“You Clin?”
“What?” he responded, looking around. Ever since he had signed his indentures, he had gone by an anglicized version of his maternal great-grandfather’s name and been known as Joe Miller.
An amphibian head emerged from the waves and the message on the machine repeated.
“Yes?”
“Me Fatty. Message for you off-planet. Friends seeking.”
“Where you get?”
“Purple fur-thing home port. Give nice gift to deliver. Bigger gift if I can report. Where next work?”
“Uncertain. Dry land. More?
“No.”
“Thanks, Fatty. Clear waters you.”
As a Song Pai supervisor was lumbering up, they both resumed their tasks. The super made no inquiry. These filthworms were probably just talking about how to position a rock. No worries.
The brief encounter with Fatty left Klein confused and disturbed. Someone from Forlan was apparently concerned enough to search for him, but who? Entara or one of the Eyes of Alertness? Forlan security? A minion of the Brotherhood? And how could he make contact to find out? He had never seen a Forlani on Song Pa and he knew they disdained the place. Indentured servants had no com rights, even on-planet. He had heard of elaborate schemes to obtain such coveted privileges, but had no idea how he could arrange it. If he succeeded, he might betray his own location to one of his enemies. Was it worth getting in touch with Entara at all? He had no inkling how she had reacted to Tays’she’s injuries or death. Ayan’we was so independent that she was quite capable of hiding part of the truth from him; Entara had never voiced the same bitterness as the daughter had. Perhaps she had been blamed for the bloodbath and imprisoned or punished somehow. Plenty of reasons to blame Klein for his blundering. He was startled to think that in the years that had gone by she was sure to have given birth to numerous additional children. Was she a proud mother in the midst of a contented family that did not wish to relive old horrors, or a miserable drudge bereft of her offspring and itching to avenge her loneliness? Klein cursed himself for that last image, recalling that it was totally unworthy of the woman who had sacrificed herself in parting with him that night in the mahäme. I really have become a wretched piece of crap! I owe it to her if not to myself to pull myself together and try to better things somehow.
It had been several years since Bill Hollingsworth had been going back and forth between rare consulting jobs, so the glory of his old career at Hyperion Corporation felt like another lifetime to him. The days of monitoring and planning the Domremy colony were gone forever, replaced by the best possible gig he could find—at this moment, an “e-professor” for the Logos Corporation. The job was far less prestigious than it first appeared; in truth, Hollingsworth was a “professor” in name only, delivering recorded lectures on business strategies and administration from a pre-selected set of guidelines and lesson plans Logos approved for all its business teachers. He sometimes wondered why they didn’t simply replace him with a software program, for all the good his “business acumen” was allowed to contribute to their scripted lesson plans, although he suspected the company was betting on the prestige of a former high-level Hyperion employee to boost their enrollment statistics. Hollingsworth did all his work by webinar and online interaction, and he had never seen his supervisor or his students face to face.
As the weeks passed by, Hollingsworth felt more and more distant from his old executive life. The prestige of managing a whole planetary colony (at least that which he didn’t pawn off on Duquesne, he cynically conceded) seemed like a fading dream, replaced by the grinding reality of having to help confused students via webcam and managing his timesheets to make sure he never overbilled Logos for his services. The last evidence of his formerly exalted status was the aging Mercedes-Benz parked in his driveway. The Benz, bought at the height of his former glory, was an “enthusiast-minded” car that offered a rare luxury -- a manual driving function, complete with steering wheel and gear shift. Most cars had become “passenger only,” relying on automated navigation and GPS to ferry their owners from place to place with no input from the owner. Hollingsworth had always harbored contempt for the “drone cars,” as he called them, for they deprived him of one of the last unadulterated joys in his life – the sensation of actually driving.
