Nashville Beaumont (and the Hyperbole Engine)

by Michael Hiebert

  After all, I am a weapon.

  I fall restlessly back to sleep.

  Chapter 4

  THE BUS DECOMPRESSING AWAKENS me as it drops loudly to rest at the stop on the coast.

  The air feels hotter here when I step out with my pack. It’s more humid, and tastes of salt. The Atlantic is close—I hear gulls—but see nothing but dust roads and old buildings. No sign of my faithful follower yet, either.

  A dark-skinned boy sells papers from a cart, holding one over his head, calling to passersby. Old-tech papers, nearly a half-inch thick, barely flexible. Not like the ones in Americanada. The front page is devoted to the UTSC Treaty, of course. Nothing else has been in the news for months.

  In two days, Mindy Reno, Earth’s representative for Extraterrestrial Technology Affairs will be signing an agreement with the United Technological Species Coalition. It will happen at the Freedom Center on a planet called Orbano in the Caliban system. Everyone in the Coalition adheres to the same rules and shares technology with each other. It’s not an easy group to join. Certain milestones must have been reached by societies before applications are even considered. Among others, such criteria involves scientific, philosophic, and religious concerns. A close examination of a species’ history is also taken into account.

  Judging from what I’ve read, Earth and humanity barely made the cut.

  But we did, and in forty-eight hours it’ll be official. Humankind will have access to technology and information they otherwise wouldn’t reach for centuries.

  Jumping the evolutionary ladder like this is exciting for most people, but not all. Some believe entering into the UTSC Treaty is a huge mistake. Mostly these are people currently in power, because—at the basic level—technology and information are power. When they shift, so will the economic balance of the planet.

  Six months ago, a week before my escape, Kidar Frenzid took Providence, my twin sister, away from the Compound. I believe he set out for Orbano to use her as a weapon of negotiation to make sure the Treaty stays unsigned.

  Whether his plans prove successful is not my concern. Getting Providence back alive, is. She’s in the custody of a madman who I know firsthand is capable of unspeakable atrocities.

  I must save her.

  Pictures of my parents, brother and sister, taped to chairs, blood splattered across gold—grotesque images flash in my mind, accompanied by spiking pain. I can’t think of them so close together. I force myself not to, and the hurt subsides.

  I ask the newsboy for directions. He points up the hill. “Follow to the main road then left, along the seaside five miles.” Gesturing to the yellow cars hovering idly outside, he asks, “Need a cab?”

  “No.”

  Walking gives you a tactical advantage, especially in locations unknown to both you and the enemy. You see more.

  Oh there I go. Thinking like a weapon, again.

  Chapter 5

  AT THE TOP OF the street, I’m greeted by the ocean. Gulls wheel against a robin’s egg sky interrupted by the occasional tuft of white. I’ve swum in the ocean twice since my escape. Both times I felt closer to understanding God.

  When you’ve spent your life underground, you don’t realize how breathtakingly beautiful the planet’s surface is.

  Soon, I see the security fences of the ISS Launch Station in the distance. Behind them, the rocket shuttle waits on its launch track, pointing majestically skyward, maybe twenty degrees from vertical. Sunlight glints off its edges.

  The Free Space Embassy, directly across from the ML station, is the only way into the complex. The MagLev’s been and gone. By now, my friend with the hat knows I wasn’t on it.

  I leave the street, approaching the embassy toward the east side where two doors, surrounded by shrub and trees, allow access. They aren’t as public as the main door, but the man following me knows my patterns. It’s time to break them.

  But he’s a step ahead of me. Two meters from the doors, he appears from behind a tangle of brush with a gun in his hand. It’s small—but that hasn’t meant anything in a long time.

  “It’s over Nash,” he says. A high-frequency tone pulls my attention to the subvocal set clipped to his ear, its transmitter narrower than human hair. “Target apprehended,” he subvocalizes. Whoever’s on the other end relays rendezvous point coordinates. A team’s assembled fifteen minutes away to take me back.

  I cock an eyebrow. “Fifteen minutes away? Awfully chancy, isn’t it? This close to the embassy?”

