The Sam Gunn Omnibus (75 page)

The rock rats who tried to live in
that perpetual haze of lung-rotting dust eventually assembled this makeshift
habitat out of abandoned or secondhand spacecraft linked end-to-end in a rough
Tinker-toy circle.

Chrysalis
had a spin-induced
gravity, just like the larger man-made habitats in the Earth-Moon system. But
its induced gravity was very light, even lighter than the Moon’s. The hotel manager
who had personally shown
j
ade to her
room had smilingly demonstrated that you could drop a fragile crystal vase from
your hand, then go fill a glass of water and drink it, and still have time to
retrieve the vase before it hit the carpeted floor.

Twenty-one years old, Jade mused to
herself as she stared out at the dark sky. Time to make something of yourself.
Time to leave the past behind; there’s nothing you can do to change it. Only
the future can be shaped, altered. Everything else is over and done with.

She lost track of how long she
stood at the window, sensing the cold of the airless eternity on the other side
of the glassteel. Perhaps time passes differently here, with no worlds or moons
in the sky. Nothing but stars endlessly spinning through the sky. Never any
real daylight, always the darkness of infinity. This little habitat is like the
ancient Greek idea of the afterlife: gray twilight, emptiness, a shadow
existence.

It took a real effort of will for
Jade to pull herself from the window. You’ve got a job to do, she told herself
sternly. You’ve got a life to lead. Then she added, Once you’ve figured out
what you want to do with it.

The message light on the phone was
on. She walked past the bed carefully in the light gravity; everyone in the
hotel wore Velcro slippers and walked across the carpeting in a hesitant low-g
shuffle.

Jade smiled when she saw Jim
Gradowsky’s beefy face fill the phone screen. He was munching on something, as
usual.

“Just a note to tell you that Raki
got promoted to vice president in charge of special projects. Thanks mostly to
the Sam Gunn stuff you beamed us, and the interview with Rick Darling. You’re
on full salary, kid. Plus expenses. Raki is
very
happy with you. Looks like he’ll be getting a seat on the board of directors
next.”

But Raki himself did not call, Jade
said to herself. Then she thought, Perhaps it’s best that way.

“Oh, yeah,” Gradowsky went on. “Monica
says hello and happy birthday. From me, too. You’re doin’ great work, Jade. We’re
proud of you.”

The screen blanked but the message
light stayed on. Jade touched it again.

Spencer Johansen smiled at her.
Jade’s breath caught in her throat.

“Hey there, Jade. I’m sending this
message to your office, ‘cause I haven’t a clue as to where in the solar system
you might be. How about giving a fella a call now and then? I mean, I’d like to
see you, talk to you. Maybe I could even come out to wherever you are and
visit. You know, this old habitat feels kinda lonesome without you. Send me a message,
will you? I’d like to see you again.”

Jade sank down slowly onto the edge
of the bed, surprised that her knees suddenly felt so weak. Would Spence come
all the way out here just to see me? No, it wouldn’t be fair to ask him. I’ll
be leaving as soon as my interview comes through, anyway. And then out to
Titan. It could be another two years before I see him again.

And why would he want to leave
Jefferson
and come out to see me? Jade asked herself. Is he a romantic fool or—suddenly
she remembered Raki’s cruel words: “The thrill is in the chase. Now that I’ve
bagged her, what is there to getting her again?”

She shook her head. No, Spence isn’t
like that. He’s not. I know he’s not. But what if he is? an inner voice
demanded. What if he is? Good thing there’s several million kilometers between
you.

Still, that did not mean she could not send him the message he asked for.
Jade leaned forward and touched the phone’s keyboard. She was stunned to find
that two hours had elapsed before she ran out of things to say to Spence
Johansen.

REGAL
WAS
THE ONLY POSSIBLE WORD FOR HER.

Jade stared in unabashed awe.
Elverda Apacheta was lean, long-legged, stately, splendid, dignified,
intelligent—regal. The word kept bobbing to the surface of Jade’s mind.

Not that the sculptress was magnificently
clad: she wore only a frayed jumpsuit of faded gray. It was her bearing, her
demeanor, and above all her face that proclaimed her nobility. It was an
aristocratic face, the face of an Incan queen, copper red, a study in
sculptured planes of cheek and brow and strong Andean nose. Her almond-shaped
deeply dark eyes missed nothing. They seemed to penetrate to the soul even
while they sparkled with what appeared to be a delight in the world. The
sculptress’ thick black hair was speckled with gray, as much the result of
exposure to cosmic radiation as age, thought Jade. It was tied back and neatly
bound in a silver mesh. Her only other adornment was a heavy silver bracelet
that probably concealed a communicator.

“Yes, I knew Sam well,” she replied
to Jade’s lame opening question, in a throaty low voice. She spoke English, in
deference to Jade, but there was the unmistakable memory of the high Andes in
her accent. “Very well indeed.”

Jade was wearing coral-colored
parasilk coveralls with the stylized sunburst of the Solar Network logo
emblazoned above her left breast pocket and the miniature recorder on her belt.
She was surprised at her worshipful reaction to Elverda Apacheta. The woman was
renowned as not only the first space sculptress, but the best. Yet Jade had
interviewed other personalities who were very famous, or powerful, or
notorious, or talented. None of them had been this breathtaking. Did this Incan
queen affect everyone this way? Had she affected Sam Gunn this way?

