Read Online McCollum - GIBRALTAR STARS by Michael McCollum - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael McCollum
Tags: Science-Fiction
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secure underground prison on their airless satellite. And his status changed from prisoner-ambassador, to just prisoner.
His imprisonment was far from odious. They did not mistreat him, save for the indignity of periodic physical examinations. They provided food; nutritious, if not exciting to the palate. They gave him access to their public information channels to the point where he had become a minor critic of their dramatic art forms. And for one full hour each week, they allowed him to wander their arboretum.
When he wasn’t answering the interminable questions his interrogators posed each morning, he avidly watched human news programs in order to gain knowledge of their preparations for war. After more than two years of such activities, he was beginning to wonder if the thought of tiny Earth attacking Civilization was as ludicrous as it once seemed.
#
The bullet train leaped the gap between accelerator rings as the barren New Mexico desert slipped by at 300 KPH. Susan Ahrendt rested her lithe 175-cm frame in a cushioned seat and gazed out the window, wondering what she was doing here. The record chip with her orders was safely secured around her neck and the meager belongings she had been allowed were folded neatly in her kitbag beneath the seat. Yet, not even the unfamiliar rolling grasslands and distant sculpted mountains could divert her from the feeling that this was all a mistake.
A quiet chime sounded and a light illuminated on the forward bulkhead, indicating that all passengers should resume their seats for deceleration. Susan snuggled deeper into the cushion and brushed a long strand of hair from in front of her eyes. After a thirty second delay, restraints rose out of her chair and enfolded her in their embrace just before a gentle hand pressed her forward into them. Other passengers, seated in rear-facing chairs, were likewise cradled, even as they sank deeper into the cushions.
Moments later, the car slid to a halt under the artificial light of a pod station. There was a double chime, the acceleration restraints stowed themselves, and the doors hissed quietly open.
Susan reached down, retrieved her bag, and then joined the line of people exiting the bullet car. She walked to the center of the station platform, stopped, and was reading the overhead signs when a voice behind her asked, “Miss Ahrendt?”
She turned to see a muscular man in the uniform of the Space Marines behind her.
“Yes?”
The Marine saluted. “Corporal Dennison, at your service. The program office sent me to meet you.”
“Do you know what all of this is about, Corporal?”
“Can’t say, Ma’am. I just pick them up at the station and drive them to the project. They’ll have someone explain things when you arrive.”
With that, Dennison scooped up her bag and led the way to the underground garage. Five minutes later, they passed into the sunshine and headed out at 200 KPH.
The scenery was monotonously the same for some 40 minutes. Corporal Dennison proved remarkably taciturn during the drive, generally answering her questions in monosyllables. Eventually, they turned off the superway and onto a two-lane road. The car switched to internal power with an audible sigh as it decelerated and they set off across a landscape dominated by scrub brush.
They passed through three separate gates at five kilometer intervals. At each of these, robots scanned their identities and signaled their acquiescence on the car’s windscreen display. Once inside the third fence, the road made a sweeping turn to the right, to reveal a mixed-office-and-residence compound situated in a small valley.
The little village consisted of mainly five-sided buildings of a style that had been in vogue eighty years previous. A fourth fence, the most complex yet, surrounded the village.
In the distance, at the far end of the valley, a single large box of a structure seemed to be half building, half machine. The outline was softened by the haze of distance
His imprisonment was far from odious. They did not mistreat him, save for the indignity of periodic physical examinations. They provided food; nutritious, if not exciting to the palate. They gave him access to their public information channels to the point where he had become a minor critic of their dramatic art forms. And for one full hour each week, they allowed him to wander their arboretum.
When he wasn’t answering the interminable questions his interrogators posed each morning, he avidly watched human news programs in order to gain knowledge of their preparations for war. After more than two years of such activities, he was beginning to wonder if the thought of tiny Earth attacking Civilization was as ludicrous as it once seemed.
#
The bullet train leaped the gap between accelerator rings as the barren New Mexico desert slipped by at 300 KPH. Susan Ahrendt rested her lithe 175-cm frame in a cushioned seat and gazed out the window, wondering what she was doing here. The record chip with her orders was safely secured around her neck and the meager belongings she had been allowed were folded neatly in her kitbag beneath the seat. Yet, not even the unfamiliar rolling grasslands and distant sculpted mountains could divert her from the feeling that this was all a mistake.
A quiet chime sounded and a light illuminated on the forward bulkhead, indicating that all passengers should resume their seats for deceleration. Susan snuggled deeper into the cushion and brushed a long strand of hair from in front of her eyes. After a thirty second delay, restraints rose out of her chair and enfolded her in their embrace just before a gentle hand pressed her forward into them. Other passengers, seated in rear-facing chairs, were likewise cradled, even as they sank deeper into the cushions.
Moments later, the car slid to a halt under the artificial light of a pod station. There was a double chime, the acceleration restraints stowed themselves, and the doors hissed quietly open.
Susan reached down, retrieved her bag, and then joined the line of people exiting the bullet car. She walked to the center of the station platform, stopped, and was reading the overhead signs when a voice behind her asked, “Miss Ahrendt?”
She turned to see a muscular man in the uniform of the Space Marines behind her.
“Yes?”
The Marine saluted. “Corporal Dennison, at your service. The program office sent me to meet you.”
“Do you know what all of this is about, Corporal?”
“Can’t say, Ma’am. I just pick them up at the station and drive them to the project. They’ll have someone explain things when you arrive.”
With that, Dennison scooped up her bag and led the way to the underground garage. Five minutes later, they passed into the sunshine and headed out at 200 KPH.
The scenery was monotonously the same for some 40 minutes. Corporal Dennison proved remarkably taciturn during the drive, generally answering her questions in monosyllables. Eventually, they turned off the superway and onto a two-lane road. The car switched to internal power with an audible sigh as it decelerated and they set off across a landscape dominated by scrub brush.
They passed through three separate gates at five kilometer intervals. At each of these, robots scanned their identities and signaled their acquiescence on the car’s windscreen display. Once inside the third fence, the road made a sweeping turn to the right, to reveal a mixed-office-and-residence compound situated in a small valley.
The little village consisted of mainly five-sided buildings of a style that had been in vogue eighty years previous. A fourth fence, the most complex yet, surrounded the village.
In the distance, at the far end of the valley, a single large box of a structure seemed to be half building, half machine. The outline was softened by the haze of distance
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