Kismet

by Watts Martin

  He laughs. “The way Panorica does.” She thinks he’s going to shake his head patronizingly, but he just looks thoughtful again. “Some of it has to be artificial light, though.”

  Ansel cuts in. “Much less than you think. It’s amazing engineering work.”

  “I’ve heard it called one of humankind’s thirteen wonders. Also, I think that’s the first positive thing I’ve heard you say about the place.”

  “Communist dystopias can still have brilliant architecture.”

  Gail rolls her eyes. “Knock it off.”

  “If I’m stereotyping your homeland I apologize, but you haven’t said much over the years that contradicts my impression.”

  “I don’t talk about the politics with you. You’re the one who goes off on tax rants, not me, remember? Most of what I hate about the place isn’t…isn’t the place.”

  Ansel furrows his brow.

  “Look, it’s complicated. I’m just not comfortable there.”

  A chime sounds and Kismet speaks unexpectedly. “Another craft has approached within three hundred kilometers on a non-standard course.”

  Gail frowns, unlatching and pushing off back to the cockpit. Squarejaw follows. “What’s that mean?”

  “I don’t know. Kis, zoom in on the ship.”

  The whole starfield wheels around and it looks like they’re flying sideways. Thomas hasn’t taken his seat yet, and instead ends up gripping the back of the chair tightly, making an urp noise.

  “No floating vomit, I mean it.” She leans forward, looking at the dot circled in red. “It’s paralleling us.”

  “Why’s that raising your hackles?”

  She reaches around to the back of her neck.

  “Metaphorically.”

  She grunts. “See the ID for the ship in that red circle? Any text at all?”

  “No.”

  “That’s what’s metaphorically raising ’em.”

  A second chime signals another inappropriately calm report from the ship. “The other craft has altered its course, and is projected to intercept ours in twenty-eight seconds.” A new display appears floating in front of Gail, showing two dots moving along two lines: Kismet and its projected course, and the approaching ship and its course.

  She raises her voice. “Both of you, four-point harness. Now.” She presses a button, restoring the starfield display to straight ahead travel. “Kis, turn away and accelerate. Hard.”

  Kismet immediately begins to pivot. The lines diverge, then converge again at a different point.

  “Are we about to be in a dogfight?”

  “Since I don’t have any guns, I sure as hell hope not. But they’re not firing, they haven’t hailed us, they’re just—”

  The split second she realizes what’s going on is the same split second Kismet rings like she’s been hit by a giant hammer. “Fuck.” Gail snarls, grabbing for the manual stick and yanking it all the way to the port side. The ship pitches sharply, and for a moment they see the attacking ship less than a kilometer away: little more than a fat, short cylinder, all engine and cargo space.

  Ansel shrieks. “Now they’re firing!”

  She keeps her eyes on the course display as she pushes the throttle open. “Those are grapples.”

  Squarejaw stares. “They’re trying to board us?”

  Even though she isn’t looking at him she can hear Thomas’s brows lift all the way off his forehead. “Hook us. Missiles damage cargo.”

  “Pirates?”

  “Maybe.” She pulls up another display in front of her, a rear view, zooming in on their pursuer. The two dots on the first display are converging again, even though she’s zigzagging.

  “Can you shake them?”

  Good question. The attacker looks like a modified Allister CH-9. A lot of power, not much maneuverability. “They’re flying under computer control.”

  “Then why aren’t we under—”

  She cuts the thrust off and twists the control stick and Kismet spins around with it, flying backward and facing the other ship. The grappling hook rockets past the cockpit in complete silence, seemingly meters from their seats. If she hadn’t spun the ship around, the hook would have hit the stern.

  “And go.” She pulls the stick back toward her and jams the throttle forward full. She and Thomas slam back into their seats and Ansel makes a pained noise. At least she thinks he does. The engine becomes so loud inside the cabin they have to raise their voices to talk over it.

  Thomas wheezes. “Good lord.”

  “That’s why we’re not under computer control.”

  “Because computers aren’t insane. Copy that.”

  The Allister has to reel in its hook each time it misses, so she has a few seconds to change course. But she can’t keep doing this the whole damn way to the Ring. New tactic. “Kis, get us in parallel with the attacker, close enough to fire tow cables. Fast.”