The two women were sitting in the
faculty lounge of the minuscule Ceres branch of the Interplanetary Space
University. Little more than an extended suite of rooms in one of the
interlinked spacecraft that made up the orbiting habitat
Chrysalis,
the university was mainly a communications center where Cerean workers and
their children could attend classes through interactive computer programs.

The lounge itself was a small, w
i
ndowless, quiet room tastefully decorated
with carpeting of warm earth colors that covered not only the floor but the
walls as well. The ideal place for recording an interview. Must have cost a moderate-sized
fortune to bring this stuff all the way out here, Jade thought.

The sculptress reclined regally on
a high-backed armchair of soft nubby pseudo-wool, looking every inch a monarch
who could dispense justice or mercy with the slightest arch of an eyebrow. Jade
felt drab sitting on the sofa at her right, despite the fact that her coveralls
were crisply new while Apacheta’s were worn almost to holes.

“I appreciate your agreeing to let
me interview you,” Jade said.

Elverda Apacheta made a small nod
of acknowledgement.

“Many other of
Sam’s ...
associates, well, they either tried to avoid me or they refused to talk at all.”

“Why should I refuse? I have
nothing to hide.”

No, you didn’t have an illicit
pregnancy, Jade thought. You didn’t abandon your infant daughter.

Forcing herself to focus on the
task at hand, Jade said, “There are rumors that you and Sam
were ...”
she hesitated half a heartbeat,”... well, lovers.”

The sculptress smiled sadly. “I loved Sam
madly. For a while I thought perhaps he loved me too. But now, after all these
years,” strangely, the smile grew more tender, “I am not so sure.”

WE WERE ALL MUCH YOUNGER THEN-SAID ELVERDA
Apacheta—and
our passions were much closer to the surface. I could become enraged at the
slightest excuse; the smallest problem could infuriate me.

You must remember, of course, that
I had packed off to the asteroid where I had been living alone for almost three
years. Even my supply shipments came in unmanned spacecraft. So it was a big
surprise when a transfer ship showed up and settled into a rendezvous orbit a
few hundred meters off my asteroid.

I
thought of it as
my
asteroid. Nobody could own
it,
according to international
law. But there were no restrictions against carving on it. Aten 2004 EA was the
name the astronomers had given
it,
which meant that it was the
one hundred and thirty-first asteroid discovered in the year 2004 among the
Aten group. The astronomers are very efficient in their naming, of course, but
not romantic at all.

I
called my
asteroid “Quipu-Camayoc,” which means “The Rememberer.” And I was determined to
carve the history of my people upon it. The idea was not merely romantic, it
was absolutely poetic. After all, we have lived in the mountains since before
time was reckoned. Even the name of my people, my very own name—Apacheta—means
a group of magical stones. Now my people were leaving their ancient mountain
villages, scattering down to the cities, losing their tribal identities in the
new world of factory jobs and electronic pleasures. Someone had to mark their
story in a way that could be remembered forever.

When I first heard of the asteroid,
back at the university at La Paz, I knew it was my destiny. The very name the
astronomers had given it signified my own name: Aten 2004 EA—Elverda Apacheta.
It was a sign. I am not superstitious, of course, and ordinarily I do not
believe in signs and omens. But I knew I was destined to carve the history of my
people on Aten 2004 EA and turn it into the memory of a vanishing race.

Quipu-Camayoc was a large stone
streaked with metals, a mountain floating in space, nearly one full kilometer
long. It was not in the Belt, of course; in those days no one had gone as far
as the Belt. Its orbit was slightly closer to the Sun than Earth’s orbit, so
nearly once a year it came near enough to Earth for a reasonably easy flight to
reach it in something like a week; that is when I usually got my supplies. This
was many years ago, of course, before the first bridge ships were even started.
The frontier had not expanded much beyond the Earth-Moon system; the first
human expedition to Mars had barely gotten under way.

As I said, I was surprised when a
transfer ship came into view instead of the usual unmanned spacecraft. I was
even more surprised when someone jetted over to my quarters without even asking
permission to come aboard.

I
lived in my
workshop, a small pod that contained all my sculpting equipment and the life
support systems, as well as my personal gear— clothing, sleeping hammock,
things like that.

“Who is approaching?” I called on
the communicator. In its screen I centered a magnified picture of the
approaching stranger. I could see nothing, of course, except a white space suit
topped with a bubble helmet. The figure was enwrapped by the jet unit, somewhat
like a man sitting in a chair that had no legs.

“Sam Gunn is my name. I’ve got your
supplies aboard my ship.”

Suddenly I realized I was naked.
Living alone, I seldom bothered with clothing. My first reaction was anger.

“Then send the supplies across and
go on your way. I have no time for visitors.”

He laughed. That surprised me. He
said, “This isn’t just a social call, lady. I’m supposed to hand you a legal
document. It’s got to be done in person. You know how lawyers are.”

“No, I don’t know. And I don’t want
to.” But I hurriedly pushed over to my clothes locker and rummaged in it for a
decent set of coveralls.

I
realize now that
what I should have done was to lock the access hatch and not allow him to
enter. That would have delayed the legal action against me. But it would only
have delayed it, not prevented it altogether. Perhaps allowing Sam to enter my
quarters, to enter my life, was the best course after all.

By the time I heard the pumps
cycling in the airlock I was pulling a pair of old blue denim coveralls over my
shoulders. The inner hatch cracked open as I zippered them up to the collar.

Sam coasted through the hatch, his
helmet already removed and floating inside the airlock. He was small, not much
more than
160
centimeters, although
to his last breath he claimed to be 165. Which is nonsense. I myself was a good
ten or twelve centimeters taller than he.