Unreconciled

by W. Michael Gear

  Benj’s expression soured. “I can’t imagine the kind of . . . Well, was it bad?”

  “Call it macabre, grisly, insane . . . Hey, words don’t convey the kind of things . . .” He shook his head. “Forget it. The whole deck’s sterilized. Stripped down to the hull.” He looked around at where forklifts were whining and moaning as they lifted shipping containers. “What’s happening here?”

  “Getting the first loads out of Ashanti now that Corporate Mine has been taken care of and the Maritime Unit has been happily dropped out on their reef. Figure that if you’re done with Deck Three, with the additional crew to help, we can have the Cargo Deck emptied within another couple of weeks. Most of what you see here is ready to be shipped up. Loaded and sent back to Solar System.”

  “Given what the Supervisor’s got floating up in orbit, and the number of containers I see here, we’re not even going to come close to taking it all.”

  If I can even stomach the thought of spacing again.

  “I’ve got a manifest of what goes first. Miguel, you’re not going to believe it.”

  “Believe what?”

  “The wealth.” Begay took his arm. “Come on. I’ve got the manifest on my tablet. Let me take you on a stroll through town. Buy you a drink and the finest meal you’ve ever eaten. Then I’ll brief you on what’s at stake.”

  Galluzzi let Benj take the lead, followed him through a huge gate just before a giant hauler wallowed its way past, cloaking him with a light coating of dust. To his amazement, a man dressed in quetzal hide and coarse cloth stood guard with a rifle. And, yeah, he’d heard. Seeing it, however, was shocking.

  “What’s that?” Galluzzi hooked a thumb at the departing hauler.

  “Clay,” Benj told him. “Makes the finest sialon in the galaxy. As if that means shit. Most of those containers out there are full of it. Enough cubic kilometers to fabricate a dozen Freelander-sized ships. But forget the clay. It’s inconsequential.”

  “What? That’s why they founded Port Authority here in the first place.”

  “Those containers up in orbit? They’re full of beryllium, rhodium, cerium, terbiums, ruthenium. All being kept pristine in vacuum. And then there’s the gems, like nothing Earth has ever produced. After that, the gold, silver, platinum and the like are almost boring.”

  Looking around at the central avenue just past the admin dome, Galluzzi asked, “When do we get to the good part of town?”

  “You’re here.” Benj spread his arms to take in the entirety of the graveled north-south thoroughfare. “I give you the Transluna of Capella III.”

  Galluzzi’s brain stumbled at that. He saw weathered domes interspersed with buildings made of stone, timbers, and some sort of plaster. Barrels, pieces of equipment, drying racks, little gardens, hand-painted signs, everything was a jumble, right down to the mismatched light poles that lined the street.

  The people ambling past were just as bizarre. The colors, the outlandish cut and style of the clothes, the rainbow-effect quetzal hide, the wild and unkempt hair styles. Most men were bearded. Not to mention the big floppy hats and guns. So many guns. Hard to think that they hadn’t all murdered each other upon the outbreak of the first discord. Even the women looked like cutthroats.

  “This is the richest planet in the galaxy?” Galluzzi asked.

  “Sum and total,” Benj told him. “Me, I can’t wait to get out of here. Even if it means shipping back aboard Ashanti, but I’ll get to that in a bit. Want to see the worse parts of town?”

  “I think I’m fine with first impressions.”

  A loud bang made him jump. Turning, he realized it came from the building with GUNSMITH burned into the curious wood sign over the door.

  “They build and fix firearms. Sell them to anyone, can you imagine? I mean, you could just walk in there and buy a rifle. No questions asked, no one watching.”

  “Insane!”

  “The whole place is, Miguel.” Benj shook his head. “It’s one thing to hear that they’re a bunch of libertarians. But once you set foot down here? Realize that, no shit, there really isn’t any government to speak of? I mean seriously. No one takes care of these people. They’re completely on their own. What kind of insanity is that?”

  “Sounds scary.”

  “Yeah.” Benj motioned. “Come on. After years of rations, I promised you a meal the likes of which you’ve never eaten. They might be a bunch of lunatics, but, by damn, can they cook!”

