by Allen Steele
“A stroke of luck, but one that I’m glad happened.” Curt paused. “However, isn’t it curious that he should be here?”
“Yes, it is.” Her eyes narrowed. “And I’m still wondering if you had anything to do with him.”
“I’m willing to take our friend at his word that he doesn’t know the assassin.” Folding his arms across his chest, Carthew shook his head. “It’s unfortunate that Ezra shot him. If he hadn’t, we might have learned who sent him.”
“I did, sir,” Curt said. “I managed to … um, interrogate him just before he broke away and retrieved his gun. He indicated that he belonged to the Sons of the Two Moons, and just before Marshal Gurney fired, he shouted, ‘For Ul Quorn’ … whoever that may be.”
Carthew’s gaze became sharp. “He said what?”
“Ul Quorn?” Ezra asked. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure that’s what he said.” Now it was Curt’s turn to be baffled. “I know who the Sons of the Two Moons are—they’re a cult who worship the Denebians as some sort of alien gods—but I’ve never heard of Ul Quorn. Who is he?”
“An aresian,” Joan said, “or at least so we’ve been told. Some say that he may be half terran as well. In any case, he’s a gangster on Mars, the leader of its largest criminal syndicate. It’s also believed that he may be tied to the Sons of the Two Moons, and may be their leader as well.”
“Sometimes he’s known as the Magician of Mars,” Ezra added, “because he makes his enemies disappear without a trace. But that’s not all.” He turned to Carthew. “Mr. President, this is classified IPF info. Are you sure we oughta be talkin’ ’bout this?”
Carthew thought it over for a moment. “Yes … yes, I think we should. Particularly if this young man knows something we don’t.” He turned to Curt again. “Within certain government circles, it’s been rumored for a while now that there may be some sort of link between Senator Corvo and Ul Quorn. No one has yet been able to gather substantiating evidence, but … well, it’s something I’ve asked Section Four to investigate.”
“We haven’t come up with anything,” Ezra said, “but that’s not surprising. People on Mars know better than to mess with the Magician. They say the deserts are filled with folks who’ve talked about Ul Quorn, and our efforts to infiltrate the Sons of the Two Moons…”
“Those agents haven’t returned,” Joan finished for him. “He’s up to something, that’s for certain. What, we don’t know.”
“So why would Ul Quorn have someone attempt to kill you?” Curt asked the president.
“That’s an excellent question,” Carthew replied. “Ever since Corvo came into office six years ago, he’s done his best to politically align himself with me. I’ve never really trusted him, but he’s been hard to ignore, especially since he’s used his influence to muster votes in the Senate in support of some of my initiatives. And he’s done other things to gain favor with me. The invitation to give the dedication speech is just the latest example.” He frowned, then added, “It appears, though, he may have an ulterior motive, such as luring me within range of an assassin’s rifle.”
“But how would he benefit from having you killed? He’s not next in the line of succession, is he?”
“No, he isn’t.” The president shook his head. “Vice President Medusa Jal would take over.” He thought about it a moment, absently brushing his mustache with a fingertip. “But Medusa is politically weak, while Corvo has been gathering supporters for years. If I was out of the way and she became president, it’s possible Corvo could persuade the Senate to pass a vote of no confidence in her and install him as president pro tem.”
“But wouldn’t there have to be some sort of crisis for that to happen?” Ezra asked.
“You’re right.” The president nodded, his expression pensive as he gazed at the carpeted floor. “Under the constitution, there would have to be a ‘grave and imminent threat’ to the Coalition for the Senate to remove a sitting president and replace him with a senator they’ve elected … but I have no idea what that might be.”
“Perhaps the answer isn’t here, Mr. President,” Curt said. “Perhaps it’s elsewhere … such as Mars.”
“Why Mars?”
“The assassin is an aresian who seems to have been with the Sons of the Two Moons. Ul Quorn apparently has some sort of ties to Victor Corvo. I’d say everything points to Mars as being the locale for some sort of conspiracy against you, sir.”
