Sidney's Comet (15 page)

Fwoosh! A blade severed Javik’s head. It fell to the floor with a dull, distant thud. With a twisted and unusable arm, Sidney could do little to defend himself. It would be over in seconds. Sidney sensed relief ahead . . . a nothingness beckoning to him across the cosmos. . . .

“Wake up, Malloy! The morning’s almost gone!”

Sidney felt a strong arm shaking his shoulder. He opened one eye and turned his face up to see a ruddy-faced male attendant looking down at him. The white-smocked attendant was young and muscular, with tiny rat-like dark eyes.

“A lady’s here to see you,” the attendant said.

“What is this place?” Sidney asked. He used his good hand to brush tousled curls of black hair off his forehead.

“You’re in the Hotel Ritz-Broadway,” the attendant sneered. “And I’m your private manservant! WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU ARE? THIS IS THERAPY DETENTION, PAL! YOU’RE SCHEDULED TO LEAVE FOR THE ORBITER TOMORROW!” The attendant shook his head scornfully.

Sidney rolled over on the cot to turn his face away. He curled his legs into a fetal position. Every muscle ached, especially those in direct contact with the unsympathetic cot. The grand mal seizure of the previous evening had left him with the fatigue of a thousand sleepless nights. The left side of his face felt numb, and his left arm and left-hand fingers were contorted horribly. He saw bones almost popping out, stretching their skin to the limit. Taut muscles appeared ready to snap. He tried to straighten the fingers, could not.

“You guys that get special treatment really bum me,” the attendant said. “All the other applicants have been to Sunday services this morning, but not you!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sidney mumbled.

“Somebody called in with a Presidential code . . . said you were to await a visitor. What are you, Malloy? A bigwig of some sort? Well it won’t keep you off the orbiter, pal. Nothing will!”

Leave me alone,
Sidney thought.
Just leave me alone.

“Come on, fella,” the attendant said, again shaking Sidney’s shoulder.

“Go away. I don’t want to see anybody.” Sidney’s deformed arm twitched as he spoke, then jerked violently. He grabbed it with his good hand, took a deep, determined breath.

“The lady’s a looker,” the attendant said, short-stepping around the cot to the side Sidney faced.

Sidney did not reply. He turned away from the attendant.
Carla,
he thought.
I can’t let her see me like this.
Sidney recalled what Javik had done for him the night before, wondered if he was all right.

“Hey, maybe the lady CAN figure a way to keep you off the therapy orbiter,” the attendant said. “You’d better smarten up and talk to her. Once they get you out there in space, you can forget about coming back.”

I’d rather face that than Carla,
Sidney thought. He turned away once more and closed his eyes.

“All right,” the attendant said, weary of the argument. “Suit yourself.”

Sidney heard the whir of departing moto-shoes. He opened his eyes and looked across rows of empty cots, then turned his head the other way to see additional rows. He was in the middle of a large sleeping room, and the surrounding sameness reminded him of his desk in Central Forms. Noticing a plastitag around his right wrist, he read it: “
Malloy, S./Client No. 165632029
”

Maybe Carla can get me out of here,
he thought. But he made no effort to get up or to cry out. A door slammed. Echoing quiet dominated the room.

After the meeting with General Munoz, Javik changed to casual Space Patrol togs. A high overhead sun cast distorted, short shadows of Javik’s body as he rolled up the long ramp to Bu-Med’s Detention Center Building shortly before noon.

Carla was leaving the building as Javik entered. She smiled attentively, and to Javik she seemed particularly receptive to him.

Attractive woman,
Javik thought.
And vaguely familiar
. . . .

Now there’s the sort of man I should pursue,
Carla thought as she rolled down the ramp.
Instead of wasting my time with Sidney. This one’s really in the Space Patrol.

After presenting his pass at five checkstations inside the building, Javik found himself facing the rat-eyed attendant in charge of Sidney’s sleeping room. The attendant was seated at a small desk at the end of an eighteenth floor hallway.

“Another one to see Malloy?” the attendant said as he examined the pass. “Forget it, mister. He won’t see anybody.”

“I’ll go in and see for myself,” Javik said, retrieving the pass.

“Not permitted. You can only see him in a glassplexed visiting area.”

