The Assassination of Billy Jeeling

by Brian Herbert

  Tobek had nodded. “You won’t be disappointed, ma’am. He’s going to be famous and successful. Mark my words.”

  “Billy is really older than I am, you know,” his great aunt had said with a twinkle in her eyes. “He’s an old soul in a young body. He’s the one who really runs our household.”

  The kindly old woman had died of natural causes three years later, never learning much about the project.

  Four years after her death, when Tobek had the embryonic Skyship in orbit, he began the task of connecting additional modules and components to the core of the craft, making it much larger—on a scale that astounded Billy. Even with all of the discussions he’d had with Tobek beforehand, the unfolding reality around him was more than Billy could have ever envisioned. Module after module were fitted into place in a massive, intricate assembly, and then covered with a sturdy, comparatively lightweight hull. This took almost five more years.

  Now as Billy sat at the viewing window, thinking back, he glanced at the robot standing sentinel on his right, emitting its characteristic low sounds, and casting pale green light against the thick glass. Without his having told it to do so, it illuminated a screen around its front and back torso, encircling the robot’s metal body with light.

  This was not supposed to happen without Billy’s command.

  Abruptly the robot began to glow yellow all over its body, a sickly hue that meant it had a malfunction, and was trying to correct it automatically. But the robot still operated, barely.

  A weak image on the screen rotated slowly around the torso of Starbot, as if it were a camera panning across a view. Billy recognized the images as a live practice session of Lainey Forster’s public relations teams, being conducted on the grazzeen central commons of Skyship. In commando-size units they moved in coordination against a throng of raucous people who had been staged to look as if they were demonstrating against Billy Jeeling. He heard angry voices, crowd noises, epithets and threats. At first the volume was low but it grew louder, so that Billy could hear bullhorns and speaker systems—people feigning insults against him. It was all a mock display, but the words hurt.

  The robot was bright yellow now, with gangrenous black streaks running vertically up and down its body. The images on the screen grew hazy, too faint to identify, and went quiet, then completely black, as did the robot’s body. It had shut itself down. At least that automatic function worked.

  With a sigh, Billy turned back to the window. He recalled many discussions he’d had with Tobek inside the laboratory complex the old man loved so much. The two of them had developed a routine in which they met each morning for a couple of hours to go over engineering drawings that Tobek had prepared, drawings that Billy would always take credit for—following Tobek’s wishes. The older man had insisted on this, wouldn’t allow his presence or identity to be revealed—and only a small number of security robots knew he was involved. Gradually—as Billy’s skills with robots were developed—he took over the management of all robotic operations, freeing Tobek for other creative tasks.

  Tobek never left the core section where his laboratory rooms and a small apartment were located. It was an area that was accessible through a series of code-activated doors, each of which only permitted Billy or Tobek to pass through, and any special robots that were with them. During construction, it was through these doors that Billy had gone every day to get his instructions from the great man.

  Now a tear ran down Billy’s cheek as he thought of Tobek’s tragic death in his main laboratory—right where Billy was looking now, in the large room visible through the rear doorway. He had witnessed the terrible event, from this very spot. Eleven years ago to this day, he remembered looking through this window and seeing Tobek at a laboratory table, deep in concentration as he worked, assembling something there, something small and elaborate, with small illuminated tubes inside, and other complex internal workings.

  Suddenly there had been a silver flash around Tobek, and blood began to pour from his ears, eyes, nose, and mouth, blood that turned from red to silver as it flowed. Somehow he managed to gather the strength necessary to make his way into the smaller laboratory room closest to where Billy had been standing, screaming out instructions to his assistant, his words choked with metallic blood.

  “Heed my words, Billy!” he shrieked as he died, his gurgling words blasting across the speaker system, from the inside of the laboratory. “This is my final command to you! Never open the laboratory doors! Leave them sealed!” Then another burst of silver struck him, and he slumped to the floor, in silvery, pooling blood. In a horrific aftermath, his brain exploded in a bright burst of silver, and then smaller explosions erupted from his torso. Quickly, Billy had commanded one of the inside robots to tend to the great man, but it was obviously hopeless. No one could survive such grievous injuries. Tobek was dead.

  Whatever the inventor had been building remained on the laboratory table, where Billy could see it now through the rear doorway—small and rectangular in shape, with its internal workings open, showing an elaborate array of electronics and tubes, in an arrangement that Billy had never been able to figure out from just looking at it, not even when he used a magnifying scope from this distance. Billy had also photographed it, and run the details through computer programs in an attempt to unravel the secrets, but to no avail. The device—whatever it was—remained where Tobek had left it on the work table, unfinished and mysterious, of unknown purpose.

  Ever since then, Billy had followed his mentor’s dying command, and had used the laboratory communication system to arrange for lab ‘bots — already inside the sealed complex of rooms—to build a casket out of furniture and place the great man’s body inside it. Billy saw one corner of the sealed casket now, not far from where Tobek died.

  A replacement robot approached Billy from the side, glowing green on its vertical light tube. He recognized it as Starbot 4. It had received an emergency signal that its companion was out of order, and had come to replace it.

