Colony, page 21
David heard an angry voice and looked up just in time to see the captain scuffle briefly with a much younger man. Then the young man sprayed something from a can into the captain’s face and the astronaut sagged weightlessly.
“What’s going on?” David asked. The Japanese businessman beside him slumbered on.
“Please remain in your seats,” a man’s voice called over the intercom. “You are in no danger as long as you stay seated.”
Twisting around in his chair, David looked back toward the galley. Three passengers were standing there, staring taut-faced up at the cockpit door. The steward and stewardesses were nowhere in sight.
He turned to look into the cockpit, too, and saw a gangling, raw-boned youngster come out grinning. He made a circle with his fingers. His other hand held a spray can.
“What’s happening?” a woman’s voice asked.
“Is something...”
The intercom drowned out their questions. “This is Second Officer Donaldson speaking. Our ship has been taken over by members of the Peoples’ Revolutionary Underground. They say that if we do what they tell us, no one will be hurt. But if we don’t cooperate, they’ll kill us all.”
The cabin erupted in shouts and screams. Every passenger was talking, shouting, gesticulating—all except David and the fat businessman snoring beside him.
“Be quiet!”
It was a woman’s voice, and it didn’t need the intercom. She strode up the aisle, brandishing a pair of spray cans as if they were hand grenades.
Maybe they are, he thought.
“You will be quiet and stay where you are,” the woman was saying. “This ship will not land at Messina, but you will all be brought down to Earth safely—if you do as you are told!”
David saw that she was beautiful, young, a lithe, petite, dark-skinned girl with a fierce-yet-fragile little cat’s face.
But crazy. You can't hijack a space shuttle. You'll kill everyone aboard. The captain's already down, either dead or unconscious. In another few minutes we'll be starting reentry....
David began to unbuckle his seat harness. He wasn’t certain of what he was going to do once he got up, but he knew he couldn’t just sit there.
The cat-faced girl whirled to face him. “Stay in your seat!”
“Now, wait, you can’t just fly this shuttle...”
“Sit down!” Her eyes were wide and flashing. She held one of the cans up, as if to menace him with it.
“But I’m trying to explain...”
The can hissed at him. David saw a misty spray, felt it tingling on his face, and slumped back into his seat, unconscious.
~~~
AMANDA PARSONS: But the Moon is such a bore! I mean, after you've put your footprints into the dust of the mare or whatever they call it and climbed one or two of those old hills and gone over to see the Apollo monument, what do you have? An underground rabbit's nest that's overcrowded and understaffed. Our subscribers aren't interested in Selene.
Even Space Station Alpha is getting old-hat. Everybody's been there. There's nothing new about it. Even in zero gravity, there are only so many permutations the human body is capable of, after all.
We need something different and exciting for our travel features. You can't go anywhere on Earth without being hounded by beggars or running into a plague or terrorists of one sort or another. Why not a piece about Island One? I mean, you went to all the expense of sending a reporter up there and maybe she got herself fired when she came back, but why can't we...
WILBUR ST. GEORGE: Amanda, it won't work. She is fired, and she's going to stay fired. And forget about doing any features on Island One. That's final!
—Transcript of London-Sydney phone conversation, routine surveillance by corporate telephone monitors, 2 August 2028
~~~
TWENTY-ONE
Evelyn's apartment was a mess. That's what happens in a one-room flat, she explained to herself. There's no place to hide the chaos while you tidy up.
She had pulled a shapeless robe around her body and was rummaging, barefoot, through the cabinets above her sink, searching for a tin of tea. The sofa bed was open and thoroughly rumpled. Her mouth still tasted of toothpaste.
“It can’t all be gone,” she muttered to herself.
But the cabinet was not so heavily stocked that a tin of tea could be hiding behind something else. In the weeks since St. George had fired her from International News, no other news outfit would take her on. She couldn’t even sell freelance pieces to the media. Evelyn’s cupboard and her bank balance had both dwindled rapidly and were heading for exhaustion.
For the tenth time that morning she wondered if she should try to phone David again, now that she had the phone service restored. Of course, since now she was paying the phone bills herself, instead of charging them to International, she had to count the pennies there, too.
“Picturephone rates aren’t expensive,” she told the image in the mirror above her dressing table.
You've fallen in love with him, you silly girl.
“No,” she answered herself aloud. “That’s not it at all.”
You’re behaving like a moonstruck calf.
“I don’t love him. He doesn’t care a whit about me. I hate him!”
Then why haven't you tried to sell his story to one of the scandal shows? They'd snap it up in a second.
“Don’t be too sure that I won’t, old girl. I could use the money, even if they won’t give me a credit line.”
But he's so sweet. How could you do that to him?
“Why shouldn’t I?”
He's so handsome, so kind and gentle.
“He never calls me! He won’t answer my calls!”
How can he? That horrible old man, Dr. Cobb, is keeping him a prisoner up there. He'd call you if he could.
The teakettle’s whistle broke into her dialogue.
Evelyn frowned at it. “You can jolly well whistle ’til you’re dry. There’s no tea. I’ve nothing to put into the Water.”
