Star Crossed

by C. Gockel

  "Didn’t you wonder how Marratrax knew your name?"

  "Yes?"

  "The Qerran authorities know you were involved in an incident that led to the death of a Ptorix worker at Shernish University."

  Heendrax. She sighed.

  "Nothing official will come of that," Saahren continued, "we explained the circumstances. The Qerrans agree with us that public knowledge of the virus is unwise. However, lots of people knew you were there. If you return immediately, there’s likely to be a public outcry."

  She pushed both hands through her hair, eyes closed. "And I suppose nobody wants to admit Admiral Saahren was with me."

  "It would be unwise."

  Her hands dropped onto the covers. "What you’re telling me is I can’t go home."

  He’d folded his arms. "I’m sorry."

  "Are you? Are you really? Isn’t that what you wanted?"

  He chuckled. "I suppose so, yes. But come on, Allysha. You can’t pretend to hate me if you’re willing to sacrifice yourself to save me from injury."

  She pulled a face. "I don’t know why I did it. I didn’t want you hurt, but that doesn’t mean I like you."

  It meant she needed to think about everything that had happened since she left Shernish only a few weeks before, find out what was real and what was manipulation, understand the truth.

  "Of course not," he said.

  "What about Sean?"

  A shadow passed across Saahren’s face. "We’re looking for him."

  She felt a certain relief.

  "You’re far too tolerant of that… that…." He frowned. "Just in case you’re in the mood to protect him a little further, you should know that he sold your house and cleaned out your bank accounts before you left Carnessa."

  Her heart jolted. "What?" That couldn’t be true. If it was, she’d be in trouble. "Let me see."

  "Pick up the report from my implant."

  It showed the sparse facts; credits to Sean’s account, where the money came from, the amounts.

  "The bastard! The two timing, conniving, insufferable bastard! So that’s where he got the credits to gamble."

  She felt used, manipulated, stupid, naïve. He’d left her with nothing; nothing. She’d go home to Shernish and have to start all over again. She’d have to borrow just to pay rent.

  "I’m surprised that you didn’t at least have a separate bank account," Saahren said, eyebrow cocked.

  "I’m not completely stupid. But he’s a good engineer. He fiddled my account."

  "A good engineer, but not enough to do the job on Tisyphor."

  "No. He’s not as good as me. Besides, he can’t work on Tor systems."

  "And does he know how you do things? Without a keyboard?"

  "No. Father made me promise, I’m glad to say." Too trusting, too honest. Stupid. Well, things were going to change. "I only told you because you already knew. What now?"

  He grinned and crossed one leg over the other. "Assuming you’re not ready to marry me—"

  "No."

  The grin widened. "Will you at least work for me—or, more to the point, Admiral Leonov?"

  "Doing what?"

  "Your system skills are remarkable. There’s so much you could teach our experts." He jagged his fingers around the word experts. "Teach them how to find the weaknesses in our security systems, how to match an InfoDroid; teach them how to think. And if there’s time, teach people some of the things you know about the Ptorix—how to understand them better."

  "I don’t want to stay here forever." She didn’t want to stay here at all. But if she had no choice then… she needed the money.

  "I’m offering a contract, a business proposition, that’s all." He paused. "Five months, Allysha, that’s all. Half a year with a competitive salary and accommodation thrown in."

  "What sort of salary?"

  "Thirty thousand Confederacy credits."

  Her jaw dropped. Thirty thousand credits. Thirty thousand. At home that would buy a house on the beach with plenty left over to furnish it. And these were Confederacy credits. She wondered what the exchange rate was.

  "At the moment, the exchange rate is about two point three."

  She rubbed her hand across her face. Sixty-nine thousand. She felt faint. "What about you? I wouldn’t have to work with you, would I?"

  His face showed no hint of what he thought. He was good at that. "I’ll be in space on Arcturus. You’ll be here on Malmos. As I said, you’ll report to Vlad Leonov and you’ll work in there."

