Spindrift (8 page)
Authors: Allen Steele
The initial vibration subsided, the roar of main-engine ignition lapsing into a background rumble. Although there was sufficient gravity for the flight crew to stand up and move around, none left their seats. Emily hoped that the science team had obeyed Ted's instructions to remain on Deck C; they didn't need any visitors just then. Through the windows, they caught a brief, final glimpse of Earthâthree-quarters full, its daylight terminator somewhere above the Pacificâbefore lateral thrusters fired to correct their trajectory and put them on a correct heading for rendezvous with the starbridge. Then their world slowly swam away, to be replaced by the distant crescent of the Moon.
On the overhead screens, they could make out the starbridge, a tiny silver ring that grew in size with each passing minute. Until ESA began its construction two years earlierâalong with its prototype companion, KX-1, robotically built in orbit around Erisâthe hyperspace program had been one of the European Alliance's most closely guarded secrets. Although the Western Hemisphere Union loudly proclaimed that its development, along with that of a second-generation diametric drive, was the result of espionage, the EA dismissed this as propaganda, insisting that its scientists had come up with it on their own.
Yet perhaps there was some truth to the charge. Although the facts were still classified, Emily had heard the rumors: that a former United Republic of America physicist, one who'd been involved in the construction of the URSS
Alabama
and long since assumed to be dead, had been discovered in biostasis, reportedly in a former URA lunar research station that had been lost after the collapse of the Republic. No one knew who he was, but the story had it that he'd carried with him not only his own knowledge of hyperspace physics but also a disk containing his research notes for the development of wormhole travel, and that it was only lucky happenstance that caused him to be found by the Alliance instead of the Union.
Well, that was only hearsay. Reality was something else entirely. Emily let out her breath, loosened her seat harness, and stretched herself. She caught Ted's eye, gave him a nervous smile. He responded with a sly wink. They were on their way.
At constant thrust, it took
Galileo
less than six hours to reach the Lagrange point where the starbridge was suspended between the gravitational pulls of Earth and the Moon. What had once been a tiny ring had expanded to a torus, forty meters in diameter, its blue and green navigational lights flashing along its outer surface. One hundred kilometers away, a small cylindrical station was positioned in close orbit, the gatehouse that controlled access to the starbridge.
“Gatehouse confirms final approach, Captain.” Arkady looked up from his console. “All vectors nominal, and starbridge powering up for hyperspace insertion.”
“Thank you, Mr. Rusic. Give them our regards.” Lawrence paused, then added: “Status of KX-1?”
“All systems clear, sir.” Arkady's tone was matter-of-fact, as if he'd never thought his commanding officer would ever ask. “Status nominal.”
Emily glanced at Ted, saw him briefly raise an eyebrow. Nice of the captain to double-check. Unless the twin starbridges were properly synchronized, the wormhole wouldn't be formed and
Galileo
would vanish into a singularity. In which case, their last thoughts, just before their bodies were crushed into streams of subatomic particles, would be the confirmation of their suspicions that their captain was an idiot.
“Thank you.” Lawrence looked up at the mission chronometer, then cinched his seat harness a little tighter. “T-minus seventy-two seconds. Mr. Cohen, status of main engine?”
“MECO in eleven seconds.” Almost as soon as Martin spoke, an alarm went off, signaling main-engine cutoff. Emily had just enough time to tighten her harness before the engine ceased its rumble and microgravity returned. Cohen silenced the alarm. “MECO complete, sir. Main engine in standby mode.”
“Thank you.” Lawrence took hold of his armrests. “All stations, report in.”
Once again, just as they'd done a few hours earlier, the flight crew reported affirmative. It was almost an unnecessary procedure;
Galileo
was now fully under control of its AI, which would presumably alert them to any system malfunctions. Yet Emily was glad for the distraction; it helped take her mind off the fact that the ship was entering the wormhole's event horizon.
Relax
, she told herself.
The probes have done this before. The first two failed, but the next five came back. Everything's going to be fine.
From behind her, though, she could hear Nick muttering the Lord's Prayer; Ted shot a look at him, and the doctor lowered his voice to a whisper.