  Thomas stares at her again. She ignores the look.

  Closer, closer, before they get the hook in—perfect. “Fire the tow clamps at the grapple.” The clamps “fire” at a claw-bitingly leisurely pace. One catches the grapple—and sticks. The other two of them bounce into the pirate ship’s hull, only one of them latching on.

  “Ms. Simmons—”

  She takes Kismet into another barrel roll. This time the ship’s shudder sounds like ripping. Discordant alarm chimes start. “Cut the cables!”

  They feel the snaps. She shoves the throttle forward again, and more alarm chimes start, matched with a brief but ominous hiss. “Kis, what’s going on?”

  “A section of outer hull plating has been breached. The inner hull is intact but compromised. The temporary seal should be replaced as soon as possible.”

  “Fantastic.” She zooms the display back in on the attacking ship. It’s slowed down, tumbling awkwardly, the grappling hook—with the tow clamp still hanging on—trailing behind it. With any luck, she’s broken more than the chain motor. Fuckers.

  Yet another alarm starts somewhere. “Slow down!” Ansel screams.

  Gritting her teeth, she eases the throttle back. The distance between Kismet and the CH-9 is growing rapidly; they’re out of danger. Probably.

  Squarejaw swallows, taking a deep breath. “Is there a chance this is just a random pirate attack?” She can tell he already knows the answer.

  “Pirates don’t operate this close to Panorica unless they’re after a very high-value target.” She points at his jacket pocket.

  “No one knows this is on your ship right now.”

  Ansel sounds weak. “Officer Wolfe does. Anyone either you or he had to clear this with does, too. I think I sprained something.”

  “You can’t believe the PFS sent pirates after us.”

  “Given the way my week’s been going, I can believe a lot.” Gail runs a hand through her hair. “Kis, is that ship disabled?”

  “They do not appear to be operating under full power. Its course is diverging from ours.”

  “Where are they going?”

  “Their current course has the highest probabilities of being toward New Amsterdam or Solera.”

  “Of course. Christ.” She throws herself angrily down in the seat, then hangs on to keep from ingloriously bouncing off the cushion.

  Thomas’s brow furrows. “Where Mr. Corbett is from. But he couldn’t have gotten from the Rothbard Republic to Solera that fast.”

  “He’s not running this operation, and he can’t be the only flunky Quanta hired. But I want to know what the hell is happening on Solera. Again. Still.” She closes her eyes. “Kis, get back on course for New Coyoacán and get there as fast as you think it’s safe.”

  “Yes, Gail.” The ship picks up speed and, with a gentle grace quite unlike her owner’s piloting, arcs up and starboard.

  Chapter 11

  After her standard reassuring announcement chime, Kismet speaks. “We will be under gravity in three minutes. Please secure any loose items.”

  Gail stirs in her seat. She
didn’t manage to fall asleep, but she got close. Squarejaw, though, stares ahead wide-eyed.

  Astronomers describe Ceres as a dwarf planet. Even though they’re still far enough away to see the pronounced curve of the horizon, nothing looks small about it. Kismet speeds high above a vast rock and glacier field, neither featureless nor entirely grey; craters and mountains and color striations are easy to spot. Surface mining operations are easy to miss, squat structures spreading thin, delicate tendrils of piping across the ice.

  But what seizes your attention, what you can’t look away from, is the Ring.

  Take a metal belt eighteen kilometers wide and bend it into a circle big enough that if you wrap Ceres with it, there’d be a hundred kilometers of space between the surface and the inside of the belt. Build walls many kilometers high, high enough to keep the atmosphere in if there’s gravity, and top them with an elaborate system of mirrors, shades and light concentrators. Then fill the space you’ve created with soil and trees and “natural” water formations, and use technology indistinguishable from magic to make the whole thing spin.

  On approach, the side facing away from the planet looks like the top, a dull metal surface like Panorica’s hull. But it’s the other side with farms and fields, research stations and ore processors and water plants, towns and cities. As Kismet gets closer to the Ring, flying over it now, she matches speed, dropping closer still, and Gail feels the pull—a slight one, but well past microgravity—from the planet.

