Children of the Old Star (5 page)

"Why did you come in here?” She eased a little closer to him.

"I guess I'm looking for escape and maybe some answers."

"Ooh,” she whispered teasingly. “Sounds mysterious."

"Do you see the news holos?” asked Ellis. “Have you heard about the Cluster?"

"Have I heard?” she laughed outright. “When would I get time to watch a holo broadcast? I have dance practice.” She looked at him and let her tongue play over her lips. “I see now, you've come in here to find some escape from all those nasty Clusters."

"It would help if I had a cigar."

"All we sell are marijuana cigarettes. Those are legal."

Ellis buried his face in his hands. “Shit,” he whispered under his breath. “Those things will play with your mind worse than tobacco."

"But they won't kill you as fast,” she tittered. She pulled out one of the thin cigarettes and lit it. “You don't mind, do you?"

Ellis shook his head. “I suppose not,” he said, coughing as she blew curling smoke in his direction. After years of smoking cigars, he found it odd how much the smoke from these legal cigarettes bothered him. His appetite ruined and his headache growing worse, Ellis ordered something non-alcoholic to drink and sat back.

The music changed again. At first, Ellis thought it was ancient classical. Instead, it was something silken and flowing from the mid-twenty-fifth century. He began to sway with the rhythm. “How about that table dance?” he asked, figuring the marijuana smoke must have been getting to him.

She stood and moved to the open floor. Her body undulated in smooth time to the music. Ellis kept his eyes focused on her soft blue eyes, so different from the hard eyes of Admiral Strauss or the piercing green eyes of the woman in the vision. These eyes seemed to call to him, pleading and loving. Again, she smiled and Ellis’ stomach seemed to drop as he felt a long denied pressure build at his crotch.

She removed the thin black garment that barely concealed her upper body. Ellis forced himself to look. Again, the two perfect breasts reminded him of the Cluster. He sighed and looked back into her eyes and saw dimples form on either side of her perfect smile.

When the music stopped she returned to the seat at the table. “Finally, we see a human being,” she said, wrapping her garment back around her body.

"Maybe love sick is right,” said Ellis. “How much do I owe you?"

"That dance is on the house,” she said. “It was worth it just to see you lighten up, if only a bit.” She leaned forward, putting her hand on his leg. “If it's release you're looking for, I'll blow you for a thousand."

Ellis felt himself flush. With the flush crept an awareness of being on Earth in the zealously religious American sector. Although exotic dancing was tolerated, what she proposed was extraordinarily dangerous. “For someone who's appalled by illegal things, you seem awfully ready to take risks.” Ellis’ voice was strained. Even so, he was sorely tempted to take her up on the offer. “But why so much?"

"Gotta pay the tax man somehow?” She gave his leg a quick squeeze. Her voice was confident, but her eyes pleaded with Ellis. She too was seeking release.

Suddenly, a chill ran down Ellis’ back. He felt hot breath tickle his hair.

"No touching the ladies,” came a cold, harsh voice behind him.

The dancer quickly removed her silken hand from his leg. Ellis stood and turned to face a man who was nearly a head taller. He had heard about men with no necks, but this was the first time he had actually met one. He spread his hands wide. “I wasn't touching her, she was touching me."

The bouncer frowned. His trim white shirt outlined perfectly formed muscles. “You callin’ the lady a liar?” Then he leaned close to Ellis. “I think it's time you left."

"What? I haven't done anything."

The bouncer spun him around so fast he didn't have time to react. Ellis found himself being picked up by the collar and seat of the pants. Even knowing that he couldn't get out of the position, he struggled to get free as he saw the variety of lights and colors pass by. With a whoosh, he felt cold night air on his face momentarily followed by the stinging sensation of hard plastic smacking him in the face.

Ellis groaned as he sat up on the plastic street and looked back at the bouncer, who turned to go back inside the building that, for centuries, had been a center for education. Ellis’ muscles screamed as he tried to stand. He wiped some blood off his chin and spat, feeling far worse than when he arrived. His head throbbed so badly it was difficult to see.

He hailed a cab and returned to the motel near the spaceport.

Clyde McClintlock looked up at the husky sound of a clearing throat. Standing on the other side of the force field was a guard in a white uniform. “Dinner time, already?” asked Clyde, listlessly.

