Sidney's Comet

by Brian Herbert

  Sidney felt his left arm shaking uncontrollably now, only half saw Javik and Maxwell through seizure-glazed, unfocused eyes. The Space Patrol crest on Javik’s sleeve came into focus, then blurred.

  Sidney saw the outlines of people as they turned their heads to watch, felt the prying press of eyes he could not actually see. Then Sidney’s vision cleared momentarily, and he saw an angry Maxwell blocking the path, his arms folded across his chest and his face contorted in angry determination. Maxwell’s lips moved, but Sidney swooned and the words sounded garbled to him, as if spoken underwater: “Hold . . . it . . . Tom . . . you’re . . . not . . . go . . . ing . . . a . . . ny . . . far . . . ther!”

  Upon hearing this, Javik’s mind went blank with rage. He pushed Sidney to a sidechair. “Rules be damned!” Javik yelled, grabbing Maxwell by the collar. “I’ll kill you, you rotten son-of-an-atheist!” He hit Maxwell in the face with a roundhouse right and fell to the floor pommeling his opponent with unanswered punches.

  Sidney saw the unfocused images of people all around, pointing at him and turning their faces to the side in revulsion. “A cappy,” one man said, his tone lilting and cruel. Sidney rolled his eyes in that direction, saw the lapel tag and shoulder epaulets of Colonel Peebles.

  Sidney tried to control his left arm, but it flailed wildly. He glanced down at it, saw that it was contorted at the elbow and wrist joints, bent in a horrible manner like pictures he had seen of clients on therapy orbiters.

  “Isn’t it disgusting!” Peebles exclaimed.

  “Let Bu-Cops through!” a woman said. “Make room!”

  “How interesting,” Peebles said. “Look at his face. . . . It’s twisted on the same side as the arm!”

  “We shouldn’t have to look at this!” a woman said indignantly.

  In his pain, the voices Sidney heard became increasingly distant, increasingly muddled. “Don’t fight it, fleshcarrier,” he thought one said. “This could save you!”

  When the police stormed in, Colonel Peebles rolled forward to guide them. “Over there,” he said, motioning to Javik, who was rising to his feet, apparently tired of hitting the prone form of Maxwell. Bloody and bruised, Maxwell dragged himself along the floor to get away. Then he tried to stand, but slipped back to the floor.

  Two policemen grabbed Javik, but he broke free, knocking both of them down. Three more cops rushed over now with electro-sticks, and they shock-pummeled Javik to semi-consciousness.

  “Kill him!” Maxwell yelled from his position on the floor. “Kill the bastard!”

  “This man is my prisoner,” Peebles announced as Javik was subdued. Peebles flashed a red Bu-Mil priority card. ‘Take him to Compound Five at the Bu-Tech Space Center.”

  “Yes sir,” a police corporal said.

  “And put the cappy in Therapy Detention,” Peebles ordered. “Don’t lose track of him, corporal. General Munoz wants to be kept advised of his whereabouts at all times—”

  Later that evening, Carla stood in the bathroom doorway of her condominium in a lavender bathrobe with a white-and-gold rope sash. Fluttering false eyelashes at a bare-chested man who sat on her waterbed with covers drawn across his lap, she asked, “May I offer you a tintette?”

  “Yes,” Billie Birdbright said. He smiled. “Thank you.”

  Carla removed a packet from her robe pocket, lit a lime tintette and puffed on it for a moment. Then she moto-slippered to the bed, trailing pale green smoke behind her. Carla sat on the edge of the waterbed, placed the tintette in his mouth.

  Only moments before, she had been consumed by animal passion, had known Birdbright’s strong and tender embrace. A fantastic bedmate, she thought, kissing him on the cheek. She studied Birdbright’s profile as he smoked. The high cheekbones, tan skin and firm jaw gave him a virile appearance. Birdbright was the handsomest man she had bedmated.

  In her thoughts, she compared Birdbright with the male pleasie-meckie she kept in the closet. Birdbright was the first man she had known whose sexual abilities approached those of the machine. Billie may even be a little better, she thought.