  Starbot 4 moved close to him. The green glow became brighter, and the sentient machine said, “Is there anything I can do, Master?” This robot model had been programmed to be sensitive to his moods and needs, an aspect that came in handy sometimes. Now, however, Billy shook his head. He just wanted to be alone with his memories, and feelings.

  Billy had been curious for years—he had a haunting desire to know what had killed the great man. None of the lab-access doors had been opened since his death, but could there be another way to find out?

  He touched his useless leg stumps, constant reminders of that explosion of Skyship’s atmospheric-restoration gas, during the construction of the vessel. After the death of his mentor, Billy had been too upset to pay attention to safety measures, and had paid the price. But Tobek had paid an even greater price for Skyship before that, and for the people of AmEarth.

  ~~~

  That evening, Billy received a communication from two men who had been his friends in Imperial City long ago, but who had been at odds with him in the past few years.

  Starbot 4 stood in front of him, with the brief message on a screen across the front of his torso:

  Billy:

  It is time for us to set aside our differences and talk this over like gentlemen, instead of railing at each other in public, which has only pushed us farther and farther apart. The AmEarth Empire would like to send a diplomatic delegation to speak with you, and see if an end can be brought to these unnecessary hostilities.

  Respectfully,

  Paul Paulo and Jonathan Racker

  Billy re-read the message. He agreed that the arguing had been going on for too long, beginning with high-level demands that he leave Skyship and turn it over to government control, then building up to the mass public demonstrations against him that were occurring now. He only wanted to be left alone to do his important work, and all of the uproar had been deeply upsetting to him. Maybe the delegation would deliver an apology, or at least agree to stop the demonstrations
against him. But if they repeated the demand that he step down, it would be a non-starter, and the meeting would end quickly.

  CHAPTER 17

  “Trying to defeat the campaign of lies is like trying to stuff the proverbial genie back in the bottle. I fear it cannot be done.”

  —Lainey Forster, private comment

  Yürgen Zayeddi had been assigned to one of the many public-relations teams that were being dispatched to major cities around the world, all hotspots of activity against Billy Jeeling. Because of the urgency of the situation, the PR Manager Lainey Forster had sped up the schedule. Early that morning she had seen off fifteen teams at the main dock on Skyship, telling them, “I wish we had more time for your training, but there is an urgent need for action. You are all dedicated people, and have impressed me with your zeal. I know you will do well.”

  Sonya Orr had been there, too, as the proctor of Yürgen’s team. The tall blonde stood silently near Forster and other proctors, stealing glances at Yürgen every once in a while, and giving him flirtatious little smiles. He didn’t know how he felt about this. Should he risk getting fired by trying to get closer to her? She certainly was encouraging him. There was no denying that. He’d never seen a more beautiful woman, and felt a powerful attraction toward her.

  Yürgen and his classmates had only undergone five weeks of training, but the simulations had been especially useful. In the neighborhoods of Skyship, the PR teams had practiced dealing with different types of mass demonstrations and anti-Billy speeches, learning methods of diffusing mob rage and getting the truth out....

  Now he and two other members of his team disembarked from a groundjet on the surface of the planet, stepping out onto a conveyor walkway that carried them smoothly toward the terminal building. They wore small day packs. Most of their luggage was being sent ahead to the hotel where they would be staying for a week.

  It was mid-morning and unseasonably cool for the Southern Europaea Territory. Yürgen shivered, looked past the jetport to the sprawling metropolis beyond. Thorian City was an industrial center that sprawled across a two-kilometer-high plateau, and had once been among the most polluted cities on AmEarth. And yet today (as on all days according to reports) the sky was a lovely shade of cerulean blue, without a hint of pollution. Even though the evidence of Billy’s good work was all around the Thorians, and they now breathed clean, pure air, they were still demonstrating against him in increasing numbers. To Yürgen, it didn’t make any sense. They were ingrates!

  The handsome Rand Baker stood beside him on the moving walkway, and their team leader Nanette Kingston trailed along behind them. She was the tallest of the three, with large green eyes and auburn hair, and a stuffy, condescending manner about her. She didn’t seem to like very many people, so Yürgen and Rand had worried privately about her effect on team morale. Still, she was passionately pro-Billy Jeeling, and had expressed her anxiousness to get to work. Yürgen and Rand had agreed to overlook her irritating personality, or at least make the attempt, and just focus on what they had to do.

  A big demonstration against Billy was scheduled at midday, in the town plaza. Yürgen’s team would barely have time for breakfast, before going on front-line duty for the first time.

  After they stepped off the walkway inside the terminal, Nanette stood in front of them and said, “We’re going to skip breakfast, so we can check the demonstration site. The energy kits in our packs will have to be sufficient until dinner.”

  Yürgen and Rand exchanged looks of displeasure. She turned abruptly and walked ahead of them at a brisk pace, leaving no room for discussion. They hurried to keep up.

  ~~~

  By the time they arrived at the town center, it was two hours before the scheduled start of the demonstration, but it was already underway early. Signs and banners hung on buildings around the plaza, and were being set up by demonstrators, proclaiming, “JEELING IS STEALING!” and “KILL YOURSELF, BILLY, BEFORE WE DO IT!” and “BILLY JEELING: THE ANTI-CHRIST.” Others made crude sexual jokes based on his initials.

