The Callisto Gambit

by Felix R. Savage

  He turned and walked away, not moving too fast, not acting suspiciously. Not drawing attention.

  Definitely not going in there.

  By the time he got back to Northhab, he’d begun to doubt what he’d seen. After all, there was no question but that he’d been subconsciously primed to see evidence for his gut hunch.

  Later, he promised himself, he would look back through his old vidcall records, and they would certainly confirm that he’d been wrong.

  The shopkeeper had been a stranger.

  A complete stranger.

  Yeah.

  ★

  Loping across the plaza of Northhab 6, Kiyoshi stopped dead, astounded by what he saw on the next stair-step level down, Northhab 7. The Galapajin were streaming out of the Hemingway Hotel. As they emerged, they were organizing themselves into groups, by family name, by social club, by religious order, by school year, or by former neighborhood in 11073 Galapagos. Clearly, they were going somewhere.

  Kiyoshi took the short flight of steps down to Northhab 7 in a single bound. He hurried up to the group at the core of all this activity: the five priests and 41 religious of the Order of St. Benedict of Passau.

  They didn’t look like priest, monks, and nuns at the moment, having evacuated from the Startractor in their EVA suits, with little or no luggage, just like everyone else. That was just as well, or this parade would be drawing even more attention.

  “Father! What’s happened?”

  “It’s been decided,” Father Tanabe said.

  In Japanese, it was seldom necessary to specify who had done a thing. It had been done, was what mattered.

  But what had been decided? Kiyoshi’s mind leapt from one impossibility to another. He walked alongside Father Tanabe as the group started to move.

  Once brawny, now haggard, Father Tanabe faced front. His demeanor clearly said that he had a lot of things on his mind and didn’t want to be pestered for explanations. At the steps to Northhab 6, Kiyoshi gave him his arm. Father Tanabe leaned gratefully on it for a second, then jerked away. Kiyoshi wheedled, “Did you find something? A church? An underground community?”

  “No. There are no churches on Callisto. Well, I was told there’s one in Valhalla City, but that’s on the other side of the planet.”

  “Moon.”

  “A moon the size of Mercury.” Father Tanabe made that sound like a bad thing.

  “Yes, Father, and they’re building deep-drilled habs. We’ll be safer than we ever were at 11073 Galapagos. This is Ganymede, without the fun parts. Ha, ha.”

  “You stink of drugs,” Father Tanabe said, and that wasn’t even true. It was Wetherall’s damn candy-scented vape that the priest could smell on Kiyoshi. His hangover cure had done its job. He was stone cold sober. And terrified.

  “Where are you taking them, Father?”

  Father Tanabe met his eyes for the first time. He enunciated a single word. “Mukou.”

  Kiyoshi reeled away. He saw Sister Terauchi, but she refused to meet his gaze. The rest of his people made way for him, stepping aside with lowered heads, like the strands of a safety net parting as he fell. He spotted Hardware Engineer Asada, walking with his family. “Asada-san.”

  “Hai.”

  “What’s going on? You’re going over to the other side? How did this happen? What did I do?”

  You left them, his brain needled. You stayed away for almost 24 hours. When they needed you most, you were getting wasted with a bunch of losers in Hel’s Kitchen.

  “You didn’t do anything!” Asada said, faking cheerfulness. “In fact, why don’t you come with us?”

  “To the Salvation.”

  “Yeah!”

  “I’d rather die,” Kiyoshi said flatly.

  Asada flinched at the words. When he spoke again, it was in a tone of cold dislike. “In that case, can I have my knife back?”

  “This?” Kiyoshi touched the hilt of the dagger in his thigh webbing.

  “Yes,” said Asada, flanked by the other members of his ninth-generation swordsmithing lineage.

  “Nah, let me borrow it for a little longer, OK?”

  He turned away before Asada could say no.

  Fleeing through the crowd, he ended up at the entrance of the Heinlein Hotel. He went into the lobby. A few Galapajin stragglers were tumbling out of the zipshaft. Their eyes widened when they saw him; they hurried out. After them stepped another familiar figure—tall, lantern-jawed, with EVA helmet dents in his afro.

