A King of Infinite Space Page 21

  “The Juice? C’mon…”

  “Nope. If I’m black and lived back then, then I must know O.J.”

  “You mean you didn’t?”

  “Don’t start with me, Tucker…”

  “Ever meet Stephen King?”

  “Saw him at the ABA once. Why?”

  “Go find the bald dude with the monocle. He’d want to talk to you.”

  Sam gives me a look and turns away. He’s not amused, nor can I blame him. We’ve already been on our feet for nearly twelve hours straight, with only a short dinner break before we got dressed for the party. The servants are all sore-footed and tired, and we still have many hours to go before the last guest falls down. Even then, there won’t be any relief from our misery; someone has to clean up the mess. It’ll be days before any of us recuperates from this ordeal.

  Yet I can’t let myself get exhausted. I’ve other plans this evening, and although I didn’t intend to carry them out for an hour or so later, I’m coming to the realization that if I don’t act now, I might be too tired to make the scheme work.

  Another tray of pate de foie gras is placed on the counter before me, but I ignore it. Next to it is another treat for our guests: steak tartare, tiny strips of rare beef smothered in horseradish sauce and wrapped in spinach leaves. That’ll do nicely. Kate’s standing next to me; she starts to reach for it, but I gently bump her aside to pick it up. She gives me a scolding look, but doesn’t fight it; she takes the pate instead. One hors d’oeuvres platter was as good as the other.

  Not for my purposes, though…

  Shouldering the platter, I exit the kitchen and make my way through the dining room and into the Great Hall, pausing now and then to allow a guest to sample my wares while I search the crowded rotunda. Although my intended victim stands a head taller than almost everyone else, it takes a little while before I spot him…but when I do, I move toward him like a lazy bullet.

  Vladimir Algol-Raphael, patriarch of the Algol clan, king schmuck of the universe, has parked himself beside a column next to the stairway. Wearing the same robes he wore when he stepped off the Anakuklesis nearly a month ago, he’s holding court with a small handful of Primaries. When I get closer, I see that he’s brought his rapier with him, tucked into its sheath on his hip. Good. I was counting on that.

  He and his friends are carrying on a conversation about something or other when I approach them, making sure that I’m just behind Algol-Raphael. With scarcely a glance in my direction, the Primaries help themselves to the steak tartare. Then I offer the platter to Vlad himself.

  “Hors d’oeuvre, sir?” I ask, ever so innocently.

  Algol-Raphael hasn’t noticed who his waiter is. He picks up one of the hors d’oeuvres and, as I watch, brings it to his narrow lips. Then he takes a good, hard look at what he is about to put in his mouth…

  And then, just as I hoped, he screams.

  Shortly after the Anakuklesis arrived a month ago, John instructed us on proper social etiquette around the Superiors. Although they’re sometimes referred to as “googles” by baseline humans, because of their enormous eyes, we were never to call them this, especially not to their faces; the term is a racial epithet, just as insulting as if I were to call Sam a nigger. When addressing them, we were to always use both of their hyphenated surnames—clan name first, family name second—and never drop one or the other. Bending over from the hips, such as to pick up something from the floor, is likewise considered to be an insult; we’re presenting our buttocks to them, with all this implies.

  And most of all, because of their strict social mores, there are two things we should never offer a Superior: alcoholic drinks, and any sort of food with meat in it.

  Naturally, Vladimir Algol-Raphael was properly upset when he discovered that he’d nearly put steak tartare in his mouth. And when he saw who the offending waiter was, he went berserk.

  I’ll skip the details, except to say that I haven’t seen anyone throw such a shit-fit since the time I poured out my mother’s vodka on April Fool’s Day and replaced it with Evian. It took three bystanders to keep Vlad from skewering me with his rapier, but he did manage to grab the platter from my hands and hurl it at me. His aim was lousy—the tray missed me by a mile—but it splattered meat across my tux. So much the better; I hadn’t counted on that happening, but it was welcome just the same.