“Do you see the signature on this pass?” Javik said forcefully, holding the pass only centimeters from the attendant’s face. “General Arturo Munoz!”

“Uh, yes. I noticed that.”

“And you know who he is, I presume?”

“Of course, but . . .”

“Show me the way,” Javik said. “Unless you want to explain to the General why you wouldn’t let me through.”

“No, of course not.” The attendant was flustered. He thought for a moment, then rose and said, “This way, please.”

Designating a room several moto-paces away, the attendant opened the door to it. He started to enter with Javik, but Javik told him to wait outside.

The attendant followed the instruction, although it obviously made him uncomfortable to do so.

Javik mentoed the door shut behind him.

The sleeping room was large, and at first scan appeared empty. Smelling woodsy sweetness, Javik looked up to see the fine mist of air freshener as it dropped from ceiling nozzles. Presently he made out a solitary form huddled fetally on a cot near the room’s center.

“Sid,” Javik called out as he rolled along an aisle between cots. “Hey, Sid. That you, buddy?”

The form stirred. It rolled over to face Javik, exposing a twisted, unrecognizable face.

“Oh, I’m sorry “ Javik caught himself as he recognized half the face. “Hey, Sid,” Javik said as he reached the cot. “How ya doin’?”

“Tom! You shouldn’t be . . .” Sidney felt self-conscious under Javik’s stare and turned away. “Leave me, Tom.
Please.”

“Good news, Sid. You’re assigned to a space cruiser with me! I’m a First Louie now!” Javik sat on an adjacent cot, stared at Sidney’s back.

“Don’t humor me,” Sidney whined. “I’m no kid.”

“Honest, Sid. General Munoz signed an authorization. After you’re treated on Elba, he says I can pick you up. You’ll be on Elba tomorrow. We blast off from there Tuesday.”

“Really?” Sidney said, not turning around.

“I can’t give you any mission details now, and you’re not to mention it to anyone. But take my word. It’s legit. Look at this pass here. See that signature?”

Sidney took the slip of paper with his good hand and read. “Hey!” he said. “This is signed by General Munoz! Isn’t he the Bu-Mil Min—”

“You got it, buddy.” Javik retrieved the pass, then patted Sidney’s back like an older brother. “You and me on a big mission, Sid! We used to dream this day would come!”

“What’s the assignment?”

“Classified for now. Our ship’s the Shamrock Five. It’s a beauty, pal!”

“You asked for ME? Re-a-ll-y?”

“Yeah, sure. Listen, Sid, I gotta go. I’ll see ya on Elba!”

“This is fantastic!” Sidney said, turning the good side of his face up to Javik, with the twisted part concealed beneath a forearm.

After Javik left, Sidney recalled the nightmare he had suffered that morning. The vision had prophesied correctly that he and Javik would be on the same ship. But those terrible knives . . . Sidney assured himself that this part of the vision would not happen.

A nice way to spend Sunday evening,
General Munoz thought.
After dinner I’ll call far a game of Knave Table

Munoz sat on a pillow at the head of a walnut-grained plastic banquet table with his eyes closed. One tiny hand rested on the burnished gold cross that dangled from his neck. He smiled serenely and listened while his dinner guests took their seats in the candlelit dining room module. On the inside of his eyelids, a video weather transmission revealed Afrikari blanketed by dark AmFed-made clouds. It had been this way since just after Friday’s meeting with the Alafin, thus rendering their telescope useless. The General was pleased.

He opened his eyes, spread a white lace napkin across his lap. Looking around the table, he smiled and nodded to each of the eight men and four women as they placed napkins on their own laps. These were the hand-picked members of his inner circle, a group whose loyalty was unquestioned. Munoz knew every thought they made in his presence. And they knew his, since each had been given the ultimate gift, an implanted memo transceiver.

Unknown to anyone at the table, President Ogg watched them intently at that moment from his study, using the palm-held video receiver given him by the Black Box of Democracy.
Thought-speak,
Ogg thought.
The voice said they thought-speak.

“Good evening.” Munoz said. He raised one hand, causing meckie-arms in front of each plate to pour red wine into crystal goblets. The General glanced for a moment toward a great fireplace along one wall, studied a large gold cross which stretched from the mantle to the ceiling. Along the mantle top were his favorite war trophies, gold and silver mementos inlaid with precious stones. Candlelight flickered and danced on the cross and on the trophies. He considered mentoing the fireplace but decided against it. The evening was warm.

