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Suddenly there were shouts from all around them at once. He and his mother were knocked down and they curled together for protection under the lip of the conveyer belt. Heavy doors slid down to close the opening over each belt and the larger gates that they’d come through clanged shut. A mob had rushed the warehouse and the security was battling them off.
A dozen or more burst through before the gate was shut. “We’re hungry now!” one of them shouted. “We’re hungry now!”
They fought with the guards and Kalan saw blood puddle the deck beside him. The men from the mob carried strange-looking weapons—sharpened pieces of metal with tape wrapped for a handle, sharpened pieces of wire. People furiously slashed and poked and clubbed each other. The Line people like Kalan and his mother curled up wherever they could.
One of the looters grabbed Kalan’s pack but the boy held on tight. The man swung the pack up and snapped it like a whip, but Kalan still held on. The man’s sunken-eyed face was spattered with blood from a cut over his nose, his gasping breath reeked of rotten teeth.
“Let go, boy, or I’ll cut you.” Kalan had a good grip with both hands, and he kept it. A guard struck the looter on the back of his neck with a stunstick set on high. Kalan felt the tiniest tingle of it transmitted down the man’s hand to the bag to Kalan. The man dropped with an “oof,” then he didn’t move any more than the bag of rice.
Kalan’s mother grabbed him and hugged him as the guards clubbed the rest of the looters unconscious. He tried not to look at the pulpy faces and splatterings of blood, but it seemed they were everywhere. As he burrowed his face deep between his mother’s breasts, he felt her weeping.
She stroked his head and wept quietly, and he heard the security dragging off the bodies, beating some of them who were coming around.
“Oh, babe,” his mother cried and whispered, “this is no place for you. This is no place for anybody.”
Kalan ignored the barking of guards around them and concentrated on his mother’s softness, and on the tight grip he kept on their rice.
Chapter 4
Human hybernation is to animal hibernation as animal hibernation is to constant wakefulness. In its reduction of life processes, hybernation approached absolute stasis. It is nearer death than life.
—Dictionary of Science, 155th edition
The Director, Raja Flattery, woke once again with a scream in his throat. The nightmare tonight was typical. A tenaculous mass had snatched his head and wrenched it off his shoulders. It dismembered his body but it held his head in its own slithering members so that he could watch the action. The tentacles became fingers, a woman’s fingers, and when they pulled the meat from his body’s bones there was only a sound like a match flaring in a stairwell. He woke up trying to gather his flesh and reassemble it onto the bone.
Nightmares like this one had dogged him throughout the twenty-five years since the hybernation ordeal. He had not wanted to admit it, but it was true that they were worse since the incident with his shipmate, Alyssa Marsh. There was that pattern, too. … Night after night he felt the raw pain in each muscle anew as something pulled his veins and fibers apart. His early training as a Chaplain/Psychiatrist on Moonbase had been little help this time. The physician had given up trying to heal himself.
Get used to it, he told himself. Looks like it’s going to be here for a while.
Even in its after-fright reflection, his face in the cubbyside mirror oozed disdain. His upraked black eyebrows raked upward even further, adding to the appearance of disdain. He felt he wore that look well, he would remember to use it.
What color were her eyes?
He couldn’t remember. Brown, he guessed. Everything about Alyssa Marsh was becoming indistinct as sun-bleached newsprint. He’d thought she would become unimportant, as well.
Flattery’s brown eyes stared down their own reflection. His attention was caught by faint flickerings of colored lights through the plaz from a kelp bed beyond his cubby. It was a much more mature stand than he’d suspected. Early studies debated whether the kelp communicated by such lights.
If so, to whom?
At the Director’s orders, all kelp stands linked to Current Control were pruned back at the first sign of the lights. A safety precaution.
After the lights, that’s when the trouble starts.
