Forty Thousand in Gehenna u-1 Page 2

  Conn took his id from his pocket and slid it into the receiver.

  “Id positive,” the duty officer said. And into the com: “Tyson: Col. James Conn to see the captain.”

  That was as arranged–no formalities, no fanfare. He was a passenger on this ship, separate, no cooperative command. Conn collected the aide and walked with him up to the lift, small‑talked with him on the way, which was his manner…none of the spit and polish of the spacegoing Elite Guard. Special operations was his own branch of the service, and that of the highest officers in his immediate staff. And after thirty years service, with a little arthritis that got past the pills–rejuv delayed just a shade too long–he had less spit and polish about him than he had started with.

  A new start. They had persuaded him with that. Jean was gone; and the mission had fallen into his lap. A change seemed good, at this stage in life. Maybe it was that for Beaumont, for Gallin, for some of the others he knew were going. There might be a separate answer for the science people, who had their own curious ambitions, and some of whom were married to each other; or were sibs; or friends. But those of them who came out of the old service–those of them carrying some years–out of that number, only Ada Beaumont was taking advantage of the Dependents allowance and taking a husband along in a mission slot. The rest of them, the nine of them who had seen the war face‑on, came solo like the freshfaced youths. The years had stripped them back to that. It was a new life out there, a new chance. So they went.

  The lift opened, let him and the aide out on the main level. He walked into the captain’s office and the captain rose from her desk and met him with an offered hand. A woman of his own years. He felt comfortable with her. He surprised himself in that; generally he was ill at ease with spacers, let alone the black‑uniformed Elite like Mary Engles. But she offered a stout and calloused hand and used a slang out of the war, so that he knew she had dealt with the ground services before. She sent the aide out, poured them both stiff drinks and sat down again. He drew a much easier breath.

  “You saw service in the ’80, did you?” he asked.

  “Ran transport for a lot of you; but old Reliancesaw her better days, and they stripped her down.”

  “ Reliance. She came in on Fargone.”

  “That she did.”

  “I left some good friends there.”

  She nodded slowly. “Lost a few too.”

  “Hang, it’s a better run this time, isn’t it?”

  “Has to be,” she said. “Your boarding’s set up. You have orders for me?”

  He opened his jacket and took out the envelope, passed it to her. “That’s the total list. I’ll keep out of your way during transit. I’ll instruct my command to do the same.”

  Another nod. “I always liked special op. Easy passengers. You just keep the science lads and the dependents out of the way of my crew and I’ll think kindly on you forever.”

  Conn grinned and lifted the glass. “Easy done.”

  “Huh, easy. The last such lot I dropped was glad to get off alive.”

  “What last lot? You do this weekly?”

  “Ah.” Engles sipped at her glass and arched a brow. “You’ll not be telling me I’m to brief you on that.”

  “No. I know what the program is. And the ship knows, does she?”

  “We have to. What we’re doing, if not where. We’re the transport. We’ll be seeing you more than once, won’t we? Keep us happy.”

  “By then,” Conn said, “any other set of faces is going to come welcome.”

  Engles gave a one‑sided smile. “I expect it will. I’ve run a few of these assignments. Always like to see the special op heading it up. Far less trouble that way.”

  “Ever had any trouble?”

  “Oh, wehaven’t.”

  He lifted a brow and drained the glass. There were photofaxes on the office walls, ships and faces, some of the photos scarred and scratched. Faces and uniforms. He had a gallery like that in his own duffle. The desk had a series of pictures of a young man, battered and murky. He was not about to ask. The photos never showed him older. He thought of Jean, with a kind of grayness inside…had known a moment of panic, the realization of his parting from Cyteen, boarding another ship, leaving the places Jean had known, going somewhere her memory did not even exist. And all he took was the pictures. Engles offered him a half glass more and he took it.

  “You need any special help in boarding?” Engles asked.

  “No. Just so someone gets my duffle on. The rest is coming in freight.”

  “We’ll take your officers aboard at their leisure. Science and support personnel, when they arrive, are allotted a lounge to themselves, and they’ll kindly use it.”

  “They will.”

  “A lot smoother that way. They don’t mix well, my people and civs.”

  “Understood.”

  “But you have to make it mix, don’t you? I sure don’t envy you the job.”

  “New world,” he said, a shrug. The liquor made him numb. He felt disconnected, and at once in a familiar place, a ship like a dozen other ships, a moment lived and relived. But no Jean, That was different. “It works because it has to work, that’s all. They need each other. That’s how it all fits together.”

  Engles pressed a button on the console. “We’ll get your cabin set up. Anything you need, you let me know.”

  The aide came back. “The colonel wants his cabin,” Engles said quietly.

  “Thanks,” Conn said, took the hand offered a second time, followed the black‑uniformed spacer out into the corridors, blinking in the warmth of the liquor.

