Brute Orbits (6 page)

“First let me introduce myself. My real name is Yevgeny Tasarov. Some of you may know about me from the Dannemora break of some years ago.”

Polau’s face went pale, but he recovered quickly. “Oh, yeah? So you say. Anyone can say it, but can you prove it.”

“There was a glitch in the timing of my mindwipe,” Tasarov said quietly, “but I have come back to myself. That’s why you haven’t heard from me until now, and that’s why I’m here. I was not myself, and unable to prevent it!”

The laughter was genuine, full of bitterness and relief, and Tasarov knew that he had their attention. In the next moment, he would tell them what they could do about their plight, enough to hold them together, at the very least, in reserve for greater efforts. If greater efforts were possible, he told himself, but that waited to be explored.

As the laughter died away, Tasarov waited for Polau to repeat himself.

On cue, the little thief said, “I repeat, what can you or any of us do?” He leered at him, as if saying, okay big man, I’ve got you now because there’s no answer to that one.

Tasarov told them—and they liked it.

Even Polau liked it, but he didn’t like liking it.

■

Over the next few days Tasarov repeated his speech in each of the mess halls. He refined it somewhat, but he could see the growing solidarity among the men. The purge killings stopped. In the evenings, when he looked out toward the graveyard, he saw visitors. One or two even knelt and stayed a while. Although he saw this as a weakness, it would be useful as long as it remained a personal concern; but if it got organized into ritual with a headman, it might cause him trouble.

When the men seemed to be of one mind, he started exploratory shifts to follow the work that was being completed inside the hundred barracks, although only ninety-eight would be needed to house the remaining 4,800 men. When they had arrived in the habitat, prisoners had been brought in from the engineering level blindfolded; but with some one hundred square kilometers of inner landscape to be searched, the chances of anyone finding the way out were small. There was one advantage: no guards to stop the inmates from looking.

Tasarov started the searches in the mess halls. He went with each group and checked the floors for possible basement spaces.

There was nothing obvious under the first three domes, and Tasarov noted the looks of disappointment in the faces of the dozen men with him. He could not let this drag on too long; the next step of the plan had to be implemented as soon as the way into the engineering level was found, and then the scheme might have a long run, assuming that the right equipment was there and usable. He needed a long run to keep order; that was in everyone’s interest whether they thought so or not. In the longest run, however, the possibilities were not good, but it was important not to poison the life left to the community.

He wondered how much it meant to him to organize what there was left of life; to bring order was the only thing left to do against the coming darkness. At worst the effort would be a distraction; at best—who knew what might be accomplished by trying.

He smiled, thinking of what a strange amalgam of naive optimism and pragmatic cold-bloodedness had ruled his life. The perversity of that tendency was a great joy when it worked; and when it didn’t, it was only what he had expected. Trying to have both was probably the greatest human trait he knew, because it often produced, if not its goal, then something equally satisfying along the way. And when the amalgam didn’t work—well, that just didn’t count; when failure counted you out, well, that also couldn’t be helped.

An early friend of his, John O’Brian, had once said to him, “You know, you’re crazy, don’t you? You can’t be sentimental about your self-interest.”

“I know,” Tasarov had replied, “but that’s not the point. The point is whether I can be stopped or not.”

“You can be stopped,” O’Brian had answered. “One day you’ll hesitate to kill and someone will finish you.”

“Sure,” Tasarov had said, “but only when it happens.”

As he looked around at the empty mess hall, he knew that O’Brian would say that he had been stopped, once and for all; but deep in his rebellious heart Tasarov knew that his failure was only a matter of degree—and the proof of it was in how much still remained for him to do.

But he would have to do it here; there wouldn’t be much life left for him when the habitat came back, assuming that he would still be alive.

■

Where in all hell was the exit? They had searched the flooring of all ten mess domes—and found nothing. The exit was here, because they had all come through it.

