Sidney's Comet
Authors: Brian Herbert
Tags: #Fiction, #Fantasy, #General, #science fiction
Sidney’s Comet
Brian Herbert
Sidney’s Comet
Brian Herbert
Bestselling author Brian Herbert’s hilarious first novel. For centuries the slops that inhabit the Earth have been rocketing their refuse into the Galaxy, carelessly littering the cosmos with wrappers and peelings and bottles and cans. But now the universe is about to get even. An immense comet of garbage has been sighted on a collision course for Earth! Only one man can stop it: a human discard, a lowly government worker who dreams of becoming a Space Patrol Captain but could never pass the physical—the unheroic, the imperfect, the one-and-only Sidney Malloy!
Sidney’s Comet
Brian Herbert
Smashwords edition
WordFire Press 2011
Sidney’s Comet
copyright 1983, 2011 by DreamStar, Inc.
First publication 1983 Berkley Books
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the copyright holder, except where permitted by law. This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
ISBN: 9781614750192
Electronic Version by Baen Books
PROLOGUE
Humming the Hymn of Freeness, Sayer Superior Lin-Ti moto-shoed over the top of the hill as he had done each morning for centuries on the domed asteroid of Pleasant Reef. This was in a distant, private corner of the galaxy, the breeding and training ground for the young men of Uncle Rosy’s Sayerhood.
Now, in the verdant valley below, Lin-Ti could see the silver-tipped spires of the Great Temple punching through a low fog that lay across the valley floor. From their cave habitats in the hills, white-robed youngsayermen hummed softly as they rolled down along winding motopaths toward the temple. The horizon was close on this little asteroid, and a hazy red outline along the limit of Lin-Ti’s vision marked the approach of the new day’s sun.
With a new vinyl-bound history primer under his arm, Lin-Ti felt excitement at the prospect of the lesson he would begin teaching today.
This garbage comet matter has been a mystery for too many years,
he thought,
and now, thanks to the Sayerhood history writing team . . .
As he reached a fork in the motopath, a ground squirrel darted across the path and disappeared into a clump of Scotch broom. Lin-Ti slowed to roll over an arched bridge to the left, then memo-commanded his shoes to resume speed.
Twenty minutes later, the Sayer Superior stood somberly at a podium with the history primer in front of him. An odor of newness from the book touched his nostrils, and he smiled.
My Rosenbloom, but I love the smell of new things!
he thought.
Lin-Ti glanced around the sunny ordinance room at a seated assemblage of youngsayermen in their hoodless white smocks of purity. Each held an open edition of the primer, and waited to read along with the instructor. One youngsayerman in the first row reminded Lin-Ti momentarily of Onesayer Edward, with the same long body and fat features. Lin-Ti recalled nearly four centuries earlier, when a then Youngsayer Edward had stood with him at the tutelage console . . . such a bright youngsayerman, with so much promise. . . .
A wave of sadness passed over Lin-Ti as he thought of Onesayer Edward’s tragic fate. But as he gazed around the cheerful room and saw attentive young faces looking back, Lin-Ti began to feel better. It was still in the room, and Lin-Ti heard his own muslaba robe rustle as he shifted on his moto-shoes. He leaned one arm on the podium for a moment, then pulled it back and stood erect.
The Sayer Superior was a large man with the shaven head of the Sayerhood, made to look larger by the platform on which he stood. His face had the lineless clarity and serene countenance of one who had never deviated from the Master’s path. In fact, you had to look upon the man for only a short time to know why Uncle Rosy had selected him. Lin-Ti cleared his throat, then read from a looseleaf introduction sheet. Words flowed quickly and smoothly across his lips, like a brook racing over stones to the sea:
“There are special places in the universe, places which even Uncle Rosy never imagined. Of this there is little argument today. Some say God dispersed varying life forms for the purpose of determining the most perfect state of life other than His own. Others are not so certain about the reason for the creation of such special places.
“Imagine one of these places . . . a magical realm having no land or water mass occupied by beings without bodies or flesh, but possessing the most highly developed senses imaginable. Senses without flesh? A realm without land or water? We did say the realm was magical, did we not?
