Mutiny in Space Read online

  And that’s how we went to hear Alesander Ducarti, the greatest revolutionary of our time, speak.

  Chapter 2: Revolution is the Bomb

  The gathering was not far from the main spaceport of New Chicago, close to the Starways Hauling Company landing pads and hangars where I helped Corbin repair the company’s freighters. Social Party diehards, various academics and administrators from the University, and younger guys like Sergei gathered to hear the speech at an abandoned warehouse. They only filled about half the space. The Social Party, despite repeated efforts, had never become anywhere nearly as popular on New Chicago as it wished.

  So we had plenty of room to get close to the improvised stage, which meant I had a good, long look at Alesander Ducarti.

  He was noticeably different from most of the other people in the warehouse. If you’ve met the typical Social on a world that the Party doesn’t actually rule, you know what I mean. The men were mostly middle-aged and doughy, while the women were either skeletally thin and heavily tattooed or morbidly obese with dyed hair and various body modifications.

  By contrast, Alesander Ducarti looked strong and fit, with thick black hair and deep black eyes over a nose like a hawk’s beak. He reminded me of the mercenaries who sometimes came through the spaceport, hard men with harder eyes. Corbin and the other techs always kept well clear of the mercs, and I had followed their example. Ducarti looked dangerous. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I didn’t like him. I was, I realized, afraid of him.

  At the spaceport, you could always tell which guys would be dangerous and which were just loudmouths blowing off steam. Ducarti looked like he could kill someone without even blinking.

  Even before he opened his mouth, he held the crowd of Party members rapt, and it made me think of a herd of sheep staring at a wolf.

  “Brothers and sisters of the revolution,” said Ducarti. He had a deep, resonant voice, calm and controlled. “I must commend the great work you have done on New Chicago. Step by step, you have spread the message of the Social Party through this corrupt society. It is true that your brothers and sisters on other worlds have known more success. Other worlds now are governed by the just hand of the Party, their oppressors liquidated and their populations now know greater equality than ever before in their history. Other worlds have, to date, done more to bring the cause of universal revolution to mankind. Here, you have been hindered by the corrupt oppressors of New Chicago’s government, and that is why you have been able to accomplish less. But the work you have done here, brothers and sisters of New Chicago, has been no less valuable to the revolution!”

  They applauded. I looked around, bewildered. Why were they applauding him? Couldn’t they see that he had just insulted all of them?

  Ducarti’s speech went on and on, longer than I would have imagined possible, and the attendees applauded dutifully at all the appropriate pauses. After he finished and stepped back to thunderous applause and enthusiastic cheers, a pair of local Party officials made some brief remarks. Ducarti stood there listening with a faint half-smile, and I wondered if anyone else could see the contempt on his face. After the speech, the crowd moved to the tables along the walls, where refreshments had been provided. I suppose the Party couldn’t plan to overthrow the government without cheese and crackers.

  “Sergei, let’s get out of here,” I said in a low voice. “You said we could go after the speech was done.”

  “In a minute,” said Sergei, craning his neck around, looking for someone. “I just want to meet Ducarti first.”

  “Oh, there you two are,” said a woman’s voice.

  I turned my head as Mom joined us, and I fought down the urge to laugh. She had done herself up for the occasion, complete with the requisite chain-bracelets. It was always funny to see how women dressed for Party meetings. The official Party doctrine rejected things like makeup and jewelry as tools of the oppressors, so Party women who wanted to make themselves look prettier tended to go with tank tops, tight jeans, and high-heeled boots, and wear chains and tools as decoration. Despite her age, Mom was still in good enough shape to pull off the look, though God knows some of the heavier women looked like too-much sausage squeezed into too-little casing.

  It suddenly occurred to me that Mom wanted to make an impression on Ducarti, and my amusement turned to disapproval. I couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t set her off, though, so I didn’t say anything.

  “Why, Nikolai, I’m surprised you’re here,” said Mom, delighted.

  I gave an indifferent shrug.

