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Chapter One
Ninety Degrees of Arc
Ninety Degrees of Arc
~~*~~
If I were
the king of the world
Tell you what I'd do
I'd throw away the cars and the bars and the war
Make sweet love to you
Tell you what I'd do
I'd throw away the cars and the bars and the war
Make sweet love to you
THE
SHIP’S interior was filled with song. Random Chance emerged from the shower
singing:
Joy to
the world
All the boys and girls
Joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea
Joy to you and me
All the boys and girls
Joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea
Joy to you and me
A
great song to wake up to! A true classic, fifteen hundred Earth-years old.
He
trotted up the ladder-stairs to the bridge, a bath towel wrapped loosely around
his waist, one with a huge peace symbol on it in red and black and surrounded
with bright yellow sunflowers.
You know
I love the ladies
Love to have my fun
I'm a high-life flyer and a rainbow rider
A straight-shootin' son of a gun
I said a straight-shootin' son of a gun
Love to have my fun
I'm a high-life flyer and a rainbow rider
A straight-shootin' son of a gun
I said a straight-shootin' son of a gun
The
bridge was a well-shielded transparent bubble forty feet in diameter that
extended from the main body of the vehicle, and could be retracted for landings
and emergencies. A walkway led from the stairs to its circumference. The
captain's chair, propulsion, and nav/grav controls were there; below the
walkway were waste disposal and atmo control systems, redundancy systems,
recycling systems, and emergency power and life support overrides.
The Pompatus of Love was a recreational vehicle, a “Benito,” known by
most as a “sea turtle" for its remarkable similarity to one. Benito was a
defunct spaceship company, one that had been taken over by the Oligarchy when
the Resistance began seven Earth-years ago. Only a handful of singleships of
similar make and model had been manufactured.
Random
plopped down in the captain's chair, noticing the blinking red light on the
console. He quit singing.
"Hewey,
cut the music."
The
music cut off instantly. He called up the data that had sent up the alarm.
"Can you give me a picture?"
"Tryin',
man," came the frustrated voice of the ship’s computer. A moment of
silence followed. "It's Oligarchy, that's for damn sure. I can't seem to
get a fix on 'em. All that military-grade shielding. What I know for sure is
that they've picked up our scent."
Random
worked at focusing the 'scopes. Water from his hair dripped into his lap.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Easy,
Random. They popped up just as you stepped out of the shower. I was about to
blow the horn when you wrapped up in the towel. I knew you were hoofin' it
here."
He
gazed up. The great orange-red globe of Mars filled most of the view, casting
an angry glow on everything. He looked over the data on the center screen.
He
was known to the Oligarchy. Being the son of arguably its most famous traitor
did that. Too, he’d had a few run-ins for what passed for their version of the
law.
"Six
hours to landing. Best guess, Hewson: Will they overtake us by then?"
"Crunchin'
the numbers," responded the computer. "It ain't lookin' good, amigo.
Best case gives us three and a half hours before the piggies overtake us."
"Worst
case?"
"Something
closer to two."
He
cursed under his breath. "Good
times, bad times, you know I had my share …"
"What's
the word, El Honchorito?"
He
shook his head, sighed, and sat back. "No decision to make. Shift course away from Mars—but gentle-like, so that they
don't think we're makin' a run for it. Cut deceleration and retract the bridge
just in case their eggs Florentine were spoiled and they aren't in the mood to
talk nice."
He
stood, took his towel from around his waist and wiped down the chair, then
re-wound it about his hips.
"Where
you off to, amigo?"
"The
kitchen. I'm starving."
~~*~~
Even
up close the UOT Adelson was hard to
see. Perhaps a hundred meters away, its great bulk was obscured by its
shielding, which distorted the space around it and made his eyes water.
"Piggies
at the doorstep," reported Hewey. "Damn strange they haven't hailed
us, doncha think?"
"They
want us to run," said Random. "I know the trick. Dad warned me about
it. They're lookin' for an excuse to blow us out of the sky. They want to scare
us into making a rash decision. I'm guessing that the Martians have got their
eyes on the action up here—and not all those peepers are Garkies. They're
loathe to ruin their PR."
"What,
that they're scum-sucking bastards?"
"Something
like that, yeah."
"What're
your orders?"
