveler compared to me, but I do have a thing or two on him. I order a Bloody Mary and sip it smugly as the pint-sized cowboy is forced back down and strapped in for takeoff.

  I’m good and church-raised. Solid home, egg-salad-sandwich-safe my entire life. But that doesn’t mean I’m blind to what else might be out there. I’m not a rube.

  I’ve seen Picassos in Life magazine, know jazz music when I hear it and even have a friend from high school whose brother smoked a reefer cigarette while he was in the Army and came back to tell about it.

  So it’s natural for me to be curious.

  Plus, Dallas is one of those places. Reputation means so much when you come from a place like Tyler City. New York, Los Angeles, San Francisco…Dallas. Most of us can only imagine. I’m determined to experience. I want to taste just a smidgen of the depravity that it has to offer.

  They’ve got me in a better than decent hotel downtown (Trussphink’s reservation switched to my name): potted trees in the plush lobby, red-jacketed bartenders and elevators that always seem to be playing “Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White”. It’s not chandelier-fancy with afternoon tea like I hear they have at The Ritz. This place is for sales execs and other business types with expense accounts. A kind of jet-age sophistication. The ‘new’ Dallas. As I arrive, yellow taxis crowd the front and arrivals pour in. The place is full up.

  My first day in the big city, the 21st, I make three sales calls. Easy enough. They’re longtime customers and seem to like me. The orders placed for the coming quarter are typical of the ones they’ve logged in the past with Arnold Trussphink.

  I celebrate my success out of the blocks with a steak dinner just up the street from the hotel. Somewhere in the back of my mind, as I enter the restaurant, is the fantasy that I’ll strike up a conversation with the waitress and take her back to my room after her shift ends. So much for that. She’s okay looking, but dour and seems bored. I guess such things only happen in the fevered imaginings of sexually frustrated, unattached men such as myself.

  I
have a copy of the Dallas Morning News, however, to peruse my options for the night. War is Hell with Van Heflin is showing. I like Van Heflin. But then, I can watch movies back in Tyler City. I turn to the ads for nightclubs and one catches my eye – the sort that has striptease dancers.

  Unfortunately, the effect of the beer accompanying dinner fades and with it goes my bravery as the cab pulls up and drops me off at The Derby Club (where it’s ‘Lucky Tom-Cat Nite’, according to their ad). I stand outside for a few minutes, thinking of the debauchery that takes place just beyond the big swinging door with an ornate ‘D’ painted on it.

  Men in suits go in and out. Some hard-edged looking types are there, too. A trio of cops stand outside, chatting and guffawing. I lose my nerve and hail a cab to go back to the hotel. I’m disappointed in myself, but order a television for my room and pass the rest of the evening watching Dr. Kildare and Perry Mason – exactly what I’d be doing back home on a Thursday night. Tomorrow’s the day. Kennedy lands in the morning and I’m going to have a story worth telling the rest of my life.

  Chapter 3

  Bittinger Brothers, a law firm on Market Street is my only appointment for Friday morning. Very convenient. They’re just blocks from my hotel and a short walk from where the President’s car will be passing sometime around noon. I‘m sure I’ve irked the brothers – all four of them – as I show up for our eleven-thirty appointment at eleven sharp. They’re sitting in a conference room, drinking coffee and complaining about workload in their cases leading into Thanksgiving. These are ambulance chasers, in my opinion, and the building that holds their offices makes me think they’re only moderately successful at best.