  His bellowing drew everyone within earshot, including (as I had anticipated…in fact, counted on) my good friend Christopher Meyer. Shemp had been scurrying around the castle for the last umpteen hours, bossing all the servants without doing a lick of work himself; when he saw an enraged Superior trying to murder his oldest friend, there was no question whose side he would take. The other guy’s, of course.

  First, he all but licked Vlad’s shoes. Profuse apologies were rendered: much bowing and scraping, plus a lot of kvetching about what a schmuck I was. I don’t think Vlad understood the Yiddish stuff, but he simmered down enough to put away his sword. Then Shemp turned to me and was apoplectic for another minute, putz this and schlemiel that, while I played the contrite servant who’s committed the worst blunder possible. Yes, Chris. No, Chris. I’m sorry, Chris. I’m tired, I forgot, I really didn’t mean to offer meat, uncooked or otherwise, to our honored Superior guest.

  My only fear was that Shemp might decide that now was the time to punish me by instructing Chip to give me a migraine. The notion certainly occurred to him—I could see it in his eyes—but if anything held him back, it was the realization that dozens of people were watching us right now, and it might be a party pooper if one of the servants suddenly keeled over on the floor of the Great Hall. Mister Chicago might not like that. So Christopher Meyer took the easy way out.

  “Get out of here,” he hisses, his face only inches from my own. He flicks his hand against my stained shirt and vest. “And get out of this, too. You’re a mess. Go downstairs and get changed…”

  “I don’t have another tux.”

  He hasn’t thought of that. “Then put on a robe.” He glances over his shoulder at Vlad. “But don’t come back here. I want you in the kitchen for cleanup. Understand?”

  “Got it, Shemp…Chris, sorry.”

  His eyes are hot with fury. “I can’t believe you did this to me. I can’t fucking believe it.” He turns away from me. “Just get outta here. I’ll deal with you later.”

  At that moment, a certain melancholy comes over me. Whatever Christopher Meyer has become, he’ll always be Shemp to me. I almost want to say good-bye, but he’s already made his farewell speech, even though he doesn’t know it yet.

  So I leave it at that. I turn around and head for the nearest service elevator, and pray that my luck holds up just a little while longer.

  As I expected, the servants’ quarters are deserted; everyone’s upstairs in the castle. I double-check the showers and the mess room just to make sure that I’ve got the place to myself, then I go to my room and close the door.

  Off with the tails, vest, shoes, and tie. I almost ditch the trousers and shirt as well, but think better of it; they might be better clothes to be wearing once I’m in the EVA pod. I leave them on and pull my robe over them. Then I pick up the unknotted bow tie, lie down on the bed, and close my eyes.

  Carefully keeping my eyes shut, I wrap the bow tie around my eyes as a blindfold, just as Winston did just before he hanged himself. Winston figured it out first: if our associates can’t see what we’re doing, then they’re robbed of most of their sensory input.

  Once the blindfold is in place, I open my eyes again. I can’t see anything except black cotton.

  I sit up, then reach down to the foot of the bed where I’d carefully placed my stikshoes after my last trip to the hub. Once they’re on, I pull the hood over my head, stand up, and walk to the door.

  I open the door, take a deep breath and clear my mind of all other thoughts.

  And then I take the first step, and start counting.

  One, two…

  Right
turn. Down the corridor, thirty-seven paces…

  Stop. Left turn, five paces. Stop.

  I raise my hands, feel nothing but air. Have I miscounted? I take a tentative half-step forward; my fingers touch a grooved metal panel.

  No, I haven’t miscounted: here’s the elevator. I drop my right hand to my side, half-raise it again to waist-level, and wave it. The door makes a faint whirring sound as it opens.

  Two paces forward, stop, about-face.

  I find the floor panel, run my fingers lightly down it until I find the lowest button. The doors shut again.

  The elevator descends for a few moments, then comes to a halt. The doors whir again; cool air rushes against my face.

  I’m now on Level D.

  It’s very quiet.

  I lower my head and walk four paces forward. Stop. Right turn, continue walking.

  Fifty-one steps down. Seven hundred and twenty-nine to go.