  His eyes widen. I shouldn’t be able to hear subvocs. Normal people can’t and, judging by his reaction, he thinks I’m included in that group. But I can hear and manipulate nearly any frequency. “See?” I say. “When you work for top secret organizations? They always neglect to tell you the little things. You know, stuff that might save your life. Like what I’m capable of.”

  He waves the gun. “Let’s go.”

  I stand there, pack over my shoulder, and slowly close my fingers into fists. A ringing builds from his subvocal set, soon so loud I’m surprised everyone can’t hear it. His eyes roll like he’s been slugged in the back of his head. Unfortunately, it doesn’t knock him out. He rips the unit from his ear, dropping it to the grass.

  The gun comes up. It’s shaky. So’s his voice. “Whatever you just did doesn’t matter. I know where to go. Now move!”

  I stay calm. “You can’t kill me. I’m too valuable. And they’re waiting for you.”

  A rivulet of sweat runs from beneath his hat.

  I sigh. “Look, I really don’t want to hurt you. Just leave. Please?”

  He laughs—nervously. “You’re a kid. I’ve got the gun. Quit playing games.”

  I look at the security fence as the thirty-minute launch warning buzzes. “Listen. I’m running out of time. You’re leaving me no choice—”

  He lunges at me. I dodge, close my eyes, and bring my fists to my chest.

  Unsurprisingly, his gun’s loaded with poppers—the same bullets Kidar Frenzid shot my family with—inhumane bullets, made to do the most severe damage possible. This time, though, they explode inside their clip, blowing the man’s arm and a small chunk of his head completely away. I quickly reach inside his jacket, pulling out his spare clip as he crumples and falls to the ground. Emptying the poppers from the clip into my pocket, I spot the subvocalt in the grass. That goes into another pocket.

  I rush inside just as the explosions bring a stream of people outside. A woman shrieks. Two security men march past me in the hall, their boots clicking on the marble floor. The sign over the door they leave unguarded reads VIP and Diplomats.

  I take it, and, just like that, I’m inside the complex. A coil wraps inside my stomach as I pause to catch my breath, pushing away mental pictures of Kidar Frenzid shooting my family, leaving headless bodies taped to kitchen chairs.

  Shuddering, I nearly vomit.

  I hate hurting people.

  Chapter 6

  ROCKET SHUTTLES AREN’T LIKE buses. They’re expensive, which means all seats are generally accounted for. Luckily, they have lots of storage space beneath for baggage. The compartment’s fully pressurized—to facilitate pets—and barely half full. Sneaking past the fat guys in charge of loading isn’t even a challenge. I crawl into the back corner, tucking myself behind my bag.

  I’m small on purpose and it definitely has its advantages.

  Chapter 7

  SEVEN HOURS LATER, HAVING sat cramped for the rumble of takeoff, the hard turbulence breaking through the atmosphere, and now the slow process of docking, I’m relieved to feel the rocket shuttle latch with the ISS. Within ten minutes, the baggage hatch hitches open and the handlers unload. They aren’t like the guys on the ground. These men are fast. I realize very quickly I won’t be able to sneak past them.

  My legs are incredibly stiff as I shoulder my pack and ready myself on fingertips and toes. One large bag separates me from them. When they drag it out, I scuttle right behind, pushing past them, nearly slipping as I leap down on
to the metal landing with a clang.

  “Hey! Kid! There’s a kid in here!” There’s two of them. Unfortunately, it’s the tall and lean one with the strong legs who decides to chase me. The room is dark. Our shoes slam against the catwalk, echoing in long bounces. The docking room is huge. Every ten meters or so, narrow metal steps head up or down. He’s gaining on me too fast for me to consider taking the stairs.

  I pump harder. My legs ache. My chest burns.

  I’m about to give up, turn around, and start making up some story when a voice whispers down one of the steel ladders beside me. “Nashville? That you? Nashville Beaumont?”

  Chapter 8

  I ALWAYS PLANNED TO turn and run as fast as possible upon meeting anyone who knew my name.

