Outland (15 page)

O'Niel was kneeling on the metal, panting hard and holding the gun ready in one hand. The other arm dripped blood onto the food-stained floor.

"Think it over," the Marshal said quietly.

Spota considered the speed with which the four shots had been fired, the neat circle the four blasts had formed around him. He stood there, the knife ready, watching the Marshal. The gun hand was as steady as the dome protecting the kitchen.

Slowly, reluctantly, he let the knife drop to the floor . . .

Containment was located deep inside the jail, past the offices and the squad room. O'Niel strode down the narrow corridor, past large transparent windows on which were stenciled the words: NO ARTIFICIAL GRAVITY

Zero-gee containment was a relatively recent development in law enforcement. It's hard for a man to make trouble when he's weightless. Gravity is an ancient ally of the troublemaker. Without it, he loses confidence as well as leverage.

The cells were unpressurized, each having its own small airlock. Prisoners wore special security atmosphere suits. Instead of individual tanks, air came from a central source via long tethers affixed to each suit, that further ensured the docility of prisoners so confined. Even if you could make trouble in the absence of gravity, the comparative fragility of the air supply kept disturbances to an absolute minimum.

Several cells were currently occupied. Two fighters brooded opposite each other, unable to do more than glare through faceplate and windows. In another compartment one of the mine's more boisterous drunks was sleeping it off peacefully, floating in emptiness.

O'Niel checked them out as he made his way down the corridor, favoring his bandaged arm. There were two different dressings, one for the knife wound, another for the burn. He was glad Lazarus hadn't been on duty when he'd entered the infirmary for treatment. No doubt she would have treated him with some choice comments between the disinfectants and the bandaging.

Montone trailed after him.

"How's the arm?" His tone was subdued.

"Better. Still hurts. Where is he?"

"In thirty-seven," the sergeant informed him.

"Has he said anything?"

"Not a peep. The only time he's opened his mouth is to accept food."

"Anybody ask about him?"

Monton voice dropped to a disconsolate mumble. "No, no one. Not yet, anyway."

"If anyone does, I want to know."

Montone hesitated, ventured a weak smile. "That goes without saying, doesn't it, Marshal?"

O'Niel glanced back at him, swallowed what he'd been about to say. There was nothing he could say that would make Montone feel worse, and nothing the sergeant could say to make his superior feel any better.

They halted before cell thirty-seven. Beyond the window Spota drifted at the end of a long red tether. O'Niel automatically checked the gauge which monitored the flow of oxygen through the tube. It held steady. Then he activated the intercom receiver set on the wall between the air flow valves.

Stenciled on the window next to the small airlock was the message: CAUTION—ZERO ATMOSPHERE—OXYGEN REQUIRED

O'Niel lifted the small transceiver, spoke toward it while observing the suited figure floating inside the cell. "Spota, this is O'Niel."

The only response was the sound of steady breathing. Spota had to listen whether he liked it or not, O'Niel knew. Speaker and pickup were built into the same helmet that was supplying him with air.

"Okay, keep quiet," O'Niel said. "I'll do the talking for awhile.

"We just got the lab report back on that vial you tried to scald. It's very interesting. Want to know what it said?" Still silence at the other end of the line. "It says you were carrying four ounces of Polydychloric Euthimal. Four whole ounces.

"That's four hundred doses. That's a lot of junk for one man to be hauling around, Spota. Bad junk. Let's see . . . four hundred doses; that ought to get you about four hundred years. You won't be an old man when you finish out your sentence, Spota. You'll be dead. Even with time off for good behavior, you'll be dead. Not that your bosses could care. You're just a cipher to them. Unless we can come to some kind of mutually beneficial agreement."

When he finally spoke, Spota's voice was distorted by the low-level speaker. "I don't know what you're talking about, Marshal."

"Of course you don't," O'Niel said pleasantly. "You're just an innocent, ignorant bystander. You thought you were carrying around a vial of wine. Tell me something. How much does Sheppard pay you to market the stuff? Work as rotten as this ought to at least pay well."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

O'Niel's expression tightened, though his tone didn't change.