  Then, as she synchronizes her speed, Kismet barrel-rolls to fly upside down with respect to the planet and drops up into an open bay, the angular velocity of her flight mimicking the Ring’s spin-induced gravity, moving from outer space to underground. Gail holds her breath as the operation completes, unable to exhale until the sound of the docking clamps echo around the hull. There’s a small chance she could pull off that landing manually if she had to, but she hopes she never has to find out.

  Squarejaw unhooks his seat restraints even before the ship gives the all clear chime. There’s a difference between the gravity here and the gravity on platforms, even the ones like Panorica, that she’d almost forgotten. The platforms have a slight, subtle pull counter-spinward. On smaller platforms like Molinar you can even see it, if you drop a ball straight down and watch closely: the ball doesn’t drop straight. The Ring, though, is so damn huge that you’ll never feel it, let alone see it.

  But she’s not in any hurry herself. By the time she’s standing, they’re both looking at her expectantly, although Ansel keeps gingerly rubbing the base of his tail. That’s what he’s worried he’s sprained, she guesses.

  She grabs her bag and follows the others to the exit, but pauses by the hatch, looking back at the cabin. “Kis, I’ll arrange for repairs immediately, okay?”

  “Yes, Gail.”

  She nods, but stays where she is. What’s the damage like? How long will it take to repair? It doesn’t matter—it’ll take as long as it takes. How’s she going to pay for it when her bank account’s still locked? Who knows? Some things you can’t control, and trying to pretend otherwise just drives you nuts.

  “Ms. Simmons?”

  “Come on, Gail. You’re only going to be stuck back home for a little while.”

  “Home is Kismet. New Coyoacán is just where I’m from.” Before either of them can respond with some helpful aphorism, she moves past fast enough to take the lead.

  The interior of the docking bay sports the gray industrial walls so many others do. But things take a more colorful turn when they step into the wide exit hall: bamboo floor and ceiling tiles, warm indirect lighting illuminating riotous painted wall murals, some of stylized scenes she recognizes from New Coyoacán, some from other places entirely. The slight bounce from the floor’s claw-resistant coating triggers more memories; it’s rare everywhere else on the River, but de rigueur here. There’s only a few other people here, all totemics, including the full transform vixen standing with hands clasped in front of her watching them approach. Her light green dress looks hand dyed, not too far off from something Sky would wear; the only thing that marks her as an official is her cloisonné pin: blue ring around white dot.

  “Welcome to the Ceres Ring and New Coyoacán. And welcome back, Ms. Simmons.” She smiles brightly.

  Gail can’t muster a return smile, but she manages not to scowl. She hopes. Ansel looks both unsettled and a little smug, like this is just the kind of state-in-disguise intrusiveness he’d been expecting. But official greetings aren’t standard procedure: the vixen’s here because of Squarejaw. “Thanks. I’m sure being back will be an experience.”

  The vixen’s smile grows fractionally worried. “I hope a pleasant one. It’s quite a thrill to see you return, even if it’s for a short visit.”

  Her ears splay. Oh, God, she’s not here because of Squarejaw. “Uh. Thanks.” She clears her throat. “Do you know if Kingsolver Repair is still open? We had a little event on the way here and my ship needs some work done.” She also needs new tow cables and clamps, but those will have to wait. Even if she could get into her bank account, there’s not enough to cover the full repair bill as it is.

  “Yes, they are. Give your ship permission to talk with them and we’ll give them access.” She motions them to follow her up the hallway. “Agent Thomas, are you here on Interpol business? I know you’ve been in contact with one of our mediators.”

  “Not exactly, ma’am. I am working on a case with Panorica Federation Security, but it doesn’t involve New Coyoacán.”

  Her tail swishes back and forth as she walks. “Then if I may ask, why here?”

  “I’m hoping to get some advice on the case from your mediator. She seems quite sharp. I also expect to get more work done with my consultant here than I might be able to there. You could call it a—hmm. Is ’skunkworks’ offensive?”

  She laughs. “No.”

  “Good. In any case, I’m sure Bright Sky will make sure the case doesn’t impinge on New Coyoacán jurisdiction. Beyond that, I’m here for a quick vacation.”