  “You.” Father Tom Lynch wore a shapeless black suit that resembled Colin Wetherall’s. The Roman collar at his neck was the difference. “You’re behind this. I should have known. You snake. You traitor. You—Jesuit!”

  Father Tom stared up at him without fear. “Let go of me.”

  Kiyoshi did.

  “I came to offer an olive branch. They accepted it. That’s all. I’m sorry you’re reacting as if there’s been a death in the family.”

  “Bad choice of words,” Kiyoshi said.

  “Sorry,” Father Tom said. “All I meant is that you’re overreacting. The boss said specifically to invite you along. He’s willing to bury the hatchet if you are.”

  “Yeah, right. He’d bury me the minute I dropped my guard. He can’t stand the fact that I challenge his authority.”

  “You challenge it too openly, too often, and in language that frightens him.”

  “At least I’m doing something right.”

  “For God’s sake,” Father Tom said impatiently. “He is a vile, manipulative bastard. I’m with you on that. But God can use even the worst human beings for His purposes. Anyway, I have my instructions from the Order.”

  “And those are?”

  “To preserve Mother Church, whatever it takes.”

  “The devil is always in the details, huh?”

  Father Tom laughed, sadly. “It’s possible in my view that the boss will go off his nut entirely. But it’s not him that matters. It’s the ship and the people on it. If he loses his grip, you would be my first choice to take command. And now you know why I came for you.”

  “Me, command the Salvation? Brian and Zygmunt would have something to say about that.”

  “Can you all not work together, for the love of Christ? Come up to the ship, and I’ll tell you all I know.”

  “The ship is a death trap. It won’t even reach the Oort Cloud.”

  “It doesn’t have to reach the bloody Oort Cloud,” Father Tom said, low.

  Kiyoshi locked his arms across his chest, thinking. “Maybe I will pay a visit. I want to talk to the boss myself.”

  “Oh, he’s not there at the moment.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Would you believe it? While the solar system burns around our ears, he’s gone on a tour of the bleeding ice spires.”

  ★

  The Pegasus lander was the Salvation’s newest and biggest auxiliary craft. The boss-man had opportunistically bought it off a fellow in Valhalla City selling military surplus. It was a powerful old workhorse, and lacked any such thing as a passenger cabin, so Father Lynch apologetically asked the Galapajin to cram into the pressurized cargo hold, along with a load of last-minute purchases the boss had asked him to make.

  The Galapajin were undismayed. They’d travelled in worse conditions than this. And it was only a hop into orbit.

  As they orbited towards the Salvation’s present location, some of the Galapajin, up on the catwalks above the cargo deck, sang a hymn of thanksgiving for their deliverance.

  O O O O Adoramus te O Christe!

  Adoramus te, O Christe!

  Their voices drifted over the noisy vibrations of the drive. “We adore you, O Christ …”

  Sitting on a bale of bamboo fiber, Father Lynch rested his forehead on loosely joined fists. Some of the people around him were quiet. Others whispered along: “We adore you, O Christ …”

  The piety of these people moved Father Lynch deeply. His thoughts turned self-critical.

  Would you
believe it? He’s gone on a tour of the ice spires …

  He could hardly have made his meaning much clearer, without handing Kiyoshi Yonezawa a map marked with crosshairs.

  By God, it was wrong! Roundabout words didn’t change the intention in Father Lynch’s heart, which had been to provoke a murder. Not that Kiyoshi had needed much provoking, by the looks of him …

  Father Lynch pulled his EVA helmet off its velcro patch and fitted it over his head. He suspected his distraught mood showed on his face, and the tinted faceplate would hide it from the people around him. He noticed them glancing at him, wondering what was wrong.

  As recently as a few days ago, he’d believed Kiyoshi Yonezawa was the biggest threat to the Salvation’s mission. But two days ago, he’d changed his mind. By taking this ill-advised trip to the surface of Callisto, the boss-man had made himself the biggest threat. He’d revealed his true priorities. And the 6,000 people who trusted him were not at the top of his list.

