Sidney's Comet

by Brian Herbert

  “Yes, Honorable Mayor,” the Sergeant’s speakercom voice said. “Does that include clients?”

  “Yes, I suppose it does. . . . ”

  “They may be our best hope. We have a couple of ex-pursuit craft pilots in the psycho ward.”

  “I recall. They went mad several weeks back and became doomies.”

  “Right, Honorable Mayor. They have Comet Fever.”

  “We’ll use them if we have to, with mind control drugs. But that’s the bottom of the barrel.”

  “I’ll get right on it,” Rountree said. “Maybe we can find someone else.”

  Mayor Nancy Ogg heard the line click shut.

  Minutes after President Ogg completed his call with Saint Elba, Billie Birdbright rolled into the office ebulliently. “You’ve won, Mr. President! All the networks are projecting you a big winner!”

  “That’s wonderful,” Ogg said, unenthusiastically because of the important duty on his mind.

  “News of Munoz’s death broke before a lot of people voted. You really opened up a margin after that!”

  “Get me the Manual on Committees,” Ogg said. “We have something important to do, and I want it done correctly.”

  Later that afternoon, President Ogg stood near the head of a long simulated walnut table in Conference Room fifty-seven. Interim ministers Nigel Larsen of Bu-Tech and Meg Corrigon of Bu-Mil stood nearby in newly-donned white and gold ministerial robes. Standing off to one side, Chief of Staff Birdbright awaited instructions from the President.

  The conference room occupied one-fourth of an entire floor of the White House Office Tower, along an exterior building wall which permitted illumination of the room by natural daylight. The windows were large, and the room radiated cheerfulness. President Ogg peered at chairs on the far end of the table. He envisioned all the chairs occupied, papers strewn across the table. This pleased him, and he smiled.

  Ogg tapped a bulky forefinger on the table-mounted microphone in front of one chair, said, “I want to see this room full tomorrow morning, gentlemen!”

  “Ahem!”

  Ogg turned to see Lieutenant Colonel Meg Corrigon looking at him with a bemused expression. Corrigon was fiftyish, a career military woman whose neatly trimmed Mack hair came to a sharp widow’s peak at the center of her forehead.

  “I mean ladies . . . er, ah . . . lady and . . . well, you know what I mean!” Ogg smiled sheepishly.

  Corrigon broke into a squeaky laugh.

  “This committee will explore every angle of Lieutenant Javik’s disappearance,” Ogg continued. “It is an exciting opportunity for committeeship!”

  “Excuse me, Mr. President,” Nigel Larsen said, clearing his throat nervously.

  “Yes?” Ogg turned a bit on his moto-shoes to get a better view of Larsen, looked upon a man with a very heavy face and an immense, pendulous triple chin. Curiously, Larsen’s body was rather slender.

  “Forgive me for asking,” Larsen said, “but couldn’t we simply send another ship’s pilot now?” Noticing a scowl forming on Ogg’s face, he added quickly: “Just this once, sir?”

  “No!” Ogg said, glaring ferociously. “If we make an exception now, where will it stop?”

  “But I don’t think there are any other options, sir. And a pilot is needed up there quite desperately.”

  “WHO ARE WE TO DETERMINE OPTIONS?” Ogg thundered. “COMMITTEES DETERMINE OPTIONS!”

  “Uh, sir. . . . ” Larsen’s triple chin quivered.

  “There are always options, Larsen! Options are the soul of committeeship!”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “It takes only one tiny break in the system, Larsen . . . and then everything falls apart.”

  “Like a house of dominoes,” Corrigon piped in.

  “Well put, Corrigon!” the President said.

  “Thank you, Mr. President.” She placed both hands on the back of a chair, beamed proudly.

  This woman’s not at all like her predecessor, Ogg thought, comparing her with General Munoz. I can work with her! Ogg extended his large hands to each side, palms up. “Can you imagine the destruction of everything we’ve built, Larsen?”

  “No, Mr. President. I didn’t think. . . . ”

  “You didn’t think!” Ogg said, pouncing on the miscue. “Well, snap out of it, man!” Ogg mentoed a microphone on the table, snapped his fingers against it. The sound echoed around the room. “Wake up!”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” Larsen said, afraid to meet Ogg’s powerful gaze. “I see your point.”