“Big man!” Polau said at dinner that evening, just loud enough for him to hear. Next to Polau, Howes looked a little embarrassed, but gave Tasarov a look into which he read too much: How can we shut up this jerk if you don’t come through for us? Maybe some of the others were thinking the same, and Tasarov felt a bit let down by himself. He should be able to guess where the entrance was!

As he finished eating, Tasarov remembered that he had arrived in a vehicle. There had to be a road, and since there was no weather here, there had to be tracks in the mud leading to the hidden entrance. No one had been looking for tracks.

He got up and left the hall. Few noticed his going, indicating the degree to which they were losing interest in his scheme. He had to deliver, and very soon.

Outside, he started to walk toward the sunplate, searching the muddy ground ahead of him for tracks. As the light faded into its bright moonless nightglow, he kept walking, bending over to make sure he wasn’t missing anything. He knew that the docking area had to be outside the ends of the hollow asteroid, so it made sense to think that major vehicle access to the interior might also be somewhere just before the light source, or at the opposite end, at some point on a circle.

The mess domes and living quarters were in the middle, so it was about three kilometers to one end. He might find tracks off the center line that ran through the living quarters and mess halls.

Tracks. He stopped. No effort had been made to hide them. Just left of the barracks area, beyond the mess domes. That told him that the jailers had no longer cared, because they knew that the timed orbits policy was about to go into effect. That meant they didn’t care whether the men got into the engineering area or not; and that suggested there was nothing there for them. Certainly no shuttles, food, or luxuries. They could only do damage to themselves if they tampered with equipment, and no one would care if they did.

Tasarov started to march, realizing that the hidden entrance must be closer to the sunplate. After a few moments he turned and looked back at the barracks. Lights were going on as men returned from mess, and he thought of them as sea lion bull males, washed up on a barren shore. Fellow creature feelings welled up inside him, and his pride spurred him to turn around and resume his search. He would do something for them; however small, it would be better than this.

Some two kilometers out, still one short of the sunplate, the tracks came to an end, and he knew that he had found the entrance. Now how to open it? He began to shuffle around in the mud, starting at his right, looking for a triggering control, and found it easily enough, right in the middle of the dirt road. But when he touched it with his foot, nothing happened.

He thought about it, and realized that the control was meant to be triggered by the heavy weight of a vehicle. Worse, it might open only from the inside, when vehicles came out, to stay open and close when they returned.

He got down on all fours and began to clear the sensing plate. When its black surface was clean, he got up and stepped on it with his boot.

Nothing happened. He stepped on it harder, but still nothing. He stepped on it with both feet, then jumped up and down once, still with no result. He jumped again, higher this time, making greater use of his weight, and heard a rumble.

He jumped back as the massive cover came up, revealing a ramp leading down to the level below. The cover stopped at sixty degrees, like the shell of a giant clam.

He went inside, peering ahead. At the bottom of the ramp he came out into a flat area. To his left and right there were two large arches, and just beyond each there were jeeplike vehicles.

He looked back up the ramp. It was still open, but he decided not to chance it. He chose the garage at his right, climbed into a jeep, and started the electric motor.

The jeep steered easily out of the garage and up the ramp. When he drove out from under the cover, he hit the sensor plate and came to a stop just beyond. He turned around in time to see the plate close. Some more of the dry dirt had been cleared away, so he would be able to spot the cover easily when he returned.

He raced the jeep down toward the barracks, listening to the quiet whir of the electric motor, preparing what he would say to the men.

■

He took three men with him into the engineering level. Harry Howes was one, just to get him away from Polau for a while and see what he was like on his own. Ruskin and Wood, both of whom had some technical background that would be of use, also came.

A crowd gathered around the jeep as they prepared to leave. Tasarov saw hope in many of the men’s eyes as well as confused, questioning looks. “What will this get us, even if you find a communications room?” one had asked. It was a good question. He had tried to answer it; and the only answer now was that they would have to try it and see what talking to Earth might get them.