As the starbridge filled the screens, Simone's voice became a nervous cadence. “T-minus tenâ¦T-minus eightâ¦T-minus fiveâ¦four⦔
“Everyone, hang on!” Ted yelled. “Shut your eyes!”
“Threeâ¦twoâ¦one⦔
Through the windows, a white-hot flash. Emily squeezed her eyes shut, but not before her retinas were dazzled by its negative afterimage. She gasped as she felt herself slammed against her seat. From somewhere behind her, hull plates creaked in protest.
A sensation of falling into a bottomless pitâ¦
APRIL 10, 2288âDOLLAND CENTRE, THE MOON
T
he lunar bus that met him at the prison landing field was driven by a pair of hard-faced Union Guard soldiers who didn't speak to Shillinglaw any more than was necessary. As soon as he entered the vehicle via an accordion ramp that mated with the transport's passenger hatch, they subjected him to a thorough inspection that began with a shoulders-to-shins pat-down and wand sweep and ended with his briefcase being opened and searched. His pen, wallet, pocket change, and watch were confiscated, as was his datapad, despite his protests. It wasn't until the guards were satisfied that he was harmless that one of them went forward to the cab, partitioned by a wire-mesh screen, while the other sat on a bench across from Shillinglaw, gun in hand, saying nothing yet never letting his eyes wander from him.
Shillinglaw distracted himself by gazing out the window. The ride took only a few minutes, but it gave him a chance to take a quick look at the prison. At first glance, Dolland Centre Penal Colony resembled the ordinary lunar settlement that it had once been: lunox processing and wastewater treatment facilities, long banks of black photovoltaic cells, six-wheeled vehicles trundling across graded roads, with the low hills of the Descartes highlands rising in the background. It wasn't until he noticed the fifteen-foot security fence with particle-beam lasers positioned every thirty feet that he was reminded that this place was a medium-to-maximum security prison. The European Alliance had one very much like it, near Mare Crisium, but somehow the Western Hemisphere Union's version looked much more menacing. On the other hand, since Shillinglaw had never visited so much as a small-town jail, he didn't know quite what to expect.
The bus approached Dolland crater itself, a grey wall of rock looming against the pitch-black sky, light seeping from thin slits along its sloping flanks. The driver slowed down to a crawl; the vehicle's inflated wheels bumped slightly as they moved onto a mooncrete ramp, then the bus began rolling downward toward a pair of double doors. The bus entered the subsurface airlock and came to a halt. The doors shut, and there was a rush of grey silt around the windows as electrostatic scrubbers rinsed moon dust from the vehicle, then a loud roar while the chamber was pressurized. Another pause, during which Shillinglaw presumed the bus was being scanned, then a second pair of doors rumbled open and the transporter was permitted to go the rest of the way inside.
A short, slender gentleman dressed in a collarless business suit was waiting for Shillinglaw in the underground garage. “Welcome to Dolland,” he said, stepping forward to introduce himself as Shillinglaw came down the ladder. “I'm Rubin Torres, the warden. And you're Mr. Shillinglaw, I presume?”
“John, please. Call me John.” Shillinglaw grasped the other man's hand. “I assume, of course, my government has already been in touch with yours.”
“Of course. Otherwise, you couldn't be here.” Not
wouldn't
, but
couldn't
; Shillinglaw noticed the subtle way Torres shaded his choice of words. Indeed, the warden seemed faintly amused by Shillinglaw's belaboring the obvious. “We don't welcome casual visitors,” he went on, a whisper of a smile touching the corners of his mouth, “and Inmate 7668 is someone to whom we pay very close attention.”
“I'm sure you do.”
And you damn well should
, he added silently. Shillinglaw turned to glance at the soldiers who'd driven him there. “Not to make a point of it, butâ¦the man on the right has taken away my pad. I understand this is a normal precaution, but⦔
“No, you can't. Not until you leave.” Torres looked down at his briefcase. “And I'd appreciate it if you'd leave that with us. You'll have everything back before you go, but we insist that we hold your belongings while you're here.”