  “By the book, ministers!” Ogg said. “Strictly by the book!”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” the interim ministers said in unison.

  The President wouldn’t approve of me working late, Chief of Staff Birdbright thought, glancing wearily at a digital cuckoo clock on the wall. A tiny cuckoo bird above the digital reader popped out upon Birdbright’s mento command, chirped: “Tuesday P.M., nine-fourteen and twelve seconds.” The mechanical bird retracted with a crisp snap.

  Birdbright stood at the telephone message board outside the oval office in a pool of white fluorescent light. The rest of the floor lay in night shadows. He mentoed for a transcript of the evening’s messages, and a phone printer beneath the message board began to type, spewing out words and paper into a plastic tray. Birdbright sifted through the sheets, sorting them into two retained piles while tossing away a third category of junk messages.

  Here’s something, Birdbright thought, holding a sheet up. From Larsen at Bu-Tech. . . . sent about an hour ago. Birdbright read aloud: “Comp six-oh-two reports it is too late to divert comet to nitrogen-rich atmosphere of Kinshoto for burnout. Shamrock Five must take off before six P.M. tomorrow for Thursday rendezvous with comet. Still possible to divert fireball away from Earth.”

  Birdbright looked away, shook his head. Larsen won’t last long when the President sees this, he thought. Imagine that . . . attempting to rush the work of a committee with a computer report!

  He looked down at the sheet again, squinted and pulled his head back to keep from throwing a shadow across the page. Birdbright blinked his eyes, read on: “If substitute crew cannot arrive before deadline, Comp six-oh-two recommends strategic placement of orbiting missile launchers around Earth for atomic assault on comet. . . . ”

  Birdbright took this and several other messages into the oval office, mentoed on an overhead light and set them in the center of the President’s desk. I can see President Ogg’s position, he thought. But Larsen may have a point too. He grimaced, noting that Larsen had sent a copy of the report to Saint Elba’s Mayor Nancy Ogg.

  Sparks are going to fly tomorrow! he thought.

  Birdbright noted two white plastic sacks bearing bureau ministerial crests on the desktop. He recalled receiving them from a courier just before quitting time that afternoon. President Ogg had left without examining them.

  Birdbright knew these were the personal effects of Munoz and Hudson. As President, it would be Ogg’s sacred duty to review their contents and decide which items would go on display in the White House Tower Museum.

  Birdbright poured out two neat piles on the desktop. He picked through Munoz’s effects first . . . a gold wrist digital, gold and silver coins, a gold cross and chain. . . .

  I recall him wearing this cross, Birdbright thought, lifting the cross and dangling its chain across one hand. The metal was cool to his touch.

  Wearily, he mentoed off the overhead light and sat in the President’s chair, spinning it to gaze out the window. New City sparkled below like a freshly honed jewel, and above that a lazy quarter moon stood vigil. He held the cross up, rotating it to pick up glints of reflected light upon the cross surface.

  Strange what I’m feeling now, he thought. Can’t quite put my finger on it. . . .

  Birdbright held the cross against his chest, scanned the heavens. Somewhere between the orbits of the Earth and the Moon was Saint Elba, and beyond that a great comet which threatened to destroy everything man’s
technology had built. He strained to see the tiniest speck of unusual activity in space, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Had he not been privy to information about the impending disaster and the uncoordinated efforts to stop it, Birdbright might have thought it was just another lovely summer night in God’s chosen land.

  * * *

  As Sayer Superior Lin-Ti rounded the top of the hill approaching the Great Temple, he thought of the day’s lesson. There is history and then again there is HISTORY, he thought. I fear the history writers may have included too much unsavory detail in this text. These are impressionable youngsayermen. . . .

  The fog on the valley floor below was lifting early this morning, and he could see the upper half of the temple. Reaching a fork in the motopath, the Sayer Superior rolled over an arched bridge to the left.

  Ah well, he thought. There is always Selective Memory Erasure. I have ordered its application many times. . . .

  Chapter Eleven

  THE ECONOMICS OF FREENESS, FOR FURTHER READING AND DISCUSSION

  October 20, 2415: Council of Ten declare Tic-Tac-Toe, Hangman, Battleship and dot-to-dot games to be against the public interest unless played on manufactured sets.

