Vyyda Book 1: The Haver Problem (3 page)

             
Most prototypes failed.  And failure meant certain death.  In some instances, no one could say exactly what happened to a pobber when they made their jump.  They simply disappeared.  Residue of their ketts could occasionally be found somewhere between where they started and where they intended to go, nothing more.

             
But the new story making its way through Hyland wasn’t the typical pobber test gone bad.  These pobbers, as Dorsey heard told, had built something that was not only safe and consistent, but had the muscle to get them to Earth.

             
And therein was the most tantalizing part of the story.  The people of U-Space understood one thing for certain about Earth:  it was off-limits.  Attempts at communication with the home planet – or any element of C-Space – were always ignored.  There would be no relations between the two segments of man.  When U-Spacers didn’t bother with communication or requests, but merely approached the boundary, there was hell to pay.

             
Earth’s Home Sector Protection Bureau (HSPB) kept a remarkably tight seal on the line of demarcation.  They were tasked with keeping the U-Spacers out at all costs.  Perhaps most telling was that the HSPB worked to hammer into the minds of their agents that U-Spacers were not human.  At least, they weren’t
real
humans.  Not any longer.

V              V              V              V

              The quartet of pobbers with the plan to travel to Earth named itself The Nohbuer Four (inspired by the name of their haska, or home planet).  They were variously characterized as daring, suicidal, pioneering and insane.  Dorsey couldn't say for himself which description was most apt, he just wanted to see what would happen.  The Nohbuer Four would never sift syntho-grains, never clear away discarded crusts for disposal.  The Nohbuer Four were doing something.  Even if that something was rushing toward death.

Not surprisingly, Dorsey wasn’t the only one with fierce interest.  The taverns hosting cargo joks with information to share became so crowded that wedging into the smallest available spot was a test of wills.  There were better opportunities to find an unclaimed space in an establishment featuring joks with uninspired narrative skil
ls and less information, but Dorsey strained and shoved his way into Binches, where Spotty John Figgle was giving his take on things.

Named for the odd, uneven pigmentation of his skin, Spotty John was a natural performer.  He also seemed to have a greater capacity for the hard stuff that was popular among joks, allowing him to drink and talk much longer into the night.

              "They're set for departure in less than a week," reported Spotty John a month after first mention of the Nohbuer Four.  "Nobody seems poised to stop them, although opinions that someone should come from everywhere!" 

             
One of the senior crew members on the cargo molka,
Keyenoaker
, Spotty John struck Dorsey as less jaded and weary than most others who had put in a comparable number of years hauling one thing and another around U-Space.  He had expressive eyes and an active mouth that curled into odd positions, punctuating what he'd just said, framing it and adding context.  With graying hair cut very short, Spotty John wore the uniform of the company which employed him with an air of defiance.  It was a blue, one-piece canvas thing, stained and patched; too insignificant a garment for his personality, but Spotty John didn't allow it to diminish him.

The long bench made of hard composite running the length of the back wall at Binches, where Spotty John invariably positioned himself,  allowed him the most complete view of the place and, more importantly, provided a view of
him
by the greatest number of people at one time.

Binches had more “character” than any other tavern in Hyland.  While it was just as gray as every other square meter of the settlement, effort had been made to give it a unique look.  Someone (no one could remember who) had carved faces and figures into the stone bar where patrons purchased their drinks.

The artful renderings appealed to Dorsey as evidence that there had been a time in Hyland’s history when at least one person did something other than work, eat, sleep and complain.

A small space on the floor, up against the bar, offered Dorsey a place to fit nicely between two of the stone faces (one of which smiled while the other seemed on the verge of tears). 
Sure, an occasional drink fetched from the bar might end up on his head, but it was a small price to pay for a spot in Binches.  Lighting had been reduced for the occasion to provide dramatic effect and Dorsey felt pleasantly invisible in his cozy nook, almost as if he’d been transported to some place beyond the stifling confines of Hyland.

             
"They're really going, these four?" Sparr, an ill-tempered process line worker, asked Spotty John.

             
"No question about it.  These boys are determined."

             
"I see them backing out," Sparr grumbled. "They should have kept the damn thing secret.  If all of
us
know – in a place like this – the Earth does, too."

             
"Don't be so sure," Spotty John replied with a raised finger, not about to allow anyone to wrest control of the moment from him. "I see all kinds of indications that Earth pays no attention to what goes on in any of these haskas."

             
Sparr shook his head, finished his drink and left.  His seat remained vacant very briefly, as another laborer filled it within seconds.

             
"Also, they've got a good plan," Spotty John continued. "Four automated capsules on their ketts.  Once they get close enough, the caps deploy and make for different regions of the surface.  At least one of them should get to the ground.  Can you imagine?  To walk on the face of the Earth – in the
outdoors
.  What must the air smell of there?"

             
"If it's as bad as ours, they've gone a long way for nothing," called out a middle-aged woman squeezed in near the bar.  Laughter followed, along with dozens of side conversations and more rounds of drinks.

             
As interest grew and anticipation took hold, Hyland's productivity declined.  Talk of the Nohbuer Four dominated the production line at all levels.  Administrators took note.  Once they understood that the visiting crewmen had thrown a snag into their well-oiled machine of human effort, segregation between residents and non-residents of Hyland 6A became the law.

