Up Against It

by M. J. Locke

  “Glad to help. Obviously it’s to all our benefit to clear as many of these sugar-rock claims as quickly as we can.”

  “Indeed.” Mr. Mills gave him a tight-lipped smile.

  “So, you are with Outpost Charter Bank, then?” Xuan asked, as he gathered his field equipment. Though Mr. Mills was impeccably dressed and groomed, he somehow looked as though he might be more comfortable in a Downsider boxing drome than behind a desk. Mr. Mills smiled. “I am in the employ of an attorney, Nathan Glease. He has a private arrangement with the university to assist them in processing sugar-rock claims.”

  Glease. Xuan had just heard that name recently, but could not pinpoint where.

  “Ah—” Mr. Mills said. “I’m getting word from my crew that we have the all-clear to blast off. Mr.—that is, Dr. No—”

  “That’s professor. Professor Xuan.”

  “Your equipment has been stowed. Come right this way.”

  While Mr. Mills was speaking, Xuan spotted Sean Moriarty, who waved to him. “One moment. I’ll be right back.” He blithely ignored Mr. Mills’s grumbles that they might lose their place in the queue. That is one advantage to being a professor, he thought, and not a grad student. Which might explain why Mills preferred the latter.

  “Well, I didn’t expect to see you out in this neck of the woods,” Moriarty remarked. Xuan knew him from a party or two he had attended with Jane. He had always liked the big, foul-mouthed Downsider. “Off on a rock-hunting trip?”

  “Sugar-rock claim. Everyone else with the skills is tied up with Kukuyoshi, and I needed a bit of a break.” Xuan looked back at Mr. Mills, who was waiting near his shuttle. “I should go. My contact is worried about losing our place in the queue.”

  “I’ll see to it you don’t. I just wanted to say … I’m sorry about what happened to Jane. She was a damn fine resource chief. She’ll be missed.”

  “Thanks, Sean. Thanks.” He brushed Sean’s hand. “And you, good luck with all this—” Xuan waved a vague hand at the chaos around them.

  “I’ll need it,” Moriarty said, with a pained grimace.

  23

  They set Xuan up in the pilot’s cabin. “High-class accommodations,” Xuan remarked in surprise. “Thank you.”

  The pilot was no older than Hugh—not yet twenty. They make adults so young these days! Xuan thought. A wry smile twisted his lips.

  The pilot seemed oddly nervous. “We aren’t really set up for passengers. And it’s a short trip, so I won’t be needing it. We should reach our destination in about three hours. Please strap in. Use the workstation, if you like. There’s plenty of entertainment options loaded in our system. Just follow the links. Snacks and drinks are in the cooler here.” He showed Xuan where it was and how to unlock it. “The head is here.” He pushed the button, and the null-gee toilet manifold and hoses folded out of the wall. He pushed the button again, and the head folded back in.

  “Very good,” Xuan said. “Thanks.”

  Generous of him, to allow Xuan the use of his cabin. Xuan buckled into the passenger couch and linked his waveface to the ship’s systems. The shuttle trembled and he was pressed into his couch. Liftoff. Then acceleration eased, and weightlessness came.

  Xuan called Jane and left her a message, then tried to work for a while, but could not concentrate, and decided to check his equipment. He unstrapped himself, lofted over to the door, and tried to open it. The lever did not move when he cranked it. It took him a full second to realize that the door had been locked.

  He clenched his fist to pound on it, to call out for assistance—it must be an error—but froze in midaction. Glease. Mr. Mills was in the employ of a Mr. Glease. Xuan remembered now where he had heard the name. Jane had told it to him last night, as they had been looking at the graffiti drawn on the kids’ tent.

  Glease and Mills. Mobsters. Hired by Ogilvie & Sons. The people who had scrawled graffiti on his family’s tent in the park last night.

  Xuan reeled back from the door—mouth spitless, vision greying, heart beating hard. You idiot! he thought. Jane warned you, but did you listen?

  But last night (had it really been only last night?), some hypothetical thugs leaving amateurish doodles on a tent had not grabbed Xuan’s attention with the same intensity that the feral sapient lodged in their life-support systems had. Nor the imminent destruction of Kukuyoshi. Nor, for that matter, the impending death by suffocation of two hundred thousand people, including himself and nearly all those he held dear.

