by Joe Haldeman
Dallas handed me the cold metal glass. “You’ve been there, the asteroids.”
“Ceres and Mir. That’s like saying you’ve been to the United States if you’ve seen only New York and Chicago.”
“I suppose we’d want to go to Ceres. One of the big ones.”
“Perhaps not.” The storm was starting, below the horizon. Dim blue flashes, whisper of thunder. “If we went to a place with only a dozen people, we’d certainly know when someone new showed up.”
“Yeah. But I’d go stir-crazy.”
“There is that.” I didn’t know the phrase, but knew what he meant. “Ceres is like this place, a little smaller.”
“Less water.”
“Things take a long time to drop, too. I mean it is an actual city. Even Mir is more like an outpost, a frontier town.” I sipped the dark rum. Molasses perfume, lime tang. “But that’s what I would like, I think. Go from little place to little place.”
“That’s what you’d like.” He suddenly swallowed half his drink in two gulps, something I’d never seen him do before, and glared at the sunset. To keep from glaring at me.
“I know you don’t like spaceflight—”
“I don’t like air flight! These rocket jocks …” He shook his head, almost took another drink. “I told you about the airplane crash?”
“Not since Singapore. Seventy years ago. It was in a jungle?”
“Mangrove swamp. Only forty, fifty kilometers northeast of here, in fact. We were making a delivery, ten big bales of marijuana. There was a little uninhabited island where we had people waiting with a boat. The idea was to come in low and dead slow over the island, and just open the cargo doors, bank, and tip the stuff out.”
“Bank?”
“Like yawing in a spaceship.” He rotated a hand. “Tilting.
“That part of it went all right. The island was where it was supposed to be; our accomplices signaled us with a flashlight. Doors open, bales out. Treetop level, right on target.
“The plane was an old DC-3 that my partner had put together from several old wrecks. He was inordinately proud of his skill as a pilot and a mechanic. Like your rocket jocks.”
“So it crashed.”
“Stalled, first. We were supposed to go up, up, and away, back to Jamaica; but he gave them the gas, and both engines sputtered out.
“There was a two-lane asphalt road, A1A, not much more than a kilometer away. He thought he could make it, gliding, land there—it was three in the morning—torch the plane, and hope the guys in the boat would come get us.” He took a drink, this time only a sip.
“Wrong on all counts. We lost altitude too fast and clipped a treetop with the right wing. Crashed nosefirst into the shallow water.”
“The pilot?”
“He was unconscious or dead, I couldn’t see. I smelled gas fumes and panicked. Good thing. I kicked the wind-shield out and slid down, started running, slogging. The old crate went up in a fireball.”
“Did the men in the boat—”
“They took off for open water. Couldn’t blame them. It didn’t look like anybody could’ve survived. Probably too shallow to bring the boat in, anyhow. When I caught up with them in Key West they looked like they’d seen a ghost.”
He looked a little like a ghost now. “Still … airplanes aren’t spaceships. Spaceships are safer.”
“Sure. Twenty-some years later. Working on my first legal million. My firm was a subcontractor to the American space agency, NASA, supplying the pulse-code modulation master unit for the space shuttle. I got a pass to the VIP stands to watch the thing take off. That was the Challenger. Remember?”
“The one that blew up on television. I was fifteen.”
“I could feel the shock wave on my face. One hell of a safe spaceship.”
“But again, that was chemical fuel. There is no way an inertial confinement fusion engine could explode like that.”
“You’re the expert.” He finished the drink and stood up, not too steadily. “One more an’ then a nap. Call the submarine guy. You want?”
“Another half—oh, bring the bottle out. We’ll watch the storm.”
“Good idea. Maybe get struck by lightning. Save everybody a lot of trouble.” He mumbled something about sending a kid up in a crate like that. Bubble gum and baling wire.
The rocket jocks aren’t all that crude, but he was right about the overall situation. Nurse a homemade spaceship to the very edge of the human envelope. Evade a bunch of killers by going to a place where killing is a socially acceptable response to insult. Where rum is ridiculously expensive.