“We can only speculate concerning the party these beings were having when the first load of catapulted Earth garbage came through their realm. We know they were partying, for that was all they had ever done. They were known to revel in the pleasures of non-flesh, and this particular party must have been no exception. Gentle, lilting music and delicate fragrances carried by the sweet solar breezes that moved between the stars and flower planets near their realm probably wafted across their non-human tympanic and olfactory sensors.
“At their party, they undoubtedly had non-physical things which tasted or sounded good, looked attractive or smelled divine. They even had things which felt good to them. It was like any human party in these respects, except all sensual pleasure experiences were accomplished without flesh. For as these beings knew, ‘Flesh clings to senses. Senses do not cling to flesh.’ In their experience, senses were pure and magical. On the other hand, flesh was believed to inhibit sensual enjoyment, and was associated with dirty and distasteful things. As they often said, ‘Flesh stinks when it gets old or when it perspires. Dirt clings to flesh.’”
Lin-Ti looked up, catching the gaze of the youngsayerman who reminded him of Onesayer Edward. Lin-Ti looked back at the looseleaf sheet, flipped it to the other side. The swift-flowing words began anew:
“Students of such phenomena understand that there is a point at which flesh, aided by technology, approaches a more perfect state. But flesh never quite measures up. This is the problem of infinity and of geometrical lines that cannot intersect, of time warps that do not overlap and of lives that never meet. An entity can be there but not there at the same moment, making it impossible to capture from outside its dimension.
“We have reliable reports indicating that the beings of which we speak spent thousands of years enjoying one party. It took them that long to reach a crescendo of pleasure, the point at which all sensual receivers were fully open. It was somewhat akin to a citizen of the American Federation of Freeness on ‘full automatic’ with respect to consumption, and was a very high state of existence for that particular realm.
“With their olfactory sensors fully open to pick up delicate solar fragrances, it is not difficult to imagine the outrage felt by these bodiless beings when they smelted the reek of Earth garbage! The ‘fleshcarriers’ could not have selected a worse place to hurl their poorly constructed, dripping containers!
“After accumulating Earth’s waste for nine years, these beings implemented an appropriate method of returning all of it to the senders. For life forms having their durations measured in thousands of human years, this was quite an immediate response.”
Lin-Ti slipped the looseleaf sheet to a shelf in the podium, and looked up. “In examining the new primer,” he said, “you will note marvelous detail, down to precise conversations . . . even emotions and thoughts. You all understand how this information was developed?”
“Yes, Sayer Superior,” a youngsayerman in the center of the room said, “from the lifelog tapes we have on each government employee—from cell memory readings taken when they touch security monitor identity plates. We have the minutest details on their lives!”
The youngsayerman who resembled Onesayer Edward was not paying attention. He flipped ahead in the text, read a conversation in the middle of the first chapter.
“‘. . . It’s a garbage comet, Mister President,’ Munoz said. ‘Our own damned trash is coming back! . . .’”
The youngsayerman looked up, catching the full impact of Sayer Superior Lin-Ti’s disapproving stare. The offender blushed, then turned back to the title page. . . .
* * *
Sayers’ History Primer
August 24, 2605–September 1, 2605
Dedicated to the memory of our Beloved Master, Willard R. Rosenbloom
P
LEASANT
R
EEF
P
UBLISHERS
New Series 2698
Chapter One
B
ACKGROUND MATERIAL, FOR FURTHER READING AND DISCUSSION
1. mento/ 'mento / vb: activation of a mechanical device through thought transmission.
2. mento/ 'mento / adj: used as modifier, as in “mento thought transmitter” or “mento brain implant.”
From the
New AmFed Dictionary
(Seventy-First Edition)
Thursday, August 24, 2605
At shortly past noon on Garbage Day minus eight, General Arturo Munoz slapped on his gold-brimmed military cap angrily as he and a larger man moto-shoed toward the door of Munoz’s private lunchroom. The windowless little room was chrome and white plastic, illuminated by rows of overhead fluorescent cubes. Some said the room was too austere, particularly for a council minister. “Council ministers should be models of consumption,’ they said. But the General did not listen to such talk. A plate of aromatic syntho-steaklets lay untouched on the table behind him. Despite hunger pangs, he felt too upset to eat. The President had called an emergency council meeting, and General Munoz did not know why.
