Heaven Chronicles Page 24

  He remembered Snows-of-Salvation as it had been when he arrived with the Demarchy engineers: endless grayness honeycombing the ice and stone; a chill that crept into a man's bones until he couldn't remember warmth; a small gray population, a people renting space in purgatory. A people fanatical to the point of insanity, in the eyes of the Demarchy. He had been sent to keep demarch and Ringer from each others' throats—sent because no one better qualified had been willing to go. He had stayed to see that two incompatible and suspicious groups never forgot their common goal of increasing the supply of volatiles. And in the fifty megaseconds he had spent in his grim and lonely exile, he had come to know a number of men he could only call friends and had seen more of the Ringers' Grand Harmony than any other demarch. He had come to understand the chronically marginal life that existed for the Ringers everywhere; to see, almost painfully, what made them endure their oppressive collectivist ideology: the knowledge that they must always pull together or they would not survive.…

  The captain's voice drew him back. His eyes fixed on her where she hung before the viewscreen, her hair floating softly, free from gravity, her shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow. He stared, the present an overlay on the past. The clean, colored warmth of the control room drove out a dreary poverty that made Morningside's plainness suddenly seem frivolous.

  Morningside … could he ever have come to see its people as clearly as he had seen the Ringers? How long did it take to feel at ease with a people who offended your sense of propriety in every way imaginable? Whose behavior slipped through your attempts to categorize it the way water slipped between your fingers.… Four kilosecs ago he had come to the upper level to get himself some food. He had found the captain and Welkin already in the dining hall and Bird Alyn playing her guitar. They had all been singing; as though in four thousand seconds they were not going to commit an act of piracy or face one more trial whose outcome meant freedom and life for all of them.…

  Together we find courage.

  Our song will never cease.…

  Or perhaps, he had realized suddenly, they sang because they were much too aware and afraid of that fact. Not what you sing, or how, Welkin had said, but how it makes you feel. Suddenly aware of his own part in that coming trial, he had been drawn across the room to join them by something stronger than curiosity … only to have Betha Torgussen's face close and lose its warmth as she saw him; only to have her rise from the table, braking the pattern of song, and abruptly leave the room.

  “… I can't believe this reading, Pappy. They should be frying down there, but they're not. There's no magnetosphere, no trapped radiation field.… Do you know anything about this, Abdhiamal?” The captain glanced over her shoulder at him, not quite meeting his eyes.

  He looked past her at the screen. “This is Heaven, after all. Captain. Discus's radiation fields are strong enough, but they don't reach much higher than the rings. That was one of the things that brought us to this system—the rocks and snowballs around Discus are accessible as they never were around Old Jupiter.” He caught her eyes. “You don't seem very concerned about whether we were fryin'?”

  “We make good shielding on Morningside, or we'd have fried long ago.” She broke away, as she always did, now; looked up at Bird Alyn hanging near the ceiling above her head. “Bird Alyn, find the local talk frequency for me.” Her voice was calm.

  Bird Alyn nodded, braced against the ceiling, and swooped down to the panel to catch up an earjack.

  “Where's Shadow Jack?” Welkin asked.

  Bird Alyn stared at the panel, said something inaudibly.

  “What?”

  “… don't know … said … didn't think he could face …” She shrugged. The room filled with static as she switched on the receiver. The static slurred abruptly into words. The words sharpened as Bird Alyn locked them in. “Here …”

  “What are they broadcasting?”

  “They're talkin' to a ship, I think; a tanker. I heard ‘hydrogen.’”

  “Good—then let's rudely interrupt them.” The captain reached for the broadcast button. “You're sure they'll know who we are, Abdhiamal?”

  “I'm sure. Even the Ringers have had time to spread word of what happened to that ship by now. And if their propaganda is as extreme as it usually is, they'll expect you to be a butcher. They'll—respect your threat.”

  “All right.” She wet her lips, pushed the button. “Snows-of-Salvation, Snows-of-Salvation, come in please …”

  The speaker shrilled irritation; Bird Alyn jerked the earjack away from her head.