It would be an interesting challenge to get there. A difficult trip even for the five-billion-lire Bugatti. But if we didn’t make it, well, space is not a bad place to end. The cold airless dark where God lives.
Not butchered by animals.
1 December 2080
The Hon. William Mason (Comm., MA)
House of Representatives
Washington, D.C.
Dear Dr. Mason:
If you are reading this letter I am no longer alive. It is one of forty-seven copies I have asked to be mailed in the event of my dying violently or under otherwise suspicious circumstances.
I was killed by fellow Stileman immortal Charles Briskin. My death was a minor act in a conspiracy designed to take over the Stileman Foundation, and eventually the world. (Briskin’s so-called “Steering Committee” has also disposed of at least three other immortals: Eric Lundley, Lamont Randolph, and Dmitri Popov.)
This letter is going to every member of the Board of Governors of the Stileman Foundation. Some of you are no doubt allies of Briskin. Possibly all of you. If no obvious action is taken within the next month, then the person who mailed these letters will mail another batch—this time 183 of them, to every major news medium in the world.
I was invited to join the Steering Committee. When I declined, on April 14 of this year, an attempt was made on my life in Dubrovnik, Yugoslavia. The assassin was successful in killing Eric Lundley, a crime for which I was later accused. (The accusation is ridiculous; Eric and I were friends and partners through four Stileman rejuvenations.)
My agent will be watching for a public statement from the foundation about Briskin and the Steering Committee. Preferably something that clears my name of murder. Otherwise, you’re going to be the center of some very unwelcome attention.
Sincerely,
Dallas Barr
They caught the stealthed submarine a little after midnight, gale-force winds surging needle blasts of heavy rain across the island, lightning crazing the blackness. The ship wallowed and bobbed dizzily through the shallows, following channels to deep water, but gave a smooth ride once it was under the surface. When they came up two hours later in a cove south of Miami, the storm had abated to a steady driving rain. Six of them went ashore in a half-swamped inflatable raft with too small a motor, homing in on a dim blinking light inside a dilapidated boathouse. They were met by a taciturn man who said he would take them into town in the morning. Meanwhile, sleep in the boathouse.
It was less than ideal for sleep, a leaky roof dripping from a dozen places, small creatures scuttling in the darkness. Possibly all six of them were fleeing for their lives. That could also encourage insomnia. Dallas and Maria found a place that was only damp and tried to get some rest, Dallas with his back against the plank wall and Maria with her head on his lap. By dawn she was snoring softly. Dallas was wide awake, having nightmares.
Dallas
Our host was a small-scale farmer, backyard full of elephant garlic and marijuana bushes. His primary vehicle was a school bus so ancient that it had no automation other than a failsafe—and the failsafe kicked in twice, grounding us, when the “gawd damn muthuh-in’ ser-kit bray-uk-uhs” acted up. I felt conspicuous in the antique, but once we had joined the stream of rush-hour traffic we didn’t stand out so much. It’s not a wealthy area; there were a lot of old wrecks putting along.
The other four re
fugees were headed for Ciudad Miami, the more prosperous Spanish-speaking quarter. Maria and I got off earlier, in the seedy University Heights area where I once lived.
There’s no university there anymore, and “heights” is not a word you could accurately apply to any part of Florida. The people who live there call it Puny Uni or Burnout. Half of it was gutted by fires in the Food Riots, and nobody’s rushed in to rebuild.
I had the farmer drop us at the Big Tweety Motel, which featured a neon baby bird boasting “Kleen Cheep Rooms.” If anyone looked for us there, we would deserve whatever they had in mind.
It did cost less than a twentieth of what we’d paid in the Conch Republic, and indeed it was clean, ozone-smelling. Small, windowless, a hard bed with a picture of Jesus nailed over it. Combination shower stall and toilet, to save time. While Maria was using it, I checked the one drawer. Gideon Bible with the cover torn off, decorated with some obscene cartoons, pretty well done. Feeling vaguely guilty for being amused by it, I put it away before Maria came out.
