So, what the hell was he supposed to do for the next three years--bitch to himself about the company? Figure out how to sue for damages? Try to get a message to Jennine? Jennine. As easily as he called up his own image, he accessed one of her.
God, how he loved that crooked smile! She appeared poised to break into laughter, ready to deliver a punch line, though she never seemed to get them right. She wore her hair in bangs that were always too long. Her video image brushed them aside.
"I'll be waiting," she said. "Three years isn't forever. We can make it. I love you!"
Desperate to talk to her, he let the image fade. He needed a radio.
Ship continually sent a homing signal to headquarters. In emergencies, Chaz could access the company's lunar terminal, but that was it. Radio Jennine? Probably not, unless she lived next to the terminal. Damn them!
Ship’s radio occupied a space near the "crew compartment," a euphemism for the closet where they stashed his body. Chaz dispatched the mule. Maybe he could make an adjustment, even if he didn’t know which frequency to use. The trip would take three bloody years--time to check quite a few.
He tracked the mule's progress on the schematic as it trundled toward Ship's bow. When it reached a point adjacent to the crew compartment, he switched his view to the on-board camera and searched for access. The compartment was normally serviced only between missions, through a port in the main hull, yet a few components near his stasis chamber might require in-flight access. So a mule hatch had to be available somewhere.
At length, he found it--welded shut, the seam nearly invisible.
Fine. He could play that game, too. He directed the mule to switch to salvage mode. A metal shear at the end of a jointed arm appeared from the side of the machine. Chaz made a plunge cut just outside the weld and followed it around. He retracted the cutter and drove the mule through the newly-recreated hatch.
The communications drawer should have been at deck level, right across from his stasis chamber. He panned the mule's camera, trying to orient himself, but something was wrong.
The stasis chamber--it wasn't there! In its place sat one of Ship's ubiquitous cargo containers. The hold was full of them.
Panic rising, Chaz ordered a camera view of his body. Could he have missed something, or cut through the wrong wall? Relief flooded through him as the image appeared normal. He casually directed the camera away from the stasis chamber and zoomed in on the drawers near the deck.
He read the labels on them: communications, life-support, navigation, maintenance, and more--dozens of similar drawers housing redundant circuitry for all of Ship's major systems.
Chaz switched back to his mule's-eye view and wheeled it around until it faced the drawers. Using a multi-function probe, he reached for the nearest one and opened it, then switched back to Ship's view of the area. Not only did the drawer remain closed, the mule did not appear at all.
He felt the ghost of his bowels empty. Switching back to the mule's camera, he checked both sides of the cargo container. He prayed that his body remained inside, yet no wires led to it. Nothing but anchor-clamps held it to the deck.
He panned upwards and spotted a metal housing the size of a boot box, with a dark, heavy wiring harness attached. The housing stood out from the wall like a cabinet. Chaz extended an exploratory probe and tightened the mule's camera focus on a small decal which warned against unauthorized access. Still smaller lettering identified the manufacturer as Cerebral Controls, Inc.
Where the hell was he? Locating the radio suddenly became secondary to finding his body. He retracted the mule's devices, turned back to the jagged-edged hatch, and wheeled out of the compartment. Using the schematic, he began a thorough search, starting with the hold.
When the interior of the ship failed to yield any secrets, Chaz drove the mule into an EVA harness and switched to the exterior. By the time he returned the little repair unit to its recharging station, he had come to an inescapable conclusion.
His body wasn't on board, but his brain was.
Fear, outrage, betrayal, and disbelief all fought for the top spot in his awareness. Anger won. The bastards had even trained him to operate without his body! He'd marched eagerly to the guillotine without even knowing it--his only thoughts at the time were of money, freedom, and Jennine.
It made a sick sort of sense. Why cart a body all over the solar system when it wasn't needed? The company only wanted his mind. He wasn't Ship's pilot; he was Ship's problem solver, just another non-redundant system. It would have worked fine for them as long as he never knew.