  “Who is that? Get the hell off this freq! There's a mixed-load dockin' in progress here! Do you—”

  The captain's hand on the button cut him off. “Tell them to hold off, we have something more important to say to you.”

  “Who is this?”

  “This is …” She hesitated. “… the ship your Navy attacked two megaseconds ago … the ship from Outside.” She released the button.

  No answer came.

  “You've impressed them.” Wadie smiled, humorlessly.

  A different voice came through, a voice that was strangely familiar to him, ordering the unseen tanker into a holding orbit. Welkin reached across the comm panel, by Bird Alyn's shoulder, and a new segment of the screen erupted into a blizzard of static now. “We're receiving wideband.” He input a sequence on the console; abruptly the screen showed a squeezed triple image. He ordered in a correction, and a single black-and-white picture re-formed. They saw a pinched face squinting from behind wire-rimmed spectacles: a middle-aged man in a heavy, quilted jacket and a thick knit cap. “We're transmitting compatible now, too,” Welkin said. The captain nodded, seeming to take the old man's skill for granted.

  “What is it you want here?” The familiar voice matched a familiar face, harsh with anger or fear. With anger … Djem Nakamore was too stubborn and dogmatic to acknowledge anything else. Wadie pushed out of his line of sight as Nakamore glared at Betha Torgussen.

  Her face hardened, staring Nakamore down. “We want one thousand tons of processed hydrogen, sent out on the trajectory I give you to our ship. If you fail to do this, I'll destroy your distillery, and you'll all die.” The hardness seemed to come easily; Wadie felt surprised.

  He watched their expressions change, the two strangers in the background showing real fear. Nakamore stiffened upright, drifting off-center on the screen.

  “You won't destroy us. Even the Demarchy would want you dead if you did that.”

  “We're not from your system; you're nothing to us. The Demarchy is nothing. I hope you all go to hell together for what you've done to us; but Snows-of-Salvation will get there first unless you obey my orders.”

  “… they meant it …” a blurred voice said in the background. Nakamore turned away abruptly, cutting off sound. He spoke to the others, their eyes still flickering to the screen, faces tense, their breath frosting in the cold air as they spoke. Nakamore turned back to the panel, out of sight below him, and punched the sound on. “We don't have a thousand tons of hydrogen on hand. We never have that much, and we just sent out a big shipment.”

  Wadie shook his head. “They'd never let the supply get that low. The output is nearly three thousand tons per megasec, and they have at least four times that as backlog in case the distillery goes off-line for repairs.”

  The captain twisted to look at him, cutting off sound in return. “You're that familiar with their operation?”

  He nodded. “I told you—I spent almost fifty million seconds down there. I saw that distillery put together and saw it go into operation. I know what it can do. And I know that man …” He remembered Djem Nakamore's face, the bald head reddened by the light from a primitive methane-burning stove; remembered the amused face of Djem's visiting half-brother, Raul. He heard the hiss as water sweated from the ceiling to drop and steam on the stove's greasy surface, as he waited while Djem pondered his next painfully predictable move that would lose him his hundredth, or his thousandth,
game of chess to Wadie Abdhiamal. Stubborn, didactic, and unimaginative … honest, forthright, and dedicated to his duty. No match, as Djem had told him, often enough and without resentment, for Wadie's own quick and devious mind—yet too stubborn not to go on trying to win. Wadie adjusted the earflaps of his heavy hat, put out a hand to move his queen. Checkmate.… “I know that man. Push him; he's not—devious enough to know whether you're bluffin'. And he'll do anything to keep that distillery intact.” He realized suddenly that it could have been Raul instead who faced them now and was glad, for all their sakes, that it was not. He looked away as he spoke, avoiding the bright image on the screen and Betha Torgussen's eyes.

  The captain frowned slightly, then turned back to Nakamore on the screen. “I don't accept that. You have twenty-five thousand seconds to give us the hydrogen or be destroyed.”

  “That's impossible! … It would take at least a hundred thousand seconds.”

