Sidney's Comet (5 page)

Chapter Two

B
ACKGROUND MATERIAL, FOR FURTHER READING AND DISCUSSION

Javik, Thomas Patrick—D.O.B. 10/20/68—Atlantic City, N.J.

Skill Quotient: 1000 (perfect)

Attitude Quotient: 135 (poor)

2585: Graduate of PS. 502, New City, Md. . . . aptitude in math and physics . . . disciplinary problems.

2588:Graduate of Space Academy . . . Mass Driver Mechanics . . . 3.93 G.P.A. . . . 5-day suspension for fighting.

2588-2593: 2nd Lt., Space Patrol, light cruiser duty in the Ross Asteroids . . . Promoted to 1st Lt. . . .

2593-2602: Resource Protection Patrol, Dune Region, Moon . . . one A.W.O.L. reprimand . . . promoted to Captain and given command of a Baltimore class cruiser at the outbreak of the Atheist hostilities.

2603: Distinguished service in the LaGrange Four region . . . saved 2 AmFed base ships and destroyed an entire enemy fighter squadron . . . dishonorably discharged for striking a superior officer . . . no court-martial due to exemplary war record—

2603-present: Garbage shuttle pilot, New City, Md.

Excerpts from one of 300 military dossier files known to have been in the possession of General Munoz

Thursday, August 24, 2605

On the afternoon of Garbage day minus eight, Tom Javik found himself looking forward to the class reunion. He thought of Sidney as he switched off the autopilot and pushed the control stick forward with an effort that made the muscles on his arm standout.

Good old Sid,
he thought.
Hard to believe it’s been twenty years
—

The heavy lift garbage shuttle Icarus rumbled and shook like a great awakening beast, then banked right slowly and made its way around New City’s field of solar power microwave dishes. Now Javik could see Robespierre Magne-Launch Base beneath the sun to the west, with its grey E-Cell silos, compactor buildings and mass driver tracks.

“Robie clears us for landing,” a gravelly voice to his left said. “Pad four.”

Javik glanced at his wiry-thin co-pilot, Brent Stafford, nodded. Stafford’s face was creased beyond its years and made him look more like forty-eight than thirty-eight. The hair was blue-black, tousled. He sat hunched over a computer screen, perspiring in the mid-afternoon heat. This summer had been a scorcher.

Javik verified the clearance on his own screen, cracked: “Tell ’em to evacuate the area. This heap handles like a flying sack of potatoes. No power, controls shot to hell—”He wiped his brow, scowled. “And no air conditioning. Jeez that load stinks today!”

“Cattle carcasses,” Stafford said, nodding in the direction of the underdeck cargo hold. “They didn’t seal up those drums worth a damn. Saw ’em load on a bunch of cobalt and zirconium waste too. The packages were dripping radioactive . . .”

“Don’t worry about it,” Javik said. “You knew what you were getting into when you signed on for garbage duty.”

“Aw, what the hell. Guess it beats pushing paper at some desk.” Stafford smashed a fly against the side of his keyboard with one fist, wiped the insect off on his pantleg.

“Not like the old days, is it?” Javik said, glancing down at his stained grey and blue garbage workers uniform. “Remember those Space Patrol outfits? White and gold with ribbons across our chests?”

“Yeah. The ladies sure went for ’em.”

Javik grinned, wiped a hand through his shock of amber hair. “Uh huh! Hey, remember that Polynesian girl I met in the astro port?”

Stafford smiled, glanced out his starboard window as he heard the sonic thump of a catapulted load. “Port Saint Clemente,” Stafford said. “Greatest little spot in the asteroid belt. You met her at the hot springs . . . love at first sight.”

“Thought I was gonna go A.W.O.L. and become permies with that lady,” Javik said. “But the war . . .” His voice trailed off. “Well, you know. . . . ”

The Icarus hovered over its landing pad now, and Javik watched grey-uniformed men below scurry to get clear.

“Never saw you any closer, pal,” Stafford said. He studied his friend, noted that Javik’s long legs had to be turned to one side to fit under the instrument panel. Lines were beginning to appear around deeply set blue eyes. The aquiline nose had a scar at the bridge from one of many barroom scuffles. A little pouch of fat had begun to adhere beneath Javik’s chin, evidence that he no longer sustained a rigid conditioning program. In the old days, Stafford could hardly keep up with this man. Of late, it had been the other way around.

