Fugitive From Asteron (11 page)

“And you said people here are paid
for their work?”

“Oh, absolutely. MAS pays in gold,
which you can use here as well as on the other planets you’ll travel to. You’d
probably start with five dollars a week. That’s enough to get your own
apartment and, after a while, a little house for yourself, something like the
one my father and I live in, only smaller.” She pointed to her domicile.

“You and your father live in
quarters without other citizens?” I asked incredulously.

“Of course.”

“And . . . and
you live without guards watching you?”

“Of course, Alex.”

“I see. I think I see.”

“You’ll need to start off more
modestly, but in a short time you’ll be able to buy or lease your own plane.
You don’t understand how things work here, so I’ll tell you that all the things
you buy will be
yours
, the way this plane is mine and this land is my
father’s, and nobody can take your stuff away. You’ll like it here. You’ll be
able to fly like crazy all the time. I don’t want another company to get you,
Alexander. I want to speak to my manager, Mykroni, about giving you a job with
us,” she said excitedly, her words tumbling into one another. “Right now
I’m
the best flier among the trainees, but if you join us, then
you’ll
be
the best!” The thought pleased her.

Then she frowned. “MAS has been
having financial problems recently. Our Product Development Division pulled out
of a big project it was working on for two and a half years. The pullout was
unexpected. The company had to let workers go. But the Space Travel Division is
doing fine. We’ve got lots of contracts, so I think you have a good chance of
getting hired. That is, if you want to come to work for us. Do you, Alex?”

Do I? Do I want to smell the
flowers of many gardens, including my own? Do I want to see people consume an
incredible abundance of food, no matter how grotesque what they eat may be? Do
I want to live in a place where strangers grip my hand in theirs not to harm me
but to welcome me? Do I want to do work that I have always yearned to do and be
paid for it? Do I want to live in my own dwelling where I can sleep alone,
without the unkempt bodies of three hundred others? Do I want to have things
that no one can take away . . . including my own life? Do I
want to join a primitive society corrupted with money, and obtain as much of it
as I can to buy things for my own satisfaction?

It took a moment to steady my voice
enough to reply: “Oh, yes.”

“There’s one more thing, Alex.”

“Yes?”

“MAS has had a policy for almost
three years that’s strictly enforced and that I have no power to break, even if
I wanted to. So before I can recommend you, I need to be sure I heard you
right. You said you’re
not
from Asteron, right? MAS doesn’t hire
anyone from Asteron.”

Chapter 10

An ocean breeze boosted my steps as I walked to meet Kristin
at a place I had never been to before, a place that on Asteron was frequented by
the rulers and aliens but was a luxury to most of the people: a restaurant. My
spirit also felt lifted by the gust of activity that was moving my new life
forward.

I had again checked my spaceship’s
radio for messages and found none. Moreover, I had learned from Kristin that
the field across the road from her residence was lying dormant while its owner,
called a land developer, was building a village on Earth’s moon. This gave me
hope that my ship’s hiding spot would remain undisturbed.

I also had another reason for
feeling hopeful. After I had flown Kristin’s plane yesterday, she called her
boss, Mykroni, and arranged for him to interview me for a space pilot’s job. Today
I was to meet Kristin during her lunch break; then she was going to take me to
see a native Asteronian who was supposed to believe I was a Cosmonan.

Can I get away with this?
I wondered. With the ship’s remarkable alien medicine rapidly healing my wounds
and with Feran’s Earthling-style clothes, I dared to believe that my appearance
was unsuspicious—except for the scars on my neck from the iron chain I had worn
so often on Asteron. I had applied the new medicine to these old scars, but without
success. The neck marks were older and unresponsive to the ointment that had
healed my fresh wounds so well. Would Kristin’s boss suspect the origin of
these scars? How many planets put humans on a leash? To be safe, I had selected
a shirt that best concealed the markings and buttoned it snugly at the top.

Earlier this morning, to prepare
for my job interview, I had set aside my fears of meeting Feran’s spies and had
gone to the Center for Alien Orientation. From outside I saw a rack of printed
materials labeled “Free pamphlets—help yourself,” and on it stood a booklet
about Cosmona. I waited until the orientation center’s attendant was occupied, and
then in a silent, catlike motion, I entered, took a copy, and left without
speaking to anyone. In a section aimed at introducing Earthlings to Cosmonans,
the booklet described how that planet was inhabited by humans of different
species, with the educated speaking English. Some of the immigrants pictured in
the pamphlet looked similar to me, so I figured I could pass for a Cosmonan.

