Empire Builders (12 page)
SEVENTEEN
FOUR HOURS LATER he was still climbing the tallest mountain of the Alphonsus ringwall.
Sandpapered by eons of micrometeorite infall, most of the Moon’s mountains looked tired and old. They slumped, rounded and softly curved, their slopes usually very gentle. But the sandpapering had made their slopes very smooth, as well, almost glassy. Traction was not easy.
Dan was puffing with exertion. Malik was right, he thought. I’ve let myself get out of shape. Fat and fifty, that’s me. He stopped and looked downslope toward the floor of A1phonsus. Even though the sun was down, there was seldom true darkness at this latitude. A gibbous Earth hung in the black,
star-flecked sky, fat and gleaming, blue seas and white clouds, glowing with life and warmth. Even the nightside of Earth glittered with lights of cities and highways. There was enough light to see the little pockmarks of mini-craters in the stony ground. Enough light to spot a lone man walking—if you knew where to look. Dan doubted that the space station all the way out at the L1 point could pick him up visually, or even in the infrared. And he knew that the satellites orbiting the Moon at closer altitudes were not equipped for such detailed surveillance work.
star-flecked sky, fat and gleaming, blue seas and white clouds, glowing with life and warmth. Even the nightside of Earth glittered with lights of cities and highways. There was enough light to see the little pockmarks of mini-craters in the stony ground. Enough light to spot a lone man walking—if you knew where to look. Dan doubted that the space station all the way out at the L1 point could pick him up visually, or even in the infrared. And he knew that the satellites orbiting the Moon at closer altitudes were not equipped for such detailed surveillance work.
I’ll be okay, he told himself. Unless they pop a surveillance team into an OTV just to look for me. Or maybe send out a cable car full of guys with telescopes. Better get a move on.
To where?
That had been the first question he had asked himself when he had realized, back on Tetiaroa, that Malik intended to jail him. Where can you go to hide from the Global Economic Council? As one of the richest men in the Earth/Moon system, Dan had always kept a few special hideaways for himself, and a few false identities so he could travel undetected and undisturbed. But with all his assets confiscated, he was down to the few emergency things he had tucked away in safe deposit vaults in various cities on Earth.
For more than ten years he had played this seemingly pointless game. At times he himself had thought that he was being para-noid—or at least childish. But deep in his gut he had known that power-hungry men like Malik would topple him if they got the chance. Now they had done it, and he was running for his life. To where? The question popped up again to confront him as he slogged upslope, following the cable-car line overhead as a rough guide. His immediate goal was another one of those “temporary” shelters that had been emplaced along the cable line. He worried that the next tempo would be largely gutted of its supplies, as the first one had been. Or that Kate Williams’ team of goons would have figured out where was going and be there waiting for him. He pushed on.
Fifty years old, he thought. Some double-damned birthday this is. Some guys retire by the time they’re fifty. Or chuck their careers and start out on something new.
He grinned to himself. That’s what you’re doing, Daniel old pal. Change of life. Time to start a new career. You’re going from being a billionaire to being a penniless fugitive from the law. How’s that for progress?
Well, he answered himself, maybe this time around I’ll figure out what I want to be when I grow up.
Feeling strangely cheerful, Dan trudged on up the slick, almost slippery face of the mountain. He stumbled here and there; once he slid on his rump for nearly thirty yards, stopped only by the rim of a new-looking crater. Sitting there, helmet visor fogged with his ragged breath, peering down into the shadowed depths of the crater, he realized that sizable meteoroids still struck the Moon with some regularity.
That would be the icing on the cake, to get killed by a meteoroid. God’s sniper. He laughed and clambered laboriously to his booted feet once again. At least, he told himself, you can make yourself a moving target.
I panicked, he admitted. I panicked and ran. But what alternative did I have? Once Scarlett’s goons had me in their grip they weren’t going to let me go. Whether Malik sent me to Tetiaroa or Devil’s Island , I’d be tucked away someplace where I’d never get out. I had to run. Or end up in the penal colony back at Aristarchus. I shouldn’t have come to the moon was my big mistake. You can get around on Earth.
Twelve billion people down there; not even the GEC can keep track of all of ‘em. I could have faded into the background while I figured out some way to fight back. Now I’m stuck up here. My next big accomplishment will be to find some air to breathe once this backpack runs dry.
And every step I take moves me farther from the launchpad where spacecraft take off for Earth.
He spotted the tempo, a rounded hump of rubble that looked at first like an abandoned slag heap. But there was an airlock on one side of it, and an antenna poking up from its top.