He
shrugged, nodded. "Hail 'em. Send the standard info—license, proof of
insurance, and registration. But make the comm beam wide, and turn it all the
way up."
"How
wide you talkin'?"
"Oh,
ninety degrees should cover it."
Hewey
chuckled.
~~*~~
It's
not that the Oligarchs didn't have a sense of humor. Well, at least they'd once
heard of something called humor,
because it took over forty separate hails before they answered—hails that,
turned up all the way and broadcast to half the universe, would be heard by
every 'scope this side of the Oort Colonies and, from this distance, bounced
nicely off the big warship, making it very visible.
For
obvious reasons, then, it was illegal, not least because it tended to muck up
the works for passing ships.
Which
was precisely what Random wanted.
Hewson
was still laughing.
"I
gotta tell ya, Captain,” he said between chuckles, “you've got kahonies. I just
hope they don’t turn The Pompatus
into so much scrap after this is over and lock you up on Phobos …"
Random
had eaten breakfast (scrambled eggs and sausage) and gone back to his bedroom.
He lay on his bed reading The Autobiography
of Malcolm X, a banned book in Garky space. Random's father, before he had
been incinerated for treason, had, without Random's knowledge, uploaded his
entire library to The Pompatus of Love
before the Garky courts had it deleted, including Malcolm X. Random looked away from the ghost screen, which floated
just above his head.
"They
won't."
"Well,
it's about time …" said Hewey.
Random
looked away from the screen. "They finally decide to answer?"
Hewey
didn't respond, but played the incoming message:
"Civilian recreational vehicle,
you will dock in bay five. Prepare to be boarded."
The
female voice was cold and unemotional.
"Can
you handle it?" asked Random.
"Already
on it," said Hewey. "You should probably get dressed. We'll be
expectin' company within fifteen minutes."
Random
touched the ghost screen, which flickered out of existence, and sat up.
"What's the word on the local fuzz?"
"Three
out from Phobos, headin' straight this way. Ground has ordered us to land at
Olympus Southeast I-mmediately."
"Good,
good," said Random, pulling on a black Whitesnake T-shirt and button-up
denims.
"Like
starvin' pigs to the trough," chuckled Hewey. "Funny how piggies
never learn."
~~*~~
At
least they didn't cuff him.
He
wasn't sure that was a good sign.
Three
armed guards led him from The Pompatus'
airlock. Random greeted them with index finger and middle finger extended and
splayed. "Peace, baby. Take me to your leader."
He
could hear Hewey chuckle in his ear.
He
was marched down austere and sterilized halls. A soothing color, taupe, he
thought. Or so he had heard. To him it looked like last night's hangover.
Soldiers
(sailors? He wasn't sure what to call them) uniformed in black and olive green
passed without noticing him. Good ol' Garkies. Random greeted some of them as
they came within earshot.
"Peace,
man." "Make love not war." "Women. Can't live with 'em,
can't cut 'em in half with your little ray gun." "Flyin' straight
ain't no way to live, son …" "It's time to show your cards,
buzz-cut."
The
escorting soldiers did nothing to shut him up.
Hewey
laughed the entire time—except for the comment on women, to which he said:
"Random, c'mon now, man. This is serious. You gotta have your 'A' game
goin'."
Another
hall, this one much longer and wider than the others. Random wondered why he
wasn't simply whisked to his destination on a lift.
At
the end was open space. Mars glowered in the window.
This
had to be the bridge.
He
had never been admitted to a warship's bridge before, not even when his father
was alive. It was a very large room, with soldiers or sailors or whatever you
call them sitting in a wide circle around him, manning God-knows-what computer
stations to God-knows-what ends.
At
the other side of a catwalk stood a man inside a raised horseshoe-shaped
control panel. They crossed the walk, approached him.
The
guard directly behind him spoke up. "The detainee, sir." He pushed
him in the back with the point of his gun.
The
captain turned around. He was a medium-sized middle-aged man with a severe
crewcut and grizzled countenance. His mouth looked as though it hadn't smiled
since he was a boy, if ever. He regarded him as one would a rotten piece of
meat, blue eyes squinting.
Random,
for his part, couldn't hide his surprise.
"Uncle
Bartlett," he said, blinking. "Well, rock me like a hurricane …"
~~*~~