  He jerked his head and went to stand at the window. Allysha slid out of the bed and padded over to join him, conscious of the shapeless white hospital gown slipping down one shoulder. Sunlight reflected off a multitude of towers that soared into the sky beyond the gardens surrounding the hospital. Malmos wasn’t the urban jungle she’d expected. Tall buildings, sky-lanes crowded with traffic, certainly, but large tracts of what appeared to be forest, with pathways and walkways separated the buildings, adding life and color.

  "See over there? Three tall towers with a number of lesser buildings around them?"

  She nodded. The three buildings formed the hub of a network, all connected together with walkways and bridges like a multi-layered spider’s web.

  "That’s the Fleet complex. You’ll work in the center building and we’ll get you an apartment in one of the blocks close by. The Parliamentary complex where we were the other day is just over there." He pointed. "The city center—the shops and entertainment areas and so on—is over there." He pointed at a cluster of buildings that seemed closer together.

  "It’s not what I expected."

  Saahren looked down at her. "Malmos? What did you expect?"

  Allysha absently tugged the hospital gown back up her shoulder. She hadn’t actually thought much about the Confederacy’s capital, beyond an impression.

  "Claustrophobic, I guess. A crowded city. Lots of tall buildings, lots of people, lots of vehicles. Not much room."

  He smiled. "They try to keep a balance. The city coexists with the planet. But as you can see," he waved a hand at the multitude of vehicles traveling past in ordered lanes, "there’s plenty of traffic, even if most people do use public transport."

  She pulled at her lip. She’d made up her mind, really. It seemed she had little choice, but she wasn’t prepared to concede quite so quickly. "Can I talk to Lord Marratrax? Just to confirm what you told me?"

  His smile surprised her. "Very good, Allysha. Don’t believe everything you’re told. I’ll arrange for him to come by here."

  "No, thanks. I want to have something reasonable to wear." She sat down on the edge of the bed. "And I expect I still have a pretty necklace."

  "I’ll have Butcher book you into a hotel for now and arrange for Vlad’s wife to help you with wardrobes and such... And yes, your neck is still bruised but Marratrax knows about that. It won’t hurt for him to see what was done to you."

  "How much does Marratrax know?"

  "Everything. He’s a most reasonable Ptorix. Well, Allysha? Do you accept, at least on principle?" He stood beside her, looking down at her with that familiar half smile.

  "If I’m anything, I’m pragmatic." She shrugged. "I have no choice. Book me into a hotel, give me a chance to talk to Marratrax and get me a copy of your contract. I’ll read it tonight and subject to details, I’ll sign it tomorrow." She’d earn his thirty thousand, go home to Carnessa and look after Allysha for a change.

  He hadn’t gone. "Tell me, do you remember me visiting you before?’

  Before? "No. You haven’t been here before."

  His lips curved in a slow smile. What was he thinking? What had she missed?

  "I came here an hour after you were admitted. You spoke to me."

  She searched her memory. No, the last person she’d seen was the nurse who helped her to the shower. "You did? I don’t remember."

  His smile widened. "I love you, Allysha." He walked out, leaving a vacuum.

  She punched the pillow with a clenched
fist. Damn it. Love was one thing; common sense was another. She’d get over him. In time.

  Saahren closed the door behind him and leant back against it for a moment, the metal cool against his hands. So far, so good. The admiral was satisfied; now for Chaka Saahren.

  Patience; that was all it needed; time for her to accept facts. He wasn’t very good at patience but he was willing to try; for a while, at least.

  * * *

  ~Fin~

  Deception, the next book in the Iron Admiral series is available at your favorite vendor.

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  Hurricane Moon

  Aeon's Legacy Book 1

  Alexis Glynn Latner

  * * *

  In the late 21st century, with Earth wracked by climate change, an ambitious private foundation launches a starship to find a new world. Aboard the starship Aeon are Catharin Gault, an idealistic astronaut-physician, and Joseph Devreze, a geneticist as brilliant as he is irresponsible. He has his own secret motives for fleeing Earth.

