Ash Ock

by Christopher Hinz

  “THE ZORK-MORGAN REPORT,” the woman intoned smoothly, “TONIGHT IS PRESENTED BY CPG CORPORATION.”

  Another explosion of light; the woman’s face disintegrating under a stream of chroma tracers, the exploding light augmented by a deep whirring noise, the sound reminding Ghandi of a shuttle docking.

  Fade to black . . .

  . . . Slow dissolve to a wide shot of a figure wandering purposefully beneath the massive gray steel leg of a profarming harvester/planter. Camera zooms to medium close-up.

  The figure, garbed in a grimy plastic worksuit, removes his breather mask, revealing a weather-beaten face. His calloused hand backstrokes a ridged forehead, wiping away a layer of sweat. A real human actor—on the freelancer channels, E-Tech only permits computer-generated commercials for self-aggrandizement.

  The ruddy face glares into the camera.

  “My family’s been farming since before the Apocalypse. We left Earth in ninety-eight, right near the end. Wouldn’t have left if we’d had a choice.”

  He lays his hand against the massive harvester leg. The camera zooms in tighter.

  ‘Twenty generations ago, my ancestors made a living on the Earth. Twenty generations ago, my people farmed the land, squeezing life out of the soil, working the fields fifteen hours a day. They struggled against the land, fighting to bring in every last bushel of wheat and every last ear of corn. But for all their struggles, they understood something: They knew they had to give back what they took. They understood their role as caretakers of a great power. They understood the life force of the planet.

  “When a good machine came along, they bent it to their wills and made it a part of their lives. And they expected from that machine no less than what they expected from themselves.”

  The farmer hesitates; his face breaks into the barest hint of a smile. “Well, today life’s a lot different. Twenty generations ago, some grandpappy of mine wouldn’t even have been able to dream of a machine like this.” Dissolve to a wide shot. The farmer is firmly stroking the massive leg of the harvester/planter.

  “The strength of the soil, the power of a good machine, and the fortitude to make it all come together. That’s what it took my ancestors and that’s what it takes today. And that’s what it’s going to take tomorrow.

  “And do you want to know something? I’ve a feeling that when tomorrow comes, we’ll be takin’ ourselves back down there. Someday we’re going to be using these machines to reseed the Earth. And the wounds of the Apocalypse will be healed, and we’ll have real pastures again, and fields covered with wheat and corn, and forests of pine and oak extending for as far as the eye can see.”

  He gives the huge harvester leg a final pat. “Someday, these machines are going to help take us home.”

  He turns his back to the camera. The scene dissolves into a stunning crescent of Earth—a fragile arc of bluish green, bathed in white clouds, outlined by a shimmering haze of golden sunlight. From beyond the horizon, blurred script letters come into focus against the starless void.

  CPG PROFARMING PRODUCTS.

  SOMEDAY WE’RE GOING TO HELP TAKE YOU HOME.

  Fade to black . . .

  In the solitude of his office, Ghandi laughed.

  The commercial was a cosponsor deal, with CPG splitting the production costs with E-Tech. The spot was running on all the major freelancer networks, as well as on E-Tech’s primary intercolonial channel. One of CPG’s wholly owned advertising companies had done the actual shooting and editing and Ghandi suspected that the creators of the spot had been influenced by Colette, probably via subtle hints and suggestions made during the editing process. He knew his wife’s style, and this spot reeked of it.

  Ghandi had not previewed this particular inanity—there were so many CPG commercials these days that he could barely keep up with them anymore. But he suspected that Colette had not asked him to watch FL-SIXTEEN this evening just because CPG was debuting a new spot.

  Then again, Colette was full of surprises. Perhaps it was merely the new commercial that she had wanted him to see, to later solicit his opinions on some subconscious manipulation technique that she had injected into its ambience.

  Or that Sappho had injected.

  He sighed. Colette alone remained difficult to fathom. Her monarch had always been—and probably would forever remain—an enigma.

  He returned his attention to the screen. Freelancer Karl Zork, a gruff-looking ape of a man, half hidden by his trademark zig-zag red beard, had just finished introducing himself and his telecast partner, Theandra Morgan, who was seated beside him. Zork’s delivery was fast and furious—an impassioned flow of words that suggested a powerfully intelligent man of immense education.