  It was the measure of Father Lynch’s desperation that he now believed Kiyoshi would make a better captain. Ideally, he would have liked to see the Salvation led by a council of representatives from all the communities on board. But in practice he knew leadership would fall to the strongest of the strong men. His best realistic hope was that Kiyoshi, Brian, and Zygmunt could agree to share command.

  All this scheming rested on a single necessary precondition. The boss-man’s death.

  Adoramus te, O Christe …

  Father Lynch reached a sudden decision. It felt like a knife had slashed a jagged hole in the clouds of his gloom. The decision came from outside himself: it was the voice of Christ speaking through his conscience.

  He couldn’t let those words he’d spoken stand.

  He used his suit radio to ask for a patch through to the Asgard Spaceport network. As soon as he was connected, he pinged Kiyoshi.

  To his immense relief, Kiyoshi answered after a few seconds. “What the hell do you want now?”

  “Where are you? What are you doing?” The call was audio-only.

  “I’m at the Heinlein Hotel. Feeding my pigs. Seems they forgot to take them along.”

  Father Lynch offered up a prayer of thanks. Kiyoshi hadn’t made a move yet. “Listen, Yonezawa, forget what I said.”

  “Which part?”

  Mary, Mother of God. “All of it, if you like.”

  “The part about how dying somewhere in the Oort Cloud is better than dying on Callisto?”

  “No one has to die!”

  “Oh, you’re wrong about that, Father. We all have to die.”

  “Don’t twist my words. Death is not a thing to fear, but it’s not a thing to seek, either. Not our own death. And not the death of others.” There. That was as clear a warning as he dared deliver.

  Back on the surface of Callisto, Kiyoshi laughed humorlessly. “Apparently you didn’t hear me saying that the Salvation is a fucking death trap!”

  “I’m not an expert on propulsion,” Father Lynch said.

  “It’s not just the propulsion. It’s everything. The boss may think he wants to reach Planet X, but maybe he really wants something else. Such as … to go out in a blaze of glory. Maybe someone should oblige him.”

  Father Lynch gripped his pectoral crucifix so tightly that the figure of Christ dug into his palm. As he searched for a response, Zygmunt, who’d drawn pilot duty today, alerted him that they were approaching the Salvation. An optical feed popped up in his HUD. Truth be told, he was starting to hate this giant ship. Its silhouette had changed since it began its voyage. Now, propellant tanks garlanded the fuselage. The locations and mass allotments of the tanks had been calculated by that extraordinary child, Michael Kharbage—a task akin to balancing a stack of balloons on a razor, according to the construction crew, who had done the actual installations.

  Far below on Callisto, Kiyoshi said, “Kill yourself if you must, Father. But I want my people off that ship.”

  “It has to be their choice, Kiyoshi.”

  Kiyoshi carried on speaking as if he hadn’t heard. “Otherwise, someone’s going to die. And I promise you this, it won’t be me.”

  x.

  Time to go! The boss wanted them in place to pick him up.

  Someone was using the elevator, so Michael popped out of the maintenance airlock on the roof of the command module. He scurried up the outside of the spoke, towards the docking pad. The distance was 430 meters. The spoke was as wide as a highway. He couldn’t fall off. He was not turning. Not swinging upside-down. Jupiter seemed to suck him towards its maw, like a plughole in the black, black sky. He stood still for a moment, telling himself: not scared. NOT scared.

  So he didn’t have his mecha. That was OK.

  He was about to be reunited with his mecha, and … so what, because he didn’t need it anymore. He didn’t.

  He started moving again.

  Green light splashed rhythmically across him as the torus swung around the docking pad. Green—that meant another ship was coming in. He couldn’t see it yet. From his angle, Jupiter was the only thing in the sky.

  Behind him, Dr. Hasselblatter—the boss’s brother—walked with an exaggerated gait, placing each gecko boot down securely before lifting the other one. He wasn’t worried about looking like an Earthling.

  Junior Hasselblatter zoomed recklessly over Michael’s head, provoking cries from his father. Michael had no idea why that squirt was coming with them, except that Junior always got to do whatever he wanted. He sternly radioed the younger boy: “Cool it. There’s a ship coming in. What if they see you bobbing around like a noob up there? They might have to abort their docking procedure. Or they might not see you, and toast you by accident!”