  The scars were there…the aide was too young to know; scars predating the clean, the modern corridors. The rebellion at Fargone; the war–the tunnels and the deep digs…

  Jean had been with him then. But twenty years the peace had held, uneasy detente between Union and the merchanter Alliance. Peace was profitable, because neither side had anything to gain in confrontation…yet. There was a border. Alliance built warships the Accord of Pell forbade; Union built merchant ships the Accord limited to farside space…cargo ships that could dump their loads and move; warships that could clamp on frames and haul: the designs were oddly similar, tokening a new age in the Between, with echoes of the old. Push would come to shove again; he believed it; Engles likely did.

  And the Council must believe it…making moves like this, establishing supply, the longterm advantage of bases on worlds, which were unstrikable under the civilized accords; most of all assuring an abundance of worldbred troops who could not retreat. Union seeded worlds, strategically placed or otherwise…every site which could marginally support human life…an entrenched, immovable expansion which would bottle Alliance in close to their own center and thoroughly infiltrate any territory Alliance might gain in war or negotiations.

  The building of carrier ships like Venturewas part of it.

  And the other part rested in the hands of special op, and employees of the government who for various reasons, volunteered.

  v

  T‑20 hours

  Cyteen dock

  The lines fell into order, white‑clad, shaven headed, a slow procession across the dock, and no one paid it more than the curiosity the event was due–the loading of cloned‑man workers onto transports, which always shocked Alliance citizens and sent a shiver up the staunchest of Union backbones. It was an aspect of life most citizens never had to see, the reminder of the lab‑born ancestry of many of them–the labor pool on which worlds were built. Azi workers served in citizen homes, and worked on farms and took jobs others found undesirable–quiet and cheerful workers in the main.

  But these were quiet indeed, and the lines were unnaturally patient, and the shaved heads and faces and the white sameness was grim and without illusion.

  And to stand in that line–himself shaven and blank except for the small blue triangle on his right cheek and a number on his hand–Marco Gutierrez felt a constant panic. Keep the eyes unfocused or fixed, th
ey had said onworld, when they were loaded onto the shuttles. Don’t worry. The numbers you’re wearing are specially flagged in the comp. The same system that lets the azi all get the right tape will get you no worse than an informational lecture. They’ll know who you are.

  The azi frightened him–all of them, so silent, so fixed on what they did and where they went. He stared at the whiteclad shoulders in front of him, which by the hips belonged to a woman, but he could not tell for sure from the back. There were sets of these workers, twins and triplets, quads and quints. But of some he had seen only a single example, unique. He had not gotten a wrong tape when they passed through the lab: he had lain down under the machine terrified that they might slip him a wrong one, and he might end by needing psychiatric help–his mind, his mind, that was his life, all the years of study–But it had come out right, and he had only the dimmest impression of what they had fed him–

  Unless–the thought occurred to him–that was the same confidence all of them in the lines had, and they were all being deceived and programmed. The imagination that something might have been done to him without his knowledge sent the sweat coursing over a shaved, too‑smooth body. He trusted his government. But mistakes were made with the push of a computer key. And sometimes the government had done harsh things in harsh times–and lied–

  Eyes blank. He heard noises, the crash of machinery, and the movement of vehicles. He was aware of people on the sidelines staring at them; at him. It was hard not to be human, hard not to turn and look, or to shift the feet or to fret in line or make some small random movement–but the azi did not.

  At least some of these close to him must be citizens like him. He had no idea how many. He knew that some of his colleagues were with him, but he had lost track of them, in the shifting of the lines. They were boarding. They went toward the ship; and they moved with incredible slowness.

  There had been a time, in that white‑tiled room on Cyteen where he and others of his group had last been human–that they had been able to laugh about it; that they made jokes and took it lightly. But that was before they had been taken singly into the next room and shaved, before they had had a number stamped on them and individually gotten the instruction on behavior, before they had fallen into the lines at the shuttleport and been lost.

  There was no more humor in it, no more at all. There was terror…and humiliation, the violation of privacy, the fear of coercion. All he had to do to back out now was to turn and walk away from the line, which no azi could do; and something was holding him there, a constraint he believed was his own volition, his courage keeping him where he was.

  But lately all realities had shifted. And he was no longer certain.

  What, he thought as the line inched its way toward the access ramp, in sight now, what if things had gone totally wrong? And what if the people who were to recognize him did not?

  But the tape had been harmless; and therefore the computer had the number right.

  He trusted. And inched up the ramp step by step, never making a move some azi in front of him had not made. He picked the quietest and the steadiest for his models, in the hope that others behind him were likewise taking their cues from him.

  The line entered the dark of the hold, and they approached a desk, one by one; one by one the azi held out their right hands for the inspection of the clerks.

  But none of them were pulled out of line, and Gutierrez’ heart beat harder and harder.

  His own turn came, and he offered his falsely tattooed hand to the recorder, who took it and wrote down the number. The slip went to a comp tech. “Move on,” a supervisor said, and Gutierrez moved, less and less in command of his knees. He passed the inner lock in the same shuffling line, and a kind of paralysis had set in, past the time that he thought he should have made a protest–that it was too great a silence to break, that hypnotic oneness that drew him into step and kept him there.

  “789‑5678?” a male voice asked him. He looked that direction; one could look, when a number was called. A guard beckoned him. He came; and they called another number and another, so that now there were a group of them being called out of the lines and let into a side corridor.