  Something makes me hesitate, though. He doesn’t sound like one of Them. My chest heaves. My mind races for a decision. The luggage handler, a step away from nabbing me, helps. I turn to the darkened stairs. “Yes?”

  A tall black man steps up, his fingers on the rail. I don’t know him. He wears a rusty turtleneck beneath a black jacket. Holding out his hand, he stops the luggage guy from grabbing my arm. “He’s with me.”

  “But he . . . was in with the luggage.”

  “He’s with me.”

  The firmness of the repeated statement sends the baggage handler away. The black man holds out his hand, long fingers, pink tips. “I’ll help you down.”

  I stay put. “Who are you? How do you know my name?”

  “My name’s Lawrence,” he says. “Tyrone Lawrence. I know everything about you. I also know Kidar Frenzid’s on his way to Caliban with your sister.”

  So much for intuition. I step back. “Only people from the Compound know these things.” I glance down the catwalk, wondering how much farther I can run.

  “That’s not true. We also know what Kidar Frenzid did to your family.” He looks away, grows quiet. “We were too late to stop it. I’m sorry.”

  I’m panicked because I don’t know what to do. Mainly because I don’t understand. “Who is we? Who the hell are you?”

  His warm, brown eyes settle on mine. “We’re on your side, Nash. There’s always two sides. We’re the good guys.”

  I consider this. Are there always two sides? My brain sweeps my memory for precedent. He continues before I find any.

  “We want to help you now. Together, let’s stop Kidar Frenzid and get Providence back.” He reaches out again. “Let me take you to Orbano.”

  Pushing my blonde hair off my face, I search his eyes, finding no hint of deception. I haven’t met many honest people, but he somehow feels like one. Something about him—strangely—reminds me of my father.

  My father, taped to that chair, begins forming in my mind. Quickly, I shift gears and take the man’s hand.

  Chapter 9

  TOMORROW MORNING, TYRONE LAWRENCE’S ship will fly us to the Caliban system. He gets me my own room on the ISS and, before retiring to bed, takes me to dinner at the Starlight Lounge.

  A six-story restaurant with transparent walls, the Starlight Lounge is funnel shaped; each level smaller than the one above. It hangs like a plumb bob from the bottom center of the station, slowly rotating, offering an ever-changing view of the Earth, moon, and stars.

  We sit at one of the four tables on the lowest floor. The others are empty. I order the same meal as Lawrence: a Texas porterhouse. Outside, the Earth spins into view—western Europe’s covered in clouds, but the African coast glitters like a string of freshwater pearls. It would be beautiful if I didn’t feel so unsettled. “Who did you say you worked for again, Mr. Lawrence?”

  “Tyrone.” He sips his wine. He’s calm, his voice deep and soothing. “And I didn’t. I said we were the good guys. Hopefully that’s enough. You must know how these top secret things work.” He wipes his lips, returning the napkin to his lap.

  Slowly I shake my head, considering. “I don’t think it will be enough. I’ve come too far. I can’t . . . I hope you . . . ” I don’t know how to finish.

  Turns out I don’t have to. “I understand. I’ll just have to trust you the way you’re trusting me.” He lifts his glass. “I work directly for the President of the United States.”

  My pulse kicks into a gallop. “The president has no idea about the Compound,” I say, my suspicion obvious.

  He raises his palm. “Now calm down, Nash, and think a minute. They told you that. And, actually, they didn’t lie. They have no idea. Truth is, they’ve been on our radar from the start. We’ve had men inside ever since the UTSC talks began.” Another sip of wine. He laughs. “We never planned on finding you, though. No, you were just a happy accident.”

  The view outside crosses over the Middle East. There are no accidents, in my experience. Especially happy ones.

  The waitress—an actual person—sets our dishes on the table. The smell is almost enough to relieve my worries.

  “Want some advice?” Tyrone asks, lifting a fork. “Enjoy your meal. This place is a once in a lifetime experience and it’s on the president’s tab. Tomorrow morning you’ll meet the rest of my crew and I think you’ll feel much better about things.”

  Blood pools on my plate as I cut into my perfectly grilled steak.