And a parade of bootprints in front of the airlock, Dan saw. In the undisturbed airlessness of the Moon it was impossible to tell how fresh the prints were. They could have been left by Armstrong and Aldrin, if the Apollo II crew had landed at this spot. Dozens of prints, overlapping, exposing the bright
sandy-looking under-layer of the regolith. In a few millions years’ time they would be darkened by solar radiation, just as the undisturbed top layer was. The prints appeared out of nowhere, seemingly. Then Dan realized that people came this far in a cable car, got down from the car by ladder, and walked to the tempo’s airlock. How recently? He studied the prints for a few swift moments. There seemed to be just as many heading out as heading in, but he could not be certain.
sandy-looking under-layer of the regolith. In a few millions years’ time they would be darkened by solar radiation, just as the undisturbed top layer was. The prints appeared out of nowhere, seemingly. Then Dan realized that people came this far in a cable car, got down from the car by ladder, and walked to the tempo’s airlock. How recently? He studied the prints for a few swift moments. There seemed to be just as many heading out as heading in, but he could not be certain.
Shaking his head inside the helmet, Dan decided to push on. I’m not walking into any trap they’ve set up for me, he told himself. I’d rather run out of oxygen first.
Nearly three hours later he was wondering when he would run out of oxygen. The tempos had been placed an hour’s walk apart. That was the theory. It had taken Dan considerably more than an hour to reach the next one, and it too had plenty of bootprints around its airlock hatch. So he went on.
Trudging up the mountainside, Dan eyed the poles that held the cable. There were sensors atop each pole, he knew. The scientists used them to study the electric fields set up by the incoming solar wind, and the Moon’s faint magnetic field. Have they put cameras up there? Are they watching me? He pictured Kate Williams laughing her head off, watching him stumbling along, knowing exactly where he was every moment of his supposed escape.
“Bust your guts laughing,” he muttered. Then he remembered his suit radio. He clicked it on and tuned to each frequency it could reach. No calls to him demanding his surrender. No security traffic at all. Nothing but the usual bored chatter between workers and the regular Alphonsus news and entertainment stations.
Dan stayed with the classical-music station. They were playing Sibelius’ Valse Triste. He wished it were something more energetic and less gloomy.
The suit smelled funny. Maybe the oxygen’s contaminated, he thought. Or whoever was in this shell before me left a powerful body odor in it. Or maybe I’m starting to crack up. Whatever, the next shelter is it. I’m going in no matter what.
He had reached a ridge of flat ground, something of a shelf that jutted out from the shoulder of the mountain. The crest seemed within reach, but there in the middle of the ridge sat the unmistakable humped pile of bulldozed rubble that marked another tempo. Dan clumped tiredly over to it. Sure enough, there were plenty of bootprints all around the airlock hatch.
“What the hell,” he said to himself.
He slid the hatch back and stepped in. The airlock cycled automatically and most of the stiffness of his suit wilted away as the air pressure built up to normal. The light panel turned green and Dan slid the inner hatch open.
A huge, shaggy-maned, red-bearded man was standing at the hatch, massive fists planted on his hips, a fierce scowl on his flushed face.
“Who the hell are you?” Dan blurted.
The man snarled back, “And just who the fook are you?”
EIGHTEEN
Dan STARED AT the big, red-bearded stranger. Beyond his giant bulk, the shelter looked as if it had been turned into a home. He saw two pairs of double bunks, a desk with a computer atop it, and rough shelves stacked with canned foods all the way up the curved ceiling.
“I asked you a question,” the big man said. “Who are you? What’re you doing here?”
“I asked you first,” said Dan, taking a booted step further into the shelter.
The man looked like anything but a GEC enforcer. Or a Yamagata employee, for that matter. His coveralls were frayed and faded, even patched at the knees, stained with oil and dirt. His wild hair hadn’t seen a scissors in months, and his beard looked as if it could be home to an entire biota of its own. He’s sure not one of my people, Dan told himself. “Now, look,” the man growled, “I’ve asked you twice. I won’t ask a third time. Who the fook are ya?”
Grinning, Dan slid his helmet visor up. He had been in his share of fights on the Moon. This big goon was in his coveralls, while Dan was still encased in his pressure suit and helmet. If it came to a fight it would be no contest, despite the stranger’s size.
“You’re trespassing on Yamagata Industries’ territory,” Dan said. “And from the looks of it, you’re stealing equipment and supplies, to boot.”
The man roared and made a grab for Dan. Inside his cumbersome suit, Dan made no attempt to evade him. He jabbed with a stiff left, ready to follow it with an overhand right. But the giant let the left bounce off his chin with no apparent effect, and before Dan could throw his haymaker, he grabbed Dan by the armpits and lifted him off his feet, suit and all.
Suddenly Dan was dangling in midair, feet pedaling uselessly, his arms flailing, while the giant roared in his face and shook him like a terrier breaking a rat’s back. Dan rattled around inside his suit, banging his head inside the helmet. He could not breathe. He tasted blood in his mouth. His whole world was shaking and roaring. He saw stars flashing and everything started to go gray.