  Yürgen thought the comments were unkind and in bad taste, and they infuriated him. Billy didn’t deserve to be the brunt of off-color jokes. He wasn’t a thief, either, and had never put himself forth as a religious figure, or as satanic. He had the giant cross atop Skyship, that was true, but he allowed complete freedom of religious expression on board the vessel, and had never claimed to be any sort of a messianic figure—so he couldn’t be called the Anti-Christ. It made no sense. None of it made any sense.

  On side streets, people were bringing in parade floats, each with a hateful message on it, including one that showed Billy in a SkyCorps uniform, being hung in effigy. Another showed his severed head on a pike. The mob was dangerously angry, in a frenzy of hatred.

  Yürgen felt acid boiling up from his stomach. The small energy-meal he’d eaten had been too spicy, and besides, he was upset at seeing stupid, ungrateful people protesting against the man he considered to be the greatest, most heroic figure in human history. Yürgen was also hungry, wanted to find something nourishing and soothing to eat.

  The three of them spread out and moved into the crowd, tapping control sticks on their belts as they did so. This sent signals to short-circuit bullhorns and loudspeakers all around them, causing them to go silent. People began to mutter and question what was happening, and then even the protestors’ individual voices, and the noises of the crowd were reduced to only a few decibels collectively by a blanket of selective noise suppressors, so that Zayeddi—and everyone else—only heard muted sounds.

  Now by prearrangement, each of the team members climbed onto places above the throng—any high spot they could find on which to stand. From his perch on top of a jet truck, Zayeddi heard the blaring voices of Nanette Kingston and Rand Baker across the plaza—voices that rang out over the crowd in clarion calls, even as the masses were effectively silenced. Alternating as if they were having a conversation over the heads of the stunned people, these two spewed forth facts about all the good Billy Jeeling had been doing for years, all of the lives he had saved with his planet-wide project to cleanse and restore the atmosphere. Some people tried to shout out in objection, but were unable to do so, as if they were dogs wearing bark collars.

  Yürgen Zayeddi was the last to speak of the trio, after his companions were finished and signaled for him to begin. Knowing in advance that many of the people in the crowd would be members of minority races, he had selected a speech that was tailor-made for this occasion.

  “Billy Jeeling is the greatest man who ever lived,” he said, “and the zenith of anyone who ever will live. He’s a black man, of AmAfrican heritage, but to him that is not his defining characteristic, as he considers himself to be merely a human being. Yet to many of his detractors, his race is an undercurrent of their criticisms. There is a simmering rage that he is not only a successful black man, but a proud and outspoken one as well—and refuses to step down in the face of criticism.

  “Try to understand the scale of this injustice. The accomplishments of Billy’s lifetime are so immense in comparison with anyone else that he cannot step down under criticism. He would only step down of his own free will, without pressure. He would only retire when he considers it is time to do so, when he can do no more to help the people of AmEarth.

  “But now is not the time for him to go! The atmosphere is much cleaner than it once was, but there are still pockets of dirty skies over the planet that must be cleaned—regions where multinational corporations secretly paid off someone in the Empire to obtain permits to run factories that burn fossil fuels, spewing black smoke into the atmosphere. These greedy corporations want Billy out of the way, because he has embarrassed them by exposing their bribery and pollution crimes. Don’t listen to them!”

  A number of people paid attention to what Yürgen Zayeddi was saying, and he saw some of them nodding. But not enough. Others—the majority—had at first been mesmerized, but now were showing increasing anger. He saw a brown-uni
formed security force moving toward him, pushing its way through the thick clogs of people.

  Yürgen turned and climbed down the other side of the truck, then melded into the throng and disappeared. Half an hour later, he and his companions met on the street outside a restaurant, having sent mindcoms back and forth to settle on a rendezvous point.

  “We’ll take a few minutes break and then go back,” Nanette said.

  “Isn’t it dangerous to go back?” Rand Baker asked. His eyes were open wide. He looked as if he wished he hadn’t volunteered to work on a Jeeling PR team.

  “We’re armed,” Nanette said, touching an array of small camouflaged weapons on her belt.

  “I know, but against so many? We’re risking our lives out there.”

  “What the hell did you expect when you volunteered for this work?” she asked. “Roses and candy from people who hate Billy?”

  “No, but—”

  Nanette interrupted him with a stream of scolding comments, and he fell silent under her tirade.

  Yürgen looked past her and Rand, to the restaurant. His stomach growled with hunger. He could see people inside, eating real food and enjoying themselves. He wished he were with them.

  But Nanette wasn’t interested in that place, even though they had met in front of it. She had only one thing on her mind, getting back into the fray as soon as possible. She finished her rant, then checked her weapons—a poison shooter, a needle gun, and a packet of small throwing knives.

  Yürgen understood her passion better than Rand seemed to. A strange fellow, he behaved in a detached way most of the time, not as fervent as he should be about protecting the public image of Billy Jeeling. He almost seemed to be going along with the PR effort just for the ride.