He was sure that that patch had been pruned just a week ago at his directive. Both Marsh and MacIntosh had harped on the kelp so much that Flattery had stopped listening to them. The one thing that both of them said that pricked his ears was their common reference to the kelp’s recent growth: “Explosive.” They had both showed him the exponential function at work on the graphs, but he had not appreciated their alarm until now. Flattery dispatched a memo to have this stand of kelp pruned today.
Beyond the kelp bed sprawled the greater lights of Kalaloch where bleary-eyed commuters already lined up for the Project ferry, and The Line was stirring at midtown. If he were outside now he might hear the thankless clank of mill machinery or the occasional blast of an explosive weld.
Crista Galli, he thought, and glanced at the time. Only an hour since he’d fallen asleep. Wherever she was, she and that Ozette, they wouldn’t dare move until curfew lifted. Now is when it would be easy for them. Now when the roadways fill with people for the day, they will be bodies in a throng, anonymous.…
A steady stream of dirtbaggers found their way to Kalaloch every day. He would order the press to quit calling them “refugees” so that he could deal more directly with them. Now that he had HoloVision under control, he could focus on wiping out this maverick broadcast that called itself “Shadowbox.” He knew in his gut that Ozette was the prong of this most annoying thorn, a prong that Flattery was going to enjoy blunting.
Through the plaz the Director could make out the dull glow of a ring of fires from one of the dirtbag camps a little farther down-coast. The Refugee Committee’s report was due this morning. He would use whatever was in it to have the camp moved farther from the settlement perimeter. Maybe downcoast a few klicks. If they want protection, they can pay for it.
The dirtbagger presence as a potential labor crop kept the factory workers and excavation crews sharp. Dirtbaggers attracted predators—human and otherwise. Flattery’s real objection was to their numbers, and how they were beginning to surround him.
He keyed a note to change the name of the Refugee Committee to “Reserve Committee.”
Raja Flattery, long before he became known as “the Director,” was always at work before dawn. Rumors had come back to him that he went months without sleep, and there were months when he thought that was true. His personal cubby resembled a cockpit in its wraparound array of formidable electronics. He liked the feeling of control it gave him here, putting on the world like a glove. Nestled there at his console, shawl across his bare shoulders, Flattery flew the business of the world.
He woke every night sweating and in stark terror after only a few hours’ sleep. He dreamed himself both executioner and condemned, dying at his own hand while screaming at himself to stop. It was all mindful of Alyssa Marsh, and how he had separated her magnificent brain from the rest of her. This was a subconscious display of vulnerability he could not allow to show. It made him reclusive in many respects, as did the distrust for open spaces that had been deeply instilled in him at Moonbase.
Flattery had not yet slept with a Pandoran woman. He’d had a brief fling with Alyssa back on Moonbase just before their departure for the void. An attempt to continue the liaison on Pandora had failed. She had preferred her excursions into the kelp to bedding the Director and had suffered the consequences. Now it appeared that he suffered them, too.
With Pandoran women there were trysts in the cushions, yes, and lively sex as often as he liked, particularly at first. But each time when it was finished he had the woman sent to the guest suite, and Flattery slept what little he could before the dreams had at him.
Power—the great aphrodisiac. He didn’t sneer, it ha
d served him well.
He supposed he should take more advantage of favors offered, but sex didn’t impassion him as it used to. Not since he’d been flying the world. As miserable a little world as it was, it was his world and it would stay his until he left it.
“Six months,” he muttered. “After twenty-five years, only six months to go.”
Nearly three thousand humans had orbited Pandora in the hybernation tanks for a half-dozen centuries. Of the original crew, only Flattery and Dwarf MacIntosh still survived. There were the three Organic Mental Cores, of course, but they weren’t exactly human anymore, just brains with some fancy wiring. Only one of them, Alyssa Marsh, had received OMC backup training. The other two had been infants selected personally by Flattery for their high intelligence and early demonstration of emotional stability.
Smaller than Earth, but bigger than the moon, he had thought after being wrenched out of hybernation. Pandora is an adequate little world.
It became inadequate soon enough.