As she crossed the room to turn off the range, the phone chimed. Evelyn lifted the kettle off the burner, which automatically shut itself off once the weight was removed. Then she put the kettle down beside the burner and threw herself across the rumpled bed to reach for the phone.
She touched the VOICE ONLY button and lay prone on the bed as the phone’s small viewscreen formed a picture of Sir Charles Norcross. He was handsome enough to be an entertainment star, or perhaps Prime Minister. He'll be that someday, Evelyn thought. Aristocratic, almost haughty face. But a hint of deviltry in his twinkling blue eyes. Neat little mustache starting to turn gray, but the rest of his hair was a rich, full golden blond.
“Evelyn, dear, are you there? The screen’s blank. They haven’t turned off your phone again, have they?”
“I’m not decent, darling,” she said.
“Really? I can be over in five minutes.”
“And risk your career for an unemployed scandalmonger? Hardly.”
Sir Charles smiled. “It would be almost worth it, with you. I’ve lusted after your body since you first interviewed me.”
“Yes, so you told me at the time. Well... my body is going to part company with my soul if I don’t get an assignment soon.”
“International’s blacklisted you, have they?”
Nodding. “Very thoroughly.”
“I’d be glad to help you,” Sir Charles said. “We could... uh... work on my biography. I’ll tell you the whole, long, boring story of my life.”
“And we’ll write it on your bedroom ceiling? Hardly.”
“Your scruples are too high,” Sir Charles said, pretending to frown. “You’d never get far in politics.”
“You will, though.”
“I certainly shall,” he said.
“Good. Perhaps by the time you’re Prime Minister you can open an inquiry into why the promising young journalist Evelyn Hall starved to death in her Paddington flat.”
“Is it that bad?”
“It’s getting rather grim.”
Sir Charles ran a forefinger along his mustache. “I... uh... have some rather touchy news for you. If I recall correctly, you had asked me about the legal status of a young man you interviewed while you were in Island One. David Adams, wasn’t it?”
Evelyn pulled herself up to a sitting position. “Yes. David Adams.”
Hesitating for a moment, as if he were glancing over his shoulder to see if anyone were watching him, Sir Charles went on: “It’s very hush-hush just at the moment, but apparently there’s been a hijacking. A space shuttle bound for Messina from Space Station Alpha has been pirated away by the Peoples’ Revolutionary Underground.”
“You can’t keep news like that quiet.”
“Oh, I expect not,” Sir Charles admitted. “Even the present Government knows better than that. The PRU shall be crowing about it all over the world any minute now. But I thought you’d be interested to know that listed among the passengers is one David Adams. He was inbound from Selene, and he gave his place of residence as Island One.”
Evelyn could feel her pulse throbbing in her ears. “He’s here!”
“He’s hijacked,” Sir Charles said. “We’re not certain where he is. The shuttle was originally destined for Messina.”
“I’ve got to go there!”
He shook his head. “Can’t. World Government security authorities have cordoned off the entire World Capital area. The nearest you could fly to is Naples.”
“Naples, then!”
“I believe I hate this Adams chap,” Sir Charles said. Then, “Can you afford the fare?”
Her stomach felt hollow, quivery. “Somehow. I’ve still got a credit account that’s not overdrawn too badly.”
Sir Charles raised his eyebrows slightly. “I’ll have my office arrange a flight and book you a hotel room in Naples.”
“I couldn’t...”
“Of course you can. And you shall.” He smiled ruefully. “Pity I have so much work to do here. Ah, well, I understand it’s beastly hot there this time of year.”
“Are you insane? Have you no wisdom at all? No foresight?”
El Libertador paced angrily up and down the parqueted floor of the ornate old ballroom. Portraits of uniformed generals, old men in ancient stiff-necked suits, and ladies pale and languid graced the walls of the high-ceilinged room. Three chandeliers, dripping crystal, caught the sunlight that streamed in from the spacious windows at the room’s far end.
Through the windows there was nothing to be seen but endless grassland stretching out to a horizon broken by the hazy, mirage-like shimmering images of mountain peaks.
Bahjat felt grimy and foolish. She had not bathed or changed her dress in the thirty-six hours since boarding the shuttle at Space Station Alpha. Her fellow hijackers were off in another wing of this “guesthouse” far out on the pampas of Argentina. The local police at the Buenos Aires airport had not taken their gift of the space shuttle graciously. She had expected that. But El Libertador would be pleased, she had thought. Even Hamoud had agreed that the Latin American revolutionary would welcome her and her hostages.
But instead he was angry. Furious. He paced the long, splendid room, red-faced, his lean, tall frame radiating displeasure.
He is the same age as my father, she thought. Somehow, that unsettled her.
At least he was dressed no better than she: wrinkled khaki fatigues, not even as good as her own silk blouse, skirt, and slippers. She sat in one of the stiff-backed chairs of real wood that were set along the paneled wall and watched the old man pace, his boots clicking solidly against the flooring.
Finally he stopped. Standing close enough to Bahjat for her to see that his eyes were weary, bloodshot, he shook his head.