His discovery changed all that. Chaz the pilot had just become Chaz the problem--the biggest one Long Haul, Limited, ever had.
So, what could he do about it? How could he strike back? For once, time became a luxury instead of a curse. He could use as much of it as he liked to make his decision, though it boiled down to one of two options. He could forget it--simply knock himself out and let Long Haul erase the knowledge from his mind, or figure out a way to retaliate.
The easiest solution would be to let himself continue to be duped by the company. Would it be so bad, after all, to spend the rest of his life in fantasies of his own choosing? So what if the mission was never over--he wouldn't know it. To him, Jennine would always be there, waiting, and the current flight would always be his last.
Then again, how many times could he stand to discover the company's treachery? And why should he let them get away with it? He had most of three years to figure out how to override Ship's navigational controls. If he really wanted to, he could just run Ship into Long Haul's orbiting terminal. Without any stealth at all, he could wipe out the entire complex. He could kill everyone!
The momentary thrill of vengeance left him. He had no desire to punish innocents for what a handful of unscrupulous suits had done. Worse still, those deserving his wrath weren't likely to be aboard the terminal. They'd be dirtside, gloating over their profits.
The word caused a wonderful feeling to come over him.
Profits.
They'd left him in charge of the source of their profits. Using the mule, it wouldn't require much effort to set the cargo containers adrift. In a weightless environment, a little service robot could easily be turned into a sophisticated stevedore. Without course corrections the cargo would float off into deep space, lost forever.
Damn! He wished he had a face. A smile would have felt so good! Might as well get to work, he decided. He had some cargo to move and a little welding to do. The sooner he finished, the sooner he could go back to sleep.
~End~
Hardguys
There is no great genius without some touch of madness.
- Seneca
Dallas jumped first, then turned so he could video Rutherford as he exited from under the wing of the Cessna. The two skydivers fell toward Savannah beach, confident the summer crowd would scatter as they approached. Feeling the usual intense rush, Dallas held off deploying his chute as long as he could. He knew Rutherford would, too.
At 3,000 feet Dallas pulled the pin and experienced the moment of exquisite agony he always felt before the rectangular panels actually opened. He watched for Rutherford's sail even as his own yanked him from free-fall. Rutherford kept going.
"Pull it!" Dallas yelled, knowing no one could hear him. "Damn it, Ruts!" He watched in horror as the skydiver angled away from the shore. They both knew a human couldn’t survive hitting the water at 120 miles per hour. With any luck, Ruts would die on impact.
Dallas clenched his fists and jaws, moaning as his friend hurtled toward the ocean. Though all his instincts screamed at him to close his eyes, he forced himself to watch. Suddenly, it ended, and Dallas couldn't shake the notion that the splash should have been bigger. Ruts deserved that much, at least.
~*~
"Yes, this is Dallas Grant." He listened to the voice on the phone, the accent deep south. "Do I know who?"
"Eli Barnes," said the voice. "We believe you're his only living
relative."
"He's my uncle, but I've never met him. Mom always said he was so crazy she didn't want me near him."
"I see. Well, I'm afraid I have some bad news--"
"Please, Lord, not another funeral."
"Another? No. We buried him a week ago. I need your help to settle the estate. There are some papers to sign, and a few bills to pay. After probate, everything goes to you."
"Including his debts? No thanks. I've got enough of my own."
"The estate includes a sizable piece of land which, when liquidated, should more than cover any liabilities."
"Really?" Dallas's hopes rose as his thoughts drifted to what he owed the Pinnel brothers. He wished Ruts had never set him up with those guys, even though they'd been the only ones willing to finance his "investments," few of which ever made it to the winner's circle. "So, what do I need to do, Mr.--"
Someone pounded on his door.
"Hang on. I'll be right back." He put the phone on the counter, went to the door of his one-bedroom apartment, and opened it. Leon Pinnel filled the doorway and scowled at him. Dallas felt his sphincter tighten to a pinpoint, but managed a thin smile at the enormous redneck. "Yo, Leon--what's shakin'?"