  “Lie,” Wadie said softly, shook his head again. “He's stalling; Central Harmony keeps plenty of naval units in this volume, and he's hopin' some of 'em will get here in time.”

  Nodding, she repeated flatly, “You have twenty-five kiloseconds. I know you have a high-performance linear accelerator down there. Use it. I don't want any manned vehicles to approach us. Copy coordinates …” She spoke the numbers carefully.

  As she finished speaking Nakamore looked past her, angry and beaten, but little of it showing on his face. “Are you there givin' her the answers, Wadie?”

  Wadie hung motionless … speechless. He pushed away from the panel at last, out into Nakamore's view. “Yeah, Djem, it's me.”

  “We picked up the broadcast debates from the Demarchy—how they've outlawed you. I figured maybe you'd—” Nakamore's face set, with the righteous anger of a man to whom loyalty was everything; with the pain of a man betrayed by a friend. “We were fools not to see what you and your … starship aliens would try. Why stop with a thousand tons of hydrogen? Why not take it all?”

  “One thousand tons of hydrogen is all we need, Djem. And we need it bad, or I wouldn't put you through this.” Without fuel, the starship was trapped, prey to the first group quick enough to take it. And then the Grand Harmony, the Demarchy, and everyone else would be the prey. Then the threats would be no bluff. This was for the best; this was the only choice he could possibly make, the only sane choice. If he could only … He started, “Djem, I—” But no words would come.

  Nakamore waited, his black eyes pitiless. At last he leaned forward, reaching for the unseen panel. “Traitor.” His face disappeared; and with it the last chance of asylum for a banished man. Discus alone lay on the screen.

  The captain sat gazing fixedly at the screen, her mouth pressed together, a brittle golden figurine. Welkin glanced at Wadie, apologetic but saying nothing, saving him from the embarrassment of a witty response that wouldn't come.

  “… think they'll do it?” Bird Alyn pulled at the flapping end of her belt. “What if they don't?”

  “They will.” He found his voice, and his composure. “In fifty million seconds, Djem Nakamore never won a game of chess from me.”

  “You were perfect, Betha.” Welkin turned back, his faded eyes searching the captain's downturned face. “Eric couldn't have put it more convincingly.”

  “If Eric were alive, we wouldn't be doing this.”

  Wadie nodded, relieved. “I almost believed you meant every word of that myself.”

  She struck a match. “What makes you think I didn't, Abdhiamal?” She lit her pipe, facing him with the same hardness that had faced down Snows-of-Salvation. “What have the Ringers down for us lately?”

  “Indeed.” He bowed grimly, looked back at Welkin. “I've learned my lesson—I'll never insult another engineer.” He pushed off toward the door.

  Betha watched him disappear down the stairwell, shaken with the coldness that left her words of apology stillborn.

  “Betha … would you … are you really goin' to … destroy the distillery?” Bird Alyn whispered unhappily.

  Betha met the frightened face. “No, of course not, Bird Alyn, I wouldn't do that. I'm not really a—a butcher.”

  Bird Alyn nodded, blinking, maneuvered backward and started for the door.

  Clewell rubbed his beard. “Then why act like one, Betha? That was a little too convincing for me, too. Or isn't it an act anymore?”

  Shame warmed her face, drove the coldness from her. “You know it is, Pappy! But that damned Abdhiamal—”

  Clewell lifted his head slightly, unfastened his seatbelt. “He's not such a bad sort … for a ‘damned fop.’ He's held up pretty well under one gee … under everything he's been through.” Meaning that she hadn't made things any easier.

  “He's a phony; he's lucky he didn't cripple himself.” She looked away irritably.

  “He's a proud man, Betha. He might not call it that … but anybody who can stand straight and smile while gravity's pulling him apart—or loyalty is—has my admiration. In a way, he reminds me of—”

  “He's not at all like Eric.”