After a particularly stressful week of administering midterms for his courses, Hollingsworth decided to head out of town, driving on country roads on Saturday to clear his mind. As he left the city, he slowly began to turn off the electronic devices in his car. To finally be rid of those statistics and computer screens that had bored him in Hyperion and plagued him in his new job! The cameras, monitor, and TV were turned off, one by one. Finally, at a traffic stop before the exit to a country backroad, he prepared to finally turn the navigation system off. Of course, this was the last straw in illegality. Deactivating the monitor systems was subject to massive fines, but it was usually treated as a misdemeanor as long as there were no other charges. Nonetheless, ever since the Security Crisis of 2024, all vehicles were required to have a navigation system with transponder that allowed security forces to locate them immediately. In fact, they could be remotely stopped, as well, all over the Earth. Those wild police chases on the highways that could still be seen on archaic law enforcement videos were nearly unknown now, except in the case of extremely sophisticated thieves. As he used his customized switch to create a ghost car that would fool the authorities, he pictured himself as one of those daring and usually doomed adventurers. That treacly synthesized voice, the AI that always seemed to be too sympathetic and nice to the owner, asked him an unfamiliar question:
Are you sure you wish to turn the navigation system completely off? I will not be able to assist you if you choose this option? Please be aware of the following legal consequences…
Sick of a lifetime of computer-assisted decisions and deadlines, Hollingsworth happily pressed the “Yes” button that appeared on the touchscreen. His omniscient electronic helper fell silent, and the car shifted entirely to manual control. He looked out over the horizon, basking in the orange hue of the setting sun, and accustomed himself to the unfamiliar sensation of putting his foot on the brake as he waited for the traffic light to change .
Finally, the light turned green. Hollingsworth felt the roar of his car’s engine as he put his foot on the accelerator and moved forward through the light. A sensation that was mundane, even boring, for most twentieth century drivers felt like the equivalent of being in a Formula One race to Hollingsworth! He felt a sense of purpose, of life pulsing through him as he steered boldly through traffic and put his foot harder onto the accelerator. He watched as the trees and bushes on the sides of the road began to blur and the drone cars around him began to recede into the distance. Their computers, programmed for safety over speed, could never match the speed of a human driver. He heard a loud warning honk come out of one of the drones as he swerved around it. Instead of deterring him, the near accident increased his sense of confidence; he felt like he could handle anything, and stamped his foot harder on the pedal. He heard the navigation computer boot itself up again to warn him, “You are travelling fifteen miles over speed limit. Slow down now!” But he paid the computer no heed; its power over the car had been disabled, leaving him able to go as fast as he wanted.
Suddenly, a man riding a motorcycle in front of Hollingsworth began to slow down. Dammit, this idiot having engine problems? Hollingsworth thought. The man’s bike came to an abrupt stop in front of him in the middle of the road. Hollingsworth tried to swerve his car out of the way, but there wasn’t enough time.
Hollingsworth heard a sickening thud as the front of his Mercedes impacted the bike. The man was sent flying from his machine into the middle of the road, where he lay still. Hollingsworth could hear the sirens of a police car behind him, summoned by the motorcycle‘s automated cry for help. He rushed over to the man and felt for a pulse, but it was quickly fading; he had landed at an angle that had don
e tremendous damage to his spine. As the police arrived, he put his hands up in the air to surrender, awaiting his fate. Goodbye, Mercedes; hello AVM – Aggravated Vehicular Murder.
The next few weeks sped by like a bad dream. He was processed, interrogated, arraigned, interrogated some more, and eventually made bail with the help of a shyster Erica suggested to him (who else could he call for advice?) and at an expense that forced him to liquidate almost everything he owned. Once on bail, all he could think to do was to mope around his nearly empty place until the trial. Since the security forces were cracking down particularly on all mobility violations in the wake of renewed mad-dog car bombings in Texas, the prosecutors were eager to make an example of his case and absolutely gutted him in court.