Javik hit the retro rockets button, flipped a switch to activate the para-flaps. “C’mon, c’mon,” he husked impatiently. He was cursing when the rockets finally ignited, but Stafford could not hear the words in the roar. The Icarus settled onto a concrete landing pad. “Okay!” Javik yelled, hitting switches and pushing buttons. “Shut her down!”

Javik was first to the door. He waited as one of the base crewmen drove an escalator unit into position. Javik mento-locked his moto-boots and was bounding down the steps before the mechanism had clicked into place against the Icarus. Stafford followed.

“Hey you guys!” a pig-faced base sergeant called out. “Remember the Conservation of Motion Doctrine! No exercise outside a Bu-Health gym!”

“Stuff that full-employment hype, Peterson!” Javik barked. “We’re doin’ our bit hauling garbage to the catapults!” Javik reached the ground, short-stepped to the sergeant and pushed him in the chest. “You wanna ride in that ship full of stink, buddy?”

The sergeant rolled back against the escalator, nearly falling over. “You’re not in the Space Patrol anymore, hot-shot!” he screamed. I’m gonna teach you a lesson!” The sergeant locked his moto-boots and grabbed a wrench from the escalator cab.

Javik hit him before he could swing the wrench. Two clean belly punches and a forearm across the face put the big man down, writhing in pain.

“One of these days, hot-shot!” the sergeant moaned. I’ll get you!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Javik sneered. “Can’t you see I’m scared to death?” Javik activated his moto-boots, rolled toward a waiting autocar at the edge of the landing pad. “C’mon, Staf,” he said. “Let’s hit the baths.”

General Munoz closed a manila file folder, added it to a large stack on the left side of his desk. He squirmed in his chair from sitting too long, rubbed the corner of one eye.
Which one?
he thought.
Which one do I choose?

He felt stiff, and stretched his arms straight out in front. There was a buzz in his left ear, and he picked at it, squinting one eye as he did so.

“Over here, fleshcarrier!”
a voice said. It seemed to come from the corner to Munoz’s left.

“Huh?” Munoz said. He lowered both hands to the desktop, and slowly . . . ever so slowly . . . his jaw dropped, leaving his mouth agape. For as General Munoz looked at a small round trash can in the corner near a disconnected disposa-tube, he saw a banana peel fly out and hover in the air. A candy bar wrapper followed, then a paper cup and half a cheese sandwich—all remains of the General’s lunch. The items hovered for a moment, then began to spin rapidly in a ball.

“What the hell?” Munoz cursed.

Suddenly, the ball of garbage became a ball of fire.
“Die, fleshcarrier, die!”
a voice screeched. The fireball flew toward Munoz’s face at blinding speed, and it was all the frightened little general could do to duck out of the way. As he ducked under his desk, the fireball whizzed overhead, striking the wall behind his credenza.

When Munoz looked back, terrified, he saw the ball of burning garbage drop to the credenza top and spark. The fire smoldered, and Munoz wrinkled his nose at the odor.

“Not very pleasant, is it, fleshcarrier?”
the voice said. This time, the voice came from the smoldering fireball.
“I’m a sample of my big brother! You won’t be able to dodge him when he comes!”

“Who are you?” Munoz asked, still cowering under his desk. “And why are you doing this?”

“Listen, fleshcarrier, and listen carefully. For you don’t have much time. Sidney Malloy is the pilot you need.”
The voice gave Sidney’s consumer identification number, then faded away.

Munoz inched out from under the desk. He fell into the chair, fumbled for a pen and a sheet of paper. With shaky handwriting, Munoz scribbled Sidney’s name and I.D. number.

Who is this guy?
Munoz wondered, staring at the note. He reached for an unread stack of dossier files.
Maybe we have something on him here. . . .

About ten minutes before the afternoon envelope stuffing session, Sidney sat at his desk on the Job Station Beasley Floor, thinking about the violence he had seen on his way to work. It troubled him deeply, although he was sure he should not feel this way.

Sidney stared at the five meter high metronome mounted on a high octagonal platform at the center of the department. Light from an overhead fluorescent fixture glinted off the metronome’s shiny brass surfaces. A simple plaque on each face of the platform bore this inscription:

SHARING FOR PROSPERITY.
Another way to share as we build a better future.

Sidney had seen the plaque in other places, the axiom having been taken out of
Quotations From Uncle Rosy.
Both his motorboat and vacation condominium were owned on a time-share basis, with Sidney holding a one-fifty-second ownership in each. This gave him the use of each for one week out of the year.

