Barnacle Bill The Spacer and Other Stories

by Barnacle Bill the Spacer

  ‘That’s just John’s unfortunate manner,’ Samuelson said. ‘He’s not very good at defeat, you see. It should be interesting to watch him explore the boundaries of this particular defeat.’

  My hand had begun to tremble on the switch; I found myself unable to control it.

  ‘What is it with you, Samuelson?’ said the blonde woman. ‘Every time you chop someone, you gotta play Dracula? Let’s just do ’em and get on with business.’

  There was a brief argument concerning the right of the woman to speak her mind, the propriety of mentally preparing the victim, of ‘tasting the experience’, and other assorted drivel. Under different circumstances, I would have laughed to see how ludicrous and inept a bunch were these demons; I might have thought how their ineptitude spoke to the terminal disarray back on Earth, that such a feeble lot could have gained so much power. But I was absorbed by the trembling of my hand, the sweat trickling down my belly, and the jellied weakness of my legs. I imagined I could feel the cold mass of explosives turning, giving a kick, like a dark and fatal child striving to break free of the womb. Before long I would have to reveal the presence of the charge and force a conclusion, one way or another, and I was not sure I was up to it. My hand wanted to slap the switch, pushed against, it seemed, by all the weighty detritus of my violent life.

  Finally Samuelson brought an end to the argument. ‘This is my show, Amy. I’ll do as I please. If you want to discuss method during Retreat, I’ll be happy to satisfy. Until then, I’d appreciate your full cooperation.’

  He said all this with the mild ultra-sincerity of a priest settling a squabble among the Ladies’ Auxiliary concerning a jumble sale; but when he turned to me, all the anger that he must have repressed came spewing forth.

  ‘You naff little scrote!’ he shouted. ‘I’m sick to death of you getting on my tits! When I’ve done working over your slippery and that great dozy blot beside you, I’m going to paint you red on red.’

  I did not see what happened at that moment with Arlie. Somebody tried to fondle her, I believe, and there was a commotion beside me, too brief to call a struggle, and then she had a laser in her hand and was firing. A beam of crimson light no thicker than a knitting needle spat from the muzzle and punched its way through the temple of a compact greying man, exiting through the top of his skull, dropping him in a heap. Another beam spitted the shoulder of the blonde woman. All this at close quarters, people shrieking, stumbling, pushing together, nudging me, nearly causing me to set off the charge. Then the laser was knocked from Arlie’s hand, and she was thrown to the floor. Samuelson came to stand astraddle her, his laser aimed at her chest.

  ‘Carve the bitch up!’ said the blonde woman, holding her shoulder.

  ‘Splendid idea,’ Samuelson said, adjusting the setting of his laser. ‘I’ll just do a little writing to begin with. Start with an inspirational saying, don’t you think? Or maybe’—he chuckled—‘John Loves Arlie.’

  ‘No,’ I said, my nerves steadied by this frontal assault; I pulled out the packet charge. ‘No, you’re not going to do that. Because unless you do the right thing, in about two seconds the best part of you is going to be sliding all greasylike down the walls. I’ll give you to three to put down your weapons.’ I drew a breath and tried to feel Arlie beside me. ‘One.’ I stared at Samuelson, coming hard at him with all the fire left in me. ‘You best tell ’em how mad I am for you.’ I squared my shoulders; I prayed I had the guts to press the switch on three. ‘That’s two.’

  ‘Do it!’ he said to his people. ‘Do it now!’

  They let their weapons fall.

  ‘Back it off,’ I said, feeling relief, but also a ghostly momentum as if the count had continued on in some alternate probability and I was now blowing away in fire and ruin. I picked up my pack, grabbed Samuelson by the shirtfront as the rest retreated along the corridor. ‘Open the hatch,’ I told Arlie, who had scrambled up from the floor.

  I heard her punching out the code, and a moment later, I heard the hatch swing open. I backed around the door, slung Samuelson into the airlock, slamming him up against Bill, who had wandered in on his own. At that precise moment, the CPC exploded.