His counsel, Abraham Barsamanian, had claimed to be “an experienced lawyer in murder cases,” but Hollingsworth had taken a dislike to the man almost as soon as he laid eyes on him. A squirrely little fellow with bushy eyebrows and a stubble beard, Barsamanian seemed to be perpetually nervous, often fidgeting with his pencil or playing some inane game on his phone’s touchscreen when he wasn’t obsessing over legal documents. He rarely looked Hollingsworth in the face, often not even bothering to raise his eyes while consumed with the details of the various legal cases he was involved in. Barsamanian’s neurotic mannerisms made Hollingsworth even more unnerved than he would have otherwise been during the trial, and Hollingsworth found his patience and composure nearly exhausted.
“Abe, you said something about a ‘special plan’ you had yesterday. What exactly is it you’re planning to do? Can’t you at least tell me? My testimony in court was awful, the prosecution’ll eat me alive in their closing arguments! Can’t you get me a plea on a manslaughter charge so I’ll get a lesser sentence?”
“Ah, about that,” Barsamanian sputtered. “The sentence the prosecution is proposing for your AVM charge is minimum 30 years. You’d likely be doing that in a facility like Clevenger Penitentiary, which I wouldn’t recommend for a man of your age…”
“I’d be lucky if I lasted two weeks in Clevenger!” Hollingsworth shouted. “That place is full of gangbangers and murderers! Do you have any idea how to keep me from getting sent there?”
“As you know, Mr. Hollingsworth, the penalties for driving without navigational assistance, except in case of emergency or power failure, are quite severe. The prosecution has made it very clear to the judge and jury that you were joyriding, and that no power failure had occurred in the car’s electronics. Moreover, you have the lesser charge of Willful Police Deception to make things worse. I’d love to be able to get you a simple manslaughter charge, but the prosecution wants to make an example of you: they want it to be very clear that hacking and hot-rodding cars will be met with zero tolerance in regards to punishment.”
“Is there any way you can possibly have me avoid going to Clevenger? It is what I’m paying you for, after all.”
“Ah, the…special plan. I do have some…experience arranging for more lenient sentencing of individuals given extraordinary circumstances, provided there is corporate backing. I’ve talked it over with the judge and prosecution, and we’ve agreed that if you plead guilty to manslaughter, you will not sentenced to 30 years in Clevenger, but life on Domremy instead.”
“A lifetime on Domremy!” Hollingsworth yelled. “If I get sentenced there, I’ll never get back to Earth! Even in Clevenger, I still stand a small chance of getting paroled, especially if I could find some con to rat out. Your ‘brilliant strategy’ was to sentence me to an even worse punishment!”
“You know very well that the chances of anyone incarcerated in Clevenger getting sentence reduction are minute,” Barsamanian said harshly. “Getting sent to Domremy is a commuted sentence. The planet isn’t anywhere near as brutal as it used to be, provided you get assigned to the right town.”
“You make it sound routine. I didn’t think any one is even being sent there anymore. I got the impression they were moving people out instead of moving them in, when they didn’t just let them croak up there and save the transport fees.”
“This is special. And you have some people in your former employer that may be able to arrange an advantageous position on Domremy for you.”
“Was it Hyperion? Did they pay you off too to take this case and get me hustled off to Domremy?” Hollingsworth asked. “After all, they probably want to keep the bad PR as far out of sight as they possibly can. Great headline for them: Former VEOPO jailed in Clevenger. They‘re probably afraid some of their current top staff would wind up there, too.”
“I am not at liberty to divulge the actions of other clients or groups that I may or may not be involved with.”
“Yeah, you keep saying that, you little shitweasel. And here I was, thinking that Barsamanian Defense LLC was just looking to get its name in the papers again years after the Klein trial. You’ve gotten an awful lot of business since then. How many other people have you shuttled off to Domremy with Hyperion’s encouragement?”
