Sidney's Comet (14 page)

Munoz hesitated, then said: “Correct.”

“There are rumors of a comet headed toward Earth, General. Some say it’s our own garbage.”

“Nonsense,” Munoz said firmly. “Utter nonsense.” He mentoed a time-advance button to speed up the motions in the galactic model. “I’m eliminating your ship,” he explained, “and doing a fast-forward on the celestial body. The blinking green light is our Romo mining base.”

The comet sped across space in a blur and hit the Romo asteroids dead center. Javik shielded his eyes as a bright, silent explosion filled the model with tiny fragments of smoldering matter.

“Any questions?” Munoz asked. He stared sidelong at Javik, noted Javik was staring down the bridge of his nose at the model.

Javik mumbled something.

“What was that?” Munoz asked.

“Project Boomerang,” Javik said. He smiled defiantly. “That’s a better name for the project. After all, it is our own garbage coming back.”

“Not true!” Munoz huffed.

Colonel Peebles glanced at Javik haughtily and said, “Bu-Tech studied photographic plates taken by deep space gamma ray cameras. The celestial body’s—”

“You mean the
comet’s?”
Javik asked, glaring ferociously.

“Very well. The comet’s composition is quite standard . . . primordial noble gases and the like, with a fusion-hardened nucleus of—”

“Bull!” Javik said. The smile returned.

“Look,” Peebles said, his voice trembling with anger. “Experts plotted its course with coordinate measurements of Right Ascension and Declination . . . obtained by angular offsets to the adjacent field stars. That is the course you see here.” Peebles nodded toward the galactic model.

“Do you really understand any of that?” Javik asked.

“Certainly!” Peebles’s pale blue eyes peered icily at Javik.

“Well, your galactic model is wrong. I think it’s intentionally wrong. And your impact board refers to the comet’s E.T. A. here, not at Romo.”

“We don’t have to listen to this!” Peebles huffed, glancing at Munoz for support. Peebles mentoed the window shade, and it snapped up, throwing a flash of sunlight in Javik’s eyes.

Squinting, Javik flushed with anger and said to Peebles, “Listen, you wet-behind-the-ears armchair . . .”

“STOP THIS! BOTH OF YOU!” Munoz thundered He glared at Peebles, then mentoed the window shade down, returning the coolness of shadow to Javik’s face.

“I accept the assignment,” Javik said, “with a couple of provisos.”

Munoz took a deep breath, tried to exude calmness. “Which are?”

“Firstly, two cases of Chambertin Clos de Bez wine pellets are to be placed aboard. . . . Vintage twenty-five-seventy-two.”

“Done,” Munoz said.

“Rather expensive taste for a brawler,” Peebles sniffed. “A jug of White Rippo sounds more suitable.”

Javik disregarded the remark, said, “And I want Brent Stafford assigned to command his own ship . . . at least a destroyer.”

“Who?” Munoz asked.

“Our brawler’s co-pilot during his garbage detail,” Peebles said.

“And during the Atheist Wars,” Javik said. “He deserves his own command, General . . . somewhere in the galaxy.”

“All right,” Munoz agreed. ‘Take care of it, Allen.” Munoz furrowed his brow, faced Javik. “Keep your cappy friend out of the way during the flight. Give him innocuous little tasks—”

“He’s in command, General,” Javik said, smiling.

“You know what I mean. Common sense must prevail.”

“Right, General. Boy, this is the damnedest mission I’ve ever seen!”

“We’re depending on you, Lieutenant Javik. We can’t use remote-control pilotry on a deep space mission of this importance. If we had an equipment malfunction, with a meteor storm in the way . . . why, remote repairs by signal from Earth would be impossible.”

“I know,” Javik said. “One more thing—I’ll need papers to get Malloy free on Saint Elba.”

“You’ll have them,” Munoz said, glancing at his adjutant.

“I want them signed by you, General,” Javik said. “Not by an
aide.”
Javik smiled viciously in Peebles’s direction and saw his comment hit home as Peebles’s eyes flashed angrily.

Slipping into his unspoken conversation mode, Munoz mentoed to Peebles:
We must cooperate, don’t you see? I have to send Malloy, and this Javik knows him best. . . . THE MISSION MUST GO SMOOTHLY!
Munoz sighed deeply. “Very well,” he said. “Prepare the papers for my signature, Allen.”

Peebles rolled to a corner desk and began to prepare the forms.