  The words of a girlfriend spoken ten years before came back to Carla as she recalled being self-conscious at first about the ownership of a pleasie-meckie: “Even permies have them,” the friend had said. “It isn’t discussed much, of course, and the meckies do arrive in plain unmarked boxes. . . . ”

  Carla smiled at the recollection. Since that time, she had traded in her pleasie-meckies twice a year, always Tele-Charging the finest, strongest model available. I owe it to myself, she thought.

  Birdbright tapped the tintette on a nightstand ashtray, looked at Carla inquisitively. “Whatcha thinkin’ about?”

  “That wouldn’t interest you,” Carla said with a smile. “Tell me what a Chief of Staff does. You’re a G.W. three, aren’t you?”

  “Two.” He set the tintette on the ashtray. “I assist the President in all areas. He likes me to delegate as much as possible, of course.”

  “Job-Support,” she said.

  “Precisely. But some matters are . . . rather delicate in nature.” He beamed.

  “How exciting!”

  “I can give you one example, I suppose, without revealing exact figures—Recently, I reviewed the forms budget for the year twenty-seven-sixty-two.”

  Carla did a quick mental calculation, then exclaimed, “A hundred fifty-seven years from now? But there must be a million variables between now and then! How can you account for every one of them?”

  Birdbright smiled confidently as he explained: ‘Through charts and projections on the activity in every governmental office, we know exactly how many people will be employed in each bureau that year, what they will be doing, where they will live. . . . ”

  “And their names as well?” she remarked with a teasing smile and a toss of her golden-brown hair over one shoulder.

  His smoke-grey eyes flashed, but he smiled quickly. “All except that,” Birdbright said. “Names don’t matter anyway.”

  “How can you be sure of the projections?”

  “Bu-Tech’s Stat Division provides us with mega-reams of data. I can tell you that the American Federation of Freeness controls its destiny very tightly. Technology has mastered everything imaginable!”

  “Intriguing,” Carla said. Recalling the pleasie-meckie in her closet, she thought, Not quite everything . . . now that I’ve met you.

  “Freeness has been charted for the next thousand years,” Birdbright said. “It can take only one path, the path chosen by Uncle Rosy.”

  As Birdbright spoke, Onesayer Edward stood in the dimly lit Central Chamber of the Black Box of Democracy. He gazed up at Uncle Rosy across the internally illuminated pages of an open book, saw a hulking shadow of a man in a hoodless robe seated upon the chamber’s only chair. Onesayer had seen tuxedo meckies carrying the Master’s laundry, so he knew the robe was white—but it was made to appear light yellow by a row of tiny soft yellow overhead bulbs which cast weak shadows around the room.

  It was silent in the chamber, except for a soft, almost imperceptible humming sound which came from Uncle Rosy’s lips. Onesayer recognized the melodic, lilting notes of the Hymn of Freeness. Uncle Rosy loved that tune. He had composed it himself.

  Uncle Rosy’s chair was immense, suitable for the size of its occupant, and rested upon a raised platform to one side of the room. Threesayer and Twosayer stood to each side of Onesayer, holding open volumes as well, dressed as he was in hooded dark brown friar robes without jewelry.

  “There will be no further reading today, Uncle Rosy said in a kindly, resonant voice which echoed off the black glassite surrounding walls. “Onesayer, I will hear your report.”

  Onesayer closed his volume, slipped it into a robe pocket and moto-shoed forward. Looking at Uncle Rosy from this new position, he tried unsuccessfully to catch a glimpse of the Master’s facial features. He had never seen the Master’s face in person, remembered decades earlier when he used to imagine what a glorious countenance it mu
st be. Lately Onesayer’s thoughts had been altogether different. He had grown tired of waiting for the Master to step down and turn the holy duties over to him. It was cool and damp in the chamber. Onesayer shivered.

  “Your report?” Uncle Rosy said, with the tiniest bit of impatience.

  The corpulent Onesayer nodded, and with a graceful turn to one side extended an arm toward the center of the chamber. As he did this, a circular floor screen flickered on, revealing a view of galactic space. Uncle Rosy leaned forward, studied a fiery purple and yellow fireball which moved silently across the star-dusted expanse.

  “The view from Drakus Ohm,” Onesayer said, “one of AmFed’s deep space observation stations.”