“I don’t have time to discuss the Black Box of Democracy with you now!” Munoz snapped as he mentoed the hall door. He felt a click-thud in the back of his brain, waited impatiently for the door to open. ‘The Black Box is bluffery, I tell you! The most monstrous bluffery imaginable!”
Munoz slammed, a clenched fist against the stubbornly immobile door, heard the other man mumble something. Then Munoz snarled, “Dammit, Dick. This brain implant you gave me is acting up again!”
The much tidier and consumptively heavy Dr. Richard Hudson was in his usual place at the heels of his superior. Hudson held two typed sheets. His gaze flitted away nervously under Munoz’s ferocious glare. “The implant is not standard consumer issue, as you know, Arturo,” Hudson said. “That’s why you and I can read one another’s thoughts . . . and those of anyone else.”
“I know, I know. . . . ”
Hudson wore a hoodless white, gold-sashed ministerial robe with a gold cross and chain about the neck. General Munoz’s robe was identical, except his garment had multi-colored battle ribbons across one side of the chest. Both men were in their early forties.
“There were bound to be bugs,” Hudson said.
“Yes, but why me? You installed twelve of these ‘special’ devices . . . in our brains and in the brains of my most trusted people. But my implant is the only one to act up! I’M THE LEADER, DAMMIT, AND I CAN’T EVEN MENTO DOORS LIKE THE LOWLIEST CONSUMER!”
“I’ll laser-set the frequency for you again, Arturo.” Hudson fumbled in a robe pocket with his free hand. “Now where did I put that laser pen? . . . Must be in the other pocket. . . . ”
Munoz glared at the still-closed door.
“Just listen to this Bu-Med report for a minute,” Hudson said. “It is most unusual.” He smelled heavily spiced steaklets.
General Munoz shook his head slowly in exasperation. To Hudson, the cap worn by the orange-mustachioed General appeared laughably large on such a small man, but he suppressed the thought.
“Make it fast,” Munoz said, glaring sidelong at Hudson. “We’re due at an emergency meeting.”
Hudson was a nervous, bespectacled man with a bald pate and a fringe of black hair. His influential position as Minister of Bu-Tech had been arranged by Bu-Mil’s powerful minister, General Munoz. Hudson shifted uneasily on his mento-locked moto-shoes as he glanced down at the report.
“There is great power in the Black Box of Democracy,” Hudson read. “Uncle Rosy may still be alive and living inside the structure.”
“We’ve heard this nonsense before,” Munoz scoffed. “The Black Box is our ‘guardian of democracy.’ It will respond to any threat, ‘internal or external.’ It’s all conjecture, Dick. Wild conjecture.”
“Maybe not. Bu-Med says they brought in an unusual client two weeks ago . . . a fellow who said he had once been a Sayerman inside the Black Box. He wrote an article on the subject, was trying to get it published.”
“A Sayerman?”
“According to the report, Sayermen are those brown-robed fellows who never speak . . . the ones who come out of the Black Box to perform mysterious rites at the electronic security monitors. As you know, Uncle Rosy mandated the placement of these monitors at the entrances to all government buildings.”
“More fakery,” Munoz said with a sneer. “Those ‘legendary and impenetrable’ security units they assemble inside the Black Box . . . I say it’s all for show.”
“Listen to this,” Hudson said, looking down at the report as he flipped to the second sheet. “Their client’s exact words: ‘Uncle Rosy has a great chair in the central chamber of the Black Box of Democracy. Adjacent to this chair are three chrome handles. If actuated, the first handle is capable of blowing Earth apart. . . . ’”
“Oh, come now!”
“‘. . .The second can alter the planet’s orbital trajectory and speed. The third would release an army of ten thousand armadillo killer meckies to do Uncle Rosy’s sacred bidding.’”
General Munoz tilted his head back and laughed squeakily. Holding his oversized cap to keep it from falling off, he said, “Sounds like they’ve got a real live one over there, Dick. We’ll visit the Bu-Med psycho ward to consult with him, of course.”