  Seven hundred and twenty-nine steps, and they seem to take forever. I force myself to keep an even pace, without speeding up or slowing down, and to walk straight ahead as if I’m following an invisible plank. Judging from the silence, the corridor seems to be empty—everyone who works down here is upstairs at the ball, just as I’ve anticipated—but twice I think I hear footfalls behind me. Each time, I halt and listen carefully. Maybe it’s Shemp: he’s come from the party to bawl me out in private, seen me leaving my room and has been tracking me. Both times, though, I hear nothing, and so I pick up the count again and continue my lonely trek.

  At least three times, I lose count. It’s more difficult than it seems, counting to seven hundred and eighty without skipping an integer here or there; try it sometime, if you don’t believe me. Something crosses my mind—am I right about the blind spot in the cable car? has my disappearance from the servants’ quarters been detected? is someone following me?—and suddenly five hundred sixty-four becomes five hundred forty-six, five hundred forty-seven, five hundred forty-eight…no, that’s not right! Stop, take a deep breath. Remember, dammit! Oh, yeah…five hundred sixty-four. Concentrate, you idiot!

  On and on and on…

  Bumping into walls now and then, stopping to reorient myself, resisting the urge to lift the blindfold for just a quick peek. A blindfolded man walking down an endless corridor, hood raised over his head. Christ, what if someone comes out of one of these rooms and sees me? How do you explain this?

  Forget it! Keep going!

  Six hundred ninety-five, six hundred ninety-six…looking good, Alec old buddy. Going for the touchdown.

  Six hundred ninety-eight…damn, you did it again! Six hundred ninety-seven!

  And then, almost before I realize it, I hit the magic number: seven hundred and eighty.

  I stop in my tracks. My heart hammers against my chest. Nothing about this part of the corridor seems any different than the last few hundred yards I’ve traveled.

  I reach out with my hands, grope blindly in the air.

  Nothing. I take another step forward. Still nothing.

  Two more steps, then two more. Shit! Nothing there!

  Two steps, three, four…I’m not bothering to keep count any more. My hands meet nothing.

  Goddammit! Where’s the fucking…?

  One more step, and my fingertips suddenly brush against a curved, grooved surface. I explore it with my hands.

  Yes! An iris hatch!

  “Alec Tucker,” I say. “Open, please.”

  The hatch slides open with a faint grinding sound.

  I walk straight ahead, still holding my hands before me, until they collide with what feels like thick glass. I drop my hands, find a handrail. I grasp it with both hands, let out my breath as a ragged sigh, turn around.

  “Hub.”

  Once again, the familiar grinding sound.

  Then the floor begins to rise.

  I make myself count to two hundred before I tear the sweaty tie off my face. Even in the dimness of the cable car, the sudden light makes me blink.

  Then my vision clears and there, rushing past the windows, are shining stars and Bible-black darkness. Below me, rapidly receding away past a forest of cables, lies the enormous transparent roof of the habitat. For an instant, I catch a glimpse of Mister Chicago’s castle: windows glowing, walkways traced by Japanese lanterns, balconies and terraces dotted by innumerable ant-like forms. The solarium dome glares up at me like a cyclopean eye.

  Almost looks like a party’s going on down there. Maybe you ought to go down and see if you can get a drink?

  Smiling to myself, I sag against the rail. No, this is one New Year’s party I think I’ll skip.

  But thank the host for inviting me anyway.

  Tell him I’ve got other plans.

  The hub corridors are as deserted as the lower levels of the habitat; no one sees me as I make my way to the EVA pods.

  The pods aren’t locked. Who in their right mind would steal a spacecraft with a maximum fuel range of only a hundred kilometers, when the nearest inhabited asteroid was well over a million kilometers away?

  Yet I have no intention of trying to fly to one of Garcia’s neighbors. Even if I could, it would probably be pointless; more than likely, its residents would probably return me to Mister Chicago as soon as they discover I’m one of his deadheads. Out here in the Belt, his power is absolute; no one would defy him over such a trivial matter as an escaped slave.

  No, I’ve got a better idea. Risky as hell, to be sure; in fact, I figure the odds are against me. Considering that they’re still better than my chances if I stay here, though, it’s a shot I’m willing to take.

