Steele, Allen - Stealing Alabama

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STEALING ALABAMA

by Allen Steele

Philadelphia 7.4.70 / T-28.25.03

The Liberty Bell is much larger than he expected. Nearly fifteen feet tall, weighing over two

thousand pounds, it's suspended by its oak arm between two cement supports, the ceiling lights

casting a dull sheen from its bronze surface. Captain Lee stands in front of the bell, meditating

upon the long crack that runs down its side, the Biblical inscription carved around its top:

_Proclaim Liberty Throughout All the Land unto All the Inhabitants Thereof. Lev. XXV:X_.

Reflected in the window behind the bell he can see the URS lieutenant who escorted him to the

pavilion. The park ranger who met them there is young and nervous; his hand was sweaty when Lee

clasped it, and he stuttered as he commenced a long-winded recital of the bell's history until Lee

politely asked to be left alone. Now they wait patiently behind him, respectfully giving him a few

moments alone.

Through the pavilion window, on the opposite side of the grassy mall, lies Independence Hall.

The reception was already underway, yet Lee's in no hurry to join it, even though the party is

being held in honor of him and his crew. It's a distinct privilege to be allowed to view the

Liberty Bell; one of the first acts the government took after the Revolution was to close this

site to the public. Citing the risk of a terrorist attack, the Internal Security Agency claimed

that the bell was too valuable to be left unguarded during a national emergency, yet it's been

nearly twelve years since the Revolution and still the Liberty Bell is off-limits to everyone save

the party elite. Lee can't help but to wonder if the government fears what the average citizen

might think if he saw for himself the artifact from which the Liberty Party took its name, and

read the words inscribed upon it.

There's still time to call it off. A few words whispered to the right people, a couple of

discrete phone calls using innocuous code phrases, and the conspiracy would not so much unravel as

it would simply cease to exist. Everyone involved would stop what they're doing and assume fall-

back positions, and with any luck the Prefects would never know that a plot had transpired.

Tonight's his last chance to back out. After this, there's no turning back, no acceptable

alternative except success; failure means treason and treason means death. Which was why he's come

here, to this particular place; not as a symbolic display of patriotism, as everyone assumes, but

simply to give himself a few minutes to think.

So is he going through with this or not?

Lee still hasn't answered his own question as he turns away from the bell. The lieutenant

snaps to attention; the ranger self-consciously does the same even though it isn't necessary.

"All right, Lieutenant," he says quietly, "I'm done here. Let's go to the party."

As appropriate for the Fourth of July, the President's Reception is being held in the

cobblestone square behind Independence Hall. Once the guests make their way through the security

checkpoints, they find that an enormous screen has been unfurled across the rear of the red-brick

colonial courthouse, upon which real-time images of the _Alabama_ are being projected. Lee ignores

the screen as he saunters through the crowd, untasted glass of champagne in his gloved left hand,

his right hand held formally behind his back. In the humid warmth of the July evening, his white

dress uniform clings to his skin. He deliberately arrived after his senior officers; attending

this fete was the thing he was most reluctant to do, yet his appearance is mandatory. Besides,

there's one last bit of important business that needs to be settled.

So Captain Lee mingles with the gentlemen in their batswing ties and frock coats and the

ladies in their bodices and gowns, smiling and bowing, pausing now and then to shake some

stranger's hand or be photographed with another, yet taking care to remain in motion so as not to

be cornered for very long. Along the edge of the crowd, he can see the uniforms of URS soldiers:

black berets, jodhpurs ducked into leather knee boots, polished rifles held at parade rest. The

red softball-size spheres of surveillance floaters hover above the partygoers, watching,

listening, scanning. Security is tight; the president is supposed to be flying up from Atlanta for

the occasion, although Lee has little doubt that he will be unavoidably detained. Philadelphia is

a little too close to the New England border for the President of the United Republic of America

to consider himself entirely safe. Indeed, very few people ever see him outside the capitol,

although the news media regularly show footage of him attending events in places as far distant as

Southern California.

Spotting another pair of white service uniforms beneath the boughs of a walnut tree, Lee

makes his way through the crowd, and finds Tom Shapiro, the _Alabama_'s First Officer, huddled

with his Executive Officer, Jud Tinsley. He can't make out what they're saying until he's nearly

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beside them. Tinsley sees him coming, and briefly touches Shapiro's elbow as he straightens his

shoulders.

"Evening, Captain," Shapiro says.

