Olefin nodded, at something. “How’d you like another long-term job instead?”
Chaim sat up, not hiding his eagerness. “Doing what—prospecting?”
“Conducting a media campaign.”
Dartagnan slumped forward, oddly disappointed. “That’s—a hell of a compliment, from a total stranger. Are you sure you mean it? And what kind of a campaign—what are you planning to sell?”
“Planet Two.”
Dartagnan sat up straight again. “What?”
“The colonizing of Planet Two from the Demarchy.”
Geez Allah: a job offer from a maniac. A rich maniac…He reached for his camera. At least this won’t be dull—
“Let’s forget about that thing for a while—” Olefin shook his head. “I’ll talk to it all you want, if you accept the job. But hear me out, before you type me as a crank.”
Chaim grinned sheepishly. “Whatever you say.” He toyed with the lens, aiming it where it lay; he jammed the trigger ON. A sound pierced his left eardrum, barely audible even to him, at the extreme upper end of the register. He gambled that Olefin’s hearing wasn’t good enough to pick it up. More than one way to get a good interview…a job in the hand’s worth two in the offing. “Okay, then, would you care to expand on your reasons for wanting to establish a colony on a hellhole like Planet Two?” He settled back, hands massaging his injured leg.
Olefin laughed, sobered. “How many megaseconds would you estimate Heaven Belt has left?”
Dartagnan looked at him blankly. “Before what?”
“Before civilization collapses entirely; before we all join the hundred million people who died right after the Civil War.”
Dartagnan remembered Mecca City, a manmade geode in the heart of the rock, towers like crystal growths in every imaginable shading of jewel color. He tried to imagine it as a place of death, and failed. “I don’t know about the scavengers back in the Main Belt, but I don’t see any reason why the Demarchy can’t go on forever, just like it always has.”
“Don’t you?…No. I suppose you don’t. Nobody does. I suppose they don’t want to face the inevitability of death. And who am I to blame them?”
“We all have to die someday.”
“But who really believes that? Maybe the fact that Esso was wiped out by the war, the fact that I was squandering literally the last of the family fortune, made me see it so clearly: that humanity’s existence here has a finite end; and that end’s in sight. Speaking of making mistakes, we made a hell of a big one—the Civil War—and one mistake in Heaven and you’re damned forever. Damned dead…
“Existing in an asteroid belt depends entirely on an artificial ecosystem. Everything that’s vital for life, we have to process or make ourselves—air, water, food; everything. But like any other ecosystem—more than most—you destroy enough of it, and nothing that’s left can survive for long. It has to retreat, or die. Back in the Solar Belt they had Earth to retreat to, if they needed it, where everything necessary for life happened naturally. But at the time Heaven was colonized, this hadn’t happened to them, so they didn’t foresee the need. When the old Belters colonized this system, they figured that the raw elements—the ores and the minerals, the frozen gases around Discus—were all they had to have. Never occurred to anyone that sometime they wouldn’t be able to process them.
“But that’s what happened. Most of the capital industry in Heaven was destroyed during the war. What we’ve got left is barely adequate, and there’s no way we can expand or even replace it. Hell, the Ringers are hardly surviving now, and if they go under I don’t know how our own distilleries are going to make it…How good are you at holding your breath?”
Dartagnan laughed uneasily. “But—” He groped for a rebuttal, found his mind empty, like his sudden vision of the future. “But—all right. So maybe you’re right, we are sliding downhill to the end…If there’s nothing we can do to save ourselves, why worry about it? Just make the best of what we’ve got, while we’ve still got it.”
“But that’s the point! There is something we can do—starting now, we can establish a colony here on Planet Two, against the time when technology fails and the Demarchy can’t support us anymore.”