“You may be right.” President Carthew looked at him quizzically. “Do you have a suggestion?”
“Yes, sir, I do. Let me and my associates travel to Mars and try to find out what’s going on.” Curt gestured toward Joan. “Agent Randall said that the IPF hasn’t been able to successfully penetrate the Sons. But if someone they don’t know—a total stranger who doesn’t belong to the IPF—were to infiltrate, perhaps he’d have more success.”
“That’s a very high risk.”
“Yes, it is, Mr. President,” Ezra said. “For you as well.” His eyes were coldly suspicious as they turned to Curt. “We don’t know for certain if he is who he says he is. For all we know, he could be in cahoots with Corvo or even Ul Quorn. Sending him out on his own, with no assurances that he’d act solely on behalf of—”
“I’ll go with him,” Joan said.
Everyone stopped to stare at her. Back straight, arms at her sides, Joan Randall exuded confidence. “I’ll go with him,” she repeated, speaking to Ezra and President Carthew as if Curt weren’t there. “That way, the IPF can keep an eye on him. I’ll keep in touch with Section Four while in transit, and get in touch with the IPF station on Mars once I’ve arrived.”
“And what if you run into trouble?” Ezra asked.
“I can handle myself, Chief. You should know that by now.” Joan looked at Curt. “And if you’re who you say you are, then you’ll need the IPF to bring Ul Quorn, and perhaps Corvo, to justice.”
President Carthew didn’t reply at once. He looked at Ezra, searching for some sign of approval. Ezra said nothing for a moment, then he reluctantly nodded. “Very well, then,” Carthew said, and turned to Curt again. “On presidential authority, I’m deputizing you as a temporary undercover agent of the Interplanetary Police Force.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.” Curt felt an electric current run down his back as he grasped Carthew’s outstretched hand. “I’ll do my best not to let you down.”
“I’m sure you won’t, son.” Carthew smiled. “Because of the sensitive nature of your assignment, I’m giving you a designated code name, to be used for all future communications with my office and the IPF. I assume you already know what your nom de guerre will be.”
Curt nodded, hoping that his feelings weren’t obvious. Like it or not, he’d become Captain Future.
XI
Their conversation concluded, the four people who’d met in the library left the room. By then, the darkness of artificial night had returned to the craterhab; the outside mirrors had been reoriented so that earthlight was no longer reflected into Armstrong Crater. So none of them was surprised to learn from a tuxedoed butler waiting in the hall that Senator Corvo had already retired. The hour was late, after all, and it had been an eventful evening.
The butler closed the library door behind them, and after a moment the lights went out by themselves. For a few minutes, the only sounds came from outside, where Ezra Gurney was escorting President Carthew upstairs to bed while Joan was in the mansion with Curt. Soon the room was dark and quiet, and apparently deserted.
Then, at the center of the room, very close to the spot where the four of them had stood, a thin, luminescent line appeared in the basalt-tile floor.
The line stretched, with two more like it appearing at right angles at either end. A moment later, the lines expanded in width, becoming a trapdoor artfully concealed by the patterns of the surrounding tiles. The door silently opened on recessed hinges, revealing a vertical space just three feet wide but almost seven feet deep. The spy hole w
as large enough to hide someone standing beneath the seemingly solid floor; there, they could listen to what was being said, undetected by the equipment meant to ferret out electronic forms of surveillance. An old-fashioned form of eavesdropping, but effective all the same.
The figure who’d been the silent fifth party to the conversation that had just ensued climbed up the recessed ladder from the spy hole. He dropped the hatch back in place, then walked over to the desk, switched on a lamp, and took a seat in its overstuffed leather armchair.
Alone in the library, Victor Corvo pondered the conversation he’d just overheard.
Eyes shut, hands calmly folded together in his lap, he displayed no outward sign that his mind was in turmoil over what he’d just learned. Yet it wasn’t President Carthew’s distrust of him that surprised him so much as the other revelation: that Roger and Elaine Newton’s son still lived, and that after all these years he was seeking revenge for the murders of his parents.
Very well, then: so be it.