"You have a visitor,” grunted the large, bald guard, standing aside.

A tall, slender woman with black hair streaked gray stepped up. She looked at Clyde with a deeply penetrating gaze. “It's been a long time, Clyde.” Her voice was silken, smooth.

Clyde McClintlock stood and straightened the nondescript prison uniform. He ran fingers over his prematurely gray hair, straightening it as best he could without a comb. “Suki Firebrandt Ellis?” His voice was barely a whisper, since he hardly believed the sight of the woman he had known since childhood.

She smiled lopsidedly and turned to the guard, putting her long, but not delicate hand on her hip. “Get lost,” she ordered.

Dumbfounded, the guard trudged away and left the woman called Fire alone with the prisoner.

"We have to talk,” said Fire. She looked around at the stark, white prison corridor. “But not here."

Clyde laughed nervously. “It's not like I have a lot of choice in my situation."

"Fact of the matter is, Clyde, you're putting the peace between New Granada and Tejo in jeopardy.” Fire leaned against the doorframe. “In Tejo, you're a prisoner because you led a military coup. In both New Granada and Tejo, there are those who regard you as a hero. You recognized the atrocities your government was committing against my people.” She shrugged. “I think it's too little, too late, myself."

"I imagine most people in New Granada would like to skin me alive though,” Clyde said hoarsely.

"Some would,” she admitted.

"Would you?"

Fire inclined her head. “I'm not sure yet."

Clyde McClintlock dropped into the unyielding chair. Fire started pacing, her hands on her hips. “If you go to trial and get hit with a heavy sentence, people on both sides will riot,” explained Fire. “If you get let off, others will likely riot."

"Your problem, not mine.” Clyde looked up.

Fire stopped pacing and stared into the cell. “Either way, you'll be in danger."

Clyde shook his head, ambivalent. “I don't get it. Is this what you wanted to talk about?"

Fire looked at her watch and performed a slight mental calculation. “I said, I don't want to talk about that here.” Seeing Clyde's perplexed expression, she explained. “We need to pull you out of the equation, diffuse the powder keg, as it were. The peace between Tejo and New Granada must last."

"That's fine and good,” said Clyde standing. “But I'm not exactly in a position to pack up my bags.” He looked around the cell.

Fire looked at her watch again. She took a furtive glance down the hall, then reached a hand down the green T-shirt between her ample breasts. Clyde stared, despite himself. She retrieved a small descrambler and affixed it to the door control. “I can get you out of here. We can take you out of the equation. Let you disappear,” she whispered.

"Yes, but there are guards, we can't get out that way,” protested Clyde.

"Be that as it may,” said Fire, grinning. She activated the descrambler, dropping the force field. As Clyde began to step out, Fire shoved him rudely back into the cell and followed him in. “Get down,” she ordered, tipping the bed over between them and the wall.

Just then, there was a deafening blast. Alarm klaxons sounded their plaintive, anxious cries even before plastic shrapnel settled to the ground. Clyde looked up from behind the bed to see Manuel Raton holding two rifles, his broad white grin framed by a thick black mustache. “Not a bad jail break, eh?"

Fire grabbed Clyde by the collar and started pulling him through the opening. Clyde stopped and wriggled himself free to sift through the rubble. “We don't have time for this,” growled Fire as she took a rifle from Raton.

"Found it!” said Clyde, holding up a pad of paper. He bolted for the ragged hole in the wall.

RETURN TO THE SEA

To a geologist, the island of Nantucket is little more than a giant sandbar. To a historian, Nantucket was the center of the American whaling industry for over a hundred years. To John Mark Ellis, Nantucket was home. Even in the thirtieth century, there really were only two ways to get to the island, on the water or over it. To John Mark Ellis, it was virtual sacrilege to travel the forty miles of ocean to the island via hover transport. To him, this was a journey that must be made on the water itself.

Ellis stood on the bow of a ferry out of Hyannis Port, letting the salt air blow past him, cleansing him of the dark emotions he felt. The gray spring day with waters lapping violently at the boat reflected his state of mind perfectly. Neither angry nor cheery, he felt driven by a sense of purpose. He caught his breath as he saw the island appear on the horizon. To the tourists on the boat, it was nothing more than a lump of nondescript earth between gray-green waters and light gray sky. Already, though, Ellis could imagine the bustle of boats at anchor in the port. In his mind, he could see the green of the trees and shrubs atop the sand.