  She offered me a brittle smile and turned her attention to Sergei. “Sergei, I would like you to meet Alesander before he goes. He has excellent connections. He will be able to help you advance in the Party, whether you stay here or go off-planet.”

  “But Sergei,” I said. “You said–”

  “We’ll go in a bit,” said Sergei. “You heard what Mom said. Maybe he’ll set me up with something good!”

  Mom led us through the crowd, and soon we stood before the stage, where Ducarti was speaking with several of the local Party officials. He turned as we approached, and his dark eyes swept indifferently over us, finally setting upon my mom.

  “Ah, Professor Rovio,” said Ducarti, with an enigmatic smile. “So good to see you again. These are your sons, I take it?”

  “Yes, Alesander,” said Mom, beaming at him. “This is my oldest, Sergei, and my youngest Nikolai.”

  I shook hands with him. I didn’t want to, but I didn’t see how I could avoid it. His hand was cold and dry and hard, and strong enough that I suspected he had spent a lot of time lifting weights.”

  “You both remind me of your father,” said Ducarti. “Did you know that I knew him? Fine man. A true believer in our cause. If he had been on the Central Committee of Novorossiya III instead of some of those other fools… well, suffice it to say, Novorossiya III would not have fallen again to the reactionaries. But we must dwell upon the future, not the past, for it is our revolution that offers the best hope for all humanity.”

  “It is indeed, Alesander,” said Mom, her eyes all but sparkling as she looked at him. She really liked him, and I suspected she intended to visit his hotel before he left the planet, her current boyfriend notwithstanding. My contempt for them all sharpened. Couldn’t they see Alesander Ducarti for the con man that he was? Why were they all fawning over him as if he was a rock star or something?

  “And you, Sergei,” said Ducarti. “I understand you recently joined the Party.”

  “I did, sir,” said Sergei. I blinked. Sergei never called anyone “sir.” My big brother straightened his back and stuck out his chest as Ducarti looked at him. “I joined as soon as I turned eighteen. I want to serve the Party like my father.”

  “Excellent,” said Ducarti, as a ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “With the help of bold young men like you, we cannot fail.” The predatory black eyes turned towards me. “And how old are you, Nikolai?”

  “Sixteen,” I said.

  “And will you join the Party when you come of age as well?”

  I almost lied and said yes to avoid causing a scene, but the contempt I sensed in him hardened my resolve.

  “No,” I said, meeting his eyes squarely.

  The temperature in the warehouse suddenly seemed drop several degrees. Mom stiffened, and Sergei scowled. Ducarti, though, only looked amused. One side of his mouth curved up, just a little, as he glanced around the room, then returned his attention to me.

  “Well, some must learn their lessons before they are convinced,” said Ducarti. “What do you intend to do, if you will not serve the Party?”

  “I’m going to be a starship mechanic,” I said.

  Some of the Party members listening to us laughed.

  “A starship mechanic?” said Ducarti, smiling. “A noble profession. We are the Party of the workers, after all.”

  “Working how?” I said. “Flying from planet to planet making speeches for a living?”

 
; “Rhetoric defines reality, boy,” said Ducarti, his eyes narrowing. “There is no objective truth, only how mankind perceives that truth. The task of the Party is to define the proper truth for mankind, the truth of the classless society we shall construct. Everything else is irrelevant.”

  “Isn’t that just an educated way of saying that you make stuff up?”

  Silence abruptly fell over the Party members close enough to hear the conversation.

  “Nikolai,” said Mom in warning, but Ducarti waved her quiet.

  “We serve a higher, nobler purpose,” said Ducarti. “We work to end all oppression and all inequality. One day, all humanity shall speak of the revolutionaries of the Social Party with the same reverence now wasted upon Christ and Buddha and Joseph Smith. There is nothing wrong with practical skills or fixing starships, Nikolai Rovio, but as a son of the Revolution, you have more potential than that. If you waste that potential by voluntarily embracing the chains of the oppressors, then you will sacrifice your chance to rewrite the course of history.”