  He swam over to the vicinity of the workstation, pulled himself down into the chair, strapped in, and forced himself to consider the problem calmly. Do these people know Jane is my wife? Could they have engineered this to use me against her?

  He doubted it. In the first place, now that she had been fired, she was no threat to them. Second, his decision to take this sugar-rock call had been his alone, and spontaneous—a need to escape the furtive stares of his colleagues and the silent, oppressive presence of the “Stroider”-cams. All the cluster’s surveyors and astrogeologists had gotten sucked into this rush of sugar-rock claims. No. This was simple happenstance. Bad luck. Xuan’s number had come up.

  In which case, how much danger was he in? What did they hope to accomplish? And how could he thwart them?

  He thought back to Jane’s words the night before, as well as discussions they had had in the past about her experiences with the mob on Vesta. If Ogilvie & Sons were behind the original warehouse disaster—so she had told him, and he had no reason to doubt it—they must be trying with this trip to forestall discovery of any major sugar-rock claims. Mills’s presence on this trip suggested they had serious concerns about this particular claim.

  This claim had best turn out to be a bust, he thought, no matter what.

  As to how much danger he was in, as long as they assumed he was just some researcher from the university, and as long as the sugar-rock claim was a bust, they would have no reason to harm him.

  I had better brush up on my acting skills, Xuan thought. And there were some serious technical challenges to overcome. This was almost certainly not the first time they had taken a geologist out to check a claim, so they would know the basic routine. Whatever he did to muck around with the ice content measurements for this rock, it had better be subtle.

  He strapped himself back in, and spent the next hour or so visualizing the process, considering how to obscure his intent from any watchers.

  The pilot announced over the intercom that deceleration would begin shortly. He thanked him, and then asked to speak to Mr. Mills.

  Crackling; a pause. Then: “Mills here.”

  “Now that we are approaching our target, I’d like to set up and calibrate my equipment. Would it be possible for me to visit the hold?”

  Another pause. “You can check your equipment once we touch down. Wait in your cabin. My assistants will escort you.”

  Xuan scowled. So much for mucking with the equipment in transit. He would have to come up with something that he could rig quickly once at their destination, in full view of Mills & Co. “All right. I can set up once we arrive. But perhaps you could forward me any information you have on this asteroid. Maps or the like. It will help me prepare, and will save you time.”

  A longish pause. “All right. Here you go.”

  His inbox filled. The files gave him everything he should need to lay the groundwork. He got started.

  * * *

  Jane wanted to leave the boot lozenge in her office for Aaron to find. But this was no time for lax security. She knocked on Aaron’s office door. He worked inwave, murmuring, moving through arcane pantomimes as he furrowed fields of unseen data; planted commands; weeded out phantom icons and displays. She recognized the stress and fatigue on his face from many years and troubles—troubles faced together, faced and overcome.

  She floated in and alighted on the floor of his office. He folded his interface away and turned to face her, clinging to the grips on his desk.

  “Here.”
She took out the lozenge and lofted it across to him. It tumbled, catching the light. “You’ll need this to access the systems.”

  His eyes widened; he realized, she saw, what damage she might have done. He snatched it from the air and tucked it into his pocket. “Thank you.” Then he crooked a finger, tripping an invisible command, and his glass wall went blank, shutting out the view of employees returning from lunch.

  “Marty should be here soon,” she went on. “I’ve left instructions—”

  “Please, Jane—”

  Her hands curled into balls. “Don’t make this harder for me.”

  “I couldn’t stop them from doing this to you. But I pray to almighty God that I can keep things from falling apart until the ice gets here. Keep people from suffering.”

  “And you’re offering up our friendship as a sacrifice.”

  He sighed. “Would you have me resign in protest?”

  “Why not, goddammit?” He flinched at her profanity. “I’m the reason you’re here! I’ve opened doors for you. I’ve shielded you from those who didn’t trust you because of your religion. I’ve made things happen for you. Now this. Now I know what my friendship is worth to you.”

  “I don’t deny,” he said stiffly, “that I owe you a lot. But you taught me that the needs of the citizens come first.”