"You're a real tough guy, Spota. I'm impressed. You're not going to have any trouble staying in there. Most people start to go a little crazy after a few nights, though, because they start dreaming about not being able to feel the floor." He leaned against the glass and smiled so that Spota could see him clearly.

"Sometimes the tether gets knotted and a man suffocates. You tend to spin in zero-gee when you're asleep. That doesn't happen very often, of course. It's just that the thought of it sometimes keeps people up at night." He paused, letting the image soak in before continuing.

"Except, you're a tough guy, Spota. So that possibility won't bother you."

"Piss off, Marshal."

"That's what I like, Spota. Someone who's real quick with a comeback. Someone who's sharp as well as tough." He growled at the pickup.

"You know what, Spota? I'll let you in on something. I've got you nailed. I got the evidence, I got the witnesses. Never mind the assault, resisting arrest, attempting to destroy evidence, running hatchways without sealing them behind you, conspiracy and all the other little goodies you tacked onto yourself during that little jaunt through the station the other day. Those are just frosting.

"You're going to be shipped back to the main trans-Jovian station on the next shuttle and do time that makes this look like a picnic. Eventually they'll get a writ to feed you truth serum and get the answers that way."

"Admissions made under truth serum aren't admissible as evidence in court," Spota countered, sounding a little less confident.

"A jailhouse lawyer, too. Now I'm really impressed," O'Niel told him, not sounding impressed at all. "Technically you're right, but the boys at the main station will find some way to make it stick. They always do.

"They'll make a special effort in your case, Spota, because the stuff you're peddling kills people. That makes certain folks real mad. Oh, they'll make everything stick, all right. You're going to do time that'll make this seem like a vacation.

"And Sheppard? Sheppard will shrug and bring in a new flunky and get a little richer. So don't make a deal with me. Don't get a reduced sentence. Be real noble and take the fall. Just do your hard time while Sheppard laughs his ass off at you. I've seen it happen like that before, dozens of times. Each time you hired punks think you're doing something special. And the bosses love it, because they always come out winning." He took a deep breath.

"I've got to hand it to you, Spota. You're pretty sharp. See you around, tough guy."

He hung up before Spota could reply even if he'd wanted to. Let him simmer in his own thoughts for awhile. Maybe he'd come around. O'Niel's hand still stung from the burn treatment. He turned to Montone.

"Nobody talks to him. Nobody comes near him. I mean
nobody
. Do you understand?"

"I understand," was the slow reply. O'Niel headed for the exit. "Where are you off to now?"

"That's about enough hard work for one day," was O'Niel's reply. "I think I'll visit some friends . . ."

The room was large and dark, mellow with recessed lighting that enhanced the richness of the paneling on the walls. Comfortable black vinaleather furniture was tastefully deployed on the thick gray carpet. There were pictures on the walls and one isolated sculpture set on its own illuminated lucite pedestal.

At the moment the heavy imitation wood desk was nearly bare. Even the computer terminals that were built in were sheathed in warm wood tones.

Sheppard stood in the middle of the office, putting the golf ball into an automatic return. With each successful putt the machine, announced his score, the distance traveled by the ball, and the speed of the putt. Then it gently blew the ball back to him.

When Sheppard missed, one of two long arms would swing out in a wide arc until it contacted the errant ball. With a hook and twist, it would guide the ball back into the returner which would then plonk it back to its owner.

The twin arms didn't have to work very hard. Sheppard was quite good. The result of much practice.

He studied the undulating carpet as a voice issued from inside his desk. "He's here, Mr. Sheppard."

The General Manager lined up another putt from a fresh angle. "Let him in."

There was a soft hiss from the far end of the room as the door slid aside, admitting O'Niel. If he was impressed by the luxurious surroundings he didn't show it.

Sheppard didn't look up to greet him. He stroked the putter, watching as the ball hooked into the waiting cup: The machine hummed and announced the result.

"Quiet," Sheppard ordered it. Obediently it turned off its audio system. The Manager moved to his right, tapped the ball gently.