Shillinglaw's first impulse was to argue, but common sense told him to restrain himself. It had taken an extraordinary amount of negotiation, at the top levels of government, before the Union had reluctantly consented to allowing the associate director of the European Space Agency to pay a visit to one of its most infamous convicts. Now that he was so close to seeing him, Shillinglaw couldn't afford to screw things up by refusing to abide by security procedures. Nonetheless, there were things he carried with him that were vital to this meeting.
“You can have the briefcase,” he said, “but I need the papers inside.” He hesitated. “That's not too much to ask, is it? Especially since you insist on keeping my pad as well.”
Torres said nothing for a moment, yet Shillinglaw could tell that wheels were turning in his mind. “May I examine the papers, please?”
“With all due respectâ¦no, sir, you may not.” Torres's eyes narrowed with suspicion as Shillinglaw went on. “As you yourself observed, this isn't a casual visit. I'm here on business urgent to both our governments, and the material I'm carrying has been classified. If you need to consult with higher authorities⦔
“That I will.”
“If you mustâ¦but I'll warn you that you're just asking for trouble. And if you so much as look at my papers⦔
“He won't,” a voice said from behind them.
Unnoticed by either of them, another person had quietly emerged from a nearby elevator, a heavyset man in his mid-fifties, with a receding hairline above a ruddy, pockmarked face. Shillinglaw didn't know him, but Torres obviously did, for he stiffened and quickly stepped back.
“Mr. Sinclairâ¦I thought you were still in my office.” Torres's demeanor instantly changed. “Allow me to introduce you to John Shillinglaw, associate director for⦔
“I already know who he is.” Sinclair sauntered over to them, hands clasped behind his back. “Thanks for the drink, Warden Torres, but as Mr. Shillinglaw says, we're on urgent business.” He extended a hand to Shillinglaw. “Donald Sinclair. Senior representative for the Council of Patriarchs.”
Oh, bloody hell
, Shillinglaw thought as he grasped his hand. He spotted the small enamel pin fastened to Sinclair's lapel: the two overlapping circles of social collectivism.
This guy's a political officer.
“Pleased to meet you, señor.”
“Likewise.” Sinclair favored him with the briefest of smiles, then he returned his attention to Torres. “Mr. Torres, I expect you to respect our guest's privacy. Please return his property to him, and allow him to retain his papers. I'll personally take responsibility.”
Anger burned in Torres's eyes, and for a moment he seemed to bite his lower lip, yet he reluctantly nodded. “As you wish, Mr. Sinclair.” He looked at Shillinglaw. “Remove your papers, please, and give the briefcase to me.” Then he glanced at the soldiers. “Which of you has his pad? Give it back to him.”
The Guardsman who'd confiscated Shillinglaw's belongings stepped forward, producing the pad from a thigh pocket of his uniform. Shillinglaw put it in his jacket pocket, then pressed a forefinger against his briefcase's verification plate and opened it. “My apologies,” Torres said as Shillinglaw removed a manila folder from the case and shut it again, “but we have to exercise certain precautions. Anything that might conceivably be used to carry in a weapon⦔
“I understand perfectly.” He almost felt sorry for Torres. Any other time, he might be lord of this particular domain, yet in the presence of a political officer he'd been reduced to little more than a mere turnkey. “All I want to do is cooperate.”
“As do we all.” Sinclair gave Torres a look that seemed to shrink the poor man even more. “Now that we're finished here, may we see the prisoner, please?”
“Of course. This way, gentlemen⦔ Torres signaled for the two Guardsmen to accompany them. With one quickly stepping forward to lead the way and the other bringing up the rear, they marched toward a vaultlike metal door watched by two sentries behind a louvered glass partition. A brisk wave of a hand, and the door buzzed and parted in its center, revealing a mooncrete corridor whose floor sloped gently upward.
Shillinglaw waited until the door shut behind them, then he slid in beside Sinclair. “Thanks for coming to the rescue,” he murmured.
“Think nothing of it.” Sinclair didn't bother to lower his voice. “I'm just sorry we had to meet this way. Some of our officials have an unfortunate tendency to put their noses where they shouldn't.” If Torres overheard them, he pretended otherwise; he kept his back toward his two guests as they walked up the corridor. “Where's the prisoner now?” Sinclair added, speaking as if Torres had heard everything they'd said. “In an interrogation room?”