  The muscles had tightened across her chest. She drew a breath; two. “Do what you have to, then. Just don’t look to me for absolution.”

  They stood there. Aaron broke away first. “Go, and be damned.”

  The laugh that escaped her was not a pleasant one. “Oh, I’m gone.”

  A group of employees had gathered nearby outside Aaron’s office, whispering. I will be damned, she thought; I’ll be damned if anyone sees me bleed, and she floated toward them, smiling. She brushed hands, wishing them well, and confirmed the rumor that she had resigned and that Aaron was acting resource commission czar. She made her good-byes and then excused herself—all too conscious of the camera mites that flocked on the walls and ceiling, the spy dust swirling all around.

  They were hauling out all the stops. Her eyes must have skyrocketed once more. She was sure her thumbs had reached subbenthic levels.

  Enjoy the show, you creeps.

  Once in the hall, she surveyed the corridor tube, while her former employees and rubberneckers from other departments averted their eyes, floating by. The bathroom came to mind as a refuge. But she would have to brave the public eventually, and though “Stroiders” and reporters’ cameras weren’t allowed in, they would be waiting when she emerged. There was no escape. She headed for a lift.

  Her mail cache had filled with calls. Sarah had left her a message.

  She called her back. After a moment, Sarah’s face appeared before her. “I heard the news. Are you OK?”

  For a moment Jane wrestled with how to answer this question. Finally she gave it up. “We need to talk.”

  “Yes. I have a client with me now, but I’m free in about half an hour.”

  “I have a doctor’s appointment then. How about one-thirty?”

  Sarah glanced at her wave display. “All right. I haven’t had lunch. Have you?” Jane shook her head. “I’ll order food, then. I’ve also arranged for a publicist to meet us here an hour later.”

  “Cancel it,” Jane said. “There’s no longer any need.” She cut the call.

  * * *

  “You’re as healthy as ever,” Dr. Pollack told her. The diagnostic images of her brain structures and neural behavior were projected into wavespace between them. None of it meant anything to Jane, but the doctor had spent several minutes studying assorted things and rerunning tests before making that pronouncement. “No sign of abnormalities. No protein markers that indicate trouble. Everything appears normal.”

  Jane hesitated. “Is it possible that, well, that something could have been wrong a few days ago but that it’s healed since? Perhaps some kind of stress-induced break?”

  He sat down and interwove his fingers. “Jane, what’s this about?”

  A long silence fell. He looked at her expectantly. No motes in here, no mites. Just say it, Navio. “I heard a Voice.”

  His gaze grew more intense. “A voice? As in, a voice in your head?”

  She nodded.

  “I can see why you’d be concerned.” He walked around her diagnostics, frowning. “Well, I suppose there are hints of anomalies in certain neuron firing patterns in the cortex, but honestly, it’s all within normal parameters.” She continued to look at him. He shrugged. “Yes, it’s possible that you had a stress-induced psychotic break. But there’s no remaining evidence of it. And everything seems OK now. When was the last time you heard the voice? What was it telling you to do?”

  She paused again. “I’ve heard it twice. Once the evening before last, commuting home. I was looking at the Earth.”

  “Space sickness.”

  “That’s what I thought, too,” she said, “but I heard it a second time yesterday morning, after the memorial service.” She paused. “It just said my name. Both times. But there is something … something it wants me to do.”

  “Any idea what?”

  She shook her head. “I just, I sense that something very bad is happening, or is about to happen, and it wants me to intervene somehow…” She fell silent, feeling the press of his gaze.

  “Well, some very bad things have been happening, and you have been intervening.”

  She shook her head. “It’s something else. I don’t know what.”

  “Hmm. Well.” He scribbled inwave. “I’m prescribing an antipsychotic, as a prophylactic.” At the dispenser in the wall, tiny tubes came down, and within their mesh a bottle grew. When it had fully formed, he handed it to her. “I’d like you to take two of these a day: one in the morning and one at night. I’m going to recommend you go to the Emerson Clinic on Ceres for further testing. They have better facilities.”