"You know," he said conversationally, "I can hit a seven iron five hundred yards on this place. An atmosphere suit doesn't give you much mobility, though. Your swing suffers." He gestured toward the gleaming, well-stocked bar, alive with crystal decanters and glasses. "Fix yourself a drink. The booze is real."

"No thanks." O'Niel stood quietly the diffuse light, waiting.

Sheppard used the end of the putter to move the ball around on the carpet, trying to decide which angle to try next. "You've been busy."

"So have you."

The Manager tapped the ball again, moving it close to a chair leg. His voice didn't change as he asked, "How much do you want?"

O'Niel didn't reply.

"How much?"

The Marshal lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply. The pungent smoke whirled lazily roofward until the cleaning equipment plucked it out of the air.

"That's what we need here," Sheppard murmured disgustedly, "a goddamn hero." He sounded tired. He missed the putt, strolled around to a new position.

"This floor was originally set level. I had parts of it raised and the carpet reset, just a little, just enough to make things interesting. Golf and life are always more interesting when they're tilted just a little, don't you think?" He bent over, squinting.

"I think this piece of rug has a slight break to the left. Listen, O'Niel. Let me tell you what you're dealing with here. I run a franchise. The Company pays me to dig as much ore out of this hell-hole as possible. There's one of me on every mining operation in the system.

"My hookers are clean and good-looking and don't cheat their tricks. My booze isn't watered, my dancers are the most attractive and enthusiastic, and I see to it that the tapes and music for the locker room players are changed every damn shuttle flight.

"The workers are happy. Don't take my word for it, ask them. Ask any multiple tour man or woman who's worked here. Io stinks, but the mine doesn't.

"When the workers are happy, they dig more ore, and get paid more bonus money. I don't take a slice of that. Anything they earn they keep. I get my own bonus checks. When they dig more ore, the Company is happy. When the Company is happy, I'm happy."

"Sounds wonderful," was O'Niel's laconic comment.

"Nothing here is wonderful," Sheppard countered. "It works, and that's enough. Every year we have shift changes. Every year a new Marshal comes in to do his tour. They all know the score. You know the score. You're no different. If this hero routine is to get your price higher . . . I'll think about it."

O'Niel said nothing, spent several minutes strolling around the sumptuous office. Sheppard finally looked up from his putter and eyed him with genuine curiosity.

"What are you after?"

O'Niel concluded his inspection. It had cost more to furnish the office than he made in a year. He stared evenly at the General Manager.

"You."

Sheppard sighed and displayed a sad smile as he returned to his putting.

"What is it with guys like you? If you were such a goddamn super cop, what the hell are you doing on a Company mining operation like Io? They didn't send you here as a reward for your sterling service. You know that and I know that." He stroked the ball.

"I read your record. I read everybody's records before they're assigned here. You want to know why the hell you're here instead of being a Captain somewhere on some nice Earth-side beat like Singapore or New Perth? I'll tell you why. It's right there in your record, if not in so many words. But there are lots of little hints and clues. I'm good at reading that kind of stuff.

"You've got a big mouth. That's why you're sent from one toilet to the next. But you've made your choice about what you want to do with your life. That's your business. Just don't step on mine because I don't plan on spending the rest of my life doing what I'm doing now."

"Good for you."

Sheppard's cajoling tone turned to one of exasperation. "I could understand if this were going to get you somewhere, but it can't. This charade of yours is silly, pointless. Also inconvenient for me or I wouldn't give a damn. You try and meddle, you better know what you're meddling with. You got something to prove, prove it to yourself."

O'Niel turned to leave. "See you around."

Sheppard's voice rose slightly. "If you're looking for more money, you're smarter than you look. If not, you're dumber than you look."

O'Niel smiled backward him. "I'm probably a lot dumber."

"That can get very dangerous."

O'Niel was still smiling as he left the office.

It was night but O'Niel couldn't sleep. He rolled over and flipped on the reading light. The apartment was dark, quiet. He sat up in bed. The sheet next to him was unmussed, the section of mattress untouched. He'd spent too many years on his own side of the bed to roll over onto the undented part. The empty part.