             
A fully stocked, clean and inviting tavern/restaurant appeared overnight – the only place visiting crews were allowed to venture beyond the landing and loading bays.  No residents of Hyland could access the new establishment for any reason.  Even the staff of this new visitors-only area (brought in from other settlements) were kept from the general population of Hylandites. 

Most frustrating to Dorsey and the scores of others following the ongoing story of the Nohbuer Four was the lack of closure.  Spotty John Figgle and the other joks were sequestered before the last developments of the rogue trip to Earth could be shared.

The need to know what had happened was too great for Dorsey to let go.  He took the risk of sneaking into the brand new facility for visiting joks (no one had even bothered to name it, it was simply, ‘the place’).  Getting in wasn’t all that difficult, which demonstrated how limited the thinking on Hyland was – even on the part of Administrators.  They seemed to expect that by merely erecting walls and separating people that no one would attempt to breach the divide.

Of course, it only lasted as long as it took for one of the staff at the joks’ watering hole to notice that Dorsey didn’t belong there.  But before being physically removed, contact was made with Spotty John Figgle:  The man who had been so dynamic in his telling of the stories about U-Space sat with a half-finished drink, looking uninterested and tired.

“They didn’t make it,” Spotty John told Dorsey when approached and asked about the Nohbuer Four.

“That’s it?” Dorsey asked, wanting details.

“What can I tell you?  Nobody heard from them again.  They were caught…or killed on the way, maybe.”

Spotty John Figgle’s answer disappointed and he could see it in Dorsey’s face.

“Listen,” the old jok said, placing a hand on Dorsey’s shoulder, “is this your haska…or did you just end up here ‘cause you had no better options?”

“It’s my haska.  I’m sixth generation.”

“Right.  If you want to know about things like the Nohbuers, get the hell out of this place.  There’s a lot to see.  Not all of it is pretty, but, you know, you get what you get.”

             
In the wake of the unsatisfying close to the tale of the Nohbuer Four and Spotty John’s message, Dorsey found working on the production line of Hyland unbearable.

             
“Pull yourself up and get down to it,” was the advice his father offered.

             
No chance.  He’d leave –
somehow
– before allowing life to sink into the slow, agonizing demise that had long since gripped Millar Jefferson and most others around him.

2.

A History Man

The Sykes promenade had grown crowded.  Midday meal rush in full force.  Dorsey casually wended his way toward the mess
hall at the far end of the promenade, unenthusiastic about what awaited him.  It wasn't the worst food he'd ever had – not even close, in fact.  Still, it was uninspiring fare.  The offerings of the mess paled even further in comparison to Flood's, the only restaurant to be found on Sykes.

Dorsey paused to consider the notion of spending a portion of his sparse monthly stipend at Flood's (he'd already run through so much of his pay that way, one more meal would hardly make a difference), when a hand took hold of his arm and turned him around.

              The smiling, roundish face looking up at Dorsey from behind belonged to Tomas Witt, professor at Sykes for more than two decades.  Unlike Dorsey, Witt’s faculty garment was green:  he was a history man.  He was also the person Dorsey had been trying to avoid.

             
Witt was six inches shorter than Dorsey, retaining a full head of curly hair (albeit grayed from his sixty-two years of life) and wide cheeks that lent an air of whimsy.  Not that he was a soft touch or suffered fools gladly.  Anyone who assumed such things was likely to awaken the “harsh” side of Tomas Witt which usually resulted in being leveled by a sharp tongue kept well-hidden until needed.

"You've made yourself scarce today," Witt said.

"Not at all," Dorsey countered dryly.  "I haven't left my side since getting out of bed."

Witt made a crooked smile in response to Dorsey's remark, shaking his head.

"Word just came.  We can expect transient labor to join us in the next sixty to seventy-two hours."

"Really?  That's confirmed?" Dorsey asked.

"Confirmed."

"Okay," he said, unable to
completely hide his pleasure at the news.  He was one of the few who found the periodic incursion of transient labor to be a pleasant diversion.  As soon as word was officially released, the phrase on everyone’s lips around Sykes would be, “Rollos on the way.”  Yet that wasn’t what Tomas Witt was most interested in discussing. 

"And.
.." the older man began anew, taking Dorsey by the shoulders, "I have it.  Received the whole thing this morning."

This was not such good news as the first revelation.  Before Dorsey could say a word, however, Witt held a finger to his own lips, made a soft "shh" and directed Dorsey away from the mess, toward the lifts leading to the upper levels of faculty residences.

V
              V              V              V

              Witt poured two glasses of the “good” syntho-wine he’d kept in his kitchen cabinet for years.  Witt’s rooms were larger than Dorsey’s and commensurate with a faculty member of his standing.  They’d been the site of many long discussions and dinners involving not only Dorsey, but other like-minded professors.  A perfect place to hold court.

Dorsey had hoped to put off being cornered by Witt for as long as possible.  He'd gotten word early in the morning from one of the other faculty members that the older man had been searching for him.  He knew what it meant.  Perhaps he couldn't avoid the imposition
he knew Witt was about to place on him, but he was damn well going to try.

             
“You should save this for a special occasion,” Dorsey murmured, tapping a fingernail against the glass, his chin cradled lazily in his right palm.

             
Witt wagged a finger at him.  “Don’t even try it, young man.  You’re not going to diminish this moment.”

             
“Would I do that?” Dorsey deadpanned, finally taking the glass and sipping the red liquid.