Sidney's Comet

by Brian Herbert

  A shudder ran through his body.

  * * *

  The youngsayermen were gathered in the high-ceilinged gallery of the Great Temple at Pleasant Reef. They stood around Sayer Superior Lin-Ti at a glass display case, watching intently as he unlocked the case.

  “This is the actual cross worn by General Munoz,” Lin-Ti said, lifting out a burnished gold cross and chain.

  “Does it still work?” a youngsayerman asked.

  “Oh yes,” Lin-Ti said. “Of course, we are too far from Earth to change their weather or votes. This is a mechanical device, you know. It is not spiritual. . . . ”

  Chapter Five

  WHAT FREENESS MEANS TO THE AMFEDS: FOR FURTHER READING AND DISCUSSION

  “Something for nothing is perfectly acceptable. The most important people get ahead by luck, you know. They are in the right place at the right time. Once a person understands Freeness, there is no limit to how far he can go!”

  Remarks to a newsy reporter by Charley Chance, twelfth minister of Bu-Free

  Sunday, August 27, 2605

  Garbage Day minus five began in the Black Box of Democracy with Onesayer Edward rising at his usual time before dawn. This morning, for the first time in more than three centuries, he would not perform the prayer ritual. I will never return to the prayer loft! he thought as he pulled a clean robe over his head. It is finished!

  New thoughts whirled through Onesayer’s brain as he rode the elevator to the second level and moto-shoed the short distance to the Bureau Monitoring Room. I will disfigure his face after killing him. Then if I can get one of my robes on him . . . Doubt returned to his consciousness, and Onesayer wondered if Uncle Rosy really occupied the Master’s chair. Whoever it is, he thought. I’ll get him.

  “Peace be upon you, Onesayer,” a sayerman said as Onesayer entered the room. Onesayer nodded without noticing who had spoken. He rolled directly to the broadcasting alcove located along a side wall. It was shift-change time, and sayermen arrived and left, exchanging blessings and touching together their class rings.

  Oblivious to this activity, Onesayer mentoed the minicam broadcaster as he entered the alcove: One-five-six-three-oh-nine-four-one-Ogg. He glanced at a computer sheet on President Ogg, then took a seat on a high stool and stared intently at a round telescreen as it flickered to life.

  Onesayer watched the screen as an immense black man wearing a bright green leisure suit short-stepped onto the running board of Autocopter One, then turned to retrieve a briefcase from the expando-cart which lifted it to his level.

  President Ogg heard his satin suit rustle as he moved. He placed the case behind the single copter seat, short-stepped into the cockpit and sat down. From the helipad on top of his penthouse, the President could see the morning sun beginning to do its dawn-peek over a dusty horizon. Its golden-orange rays across New City gave a reddish silhouette to mountains in the distance. He enjoyed taking a heli-spin at this time of day, had often commented on it by saying, “The morning is as new and bright as the best products in our American Federation!”

  Onesayer spoke from the Bureau Monitoring Room: “Good morning, President Ogg.”

  Ogg jumped. The voice seemed to come from somewhere inside the cockpit. “Who said that?” Ogg demanded, sitting straight up and looking around nervously. He saw no one.

  “My name is not important,” the voice said.

  Onesayer smiled as he watched President Ogg reach for his radiophone. Onesayer mentoed a force-field gun, and Ogg felt invisible restraint against his forearm, preventing him from lifting the receiver.

  “There is no need for that,” the voice said.

  “Great Suffering Depression!” Ogg cursed angrily. He took a deep breath, released his fingers from the receiver and pulled his arm back.

  “Not to be alarmed, Mr. President,” Onesayer said. “The Black Box of Democracy would have a word with you.”

  “The Black Box? What soft of prank is this?”

  Ogg noted that the voice did not sound male or female. It could be a syntho-voiced meckie. Or someone speaking through a voice scrambler. He pinched the thin skin on the back of one hand to be certain he was awake. It hurt.

  “There is an evil electoral conspiracy, Mr. President. In violation of the American Federation of Freeness Constitution.”

  “Oh?”

  “An interesting dinner party will take place this evening, at the home of General Munoz.”