Pinnel ducked to clear the frame and poked him with a kielbasa-sized finger. "Yer past due. I'm here to collect."
Dallas stared down at the patchwork of scars on the knuckle of the finger digging into his chest. "So soon?" he asked, trying to sound surprised.
"Bet'cher ass," Pinnel said. "Sixty-five hun'erd. Now." He punctuated each syllable with a fresh finger jab.
"But I only borrowed five thousand!"
"So?"
"Stand by, will ya--I'm on the phone." Rubbing his chest, Dallas hurried back to the kitchen and picked up the receiver. "You still there?"
"Yes," said the voice. "When can we expect you?"
"Soon." Dallas lowered his voice. "What's the address?" He wrote it on the back of a phone bill. "I'll call you when I get there." He hung up.
Pinnel entered the kitchen. "You makin’ travel plans, Grant? I'd sure hate to see you have an accident."
Dallas stared at him in silence, unwilling to show any sign of intimidation.
"You know," Leon said, "like that dude whose chute didn't open."
~*~
A two-hour drive from Savannah, Leesville consisted of one traffic light and a half dozen buildings, the largest of which the mayor shared with the town's only policeman, who also used it to house his barber shop. According to the ancient barber/cop, Dallas's inheritance awaited him about ten minutes away on a county road.
The scenery offered only monotony--trees, flat pasture, more trees. He'd hoped there might be something to help him get Ruts off his mind, but the terrain yielded no such inspiration.
Dallas found the mailbox and, after following a drive which meandered through a pecan grove, arrived at a two-story, frame house with a barn and several smaller buildings. None of the structures looked as if they could withstand a moderate wind. He parked, walked to the house, and knocked on the door.
He stood waiting for someone to answer then slapped his forehead. "Idiot! Uncle Eli's dead."
He pushed the unlocked door open and stepped inside. Unable to find a light switch, he walked through the dark room. When a string from above tickled his forehead he grabbed at it and pulled. A single, bare, low-wattage bulb clicked on.
He stood in a cramped room every bit as shabby as the building's exterior. A few small, plain cabinets suggested the room had served as a kitchen. Except for a calendar from a funeral home, the walls lacked decoration. Dallas shook his head. Old Eli must've been a real swinger, he thought.
The room contained two appliances, an ancient gas range and what he guessed was a first-generation microwave. The windowless door and sides of which were fashioned from unpainted sheet metal. The controls consisted of a toggle switch and a pair of gauges that would've been at home in a Model T.
Beside the machine stood a pile of phony steaks, like those used in kitchen appliance displays. Dallas picked one up, surprised to find it as heavy as a real steak. He dropped it back on the pile and sent the collection clattering like loose bricks.
The rest of the house matched the kitchen’s worn, Spartan decor. It had a locked-in-time feel to it, as if Uncle Eli had been unwilling to move on after the halcyon days between World War II and the Korean conflict.
Standing in what must have passed for the “living” room, he saw headlights coming up the drive. There's no way Leon could've found me this fast, he thought. He stood to one side of the window where he could peek out from behind a thin curtain. He watched in surprise as an ambulance parked beside his car, and a young woman got out. Though frowning, and dressed in the utilitarian garb of an emergency medical tech, she was pretty enough to turn heads, including his. Dallas met her at the door with a cheery, "Hi!"
Her eyes widened momentarily, then narrowed. She looked straight at him. "Who're you?"
"I'm Eli Barnes's nephew," he said, smiling.
She shook her head and looked away. "I should've known the murdering bastard had family."
~*~
Leon handed his brother, Travis, a beer. "He'll pay. I know he will."
Travis looked up from the Braves game on TV. "When did you become psychic?"
Leon took a long pull from his beer, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "He's got an inheritance coming."
Travis smirked.
"No, really," Leon said. "His rich uncle died."
"Well now, there's an original story." Travis turned off the set with his remote and tossed it on a side table. "Y'know, you're about as useful as tits on a nun. You wanna prove me wrong? Find him. Then call me."