  I open the hatch of one of the pods and, after one last look around to make sure that I’m not being observed, I pull off my robe and drop it on the floor behind me. Then I grasp the bar above the hatch and, copying the method used by pod pilots, swing myself feet-first into the tiny cockpit.

  Land square in its high-backed seat. Reach back to pull the hatch shut behind me. Dog it tight. Swivel the seat around until it faces the oval porthole and the instrument panels below and above it.

  “Okay, Chip,” I say, blinking three times, “access the EVA pod tutorial.”

  EVA pod tutorial accessed, Alec.

  “Good. Give me an overlay for the pod controls. Switch to audio mode for your talk-through.”

  “Yes, Alec.”

  A false-color diagram of the pod’s instruments appears before me. I can still see the dashboard, the instrument panels, the yoke and the throttle bars, but it’s now as if I’m looking at them through a transparent film.

  Experimentally, I lay my hands on the yoke. Just as it has during my late-night practice sessions, a red arrow appears just above the yoke, along with a tiny blue window that identifies it for me. I raise my left hand and randomly point to a panel just above my head; another window tells me this is the communications panel. Next to the arrow is a tiny, swirl-shaped icon; when I touch it, a window opens below the icon, giving me a range of options, each with their own icons in case I need further explanation. Any mall rat could handle this given enough time, patience, and arcade tokens. It’s Sega on steroids.

  “All right, let’s get to it. Start the launch procedure.”

  “Launch procedure as follows.” A red arrow appears next to a set of toggle switches on the right side of the dashboard. “Initiate power-up of the primary and auxiliary electrical systems…”

  And so begins a long rundown of a dozen different procedures, each with their own subsets of protocols and fail-safes. Activate the electrical and life-support systems. Check cockpit seals. Reset and load primary and backup computers. Recharge batteries. Pressurize fuel cells. Test main engines and reaction-control rockets. So forth and so on; I skip the unnecessary stuff, like testing the pod’s remote manipulator arms, and omit a radio check since there’s no sense in tipping off anyone that one of their pods is about make an unscheduled sortie, but the rest goes by the numbers. Chip points to this switch, and I toggle it; Chip tells me to
enter these numbers on the keyboard, and I type them in. The situation might have been hopeless if I tried to do this a hundred years ago, but things are different when you have a little bitty computer in your head.

  We’re done in fifteen minutes. Now the cockpit glows with the multicolored light from dozens of switches, readouts, and flatscreens, and I’m sitting in the best hot rod any kid from St. Louis has ever seen. All I need is a plastic Jesus on the dashboard and a pair of furry dice dangling from the life-support subsystems panel. I haul the seat harness around me, buckle tight its waist and shoulder straps. “Okay,” I murmur, “is everything ready for launch?”

  “Yes, Alec, you may proceed with launch. Enter course coordinates, please.”

  “Display coordinates for…um, synodic traverses in this quadrant of the Belt.”

  On eyes-up, a complex set of curving lines appears before me, each bisecting the right-angle lines of 4442 Garcia’s orbit and those of its closest neighbors. “Okay, now lay in the…uh…the positions of the nearest spacecraft in those lanes.”

  Several orange dots appear on the traverses. The nearest lane one has a bright orange spot off to its right. I touch it and ask for its distance from 4442 Garcia. Red numerals tell me it’s 30,652 kilometers from my position.

  A long shot, but it’ll have to do. “Lay in an intercept course for that ship.”

  “Alec, the fuel range of this craft is limited to one hundred kilometers.”

  “I know. Head for the intercept point.”

  “Alec, your chances of reaching this intercept point are—”

  “Just do it! Undock us, fire the main engines, and keep firing until the tanks are dry.”

  “I don’t understand, Alec.”

  I glance at the chronometer. It’s now 23:52:46 GMT. In less than eight minutes, the twenty-second century begins. I can spend the New Year’s Eve with Mister Chicago, or I can roll the dice.

  “Just do it, Chip. Get me out of here.”

  “Understood. Launch sequence activated.”

  Lights flash across the panels. There’s a sudden jar as the pod disengages from its docking collar; for a moment everything seems to hold still. I hang tight to the armrests, watching stars drift past the porthole.