“I don’t see the point.” Dartagnan shook his head. “It’s even harder to stay alive here than out in space. Even in a suit, you’d freeze to death! The atmosphere sucks the warmth out of you, even now, when the sun’s up. And the gravity—”
“Gravity here’s only a quarter what the human body was built to withstand. As for the cold—our equipment wasn’t designed to deal with it, but it’d be easy enough to adapt; all we need is better insulation. This’s no worse than parts of old Earth. Antarctica, for instance. No warmer than this, and snow up to here; but they didn’t mind. The greatest thing human beings have going for them is adaptability! If those dirt-siders could do it, a Belter can do it.” Olefin’s hands leaped with emphasis, his eyes gleaming like agate, lit by an inner vision. “In fact, part of my idea for a media campaign would be to rename this planet Antarctica: ‘Return to nature, cast off the artificial environment; live the way man was meant to live’—”
“I don’t know…” Dartagnan’s head moved again in negation. “You sure this place is no colder than Earth? Besides, the atmosphere’s still unbreathable.”
“But it’s not! That’s one of the most crucial points the public has to be made aware of. One of the experimental projects here was a study of the atmospheric conditions—and it proved conclusively that the atmosphere of this world is denser than it was when we first came into the system. The way the various periodicities of its orbit add up right now is causing the polar caps to melt, freeing the gases. The atmosphere’s thin and dry compared to what we’re used to, but it’s breathable. I know; I’ve tried it.”
“For how long?” Dartagnan felt a sudden constricted panic at the thought of trying to breathe an alien atmosphere; his hand rose to his throat. “How’s that possible? How could there be enough free oxygen?”
“Don’t know. But there is; I’ve been out two, three kilosecs at a time.”
Dartagnan looked down, polishing the polish on the worn vinyl of his boot. “You’d have to live underground, I suppose; help to conserve heat. But we do that anyhow. And solar power—it’s a lot closer in to the sun…”
“There, you see!” Olefin nodded eagerly. “You’re starting to see the possibilities. It’s the answer; we had to find an answer, and this is it. This can make your career! With the money I make off of this salvage sale, we can launch a media campaign that’ll convert the entire Demarchy. What do you say, Dartagnan?”
Chaim stopped polishing, kept his face averted. “I want a chance to think over what you told me first, Demarch Sekka-Olefin. I still can’t really see this place as the Garden of Allah…I’ll give you my answer before we lift off, all right?” He realized that the real question he needed an answer to was whether this was what he wanted to do with the rest of his life…or whether he really had any choice. But a kind of excitement rose in him like desire, filling the void Olefin’s future had created, with the knowledge that if he sold himself to Sekka-Olefin, he might not be selling out at all.
“Fair enough…” Olefin was saying, smiling, as though he already had his answer. “I expect my numerous blood-sucking relations are going to be prostrate with grief when they hear about my plans for this salvage money. They didn’t appreciate my spending what was left of the family inheritance on this project; I didn’t name that ship out there; they named it, after me…” He laughed at his own joke. “And my mother-ship up there in orbit isn’t called the Mother for nothing.”
Dartagnan began a grin, heard footsteps in the hall, and felt his face lose all expression again. He drew his aching leg off of the cot, positioned it gingerly on the floor. He stood up, and was suddenly afraid to move.
Olefin leaned past him, pulled a long t-barred pole from under the cot, and held it out. Chaim saw that the ends were wrapped in rags. “Here
,” Olefin said, “use my crutch. I fell down the goddamned steps in the dark when I first got here.”
Chaim finished the grin this time, as Siamang arrived in the doorway, his helmet under his arm. Dartagnan’s eyes moved from Olefin’s face to Siamang’s. He realized suddenly that he had made his decision. He bowed.
Siamang bowed to them in return, his gaze shielded by propriety. “I trust I haven’t inconvenienced you, Demarch Sekka-Olefin. I’m sure you want to make your repairs and get off of this miserable planet as soon as possible.” He chafed his arms through his suit. “My pilot tells me we’ll have to lift off before sunset, ourselves; our storage batteries are getting low from trying to maintain temperatures in the ship. But I’ve got good news—permission to do whatever’s necessary to reach an agreement with you about that software.” A gleam like a splinter of ice escaped his eyes. Dartagnan tried to see whether his pupils were dilated, couldn’t.
“Good, then.” Olefin nodded. “Maybe we can discuss business matters further, after all.”
“My hope as well. But first—if you don’t mind—I would like to take a look at what we’re going to be bargaining for.”
Olefin looked vaguely surprised; Dartagnan wondered what Siamang thought he could tell simply by looking at program spools. Olefin shrugged. “If you don’t mind going back out into the ‘weather,’ Demarch Siamang. I’ve got them aboard the Esso Bee.”