  The vixen smiles, tension and ears both lifting. “That’s good to hear. New Coyoacán is the loveliest city on the River.”

  Another ten seconds of walking takes them to the top of the incline and the spaceport’s main concourse. Ansel looks winded and grumpy. Maybe he’s thinking there isn’t a moving sidewalk or other tram because New Coyoacán can’t afford modern conveniences, but one glance around the spaceport would dispel any thought the city’s short on money. The treated bamboo floor continues throughout the whole area, the ceiling high above supported on natural wood beams. Nearly every exterior wall’s a floor-to-ceiling window. At least a third of that ceiling is windowed, too, bright pale light drifting down around sales stalls peppered across the open space. Even though the spaceport’s just as busy as Panorica’s, it doesn’t feel crowded. Nearly everyone else she sees is a totemic.

  The vixen stops, hands folded in front of her again. “I hope you all enjoy your stay. I don’t know if you have lodging arrangements already, but there’s a wonderful hotel that opened a few years ago overlooking the Sonora River. It’s only three dozen rooms, and it’s quite romantic.”

  “Hey, we—”

  “That sounds lovely. Thank you very much.” Squarejaw smiles. The vixen nods in the kind of not-quite-a-bow way that Ring-folk have when they’re being formal, and he returns it passably.

  As soon as she walks off, Gail hisses. “Flirting with the vixens? That’s record time for going local.”

  “I’m simply being diplomatic.”

  “And what the hell do you mean, ‘that sounds lovely?’”

  Thomas shrugs. “Doesn’t a romantic hotel overlooking a river sound lovely to you?”

  “You’ve probably made her think we’re a triad!”

  “It’s possible.”

  Ansel snickers. She narrows her eyes.

  Squarejaw keeps his voice absolutely deadpan. “Now, don’t be like that, honey. I admit I’m very curious a
bout what a riverside hotel here will be like. Also, what did she mean that seeing you was a ‘thrill?’”

  Oh, now he’s discovered his sense of humor? She keeps her clenched fists at her side. “My mom’s still remembered around here, I guess.”

  “I guess, too. We should get in touch with Bright Sky now that we’re here, though. You never answered if that was a mononym. Did she take your family’s last name?”

  “No. ‘Bright Sky’ is the only name we’ve ever known for her.”

  “Is she Native American?”

  “I don’t think so, but we didn’t know her before her transformation.” Sky had been broke after her passage to New Coyoacán, and broken after whatever trauma had led her there; even after she grew into her new life, she never shared the whole story. As a young girl, Gail thought that was the coolest name ever. Later, she realized it was what a pre-teen might pick if she thought it was the kind of name a totemic should have. “You handle coordinating with her, and we can check out accommodations in the area. What’s your expense budget like?”

  He looks at her askance.

  “I mean, to cover hotels for a few days.” Sky might already be preparing a bedroom for her, and she doesn’t want to get steered in that direction. But she can’t pay for a hotel herself with that account lock. Interpol, though? They can.

  “Moderate.”

  They step out of the building into daylight. With chagrin, she realizes she thinks of this and only this as real daylight: the brilliant ice of the Ring’s filtered sky. The wisps of dark grey cloud against it are real, too. She hasn’t seen an actual damn cloud since she left. To Squarejaw, though, this has to be unfathomably alien. She can’t even guess what Ansel’s thinking beyond his now very wide eyes.

  The spaceport sits near the center of New Coyoacán, and whether or not it’s the prettiest city on the River, it’s unlike any others. They stand at the side of a wide paved road, a similar plastic-carbon material as roads on Panorica. That’s where the resemblance ends. The buildings along the road, along the roads down visible intersections, all sit low, rarely more than two stories—and they revel in wasting space. Lawns and gardens and trees separate building entrances from sidewalks. Some buildings have grass between them. And the buildings themselves seem oversized, wood and stone rising from the grass to meet slanted roofs of wood and red tile. Half-doors, bottoms latched but tops flung open, are unheard of elsewhere on the River but common here. And now she can guess what Ansel is thinking, and maybe what Squarejaw is, too: this is the only place on the River where houses blend into the landscape, because it’s the only place where they can. It’s the only place that has landscape.