  “What’s the Supervisor say about all this?” Galluzzi tried to take in a whole new order of shabby as he walked beside Benj. “Why hasn’t she restored order here?”

  “According to the story, she tried. Quickly figured out it would be open warfare, and she’d have to kill them all to reestablish Corporate control. Now, that said, Aguila herself is off the rails if you ask me. She and her Corporate Mine are little better than the local savages.”

  “You been down there?”

  “I have. They might call themselves Corporate, but it’s in name only. You ask me, it’s a sort of co-op. But one that’s corrupted by Port Authority’s cash economy. Miguel, there’s no redistribution here. Even Aguila’s people, they’re rich in their own wealth. What they call plunder. And they’re a clannish bunch. You say anything critical of Aguila, they’re ready to reach down your throat and pull your lungs out through your mouth.”

  “What’s Dek say about all this?”

  “Dek?” Benj laughed almost hysterically. “I never knew that insanity was infectious, but he’s gone as crazy as the rest of them. Figured that as a Taglioni, he should have come uncorked at first sight of this place. Instead, he’s out in the bush, like he’s fallen headlong into the absurdity that is Donovan.”

  Benj led him to a dome with benches out front. “This is Inga’s. The local drinking and eating establishment. Well, there’s the cafeteria, but the name pretty much says it. Down the street, The Jewel is a casino and whorehouse. One of two brothels if you can believe it, but that’s a story for another time.”

  Galluzzi stepped inside to find the floor in need of sweeping and followed Benj down into a subterranean room with a stone floor and long tables crowded by benches.

  Benj found a spot in the back, off to the side, and told the young man who walked over, “Two of the lunch specials and two glasses of the amber ale.”

  The waiter said, “Uh, you’re Skulls. You got cash or plunder?”

  With careful fingers, Benj placed a coin on the table. “That’s a ten. That enough?”

  “You got it,” the lanky twentysomething told him, turning to bellow, “Two specials, two amber ales.” Then he was off to a table full of hatted, cloak-wearing, pistol-packing locals up front.

  Galluzzi just stared at the coin, having never seen the like. Finally asked, “Why didn’t we just stand up and shout?”

  “Some of us try to cling to the illusion of gentlemanly conduct.”

  Galluzzi threw his head back, laughing with gusto for the first time in how long? “Hard to believe this place is for real.”

  “Oh, it is.”

  “What do you hear about the Unreconciled?”

  “Guess they’re out in some distant research station. The latest news is that the Prophets got turned into raving morons because they ate other people’s brains. Some sort of protein malfunction that eats holes in gray matter. Spongiform encephalitis.” Benj barely suppressed a shiver. “Damn, but I’m glad to be rid of them.”

  Galluzzi grunted.

  Benj fixed him with a hard stare. “Miguel, I need to know. Once the cargo is loaded, how soon do you expect to space?”

  Galluzzi leaned back, experienced a quivering in his heart. “I don’t know, Benj. It’s going to depend.”

  “On what?”

  “The condition of the ship and crew. What the Supervisor orders. I don’t know. Just how we all feel.”


  “How we feel? You heard anything I’ve said? This place is a lunatic’s asylum. The closest thing to Corporate order is Aguila’s mine. And there’s nothing there. Just a mine, barracks, and a cafeteria. This”—he waved around—“is the best this shithole has to offer.”

  “Benj, take a breath. Listen to me. You were there. You know what kind of condition my people are in. It’s been ten years. We almost died. Most of them are out of contract. If I post an order that we’re spacing as soon as we’re loaded, half of them will refuse. The half that I order aboard will hate me for cutting their shore leave. . . . And it’s not like murder hasn’t been committed on Ashanti before.”

  Benj rubbed his face with the flats of his hands. The old gesture of frustration having grown so aching familiar over the years. “Miguel, do you understand? We’re talking about the kind of wealth that will make us all famous. Look back in history. The Spanish treasure fleets of galleons? The Venetian merchants of the Renaissance? They are nothing compared to the splash Ashanti will make when she’s unloaded. Your photo will be holoed from one side of Solar System to the other.”