"Gentlemen..."

"Enjoying the party, sir?" Tinsley raises his bare hand to stifle a burp. "Pretty nice send-

off they're giving us."

"It'll do." Lee knows the XO is drunk even before he notices the empty champagne glass on the

low wall below the tree. "Just make sure you don't enjoy yourselves too much. Jud, button your

tunic and put on your gloves. We're in public."

"Sorry, sir." Tinsley's face reddens; he digs into his trouser pockets for his gloves. "It's

kinda warm tonight."

"Enjoy it. You'll be cold soon enough." Lee steps forward to fasten the top brass button of

the younger man's uniform. Shapiro, at least, is properly dressed and reasonably sober. "You're

not talking about anything you shouldn't, are you?" he murmurs when he's close enough that only

the two of them can hear him.

Tinsley starts to mutter a half-hearted denial. "Just a couple of details," Shapiro says

quietly. He glances up at the low tree limbs above them. "We figured the floaters couldn't sneak

up on us over here."

Good thinking, but not good enough. "Not the time nor place," Lee says. "Save it for..."

He catches himself. The next meeting, he was about to say, yet there aren't going to be any

more meetings, are there? After the reception they'll be driven straight to the airport, where

they're scheduled to board a jet to Gingrich Space Center. By 0600 tomorrow morning they'll be in

quarantine along with the rest of the crew, and there will be no opportunity for any of them to

have a conversation without risk of being monitored. If they wait until they reach the _Alabama_,

it may be too late to make any changes. Perhaps Tom has the right idea after all.

"Has something come up?" Lee casually gazes up at the oak tree, just to make certain a

floater isn't hiding among the leaves. "Anything I should know about?"

Neither of his senior officers say anything, although they give each other a reticent look.

"Nothing we haven't already gone over, sir," Shapiro says at last. "It's just ... I mean, the

ignition lock-out..."

"Don't worry," Lee says. "We're taking care of..." Tinsley coughs into his fist, his right

foot innocuously prodding Lee's shoe. The captain glances his way, sees the XO gazing past his

shoulder. A swish of a crinoline skirt from close behind, then a soft hand touches his arm.

"If I didn't know better, Robert," Elise says, "I'd swear you were avoiding me."

She's half-right; if Lee had known she would be here, he would have avoided her. Yet as soon

as he hears her voice, he realizes this particular encounter is inevitable: it's only natural that

she would attend this reception, and not only because they were once married.

Yet, as the captain turns toward Elise Rochelle Lee, he feels no regret over having left her.

Their marriage lasted for more than seventeen years, and yet she remains as icily beautiful as

when they first met at an Academy mixer; it's only in the last eighteen months that he's come to

realize that he barely knows her. The fact that she's kept his name long after their legal

separation is yet another indication that she married him for reasons that had more to do with

social stature than love; for all intents and purposes, she's still the wife of Captain R.E. Lee,

commanding officer of the URSS _Alabama_.

"I wasn't. I simply didn't see you among all these people." Lee takes her silk-gloved hand,

gives her a quick buss on the cheek. "You look splendid ... is that a new dress?"

"Flatterer." Elise folds her hand around his elbow as her gaze shifts to Shapiro and Tinsley.

"Pardon me, gentlemen, but may I borrow your captain? There's someone who wants to meet him."

"By all means." Shapiro assays a formal bow as he steps back. Tinsley does the same, and Lee

can't help but notice that his eyes never leave Elise's cleavage. Those breasts once attracted

him, too; it took him a long time to discover that the heart beneath them was cold. "Captain,

madame...."

"Your father?" Lee murmurs as Elise escorts him away. "I figured he would send you to find

me."

"Perhaps." Her smile becomes enigmatic as they stroll through the crowd. "Why, is it such a

burden for you to see him one last time? After all, he had quite a bit to do with your selection."

A soft purr from somewhere just above his head. A floater has picked them up; now it's

following them as they move through the reception. Even if he was inclined to give a candid answer

-- _thank you, but I've accomplished this on my own_ -- now isn't the time. "For which I'm

grateful," Lee says. "And no, it isn't a burden."

"Good. I rather hoped not." Her hand slides down to take his own. "Besides, he has a treat

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for you."