The senator knew that his plans would obviously have to be changed, but there was no reason why they would have to be canceled entirely. The IPF couldn’t act against him without evidence. With the assassin dead—for this, at least, he was grateful to Marshal Gurney—there was nothing to link Corvo to the attempt on the president’s life. Carthew could be as suspicious as he liked, but there was nothing he could legally do to have Corvo arrested and removed from office.
And as for Curt Newton … although Corvo’s eyes remained shut, a meditative smile appeared. Ul Quorn could take care of the Newton kid. Of that, he had little doubt.
“Captain Future.” Corvo quietly snorted with distain. “You don’t have much of a future, do you?”
PART FOUR
The Photon Express
I
“Comet to Brackett,” Curt said. “On final approach, requesting permission for rendezvous and docking.”
A moment passed, then a woman’s voice came through his headset. “Brackett to Comet. Affirmative, your fee has been received and processed. Permission granted. Rendezvous on the port side of cargo frame and dock in Berth Four.”
“Thank you, Brackett.” Curt tapped the mike wand to mute it, then wrapped his left hand around the stick and rested his right on the center control panel. “Systems check.”
“All green. You’re good to go.” Otho was in the right-hand seat. He’d just finished running down the last few items on the checklist and was now watching Curt as he piloted the Comet for orbital rendezvous and docking with the beamship that lay ahead.
Curt inched the stick forward, at the same time touching the recessed studs for the reaction-control thrusters along the Comet’s hull. There was a soft rumble as the thrusters fired; through the rounded panes of the forward porthole, the Brackett slowly turned on the long skeletal truss of its main spar.
“Everything all right, Joan?” he asked, not taking his eyes off the controls as he addressed her over his shoulder.
“Fine.” Joan was strapped into one of the passenger seats behind the pilot and copilot chairs. “No reason to keep asking. I was fine ten minutes ago, and ten minutes before that.”
Curt didn’t respond at once. His attention was focused on the immense spacecraft only a few hundred feet away. The Brackett dwarfed not only the Comet, but also every other spacecraft nestled within the cradles running down the length of its spar. Over six hundred feet in length, it was tethered by carbon-nanotube mooring cables to the enormous furled mass of its beamsail. Brackett’s crew modules were a small cluster of pressurized cylinders at the bow, and its only engine was the fusion stack at the stern meant solely for emergencies. Everything else was the sail and the row of ships being ferried across the gulf of space.
A pair of red and blue beacons had begun to flash at either end of a large, cradlelike berth attached about halfway down the spar. Apparently this was Berth Four, their slot aboard the interplanetary ferry. Curt pulled the stick a little to the left and fired the thrusters again, and the Comet began to glide toward it.
“Just checking,” Curt went on, remembering that he’d left Joan hanging. “You’ve been a little—”
He cut himself short, not wanting to offend her. “He means you’ve been a little tense ever since we took off,” Otho finished, glancing back at her. “I assure you, you couldn’t be safer.”
“I know that,” Joan said coolly, but her poise said otherwise: back stiff, arms folded tightly across her chest, legs touching one another at the knees and ankles. She wore the dark blue bodysuit of an IPF officer, PBP holstered at her side. Although she demonstrated the easy grace of someone accustomed to zero-g, ever since she’d come aboard the Comet on the Moon a few hours ago, she’d behaved as if she was there against her will.
Perhaps it wasn’t her fault. Curt absently considered this as he guided his little ship closer to the giant vessel. It may have been the strangeness of finding a craft that could turn invisible, its crew an intelligent robot, an artificial human, and a disembodied brain. Curt had to admit that he probably had the weirdest ship in space. If Inspector Randall didn’t already think that he was the most bizarre individual she’d ever met, she was probably well on the way to suspecting so.
Maybe he should have left her behind. Too late for that now.