“I am not at liberty to divulge case details of…”
“Just forget it,” Hollingsworth said with a sigh. Pondering his downfall after being fired from Hyperion, Hollingsworth realized the error of his earlier reasoning. He had thought that his life was completely disconnected from his Hyperion career after he had been fired, but in truth, his corporate background would follow him to the end of his days. What had once been an opportunity for advancement, money, and power would now be an albatross around his neck that would torment him across the galaxy. Very hesitantly, he finally said, “I’ll take the plea and go to Domremy.” Hyperion better have something damn good lined up for me on Domremy, or I’ll die just as quick there as I would in Clevenger, he thought.
The Dissenters used many meeting places, but the one they used most frequently in Stafford Station was an old barn grouping far outside of town. Rendered redundant and obsolete by newer buildings as agriculture around Stafford Station expanded, its silo was rarely full and often not in use, and the Dissenters had come to prefer it as a location for their clandestine meetings. Guzman remembered the dingy barn from his earlier visit, when he and Klein had tried to win the Dissenters’ support for Klein’s campaign. Since then, he had been to several more appointments, as he inquired about the religion and was eventually allowed to observe some larger meetings, like the one where Peebo chose his penance. But he was still relatively unfamiliar with the rules of order, if any, for Dissenters’ meetings. Their practices continued to surprise him. Rodriguez, who had accompanied him lately, was even less comfortable with the ways of the Circle.
“I don’t like the looks of this place,” said Rodriguez. “Getting us to come out here, in the dead of night, and not showing up at the meeting spot? And we’re supposed to believe there’s only one guy? They could be hiding somewhere, waiting to snipe us. Muy, muy malo.”
“The Dissenters aren’t like that!” said Guzman. “They don’t call people to meetings just to stab ‘em in the back and murder them. Or would you rather take your chances with Alek?”
Rodriguez shook his head. “Still don’t trust these people, or this place.”
The door to the barn swung open. Guzman watched as Trevor walked in and waved. “Welcome Guzman and Rodriguez, friends of Klein. Sorry I was a little bit late tonight, but sometimes farmers like us aren’t the best judges of time. After all, to a farmer, a day ends at sunset.”
“To us, a day ends at sunset too,” said Guzman. He whispered to Rodriguez, “That means not a word of this to anybody outside this barn!” Rodriguez nodded in response, the movement of his head almost imperceptible.
“What brings you back to us, Guzman?” Trevor asked. He was smiling and asked the question in a friendly tone of voice. “Please be honest with me. Trust is the foundation of a New Earth.”
“I’m gonna be straight up honest with you,” Guzman said. “We’ve got nowhere else to go. You know that I can’t go anywhere near Site 89 now that Alek won, and Rodriguez here…he
’s out of a job, too. He can’t work as a mankiller anymore because he can’t get psych clearance. So we want to join you, leave behind our old lives and become Dissenters.”
“You wish to join our faith?” Trevor asked.
“Yes, everything I have seen has convinced me more, and my friend wants to join, too,” Guzman said emphatically.
Trevor studied the faces of the two men, reading their emotions through the movements of their facial muscles. He had been chosen for his duties not just for his piety, but for his ability to judge the character of other men. Guzman had a look of anxiety in his eyes, but his face seemed like that of an honest and sincere man. Trevor found Rodriguez more troubling; his brow was furrowed, as if he was uncertain whether he truly wanted to become a Dissenter. He considered how to question the two men further.
“To join our faith requires a great commitment,” said Trevor. “You must be willing to relinquish all your ties to your old life before you walked on Domremy. You must be able to let go of the Sinful Earth in all ways.”
“Si, si, whatever,” said Rodriguez. “Got nothin’ going for me now. What should I do?”
“I feel you don’t quite grasp what our faith is about, Rodriguez,” Trevor said sternly. “When we say that you must end your old life and begin anew, we mean that in a very literal way. You must be willing to end the path of violence your life is based on and never return. You must never speak of your old life with pride, and draw strength from your new faith. The last step in your journey to becoming one of us is to symbolically relinquish your old name, and take a new name as a Dissenter. I was not born Trevor.”
Life Sentence (Forlani Saga Book 1) Page 26