Siamang grimaced. “That’s what I was afraid of. But yes, I’d still like to see them.”
They made their way across the shifting, slatey dust to the base of Olefin’s landing craft. Dartagnan stopped, staring at the ladder that climbed the mass of the solid-fuel module between jutting pod-feet. His muscles twitched with fatigue, his ankle screamed abuse along the corridors of his nerves.
Siamang looked at his upturned faceplate. “You’ll never make it up there, Red.” Siamang’s voice inside his helmet was oddly unperturbed, and slurred, very slightly. “Don’t worry about it, you’ve got plenty of film footage. Just record the audio…and worry about how you’ll get back on board our own ship.” Siamang’s glove closed lightly on his shoulder, good-humoredly, unexpectedly. Startled, he watched them climb the ladder and disappear through the lock.
Dartagnan settled on a rung of the ladder, grateful that for now at least the atmosphere was at rest, and kept its own invisible hands off of him. The sun was dropping down from its zenith in the ultramarine shell of the sky; he noticed tiny flecks of gauzy white sticking to the flawless, sapphire purity of blue, very high up. He realized he was seeing clouds from below. He began to shiver, wondering when the others would finish their business, and whether it would be before he froze to death. Their cautious haggling droned on, filling his ears; he began to feel sleepy under the anesthetic of cold…
He shook his head abruptly, stood up, waking himself with pain. He realized then that the ghost-conversation inside his helmet was no longer either droning or polite; heard Siamang threatening: “This’s my last offer, Olefin. I advise you to take it, or I’ll have to—”
“Put it away, Siamang. Threats don’t work with me. I’ve been around too long—”
Dartagnan heard vague, disassociated noises, a cry, a thud. And finally, Siamang’s voice: “Olefin. Olefin?” Numbed with another kind of coldness, Chaim focused his camera on the hatchway, and waited.
Siamang appeared, dragging Olefin’s limp, suited form. He gave it a push; Dartagnan stumbled back as it dropped like a projectile to the dust in front of him, to lie twisted, unmoving. Dumbfounded, he went on filming: the corpse, Siamang’s descent of the ladder; the Death of a Dream.
Siamang came toward him across the fire-fused dust, took the camera out of his nerveless hands. He pried the thumb-sized film cassette loose and threw it away. Dartagnan saw it arc downward, disappear somewhere out in the endless blue-gray silt of the plain: His own future, mankind’s future, Sekka-Olefin’s last will and testament, lost to his heirs—lost to mankind, forever. “That wouldn’t have made very good copy, now, would it?” Siamang dropped the camera, stepped on the fragile lens aperture with his booted foot. He picked it up again, handed it back. “Too bad your camera broke when you took that fall. But we don’t hold bad luck against a man, as long as he cooperates. I’m sure I can depend on you to cooperate, in return for the proper incentive?”
Dartagnan struggled to reach his voice. “He—he’s really dead?” “No corporation would stoop to murder,” Olefin had said…
Siamang nodded; his hand moved slightly. Dartagnan saw the dark sheen of metal. Siamang was armed. A dart-gun; untraceable poison. “I can depend on you, can’t I, Red? I’d like to keep this simple.”
“I’m your man, boss…body and soul,” Dartagnan whispered. Thinking, I’ll see you in hell for this; if it’s the last thing I ever do.
“That’s what I figured…It was an accident, he fell; he was too damned fragile, he’d been in space too long. I never intended to kill him. But that doesn’t make much difference, under the circumstances. So I think we’ll just say he was alive when we left him. His body’ll freeze out here, nobody can prove he didn’t fall after we left—if anybody ever even bothers to investigate. Anybody could see he drank too much.”
“Yeah…anybody.” The wind was rising, butting against Dartagnan’s body; the dust shifted under his feet, eroding his stability.
“I’m sure you can construct a moving account of our mission, even without film—a portrait in words of the grateful old man, the successful conclusion of our business transaction…” Siamang brushed the metal container fixed at the waist of his suit. “Do a good, convincing job, and I’ll make it more than worth your while,” Dartagnan felt more than saw the aggressor’s eyes assess him, behind Siamang’s helmet-glass. “What’s your fondest wish, Red? Head of our media staff? Company pilot? Maybe a ship of your own?…Name it, it’s yours.”