  “Munoz? What’s he up to?”

  “He is the leader of the conspiracy.”

  “I will need evidence,” the President said, “enough to appoint an investigating committee.” His gaze darted around the cockpit.

  “You will have the evidence, Mr. President, because you should always be kept informed. But there will be no investigating committee.”

  “We MUST have a thorough investigation,” Ogg insisted, his voice fervent, “with reports, meetings and photographs.” Ogg wiped perspiration from his brow. “We’ll set up a crisis bureau, employing thousands of people!”

  “No time for that! They plan to rig Tuesday’s election! Munoz will take power the same day!”

  “But we can’t take action without reports,” Ogg lamented as he shifted in his seat. His satin suit rustled. “It’s not possible!”

  “Leave it to us, Mr. President. And do not be alarmed at what you see happening.”

  “What will that be?”

  “Do not be impatient. First, there is a bit of evidence for you to observe, as required in the by-laws of the Black Box of Democracy.”

  Ogg rubbed the thumb and forefinger of one hand together nervously.

  The Munoz dinner party,” the voice said. “In the glovebox of your autocopter is a palm-held video receiver. Flip it on at six-thirty this evening.”

  President Ogg located the receiver, held it in one hand. It was blue plastic and chrome, had one red switch and a tiny darkened screen. “All right,” he agreed. “I’ll do that.”

  “They will say nothing incriminating at the table,” the voice said. “But watch their gestures and expressions. Pay particular attention to their eyes.”

  “This doesn’t sound like evidence to me!”

  “They thought-speak, Mr. President, with the aid of brain-implanted transceivers.”

  “My Rosenbloom! I’ve never heard of such—”

  “They also have a powerful subliminal transmitting device. At this moment, it is changing the voting preferences of a majority of the electorate.”

  “Munoz as a punch-in victor?”

  “Right. We have been on full alert for some time now. But we could not take action until they committed the overt act of changing votes. Just planning to do it was no crime.”

  “I see. No I don’t! Munoz isn’t clever enough for this!”

  “Dr. Hudson’s doing. Remember last year in your office when he explained the subliminal receiving features of every consumer brain implant? They were to make Harmak and Home Video advertisements more effective, he said.”

  “I remember. But how did you . . .”

  “They found another use for Hudson’s discoveries. I must caution you not to tell anyone about our conversation, Mr. President.” The voice fell silent.

  Ogg listened to the quiet in the cockpit, and a feeling of urgency came over him. He watched the golden orange layers of dawn give way to pale blue daylight.

  Whose voice was that? he thought. God’s?

  Dr. Hudson attended church services alone Sunday morning. Since the church building was overflowing, Hudson and hundreds of others sat in cars out in the parking lot, listening to the sermon through drive-in speakers.

  “Uncle Rosy and God are side-by-side in the Happy Shopping Ground,” the minister’s metallic voice said.

  Hudson turned a knob on the speaker to lower the volume, then glanced around nervously at the occupants of nearby cars. Did anyone see me do that? he thought.

  Across town in Building B of the Bu-Tech Space Center, General Munoz and Colonel
Peebles stood in a sixth-floor briefing room. They squinted at one another against the glare of the midmorning sun which flashed through a nearby window. Peebles mentoed a window shade, watched it roll halfway down until the sun’s rays were covered.

  “Hudson’s people did a nice job, wouldn’t you say?” General Munoz asked, looking through a clear glassplex barrier to admire a three-dimensional galactic model.

  “Adequate,” Colonel Peebles said, fingering a strand of gold braid which encircled one shoulder epaulet and hung at the side of his Space Patrol uniform.

  “Adequate? It’s identical to our real model next door, except in this case the planets and other heavenly bodies don’t follow the impulses of parent bodies. These little spheres move in accordance with our fabricated control room instructions.”

  “Very nice,” Peebles agreed. He smiled as he looked at the model. Miniature comets and meteors made their way along varying courses in slow motion, trailing emerald green, blue or orange flames against a black, star-encrusted backdrop.