  Aeon finds two Earth-sized planets in orbit around each other. Planet Green has abundant plant life. Planet Blue is an oceanic world covered with hurricanes. The green world with its bright blue moon seems like a perfect stage for the drama of civilization to begin anew and turn out better this time. But the journey took too long. A millennium of cryostasis—cold suspended animation—has exacted a heavy price: insidious genetic damage.

  Now Catharin must rely on the irresponsible genius Joe Devreze to help her repair the human genome if there is to be a future for the colony on Planet Green. Their mutual attraction ratchets up even as their conflict escalates. Together Catharin and Joe must decide how they can face, and embrace, a future utterly at odds with Aeon’s planned mission and their own expectations.

  And the mystery of the hurricane moon looms over them.

  Acknowledgments

  This book could not have been created without the expert and lively advice of space physicists, biomedical researchers, engineers, social scientists, and astronaut candidates. My most profound thanks go to Paula Burch, Kristin Farry, Marc Hairston, Valerie Olson, Sedge Simons, and Eileen Stansbery, all of whom are PhD graduates of Rice University in Houston, Texas.

  * * *

  In the long adventure of writing and revising this book, I had invaluable encouragement and guidance from many wonderful people. I especially thank Kristin again, and Margaret Ball, Jennifer Juday, Laurie May, Dan Perez, Matt Reiten, Mary Rosenblum, Stanley Schmidt, and my former agent, Joshua Bilmes.

  Credits

  Hurricane Moon was first published by Pyr (Prometheus Books) in 2007.

  Chapters 9-11 were first published in the March 1992 issue of Analog Science Fiction and Fact Magazine as “Landfall.”

  1 Judgment Day

  Earth and the Moon looked like a double planet from here.

  Catharin Gault hovered close to the glass in the middle of the long window that framed Earth in one end, the Moon in the other. The angular docks and cranes of the L5 shipyard slid into the scene. The blue world slipped toward the edge of the frame. The new starship was yawing, window and all. She had to make her way to the fourth briefing so far today on as many urgent issues, but for a few stolen moments she marveled at the double planet half-lit by the Sun. Earth’s night side coruscated with the lights of vast cities. The Moon’s pale face was marked by faint spider-lines of settlement. Very soon, human civilization would reach toward a better world than the Moon, across a vastly greater, purifying, distance. And she would have a role in that. Her breath caught in her throat at the familiar but never comfortable thought.

  As Earth touched the edge of the frame, movement in her peripheral vision attracted her attention. She recognized the stocky form of Bix—Captain Hubert Bixby—floating her way. His grizzled hair stuck out in the zero gravity. “Cat, something’s come up. The Chicago Assessment office wants you to interview a last-minute prospect and tell them if we want him.”

  “Why me? It’s their job.”

  “Apparently, this guy’s got max qualifications of a sort you’re suited to judge, but he’s got one or two max disqualifications too. The assessor on duty kicked the problem to his higher-ups, and somebody routed it to you. The nearest telcon is the Test and Checkout chief’s. Let’s go borrow it.”

  Taking the quickest cut, they cruised across the transport level bay. The bay bustled with activity. White-suited technicians dodged around them. Inspectors checked each shuttlecraft’s retaining rigs and braces. Other personnel darted in with replacement parts or revised checklists.

  Catharin and Bix wore blue coveralls with red armbands that meant primary crew. The garb cleared a path for them. Even when they encountered five workers steering a heavy piece of equipment that outmassed the team, they managed to shove it out of the way for Bix and Catharin. “I’ve never felt so important,” Catharin murmured.

  “Me either,” Bix said. “And I’ve never left on a mission knowing we wouldn’t come back.”

  Catharin took a deep breath to damp down the dread and excitement that surged up at those words.

  Bix made for the far wall of the open bay. gerald donovan, test and checkout supervisor transport level was lettered on a door that stood ajar. “Gerry?” Bix called. “Can you spare your telcon for a minor emergency?”