I thought I had a chance of getting
away with this, as I followed Kristin’s directions to a place called Big Eats. But
I felt something dragging me down as well. As I observed the tidy little
domiciles along my path, the children and pets playing, the colorful windows of
the Earthlings’ businesses, the quiet contentment—and openness—of their lives,
a pang of guilt gripped me. I did not want to deceive Kristin, but I reminded
myself of the sleepless night I had just spent, excited at the prospect of
having a job filled with space travel, discovery, and adventure. When Feran became
convinced of my death and had gone on to new diversions, I would no longer have
to hide my past. Then I would look into the eyes that had poured more
understanding over me than I knew existed, and I would tell Kristin the truth
about my origin, whatever the consequences might be. But right then, I had to
pretend that I was a Cosmonan because I yearned to pilot a spacecraft and explore
the shiny dots that sprinkled the black sky, dots that had lit my imagination
in my childhood with visions of bright new worlds beyond the dim one that bound
me.

I reached a building with a large sign
in front that read “BIG EATS.” Earthlings engaged in lively conversations
entered and left this busy institution, with a variety of food aromas escaping
each time the door opened. With Kristin’s instructions to guide me, I entered
and got a table. While I waited for her, I watched the incredible spectacle of
Earthlings having their midday feeding.

A computer screen at my table
displayed the word
menu
. I understood this word to mean options on a
computer. But at Big Eats it meant something quite different. The restaurant’s
menu described an astonishing array of foods of massive portions, displayed in
colorful images. When I tapped on an item named
hamburger
, I saw
three-dimensional flames dancing around the item on a grill, I heard sizzling
noises, and I thought I detected a pleasing charcoal aroma emanating from the
monitor. I tapped the screen repeatedly, and image after image of seemingly
endless choices flashed before me.

I stared in disbelief at menu
selections that contained more meat in one portion than I had been allowed in a
year. I saw people around me eating steak, an item almost unheard of among the
common people on Asteron. Our leaders told us that if they could not provide a
particular food, like steak, to everyone, then it was only fair that no one
should have it. Asteronians left the table with illusions of virtue, but the
customers of Big Eats left with full stomachs.

Robots shaped like metallic humans
with large heads and monitors on their chests attended the tables. A few actual
human supervisors observed the goings-on and also interacted with the
customers. The robots had long arms, each with two elbows, that reached into
compartments in their backs and aided in serving the tables. Their mouths
consisted of electronic screens displaying a range of emotions, with the
default setting being a smile. Red aprons were painted on their metal torsos,
with pockets containing bottles labeled
mustard
,
mayo
,
steak
sauce
. These nimble devices wore name badges:
Whiz Kid
,
Big
Head
,
Brain Man
. People spoke to them, and they replied.

I heard a female say to one of
them, “Hey, Genius, this soup is cold.”

The device replied, “You’re unhappy
with your soup? Is that correct?”

“Yes,” the female confirmed.

The screen display that formed the
robot’s smiling mouth drooped downward into a frown, as the electronic creature
replied, “I’m sorry. I’ll get you another one right away.”

A mass of circuitry named Genius
was sorry for cold soup, I thought, astonished, while I remembered how live
humans across the galaxy showed no such frowns at causing far greater . . . discomforts.
Were they really living? I asked myself, wondering what ingredient on a
planet’s menu made human life possible.

People dropped money into slots on
the robots, and to my amazement, the devices
thanked
them—just as the
male alien in the crate had thanked me when I brought him water! My thoughts
raced back to that odd incident across the galaxy when I had received a gold
coin. Had Feran’s boxed humanoid come from Earth? I had barely glanced at the
coin when the alien gave it to me, and I was in darkness when I later hid it in
my shoe. A chronic fear of its being discovered had made me obsessed with
concealing, rather than studying, the coin, so it had remained hidden under my
inner sole. Now, I reached down into my shoe and retrieved it. To my amazement,
imprinted on the sparkling gold piece was a sphere with swirling patterns of
land and sea, and above it the word
Earth
. I realized why the name of
my new planet sounded familiar to me. I ran my fingers contentedly over the
coin and could not wait to show Kristin my Earth money!

While music played, people talked,
dishes clanged, and a monitor near my table broadcasted a news program, I
struggled to absorb this symphony of sound. The news described a war in
Cosmona, with refugees fleeing to Earth. A newscaster interviewed a few of
them, confirming what I had read in the pamphlet. The Cosmonans were humanoid, although
some of them were too small-limbed, large-faced, and hairy to be what Kristin
called
Homo sapiens
. Then I saw other Cosmonan refugees who looked
more like Earthlings. All of them spoke, in English, of oppressive conditions
on their planet.
Surely I could have come from that kind of place
, I
thought.

My fascination with this new
setting was interrupted when two males in uniform sat down at the table next to
me. My eyes gravitated to the word on their badges:
police
. I tensed
at the sight of the weapons protruding from their holsters. I wanted to change
my table, but I dared not get up for fear of attracting the guards’ attention.
I mentally rehearsed an exit plan should I need to leave suddenly.