“Why didn’t the PRU contact me beforehand? How dare you drop this shipload of hostages into my lap without a warning, without even asking....”
His voice trailed off. He sighed. “I should control my temper,” he said more gently. “I have just returned from South Africa. You may have heard that the revolution there has succeeded.”
“Yes,” Bahjat said, genuinely pleased. “It was wonderful news.”
“Attained at the cost of nearly a hundred World Government troops killed. That is... less than wonderful.”
“But they were defending an evil regime.”
“They were following their orders,” El Libertador said. “Three days ago they were an unknown, faceless contingent of World Army troops. Now they are martyrs, and the whole world is crying for vengeance for them.”
Bahjat said nothing.
The old man dropped wearily to the chair next to hers. “You see, we cannot afford to antagonize the World Government so strongly. If they mobilize their army against us...”
“But their army is small,” Bahjat said. “We can raise ten times their number.”
“Their army consists of professional troops. They have mobility and firepower. We have numbers and enthusiasm—cannon fodder.”
“We will fight until we win.”
“More likely we would fight until we were all killed. Why did you hijack a space shuttle? What possible good can it do?”
“To show the weakness of the World Government,” Bahjat answered, not trusting him with her real motive. “To force them to pay ransom for the hostages—those fat businessmen and tourists.”
“And you brought them here because you thought I would protect you?”
“Yes.”
“But I could not even protect myself if the World Army invaded Argentina.”
“But you are a revolutionary!”
“Yes,” he said, his back straightening. “But not a terrorist. Not a hijacker.”
“Our goals are the same,” Bahjat said, “even if our tactics differ.”
“Are they?” El Libertador mused. “I wonder.”
“You are the inspiration to us all. Everyone in the PRU looks up to you.”
He gazed at her for a long time. “Are you serious?”
“Of course.”
“The PRU would follow my leadership?”
“All around the world, you are our symbol of resistance to the World Government. If you want to lead us, we will follow.”
The old man’s eyes took on a faraway look. “Back when the World Government was first formed,” he said in a voice so low that Bahjat wondered if she were meant to hear it, “we were officers in the Chilean Army. How we supported De Paolo then! The new World Government would end all our woes, give the land back to the people, drive out the foreign corporations. But they never did that. Things got worse instead of better.”
“We can fight them,” Bahjat said.
“Fight against whom? Tourists? Merchants? Robbing banks? Hijacking space shuttles? What kind of fighting is that?”
“We do what we can,” Bahjat answered, feeling almost as if she were talking to her father.
El Libertador shook his head. “No, my dear. The battle is against the governments, the leaders, the decision-makers who think only of themselves and not of the people.”
“The rich,” Bahjat said.
“Not the rich,” he snapped. “Those who serve the rich, and themselves, without caring about the poor.”
“What can we do?” she asked.
“Were you serious when you said the PRU would follow my leadership?”
“Yes,” Bahjat said eagerly. “You could mold all our separate struggles into one grand, worldwide effort. We could fight against the oppressors all over the world, united, coordinated.”
“Very well, then,” El Libertador said. “The first thing we must do is to return the passengers from the shuttle—and the machine itself. We do not make war on tourists and workers.”
“But...”
“You have made your point. You have shown that the World Government cannot protect its citizens from the PRU. You have gained worldwide publicity. Now is the time to be generous.”
Still Bahjat hesitated.
El Libertador leaned toward her, smiling slightly. “The world loves a romantic bandit, a Robin Hood or Pancho Villa—as long as innocent people do not get hurt. Don’t turn world opinion against you by holding those captives too long.”
She looked into his strong gray eyes for a moment and decided that she had no choice. His mind was made up, and he had the power to enforce his decision. “I understand,” Bahjat said. “Will you... can you arrange for their release?”
He nodded. “I will see what can be done.”
“The World Government will demand that you turn us over to them,” she pointed out.
“That I will not do, of course. It is the price they must pay. They can have the hostages and the spacecraft, but not the PRU... revolutionaries.”
He was going to say “terrorists,” Bahjat knew. She nodded. She trusted this old man—up to a point.
When David awoke he was still in the shuttle, strapped into his seat. His head thundered with pain. The fat Japanese was gone from the next seat. All the passengers were gone. No one was in the shuttle, except for a soldier in an olive drab uniform slouching up at the front hatch, by the door to the cockpit.
We've landed, David thought through the throbbing in his head. But...
Then it hit him. I'm on Earth! Everything else fled from his thoughts.
He tried to get up, but the seat harness cut into his shoulders. Impatiently, he unsnapped it and got to his feet. His head roared and his legs felt watery. For a moment he leaned against the seat in front of him. The guard eyed him and hooked a thumb around the butt of the holstered gun at his hip.
David thought dimly that he had taken quite a dose of gas to produce this strong a headache. After several deep breaths he thought about the zen masters and yogis who could make pain disappear through an effort of will. He concentrated on dissolving the pain, but that only made his head feel worse. It doesn’t work without the computer helping you, he realized.
He stepped out into the empty aisle and headed for the open hatch. The air smelled strange, and there were odd buzzing noises coming from outside. Or is it inside my head?