“And give me something to get into Therapy Detention right now,” Javik said, throwing the words at Peebles as if they were a command. “I’m going over to see Sid. It’s less than a block away.”

Peebles’s gaze met that of Munoz.

Munoz nodded. “Don’t say anything to Malloy now about his captain’s commission. Be discreet, Javik. We don’t want word of this getting out.” Munoz pressed a set of Lieutenant’s bars into Javik’s palm.

“Yes sir.”

Presently, the forms were prepared and signed. As Javik took them, Munoz said: “Report to Conditioning by thirteen hundred hours, Lieutenant Javik. Room C five-thirty-four.”

Javik saluted and rolled toward the door.

Looking at Peebles, General Munoz mentoed:
Is the Madame ready?

Almost.
Peebles smiled his characteristically cruel smile.
Hudson told them to sharpen her knives.

Good. She will have two heads to sever!

* * *

“We must imagine now,” Sayer Superior Lin-Ti said, “for we have no record of what happened in the Realm of Magic, except so far as they spoke to humans.”

Lin-Ti closed his eyes. “Picture a realm far across the galaxy, with no land or water mass, populated by bodiless beings. They were at a party, and from all around came the sounds of laughter and merriment. For this was a comet party—a real event at which all the citizens of the realm watched while the fleshcarriers learned their lesson.

“ ‘Ha!’
one said.
That fool Malloy is captain of their ship, He’ll find a way to botch the mission. Mark my words!”

“ ‘Right,’
another said.
‘He’ll take some ‘heroic’ action to blow their pitiful little plan. Ah, but we have chosen him well
—
a nobody with delusions of grandeur!’

“Other beings spoke of similar matters,” Lin-Ti said, “and all agreed they had selected a delightful way to have fun. These beings were not malicious: they just wanted to have a good time. . . . ”

* * *

Lastsayer Steven paced the hallway nervously outside Onesayer’s suite.
Almost eleven,
he thought.
Could Onesayer have forgotten my first audience with the Master?

He mentoed Onesayer’s doorbuzzer, watched the button go in and then return as the chime sounded. There was no answer.

Lastsayer turned dejectedly to leave, considered going to the audience alone.
Dare I?
he wondered. He rolled partway down the hall toward the elevator bank.

“Lastsayer!” a boisterous voice called out. “Do come back!”

“Lastsayer turned, saw Onesayer Edward peeking around the corner of the doorjamb with a silly leer on his face. He wore no hood, exposing the shaved head of the Sayerhood.

Lastsayer began rolling back. “Onesayer!” he said. “It is three minutes before the hour!”

“So it is. So it is.” Onesayer motioned with one hand. “Come in for a moment. I must tidy up before we go.”

Thinking that Onesayer’s voice sounded odd, Lastsayer arrived at the doorway with an excited protest: “But we will be late!”

“Don’t worry about it. The Master can’t tell time.”

“What?”

Onesayer smiled as he said, “I was just kidding. I’ll explain our lateness to him. He won’t blame you.” Onesayer short-stepped to one side, motioned for the other man to enter.

Stunned, Lastsayer looked up at the taller Onesayer. “You used apostrophic words!” Lastsayer said.

“What? Oh yes. You’re . . . uh . . . you are quite correct. Thank you for pointing that out to me.”

Lastsayer touched his onyx ring to Onesayer’s as he rolled into the suite. “Peace be upon you,” Lastsayer said.

Onesayer returned the blessing, fumbled in his pocket for something.

“You Took tired,” Lastsayer said, noting faint lines around Onesayer’s large olive eyes. “And you do not sound the same.”

Onesayer laughed as he rolled through the foyer into the dining area. “I was doing my Uncle Rosy impressions before you arrived. Guess I lost track of my own voice.”

“Is that permitted?” Lastsayer looked around the dining room module, noted Greek urns on a blue slate floor. A long marble dining table in the center of the room was bathed in sunlight from an overhead solar relay panel. Somewhere, in another room, a bird chirped.

“I found no specific rule prohibiting it in the Sayers’ Manual,” Onesayer said, using the full resonant tone of Uncle Rosy.

Frowning uneasily, Lastsayer said, “I feel out of place asking this, but are you well?”

“Of course I am well! A couple of Happy Pills, no more!”

“Forgive me for asking, Onesayer.”

“All is forgiven! Now relax and listen to my impression. Fivesayer says it is very good.”

“I do not believe we have time. The audience with . . .”