  “Surely, and I’ll get out of the way,” said the white-haired man in the office.

  “Chief Gerry Donovan. One of the best in the space construction business. Gerry, this is Catharin, our doctor. Her call won’t take long.”

  “Take your time, Doctor. I’ve a pair of shuttles to see about. I don’t want them slipping as much as a centimeter when this ship decelerates at the end of the trip.” A pen floated in the corner of his office. Chief Donovan snared the pen with the bare toes of his right foot. With his left foot, he caught the jamb of the door to swing himself out of the office. His arms were shiny and artificial. Bilateral upper-limb deficiency, Catharin realized. Probably congenital. Trauma amputees never got that good using their feet as substitute hands.

  Bix told Catharin, “Join the Transport briefing soon as you can.” He left with Donovan.

  Catharin contacted the Chicago Assessment office. The back wall of the narrow office shimmered, then imaged a sparse Earthside room and a man slouching in a chair. The assessor was absent: this would be a private interview. The man wore expensive, stylish clothing. Black hair curled over his suit collar and over the edges of a long, strong-boned face. The build matched the face, tall and lean, spilling out of the functional little chair.

  Catharin said, “Good day. Let me apologize in advance for the fact that this will have to be quick. I’ve not much time. I’m Dr. Gault, the starship’s medical officer—”

  He interrupted. “You’re the gatekeeper. So what do you need to know?”

  “To begin with, who are you?”

  She expected a verbal resume. But he just said, “Joseph Devreze.”

  And that, she realized with a jolt, told her what she needed to know. “You recently won the Nobel Prize?”

  “You’re not too busy to keep up with the news, eh?”

  Catharin bit back a retort. She located Chief Donovan’s telcon touchpad below the surface of the desk and touched in a request for Devreze’s medical file. The file appeared in a window on the wall.

  Devreze shifted in the chair. “I watch the news too, including coverage of the starship. I gather that alien conditions on some other world might call for organisms to be invented, tailor-made for whatever the strange environment is.” He had a clipped baritone voice with a clear timbre that Catharin would have liked in other circumstances. “I’m eminently qualified to do that.”

  She had parked herself behind Chief Donovan’s desk with a leg hooked around the knee bar below the desk. Placing her elbows on the desk and folding her hands under her chin to make herself look grounded and secur
e, she said, “Yes, your qualifications do make you irresistible—almost.”

  “Almost?” He sounded startled. “Who do you want? God?”

  “That would depend on His motives. Your participation in this mission depends on yours,” she said pleasantly.

  “Why the hell do you care why I want to come?”

  “Some people want to go to the stars to escape personal problems.” Glancing at the medical file, Catharin found the usual childhood illnesses, a high level of cardiovascular fitness, no present disorder, terminal or otherwise. “Do you have enemies?”

  Devreze shrugged. “Only every scientist I ever trounced in professional journals.” He shifted in the chair.

  Height six feet, four inches, said the medical file. Catharin preferred men at least as tall as she, and she was tall for a woman. Her sexual self, not aware of her fate in the near future, found this man interesting. She maintained a professional tone. “This trip will be final. Very final. The starship will not come back. Once the colony is founded, we hope to communicate with Earth, but it will take fifty years for such communication—one way.”

  “I know. I told you I keep up with the news.”

  “It’s my job today to make sure that you realize this is not just a concept. It’s your future. Do you have family?”

  “Not really.”

  The file concurred: unmarried, no siblings or living parents. “I see. You have fewer reasons than many people to stay. But why do you want to go? You do have to answer that.”

  He crossed his arms. “You could say I’ve done it all here.”

  “Done it all?” she echoed, too floored for a more original remark.

  “I’ve made it to the top in my field. Which happens to be one where people get rich and famous.”

  “I’m aware of that. Novel organisms are very profitable. And people pay outrageous sums for cosmetic genetic alterations, such as calico hair.”