“Noâ¦no, sir, he's not.” Torres tried to keep his voice steady, but Shillinglaw detected a nervous stammer. “He's on the farm just now⦔
“On the farm?” Sinclair's voice raised just slightly. “Why wasn't he taken toâ¦?”
“I didn'tâ¦I'm sorry, señor, but I didn't understand your earlier message. I didn't think you yourself wanted to participate in this meeting, so I⦔
“Never mind. Just take us to him.” Sinclair briefly closed his eyes in exasperation, then gave Shillinglaw a sidelong glance:
Bureaucratsâ¦never can get anything right.
Yet Shillinglaw wasn't so certain that Torres had screwed up. Something about the entire arrangement raised his suspicions, yet he couldn't quite put his finger on it. “Pardon me, Mr. Torres,” he asked, “but I thought he was confined to maximum security. Isn't the farmâ¦?”
“We transferred him to the medium security wing three years ago.” The warden glanced back at him. “His conduct had been very good for the previous six years, and so when he formally requested the transfer, the board decided to let him take a job on the farmâ¦on probation, of course. So far, he's behaved quite well.”
“And the other inmates?” Sinclair's tone was skeptical. “They've accepted him?”
“Pretty much so, yes. Only a handful are aware of the nature of his crimes, and they either avoid him or else decided to look the other way. For the rest, he's just another convict. And he's volunteered to lead a couple of activities. Teaching astronomy classes, organizing a chess club⦔
“Trying to earn points toward parole, I take it.” Shillinglaw didn't mean to sound cynical, but nonetheless it came out that way. By then, they'd reached the end of the corridor. Another vault door confronted them, with two more Guardsmen watching them from behind an armored window.
“I don't think you understand.” Torres stopped to let the soldiers open the door. “He'll never get out, and he knows that. Even if he lives to be five hundred, he's here for the rest of his life.”
I wouldn't be so sure of that
, Shillinglaw thought. He kept his mouth shut, yet from the corner of his eye, he saw a knowing smile flicker across Sinclair's face.
Â
The prison reeked of marijuana.
The floor of Dolland crater was a little more than four miles in diameter, and nearly every square foot of it had been cultivated with hemp. Acre upon acre of dark green weed, ranging from tiny sprouts nurtured in hydroponics tanks until they reached maturity and could be transplanted to beds of rich brown soil, to mighty giants twice the height of a man, their serrated leaves reaching for the sunlight streaming through the polarized panes of the airtight dome that covered the crater from rim to rim.
The prison farm grew cannabis for the Union's lunar colonies. Once the plants were harvested, they were processed for all variety of industrial uses: paper, rope, machine oil, ink, pharmaceuticals, paint, clothing, shoes, anything that could be made from the hardy, easily grown weed. The fact that the female plants had once enjoyed a heyday as a vice was almost forgotten; the underground now had dope half as easy to produce and twice as potent. Of course, those caught manufacturing or distributing these things were often sentenced to Dolland, where they'd find themselves growing hemp until they were sick of seeing it.
The medium-security inmates lived in cells excavated within the crater wall; every morning they rose to look out upon a vast jungle of weed, and their days and nights were spent with its dank, cloying odor in their noses and mouths. Still, it was preferable to the fate suffered by the maximum-security prisoners; isolated within lava tubes beneath the crater, they saw neither sunlight nor the faces of anyone else save their guards, and spent their time pacing their cells and quietly going mad.
Shillinglaw found Inmate 7668 on his hands and knees beside a half-grown cannabis bush, carefully pruning vestigial leaves from its underside. He didn't look up from his work until one of the guards ordered him to stand, and even then he took his time getting to his feet. He put down his blunt-nosed plastic clippers, then slowly rose, casually brushing away the dirt from the knees of his bright orange coveralls. It wasn't until he turned around that Shillinglaw recognized him.
Jared Ramirez had changed considerably in the years since his face had been on every netcast and newspage. His wiry frame had thickened slightly in the middle, a testament to a diet of carbohydrate-rich prison food, and his hair, once jet-black and artfully groomed, had become a raggedy grey mop. Yet his eyes remained as sharp as ever, his gaze direct and inquisitive as he regarded his visitors with sullen curiosity.