Ellis sighed gently as he saw the old white Brant Point lighthouse at the entrance to the harbor. The one-time space commander smiled broadly as he saw the steeple of the ancient village church rising from the greenery, pointing to the sky from whence he had returned. Ellis hugged himself, knowing he was home.

Mark Ellis was positively giddy as he got off the ferry and turned onto the ancient cobblestone main street. However, as he stepped into the old brick news shop called “The Hub” a great loneliness hit him. His stomach sank as he thought about the times he would come here as a child with his father, newly returned from space. “Hiya Mark,” said the man behind the counter, snapping Ellis out of his melancholy. Ellis sighed and purchased a news disk.

"Need any cigars today?” asked the man behind the counter. The grizzled shopkeeper watched Ellis, perplexed as he patted his dirty uniform coat, thinking for a few moments. Finally, Ellis shook his head, no.

"When's your mother gonna be back?” asked the shopkeeper. “They miss her up at the natural sciences museum."

"I'm sure they do,” said Ellis. He remembered the odd look she'd given him when she said she had some business to take care of on Sufiro before she came home. “She might be some time still,” mumbled Ellis. He knew his mother, Suki Ellis, the director of the Maria Mitchell Association, all too well.

Ellis tucked the news disk in his pocket and stepped out of the shop. He strolled up the street, happy to see the clean red brick mansions and grand white houses among the ancient gray structures. To him, Nantucket was the only purely human place left on Earth.

At last, he reached the door of the old family home. Hidden sensors scanned his eyes and unlocked the door. Turning the polished brass knob, he stepped inside. He was somewhat taken aback to see his duffel bag already inside. On top of the tattered green bag was a note. As he extracted the news disk from the pocket of his uniform coat, Ellis realized Old Coffin probably brought the bags inside. Picking up the note, his suspicions were confirmed.

He nodded to himself, making a mental note to go out and visit the old family friend at his home in Madaket. Unceremoniously, he picked up the duffel bag and hauled it up the creaking wooden stairs into his old bedroom. On his way, though, he paused by the door of the master bedroom; the one occupied by his mother. He decided not to violate her privacy, even though he was curious if any of his father's possessions were still in the room.

Down the hall, Ellis tossed the duffel into the old slope-ceilinged room that had long been his own and proceeded to peel himself out of his unwashed navy uniform. Silently, he padded naked across the hardwood floor to the shower. He let the hot, high-pressure water strip away layers of dirt and sweat that clung ungraciously to his body. Finally, he toweled himself off, returned to his room and stood staring at a closet full of outdated clothes. After only a couple of minutes pondering, he picked out a black T-shirt and a comfortable pair of tan slacks.

Feeling reborn, Ellis went back down the old staircase to the living room of the house. His eyes fell on an antique pipe rack. He sighed, thinking how much history there was in those pipes. He grabbed an old curved one that his great great grandfather had owned and stuffed it in his pants pocket.

Stepping out the back door into an overgrown green yard, Ellis found his old black bicycle. He frowned as he saw the state of the chain and cursed the humid salt air. Automatically, he assumed the old homecoming ritual of retrieving oil and rags to revitalize the only transportation, besides feet, he allowed himself on the island.

After an hour of work, he had the bicycle back in operating condition. Trying not to get the spokes tangled in long grass, he finally got the bike out to the street. Ellis sighed, looking at the cobblestones, but hopped on the bicycle anyway and peddled off, bouncing painfully until he finally reached the smooth plastic roadway that led to Madaket.

Ellis was fond of neither the plastic roadway nor the hovers that buzzed by overhead. Sighing, he applied himself to the job of pedaling, concentrating more on the smells of the greenery and the sounds of the birds around. He was thankful the hovers were, at least, silent. The gray cloud layer overhead was breaking up, revealing a crystalline blue. After ten minutes of pedaling, Ellis was very nearly winded. He grumbled at how out of shape he had become, sitting around in the narrow confines of star cruisers. Gritting his teeth, he peddled another fifteen minutes until he, at last, reached the conglomeration of houses that made up the tiny village of Madaket. Turning down a dirt road, he reached a building that was little more than a shack. Hopping off the bike, he propped it against the weathered, gray wall and knocked on the door.