  Munoz glanced at the briefing room’s digital wallclock, noted the time: A.M. 10:26:33. Below that, another digital reader showed the Estimated Time of Arrival of the garbage comet:

  DAYS 5

  HOURS 7

  MINS 28

  SECS 13

  D/SECS 0.73

  Looking back at the squeak of a door, they watched two dark blue-uniformed military policemen escort Tom Javik into the room. The MPs saluted, did a moto-boot about-face and left. Javik folded his arms across his chest, glanced around defiantly.

  “Mr. Javik!” General Munoz exclaimed, caressing his orange mustache. “So nice that you could make it!” The voice was honey-sweet but carried with it a threatening undertone.

  “Our brawler has a cut over his eye,” Peebles observed. An I-told-you-so smile touched his mouth as he added, “They had some difficulty restraining him last night at the Sky Ballroom.”

  General Munoz rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he studied Javik. He noted a torn and wrinkled tunic, fearless and defiant deeply-set blue eyes. “We’ll order you more suitable clothing,” Munoz said. “But then I’m getting ahead of myself. You know who I am?”

  “Yes,” Javik said, meeting the tiny General’s gaze. “And I’ve . . . met . . . Major Peebles.”

  “It’s Colonel now,” Peebles said stiffly. Javik heard a familiar whine to the voice.

  “Getting directly to the reason you are here,” Munoz said, “I am prepared to reinstate your commission in the American Federation Space Patrol. As a First Lieutenant. An Akron class cruiser is being prepared for the mission right now.”

  “Fast ship,” Javik said. “And long-range.” He narrowed his eyes warily, asked, “What’s the catch?”

  “No catch,” Munoz replied. “Your assignment is Project Romo.”

  “Who’s heading up this mission?”

  “Captain Sidney Malloy.”

  Javik’s eyes opened wide. “Huh? . . . Not the same Sidney Malloy I know?”

  “One and the same.”

  Javik laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding!”

  “Your crippled little friend will be commander in name only. Operationally, you will be in charge.” Munoz touched the burnished gold cross which hung from his neck.

  Peebles stared at the ceiling.

  “I like Sid,” Javik said, “but what in the hell is going on? The cockpit of an Akron cruiser is no place for him!”

  “There are reasons,” Munoz said, staring at a trash can across the room. “Command reasons.” He gestured toward the galactic model, adding, “You leave tomorrow. Malloy will meet—”

  “I haven’t accepted the assignment yet,” Javik pointed out, smiling faintly.

  “True enough,” Munoz said. “If you don’t accept, we’ll find someone to replace you.”

  Javik twisted his face, trying to think.

  “Malloy goes in any event,” Munoz said. “He will go separately to Saint Elba, receiving therapy there before joining you . . . or someone else. There are no therapy facilities here.”

  “This is crazy,” Javik said.

  “As if you’re in a position to be choosy,” Peebles sneered, staring disdainfully at Javik.

  Munoz glared at his adjutant, then motioned to the galactic model again and explained: “That is Earth,” he said, pointing to a tiny sphere in the galactic model. The sphere began to pulsate with a white light at the General’s mento-command. “And there, in orbit between the Earth and Moon at L5, is the therapy habitat of Saint Elba.” A pulsating blue light marked the orbiter’s location.

  “Saint Elba is the first recharging stop,” Colonel Peebles explained. “It is there that Malloy will be picked up, along with two mass driver units and fire probes, all partially assembled.”

  “Partially assembled?” Javik said.

  “Due to a shortage of time,” Munoz said, “assembly crews will accompany you on the journey, doing their work along the way.”

  “How many people?”

  “Two hundred. All cappies. They’ll be released to rescue craft when the mass drivers are complete.”

  “I see. Fire probes, huh? What am I supposed to hook onto?”

  Munoz activated a red blip adjacent to the Earth sphere. “This represents your ship, the Shamrock Five,” he explained. The blip moved to Saint Elba, then continued off into space. “From Saint Elba you and Malloy will proceed in the direction of the Ikor Constellation, along a heading of thirty-two-point-five degrees from the Columbarian Plane. Three additional recharging stops will be necessary before rendezvous. Charging stations are now being established along the route.” Javik noted three pulsating yellow lights, watched the red blip pause at each.