  The sound of the explosion was immense, a great wallop of pressure and noise that sent me reeling into the airlock, reeling and floating up, the artificial gravity systems no longer operative; but what was truly terrifying was the vented hiss that followed the explosion, signalling disengagement from the connecting corridors, and the sickening sway of the floor, and then the roar of ignition as the module’s engines transformed what had been a habitat into a ship. I pictured the whole of Solitaire coming apart piece by piece, each one igniting and moving off into the nothing, little glowing bits, like the break-up of an electric reef.

  Arlie had snatched up one of the lasers and she was now training it at Samuelson, urging him into his pressure suit—a difficult chore considering the acceleration. But he was managing. I helped Bill on with his helmet and fitted mine in place just as the boost ended and we drifted free. Then I broke the seal on the outer hatch, started the lock cycling.

  Once the lock had opened, I told Arlie she would have to drive the sled. I watched as she fitted herself into the harness of the rocket pack, then I lashed Samuelson to one of the metal struts, Bill to another. I set the charge I had been carrying on the surface of the station, took two more out of the pack. I set the timers for ninety seconds. I had no thoughts in my head as I was doing this; I might have been a technician stripping a wire, a welder joining a seam. Yet as I prepared to activate the charges, I realized that I was not merely ridding the station of the Strange Magnificence, but of the corporation’s personnel. I had, of course, known this before, but I had not understood what it meant. Within a month, probably considerably less, the various elements of the station would reunite, and when they did, for the first time in our history, Solitaire would be a free place, without a corporate presence to strike the fear of God and Planet Earth into the hearts and minds of the workers. Oh, it was true, some corporates might have been in other modules when the explosion occurred, but most of them were gone, and the survivors would not be able to wield much power; it would be six months at least before their replacements arrived and a new administration could be installed. A lot could happen in that time. My comprehension of this was much less linear than I am reporting; it came to me as a passion, a hope, and as I activated the timers, I had a wild sense of freedom that, though I did not fathom it then, seems now to have been premonitory and inspired.

  I lashed and locked myself on to a strut close to Arlie and told her to get the hell gone, pointing out as a destination the web of a transport dock that we were passing. I did not see the explosion, but I saw the white flare of it in Arlie’s faceplate as she turned to watch; I kept my eyes fixed for a time on the bits and pieces of Solitaire passing silently around us, and when I turned to her, as the reflected fire died away and her eyes were revealed, wide and lovely and dark, I saw no hatred in her, no disgust. Perhaps she had already forgiven me for being the man I was. Not kindly, and yet not without kindness. Merely someone who had learned to do the necessary and to live with it. Someone whose past had burned a shadow that stretched across his future.

  I told her to reverse the thrusters and stop the sled. There was one thing left to do, though I was not so eager to have done with it as once I had been. Out in the dark, in the nothing, with all those stars pointing their hot eyes at you and trying to spear your mind with their secret colours, out in that absolute desert the questions of villainy and heroism grow remote. The most terrible of sins and the sweetest virtues often become compressed in the midst of all that sunless cold; compared to the terrible inhumanity of space, they both seem warmly human and comprehensible. And thus when I approached the matter of ending Samuelson’s life I did so without relish, without the vindictive spirit that I might have expressed had we been back on Solitaire.

  I inched my way back to where I had tied him and locked on to a strut; I tra
ined the laser on the plastic rope that lashed him to the sled and burned it through. His legs floated up, and he held on to a strut with his gauntleted hands.

  ‘Please, God! Don’t!’ he said, the panic in his voice made tinny and comical by my helmet speaker; he stared down through the struts that sectioned off the void into which he was about to travel—silver frames each enclosing a rectangle of unrelieved black, some containing a few scraps of billion-year-old light. ‘Please!’

  ‘What do you expect from me?’ I asked. ‘What do you expect from life? Mercy? Or the accolade? Here.’ I pointed at the sweep of stars and poetry, the iron puzzle of the dock beginning to loom, to swell into a massive crosshatching of girders, each strung with white lights, with Mars a phantom crescent below and the sun a yellow coal. ‘You longed for God, didn’t you? Where is He if not here? Here’s your strange magnificence.’ I gestured with the laser. ‘Push off. Hard. If you don’t push hard enough, we’ll come after you and give you a nudge. You can open your faceplate whenever you want it to end.’