  Wednesday, August 30, 2605

  Garbage Day Countdown (Earth impact): Two days, eleven hours, fifty-four minutes. . . .

  Dawn formed reddish outlines across New City’s skyline and around hills partially visible in the distance. Onesayer Edward was only dimly conscious of the view as he sat by the one-way window in his kitchen module. He had important matters on his mind this day.

  Feeling tired, he swallowed a sleep-sub pill and followed that with a water capsule. It had been a fitful night of sleep, punctuated by periods in which he lay awake in darkness worrying about the distasteful task he would perform the following day. When the new day broke, he had no cohesive plan of action . . . only the conviction that he would kill Uncle Rosy that day or would perish in the attempt.

  I’ll cut up his face to erase the features, Onesayer thought, staring disconsolately at an untouched plate of presto-eggs. Then I can report that Onesayer died while attempting to kill the Master.

  Onesayer left the breakfast table without eating anything, took an elevator down to the Bureau Monitoring Room. Act normally, he told himself as he entered the room, touching a small bulge at his waist where the knife was concealed. The weapon was there, reassuringly, concealed beneath the folds of his robe and secured against his body by an extra robe belt.

  Sayermen were busy at their posts, operating mento-activated keyboards and scanning video screens on the walls. The barely discernible hum of pink sound absorbed harsher machine noises, giving the room an air of smooth efficiency. Through a distant one-way window, morning sunlight filtered into the room, glinting off chrome trim on the machines.

  “Great Suffering Souplines!” he heard Twosayer William exclaim. The hook-nosed Twosayer stood at a minicam screen near the entry, shaking his head from side to side in dismay.

  Onesayer rolled to the station, asked: “What is it?”

  “You are feeling better?” Twosayer asked, studying Onesayer closely. He is aging! Twosayer thought, elated at what he saw. But then Twosayer felt fear, as he saw Onesayer glare back at him disdainfully with crease-framed eyes.

  Onesayer touched the bulge at his waist. His expression became menacing.

  “Uh, take a look,” Twosayer said, nodding nervously toward a cluster of six wallscreens.

  Onesayer narrowed his eyes, glanced from screen to screen without comprehending what was happening.

  “Javik . . . the Shamrock Five pilot . . . is on Saint Michaels!” Twosayer said disgustedly. “Instead of on Saint Elba!” He sneaked a glance at lines on Onesayer’s cheeks as Onesayer concentrated upon a minicam screen. Twosayer suppressed a smile.

  Onesayer saw Tom Javik at the head of a line of clients. Javik glared across a countertop at a Junior Therapist on the other side. . . .

  “You must complete these forms,” the Junior Therapist insisted. He extended a packet of legal-sized forms and an auto-pen across the countertop. Fair-haired and with a light complexion, the Junior Therapist was vacuous-faced, with a slack jaw and unintelligent eyes. It was the same bureaucratic personality Javik had encountered so many times previously, and he felt rage building up inside.

  “There’s no form for what I’m trying to communicate to you,” Javik said. “I was sent here in error, and it’s imperative that I return to Saint Elba.”

  “Fill out the forms. I must have the forms!”

  Onesayer shook his head in disbelief. The screen flickered off, went back on. . . .

  “Fill out the forms, please,” the Junior Therapist said firmly.

  Javik scowled ferociously across the counter, said in a threatening tone: “I’ll give you thirty seconds to say something sensible. Then I’m coming after you!”

  “You’re forgetting your place!” the Junior Therapist huffed.

  “Twenty-three seconds,” Javik said, glancing at his wrist digital.

  “I don’t believe this is happening!” Onesayer said, gazing at the ceiling. He looked back at the screen. . . .

  “Guards!” the Junior Therapist screeched. “Guards!”

  Javik reached for his concealed pistol, but had a second thought and relaxed his hand. “All right,” he said. “Give me the damned forms.”

  The Junior Therapist took a deep breath and pushed the forms across the counter.

  Javik glanced at two black-uniformed Security Brigade guards who had approached and were standing three meters away, watching intently. Javik looked down at the forms, took the auto-pen. “Where do I write ‘help’?” he asked, without humor.

