Sidney's Comet

by Brian Herbert

  Master Edward took a deep, furious breath, put his hands on his hips and shot words at the meckie as if the words were bullets: “Send a request to all of the departments at once! Did that ever occur to you?’

  “That has never been done before,” the meckie said calmly. “Therefore it does not seem possible, Master.”

  Master Edward threw his arms up in exasperation and thundered: “LEAVE ME! LEAVE ME IMMEDIATELY. ALL OF YOU!”

  The tuxedo meckies turned and scurried to the main doorway, but tried to exit simultaneously. The one in the center scraped through, but the other two bounced off the doorjambs on each side. This knocked something loose in their mechanisms, and the damaged meckies began to roll in circles, emitting high-pitched, whining sounds.

  “Quiet!” Master Edward screeched, looking for something to throw.

  The damaged meckies collided with one another head-on, tipped and fell to their sides. For several moments the whining continued, along with the whir and clank of gears. Finally the death knell ceased, and Master Edward stared at their fallen metal bodies. A moto-wheel on one meckie continued to roll silently for several seconds, but under his intense gaze this too came to a stop.

  Master Edward looked around the room . . . at the simu-life painting, at the books, at the digital cuckoo, then back to the motionless tin can servants. All were silent. He felt alone, very much alone.

  A half hour later, Master Edward looked up with one sleepy eye from the living room couch where he lay, saw the surviving tuxedo meckie standing in the doorway. In a voice devoid of emotion, the meckie said, “Master, it is time for the afternoon audience.”

  Master Edward scratched the back of one hand, said, “Cancel it!”

  “But they ask of Onesayer, Master. What shall I tell them?”

  “Tell them nothing.”

  “They wish to know when you will announce Onesayer’s replacement.”

  Master Edward rose to rest on one elbow, glared. “You told them he is dead?”

  “No, Master. They assumed it.”

  “How dare they demand this information? I will notify them when . . . and IF . . . there are to be promotions!”

  “Yes, Master. They also say Earth’s orbital speed is up twelve-point-five percent, and that—”

  “I know that,” Master Edward said angrily. “Who do they think did it?”

  Continuing where its sentence had been interrupted, the meckie said, “—the comet changed course to match our adjustment.”

  Master Edward sat up, startled. “It remains on a collision course with Earth?”

  “It does, Master.”

  “I feared as much! Go out and set the Orbital Handle at a one-point-five-three-seven factor.” The maximum, he thought. Any more and our solar system falls apart. . . .

  “I will, Master.”

  “Then tell Twosayer and Threesayer I will see them promptly at nine A.M. tomorrow.”

  “I will, Master.”

  Master Edward recalled his training in the physics of orbital modification as he watched the tuxedo meckie roll away. He thought back to a more pleasant time many years before when he had stood at the tutelage console with Sayer Superior Lin-Ti. . . .

  Youngsayer Edward: “But what of the laws of physics, Sayer Superior? Will not the Orbital Handle cause havoc with the Moon and with the AmFed orbiters?”

  Sayer Superior Lin-Ti: “No, youngsayer. The Orbital Handle’s force field extends to the Moon and to the orbital positions at L4 and at L5. The system will make adjustments as a unit.”

  Youngsayer Edward: “Are there limits? Surely we cannot make radical adjustments without affecting other planetary systems!”

  Sayer Superior Lin-Ti (laughing): “Be patient, youngsayer! You will learn such things in time. . . . ”

  Working at deck level Wednesday afternoon in the forward E-Cell area of Mass Driver One, Sidney gave the Argonium gas handle a final spin. Workmen were busy all around. Their voices and the clanging ring of tools echoed off the walls.

  “Now hand me the stitch-welder,” another client workman instructed.

  Sidney looked at the workman as he spoke, saw a young fleshy-faced man without apparent debility, his goggles pushed up out of the way over his forehead.

  Sidney lifted the tubular brass stitch-welder, passed it to the other man. As Sidney bent over, a bolt of pain shot through his ribcage and his temple throbbed. These were the places Mayor Nancy Ogg had kicked him.

  The man smiled slowly and guardedly, seeming to stare at the white bandage on Sidney’s left temple. “You’re learning fast,” the man said.