  He began to plead, to bargain. ‘I can make you wealthy,’ he said. ‘I can get you back to Earth. Not London. Nova Sibersk. One of the towers.’

  ‘Of course you can,’ I said. ‘And I would be a wise man, indeed, to trust that promise, now wouldn’t I?’

  ‘There are ways,’ Samuelson said. ‘Ways to guarantee it. It’s not that difficult. Really. I can…’

  ‘Thirwell smiled at me,’ I reminded him. ‘He sang. Are your beliefs so shallow you won’t even favour us with a tune?’

  ‘Do you want me to sing? Do you want me to be humiliated? If that’s what it’ll take to get you to listen to me, I’ll do it. I’ll do anything.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘That’s not what I want.’

  His eyes were big with the idea of death. I knew what he was feeling: all his life was suddenly thrilling, precious, new; and he was almost made innocent by the size and intensity of his fear; almost cleansed and converted by the knowledge that all this sensey splendour was about to go on forever and ever without him. It was a hard moment, and he did not do well by it.

  When he began to weep I burned a hole in his radio housing to silence him. He put a hand up to shield his face, fearing I would burn the helmet; I kicked his other hand loose from the sled, sending him spinning away slowly, head over heels toward the sun, a bulky white figure growing toylike and clever against the black ground of his future, like one of those little mechanical monkeys that spins round and round on a plastic bar. I knew he would never open his faceplate—the greater the villain, the greater their inability to accept fate. He would be a long time dying.

  I checked on Bill—he was sleeping!—and returned to my place beside Arlie. We boosted again toward the dock. I thought about Gerald, about the scattered station, about Bill, but I could not concentrate on them. It was as if what I saw before me had gone inside my skull, and my mind was no longer a storm of electric impulse, but an immense black emptiness lit by tiny stars and populated by four souls, one of whom was only now beginning to know the terrible loneliness of his absent god.

  We entrusted Bill to the captain of the docked transport, Steel City, a hideous name for a hideous vessel, pitted and grey and ungainly in form, like a sad leviathan. There was no going back to Solitaire for Bill. They had checked the recordings taken in the CPC, and they knew who had been responsible for the break-up of the station, for the nearly one hundred and thirty lives that had been lost, for the billions in credit blown away. Even under happier circumstances, without Mister C to guide him, he would not be able to survive. Nor would he survive on Earth. But there he would at least have a slight chance. The corporation had no particular interest in punishing him. They were not altogether dissatisfied with the situation, being pleased to learn that their failsafe system worked, and they would, they assured us, see to it that he was given institutional care. I knew what that portended. Shunted off to some vast dark building with a Catholic statue centring a seedy garden out front, and misplaced, lost among the howling damned and terminally feeble, and eventually, for want of any reason to do otherwise, going dark himself, lying down and breathing, perhaps feeding from time to time, for a while, and then, one day, simply giving up, giving out, going away on a rattle of dishes on the dinner cart or a wild cry ghosting up from some nether region or a shiver of winter light on a cracked linoleum floor, some little piece of brightness to which he could attach himself and let go of the rest. It was horrible to contemplate, but we had no choice. Back on the station he would have been torn apart.

  The Steel City was six hours from launching inbound when Arlie and I last saw Bill. He was in a cell lit by a bilious yellow tray of light set in the ceiling, wearing a grey ship’s jumpsuit; his wound had been dressed, and he was clean, and he was terrified. He tried to hold us, he pleaded with us to take him back home, and when we told him that was impossible, he sat cross-legged on the floor, rocking back and forth, humming a tune that I recognized as ‘Barnacle Bill the Spacer’. He had apparently forgotten its context and the cruel words. Arlie kneeled beside him and told stories of the animals he would soon be seeing. There were tigers sleek as fire, she said, and elephants bigger than small towns, and birds faster than rain, and wolves with mysterious lights in their eyes. There were serpents too, she said, green ones with ruby tongues that told the most beautiful stories in the world, and cries so musical had been heard in the Mountains of the Moon that no one dared seek out the creature who had uttered them for fear of being immolated by the sight of such beauty, and the wind, she said, the wind was also an animal, and to those who listened carefully to it, it would whisper its name and give them a ride around the world in a single day. Birds as bright as the moon, great lizards who roared when it thundered as if answering questions, white bears with golden claws and magical destinies. It was a wonderland to which he was travelling, and she expected him to call and tell us all the amazing things that he would do and see.