General Munoz lifted his wine goblet, sloshed wine and peered through the crystal at the drip pattern made by the liquid as it ran down the inside of the goblet. He smelled the bouquet, tasted.

“Magnificent!” he said, watching the guests as they raised their goblets. He nodded to Dr. Hudson on his immediate right, mento-addressed the gathering:
Election programming has been initiated. I selected fifty-seven-point-three-six percent as my portion of the vote.

Good choice,
Hudson mentoed. He pushed his eyeglasses forward to scratch the bridge of his nose.

Allen and I are going to my country condo tomorrow,
Munoz mentoed.
An early celebration, you might say!

“Excellent wine,” a dark-haired woman at the other end of the table said. “A LaTour, I believe?”

“You are quite correct, Miss Stevens,” Munoz replied.

Congratulations. General,
she mentoed while raising her glass in toast.
Soon you will be President of the American Federation of Freeness!
“A toast!” she said aloud. “I propose a toast to the General for his hospitality!”

“Thank you,” Munoz said, raising his glass.
And a toast to each of you,
he mentoed happily,
the future ministers in MY council!

They drank and laughed and spoke of harmless things for several minutes. Then the center of the table opened up, with its walnut-grained plastic panels sliding down into the surface. An oblong-shaped conveyor track appeared, carrying a variety of dishes which moved slowly around the table. The conveyor stopped and started, following mento-commands given by the diners.

Colonel Peebles sat to the General’s immediate left. He watched a meckie-arm as it piled honey-basted Peking Goose, Mandarin Pancakes and plum sauce on his plate. The meckie-arm spread plum sauce on Peebles’ pancake with a scallion brush, then dropped bits of goose and scallion on the pancake and rolled it up.

That will be enough for now,
the light-eating Peebles mentoed. The conveyor clicked into motion, stopping at the next diner.

General Munoz nibbled on a piece of gooseskin, tasting the pungent bite of spices. Suddenly he dropped his gooseskin and stared wide-eyed at a trash can near the fireplace. A piece of paper fluttered in the air over the can!

“Leave me alone!” Munoz yelled, putting his hands up and recoiling. “Leave me alone!”

“What’s wrong, General?” Hudson asked.

“There!” Munoz said, pointing at the trash can. “There!”

But before Hudson and the others could turn their heads, the piece of paper, had fallen back into the can. “Didn’t anyone see it?” Munoz wailed. Realizing they had not, Munoz buried his face in his hands and felt his pulse thump wildly.

“What was it, General?” Colonel Peebles asked. He read General Munoz’s thoughts, saw the vision of a piece of paper fluttering over a trash can.

Picking up the same thought, Hudson asked: “Another fireball?”

Munoz kept his face buried in his hands. “Get it out!” he yelled. “Get it out!”

Hudson barked a command, and a servant hurried over to the can, removing it to another room. “We’ll have your disposatubes reconnected, Arturo,” Hudson said.

Munoz nodded, rested his forehead on the back of one hand and sat there breathing hard. Little droplets of perspiration were visible on his forehead.
Don’t any of you think it,
Munoz mentoed.
I am not mad!

“Why did you send Javik along?”
a distant, teasing voice said, speaking from inside General Munoz’s skull.

There!
Munoz mentoed to the gathering.
Did you hear that?

Hear what, General?
they mentoed.
We didn’t hear anything.

The voice returned:
‘This is private conversation, General. We told you to send Malloy alone. But you got Javik involved.”

“I couldn’t put a cappy on the ship by himself!” Munoz yelled. “We can’t rely on a god-damned cappy!”

Munoz’s guests sat at the table in shocked silence, afraid to do or think anything.

“You should have listened, General,”
the voice said.
“You should have listened!”

“Blast you!” Munoz bellowed. I’ll do as I damn well please!”

The voice receded, and Munoz closed his eyes tightly, his face contorted in pain and fury.

What in the hell is going on?
President Ogg thought as he watched these events.
The man is mad
. . .
stark, raving mad!

Attempting to change the subject, Colonel Peebles mentoed the gathering:
I almost wish military action had been necessary, just to see if the Black Box is what it’s cracked up to be!