They find Joseph R. Rochelle, the senator from Virginia, standing in front of the screen,

surrounded as always by aides, Liberty Party apparatchik, local political cronies, and sycophants

of one sort or another. A short, avuncular man for whom somatotropin therapy has erased nearly

twenty years from his real age, he now looks only slightly older than his former son-in-law. His

back is turned as they approach; he must have just finished another one of his anecdotes, for

everyone laughs out loud. Senator Rochelle rarely lacks for an audience, in or out of Atlanta.

"Oh, very good! You've found him!" Senator Rochelle beams as his daughter leads Captain Lee

into the midst of the circle, then he half-turns to make an expansive gesture at the screen

looming above them. "I was just saying that someone ... I won't say whom, of course ... in Atlanta

had insisted upon christening your ship the _Virginia_." A broad wink that everyone understands.

"But of course, that particular someone didn't have quite as much clout as the gentleman from

another state."

More laughter from the senator's entourage, and Lee forces himself to smile appreciatively.

While the _Alabama_ was still under construction, there had been considerable in-fighting within

Congress over which state the vessel would be named after. In the end, the President settled the

dispute by christening it in honor of the state whose NASA center had been most responsible for

its research and development. An ironic choice since NASA itself no longer exists; it's now yet

another civilian agency dismantled under the National Reform Program, its primary functions folded

into the Federal Space Agency, an arm of the United Republic Service.

But Lee doesn't say anything, nor does he need to; it's only necessary for him to smile and

bow as the Senator introduces him to a dozen or so men and women whose names he forgets as soon as

he shakes their hands, while Elise stands between them, playing the role of the loyal daughter and

loving wife. When all was said and done, this was about appearances; once again, Lee realizes that

he hadn't chosen his wife so much as she had chosen him, and then only with her father's pragmatic

approval. The Senator needed a son-in-law from the Academy of the Republic, an up-and-coming URS

officer whose career he could advance from a discrete distance in order to further his own

political ambitions. Tonight's the big payoff for everyone.

As the Senator begins telling another one of his stories, Lee's attention drifts to the

screen towering above them. The _Alabama_ hangs suspended in low orbit above Earth, the spotlights

of its skeletal drydock reflecting dully off the ship's light-grey fuselage. A tug gently

maneuvers a cylindrical barge into position below the ship's spherical main fuel tank, in

preparation for onloading another ten thousand tons of deuterium and helium-3 strip-mined from the

mountains of the Moon. Fueling operations will continue non-stop right up until ten hours before

the beginning of _Alabama_'s scheduled launch at 2400 tomorrow night.

Once again, Lee finds himself wondering if he should call it off. Everything depends upon the

timetable being kept. Nothing can be allowed to go wrong between now and then ... and yet there

are a hundred different ways it could all fall apart.

"Why the long face, Captain?" One of the nameless men to whom he had just been introduced

nudges his left shoulder. "Concerned about the mission?"

"No, not at all." Out of the corner of his eye, Lee catches Elise studying him. "Just

observing the fuel-up, that's all."

"Robert doesn't worry. He's the coolest officer the Academy has ever produced." Senator

Rochelle favors his son-in-law with a look which might resemble fondness unless one happened to

look closely at his eyes. "He just wants to get out of here and see to his ship. Isn't that right,

Bob?"

"Anything you say, Duke." Lee addresses the Senator by his nickname, and this elicits more

laughter from the cronies. No one ever says no to the Senator from Virginia; by much the same

token, Duke knows that Lee doesn't like to be called Bob. Tit for tat.

Rochelle chuckles as he pats Lee on the shoulder, then he takes him by the arm. "If you'll

excuse us," he says to the others, "I'd like to have a few words with the captain." They nod and

murmur as Rochelle leads Lee away, Elise falling in behind them. "This will take just a moment,"

Rochelle says softly once they're out of earshot. "There's someone here who wants to meet you."

Believing the Senator wants to introduce him to yet another politician, Lee suppresses a sigh

as he lets Rochelle walk him past the edge of the crowd. Yet Duke surprises him; instead, he takes

him behind the screen, toward the back entrance of Independence Hall. A pair of soldiers stand

guard near the door, their rifles at ready; behind them is a prefect, wearing the calf-length dark

grey overcoat and braided cap that is the uniform of ISA officers. The soldiers step aside when

they see the Senator, but the prefect doesn't budge. He silently waits as Rochelle produces his

I.D. folder; Elise reluctantly does the same, giving the intelligence officer a haughty glare as

she holds up her card out him to inspect. Only Lee is spared; apparently the prefect recognizes

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