  “Theandra,” he concluded, “rotate us into story one.”

  The two-shot cut to a close-up of Theandra: a tall attractive blonde whom opinion polls consistently rated among the most admired professionals in Irrya.

  “Sliding with the sleaze factor—naked in Bermuda—ridin’ the clutch with flameouts in both engines.” Her voice was crisp, professional; the opening jargon fully translatable only to those young colonials steeped in the latest craze of twentieth-century semantics.

  “As everyone knows by now, Karl, dataland is in big trouble these days—E-Tech has problems galore. And this afternoon, at a press conference held at their Irryan headquarters, E-Tech has finally decided to do something about it.

  “E-Tech Director Doyle Blumhaven announced the formation of an unlimited-duration action/probe to investigate numerous reports of corruption within the E-Tech Security division. This announcement comes in the wake of the latest E-Tech Security outrage—the unconfirmed reports that those two officers who were murdered in an Irryan garage four nights ago had strong connections to the intercolonial black market.”

  Ghandi frowned.

  “The two E-Tech Security men—Lieutenant Hector Donnelly and Sergeant Solomon Tace—” Their pictures dissolved onto the bottom of the screen “—are suspected of providing protection services to a Sirak-Brath-based gang of black marketers, who’ve been operating here in Irrya for at least five years.”

  The close-up of Theandra snapped back to a two-shot. Karl Zork’s bushy eyebrows flared in surprise. “Black marketers? Theandra, I’d say that was a little more than sliding with the sleaze factor!” He stroked his beard. “I’d call it humping the humpback, maybe, or sleeping with the boss’s wife.”

  “Call it what you like, Karl. Fact is, this is the fourteenth time in the past twenty months that E-Tech Security is suspected of being compromised by outside agencies.”

  “I’d say it’s time for a major overhaul of their whole Security section,” growled Karl.

  Ghandi sighed. What was needed was an overhaul of the Irryan Constitution, which permitted these outrageous freelancers the right to publicly defecate on whomever they chose. This pair especially. Before Zork/Morgan had come to FL-SIXTEEN, they had worked together as steam’n’scream theatrical instructors at a private body-motion clinic in the colony of Velvet-on-the-Green. Not exactly an occupation to qualify you for objective commentary on intercolonial affairs.

  “Maybe you’re right, Karl,” continued Theandra breezily. “It certainly appears that E-Tech Security has an overload of dirty laundry these days. At any rate, there are some positive aspects to this new action/probe. The chairperson, introduced by Doyle Blumhaven at the press conference, is to be private prosecutor Edward Huromonus.”

  “Crazy Eddie?” quizzed Karl, his eyes widening with disbelief. “The man who successfully sued the Profarmers’ Union for proprietary inflationitis? The man who publicly paddled that illicit center-sky consortium in Brussels-Berlin? The man who—”

  “One and the same,” interrupted Theandra. “And Mr. Huromonus has vowed that there will be no limits to his action/probe and that it will follow the trail of the investigation anywhere—even if it should lead to the highest echelons of E-Tech.”

  The screen returned to a tight shot of Karl.
He was shaking his head in wonder. “Theandra—I’m impressed. For once, I salute E-Tech’s integrity. If they have the guts to let Crazy Eddie loose in their organization, then maybe there’s hope for us yet.”

  The bearded freelancer segued effortlessly into a second story, but Ghandi tuned him out.

  A major E-Tech investigation? That raised disturbing questions. Where had E-Tech learned that Donnelly and Tace were connected to the Sirak-Brath black marketers? It was true, of course—that was the lever Calvin had used to recruit the Security men in the first place, by threatening to expose their illegal acts unless they cooperated. Donnelly and Tace had been given no choice, although certainly they had been well paid for their special services to Calvin. And if they had not fouled things up with that Susan Quint woman, probably they would still be alive.

  Naturally, Donnelly and Tace had never suspected that Calvin—their employer—was Paratwa. And certainly they had never been given any information that could have connected Calvin and his plans with Ghandi, Colette, and CPG.