  Right. They’ll have a face to put to the name. “So that’s what a monster looks like. He’s the one who left the cannibals to die.”

  Galluzzi asked, “And you, my friend?”

  Benj’s lips twitched before he said, “Who knows? Supervisor of Transluna? It wouldn’t be out of the question.”

  “What if Aguila wants to go back? Take her own wealth. Put herself at the forefront of the discovery.”

  Benj’s expression went tight. “I guess we’ll just have to wait.” A beat. “As the locals say, ‘Welcome to Donovan.’”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning anything can happen.”

  Not that it mattered to Miguel Galluzzi. What did was the question that bounced around inside his head: Can I space again? Do I even want to?

  33

  The last time Shaka Mantu had walked under the stars, he’d been nine. Memory of that night, of the warm and moist air, and the South African sky, had clung to him during the long and terrible eternity of Deck Three. When the horror and hopelessness had grown too much to bear, he’d tuck himself away in his bunk and remember. Go back to his life as a boy before he’d traveled off to Academy.

  Those hours he would spend with his mother and brothers, reliving life when there was a sky, home, and a future without death, pain, and misery.

  On this night, he finally walked free under the stars. Different, it was true. Here no Southern Cross, no Magellanic Clouds, no Coal Sack were visible. And the Milky Way was brighter, wider, and stunningly different.

  “But I am finally free,” he said, raising his hands as he strode out beyond the northernmost dome.

  His way wound through the scrubby trees; he let the curious sound of the night chime bathe him in its subtle music. If he thought about it, he could almost call the intonations tribal.

  Warm air caressed his skin.

  “God, I have longed for this.” Inhaling, he filled his lungs and savored the perfumed scents. Tried to catalog them. Sort of a saffron? Maybe mixed with cilantro? A hint of tang similar to steeping honeybush tea?

  Movement under his foot surprised him. He skipped sideways, startled. Then laughed. Yes, it was the roots. He’d heard that they moved. To experience it was a marvel. He tried to tread lightly, wearing his soft leather boots as the Messiah had ordered.

  Odd that. It flew in the face of tradition.

  “We are no longer like a fetus in the womb!” the Messiah had declared. “As newly born infants, we must now learn to dress for our new world. Shoes will be worn at all times while outside. Just as children must learn to wear clothing.”

  Seven years barefoot. Now he had shoes again. It felt oddly restraining.

  Call it a happy tradeoff for the ability to stroll under an open night sky. He tried to mince his steps, to mitigate the disturbance to the roots. Even in the darkness, with a sliver of moon to light the sky, he could see the trees shifting their branches, as if the leaves were watching him.

  “Mama? I made it. I’m standing on a distant world. Tough times to get here. I did things. Things I hope you never have to know. But I lived.”

  Funny thought that she might be looking up at the night sky outside of Johannesburg, perhaps looking right at him, as he might be looking at her. And it would take thirty years for the light to travel between them.

  How did the human brain synthesize that?

  His path had taken him to the edge of the cliff. He sniffed, catching the faint odor of vinegar mixing with perfumed scents on the wind. The vista overwhelmed, and he marveled, looking out at the humped confusion of treetops that vanished into an indistinct horizon marked with stars.

  What a miracle. This was an alien forest.

  And he, Shaka Mantu, was seeing it firsthand.

  Not bad for a Zulu boy. That day he’d received his first scholarship, who would have guessed that he’d . . .

  The boulder he was walking around jumped. Something lanced through his left shoulder, the impact of it shearing through his scapula, upper ribs, and clavicle. Knocked him back. He would have fallen, but the spear took his weight. Dangled him.

  Pain—like nothing he’d known—stunned him. Before he could draw breath, his body was grabbed. In the darkness, he barely saw the two tentacles that drew him close against the boulder . . . that was no longer a boulder.

  He tried to draw breath.

  To scream.

  But his chest, fiery with pain, was frozen.

  As his mouth worked soundlessly, the thing that held him pressed close. Warm tissue spread along his bare thighs, over his wrap, and onto his stomach. Like a jelly bath, it began to surround him.

  And then the burning began.