  His eyebrows rose. “That wasn't what I was going to say. He reminds me of you.” He held up a hand, cutting off her indignation. “But now that you mention it, there is something about him … a manner, maybe; even a physical resemblance. Maybe it's why I like him in spite of myself; maybe it's what bothers you. Something does.”

  “Oh, Pappy …” She lifted her hand, pressing her rings against her mouth. “It is true. Every time I look at him, anything he does, he reminds me—But he's not Eric. He's not one of us, he's one of them. How can I feel this way? How can I stop wanting … wanting …” She reached out; Clewell's firm, weathered hand closed over her wrist.

  He smoothed her drifting hair. “I don't know. I don't know the answer, Betha.” He sighed. “I don't know why they claim age is wisdom. Age is just getting old.”

  Shadow Jack moved restlessly, trapped in the too-empty box of the room where he slept, haunted by the ghost of a stranger: manuals on economics, a nonsense song lyric, a hand-knit sweater suspended in midair—a dead man's presence scattered through drawers and cupboards in the clutter of a life's detritus. Rusty clung to his shoulders, her mute acceptance easing the shame of his exile. He stroked her mindlessly, hearing only the ticking of the clock; meaningless divisions marking the endless seconds. He wondered whether they would get what they wanted from the Ringers, wondered how he could face Betha Torgussen again … wondered how he would face the rest of his life.

  Rusty's small, inhuman face rose from his shoulder, her ears flicking. “Bird Alyn?” He pushed to the doorway, saw Wadie Abdhiamal disappear into another room. He heard Abdhiamal's voice, almost inaudible: “Damn that woman! She'd spit in the eye of God.”

  Shadow Jack moved along the hall, stopped at Abdhiamal's doorway, staring. “What's the matter, she spit in your eye?”

  Abdhiamal twisted, a split-second's exasperation on his face. He smoothed his work shirt absently, smoothed his expression. “Yeah … somethin' like that.”

  “What happened up there? Did we get the hydrogen?”

  “Probably …. Why weren't you in the control room?”

  He grimaced. “I couldn't do it. I—I called the captain a pervert.”

  “You what?” Abdhiamal frowned in disbelief.

  Shadow Jack caught the doorway to move on; desperation turned him back. “Can … I talk to you … man to man?”

  Abdhiamal gestured him into the room, no trace of amusement on his face. “Probably. What about?”

  Shadow Jack cleared his throat; Rusty pushed off from his shoulder, rose like a lifting ship, and swam toward Abdhiamal. “How come you never married?”

  Abdhiamal laughed, startled. “I don't know.” He watched the cat, reached out to pull her down to his chest. “Maybe because I never met a woman who'd spit in the eye of God.”

  Shadow Jack's eyes widened; and looking at Abdhiamal, he wondered who was more surprised.

  Abdhiamal laughed a
gain, shrugged. “But somehow I doubt it.”

  “I mean … you said before, that now you never would get married. I thought there was—some other reason.” He reached for the doorframe.

  “There was.”

  He stopped, holding on.

  “I've traveled a lot. That means I've been exposed to high radiation levels and potential genetic damage. We have ways of preservin' sperm so men at least can travel and still raise healthy children. But with the bill of attainder, I'm legally dead now. They'll destroy my account.” Abdhiamal took a deep breath. “And I've been sterilized.”

  Shadow Jack looked back, letting the words come, “I'd be happy if I was sterile!” He shook his head. “I didn't mean … I didn't mean it like that. But we can't ever get married. Bird Alyn and me, because I'm not sterile and she's not. We are defective. We shouldn't ever have children, but we would.…”

  Abdhiamal scratched Rusty under the chin. “It's a simple operation. Can't they perform it on Lansing?”

  “They could … but they won't.” Misery hung on him like a weight. “If you're a Materialist, you're supposed to take responsibility for your own actions. You're supposed to take the consequences, not expect anybody else to do it for you. Like my mother, when my sister was born an' they said she was too defective … my mother had to put her Out.… She wouldn't let my father touch her anymore.” He looked down at his hands. “But the medical technology's bad anyhow. Sometimes I think they just don't want to waste what's left.”