“That’s enough, I said! You don’t wanna kill him until we find out who he is and what he’s doing here.”
The giant let Dan fall to the floor with a thunderous thump. Pain shot through him. Cripes, he’s broken every bone in my body, Dan thought.
“Lemme talk to him.”
Dan looked up through bleary eyes and slowly focused on the wrinkled, shriveled face of an ancient black man. He was tiny, the smallest and skinniest man Dan had ever seen. And old, far older than anyone Dan had seen on the Moon. Like the giant, the black man’s coveralls were tattered and grimy.
The scrawny little man squatted beside Dan’s prostrate form, bent his face close to Dan’s, and said in a voice like sandpaper, “You gotta excuse my big friend. He’s got a real short fuse.”
Dan nearly gagged at the man’s breath. Every part of his body hurt.
“We don’t get a whole lot of visitors here,” rasped the old man. Dan nodded weakly. “Now I’d ‘preciate it if you’d kindly tell us just who the hell you are.”
Slowly, painfully, Dan propped himself up on one elbow, still breathing hard.
“If you don’t talk to me, Big George here’ll go back to kickin’ the shit outta you.” Grinning weakly, Dan managed to say, “No . . . thanks.”
“Then who are you?” the old man asked sharply. “Whatchya doin’ out here?”
“Give me a minute...”
“To think up a story,” growled Big George.
The old man held up a hand. “Let him catch his breath, Georgie.” He finally managed to say, “I’m Dan Randolph. I’m on the run from the GEC-” “Dan Randolph!” blurted Big George. “Not fooking likely! I worked for Dan Randolph. He’s one of the richest bastards in the fooking universe.”
“I was,” Dan said, pulling himself up to a sitting position. “Double-damned GEC stole everything I own.”
“We ain’t heard nuthin’ about that,” said the old man.
“Just happened today. I took off before they could grab me and send me back Earthside.”
“And you just happened to drop into our shelter,” Big George said, his bearded face full of suspicion. “That’s right.”
The old man rose to his feet. “Help him up, Georgie.”
Before Dan could react Big George leaned down, grabbed him again, and lifted him upright.
“Get that suit off him. We can use it,” said the old man. His voice sounded an old-time diesel rig grinding its gears.
“I’ve told you my name,” Dan said, as he lifted his helmet off. “What about yours?”
The old man cast him a sour look. “This is Big George,” he said, pointing with his thumb. “They call me Pops Tucker.”
“They? Who?”
“None of your fooking business,” George snarled. “Now peel off that suit or I’ll take it off for ya.”
Dan started to open up the seals on his cuffs. He heard the chugging of air blowers and thought that the square anodized blue case sitting in the far corner of the shelter looked like an air regenerator from an OTV. They obviously don’t work for Yamagata , he thought, and they sure don’t work for me. They’ve turned this tempo into living quarters—for more than two people, if the other bunks mean anything. And the little guy said “they” call him Pops Tucker. Who the hell are “they”?
Lifting the hard-shell torso of his suit over his head, Dan told them, “I’m going to be pretty goddamned stiff and sore, thanks to you.”
Tucker frowned at him, but said, “George, find some liniment and aspirin in the medical supplies.” To Dan he added sarcastically, for I’m sorry we don’t have diathermy equipment or a whirlpool bath you, Mr. Billionaire.” “Don’t worry about it,” Dan replied. “My own stuff is probably being used right now by a redheaded lawyer who was a spy for the GEC.’
When he finally had removed the last part of his suit, Tucker motioned for Dan to come with him to the table they had set up at the far end of the shelter.
“Our dining room,” he said. “You must be hungry.”
“Now that you mention it,” said Dan, sitting down gingerly. Tucker took the slim plastic chair on Dan’s right. “Before we eat, tell us what happened to you.”
“Yeah,” George said, straddling the chair on Dan’s left. He leaned his buffalo-sized forearms on the table; it groaned and sagged. “Prove to us that you really are Dan Randolph.”
Dan felt the pistol in his pocket pressing against his thigh. :
Whoever these guys were, they weren’t security types. Professional security men would have searched him thoroughly. He felt a little better, knowing that these two men were more like babes in the woods than anything else. The pistol gave him an edge, even against Big George.
“Well?” Tucker prompted.
Dan started to tell his story, getting angrier inside with each sentence. Kate Williams, Nobo Yamagata, even Jane Scanwell had betrayed him. Now Malik’s people were taking over the empire he had worked all his life to build up. Now he was broke, alone, friendless, seemingly at the mercy of two crazy men.
And burning with helpless rage. He didn’t know which was making him more furious: his hatred for Malik
for his frustration at being unable to do a thing about it.
for his frustration at being unable to do a thing about it.