Curt refocused his attention on the controls and his docking maneuvers with the beamship. Once the sail was unfurled to its full diameter extent, the Brackett would enter an invisible yet powerful stream of photons collected by a nearby sunsat and projected by a 100-gigawatt laser in Lagrange-point orbit 930,000 miles from Earth. This beamed-energy propulsion system, comprising what the designers fancifully called the “photon railway,” would boost the Brackett to cruise velocity. At Mars’s current position relative to Earth and the Moon, this meant that the beamship would reach Mars in just three days, with another laser in orbit around the red planet braking it during primary approach.
The Comet had never before traveled so far from Tycho. Curt’s previous travels to other planets had been aboard commercial spaceliners. As a racing yacht, the Comet simply wasn’t designed for interplanetary flight. Even with its high impulse-per-second magnetoplasma engine, it would have exhausted its fuel supply before it was a quarter of the way to Mars, not to mention the fact that its life support system was limited to no more than a week for three people. But since Curt—or rather, Captain Future—had been deputized as a special agent of the Interplanetary Police Force by no less than President Carthew, it had been an easy matter for Joan to arrange for the Comet to be assigned a berth aboard the Brackett, even if it meant having a small freighter bumped from the manifest at the last minute.
Under Curt’s steady hand, the Comet coasted in above Berth Four. Maneuvering thrusters silently fired along its hull, and the little teardrop-shaped craft gradually descended into the opened bars of the docking cradle. There was a slight thump; through the porthole, he saw ferry crewmen in vacuum suits glide toward the cradle. Dangling from the spar at the end of their tethers, they attached electrical cables and lines for air and water recirculation systems, then one of them moved from bar to bar along the clawlike cradle arms, locking down the joists that would keep the Comet in place until the Brackett reached its destination.
“Comet, you are secure.” Again, the captain’s voice came through his headset. “Stand by for departure in T-minus thirty-eight minutes.”
“Thank you, Brackett. Comet out.” Curt clicked off the com, then pulled back on the lever that reoriented his seat to launch-and-landing position. “All right, everyone … break out the cards and the chessboard, because we’ve got nothing else to do for the next three days.”
“Except clean up after Grag’s dog,” Otho added unhappily as he lowered his own seat.
“I think it was very sweet of it to take in the little fella.” Joan was fumbling with her seat harness. Like nearly everything else in the Comet, its design was over twenty years old; never before had she put on something like it, a
nd she was still getting used to it. “Not what I … oh, c’mon … not what I’d expect from a robot.”
“Grag is not your usual robot.” Curt switched off the major systems aboard ship not needed for life support or communications. “I’m not even sure it likes to be called ‘it.’”
“This is true,” Simon added. “Lately Grag has been requesting that the word ‘he’ be applied as a personal pronoun.” The Brain had just ascended through the manhole from the middeck where he, Grag, and Eek had spent the flight up from the Moon. “I’ve argued that, as a robot, gender-specific words aren’t really suitable, but … oh, please allow me, Inspector Randall.”
Simon floated toward her, pushed along by the impellors on either side of his saucerlike carapace. Joan shrank back in her seat as his claws reached down to her harness’s six-point buckle; there was no way to tell whether the Brain’s eyestalks noticed the barely disguised expression of horror that appeared on her face, but nevertheless Simon delicately unclasped the buckle for her.
“There you are, my dear,” he said, moving away again. “All set now?”
“Y-yes, I … I think so.” Eyes wide with revulsion, the young woman held tightly onto the armrest of her chair until Simon moved away, then hastily pushed herself out of her seat and over to the forward window. She did so ostensibly to look at the Brackett, but it was all too obvious that she wanted to put as much distance between herself and the Brain as she could in the tight confines of the flight deck.
Curt tried not to notice her nearness, yet again he wondered whether it had been a good idea to bring her aboard the Comet. She’d accepted Grag easily enough, although she was still surprised by a robot that was not only capable of independent thought but was also developing emotions. However, she remained suspicious of Otho, even more so now that she’d become aware that he wasn’t a human being—at least not in the normal sense—but rather an android, the very same one created by Roger and Elaine Newton. And as for Simon Wright, it was clear that, so far as she was concerned, he was an abomination, a dead man whose living brain remained ghoulishly preserved and active within a bizarre cybernetic form.