  She eyed the amber bottle in her hand. The fresh smell of newly assembled cellophane clung to it; spots were still soft. Inside, behind the label, were clear ovoid lozenges in a neat, closest-possible-packing arrangement. “Can you recommend anyplace on the moon?”

  He looked surprised. “Of course! They have excellent facilities. One moment.” He moved his hands, accessing a file. “There’s Anderson Memorial in Robeston. Dr. Fabio Torricelli. You have a trip planned?”

  “To Earthspace.”

  He lifted eyebrows.

  “Retirement package,” she said.

  “I bet there’s a story in that.”

  “A long and boring one.”

  He did not ask. “Those need to be taken with food,” he said. “I’ll get you a glass of water and some crackers.”

  She eyed them. “No need to put yourself out. I’m headed to a lunch meeting. I’ll take my first dose then.”

  He peered at her. “Don’t delay getting this checked out, Jane.”

  She had this maudlin impulse to hug him, to offer to take him out for a beer and reminisce about the days when she and Xuan had emigrated here. Zekeston had still been a double barbell, and Pete had been the only doctor within many million kilometers. Instead she wordlessly brushed his palm.

  “Good luck,” he said. “Be sure to take your meds.”

  She eyed the medication dubiously. He knew her too well.

  “’Bye, Pete. Thanks.”

  She wondered if she would ever see him again.

  * * *

  Sarah’s office was at the boundary of Heavitown—a quasi-bohemian district that had never been able to make up its mind whether it was seedy or trendy—and the upscale Path of Seven Stones district. Both were located in the northeast sector, near the Promenade: a meandering thread-mesh of shops, parks, homes, and businesses that girded the city’s outermost level.

  The Promenade was packed. All the treeway refugees seemed to be here. People were straightening and putting things away, now that the spin generators had restored Zekeston’s acceleration. She spotted a
couple on a bench. One of the men was perhaps eight months pregnant. He pulled his partner’s hand onto his belly and said, “Feel that?” The two shared a private smile.

  Jane moved on through the crowd. Seeing everyone working so cheerfully on recovery and repairs lifted her spirits an angstrom or two. For all the three-quarters gee, she loved Heavitown. If she were ever to give up No-Moss, she would want to move here.

  Among the flow of people emerging from a nearby spokeway lift, Jane moved onto the main thoroughfare and entered Heavitown’s noisy maze of shops and kiosks and plaza markets. Like most low-gee-adapted folk, she had a slow, swaying gait in this three-quarters-gee area. She moved to the right with the other adapted pedestrians, and the nonadapted foot traffic streamed past.

  Her improved mood didn’t last long. People were staring at her, and her bad-sammy cache was filling up. With a spike of irritation, she turned off her waveware—it wouldn’t stop the bad-sammies, but at least she wouldn’t have to see them—and paid attention to her physical surroundings instead.

  Everyone was warmly dressed. Along with the usual parkas and sweaters, Jane spotted plenty of people wearing makeshift cloaks made of blankets, or wearing double or triple layers of clothing. The younger children waddling after their parents or older siblings were bundled so thoroughly they looked like stuffed sausages; people huddled on benches and blew into cupped hands. Jane was once more thankful for the thalite undergarment she wore.

  Thinking of the undergarment made her think of Tania. And Funaki. There were others who would be worrying about her, smatterings of concern amid the outrage. She should answer them.

  Later, though. Later.

  Buildings and stairways bordered the wide avenue, which swarmed with foot traffic, trolleys, robotics, and vendors’ stands. Here, looking along the length of the Promenade, you could see the station’s curvature: the shops and apartments and the avenue with its embedded rails curved upward out of sight. In the distance, pedestrians and vehicles climbed up gentle slopes to disappear above.

  On a typical day she could navigate through Heavitown’s markets by smell alone, and today her nose revealed more to her about the city’s troubles than her resource reports had. Most of the scents were the usual ones. It wasn’t so much that. Multiethnic food aromas emanated from vendors’ kiosks and open-front cafés on the cool eddies. Ordinarily they would make Jane’s mouth water. Tortoise Palace, the discount housing wares shop; the tobacconist, Pipe Dreams, from which issued the smell of fresh pipe tobacco and cannabis, both still legal out here on the frontier.