“According to the report, this man does not appear to be deranged. They’ve done brain-chem tests for schizophrenia and other disorders. Additionally, a complete memory scan was performed. He has full and coherent recollections of all the events described.”
“There must be a logical explanation for this.” General Munoz caressed his mustache as he thought.
Hudson met Munoz’s gaze, said: “The fellow claimed a ‘selective memory erasure’ procedure was performed on him when Uncle Rosy released him from the Sayerhood for relocation in mainstream society. But unknown to Uncle Rosy, something apparently went wrong with the erasing equipment and the memories remained intact.”
Munoz’s dark eyes brightened. “Couldn’t this have been a dream that was very real to the man? So real that he thought it actually occurred?”
Hudson’s brow furrowed. “I don’t think so.”
“My intuition tells me you aren’t so certain.” Munoz smiled as he read Hudson’s thoughts.
Flustered, Hudson said, “In large part, the human brain remains a mystery to us. We’re always learning new—”
“I thought as much!” General Munoz snatched the report. He rolled it up and
hurled
it across the lunchroom. “NOW RESET MY TRANSMITTER!” Munoz removed his cap.
Hurriedly, Hudson folded the report and slipped it into a robe pocket. Then he brought forth a white, pen-shaped device, placing the tiny silver tip of it against the back of Munoz’s head.
“Wonder what that fool President wants now,” Munoz said.
“Don’t talk for a minute.” Hudson mentoed the device, saw a tiny lance of red light flash against Munoz’s head.
Munoz jerked.
“All right,” Hudson said, replacing the unit in his robe pocket. “You can open the door now.”
Sidney Malloy’s galaxy blue autosedan accelerated up the onramp to the Campobello Expressway, pressing him against the back of his bucket seat as the car picked up speed. Following the magnetic lure of buried wire, the car fell silently and smoothly into place in midday traffic. Sidney glanced over his shoulder, watched the grey-glass tower of his condominium building disappear behind other similar structures.
The sameness of his lifestyle with that of most other people depressed him momentarily. Sidney knew this was a bad thought, a selfish thought. He turned forward, trying to think of something else.
As Sidney turned his head, a yellow autosport darted past on the left and cut in front of him. This activated the collision sensor on Sidney’s vehicle, and his car braked suddenly, slamming him against his shoulder harness.
“Damned hot dog,” Sidney cursed softly. “His manual override ought to be jammed down his throat!” Sidney mentoed his rooftop signboard, flashing an angry message to the offending driver: “
SLOW DOWN
,
YOU FOOL!
”
The reply came quickly, in bright green letters half a meter high:
“
EAT MY DUST!
”
The yellow autosport darted to the right, taking an exit into New City’s central shopping district.
Sidney’s pre-programmed car took the next exit, negotiating a spiral offramp onto American Boulevard, a broad avenue dotted with pink, lavender and yellow synthetic flowers and plastic maple trees. On each side of the boulevard, miniature expressways for moto-shoeing people carried four lanes in each direction. Sidney saw moto-shoers entering and leaving the skating thoroughfares via ramps. They traveled in lanes of varying speeds, from a slow right-hand lane to faster lanes at the left. Many wore multiphonic headphones over their ears, and Sidney saw their pudgy bodies undulate to the music he could not hear.
They shouldn’t move like that,
Sidney thought.
The Conservation of Motion Doctrine. . . . I’m not the only one with shortcomings!
At a stoplight, Sidney watched a maple tree shed plastic leaves and sprout new ones. Workcrews in bright orange windbreakers carried plastic bags emblazoned with the Bu-Maintenance crest, which they filled with leaves and litter. The air was still.
The car accelerated, gliding on its air cushion past the Black Box of Democracy, an opaque doorless and windowless megalith surrounded by rolling green plastic lawn. There were people reading an inscription plaque on the structure, and others taking pictures. Children played on the lawn.
In the next block, the Uncle Rosy Tower fronted a curving section of the boulevard. Sidney looked up through the glassplex top of his autocar as it rolled by the tower, he could barely make out the ring of the revolving Sky Ballroom on top of the structure.
It’s Thursday,
he thought.
Only two more days until my reunion. Just think
. . .
twenty years
.