  He finally managed to draw breath.

  Was about to scream, when the spear through his upper chest jerked sideways. Stunned with pain, he didn’t realize one of the tentacles had shifted. He barely felt it seize the back of his head. Then he was pulled down, bent double, and his face was shoved into the warmth as the thing engulfed his head . . .

  34

  Not for the first time did Dan Wirth wonder if he was a moron, deluded, or just plain crazy. Right. So, stop with the psychopath jokes, already.

  He’d swung the safe door open and was staring at the packed shelves. This was the second safe. The first—hulking in its place in the corner—he didn’t bother to open anymore. It was packed with stacked ingots of gold, platinum, something called rhodium, and bars of ruthenium. Hell, he’d never heard of such stuff as that last. Now he had safes so full of it the legs had buckled.

  He scowled, taking in the contents of safe two. The thing was a five-foot tall by four-foot steel box that Tyrell Lawson had welded together. This time Dan hadn’t bothered to bolt it to the floor. By the time it was full, it would take a heavy-lift shuttle to pack the thing off. And where was he going to find a thief on Donovan dumb enough to chance stealing from him?

  “Oh, Father, if you could see me now, you worthless piece of walking garbage.”

  But the old pedophile couldn’t. And Dan hoped the cocksucker never would. The old man was the only living being in the galaxy who knew who Dan Wirth really was. And if there were any justice—real or imaginary—dear old Dad was either dead before his time or brain-wiped for the sick shit that he was.

  “So, what the hell do I do when this one’s full?” Dan wondered. Wasn’t going to take much. Maybe another couple of months. He stuffed the bag of rubies in the right-hand side. How many damn rubies could a single planet produce?

  Allison had suggested using some of the gems to inlay the bar, and then covering the whole thing with glass. Sure as hell, that would be a crowd pleaser. The richest bar in the universe. After all, he already had a dozen fifty-to-sixty-karat “pigeon-blood-red” rubies, not to m
ention all those thirty-to-forty-karat rocks that constantly trickled in. And then there were the emeralds, the diamonds, sapphires, and all the rest.

  “Fucking pain in the ass.” He slammed the door shut and wrenched the locking lugs closed.

  As he stood, Kalen Tompzen—dressed in a black shirt and wearing tight chamois pants—knocked and leaned in the office door.

  “Uh, boss? Got something you might want to keep an eye on.”

  Dan walked over to his big desk, ensured the ledger book was up to date. Bless Ali for a good girl—it was. He raised his eyes. “What sort of something?”

  “Guy’s winning a lot of hands, boss. Dalia gave me the high sign. I’ve had Vik watching. Shin, too. Can’t see how he’s cheating.”

  “What’s his take?”

  “He came in with nine SDR. He’s up to about three fifty now.”

  “Nine to three fifty? Now there, by God’s ugly ass, is a man after my own heart.” Dan stepped over to the mirror, adjusted the fine white silk scarf tied at his throat. Real silk. The only one on Donovan. He’d obtained it from Amal Oshanti, one of the local housewives. The slit had traded a bedroom addition on her house for the scarf. She’d brought it all the way from Solar System back on sixth ship.

  Traded, for fart-sucking sake!

  Here he was, a man with two safes full of plunder, and he couldn’t buy a scarf. No, he had to trade. But so be it. He now owned and wore the one-and-only silk scarf on the whole toilet-sucking planet.

  He slipped his form-fitting quetzal-hide vest over his shoulders, looped the gold and rhodium chains into place, and strode for the door.

  In the hallway he could hear the rhythmic thumping of the bed as Angelina provided some john with horizontal glee. Ali’s door was closed, but then, she was supposed to be down at admin, dealing with Muley Mitchman’s deed. Nice that she’d been seeing to the nitty shitty little details needed to manage property. And it kept him from getting frustrated, cutting throats, and making more trouble for himself.

  Stepping into the casino, it was to see a new guy seated at the back table playing poker with Step Allenovich and Lee Halston. Obviously soft meat from Ashanti, the guy was nevertheless dressed like a farmer. Quetzal boots, local-fabric shirt, canvas pants.