  Chapter 10

  THAT NIGHT, I HAVE the dream again, maybe worse than ever. It wakes me early. I don’t want to chance going back to sleep, so I order breakfast and watch stars in my cabin window until Tyrone comes for me.

  His ship, the Iron Heart, is stunning. I know from my training she’s a Mosquito-Class vessel with a FoldSpace drive but this one’s designated FS-V. Far as I knew, the latest models were only FS-III. This lessens my worries, reinforcing his claim of working for the president.

  As I’m introduced to the crew, I don’t get that same warm feeling.

  Tyrone’s pilot, Haley Frost, looks like she stepped out of a MatrixRaveRoom. She has chopped and spiked midnight blue hair, wrapped with a thick red band, and genetically enlarged lips, also blue. Her bangles clang when I shake her hand. She smells like a garden, and has dark eyes. I don’t like the smell or her eyes, but I could be too young to fully appreciate them.

  I feel better about Catherine Walker. Tall and solid, she has dark brown hair and light brown skin. She looks directly into my eyes as we shake hands. “She’s our security officer,” Tyrone informs me.

  It confuses me. “security officer? There’s only four of you. Why do you need a security officer?”

  I look to her to answer, but she looks to Tyrone. He smiles. “Government policy,” he says. I suppose it makes sense.

  The last crew member gives me the willies.

  He’s simply called Lug, and is easily seven feet tall. A one-inch ring pierces his septum. His arm muscles bulge like cypress trunks from his sleeveless shirt. He’s bald other than a thick black braid hanging to his waist. His arms, neck, and head are covered in tribal tattoos. Apparently he’s the ship’s engineer. He resembles none of the engineers from the Compound, but I suppose that’s good.

  A quick ship tour follows. It’s a small vessel. The bridge, a hexagonal room with a forward window and two workstations, makes up most of it. Currently, blast shields cover the window. A hatch in the floor between the stations drops down to the single-person cockpit.

  Six cabins split over two levels are squeezed along one side of the bridge. The mess, tactical room, and head run along the other. A final corridor leads out back, tunneling between the dual FoldSpace drives.

  Tyrone informs me engineering is accessed through a hatch in the floor. On the FS-III models, I remember that hatch leading to the recreation room, and the drives being accessed through ceiling panels. He doesn’t open the bomb-blast door sealing the floor panel, but I’m not surprised. Ships built for the president probably include custom modifications. Still, I’m bothered a bit when I see the ceiling panels still recessed in the hall, but I don’t mention anything.

  Returning to the bridge, Tyrone sits at one of the workstations. “Haley! C
ourse plotted?”

  “Aye, Cap’n,” she says sliding down into the cockpit, barely touching the steps. “Locked and loaded. Time to Caliban approximately three hours, fifteen minutes.” A pause and then: “ISS reports us go for departure.”

  “Take us out.”

  I wait for the shield blocking the forward window to open, but it still hasn’t, even after I feel us break away from the station.

  “I’ll be in my quarters,” Catherine Walker says.

  Tyrone throws me a wink. “You should probably do the same.”

  Chapter 11

  I SPEND THE TIME reviewing information about Caliban on my Digimate™.

  .click.

  Caliban’s actually a binary star system with two completely independent planetary groupings in stable orbit with each other. Three of the planets orbiting Caliban and one orbiting Moth—the secondary star—are categorized as terrestrial, with Earth-type atmospheres. It’s considered the economic heart of our region of the galaxy.

  Orbano, the capital planet, has only sixty-five percent of Earth’s mass. Three different races occupy three of its five continents (two of the continents are uninhabitable polar regions). The races are so distinct, they rarely interact. The Angamon run the United Technological Species Coalition. The other two aren’t even members. One, called Skelt, are savage plant creatures still in an Iron Age. The second, the Phohonese, are short, respectful people who long ago rejected technology for a religion bearing some similarities to Earth’s Hinduism, Buddhism, Taoism, and Sophism.

  On the holo, Angamons kind of resemble the aliens reported by UFO abductees in the twentieth century—the ones that came to be referred to as Greys. But their description—tall and white, partially translucent with oval eyes—make them sound more like ghosts. I guess I’ll find out when we arrive.