Now Technology Square was directly ahead, and Sidney saw the sun peeking through a swirling cloud over New City’s skyline, reflecting off tinted glass windows on the government office towers that ringed the square. A Bu-Cops car sped by, its purple lights flashing and siren wailing. Other sirens screamed in the distance. Throngs of people stood in the square, and more streamed in from all directions.
Something big’s going on,
Sidney thought.
His car stopped as programmed several hundred meters from the square, and he short-stepped out onto a platform. As his car disappeared into an underground parking tube, Sidney mentoed his moto-shoes. They flipped out of their plastic ankle cases and lifted him gently onto their wheels, and he began to roll down a ramp to the skatewalk. A warm breeze blew across his face as he picked up speed. Changing lanes expertly on the crowded skatewalk, he moved to the slow lane and took an exit designated T
ECHNOLOGY
S
QUARE
.”
The square was dotted with planter boxes, white plastic benches and modernistic government-commissioned sculptures. A large fountain at the center adjacent to Uncle Rosy’s towering mechanical likeness sprayed the air with a thin, metallic moisture. The air was alive with people noises.
Angry noises,
Sidney realized.
Recognizing his regular datemate in the crowd of jeering onlookers watching a demonstration, Sidney rolled up beside her. As he came to a stop, Sidney focused upon Carla Weaver’s high cheekbones with a red painted beauty mark on one side. Her nose was distinctly Roman and classically perfect. Curly, golden brown hair swirled about the shoulders of her carmine red pantsuit.
“What’s going on, Carla?” he asked.
“Doomies,” Carla said with a glance in Sidney’s direction. “Real freakos. They say a comet is coming!” She laughed, looked full at Sidney with heavy-lidded lavender eyes. “It’s supposed to destroy us all!”
Carla studied Sidney, noted fat pouches and chubby cheeks beneath large round hazel eyes which stared back innocently. Dark, curly lashes framed the eyes, overhung by thick, dark eyebrows, a high forehead and curly black hair that was thinning at the temples.
He’s not very good-looking,
she thought, concentrating upon Sidney’s pug nose and ears which protruded like wings.
And he couldn’t he as good in bed as my new pleasie-meckie.
“We’ve all heard rumors the past few days,” Sidney said, wondering why Carla continued to stare at him.
“Lies,” she shot back without a shade of doubt in her tone. “You saw the President speak last night, of course.”
“Yeah. I saw.” Sidney shook his head negatively as a young girl with straw-blond hair attempted to hand him a pamphlet. On the cover he saw a picture of a terrifying fireball streaking toward New City while people panicked in the streets below. Large red and yellow letters on the pamphlet proclaimed: “
ARRIVAL OF THE GREAT COMET!
”
“Go on, get out of here,” Carla said to the girl. Then Carla touched a button on her belt to activate a synchronized autoclapper recording and joined in as a group of onlookers jeered, “Chicken Little! Chicken Little! The sky is falling!”
Uncomfortable in the crowd of jeerers, Sidney considered an excuse that would permit him to leave. But a sudden numbness hit his brain. With it he heard the echoes of distant, murmuring voices. It was an angry cacophony of sound, and Sidney thought he heard the words “filth” and “unfit.” As he rubbed his forehead, the murmuring receded, and he peered through the crowd at the focus of their attention.
A tall man with pale skin and high cheekbones stood at the base of Uncle Rosy’s mechanical likeness, speaking through a bullhorn. Thick clusters of standing supporters protected him on all sides, their arms locked in defense against a contingent of electro-stick-wielding Bu-Cops. As each supporter fell to the onslaught, others rushed to close the hole. Sidney saw them bear their pain heroically, silently. Other doomies attempted unsuccessfully to distribute literature through the crowd.
In an emotion-laden voice, with his Adam’s apple bobbing, the tall man implored, “FLEE WHILE YOU CAN! A TERRIBLE BLOOD-COLORED FIREBALL WILL DESCEND UPON US! AS THE GREAT COMET NEARS, THERE WILL BE PANIC, LOOTING AND MURDER! THE SEAS WILL RUSH ACROSS THE LAND! SEEK HIGH GROUND! FLEE WHILE YOU CAN!”