“Crisse!” she said as the tiny blade slipped through the material and sliced her finger.
“Are you okay?” Jean-Eudes whispered.
She sucked her finger, then watched the blood well.
“Are you okay?” Jean-Eudes asked again.
“Quiet,” she said impatiently.
She kicked the suit away and squeezed her damn finger. Jean-Eudes held his anxious silence.
Chloé and Mathurin were out doing range work on the family’s trawlers. Pascal sat across the habitat in the center of cable-shavings as he whittled a set of wings for a survival-suited figure he’d made.
“Have you been in here?” Pa’s voice suddenly carried across the room.
“What?” Émile asked evasively.
Pa waved a small box in front of him. “You took my pot and tobacco?”
“I didn’t take it,” Émile said plaintively.
“Who did? Chloé? Mathurin? Marthe?”
Émile cast her a nervous glance. Ciboire. Not again. What an idiot.
“I told you not to touch my goddamn stuff,” Pa said. “You’re not old enough and you haven’t earned it.”
“I’m sixteen! Chloé was pregnant at sixteen! I work hard!”
“Chloé has always worked hard,” Pa said, stepping closer to him. Émile was already a lot taller than Pa and heavily muscled, but he shrank back. “You just about lost us a trawler last night.”
“No, I didn’t!”
“The transmitter was off on one-one-five. If the wind had taken it a kilometer farther, it would have blown away with thirty kilos of metal and electronics.”
“Bébittes!” Émile said.
Marthe snorted. Émile cast her a quick, angry look.
“Ciarge!” Pa said.“It wasn’t bébittes! I fixed it. You know how? I turned the transmitter on! I told you a hundred times! Double-check. That’s how we stay alive!”
“Shh!” Jean-Eudes whispered to them, gesturing frantically. “You’ll wake the baby!”
“You never forgot anything?” Émile said.
“I double-check everything. That’s why you’re still alive!”
The fight didn’t stop, so Alexis did wake up in the end, upsetting Jean-Eudes. Émile was never smart enough to admit he was wrong.
She didn’t have to put up with their fighting much longer. The following year Marthe came to the upper atmosphere.
She had now been running everything up here for the D’Aquillon family for the last eight years, trading one set of fights for another. Her father couldn’t even stand to look at la présidente, and had nothing but contempt for most of the people living in the upper flotillas, indebted to the Bank of Pallas. She missed her family, but she liked running the Causapscal-des-Vents. Most of the deal-cutting on the black market came naturally to her, and she enjoyed the politics.
The decision of la colonie to separate from Québec had come a bit suddenly for everyone, including the séparatistes. A scorned Québec had been happy to cut its losses on the expensive colonie. The Bank of Pallas, smelling a banana republic, swooped in to offer loans that the new Venusians would never be able to repay.
The entire population of Venus was only about four thousand, split between a dozen big habitats, about two hundred mid-sized ones, and many dozens of small ones that could only house a few people each. All the constructed habitats floated in the upper atmosphere, between the altitudes of sixty-two to sixty-six kilometers, above most of the clouds and most of the acid. The idealistic colonistes on their quickly-rusting habitats had created l’Assemblée coloniale, a mixture of legislature and executive, composed of all the heads of families or heads of habitats.
A few hundred peoplelived as her father did, in the clouds and haze between forty-two and fifty-five kilometers above the surface. They survived in bio-engineered trawlers among herds of naturally-occurring trawlers from which they harvested electricity, high-energy chemicals, organics, water, and even some metal-rich volcanic ash. They were the coureurs des vents, the wind runners, a clever play on words from the coureurs des bois, the forest runners of Québec’s early New France history.
Every habitat could send a delegate to the l’Assemblée, but this was impractical for many, so they gave their votes to other delegates. Marthe was the political delegate for her family’s habitat, the Causapscal-des-Vents, and she held a dozen proxy votes for other deep-dwelling coureur families. Not that votes helped much. The delegates from the big habitats tended to carry the day; voting against them created bad blood that played out in la colonie’s black market of food, medicine and parts. Her father’s history and his criticism of the l’Assemblée never helped her. And her own occasionally-voiced view that la colonie was being incompetently managed didn’t help either.
Some gray-haired delegates filed in, chatting amiably, or sending each other messages on pads. She got a few hellos, some genuine, some less so. Many delegates within radio range signed in to join the session remotely. On the other side of the hall, Angéline Gaschel entered, followed by aides. Nearby delegates immediately pressed her with requests and questions.
Gaschel had systematized the politics of la colonie. As a representative of one of the biggest habitats, she had resources to barter, largesse to share, and choke-points to close, and she got on very well with the Bank of Pallas.
Marthe took the last draw on her cigarette and crushed it out.