But Onesayer was not listening. He clasped both hands in front of his waist in a very dignified fashion and said in the tone of Uncle Rosy, “You have much to learn, Onesayer Edward. You understand it will be a while before I step down and allow you to become Master . . . all the details remaining to resolve. . . . ” He paused and looked fully into the smooth face of the younger sayerman. Lastsayer stared back with a worried expression. “Pretty good, eh?” Onesayer asked, in his own voice.

“I have only heard tapes. I was hoping to meet the Master in person this morning.”

Onesayer smiled. “A bit of sarcasm! I like the way you think, youngsayer! I like the way you think!”

“Thank you, Onesayer. Now can we—”

“Is something else bothering you, Lastsayer? Other than being a few minutes late?”

“Since you ask, I’m disturbed . . . better to say concerned . . . at the way you mimic the Master.”

Onesayer’s tone became decidedly hostile. “Oh you are, are you?” He moto-shoed toward a side doorway, paused to glare back at Lastsayer.

“It occurs to me that Uncle Rosy should be informed of this, Onesayer. A strict interpretation of the Sayerman’s Code of Ethics. . . . ”

“Hang the code!”

“This might be a test, Onesayer. A test of my loyalty. How am I to know?”

“Inform him, then!” Onesayer yelled. He rolled through the doorway to another room, calling back, “Inform away!”

Lastsayer followed and caught up with the elder sayerman in the living room module, a bright room with deep blue shag carpeting and throw pillow furniture. “Wait, Onesayer. I have not yet had my first audience with the Master! I will not say anything because I do not feel qualified to make judgments yet.”

“You have much to learn, Lastsayer,” Onesayer said in the voice of Uncle Rosy. He smiled wryly.

Lastsayer felt frightened, furrowed his brow. “You do appear tired, Onesayer,” he said. “There are lines around your eyes. Possibly we could postpone the aud—”

“Lines you say?” Appearing startled, Onesayer rubbed a middle finger beneath his right eye and snapped: “I have no lines!”

“I would suggest rest, Onesayer. Things will appear better to you afterward.”

“You SUGGEST rest, do you?” Onesayer’s voice was high-pitched, near cracking. “A Lastsayer does not SUGGEST anything to a Onesayer!”

Lastsayer’s jaw dropped. He rolled back half a meter. “Excuse me,” he said. “I am very sorry.”

“Wait here,” Onesayer ordered angrily. He gathered his robe in a very dignified fashion and swept out of the room.

I said too much,
Lastsayer thought dejectedly. Uneasily, he looked around the room, noting a brown-and-gold sayer’s edition of
Quotations from Uncle Rosy
on a sidetable. He picked up the book and manually turned a sheet of rice paper to Uncle Rosy’s picture.

Lastsayer nearly dropped the book in astonishment. The picture had been defaced! Someone had penned in lambchop sideburns and a short goatee on the Master’s face! The sacrilege of such a thing! He closed the volume, returning it to its place on the table.

Best not to say anything about this,
he thought, moving away from the table.
Such occurrences may be commonplace here.

In the bathroom module, Onesayer peered into the grooming machine mirror. A terrified face looked back.
Lines,
he thought, rubbing the skin around his eyes. Shallow, barely discernible lines were to the sides and below each eye. They had not been there the day before. He was sure of it.

He recalled smashing the Uncle Rosy idol the evening before.
This was how it happened with Sixsayer Robert before he died,
Onesayer thought.
It started with a few lines
. . . .

Onesayer slammed his fist down on the sink, felt pain shoot through his hand.
So soon,
he thought.
How could it happen so soon?

As he turned away from the mirror, a thought raced through his mind. Uncle Rosy knew of his disloyalty and was trying to kill him!
But I’ll get him first!
Onesayer thought.

Sleep voices, at the edge of Sidney’s consciousness:

“Malloy doesn’t know about the killer meckie yet.”

“Ah, but he will learn of it soon enough
. . .
when the Montreal Slasher gives him a neck full of steel!”

“Ingenious, the way these fleshcarriers destroy one another. . . . Imagine that . . . an entity which is programmed to kill!

It has no other function!”

“Their ingenuity . . . as you call it . . . is moronic in comparison with our garbage comet!”

Sidney dreamed he and Javik were in the command cockpit of a space warship. Suddenly they turned and saw two long knives approaching through the hatchway. Swish . . . swish . . . swish-swish-swish! A faceless being controlled the weapons, and Sidney was terrified of the entity he could not see.

The dream-Javik drew his service revolver and fired. But the knives kept coming. Closer and closer. Swishing and darting through the air.