  “I know what Drakus Ohm is,” Uncle Rosy said. This time Onesayer detected more than a hint of irritation in the tone. It surprised him. Never before had the Master displayed such an emotion.

  Onesayer heard the whir of fast-approaching moto-shoes, watched a tuxedo meckie carry a tray of food up a ramp behind Uncle Rosy’s chair. The meckie had six little blinking white lights down the front of a black headless metal body, with an oblong speaker box on each side. Its mechanical arms had a rim of white dress shirt at the wrists which appeared dirty yellow in the low light. The meckie placed the tray on a mini-table to one side of the great chair. It waited several seconds for further instructions. Not receiving any, it left the chamber.

  “The comet continues to behave erratically, Learned One. It turns one way and then the other, always returning to a collision course with Earth.”

  “As if it had a life and brain of its own,” Uncle Rosy said. He leaned to the right, resting an arm on one of three chrome handles beside the chair.

  “Yes. It is strange indeed. Bu-Tech and Bu-Mil are combining in an effort to stop the comet, but . . .” Onesayer fell silent, clasped his hands behind his back and gazed up at the distant row of yellow bulbs along the ceiling.

  “But?” Uncle Rosy prodded.

  Onesayer dropped his gaze, looked at the Master. “I have been in the Bureau Monitoring Room since midday, reviewing all the lifelog and minicam tapes on Dr. Hudson and General Munoz.”

  “And?”

  “I do not think much of their plan. No back-up provision or evacuation contingency. And now Munoz has some wild idea that an office worker named Malloy—a man with absolutely no space experience—should pilot the ship. We have checked the lifelog tapes on Malloy, Master. The fellow is pathetic—a real loser.”

  “I see,” Uncle Rosy said.

  “They are sending along another man who has experience . . . he’s been doing garbage shuttle duty the past couple of years. So far, they can’t locate him.”

  Uncle Rosy said nothing, sat leaning to one side.

  Onesayer noticed the chrome handle moving down slowly beneath the weight of Uncle Rosy’s arm. “Master!” he yelled. “The Zero Handle! You are leaning on it!”

  “Oh,” Uncle Rosy said absent-mindedly, pulling his arm away from the handle. “Suppose I was.” Uncle Rosy pushed the handle back into place.

  Onesayer took a deep breath, resisted an urge to shake his head in dismay.

  “Foolish of me,” Uncle Rosy said cheerfully. “Another five seconds and Earth would have gone boom!”

  “Yes, Master. That reminds me. . . . What would you think

  of using the second handle at this time?”

  “The Orbital Handle?” Uncle Rosy said, placing his hand on the central chrome handle. “You hope Earth can elude the comet by modifying its orbit?”

  “That is the obvious benefit, Master. But there is another.”

  “Which is?”

  “The AmFeds have always been pretentious, thinking that their technology can deal with any situation.”

  “It has worked well for them in the past,” Uncle Rosy said in his resonant voice.

  “And the past is always a precursor of what is to come?”

  “Ah, Onesayer Edward,” the Master said, pleased. “You are learning!”

  False encouragement, Onesayer thought bitterly. “On this pretentiousness, Master, the AmFeds do not know of the existence of our Orbital Handle.”

  “Nor of the other handles. It would cause them to stop and think, eh, Onesayer?”

  “It would be healthy if they were forced to re-evaluate assumptions.”

  “Under normal circumstances, I would agree, Onesayer.” Uncle Rosy removed his hand from the Orbital Handle. “But this is quite a different situation.”

  “Then why did you install the handles? I understand number one, the Zero Handle. As Master, you may find it necessary to detonate the planet. And number three . . . our army of ten thousand armadillo meckies that can fly, swim and break through walls. But number two, Master . . . I cannot think of a more opportune occasion to use it for the first time.”

  “Continue as I have instructed, Onesayer. Dr. Hudson and General Munoz are to be eliminated.”

  “At least hear me on one point, Master. Hudson could improve the odds of stopping the comet. We should not kill him yet.”

  Onesayer saw the shadowy head of Uncle Rosy shake slowly from side to side. There was no other response.

  Onesayer shifted nervously on his feet. “He is a genius, Master. You have often said this.”

  “He is dangerous, Onesayer. We cannot tolerate someone who reads the thoughts of the citizenry and forces them to vote as he wishes!”