~*~
Dallas accompanied the woman, who'd finally introduced herself as Marti, toward the barn.
"The lab was out here," she said. "It's where my grandmother said he did all his work. Right up until your uncle killed him. Gramp was brilliant. He got his start working with Thomas Edison."
Dallas tried to be objective, but wearied of Marti's constant sniping at Uncle Eli. "If my uncle was a murderer, how come nobody arrested him?"
"Because it wasn't a local who got hurt. Gram said it didn't matter that they'd lived here during the war, folks treated them differently because they didn't grow up around here. Your uncle did. He owned the farm and rented space to Gramp."
"Wait a minute. How long ago was all this?"
"It happened before I was born. Gramp's been dead for fifty years or so."
"Geez. You made it sound like he died last week! Did you even know my uncle?"
"I know he was a murdering son of a--"
"Whoa!" Dallas said, stopping in front of the barn. "Calm down. He may have been everything you say, I wouldn’t know. But running him down isn't going to do any good. He's dead. You must've had something in mind when you drove out here. Hopefully something more worthwhile than causing me grief." Despite the wretched lighting, Dallas thought he detected a blush.
"You're right." She gave him a half-smile. "I apologize. None of this is your fault. When Gramp died, Gram had to move away 'cause she couldn't find work. Gramp spent everything they had on some invention of his, and your uncle wouldn't let anybody near it. Gram had to take any jobs she could find to keep from starving. She didn't even have enough money to get help for Momma when she got sick. Gram raised me after Momma died."
"What about your father?"
"There's another prime bastard, but I don't want to get into that. As far as I'm concerned, all our troubles started right here."
Dallas gave her a conciliatory shake of his head. "Actually, my family didn't think much of Uncle Eli either." He held out his hand and smiled. "Truce?"
Marti shook it. "Sure."
"Good," Dallas said. "Now, what're we looking for?" He pushed the barn’s side door open. "Wish I'd brought a flashlight."
When Marti clicked one on, he chuckled. "Do you go everywhere so well-prepared?"
/>
"No, but I always keep a flashlight handy," she said. "Truth is, I didn't expect anyone to be here. I planned to look around alone." She found light switches and flipped them on. One bulb responded.
"That's about par," Dallas said. "I'll get some more in town tomorrow."
Marti didn't answer. She had busied herself examining the cobwebbed equipment crowding the antique laboratory.
"This is Flash Gordon stuff." Dallas blew dust from a device resembling a bench-mounted raygun. "From the looks of it, I expect Buster Crabbe to walk in any minute."
"Who's he?"
"Buster Crabbe was Flash Gordon--the original space stud back in the 30's. I'll bet your grandfather saw his films. Sci Fi classics."
"I doubt it. Gramp was brilliant. He'd never-- Look!" She held up a dusty, leather-covered journal. "His notes! Gram said he was working on something exotic, something that'd make them rich."
Marti fell silent as she read. Dallas watched her face for clues, a pleasant task. He could easily imagine himself spending time with her, as much as she'd allow.
The smile that accompanied her initial excitement at finding the journal soon faded. Moving her finger down the center of each page, she read the text, stopping now and then to re-read certain passages.
"Well?"
"Most of it was written by Gramp. But the handwriting on the last few pages is your uncle's. It doesn't add much, just rambles. There's even an apology."
"For what?" Dallas reached for the book, but she wouldn't surrender it.
"Gramp was working on a way to preserve meat without refrigeration. He talks about molecular realignment and some other stuff I've never heard of. The math is meaningless to me. Anyway, he did it. With his process, he could make meat last indefinitely. When restored, it was fresh. The equipment's probably still in here somewhere."
An image of the "phony" steaks in the kitchen exploded into Dallas's mind as he patted the raygun. "You think it’s this gizmo?" Then he frowned. "If it worked, what was the problem?"
"Your uncle zapped Gramp with it. He claimed it was an accident."