Eight years ago, Gaschel had negotiated new loan terms with the Bank of Pallas for the purchase of ten new, expensive habitats like the Baie-Comeau. With this demonstration of her ability to deliver the goods to la colonie, the vote to change the title of the chief executive from maire to présidente had passed with an overwhelming majority. La colonie liked having a présidente. It made them feel like a real nation in a way that a mayoralty never had.
The D’Aquillons knew Gaschel more viscerally. Twenty-eight years ago, Gaschel, as la colonie’s Chief Medical Officer, had been the authority deciding the distribution of scarce medical resources. She’d been the one to tell Pa and maman to abort Jean-Eudes, and when faced with refusal, had decided that la colonie would not offer Jean-Eudes any medical resources, ever. Gaschel was the reason Marthe had been born in the clouds instead of above them.
Marthe didn’t mind that she’d been raised as a coureur. And she didn’t mind that other families facing similar choices had decided differently. But she never forgot Gaschel’s choices, either. Like cigarette smoke and atmospheric hazes, some rages took a long time to come down.
Gaschel called the session to order. L’Assemblée voted through a series of tedious measures to correct by-laws, clarify legislation, and name new habitats to be delivered next year. Marthe voted electronically on each of these with her dozen votes, watching the oui/non votes shift in real time on a screen as delegates changed their minds or saw which way the winds blew. Marthe dispensed with her votes quickly on these, waiting for the economic statements.
This might be the time when l’Assemblée finally said no to more loans from the Bank of Pallas. Gaschel rose as graphs of debt repayment schedules flashed on screens and on their datapads. The projections showed a balanced budget in six years, with final repayment of la colonie’s loans in 2285, thirty years from now. The numbers looked far too optimistic, and Marthe dug into the footnotes, losing track of Gaschel’s argument for a few minutes.
“...propose that we accept another loan from the Bank of Pallas,” the présidente said, “to bridge us over this last period of capital growth while we finish retooling our economy. The loan is conditional upon la colonie implementing austerity measures, tied to education and health, so that our full resources can be turned to industrial development, something we’ve never had a chance to commit to. We have political independence, but we have yet to achieve economic sovereignty. This is a map to turn Venus from a dependent state into an independent one.”
The applause ranged from polite to enthusiastic. Marthe offered reserved claps. Too many missing pieces. A sizable
payment to the Bank was due shortly. And the maintenance costs were too optimistic.
“Austerity doesn’t mean not investing in what is important,” Gaschel continued. “It means being frugal with what we have, setting reasonable standards of living, and cooperation, as any new colonie and state must do during its youth. We need to increase industrial capacity in the production of indigenous Venusian building materials, taken from the atmosphere and harvested from the Venusian flora, to supplement scarce metals. In the meantime, we seek the authority of l’Assemblée to negotiate a new loan from the Bank of Pallas for the purchase of automated mining equipment for the exploitation of asteroid 3554 Amun, so that Venus will have a stable, affordable long-term source of metals.”
The applause became loud, although a few like Marthe looked dubious. 3554 Amun, as well as other iron-nickel asteroids, had been discussed a number of times. They couldn’t afford it. Despite international treaties, made a hundred years before Québécois colonistes had reached the clouds of Venus, the Bank of Pallas, the Bank of Ceres and other Banks had bootstrapped their own mining operations to set up mining bases on most of the inner system asteroids. The asteroids that hadn’t been claimed by the Banks were not worth mining. Thousands of asteroids were already being mined robotically, and often refined, so that basic, ready-to-use materials were sitting there, waiting for customers, sometimes for decades. Venus certainly couldn’t afford one of those. Other Bank asteroids sat ready with dormant mining equipment. The time from activation to delivery might be ten to twenty years, even if Venus could afford it. 3554 Amun was even more expensive: an in-between asteroid, with some refined metals, ready for shipping and delivery within two to three years, and more as mining machinery worked. It would put them further into debt with the Bank.
“To buy into 3554 Amun, we need one more loan, one that we project paying off by 2285,” Gaschel said. “The asteroid and its metals will make our children independent. And working together, being frugal, will free them from debt.”
More applause. Marthe tried to dig into Gaschel’s numbers more quickly. At times like this, she wished Venus could afford neural implants. The numbers didn’t add up. Gaschel was either assuming nothing would ever break down in the entire future of la colonie or that everything would work on the first try. La colonie had plenty of experience with first tries and break-downs.
“We have some immediate needs for parts and metals,” Gaschel continued, “and we would be wise to consolidate some of our resources and expand using ones that don’t require us to import new metals. Notably, I propose that l’Assemblée acquire two or more new trawler habitats, to increase living space and industrial capacity. We would respectfully request that the Hudon family provide one at a very reasonable price, and another closer to cost—perhaps even as a gift during this time of everyone working hard to get us into prosperity.”