  Junior swooped back towards him. Twin gas plumes spilled from the mobility pack of his child-size suit, which was even more pricey and multi-functional than Michael’s. “What ship?”

  “The Pegasus lander.”

  “Oh. Father Tom?”

  “I guess.” Michael hadn’t expected the priest to be back so soon. Did that mean he’d succeeded in his mission, or failed? Michael really hoped he’d failed. He didn’t want any of those Japanese people on board.

  Ahead of him, on the still-distant docking pad, the Angel danced into view and glided away.

  A new voice crackled into his helmet. “Hey, Salvation, what’s the Angel doing there? Get her out of my way.” It was Zygmunt Antoniak, the boss’s most trusted pilot. He was flying the Pegasus lander today.

  Michael spoke before Comms could blame him for the mix-up. “I’m trying! We’re on schedule. You’re early.”

  He ran the rest of the way. The closer he got to the docking pad, the faster it seemed to rotate, although in reality he was rotating, while the docking pad stood still. The Angel swept past him again. Her raked-back wings flared from her conical fuselage.

  Michael was going to get to pilot her!

  But first, he had to get her spaceborne and out of the way, so the Pegasus lander could, you know, land.

  Directly ahead, the spoke he was running along vanished under the docking pad. His suit squawked, warning him that he was approaching an intense magnetic field. That would be the torus’s magnetic bearings. Thousands of volts running through there. He took a running leap, and cleared the lip of the docking pad with a bump and a scramble. Behind him, Dr. Hasselblatter moaned, “Ye gods, my pacemaker.”

  Michael ran towards the Angel. His inner ear told him that he was dizzy. He kept his gaze fixed on his ship. She practically was his ship! The boss had given him all her security codes. He panted, “SHIP COMMAND: Initiate pre-launch checks.”

  “Certainly, Michael,” the Angel replied in the sweet feminine voice that tricked everyone into calling this ship she, whereas most ships just got called it. “Would you like me to lower the gangway?”

  “Yes, please.” Dr. Hasselblatter might appreciate it.

  The Pegasus lander plunged out of the sky. Auxiliary thrusters snorting gas, it synchronized with
the Salvation and hovered a ship’s length above them. The ex-Star Force landing craft sported a long ‘tail’ of radiator fins that made it look like a dragon. Its keel-mounted laser cannon had been removed, but it still had its secondary armaments … as well as its drive, which basically was an armament.

  Michael peered up into its drive cone. A few last wisps of ionized propellant drifted out, glowing red in the light that splashed the Pegasus’s fuselage. The lights ringing the pad had changed to red, meaning Stop—don’t dock.

  “What’s the hold-up, Mikey?” Zygmunt snapped.

  A flight of stairs unfolded from the Angel’s command airlock. Dr. Hasselblatter climbed them, shouting for his son to follow. “Just give me a minute!” Michael said. “You’re early!”

  “What can I say? I get shit done,” Zygmunt chuckled. He was Polish. Yet another of the Catholic mafia, as Michael thought of them—it was a phrase his dad used to use. The boss had laughed grimly when Michael shared that with him.

  One of the Pegasus’s airlocks hinged open. A spacesuited figure flew out and swooped down to Michael. “Where are you going, son?”

  It was Father Lynch. “Nowhere,” Michael said, which was patently not true. But the boss had told him not to tell anyone …

  “Are you going to pick him up?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Did he really give you command of his own flier?”

  “Yes,” Michael shouted, outraged that the priest might think he was taking the Angel without permission. “If you don’t believe me, ask Brian or anyone!”

  Dr. Hasselblatter popped his head out of the Angel’s airlock. “JUNIOR! … Oh, it’s you, Lynch. Yes, believe it or not, the boy has the command. Qusantin trusts him.” He spoke the last phrase with an odd inflection that Michael couldn’t interpret.

  “I’m glad to see you’re going too,” Father Lynch said.

  “For my sins. Are you returning in triumph?”

  “Indeed I am. They were more than happy to leave Callisto. I don’t blame them. It’s a shambles down there. Half of the Belt is sleeping on the floor of the spaceport.”