“A ship,” he mumbled, startled. “I want a ship,” thinking wildly, The smart businessman knows his client.
“Done,” Siamang bowed formally, offered a gloved hand. Chaim took the hand, shook it.
Siamang’s heavy boot kicked the bottom of his crutch, it flew free. Dartagnan landed flat on his back in the dirt.
“Just remember your place, Red; and don’t get any foolish ideas.” Siamang turned away, starting back toward their ship across the lifeless plain.
Dartagnan belly-flopped into the airlock, lay gasping for long seconds before he pulled himself to his feet and started it cycling. He removed his helmet, picked up his crutch, started after Siamang into the control room. The vision of Mythili Fukinuki formed like a fragile blossom in the empty desolation of his mind; he forced his face into obedient blankness, hoped it would hold, as the image in his mind became reality.
She stood at the panel, arms folded, listening noncommittally to Siamang’s easy lies. Chaim entered the cramped cabin, she glanced at him as Siamang said, “Isn’t that about all, Red?”
“I guess so, boss.” He nodded, not sure what he had agreed to. He stopped, balancing precariously, as her eyes struck him like a slap.
“I’m afraid that’s not all, Demarch Siamang.” Mythili pushed away from the panel, set her gaze of loathing hatred against Siamang’s own impenetrable stare. A small knife glittered suddenly in her hand. “There’s the matter of a murder.” She gained the satisfaction of seeing Siamang’s self-confidence suddenly crack. “I didn’t like what I heard when you talked to your father, and so I monitored your suit radio. I heard everything.” She looked again at Dartagnan, and away. “And I intend to tell everything, when we get back to the Demarchy. You won’t get away with it.”
“Never underestimate the power of a woman.” Siamang smiled sourly, flexing his hands. “I don’t suppose it would do any good to point out that if you turn me in you’ll be out of a job; whereas if you were willing to play along, you could have any job you wanted?”
“No,” she said, “it wouldn’t. Not everybody has a price.”
“I didn
’t expect you would, in any case. But I expect you’re getting a great deal of pleasure out of doing this to me, Fukinuki…Unfortunately, there’s another old saying, ‘Never underestimate your enemy.’ I’m terminating your services, Mythili. You’re not getting a chance to talk.” Siamang produced the gun, raised it.
She stiffened, lifting her head defiantly. “You won’t kill me. I’m your pilot, you need me to get you home.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. As you pointed out to me, Red here is a qualified pilot. So I don’t really need you anymore. You’ve made yourself expendable. Drop the knife, Mythili.” His hand tightened. “Drop it or I’ll kill you right now.”
Slowly her fingers opened; the knife clattered on the floor. Siamang picked it up.
Dartagnan swore under his breath. “But, boss, I’m not qualified to pilot anything like this—”
“A ship’s a ship.” Siamang frowned. “You’ll manage.”
“Chaim—” she turned to him desperately, “help me. He won’t kill us both, he’d never get back to the Demarchy if he did! Together we can stop him; don’t let him get away with this—”
“I’ll kill you both if I have to, and pilot the ship myself.” Siamang’s eyes turned deadly; Dartagnan saw the dilated pupils clearly now—and believed him.
“He’s bluffing,” Mythili said.
Chaim caught her gaze, pleading. “Mythili, for God’s sake, change your mind. Tell him you’ll keep your mouth shut. Go along with him, it isn’t worth it, it’s not worth your life.”
She looked away from him, deaf and blind.
“Save your breath, Red. I wouldn’t trust her anyway…she’s got too much integrity. And besides, she hates me too much; she’d never change her mind. She’s just been waiting for a chance like this, look at her—” Anger strained his voice. “No. I think we’ll just drop her off somewhere between here and the Demarchy, and let her walk home. And in the meantime—” he moved toward her suddenly, “—we might as well have a little fun.” He blocked her as she tried to escape, threw her back against the instrument panel, ripping open the seal of her jumpsuit.
Outcasts of Heaven Belt Page 4