  “I’ve always had an interest in space mechanics,” Sidney said. ‘It’s been a hobby with me since I was a kid.”

  Sidney had helped the man build two compartments since noon, but still did not know his name. Sidney recalled introducing himself earlier, but the man had simply grunted something in return.

  Sidney flipped protective goggles over his own eyes, lifted a feather-light compartment assembly from the deck. He held it in place abutting the forward firewall next to the compartment they had just completed.

  The man flipped his goggles down and began to stitch-weld the assemblies together. Sidney watched as the zig-zag weld took shape, then glanced back at the center of the mass driver shell, where Mayor Nancy Ogg and her security sergeant stood speaking with a strange-looking short-haired woman.

  I suppose its a woman, Sidney thought, noting a faint breast line. The woman was short, had a weak chin and a bulbous nose. Her hands were thrust deeply into the pockets of a loose-fitting white-and-silver dress. The expression was chilly, unsmiling.

  “Okay,” the man with the stitch-welder said. “It’ll hold now.”

  Sidney let go, glanced through a hatch in the forward firewall where two men in green-and-gold space mechanic’s coveralls were rolling aft. They passed a maze of grey tubes at the base of the mass driver engine, rolled by Sidney. “Did you lock the Shamrock Five entry hatch?” the taller of the men asked.

  “Huh?” the other man said. “Yeah, I guess.” To Sidney, the tone seemed disinterested.

  The Shamrock Five! Sidney thought. That’s my ship!

  Sidney watched them roll aft down the center of the mass driver shell and recalled his arrival on Saint Elba less than two nights earlier. It seemed like a month before when he had peered through a porthole in the IOTV to watch the Shamrock Five dock.

  Sidney pictured the sleek black and silver cruiser in his mind’s eye. Its nearby . . . and the hatch may be unlocked! he thought, feeling his pulse quicken.

  Impulsively, Sidney flipped off his goggles and moto-darted through the firewall hatch. He pressed himself against the firewall on the other side, breathing hard. Don’t stop now, he thought, touching the bandaged bump at his temple. You’re disposable anyway. . . .

  He looked up. The mass driver engine towered like a government office building, except it had tubes, valves and ramps. Sidney’s heart skipped a beat: a Security Brigade guard on a lower ramp had just spotted him!

  “You!” the guard bellowed. “What are you doing in here?”

  Sidney took off before the guard finished his question, sped around the base of the engine. He saw the Shamrock Five now through two glassplex portholes in the mass driver’s forward-most wall. There! he thought, seeing a hatch between the portholes. The hatch!

  He heard guards yelling from above and behind. “WHERE DID HE GO?” one asked.

  “FORWARD!”

  “THERE HE IS!”

  “GET HIM!”

  Sidney was at the hatch, expecting to feel the searing pain of bullets at any moment. Will it open? he thought. He mentoed the door, held his breath as he listened to tumblers rolling inside the door. He looked back, saw three guards speeding toward him.

  “Pttting!” A bullet ricocheted off the wall near his head.

  The door slid open!

  Sidney rolled through quickly, mentoed the door shut. A red handle inside on the wall at one side had
a sign below it which read: “DOUBLE LOCK—No Access From Rear.”

  He threw the handle down, looked forward.

  Sidney stood on a short glassplex-sealed gangway, could barely see in the low light from one underfoot light panel. He heard distant, angry voices and pounding on the other side of the hatch. Another hatch was forward, and he rolled to it quickly.

  Sidney mentoed this hatch. It opened. Just inside was another red double lock handle. He threw it on.

  Sidney fell to his knees, still grasping the handle and breathing hard. He caught his breath, yelled: “Tom! You here, Tom?”

  There was no response.

  Sidney wondered why two trailers full of cappies were connected to the Shamrock Five. Disposables, he thought. Did Tom know about that?

  Sidney rolled through the passenger compartment and peeked into the cockpit, still calling for Tom Javik. Then he searched two aft magnetic container storage rooms.

  He’s not aboard, Sidney thought, rolling back to the cockpit. Where is he?

  Inside the cockpit, Sidney touched one of the white molded plastic command chairs. He looked around the dimly lit area, saw the faint twinklings of stars far out at the end of the docking tunnel. He slid into the seat.