  I was sick of his pompous words and his stupid accent, and his naked contempt made me want to punch him. I just wanted to leave. I had decided to go home by myself when Sergei spoke up.

  “He is right! We are sons of the Revolution, not workers. You stain our father’s memory by talking like that!”

  “Father’s memory?” I said, my temper snapping. “Hey, Ducarti, our dad got himself blown up, right? Someone screwed up a bomb.” The spectators shifted nervously, and my mom turned white with anger. “Maybe if he had learned some of those practical skills, he would have known how to put a bomb together and not gotten blown himself up like some stupid…”

  I didn’t see it coming. Mom slapped me, hard. Harder than I would have expected. The blow snapped my head around and I lost my footing for a second.

  “How dare you,” she whispered. “How dare you do this to me, here of all places.”

  “Yeah, Mom,” I said, glaring at her, wiping a drop of blood from my lip. “Because that’s what is wrong here. You being embarrassed in front of the high and mighty Mr. Ducarti, the great revolutionary.”

  Ducarti looked genuinely amused for the first time that evening. “All shall be equal after the revolution.” He looked at Sergei. “However, since it is clear that you, at least, are a true son of the Social Party, Sergei Rovio, I have a task for you.”

  “You do?” said Sergei, straightening up. “Really?”

  Ducarti produced an envelope, an expensive-looking thing embossed with the official seal of the Social Party. “One of the Party’s projects has been to circulate a petition demanding an increase in the estate tax to seventy-five percent. We now have adequate signatures to require a referendum. It should be one hundred percent, but sometimes it is better to eat the steak in small bites than to choke on the entire thing.” He offered it formally to Sergei in both hands. “I want you, as the youngest member of the Social Party on New Chicago, to present this petition at the appropriate government office.”

  “Me?” said Sergei, his eyes widening. “That’s… that’s a really big honor, sir.”

  “Oh, it is,” said Ducarti, still grinning. “It most certainly is. As the face of the Social youth, as a true son of the Revolution, I think you are the perfect man to deliver our message.”

  “I will go at once,” said Sergei.

  “Good man. Also, as our official representative and voice, I insist you take one of the Party’s vans, emblazoned with the red hammer of the worker raised against the spiral of the galaxy. Think of what a sight it will make when the van pulls up, and every eye turns towards you, and you stride forth to present our petition to the corrupt, illegitimate authorities of New Chicago. We shall, of course, alert the media, so that the moment will be recorded.”

  “Absolutely,” said Sergei proudly. “I’ll do it.”

  “I’ll go with you,” said Mom. She smiled at Ducarti. “I would like to see my son take his first steps in service to the Revolution.”

  “As you wish, Professor. And you, Nikolai?” said Ducarti, the cold eyes turning back towards me. “Will you accompany your brother as he assumes his birthright among the men of the Social Party?”

  “No,” I said, stepping back. “I’m going home. I’ll walk. I don’t want to ride in a Party van.”

  “As you wish, boy,” said Ducarti, still smiling, although it now struck me as more cruel than sardonic. “Go home. Go play with your engines. The Revolution does not require you yet.”

  A gale of laughter went up from the Party members, and even Mom and Sergei joined in with the others. That hurt more than I would have thought. I whirled around so they could not see my burning eyes and I stalked from the warehouse without another word.

  My defiance, combined with Ducarti’s contempt, saved my life.

  I went home, but because I wasn’t watching the news, I didn’t see what happened. As soon as Sergei and Mom left in the van, Ducarti returned to his ship and immediately launched. From his ship safely in orbit, he monitored the progress of the van, watching until it reached the central planetary administration building fifteen miles from the spaceport.

  Once the van reached the offices, in full view of the cameras that had been alerted, the fusion bomb hidden within the van was triggered.

  Sergei and Mom were killed instantly, of course. The forensics techs finally found some of Sergei’s teeth and a piece of Mom’s femur, but nothing else. Five thousand, six hundred and ninety-two people were killed in the explosion and the resultant collapse of the nearby buildings, and over eighteen thousand were hurt or wounded. The minute the bomb went off, Ducarti left the system, escaping to hyperspace before the system defense ships could close in on him. But before he hyperjumped away, he sent out a broadcast announcing that the bomb was an act of revolutionary justice against the planetary government and people of New Chicago for failing to embrace the principles of Sociality.