■

It did not take long to find a communications room, since most of the engineering level was accessible to the jeep. When they stopped at the clearly labeled suite of rooms, Tasarov knew that no one had cared whether anyone would come here. What good would it do anyone once the asteroid had been inserted into its long orbit? But if he had his way, the answer to that question would become more problematic.

There were several stations, for computer access and communications.

“This is all pretty straightforward,” Wood said, bending his tall gaunt frame down for a look.

“Radio gear looks like somebody just went off for some coffee,” Ruskin added with a laugh.

“They didn’t think we’d try to get in here,” Tasarov said, glancing at Howes, who still seemed bewildered. “I’ll tell you what we’re going to do here, son,” Tasarov continued. “We’re going to put on a radio show—the most violent, filthy, reproachful parade of agony we can send back. And we won’t quit.”

Howes gave him a puzzled look. “What good will that do?”

“We’ll see, we’ll see,” Tasarov said, smiling. “It depends on what we say to them. I say the talent we have will serve us well.”

But then a black mood seized Tasarov, as he realized that he could not see beyond this effort. Howes was right. It might accomplish nothing at all—but it had to be tried.

Wood and Ruskin set transmissions to break in on a dozen audio and visual stations, an hour at a time, seven days a week. Tasarov made the first broadcast marching back and forth inside the holo settings that Ruskin had managed to jury-rig, looking out at the audience as if fixing on individuals whom he would hold accountable.

He began softly, saying, “Many of you don’t know who I am, and there’s no reason you should. My name is not important. Most of you don’t know about the timed orbit into which my prison has been inserted. We’re not that far away yet, not even past the orbit of Jupiter, but I can’t say in which direction to the plane of the ecliptic we’re moving. In the weeks and months ahead, you will hear from many of us out here, to help you find out how you feel about this kind of punishment. We ask that you listen to us, and make up your own minds. We will try to set up mobile cameras to take you inside this hollow rock which many of us helped mine, and you will see how we live. For those of you who can’t see me, I will describe what I can. That’s all for now. Good-bye.”

He held a serious, unsmiling look for a few moments.

“Fine,” Ruskin said from his station, and Tasarov relaxed. “It will go all this week, twenty-four hours a day.”

“What else do we have?” Tasarov asked, sitting down at one of the steel desks.

“A dozen script proposals already,” Wood said, coming in through the door from the adjoining room. “You may want to check them.”

“Oh—why?” Tasarov asked.

“A few are pretty extreme?” Wood said.

Tasarov sat back and laughed. “Really? Is that possible in our circumstances? We’re not about to become censors!”

“Well, it is important if we’re looking to get concessions from Earth, or to convince them of something.”

“What can they do for us?” Ruskin asked. “Nothing. And they won’t do a thing. They don’t have to. All they can do is listen, so we should say whatever we please.”

Tasarov considered, feeling the darkness pressing in on his mind. This project had little chance of being anything more than a way to keep the men’s minds occupied, distracted, and if it did only that, it would be enough. But Ruskin had reminded him that the men would be expecting a result. Tasarov wondered how long and complicated he could make it before the game collapsed.

Harry Howes came into the room and said, “Jay Polau is here. He wants to talk to you.”

Tasarov sat up, shrugging off his mood. “Let him in.”

Polau came in, looking unlike himself. Gone was the usual contempt in his expression as he sat down before Tasarov’s desk and said, “You’ve got to put me on. I have things to say.”

“Like what?”

“Things. I got things to say.”

“Tell me?”

“What’s it to you? We can all go on. Do you have a problem with that?”

“No.”

“It’s not like we can say anything that will hurt us, is there?”

The little thief was well aware that the broadcasts might come to nothing. “Probably not,” said Tasarov. “What is it that you want to say?”

“I’ll say it when I go on, not before.”

Tasarov looked directly at him for a few moments. The man’s show of determination intrigued him.