I stretched out on the short bed, feet hanging over the end, and the sleepless night suddenly caught up with me. Maria eased in next to me while I was floating on the edge of sleep and kissed my cheek lightly.
It was early afternoon when I woke. Maria had gone out quietly and found bread, cheese, sausage, wine. No cups or plates; I cut things up with my clasp knife and we passed the bottle back and forth. Strong American cheddar and garlicky German sausage. It was the best meal I’d had since before Dubrovnik.
“Maybe we should rest a few days,” I said. “Lay low. The police report and the letter ought to throw them off the trail. Maybe for good.”
“I don’t know,” she said, intent on peeling the casing from a sausage. “We’ll have a lot of time in space where we won’t be able to do anything but rest. And we’ll know we’re safe, there. Anyplace on Earth, one of them might be waiting behind any door we open.”
“It’s possible,” I admitted. “See what Eric says?” She nodded and I got the reader out of our suitcase.
“Hello there,” the image said. “Still on the island?”
“No, we had a handy storm and slipped out.”
“Good. Shall we go about getting you a spaceship?”
Maria allowed herself a small smile. “I was thinking about hiding out for a while first. Get our bearings, rest up.”
“Whatever you want. But if I were you I’d get the hell out. You’re probably still in Florida, right?”
“Well.…”
“If I can figure that out, so can Briskin. You should’ve gotten on the tube straight off the boat. Go to Montana or someplace.”
“He thinks I’m dead. Body, police report, everything.”
“If you can buy a cop, Briskin can outbid you. Besides, he’s probably figured out that Maria’s with you—did you supply a body for her, too?”
“No.”
“She’s just as dangerous to them as you are, now. The best thing you could do is leave a delayed-action time bomb, publicity, and go to high ground as soon as possible.”
“We’ve set up the time bomb,” I said, and explained about the letter. “I thought we might want to wait around and see what happens.”
“I think you’d better not. If you’re headed for Novysibirsk and suddenly hear that Briskin and his gang have been arrested and thrown in jail, you can always turn around and come home. What you can’t do is get away once they’ve found you.”
“Two against one,” Maria said.
They were right, of course. “All right, damn it. How do we go about hiring this patched-up hodgepodge of a spaceship?”
“Just tell me how much you can afford and hook me up to NatNet. It has a rocket jock exchange magazine called Crash & Burn.”
“Sense of humor, wonderful.” I emptied out my purse, and so did Maria. We did a quick count. “Comes to two hundred grand and some change, and two kilos of gold. They’re worth a couple of hundred grand, themselves.”
“As of noon, two hundred and thirteen thousand and eight hundred dollars. You’ll probably want to take that to Novysibirsk, though. Metal’s more reliable than currency out there. That’s enough to live well on for a couple of years—insofar as anyone lives well there.”
“Best done quickly.” I picked up a few small bills and Eric. It was too warm for a jacket, but I put it on for the shattergun in the pocket. “See a pay phone while you were out?”
“There’s a power station on the corner, up to the right. I think there was one there.”
The bright glare of the afternoon sun made my eyes water. I sneezed three times.
Smell of old smoke. It couldn’t still be around, after ninety years. Maybe they burn sections off every now and then, for old times’ sake.
The power station didn’t look too good. There was nobody visible, customer or proprietor, but there were two floaters being charged, one in the quick-fill bay. I wouldn’t leave one alone in this neighborhood. Then the door to the toilet opened and the customer came out; at the same time I noticed the cashier, a holo simulacrum hard to see in this light. I chided myself for paranoia and went to the phone over by the slow-charge bay.
The smallest I had was a ten, and it was more than enough. I hooked Eric up and the end-of-transaction signal chimed in less than a second.
“Gets a brain in there, hmm?” I turned; it was the man I’d thought was the customer. A head taller than I was and muscular. “Fast one, too. Le’s have a lookie.” He had his hand out and a smile that was slightly horrible, incisors replaced with metal fangs. Both earlobes had been cropped off, and he had ritual X scars on the cheeks, one under each eye. He was also missing the last joint on each little finger. All of the mutilations were probably signs of rank.