He mentoed a desk-mounted automatic thumb. It flipped through a thick stack of mail in front of him. A letter bearing the seal of the Presidential Bureau caught his eye. Stopping the thumb, he read the letter to himself in a low tone: “Mister Malloy: . . . We are making the following recommendations after reviewing the activity at your work station. As you know, energy management is a top priority of this administration, since energy expended outside a Bu-Health facility is not Job-Supportive. Our recommendations cover hazards which, if not remedied . . .”

Two packing meckies appeared at a recently vacated desk in the next aisle, carrying cardboard cartons. Short and squat, they had blinking red and yellow lights and tin can heads. One eye was centrally positioned. No mouth, ears or nose. The meckies emptied the contents of the drawers on top of the desk, then lifted one end of the desk, causing the items to slide neatly into waiting boxes. They worked quickly and efficiently, and soon rolled away with their loads in the direction of the elevator bank.

Sidney heard a familiar voice, turned his head to the left and glanced at Malcolm Penny, the owlish Second Assistant to the Assistant Administrator. Penny was conducting a departmental tour, and a group of G.W. eight hundred trainees rolled along behind him, hanging on every word.

“The Presidential Bureau has seventy-nine departments,” Penny explained in his high-pitched voice, “one of which is Central Forms. Job Station Beasley is one of the authorized jobs in Central Forms.” He waved an expansive arm, added, “This station takes up an entire floor.” The group rolled slowly by Sidney’s desk, made a right turn onto the main aisle.

Someone sneezed at a nearby desk.

“May Rosenbloom bless you,” a woman said.

“Beasley Station has twenty-six sections,” Penny continued. “Each section has five item counters, two projection-graph operators, three trash can auditors, one manual sergeant and one attendance monitor. All draw up reports, in exquisite detail, of course. Comprehensive reports are the life blood of the government.”

The trainees nodded in agreement.

Sidney looked back at his letter from the President, read its first recommendation: “On numerous occasions, you were observed bailing up pieces of paper and hurling them into the waste receptacle. Papers should not be balled up, and should be slipped into the waste receptacle with a minimum expenditure of energy. . . . ” Sidney yawned and looked around the room.

From his desk near the metronome, he could barely make out a row of red, yellow and blue alpha-numeric charts along a distant wall directly ahead of him. That was the file department. A double swinging door in the wall led to the departmental archives. Along an equally distant side wall were the committee rooms, and along the other side were the managerial offices and supervisorial cubicles. The tiny figure of Administrator Nelson could be seen approaching from his office. The KWAK! KWAK! of automatic name-date stampers rang from all around, accompanied by the sounds of auto-staplers and collators and the punctuating squeaks of autocarts as they stopped at each worktable to pick up paper. It was warm in the room, and the ever-present, gelatinous purr of Harmak forced Sidney to fight drowsiness.

Sidney shook his head to clear it, turned around to face Melinda Brown, a yellow-haired G.W. seven-five-oh at the desk behind his. As she slipped a green plastic paper clip onto a file, the paper clip broke. Smiling winsomely, she reached into a dispenser for a replacement.

“Plastic is fantastic!” Sidney intoned.

“Yes,” she agreed. Still smiling, she placed a new, orange paper clip on the file. “Every break is a new task.”

The noise of machinery and buzz of conversation gradually slowed and stopped. Sidney turned to watch Administrator Nelson ride a lift to the top of the metronome base. It was nearly time for the afternoon envelope stuffing session, and every employee had a stack of form-change announcement cards and a stack of white envelopes in an automatic stuffing tray. Sidney glanced at the large red button on his desktop near the base of the stuffing tray. He placed the forefinger of his right hand over the button.

Administrator Nelson was a small man with a friendly, elf-like face. Tiny eyes peered from under a translucent green visor that nearly covered the upper part of his face. He cleared his throat, amplified his melodic voice with a tiny silver microphone clipped to his tie: “Good afternoon, employees of Job Station Beasley! Before getting on with the important task at hand, I would like to take this opportunity to give thanks to our gracious benefactor, Willard R. Rosenbloom.”

Murmuring their lines on cue, the employees intoned: “Thank Uncle Rosy. We are all employed.”

Administrator Nelson continued: “Uncle Rosy is proud of each of you. Every person in this room holds a share of the Sacred Job that was created for our benefit.”