Mercury (32 page)

He sank back onto the pillow. “I don’t remember,” he lied.

The nurse cast him a doubtful glance. “There wasn’t any ID on you when they brought you in. What’s your name?”

Bracknell started to reply, then caught himself. “I… I don’t remember,” he said.

“You don’t remember your own name?”

Trying to look upset about it, Bracknell said, “I can’t remember
anything.
It’s all a blank.”

“Posttraumatic shock,” muttered the nurse. “We’ll have to run some scans on you, then, and check them against the files.”

She left Bracknell’s bedside. He raised himself up on his elbows and looked around. He was in a cubicle created by portable plastic partitions. His clothes were nowhere in sight. And he knew he had to get out of this hospital before the computer scans identified him as Mance Bracknell, the criminal who’d been sentenced to lifelong exile.

In his office in New Kyoto, Nobuhiko Yamagata watched the image of the white-haired servant as he delivered his final message. It’s finished, then, he said to himself. At last it’s finished. I can breathe freely again.

Within an hour the news came that a corporation ship named
Hiryu
had been destroyed in an accident that also wiped out the freighter
Alhambra.
No survivors were reported.

Nobu’s first instinct was to uncork a bottle of champagne, but he knew that would be incorrect. Besides, he found that he didn’t feel like celebrating. Instead, a profound sense of gloom settled upon him like a massive weight.

It’s finished, he repeated to himself. This terrible business is finished at last.

After a bland meal, Bracknell pushed his tray aside and got out of the hospital bed. The floor tiles felt comfortably warm to his bare feet. He seemed strong enough, no wobbles or shakes. The cubicle was barely large enough to hold his bed. Portable plastic partitions, he saw. No closet. Not even a lavatory. And this damned IV hooked into my arm.

He cracked the accordion door a centimeter and peeped out. The same nurse was striding down the corridor in his direction.

Bracknell hopped back into the bed and pulled the sheet over his naked body.

She pushed the door back and gave him an accusing look. “I saw you peeking out the door. Feeling better, huh?”

“Yes,” said Bracknell.

“Long as you’re taking solid food we can disconnect this drip,” she said, gripping his arm and gently pulling the IV tube out of him. Even so, Bracknell winced.

As she sprayed a bandage over his punctured arm, Nurse Norris said happily, “You’re going to have a pair of visitors, Mr. X.”

“Visitors?” He felt immediately alarmed.

“Yep. Psychotechnician to talk to you about your amnesia, and some suit from the corporate world. Don’t know what he wants.”

“Can I get some clothes?” Bracknell asked. “It’s kind of awkward like this.”

Norris looked at one of the monitors on the wall behind the bed and fiddled with her handheld remote. “The coveralls you came in with were pretty raw. I sent ’em to the laundry. I’ll see if I can find them for you. Otherwise it’s hospital issue.”

“Before the visitors arrive?”

She gave him that unhappy look again. “For a charity case you make a lot of demands.”

Before he could answer, though, she ducked back outside and slid the partition closed.

Once I get my clothes back I can make a run for it, Bracknell said to himself. I can’t let them scan me; I’ve got to get out of here before they find out who I am.

And go where? I’m in Selene, on the Moon. As soon as they find out who I am they’ll slap me into another ship and send me back to the Belt. Where can I hide?

He thought about escaping back to Earth, to Lara. But he knew that was ridiculous. How can I get to Earth from here? Besides, she’s Victor’s wife now. Even if she wanted to hide me, she wouldn’t be able to. Then he realized that he hadn’t the faintest idea of where on Earth Lara might be. Shaking his head morosely, he decided that going back to Earth would be impossible.

Toshikazu said he had a brother, he remembered. What was his name? Takeo. Takeo Koga. And he’s here, on the Moon. Somewhere in the Hell Crater complex. Maybe I can get to him. Maybe—

The partition slid open again and somebody, he couldn’t see who, tossed a flapping pair of gray coveralls at him. In the soft lunar gravity they arched languidly through the air and landed softly on his bed. By then the door had slid shut again. A new set of underwear was tucked into one of his coverall sleeves.

