Chandra Falcon had been seventeen at Liftaway, and completed her formal education in the ship, progressing in leaps and bounds as long as the downloads continued from Old Earth. They grew incredibly more sophisticated as time dilation advanced Old Earth civilization and knowledge lifetimes to the ship’s months, until suddenly they stopped altogether. And Papa’s Pride could never know if this was because it had finally gotten out of range, or because human civilization on Old Earth was no more, or both.
By then, Chandra Falcon was formally educated to a fare-thee-well, both mentally and physically, with doctorates in liberal arts, physical medicine, and mental hygiene, as well as black belts of various degrees in several martial arts. But her informal education would never stop. There was already a suspended animation pod in the deep sleep pylon with her name on it: she was a ship’s treasure, to be stored at sixty for revival whenever the ship finally made planetfall and needed her brain and expertise in setting up a permanent colony.
Sister Mary Harriet Sanford had already seen her personal half-century mark at Liftaway; but procreational age didn’t count for the thousand aboard who belonged to the Order of the Cosmic Christ, any more than for the papal nuncio and the clerical members of his small staff: part of Pope John Paul IV’s price for helping finance the construction of Papa’s Pride. Sister Harriet had begun the voyage as one of the nuns strictly cloistered in the convent pylon, but by about five years into the journey had, Chandra believed, been among the earliest to start experiencing pylon fever—Harriet herself put it down to a late midlife crisis—when she supplicated for and received transfer to the sisterhood, which mingled freely with the colonists in public areas of the pylons and core. As a sister, Harriet had plunged into Antique Terra’s theater work, which was seen as an essential in keeping up morale. She specialized in directing light comedy, musicals, and operettas—the same shows Bob Lozinski was and Steve Davis had been such hits in.
Misaki Lang had been twelve at Liftaway. Now, at twenty, she was one of the best practical nurses in pylon 19, medical research and hospital. She had been assigned to Bob Lozinski at Dr. Falcon’s personal request. If any nurse’s input could help the doctor diagnose the reason for this coma, it was Misaki Lang. If Misaki suggested it might be conscience unable to cope with guilt—either Bob’s own or Steve’s—that might be worth looking into. Only…how?
* * * *
Deuteronomy Osborne, who didn’t really like the nickname “Deuces,” but put up with it because he didn’t really like the mouthful of his christened name, either, and preferred “Deuces”—if not by much—to such alternatives as “Deuter” and “Ozzie,” was in the nearest waiting garden. In a classic Old Earth movie, he would probably have been smoking. Clean air being precious in Papa’s Pride, smoking was prohibited except for virtual tobacco in virtual recreation booths, and a very few areas set aside for the thirty or so colonists who still practiced the amalgamation of beliefs and customs they had put together as recreated Native American religion, and who alone in the ship had the legal right to use any of their precious growing soil for actual tobacco. So Deuces was simply pacing, glancing only often enough at the oxygen-producing plants and soul-soothing aquariums all around him to avoid pacing into them.
“How’s the kid?” were his first words the minute Chandra came in.
“Still in coma. I understand you don’t think it was an accident.”
“Nup.” The tall man shook his head. “Like they usta say back on Old Earth, Doc, something’s about t’ go down. Something big. Either Lozinski’s in on it, or he knows who is, an’ what it is. And, lemme tell you, if this one’s as big as I think it is, it’s something we all oughta know about yesterday.”
“All right,” she agreed, half humoring him and half respectful because, even if Deuces Osborne sniffed conspiracies in every insul-tube, enough of his hunches played out to make him a security man worth listening to. “Let’s start with what you already know, and how.”
“Okay. First off. About half, two-thirds the Antique Terra folks are O.C.C., live in their own pylons—monastery an’ convent—just come over to the uptown pylon to put on their shows an’ suchlike. They’re okay. We don’t have t’ worry about them. The Order polices its own. But Lozinski’s in one uh those cozy little households, colony foursome with Pete Schultz, Barbara Cripps and Judi Oshita. Who are also with Antique Terra. Who also just happened to be backstage when that so-called accident occurred.”
Chandra almost asked Osborne who his spy had been this time, but she knew by now it was better to let him tell it his own way. He’d pause when question time came.
“And Steve Davis,” he went on. “Davis was sniffin’ things out for me. I had him tryin’ t’ move himself in with Lozinski’s household, scope out what they’ve been up to. He figured they were about t’ let him in, advanced age be damned. Last word I had from him, he was gonna meet me at Ishmael’s Downtown between rehearsal an’ supper. Said he had a really big can uh beans to spill, was hopin’ to bring either Schultz or Lozinski or both of ’em along, figured at least one uv ’em was ready to help him spill ’em. So. That’s where I’m waiting for ’em—Schultz and Davis—when the news hits shipnet there’s been some kind uh accident at the Antique Terra.” He paused long enough to signal her question time.
She asked, “But you don’t know who, exactly, is planning to do what, exactly. Unless that ‘accident’ was it.”
“Nope. That accident wasn’t it. I still don’t know what it really is. Just wish I did. One uh those housemates does—Lozinski, Schultz, Cripps, Oshita… Maybe all four.” The security man shook his prematurely graying head. “Whatever it is, it’s somethin’ big. Somethin’ that could maybe threaten this whole damn ship.”
“Something big enough to…commit murder about?”
“Could be,” said Deuces Osborne. “People are gettin’ funny in Papa’s Pride these days. In case you haven’t noticed. Puttin’ their values in funny places. Everything for fun and games, anything for a laugh, never mind what kind uv a laugh, or who’s the ones laughing.”
“And you haven’t questioned them yet—Schultz, Cripps, and Oshita?” If he had, he’d have summed up what they’d told him, even if he thought it was only lies and evasions.
“Hey. When th’ news hit shipnet—you know how it is, rumors at first and then as soon as anyone in power really knows anything hard, they cover it up—I lit out for the uptown pylon right away, figuring t’ find out what I could first hand and asap. Schultz could’ve been on his way to meet me, after all—I could’ve missed him in the insul-tubes. By th’ time I got uptown to the Antique Terra, medical already had th’ two casualties packed off to you friendly folks here in pylon nineteen, and Oshita and Cripps had packed themselves off t’ Lord knows where. Closest guess I heard, privacy pod somewhere t’ comfort each other…you know…an’ there’s privacy pods all over every pylon in this blessed ship an’ the core besides.”
“Except the two C.C. pylons,” Chandra pointed out.
“So they tell us,” Osborne replied noncommittally.
* * * *
Chandra had already heard what little Sister Harriet could tell her about the accident, which dovetailed with Osborne’s scanty data. As the show’s director, Sister Harriet had been out front, concentrating on what the audience would see. The late Steve Davis as Sir Richard Cholmondeley, the Liuetenant of the Tower of London, where the operetta was set; Bob Lozinski as Jack Point the jester, and Pete Schultz as Wilfred Shadbolt the head jailor were all in the wings offstage left, exactly where they were supposed to be, waiting for their next cue to go on, when the accident—a large falling ladder—had happened.