  “I see that, Master. But . . .”

  “There are no buts to be considered. When I thought of mentoing, I saw it as an aid to the economy . . . making consumption easier . . . more automatic. In my early lab work, I hoped thought transmission would make life more pleasurable for my people.”

  “Hudson IS evil, but we can get him later.”

  “No, Onesayer!” Uncle Rosy said angrily. “He has gone too far!”

  “Learned One, you speak with anger. But the AmFeds can ill afford to lose him now . . . in the presence of such grave danger.”

  “No matter, Onesayer. I have given my orders.”

  “But Master—”

  “You HAVE instructed our operatives to sabotage the products used by General Munoz and Dr. Hudson?”

  “Uh, the contract is out on Munoz.”

  “And Hudson?”

  “Uh, not yet, Master.”

  “I gave that order YESTERDAY, Onesayer. Why was it not completed yesterday?”

  “I had hoped you might reconsider—”

  “Onesayer Edward!”

  “Forgive me for arguing, Learned One, but the Thousand Year Plan . . . the glory of Freeness and the AmFed Way . . . all could be destroyed! Surely this matters!”

  “Much remains for you to learn, Onesayer,” the hulking shape said. “Some things can be controlled. Others cannot.”

  Onesayer did not reply. He glanced at the two sayermen standing silently nearby in the hope that one would speak up on his behalf. But they said nothing, making Onesayer feel very much alone.

  “They will stop this comet themselves,” Uncle Rosy said, “or it was not meant to be done.”

  “I have never heard you speak this way, Master.”

  “And you are disturbed?”

  “I am concerned. We are responsible for the work of many lifetimes . . . for tradition and honor . . . for dreams brought to reality.”

  “Well put, Onesayer. But there are forces at work here even I do not understand. I have never admitted such a thing before, and it is not to go beyond this chamber.”

  “Yes, Learned One. I will follow your wishes.”

  “One more thing, Onesayer. Tomorrow morning you are to notify President Ogg of the electoral conspiracy against him. Show him that they thought-speak, and assure him that we are in control of the situation. But say no more.”

  As the conversation ended and Onesayer rolled out of the chamber, he felt centuries of suppressed anger coming to a head. I must kill the Master, he thought bitterly. He will never step down . . . and besides, he has gone mad! If I can hide
the body and take his place . . . no one will know the difference!

  For a fleeting moment, it occurred to Onesayer that there might be no body. Uncle Rosy might be a projecto-image. No, he thought. The Master leaned on one of the handles—Still, it could be a meckie. The Master might be somewhere else, watching. Or he may be dead already, and another sayerman has taken his place.

  The range of possibilities nearly drove Onesayer mad.

  It was late Saturday evening when Onesayer took the elevator to the top floor of the Black Box, rolled along a long hallway and entered his suite. As he rode the escalator to his prayer loft for the final daily prayer, Onesayer felt emotions different from any he had ever experienced before.

  He reached the prayer loft landing and short-stepped off. This has always been automatic for me, he thought, but I feel . . .

  Onesayer could not form the feelings into coherent thoughts. He stood for a moment staring at the bust of Uncle Rosy which rested in its usual position on the leading edge of the prayer rug. An overhead mini-spot illuminated the bust, and Onesayer recalled feeling that this gave it an inspirational appearance in the surrounding shadows of night. But the bust did not look inspirational to him now. There was something insidious about it.

  I should be on that rug by now, he thought, pledging myself anew to the Master—

  Onesayer rolled slowly to the sculptured bust, felt hot with anger as he reached it. I have prayed to this idol for the last time! he thought, glaring down at a “Keep the Faith” inscription on the pedestal. His foot darted forward swiftly, dealing a powerful blow to the bust. The little sculpture flew a meter and a half into the air, crashed and shattered as it fell to the hardwood floor.

  Uncle Rosy’s fate as well, he thought, staring bleakly at the broken pieces. A portion of the bust’s pedestal remained intact, along with its “Keep the Faith” inscription. Words echoed in his brain: Keep the Faith . . . Keep the Faith . . . Keep the Faith. . . .

  Onesayer lifted the pedestal piece angrily and hurled it to the floor. There! he thought as the piece shattered. I am free of it!