“You mean you expect those other bigwigs to work with the gov’ment on this greenhouse cliff?” Tucker asked incredulously. Dan sighed heavily. His back felt like a board that was on fire. “I don’t know what the hell they’re going to do. If they can’t convince the Council that they’ll cooperate voluntarily, Malik’ll sure as damnation take them over, just like he’s taken my company.” His wizened chin barely clearing the tabletop, Tucker looked across at Big George. “Whattaya think, Georgie?” “I never saw Randolph when I worked for ‘im,” George replied. “But this bloke tells a good story, at least.”
“When did you work for Astro?” Dan asked. “What kind of job did you have?”
George scratched at his shaggy beard. “Two years ago. Came up here to maintain the surface skimmers. For the big helium-three project, you know.”
“Right. We were hiring teleoperators then. And technicians to maintain the skimmers. They’re pretty complex pieces of equipment.”
“Yeah. Well, to me they weren’t anything but big bulldozers with some fancy toys built onto their backs.”
The skimmers scooped in the top few centimeters of the lunar regolith, separated the dirt into basic elements and fed the ores to solar-cell manufacturing plants, all completely automated. They separated out the helium-three, turned the silicon into solar cells, and deposit the cells back on the ground as they moved along.
“Damned expensive toys,” Dan said.
Big George actually smiled at Dan. Or he seemed to; it was hard to tell what was going on inside that beard.
“We used to call ‘em cows. Grazed on the regolith and shat solar cells.”
Laughing, Dan added, “All automatic, too or under remote control by teleoperators back inside the city.”
George’s smile turned into a scowl. “That’s what they fooking told you, maybe, but it’s not the way it looking worked.”
“What do you mean?”
“Fooking skimmers needed maintenance all the time. Otherwise they’d be down more often than they’d be working. Bosses had us out on the surface every fooking day, fixing the bastards.”
“Fixing what?” Dan asked.
“Dust! You ever try working on the surface? Fooking dust gets into everything.”
“I’ve worked on the surface,” Dan snapped. “I was working up here when you were in diapers, for God’s sake. We designed those skimmers with electrostatic dust screens—“ “That aren’t worth a cow flop,” George said. “I’m telling you, they had us out on the surface every fooking day, just about.” “But that’s against safety regulations. The radiation buildup could be dangerous.”
“Tell me about it. I complained, but my supervisor said it was either go out on the surface or get fired. I tried to go over his head. No way. I tried to get the other technicians to refuse to go outside bring the problem to a boil, so to speak.”
“And?”
“And they fired me.”
“I never heard anything about this.”
“I suppose not. You’re too high above us working blokes to be bothered with such petty problems.” “Who fired you? What was his name?”
“Hers. And what difference does it make? What’re you going to do about it?”
Dan started to reply, then realized George was right. There wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it. “So what happened then?” he asked quietly.
“Well,” George said, “Astro guarantees your return fare Earth-side, even if you’re fired. Part of the pension fund. That’s one good thing about the company, I’ve got to admit.”
“So how come you’re still here?”
“I took it out in cash and hung around for a while. Figured I could get another job. I had a girlfriend at Alphonsus that I didn’t want to leave and she couldn’t go back Earthside because she was making five times what she’d get back home.”
Dan waited for him to say more, but George lapsed into silence. “You gotta understand,” Tucker said in his rasping voice, “that there’s a whole underground community here. People like George who just sort of faded into the background—“ “Now, wait a minute,” Dan said. “People don’t just fade into the background up here. Everybody’s accounted for. Computers keep track of every person who arrives and every one who departs. And in between, too.”
Tucker smiled widely, showing teeth that looked artificial to Dan and creasing his wrinkled face even more deeply than usual. Pointing to the desk a few feet away, he said, “There’s a computer.
You find George Ambrose in it. Or Freeman Tucker. I can name a hundred more, too.” “A hundred?”
“More,” George said.
“How in the name of hell can you live in a closed society like A1phonsus? I mean, it’s a self-contained community, ecologically and economically.”
Tucker gave him a nasty smile. “Almost self-contained. Almost completely closed. We live on the almost.”
“How?”
“That’s none of your business, not yet. Right now, we gotta figure out what to do with you.”
Dan glanced at Big George. The shaggy giant was watching him the way a lion stares at a gazelle. “Way I see it,” Tucker said, in his harshly grating voice, “there’s three possibilities.”
“Three?”
Ticking his fingers, “One: you’re a spy from management, sent here to root us out. Two: you’re some nut case who thinks it’d be fun to be in the counterculture. Three: you’re telling the truth and you’re really who you claim you are.”
George held up three of his fingers. “So you got one chance out of three of staying alive.”
Dan mulled it over for a moment, then leaned back in his chair—painfully—and tried to look nonchalant. “One out of three is a good batting average, in baseball.”
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