  Watching them, I had a clearer sense of him than ever before. I knew he did not believe Arlie, that he was only playing at belief, and I saw in this his courage, the stubborn, clean drive to live that had been buried under years of abuse and denial. He was not physically courageous, not in the least, but I for one knew how easy that sort of courage was to sustain, requiring only a certain careless view of life and a few tricks to inspire a red madness. And I doubted I could have withstood all he had suffered, the incessant badgering and humiliation, the sharp rejection, the sexual defeats, the monstrous loneliness. Years of it. Decades. God knows, he had committed an abysmal stupidity, but we had driven him to it, we had menaced and tormented him, and in return—an act of selfishness and desperation, I admit, yet selfishness in its most refined form, desperation in its most gentle incarnation—he had tried to save us, to make us love him.

  It is little enough to know of a man or a woman, that he or she has courage. Perhaps there might have been more to know about Bill had we allowed him to flourish, had we given his strength levers against which to test itself and thus increase. But at the moment knowing what I knew seemed more than enough, and it opened me to all the feelings I had been repressing, to thoughts of Gerald in particular. I saw that my relationship with him—in fact most of my relationships—were similar to the one I’d had with Bill; I had shied away from real knowledge, real intimacy. I felt like weeping, but the pity of it was, I would only be weeping for myself.

  Finally it was time for us to leave. Bill pawed us, gave us clumsy hugs, clung to us, but not so desperately as he might have; he realized, I am fairly certain, that there would be no reprieve. And, too, he may not have thought he deserved one. He was ashamed, he believed he had done wrong, and so it was with a shameful attitude, not at all demanding, that he asked me if they would give him another implant, if I would help him get one.

  ‘Yeah, sure, Bill,’ I said. ‘I’ll do my best.’

  He sat back down on the floor, touched the wound on his neck. ‘I wish he was here,’ he said.r />
  ‘Mister C?’ said Arlie, who had been talking to a young officer; he had just come along to lead us back to our sled. ‘Is that who you’re talkin’ about, dear?’

  He nodded, eyes on the floor.

  ‘Don’t you fret, luv. You’ll get another friend back ’ome. A better one than Mister C. One what won’t ’urt you.’

  ‘I don’t mind he hurts me,’ Bill said. ‘Sometimes I do things wrong.’

  ‘We all of us do wrong, luv. But it ain’t always necessary for us to be ’urt for it.’

  He stared up at her as if she were off her nut, as if he could not imagine a circumstance in which wrong was not followed by hurt.

  ‘That’s the gospel,’ said the officer. ‘And I promise, we’ll be takin’ good care of you, Bill.’ He had been eyefucking Arlie, the officer had, and he was only saying this to impress her with his humanity. Chances were, as soon as we were out of sight, he would go to kicking and yelling at Bill. Arlie was not fooled by him.

  ‘Goodbye, Bill,’ she said, taking his hand, but he did not return her pressure, and his hand slipped out of her grasp, flopped onto his knee; he was already retreating from us, receding into his private misery, no longer able to manufacture a brave front. And as the door closed on him, that first of many doors, leaving him alone in that sickly yellow space, he put his hands to the sides of his head as if his skull could not contain some terrible pain, and began rocking back and forth, and saying, almost chanting the words, like a bitter monk his hopeless litany, ‘Oh, no…oh, no…oh, no…’

  Some seventy-nine hours after the destruction of the CPC and the dispersal of Solitaire, the lightship Perseverance came home…came home with such uncanny accuracy, that had the station been situated where it should have been, the energies released by the ship’s re-entry from the supraluminal would have annihilated the entire facility and all on board. The barnacles, perhaps sensing some vast overload of light through their photophores…the barnacles and an idiot man had proved wiser than the rest of us. And this was no ordinary homecoming in yet another way, for it turned out that the voyage of the Perseverance had been successful. There was a new world waiting on the other side of the nothing, unspoiled, a garden of possibility, a challenge to our hearts and a beacon to our souls.