That is, if Awfulday hadn’t cut short Jason Sander’s lifelong pursuit of vigorous self-indulgence. Sometimes, Hacker almost felt the old man riding alongside, during these jaunts. Or flaunts. JT used to say that rich people bore a special obligation-a noblesse oblige. An onus to show off!
To explore the limits of experience, of possibility, of propriety… even the law. A duty more important than mere philanthropy. Letting all the world’s people benefit from the invigorating effects of envy.
“Look at history, son,” Jason once told Hacker. “Progress is made by folks trying to keep up with the other guy. The other nation or company, or their betters, or the Joneses next door. It is our role-our hard task-to be Jones! A goad for every jealous, ambitious, innovating bastard to try and match us.
“It’s a crucial job, Hacker. Though I doubt anyone will thank us.”
Oh, Dad had been a pip, all right. Mother, of course, was another story.
For the short span-a few minutes-that his capsule streaked toward the top of its trajectory, all seemed peaceful. Hacker’s ever-busy thoughts slowed as he relished a champagne interlude, alternately watching the Milky Way’s powder-sprinkle and Earth’s living panorama below.
Others, billions, may have forgotten this dream. Professional astronauts helped kill it, by making space exploration super-obsessive, communal, nerdy. Boring.
Then there are other members of my caste, who buy day trips aboard luxury “spaceship” shuttles… or take pleasure freefall holidays, up at the High Hilton. Flaunting without earning. Adventure without risk. “Accomplishment,” without putting in a lick of work.
Hacker rubbed the back of one callused hand, scarred from welding splatters and countless hours in the workshop, helping his people make this little craft, almost from scratch. Or, at least, from a really good kit. Which was almost the same thing.
But a few, like me, are bringing back the romance!
Through the transparent, interlaced-diamond nose cone, he spotted a glitter, moving rapidly past the fixed constellations.
Well, speak of the devil. But no… that’s not the Hilton. Too much reflection. It must be the old space station. Still plugging along. Still manned by a few pros and diehard scientists, at public expense.
As if that ever made any sense.
Look across four millennia. Was there ever any development or real headway that wasn’t propelled by an aristocracy? Why, I’ll bet-
Abruptly, a sharp, painful reddish glare washed the capsule! Hacker winced behind a raised hand.
“What the hell?” He cursed aloud, feeling the words vibrate in his throat, though not with clamped eardrums. Instead, his sonic jaw implant translated a computer alert.
INCOMING LASER MESSAGE.
His sudden, sinking suspicion was confirmed when a dashboard screen lit in holographic mode. That pompous blond jerk, Lord Smits, appeared to float toward Hacker, grinning. The fool hadn’t merely pushed back his faceplate, but removed his helmet entirely, defying every rule. Despite an expensive biosculpt job, the baronet’s face seemed deformed by an ugly rictus-weightlessness did that to some people-while forming words that floated between them, flecked with spittle.
Sander, I got you! You’re dead!
Hacker tooth-clicked to transmit a subvocalized response.
What the hell are you talking about, Smits?
In addition to printed words, the nobleman’s cackle hit one of the vibration modes in Hacker’s implant, making his jaw throb.
I targeted you, dead center. If this were real, you’d be kippers on my plate.
Hacker realized-
It’s that “space war” game some of the neos were atwutter about during training, instead of listening to us old hands. They want competitive excitement, beyond a ballistic ride. Swoop and play shoot-’em-up during apogee.
Idiotic. For a dozen reasons.
He made the nerves and muscles in his throat form sharp words, which were transmitted across the forty or so kilometers between them.
You fool, Smits! I’m not playing your damned game. Reentry starts soon. There are checklists to-
The blond visage smirked.
Typical new-money cowardice. I know you tried the simulator, Sander. You know how to do it and your boat is equipped. You’re just a frightened hypocrite.
Insults, meant to goad. Hacker knew he should ignore the dope.
But nobody called a Sander “new money”!
My grandmother shorted Polaroid, then Xerox, and then Microsoft. She bought Virgin and Telcram low and sold them high, while your family was still lamenting Cromwell in the House of Lords.
Hands flew, calling up subroutines that slewed his comm laser about, using short-range radar to pick out Smits amid the ionic haze. And, yes, Hacker had spent time in the “space war” simulator, back at training camp. Who could resist?
Oh, no you don’t, Sander. Just watch this!
The radar blip shifted, breaking into multiple decoys… an old electronic warfare trick that Hacker swiftly countered with a deconvolution program. You won’t get away that easily.
Part of him grew aware that reentry had begun. Faint shimmers were starting to appear around his heat shield, encroaching on the brittle stars. Those checklists awaited-
– but how many times had he already run through them, with his team? A hundred? Let the capsule do its thing, he figured. The ai is in some ways smarter than I am.
Meanwhile, that blue-blooded boor kept cackling and taunting. Now that Hacker had penetrated his electronic camouflage, Smits used his onboard maneuvering jets to dodge and veer, preventing a good fix.
Imbecile! You’re overriding the control systems, just when your ai may need to make adjustments.
The face in the holo array seemed to grow more animated and manic by the second.
Come on Sander! You can do better than that! You jumped-up shop boy!
Hacker stopped and blinked, realizing. Even the baronet wasn’t normally this stupid. Something must be wrong.
He stopped trying to target a hit-beam and transmitted a warning instead.
Smits, put your helmet on! I think your air mix may be off. Either concentrate on piloting or switch to auto-
No use. The visage only grew more derisive, more inflamed… possibly even delirious. Words floated outward from that mouth, boldface and italicized, swirling like a vituperative cyclone. Meanwhile, several more times, the fool sent his laser sweeping across Hacker’s capsule, chortling with each “victory.”
Now comes the coup de grâce… Sander!
Hacker quickly decided. The best thing he could do for the fellow was to remove a distraction. So he cut off all contact, with a hard bite on one tooth. Anyway, getting rid of that leering grimace sure improved his own frame of mind.
I am so going to report that character to the Spacer Club! Maybe even the Estate Council, he thought, trying to settle down and put the incident aside, as more ionization flames flickered all around, reaching upward, probing the capsule like eager tentacles, seeking a way inside. The tunnel of star-flecked blackness in front of him grew narrower as reentry colors intruded from all sides. Shuddering vibrations stroked his spine.
Normally, Hacker loved this part of each suborbital excursion, when his plummeting craft would shake, resonate, and moan, filling every nerve and blood vessel with more exhilaration than you could get anywhere, this side of New Vegas. Hell, more than New Vegas.