He was sealing the Velcro seam up his torso when someone rapped politely on his door frame. They can see me, Bracknell realized, looking up toward the ceiling. They must have a camera in here somewhere.

He sat on the bed and swung his legs up onto the sheet. “Come in,” he called. Then he realized that his feet were bare. They hadn’t brought any shoes.

Two men entered his cubicle as Bracknell touched the control stud that raised the bed to a sitting position. One of the men wore a white hospital smock over what looked like a sports shirt and corduroy slacks. He was round-faced and a little pudgy, but his eyes seemed aware and alert. The other was in a gray business suit and white turtle-neck, hawk-nosed, his baggy-eyed expression morose.

“I’m Dr. DaSilva,” said the medic. “I understand you’re having a little trouble remembering things.”

Bracknell nodded warily.

“My name is Pratt,” said the suit. “I represent United Life and Accident Assurance, Limited.” His accent sounded vaguely British.

“Insurance?” Bracknell asked.

DaSilva grinned. “Well, you remember insurance, at least.”

Bracknell fell back on a pretense of confusion. “I don’t understand …”

Pratt said, “We have an awkward situation here. Like many ship’s crews, the crew of
Alhambra
was covered by a shared-beneficiary accident policy.”

“Shared beneficiary?”

“It’s rather like an old-fashioned tontine. In case of a fatal accident, the policy’s principal is paid to the survivors among the crew—after the deceaseds’ beneficiaries have been paid, of course.”

“What does that mean?” Bracknell asked, feeling nervous at being under DaSilva’s penetrating gaze.

“It means, sir,” said Pratt, “that as the sole survivor of
Alhambra’s
fatal accident, you are the secondary beneficiary of each member of the crew; you stand to gain in excess of ten million New International Dollars.”

Bracknell gasped. “Ten million?”

“Yes,” Pratt replied, quite matter-of-factly. “Of course, we must pay out to the families of the deceased; they
are
the primary beneficiaries. But there will still be some ten million or so remaining in the policy’s fund.”

“And it goes to me?”

Pratt cleared his throat before answering, “It goes to you, providing you can identify yourself. The company has a regulation against paying to anonymous persons or John Does. International laws are involved, you know.”

“I… don’t remember … very much,” Bracknell temporized.

“Perhaps I can help,” said DaSilva.

“I hope so,” Bracknell said.

“Before we start scanning your brain to see if there’s any physical trauma, let me try a simple test.”

“What is it?”

DaSilva pulled a handheld from the breast pocket of his smock. Smiling cheerfully, he said, “This is what I call the ring-a-bell test. I’m going to read off the names of
Alhambra’s
crew and you tell me if any of them ring a bell.”

Bracknell nodded, thinking furiously. Ten million dollars! If I can get my hands on that money—

“Wallace Farad,” DaSilva called out.

Bracknell blinked at him. “The captain’s name was Farad.”

“Good! Your memory isn’t a total blank.”

“You couldn’t forget the captain,” said Bracknell fervently. Then he remembered that the captain was dead. And Addie. And all the rest of them. Dead. Killed by Yamagata.

“I’ll skip the women’s names,” DaSilva was saying. “I don’t think you had a sex-change procedure before they picked you up.”

Pratt chuckled politely. Bracknell thought of Addie and said nothing.

DaSilva read off several more names of the crew while Bracknell tried to figure out what he should do.

Finally DaSilva said, “… and Dante Alexios. That’s the last of them.”

Dante Alexios had been the vessel’s second mate, Bracknell knew. He didn’t know much about him except that he wasn’t a convict and he didn’t have a wife or children.

“Dante Alexios,” he repeated. “Dante Alexios.”

“Ring a bell?” DaSilva asked hopefully.

Bracknell looked up at the psychotechnician. “Dante Alexios! That’s who I am!”

Pratt looked less than pleased. “All well and good. But I’m afraid you’re going to have to prove your identity before I can allow the release of the policy’s payout.”

Catch-22, Bracknell thought as he sat on his bed. I can get ten million dollars if I can prove I’m Dante Alexios, so I need to let them scan my body. But as soon as they do they’ll find out I’m Mance Bracknell and ship me back out to the Belt as a convict.