  Onesayer looked away from the screen as it went dark, asked angrily: “Has a substitute pilot been dispatched to Saint Elba?”

  “No,” Twosayer said. He turned his oval face away, afraid to meet Onesayer’s burning gaze. “There is still that cappy Malloy that Munoz picked in a vision—”

  “Aaay! Captain Cappy!”

  “Now President Ogg has turned the whole matter over to an investigating committee. Ogg wants the committee to provide him with options.”

  “This is no time for committees!” Onesayer yelled.

  “I know that, but. . . . ” Twosayer stared at the darkened screen.

  “And you’re just sitting here watching? That’s all you’re doing?” Onesayer was hurling apostrophes with reckless abandon.

  “There is nothing we can do.” Twosayer threw up his hands helplessly. “The Master has given us specific instructions not to—”

  “We’ll see about that!” Onesayer said. He stormed out of the room, intending to take a moto-stroll until his head cleared.

  Forty-five minutes later, Onesayer Edward stood in the great central chamber, glaring up at the shadowy form of Uncle Rosy. Uncle Rosy cleared his throat, shifted in his chair. Onesayer heard the iron door to the chamber slide shut behind him, and a rush of fear washed through him.

  Calmness, Onesayer thought, attempting to mento-command himself. Utter calmness. Then he dies.

  “I grow weary of all the monitoring and controls,” Uncle Rosy said in a resonant, soothing tone which echoed softly off the black glassite walls of the chamber. “So much is required to support the AmFed system.”

  We’ll get to the point soon, Onesayer thought, oblivious to his unspoken pun. He placed a hand against his robe over the knife.

  Uncle Rosy cleared his throat again, and Onesayer heard the low strains of humming that came from the Master’s lips. The notes were soft and lilting, unmistakably the Hymn of Freeness.

  Feeling tears building up in his eyes, Onesayer blinked. “With the deaths of Munoz and Hudson,” he said slowly, trying to exude strength with each word, “all has fallen into bumbling disarray.”

  “It went bad before that,” Uncle Rosy said. “General Munoz chose the cappy last week.”

  “But Hudson might have taken corrective action after Munoz’s d
eath—once he was free of the General’s dominance.”

  “This is an I-told-you-so speech?”

  Onesayer forced a smile, kept his hand over the knife as he asked: “Why did you send a knife to me yesterday, Master?”

  “You wanted it, did you not?”

  “I did, but not to take my own life.” With these words, Onesayer took a deep breath and drew the knife. Locking his moto-shoes, he bounded up six steps to the level on which Uncle Rosy sat. He pointed the blade at Uncle Rosy, and it glinted in the low yellow light of overhead globes. Onesayer could see Uncle Rosy’s features now less than a meter away, a cherubic face smiling back at him without the tiniest hint of fear.

  44You hesitate, Onesayer. He who hesitates to take a thing is not-yet ready for it.”

  “You want to die?’

  “I feel . . . there are more perfect states than the sustenance of flesh.” Uncle Rosy rubbed his chin thoughtfully, added, “I sense . . . serenity.”

  Onesayer switched the black pearl handled knife to the other hand. “You refer to the Happy Shopping Ground?”

  Uncle Rosy laughed with a hint of derision. “I made that place up! I made everything up!” Noting a look of surprise on Onesayer’s face, Uncle Rosy said: “The place to which I refer has no shopping centers, no products, no people, no machines. . . . ”

  “You have found God, Master? Truly?”

  “No, Onesayer Edward. Though I have tried. Voices have spoken to me recently . . . since this garbage comet matter came up. . . . ”

  “Voices, Master?”

  “They speak of a Realm of the Unknown, say it is the highest state of existence. There are other . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “I hope you find serenity, Master.”

  Uncle Rosy smiled benignly, said, “Perhaps I have attempted to control too much, Onesayer. If not you at my throat now, eventually it would be someone else.”

  “You gave me the weapon, Master. Is that not controlling?”

  Uncle Rosy raised one hand to support his chin. Nodding slowly, he said, “I merely sped the inevitable. Forces were already in motion.” He laughed. “You argue with me to the end, eh, Onesayer?”