  The reaction was as swift as it was violent.

  The next day, the planetary government of New Chicago by an executive order of the emergency commission outlawed the Social Party. A lot of people were arrested over the next month, including most of the non-science faculty of the University. Pretty much every official in the local Social Party leadership was executed without trial as a co-conspirator, whether they had actually known about it or not, and a lot of other people were charged with various crimes.

  As for me… I really didn’t get into too much trouble over it. I spent four days in the offices of New Chicago’s Internal Security Division, not far from the smoldering wreckage of the building my brother and mom had unintentionally destroyed, while a dozen different interrogators asked me the same questions over and over again, looking for any inconsistencies in my answers. I was too shell-shocked to try to lie or defend myself, but it didn’t matter. A dozen different people had been recording Ducarti’s speech, including my confrontation with him at the end, and it was patently obvious that I had known nothing about his plot.

  Of course, neither Sergei nor Mom had known the truth, but both the media and the government officially claimed that they had been in on the plot, and that they had knowingly sacrificed themselves for the Party and for the Revolution.

  But to this day, I don’t think they knew the truth.

  What I sometimes wonder is if it was my fault that Ducarti chose them. If I hadn’t just said yes when he asked me if I would join them, would he have chosen some other patsy to drive the van? Would he have chosen Sergei anyway? Or maybe he would have even asked me to drive it. But every time I start blaming myself, I remind myself that I wanted to leave. I even tried to leave, but Sergei insisted on meeting Ducarti.

  If anyone is to blame besides Ducarti, it’s Sergei. That’s what I tell myself, anyhow.

  Chapter 3: Everybody Hates His First Boss

  I was still a legal minor, so when the executions stopped and the dust finally settled, Corbin wound up with my legal guardianship for the next two years. We went to th
e funeral of Sergei and my mom together, and we were the only ones there. All of Mom’s friends had been executed, arrested, or were keeping a low profile, and none of them could afford to be seen at the funeral of the man and the woman most of the planet blamed for the atrocity.

  None of the life insurance policies paid out, so with what was left of Mom’s savings I bought a small plot in the middle of nowhere, and that’s where we buried their pathetic remains.

  Corbin and I stood alone at the grave.

  “You thought about what you’re going to do next?” said Corbin.

  I shrugged, staring at the cheap little marker stone. “Not really. There’s not much money left. I’ve got enough for about three months’ rent on the apartment, and that’s all of Mom’s money. I don’t think I’ll be able to get a job, and there is no way I can go to the university now.”

  “No,” said Corbin. “Even before this, your family did not have a very good reputation with the authorities.” He shrugged. “You know I tried to warn Sergei. And your mother. I really tried. But they simply would not listen. They could not see Sociality for what it really is. They were seduced by the vision. Your father–”

  “What about my father?”

  Corbin met my eyes. “He was my brother and I loved him, but Nikko, he was not a good man. He might have been a good man once, but the Party transformed him. In the end… I am afraid that he was very much like Alesander Ducarti. Forgive me for speaking ill of the dead, but that is truly what happened. Your mom was a long way down that path, and your brother had just begun upon it. If they keep you from it, their deaths may have been as a blessing.”

  I wanted to get angry at him, but I couldn’t.

  “It’s not speaking ill of the dead,” I said, “if it’s the truth.”

  “I suppose not,” said Corbin. “Listen, Nikolai. I’m not your father, and I might be your guardian for the next two years, but I don’t have the right to tell you what to do. By the time I was your age, I had already fled Novorossiya III to get away from the secret police there. Now I’ve got a new berth with Starways, a senior mechanic slot on a long-range freighter. What that means is that I can choose my own apprentices. The company prefers to hire experienced men, but it doesn’t mind training up new ones so long as someone sufficiently experienced is in charge.”