A different nurse breezed into his cubicle and shoved a data tablet onto his lap. “Press your right thumb on the square at the bottom,” she said.

Bracknell looked up at her. She was young, with frizzy red hair, rather pretty.

“What’s this?” he asked, almost growling.

“Standard permission form for a full-spectrum body scan. We need your thumbprint.”

I don’t want a scan, Bracknell said to himself, and I don’t want to give them a thumbprint; they could compare it with Alexios’s real print.

He handed the tablet back to the nurse. “No.”

She looked stunned. “Whattaya mean, no? You’ve got to do it or we can’t do the scan on you.”

“I don’t want a scan. Not yet.”

“You’ve got to have a body scan,” the nurse said, somewhere between confused and angry at his refusal. “It says so in your chart.”

“Not now,” Bracknell said. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“They can
make
you take a scan, whether you want to or not.”

“The hell they can!” Bracknell snapped. The nurse flinched back half a step. “I’m not some criminal or lunatic. I’m a free citizen and I won’t be coerced into doing something I don’t want to do.”

She stared at him, bewildered. “But it’s for your own good.”

“I’ll decide what’s good for me, thank you.” And Bracknell felt a surge of satisfaction well up in him. He hadn’t asserted himself for years, he realized. I used to be an important man, he told himself. I gave orders and people hopped to follow them. I’m not some convict or pervert. I didn’t kill all those people. Yamagata did.

The redheaded nurse was fidgeting uncertainly by his bed, shifting the tablet from one hand to the other.

“Listen,” Bracknell said, more gently, “I’ve been through a lot. I’m not up to getting poked and prodded—”

“The scan is completely nonintrusive,” the nurse said hopefully.

“Okay, tell you what. Find me a pair of shoes and let me walk around a bit, stretch my legs. Then tomorrow morning I’ll sign for the scan. Okay?”

She seemed relieved, but doubtful. “I’ll hafta ask my supervisor.”

“Do that. But first, get some shoes for me.”

Less than half an hour later Mance Bracknell walked out of Selene Hospital’s busy lobby, wearing his old gray coveralls and a crinkled pair of hospital-issue paper shoes. No one tried to stop him. No one even noticed him. There was only one guard in the lobby, and when Bracknell brazenly waved at him the guard gave him a halfhearted wave in return. He wasn’t in hospital-issue clothes; as far as the guard was concerned, Bracknell was a visitor leaving the hospital. Or maybe one of the maintenance crew going home.

Most of Selene was underground, and the hospital was two levels down. Bracknell’s first move was to call up a map on the information screen across the corridor from the hospital’s entrance. He found the transportation center, up in the Main Plaza, and headed for it.

I’m free! he marveled as he strode along the spacious corridor, passing people walking the other way. Not a thing in my pockets and the hospital authorities might call Selene’s security people to search for me, but for the moment I’m free to go where I want to.

The place he wanted to go to was Hell Crater.

He located a powered stairway and rode it up to Selene’s Main Plaza, built on the surface of the great crater Alphonsus. Its concrete dome projected out from the ringwall mountains and onto the crater floor. Bracknell saw that the Plaza was green with grass and shrubbery; there were even trees planted along the winding walkways. An Olympic-sized swimming pool. A bandshell and stage for performances. Shops and little bistros where people sat and chatted and sipped drinks. Music and laughter floated through the air. Tourists flitted overhead, flying on their own muscle power with colorful rented plastic wings. Bracknell smelled flowers and the aroma of sizzling food.

It’s marvelous, he thought as he headed for the transportation center. This is what they cut me off from: real life, real people enjoying themselves. Freedom. Then he realized that he had neither cash nor credit. How can I get to Hell Crater? Freedom doesn’t mean much when you are penniless.

As he approached the transportation center, an eager-looking young man in a splashy sports shirt and a sparkling smile fell in step beside him. “Going to Hell?” he asked brightly.

Bracknell looked him over. Blond crew cut, smile plastered in place, perfect teeth. A glad-handing salesman, he realized.

“I’m thinking about it,” Bracknell said.