  Still, it was unsettling to realize that an unbridled investigation would be probing into the lives of the murdered officers. Ghandi hoped that Calvin had not made other errors in judgment, mistakes that could lead the action/probe right to their own doors.

  Probably E-Tech itself had linked Donnelly and Tace to the smugglers via their own internal sleuthing. Even though Doyle Blumhaven was the director of the organization, his powers were not omnipotent. He must have been unable to derail the formation of this action/probe.

  Still, Blumhaven should have done something to stop a full-scale investigation from getting started. And the freelancers were correct in their assessment of private prosecutor Edward Huromonus. Crazy Eddie was a tenacious old devil, unbribable, and from all accounts, utterly fearless.

  Could Blumhaven be slipping? Was he losing his tight grip on the organization?

  Twenty-two years ago the E-Tech councilor had been seduced by Colette. It was Doyle Blumhaven, operating from a middle-management position within the organization at that time, who had first provided Colette access to the E-Tech archives. It was Doyle Blumhaven who had made it possible for Colette/Sappho’s deadly sunsetter to be set loose in the data vaults.

  Ghandi recalled when he and Colette had first met Blumhaven, at a profarmers’ convention in Pocono, back in the days when CPG was still a minor corporation. Following that first meeting, Colette had informed Ghandi that she intended to supervise Doyle Blumhaven’s career and eventually make him the director of E-Tech.

  Coming from anyone else, such an egomaniacal statement would have been cause for laughter. But by that time, Ghandi had been Colette’s partner and lover for three years. He had accepted her statement at face value.

  Doyle Blumhaven would prove perfect for her plans, Colette had explained. He was a man who lusted for power, but in ways that belied his mannerisms. He possessed most of the qualities necessary for a successful political life—the proper brew of projected strength, modesty, intelligence, and ambition. But he lacked one talent: he was not an originator. He needed direction, someone who could channel his prowess. Colette/Sappho decided that Doyle Blumhaven was a product looking for a consumer. She made plans to buy him.

  Blumhaven’s seduction into the Ash Ock fold had been much simpler than Ghandi’s. For one thing, there had been no physical relationship between Colette and Blumhaven; his wife’s particular wiles in that area would have proved ineffective with Blumhaven, a lifelong homosexual. And Colette needed a fully functioning, long-term ally—not merely a chattel to carry out a few specific commands. That negated the possibility of using a needbreeder.

  Instead, Colette had offered Blumhaven money—lots of it. With CPG’s growing success at producing and marketing small high-tech items, untraceable funds were becoming readily available for clandestine investments. A secret ICN bank account was set up and enough cash deposited to someday make Blumhaven—if he invested properly—a wealthy man. Later came Colette’s shrewd advice for corporate advancement and candid support for Blumhaven-initiated programs; all in all, a steady stream of information that Blumhaven used to make his star shine brightly within the E-Tech hierarchy.

  In return, CPG Corporation received preferential treatment when dealing with E-Tech. And later, when Blumhaven became director, CPG was allowed to circumvent many of E-Tech’s basic testing procedures required for corporations introducing virgin or upgraded technology.

  Like Ghandi, Doyle Blumhaven had sold himself for personal gain. But there remained one big difference between them. As far as Blumhaven knew, he had been bought by a man, a woman, and a corporation.

  Ghandi had sold out to the Paratwa.

  And you’re becoming harder to understand, my love.

  The microbes twitched.

  O}o{O

  “My plan will work!” roared O’Donahee, favoring his audience of over seven hundred loyal Irryan citizens with a look of angry reproach. “There is no other way! One of Neptune’s micromoons must be vaporized!”

  Murmured agreement filled assembly hall F of the Augustus J. Artwhiler Memorial Conference Center. Tonight’s other six presenters, seated at a table beside O’Donahee’s podium, clapped in wholehearted support. But it was not enough. O’Donahee needed more passion.

  He gripped the sides of the oak podium and leaned forward. “We must teach the Paratwa that we mean business! We must show the invaders that they are not going to come squirming back into the Colonies like a gang of shuttle gypsies!”