  An array of dials, levers and handles confronted Sidney, and he studied them intently. He focused upon a brass plate marked “SHAMROCK FIVE—SP-1607” and next to that recognized a red ball plasto-cyanide bomb detonator from photographs he had once seen.

  Let’s see here, he thought, moving his fingers across a row of blue handles. Direct Command Mode, Takeoff Mode, Docking Mode, Attack Mode. . . .

  “Attack Mode!” Sidney whispered excitedly to himself, resting his hand on that handle. “My Rosenbloom! I can’t believe it!” For a moment, he imagined being under Uncle Rosy’s direct orders to save Earth . . . Atheist fighter ships were attacking the Shamrock Five from all sides! . . .

  Returning to reality, Sidney retracted his hand. There was a slight throbbing at his bandaged temple where Mayor Nancy Ogg had kicked him. He touched the bandage, felt the bump.

  I’ve got to be realistic, he thought. I’ll radio for Tom. Sidney scanned the instruments, located the speakercom. He mentoed a switch to open the circuit, heard the crackle of static electricity. Well get the ship out to where we can see the garbage comet. . . . I’ll pray for it to go away. That’s how I stopped the fire. . . . Garbage comets? Can it really be?

  Just then, laughter cackled distantly in Sidney’s brain. It drew closer. “Ha!” a familiar tenor voice said. “He’s at it again—thinks he’s a miracle worker!”

  “It is pathetic,” a second, deeper voice said. “Now listen, fleshcarrier. You can’t pray to God. God didn’t send that comet! We did!”

  The voices cackled with laughter again. To Sidney, it sounded orchestrated.

  “You listen to me!” Sidney said angrily. “I’m trying to help people! Millions will die if I don’t try!” Sidney thought of Carla, felt tears coming on. He fought them back.

  The voices receded, laughing merrily.

  “Who’s there?” a speakercom voice asked. “Who said that?”

  “Get me Lieutenant Tom Javik,” Sidney said, addressing the speakercom. “Tell him Sidney Malloy is aboard the Shamrock Five, ready for takeoff.”

  Presently a rasping voice came on the frequency. “Who?” the voice asked. “Who is this?’

  “Sidney Malloy. I’m in command of the Shamrock Five until Lieutenant Javik takes over.” Sidney was not aware of his appointment as titular captain by General Munoz. “Get Javik for me!” Sidney rasped. “Now!” He rested his hand on the Takeoff Mode handle.

  “Javik is missing, fella. You’re that cappy he asked for, aren’t you? Just open the hatches and give yourself up.”

  “No! What do you mean he’s missing? You’re lying!” But Sidney read a voice pitch meter on the dashboard. The meter dial was in the green zone.

  It’s true, Sidney thought, his spirits sinking. Tom isn’t here!

  Static crackled across the frequency.

  “You’re just making it hard on yourself,” the voice said. “Be reasonable. No one’s going to hurt . . .”

  Sidney mentoed the frequency shut. I’ll have to fly this baby myself, he thought, studying the instrument panel. Now how do I cut the trailers loose? Maybe Direct Command Mode. . . .

  He threw on the appropriate handle, saw the words “Direct Command Mode” illuminated in blue over the handle, and beneath the handle, in blinking red lights, the words “Standing By.” The entire instrument panel blinked on with luminescent green, red and blue dials and blinking lights.

  Release trailers, Sidney mentoed.

  There was no response.

  “Release trailers!” he yelled.

  Still no response.

  Sidney stared at the words “Standing By,” drummed a finger on the instrument panel.

  “Ship’s computer,” he said, speaking into a console-mounted microphone. “How do I release the trailers?”

  “That is not in my program,” the computer replied.

  “Where would such a thing be programmed?”

  “That is not in my program, either.”

  “Can’t you even suggest where I might look?” Sidney asked, pleading.

  “No.”

  Frustrated, Sidney shook his head. A bureaucratic computer, he thought.

  * * *

  At the forwardmost hatch of Mass Driver One, Madame Bernet confronted five black-uniformed security guards, one of whom was Sergeant Rountree.

  “Roll aside!” Madame Bernet commanded. I’m going through!” The meckie stood with both hands thrust into its pockets, glared menacingly.