  Javik furrowed his brow. “I don’t see what . . . I mean, it’s clear space beyond that for millions of kilometers.”

  “You’ll be changing course twenty-six thousand kilometers beyond the last recharging station, along a new heading of ninety-two-point-one degrees C.P. This will conserve the E-Cells by taking advantage of strong space currents in the region.”

  “I’m familiar with the area,” Javik said, watching the red blip change direction along its new course.

  Javik glanced at the impact countdown wallboard, asked, “What day will it be at the time of the last course change?”

  “Thursday,” Colonel Peebles said, glancing at a palm-held note screen. “Eighteen hundred thirty-six hours to be precise.”

  “The object of rendezvous is THERE!” Munoz said, revealing excitement in his voice. The largest of several comets in the Columbarian Quadrant began to pulsate. ‘That celestial body is on a collision course with our mining base in the Romo asteroid group, threatening our principal source of Argonium One.”

  “E-Cell gas,” Javik remarked.

  “Argonium One’s use is classified,” Peebles said, officiously.

  Javik narrowed his eyes and leaned closer to the galactic model. ‘That . . . celestial body, as you call it . . . looks like a comet to me.”

  Munoz hesitated, then said: “Correct.”

  “There are rumors of a comet headed toward Earth, General. Some say it’s our own garbage.”

  “Nonsense,” Munoz said firmly. “Utter nonsense.” He mentoed a time-advance button to speed up the motions in the galactic model. “I’m eliminating your ship,” he explained, “and doing a fast-forward on the celestial body. The blinking green light is our Romo mining base.”

  The comet sped across space in a blur and hit the Romo asteroids dead center. Javik shielded his eyes as a bright, silent explosion filled the model with tiny fragments of smoldering matter.

  “Any questions?” Munoz asked. He stared sidelong at Javik, noted Javik was staring down the bridge of his nose at the model.

  Javik mumbled something.

  “What was that?” Munoz asked.

  “Project Boomerang,” Javik said. He smiled defiantly. “That’s a better name for the project. After all, it is our own garbage coming back.”
<
br />   “Not true!” Munoz huffed.

  Colonel Peebles glanced at Javik haughtily and said, “Bu-Tech studied photographic plates taken by deep space gamma ray cameras. The celestial body’s—”

  “You mean the comet’s?” Javik asked, glaring ferociously.

  “Very well. The comet’s composition is quite standard . . . primordial noble gases and the like, with a fusion-hardened nucleus of—”

  “Bull!” Javik said. The smile returned.

  “Look,” Peebles said, his voice trembling with anger. “Experts plotted its course with coordinate measurements of Right Ascension and Declination . . . obtained by angular offsets to the adjacent field stars. That is the course you see here.” Peebles nodded toward the galactic model.

  “Do you really understand any of that?” Javik asked.

  “Certainly!” Peebles’s pale blue eyes peered icily at Javik.

  “Well, your galactic model is wrong. I think it’s intentionally wrong. And your impact board refers to the comet’s E.T. A. here, not at Romo.”

  “We don’t have to listen to this!” Peebles huffed, glancing at Munoz for support. Peebles mentoed the window shade, and it snapped up, throwing a flash of sunlight in Javik’s eyes.

  Squinting, Javik flushed with anger and said to Peebles, “Listen, you wet-behind-the-ears armchair . . .”

  “STOP THIS! BOTH OF YOU!” Munoz thundered He glared at Peebles, then mentoed the window shade down, returning the coolness of shadow to Javik’s face.

  “I accept the assignment,” Javik said, “with a couple of provisos.”

  Munoz took a deep breath, tried to exude calmness. “Which are?”

  “Firstly, two cases of Chambertin Clos de Bez wine pellets are to be placed aboard. . . . Vintage twenty-five-seventy-two.”

  “Done,” Munoz said.

  “Rather expensive taste for a brawler,” Peebles sniffed. “A jug of White Rippo sounds more suitable.”

  Javik disregarded the remark, said, “And I want Brent Stafford assigned to command his own ship . . . at least a destroyer.”

  “Who?” Munoz asked.

  “Our brawler’s co-pilot during his garbage detail,” Peebles said.