  “You’ll just come this way,” the guard said. “We’ve got your id all set up; you’re all right and your gear is boarded. They’ll get you all, don’t worry.”

  Gutierrez followed the black‑uniformed guard, through that corridor and along the curving halls which became difficult to walk without leaning, a turn aft now, and another turn which brought them to a lift. The guard opened the door for them, and motioned them into the car.

  “Push 3R,” the guard said, while the lift filled with more and more of them until some had to wait outside. “3R’s your section; someone’s waiting for you topside.”

  Gutierrez pushed the buttons and the door closed. The car shot up against the direction of G and let them out again, where a second guard waited with a clipboard. “Room R12,” the guard said, and slapped a keycard into his hand. “Name?”

  “Gutierrez.” It was his again, name and not number. They called off another man to room with him: Hill, the name was. “Next,” the guard said, and the lift was already headed down again, with name after name called off and all of them headed down the corridor.

  In silence. Deathly silence. “We’re clear,” Gutierrez said suddenly, and turned and looked at the rest of them, at shaved, hollow faces, male and female, hairless, browless, at eyes which had gone from blankness to bleak fatigue. “We’re clear, hear it?”

  There were some braver than the others–a female face startlingly naked without brows, a too‑thin mouth that twisted into a struggling grin; a darkskinned man who looked less naked, who shouted out a cheer that shocked the silence. Another reached up and rubbed the tattoo on his cheek; but that would have to wear off, as the hair would have to grow back. “You’re Hill?” Gutierrez asked of his assigned roommate. “What field?”

  The thin, older man blinked, wiped a hand over his shaved skull. “Ag specialist.”

  “I’m biology,” Gutierrez said. “Not a bad mix.”

  Others talked, a sudden swelling of voices; and someone swore, which was what Gutierrez wanted to do, to break the rest of the restraints, to vent what had been boiling up for three long days. But the words refused to come out, and he walked on with Hill–26, 24, the whole string down past the crosscorridor and around the corner: 16, 14, 12… He jammed the keycard in with a hand shaking like palsy, opened the door on an ordinary little cabin with twin bunks and colors, cheerful green and blue colors. He stood inside and caught his breath, then sat down on the bed and dropped his head into his hands, even then feeling the tiny prickle of stubble under his fingertips. He felt grotesque. He remembered every mortifying detail of his progress across the docks; and the lines; and the medics; and the tape labs and the rest of it.

  “How old are you?” Hill asked. “You look young.”

  “Twenty two.” He lifted his head, shivering on the verge of collapse. If it had been a friend with him, he might have, but Hill was holding on the same way, quietly. “You?”

  “Thirty eight. Where from?”

  “Cyteen. Where from, yourself?”

  “Wyatt’s.”

  “Keep talking. Where’d you study?”

  “Wyatt’s likewise. What about you? Ever been on a ship before?”

  “No.” He hypnotized himself with the rhythm of question and answer…got himself past the worst of it. His breathing slowed. “What’s an ag man doing on a station?”

  “Fish. Lots of fish. Got similar plans where we’re going.”

  “I’m exobiology,” Gutierrez said. “A whole new world out there. That’s what got me.”

  “A lot of you young ones,” Hill said. “Me–I want a world. Any world. The passage was free.”

  “Hang, we just paid for it.”

  “I think we did,” Hill said.

  And then the swelling in his throat caught Gutierrez by surprise and he bowed his h
ead into his hands a second time and sobbed. He fought his breathing back to normal–looked up to find Hill wiping his own eyes, and swallowed the shamed apology he had had ready. “Physiological reaction,” he muttered.

  “Poor bastards,” Hill said, and Gutierrez reckoned what poor bastards Hill had in mind. There were real azi aboard, who went blankly to their berths wherever they might be, down in the holds–who would go on being silent and obedient whatever became of them, because that was what they were taught to be.

  Lab specialists would follow them in three years, Gutierrez knew, who would bring equipment with which the new world could make its own azi; and the lab techs would come in expecting the fellowship of the colony science staff. But they would get none from him. Nothing from him. Or from the rest of them–not so easily.

  “The board that set this up,” Gutierrez said quietly, hoarsely, “they can’t have any idea what it’s like. It’s crazy. They’re going to get people crazy like this.”

  “We’re all right,” Hill said.

  “Yes,” he said; but it was an azi’s answer, that sent a chill up his back. He clamped his lips on it, got up and walked the few paces the room allowed, because he could now; and it still felt unnatural.

  vi

  T‑12 hours

  Aboard Venture

  docked at Cyteen Station

  “Beaumont.” Conn looked up from his desk as the permission‑to‑enter button turned up his second in command. He rose and offered his hand to the special forces captain and her husband. “Ada,” he amended, for old times’ sake. “Bob. Glad to draw the both of you–” He was always politic with the spouses, civ that Bob Davies was. “Just make it in?”

  “Just.” Ada Beaumont sighed, settled, and took a seat. Her husband took one by her. “They pulled me from Wyatt’s and I had a project finishing up there…then it was kiting off to Cyteen on a tight schedule to take the tapes I guess you had. They just shuttled us up, bag and baggage.”