  “Yes!” a female voice cried out.

  “You tell ’em, O’Donahee,” someone else shouted.

  “We must be the force that unites the Colonies!” he urged. “We must serve as the shock troops of our civilization. In these troubled times, the Order of the Birch must shine like a lonely shuttle beacon in that dark void between the stars!”

  “Long live the Order of the Birch!” a group of young men in the left center of the hall shouted in unison. O’Donahee was pleased that his people were picking up their cues so well tonight. Practice paid off.

  He snapped his left arm up level with his shoulder, then opened and closed his fist twice in rapid succession. About one hundred other left arms, scattered throughout the auditorium, erupted in imitation.

  Not enough, O’Donahee thought. When a man such as himself—a full-fledged Rod commander—proffered the royal salute, every true-hearted follower of the Birch should have raised his hand in exultation of their common cause. O’Donahee allowed bitter disappointment to show on his face.

  “Is this a display of your loyalty?” he shouted. “Is this what you call united? Do the rest of you expect to limp behind the vanguard of the brave? Is the Order of the Birch to be a hiding place for cowards?”

  “No!” shrieked the crowd.

  “We’re not cowards!” screamed a pair of preteens in the fifth row, drawing scowls from their parents.

  “Well, I don’t know,” cackled a lone voice. “People who make this much noise usually turn out to be a bit on the weak-kneed side, if you know what I mean.”

  Angry murmurs swept through the hall. O’Donahee instantly targeted the heckler. Probably another E-Tech plant. These days, you could hardly run a decent Birch meeting without having to deal with such scud. E-Tech Security made sure that nearly every legal gathering of the Order of the Birch was hampered by professionally trained disrupters.

  O’Donahee glared solemnly and aimed an angry finger at the heckler, a young man seated right of center in the fourth row. The disrupter wore a faded red jacket, Lennon-style eyeglasses, and an ear-splitting grin.

  “And you, sir!” O’Donahee intoned, allowing the full fury of his righteousness to shine forth. “Do you speak your own tongue, or are you a mouthpiece for the corrupt conglomerate of traitors that imposes its cowardly will through the brute force of E-Tech Security!”

  “Imposter!” the crowd shouted.

  “Throw him out!”

  The young man continued grinni
ng. The crowd’s reaction did not seem to bother him. “I certainly am not from E-Tech Security,” he announced when the audience had quieted down. “I serve a higher order.” He paused, like a comic timing the delivery of his punch line for maximum effect. “My good people, I am the will of that great providence who controls the air above your heads.” His voice rose to a powerful crescendo. “My good people, I am the will of the Great Hot Head!”

  Scattered chuckling filled the hall. O’Donahee permitted a scowl to show on his face, but inside, he felt relieved. It was doubtful that this young disrupter was an E-Tech plant after all. He sounded more like one of those crazed fatix who pestered decent citizens in shuttle terminals.

  O’Donahee had experience dealing with that type. One simply talked over them, ignoring whatever nonsense spouted from their mouths.

  He turned his attention back to the audience. “Fellow citizens of Irrya, and fellow citizens who have traveled here from the other great colonies of our culture. The time has come.”

  “Yes, it has!” yelled the heckler, still grinning.

  “We must show our support,” O’Donahee solemnly proclaimed. “We must show the Irryan Council that we are united against the return of the Paratwa. We cannot afford to walk the easy path, and preach compromise toward an enemy who has vowed to crush us. And we must not surrender to the hedonistic addictions of our time, wandering aimlessly, our duty obscured by the momentary pleasures of the flesh.”

  “Don’t like sex, huh?” the heckler shouted, and his words were followed by a hideous laugh.

  O’Donahee continued to ignore him. “We must not allow ourselves to become weak while our enemy grows strong. We must let the Paratwa know that the Colonies of Irrya are a stronghold for a culture that rejects them utterly! We must send them a message:

  “The Colonies of Irrya are sacred places! The Colonies of Irrya are shining lights of justice! The Colonies of Irrya will never give in to the tormented creatures of our dark past, these monsters of miscreation who have never even known the pleasure of living as solitary beings!”