Using one of its elongated hands
with pronged fingers, a robot named Doc reached into a compartment behind his
back for a basket of bread and served it to the guards.

The next news segment showed the mayor
of Rising Tide making an announcement about an upcoming election and
encouraging people to vote. Kristin had explained Earthlings’ voting to me when
we spoke about our ages. She was twenty and had voted in recent years. Although
we ignored birth dates on Asteron, I estimated that I was twenty-one in Earth
years. I could also vote, she informed me, when I became a citizen.

Just then I spotted Kristin at the
entrance. Her shiny redwood hair tumbled about her face as she looked around,
located me, and walked toward my table. She waved to people wearing MAS emblems
like hers on their shirts. Kristin glanced across the guards’ table to the one
beyond it where her co-workers were eating and said a few words to them. She
was about to join me but paused when she noticed the mayor on the monitor.

“After careful thought, I have made
my decision. I will run for reelection as the mayor of Rising Tide!”

“I don’t think he should be mayor
again,” Kristin shouted to her co-workers, her voice carrying over the police
officers.

“Kristin!” I whispered. I reached out
to grab her arm, but she had already raised it and was gesturing in the air. Instead
I grabbed a tall glass bottle on the table labeled “chili sauce.”

“I ask the citizens of Rising Tide for
their vote,” the mayor added.

“I’m
not
voting for him!”
declared Kristin to her co-workers, almost hitting the officers’ heads with her
gestures. “He spends too much money.”

I saw the policemen looking
straight at Kristin, but what I felt were the menacing eyes on the prowling
bodies that always watched me, waiting . . . hoping. I saw
a robed male on a stage speak to a man standing beside his coffin, charging him
with expressing ideas that contradicted those of established authority. The
crime was treason. The man was young.

“Have you been inside the new city
hall yet?” Kristin persisted. “You’d think it was a palace. I don’t think it’s
right for a public servant to work in such luxury with the people’s money.”

While the officers were distracted
looking at Kristin, I concealed the bottle of chili sauce behind me, gripping
it tightly by the neck. But I must calm down!
This matter cannot be as it
appears to me,
I tried to reassure myself. But my fears cried out louder.
Kristin might have a voice when dealing with civilians, like her flower manager
or flying instructor, but the two armed men here were the law! This was
different. Kristin was spouting subversive remarks against an official that
these guards were armed to protect. My eyes moved nervously from one officer to
the other. I was ready to leap, strike them, and then grab Kristin and run out
the door.

“I think the mayor should be
replaced!” declared Kristin. Then, satisfied with having shared her traitorous
viewpoint, she turned to me, smiled, and was about to sit. Suddenly one of the
officers rose and stepped toward her. In a flash I was on my feet, my body
wedged between hers and his. My wild eyes faced the guard, while my right hand,
clutching the bottle behind me, faced Kristin. I felt her nails dig into my
hand, trying to take the bottle from me, but my fingers refused to budge.

“Oh, uh . . . hi . . . Officer
Hodges.” My behavior had removed the steadiness from her voice. “This is Alex.
He’s new around here.”

He smiled broadly, crinkle lines
appearing around his eyes, and he raised an open hand to grip mine. I released
the bottle into Kristin’s clutch because I had to free my hand for grasping the
officer’s. I struggled to find my voice so I could offer a greeting.

“Hello, Alex. Nice to meet you.”
The guard grasped my hand firmly, and then he turned to Kristin. “I just wanted
to tell you how sorry we are that Dr. Merrett is too busy to attend this year’s
Reckoning Day air show. I don’t want to disturb him, seeing as he’s busy, so I
wonder if you could give him a message from all of us on the force. Tell him
that if he finds time at the last minute, he shouldn’t hesitate to call us.
We’ll be happy to reserve a place for him in the pavilion.”

“I sure will. I’ll let him know you
said that.”

“Thanks.” The smiling guard then
returned to his table, his weapon looking dusty from lack of use.

I sat, or rather Kristin gripped my
shoulders and pushed me down. “Alexander! You’re . . . you’re . . .”
She stood over me, speechless.

“Crazy,” I said, assisting her in
finding the right word.

“That goes without saying! And
you’re . . . I don’t like to say it, but you’re . . .”

“Disturbed.”

“Without a doubt! But what I mean
is I was wrong to tell you about a job with MAS. You’re not ready to go to
work. You’re
dangerous
.”

“No! I admit to being crazy and
disturbed, but Kristin, believe me—I am not dangerous. I did not strike
anyone.”

“Not yet.”

“Kristin, I want to be a space
pilot more than anything. If you insist, I will be forced to agree not to
intervene, even if you should be flogged right in front of me.”

She looked disappointed. “Could you
really watch me being—what word did you use?—flogged?”

“I could try to.”

“Without rescuing me?” She frowned.

“Maybe it is unlikely,” I had to
admit.