“¿No comprende anglais?” He waggled his hand impatiently. “¡Dame el lector, cabrón!”
“I’ll give you something,” I said, and hauled out the shattergun.
“O-o-ooh,” he crooned, mocking. “If that real, it ain’t legal. You don’ look like no croid, though. So mus’ not be real.”
He took a step toward me, and I took a step toward him, thrusting the weapon forward. “Try it, shitbrain.” He leaned back, still with the lopsided carnivorous grin, and I heard or sensed something behind me, spun around, and ducked just under a swinging metal pipe. The pipe clanged against the wall, and I swung the reader up hard between the second guy’s legs. He dropped the pipe and grabbed his groin, staggering. I punched him as hard as I could on the bridge of his nose with my elbow, knocking him down, and spun back around.
The ugly one was in a crouch that could have been defense or offense. My thumb was still hovering over the shattergun’s button. “You’ve got about two seconds to be missing. Or I’m gonna do the world a favor.”
“No you not,” he said quietly.
“Blow you to shreds.”
“No you not. You blow that thing, you got rats from six precincts on you ass before the dus’ settle. ’Prendo you don’ want that.”
“It’d be worth it.”
“’Prendo not.” He inched toward me, his hands making slow circles.
It was an impasse, all right, but only a temporary one. I had the little tangler clipped to my inside pocket. I set down the reader to free my right hand. “Here. Just don’t hurt me.”
He stood up and strode toward me. “That’s more—” The tangler hit him as he was reaching for the reader. He twitched convulsively and fell right on top of it, screaming. Then he arched his back and tried to lie still, knowing what had happened. I had to move him to retrieve Eric, of course, which caused more screams and an outpouring of sincere invective in two languages.
I ran back toward the motel. “What the hell is going on?” Eric asked.
“You almost had a new companion. Where are we headed?”
“New Mexico, probably. We ought to talk about it.”
“Better just get on the tube. Attracting too much attention.” The screaming had stopped, though, and so
far no floaters with sirens. Screams were probably not all that rare here.
ΔΔGenDyne Europa 6—late 2069 model w/ 2072 AMC power plant (dev. 1230 megaj. peak), 2-pass. Sov. war surplus life support, easy Mars/Venus, all Mitsubishi A.I. commo. nav: turnkey sac. $200,000 firm. Call 602-33-985-8923 anytime.
Note from Eric: This beauty has been on the market for 19 months, price dropping from $300K. The Europas were disasters, but with the AMC plant it should be a good machine.
Maria had not used the American tube system since the year it first opened, when it was one of the great engineering marvels of the world. It gave the Americans an actual freedom to travel that many of them thought was implicit in their Constitution, since it made a trip across the country only a little more expensive than a trip across town. Unfortunately, it soon became part of the underworld, figuratively as well as literally. People could get to Denver for ten dollars apiece—but they had to hire two hundred-dollar bodyguards before daring to go downstairs.
The guards were big men, black and white, in sleek black Pinkerton bulletproofs, armed with saps and zaps, crowd-pleasers, an assault rifle, and a sawed-off shotgun.
The black man took the money and two return tickets. “We get on the other side of Security, y’all stay between us all the time. Shootin’ starts, you just get down and cover your head. Carryin’ a weapon?”
“Shattergun and a stinger,” Dallas said. “Some other stuff in the suitcase.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Don’ wanna use the shattergun down there. Break somethin’, they jus’ put you down, I mean the feds. Wanna put it in your suitcase anyway, get through Security.”
“Stinger, too,” the white man said. “Keep it on the outside, where you can get to it, though.”
“Had some trouble this station couple days ago. Buncha griefballs jumped us, plastic knives. Hurt a customer. Hadda kill two.”
“You get in trouble for that?” Dallas asked.
“Unh-unh,” the black man said. “Save the rats some work. They like ta give us a medal.”