Aboriginal Science Fiction, Issues 57–58 — page 58: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

ll ad news, he thought, always breaks at Bie: o'clock in the morning. The limo was caught in a gridlock. It was a tense time for Harrison Royer. With the national administration changing hands, Royer was ripe for replacement, and a crisis like this would cinch it. Pushing sixty, he wore glasses and _ sideburns and parted his hair wrong for a man his age, a calculated defiance of time’s passing. Sweats like these, potential security disasters of such magnitude that they would make Watergate look like a milk run — they were bound to happen now and then. But they happened all too fre- quently for Royer’s taste. A youthful front was his last defense in a life that had aged him all too quickly. He could see it now, the press, photographers, bombarding him with questions: “Director Royer, how can you justify your participation in such a project? What possible need could such a place serve?” And shots of himself on the vid, sweating like a yak, government lawyers whispering in his ear. The obligatory “No comment.” And, of course, that was just on a national scale. If the truth actu- ally got out, the international repercussions would smoosh him like a slow ant on a picnic blanket. The vidphone sounded. Royer triggered the seatback unit and tried to put on a composed face. “Yes?” It was his assistant, Ray Malcolm. “Mr. Royer, you've heard ...” “Of course I’ve heard,” he said with unfaked annoyance. “I’ve talked with Hank Deming in Tracking,” Malcolm said excitedly. “He’s got ’walkers sta- tioned all over Ridge Edge, combing for the escapee — but it won’t do us much good until we have a description.” “Didn’t one of the watchers spot him on his way out?” Royer asked. “Yes, but he was knocked unconscious. That’s how we know. There’s a chance our satellites picked up the incident, but we can’t be sure ...” “I’m stuck in traffic,” Royer said dismissively. Unlike his annoyance, his composure was faked. “Ring back if there are any important develop- ments; otherwise, I’ll see you at the office.” “Yes, sir.” Malcolm’s image faded. Dammit, Royer thought. If we don’t manage to bury this one, I deserve to be ousted. lil hen Danoff arrived at the top of the slope, the supply helicopter was just hovering into view, a dark, intimidat- ing insect. It circled around, centering itself over the dropsite as droves of villagers piled into the 58 Aboriginal Science Fiction — Summer 1998 Oi) Toor darcony clearing. Danoff scrambled down toward the chaos, watching as the cargo hatch slid open. The black- uniformed men inside, their opaque, bubbled face- masks gleaming, started releasing the crates. Demi-parachutes opened behind them, a half- assed attempt to slow their descent. The crowd din increased sharply as the shoving matches began, people jockeying for position. Seventh crate, Danoff thought, pushing into the tangled mass of elbows and heels. Where’s the recept team? The first crate crashed into the huddled mass- es. Having crowded aside momentarily to give it room to land, thirty people were on it in an instant, tearing off the parachute, prying at the wood. One by one, the subsequent crates received similar treatment, people swarming over one another ravenously to reap the treasures within: food, alcohol, clothing, shoes, first-aid supplies, medicinal and recreational drugs, makeup, deodorant, soap, tools, utensils, all the needs and wants of a civilized society. Like we’re civilized, Danoff thought, crashing through the crowd, fol- lowing the trajectory of crate number seven, the tobacco. “About fucking time!” Brad Medfield screamed as Danoff arrived. “Here’s your club!” Danoff grabbed the short, thick piece of wood and made a place for himself with the other circle- men, while the looters waited just inside the cir- cle. Medfield called directions as crate number seven began its descent, and the circle quickly shifted in unison. The crate landed dead center — a lucky break, no casualties this time. “Have at it, then!” Medfield ordered, as the looters surged for- ward. A woman shoved past Danoff and made for the crate. He turned after her and clubbed her on the head, twice. When she didn’t get up, he got back to the circle. I’m gonna lose this gig if I fuck up again, Danoff said, shoving away other strag- glers. Then I'll be like Senta, scrounging just to subsist, an extraneous slab of meat. Only I doubt my body will fetch much of a price. IV mal hs: is one of the watchers,” Ray Malcolm said, ushering Royer into the room. “Car] Pritchard.” Pritchard was a short, skinny man with thin- ning black hair and glasses. He was a plain- clothes watcher on Ridge Edge, stationed for just such emergencies. One of his cheeks was swollen, and there was a large bruise on his forehead. Royer studied him intently. “Care to explain what happened, Pritchard?” “Well, I was stationed at North 611th Street, overlooking pass number twelve,” Pritchard