  “This hatch is double-locked,” Sergeant Rountree said angrily, holding one hand on the handle of his bolstered pistol. “Stay the hell out of our way now, Madame!”

  Without another word, Madame Bernet drew two long knives out of her pockets. The meckie crossed them in front ceremoniously, then swished them through the air, their steel blades glimmering brightly.

  Sergeant Rountree and the other guards drew their pistols, commenced firing at the meckie.

  “Pttting! Pitting! Thud!” Bullets ricocheted off walls and off Madame Bernet’s plastic and metal body.

  The killer meckie smiled, a death’s head smile. Then, with five precise strokes, it decapitated the guards. Sergeant Rountree was first to die. The guards fell in blood-squirting heaps, their bodies separated from their heads.

  Madame Bernet crossed the knives, then slid them into pocket-concealed sheaths while mentoing a code to break the hatch’s double lock.

  The hatch slid open.

  The meckie passed through the door, double-locked it again.

  Seconds later, Madame Bernet stood at the rear hatch of the Shamrock Five. The hatch slid open at a mento-command. As the killer meckie rolled in, the Shamrock Five shifted on its tether, causing a raised surface to appear underfoot. Madame Bernet’s moto-shoes struck this bump, and the meckie fell violently to the floor, butting its forehead against a bulkhead.

  The meckie jumped to its feet with knives drawn, rolled in a confused pattern. Something had been damaged in the fall, and a programmed track commanded: Mission complete! It is time to kill!

  Madame Bernet rolled forward through the passenger compartment, paused uncertainly when she saw the seat upon which she had ridden from Earth to Saint Elba. Mission complete! the program repeated. It is time to kill!

  The meckie restarted, rolled to the cockpit hatch.

  Sidney turned at the sound of steel hitting the hatchjamb. “Who the hell are you?” he asked, recognizing the short-haired woman he had seen on the mass driver.

  Madame Bernet did not respond, appeared disoriented to Sidney. With a gaze that rolled all over the cockpit, not focusing upon anything, the meckie began to swing its knives while rolling into the cockpit. The knives moved slowly at first, then faster and faster.

  “Swish! . . . , Swish! . . . Swish-swish-swi
sh!”

  The meckie closed in on Sidney, flailing wildly like a blind man fighting a burglar. Sidney fell against the instrument panel, accidentally tripping the “Takeoff Mode” handle. He ducked, climbed around the command chairs and rolled into the passenger compartment.

  The ship’s four Rolls Royce engines rumbled on, then smoothed out. Sidney lunged to the floor behind a double chair to hide, peered across the top of an armrest at the cockpit. The meckie was still in there, thrashing around and cutting everything to pieces. Sidney heard breaking glassite, thuds and crashes.

  Sidney recalled the dream he had experienced in the detention center sleeping room on Earth . . . the knives that approached inexorably. . . . Tom’s head being severed horribly. . . .

  He’s dead, Sidney thought, grimacing at the thought. That monster killed him!

  The engines whined, and Sidney felt a surge of power. Tethers are holding it back, he thought. This thing’s trying to takeoff!

  The tethers snapped, and the ship lurched violently, throwing Sidney against the seat behind him.

  Mayor Nancy Ogg stared impatiently in the direction of the forward firewall hatch Sergeant Rountree had gone through minutes before. Just as she started to roll forward, the mass driver shell lurched, and she rolled hard against a quarter bulkhead. Grabbing the bulkhead to stay on her feet, the Mayor read a Patterman Gravitonic Indicator dial mounted there. The reading:”1.027.”

  She saw other people sprawling upon the floor, heard confused yells and the clanging of unsecured metal tools. A scaffold fell to the deck just a meter away, sending its occupants flying and screaming in pain.

  “Get medical attention for the injured!” Mayor Nancy Ogg yelled. For cappies? she thought. Who cares about them?

  Acknowledging the command, a melon-shaped security corporal snapped a first aid kit off the bulkhead. But the mass driver lurched again, and the corporal went sliding across the floor.

  “We’re taking off!” someone yelled. ‘The tethers just broke!”

  The Shamrock Five surged unhesitatingly through Saint Elba’s main docking tunnel, probing the darkness ahead with its collision sensors. Still in the passenger compartment, Sidney lifted his head and peered out a porthole. Outside spotlights flashed on,