Marthe felt her eyebrows rise. Across the hall, Marie-Pier Hudon, her long blond hair streaked with strands of white, flushed. Marie-Pier was about forty, reasonable and hard-working, with a small family. She grew bioengineered trawler habitats and traded them for all sorts of supplies, food, water and medicine. The problem was, that all happened in black-market trading with the families of coureurs. As far as the law went, private property was still a vague concept in a communally-rationed colonie. It would be hard to say no or to negotiate a good deal, now that Gaschel had stirred up l’Assemblée. The présidente rarely put Marthe on any committee or study of consequence, but Marthe would try to get on the committee squeezing two new trawlers out of Hudon.
‘This doesn’t sound above board,’ she direct-messaged Hudon.
Hudon didn’t make a sign that she’d read it.
“And we have to start being more aggressive about recovering salvageable materials from aging dirigible habitats,” Gaschel said. “This is a necessary cost-saving measure. For now, it will only be necessary for l’Assemblée to nationalize one habitat, the Causapscal-des-Vents.”
Marthe bolted straight and almost dropped her pad.
“The Causapscal-des-Vents has only two inhabitants, produces food for only four, and requires replacement parts regularly. Yet it contains forty-one tons of iron, nickel, aluminum, copper, solar cells, plastics, and many other materials that can be used to maintain several dozen larger, more efficient habitats. The two members of the D’Aquillon family will be offered new accommodations within la colonie.”
Marthe’s heartbeat thumped in her throat. Gaschel had landed some powerful rhetorical blows, all slightly twisted. The food production of the Causapscal-des-Vents was low because they lacked materials to insulate the outer envelope on four big segments. And Émile had not been carrying his weight.
The replacement parts demand was true, in part because the administration had for so long starved the D’Aquillon family of parts. What they got on the black market wasn’t enough. And it was true that only two people lived in a habitat that could probably fit three times as many. The rest of the D’Aquillon family lived in the lower cloud decks as a form of protest.
There was a larger danger in this than even losing her home. Without the Causapscal-des-Vents, it was unlikely that Marthe would remain a delegate to l’Assemblée. The Causapscal-des-Profondeurs had no delegate, also out of her father’s protest against the government. If Marthe was moved to another habitat, that habitat would already have its delegate. She could then no longer hold the votes of other families.
Gaschel had figured out how to crush Marthe and the D’Aquillons politically.
ELEVEN
GEORGE-ÉTIENNE DID NOT comment on the dress the next day when Jean-Eudes carped about it, dropping Alexis into a fit of astonished giggles. All he said was, “You should have seen the silly things Marthe did,” which steered the conversation into other directions. Marthe was the wisest of them, but most of George-Étienne’s “stupid children” parables featured young Marthe, to everyone’s delight. But George-Étienne wasn’t in much of a story-telling mood. Shortly, he clapped the breakfast finished to get Alexis moving.
Pascal and Jean-Eudes cleaned up the galley. Then Jean-Eudes brought out Pascal’s repaired survival suit, while Pascal reviewed the mission profile he’d developed. Jean-Eudes was a small wonder with patches and seals. He was deliberate about checking the strength and impermeability of every stitch and seam. He’d already checked Pascal’s suit twice after patching the tears on the thighs, but insisted on doing it once more. Pascal said he didn’t have to.
“Keep you safe,” Jean-Eudes grumbled.
Pascal leaned his head closer. “What’s wrong, buddy?” he said in a low voice.
Jean-Eudes was pouting.
“Come on,” Pascal said.
Jean-Eudes cast a look at George-Étienne, slightly red-faced, as he drilled his grandson on habitat navigation procedures again. Alexis was looking flustered.
“Are you mad that we’re going on a mission?” Pascal asked gently.
“When am I going to be in charge?” Jean-Eudes said, not so quietly. “I’m twenty-seven. Alexis is only ten. I’m his uncle.”
“I know, Jean-Eudes,” Pascal said. “He’s not exactly in charge. You have a smart nephew, and he’s good at math. This is a big test for him. Keeping a whole habitat and herd in place against the wind is a big job. He’s going to have to measure wind angles, calculate course corrections and fix any equipment that breaks.”
“I can fix the valves,” Jean-Eudes said in a low voice. “And the computer says where to go. I could steer if the computer tells me where.”
Pascal put his hand on Jean-Eudes’s arm.
“Did you feel this way when I started running things?”
“Non,” Jean-Eudes said. “You’re my brother.”
“Baby brother.”
“He’s my nephew! He’s not Chloé. He’s not Émile. He’s not you. I don’t want him bossing me around. I’m his uncle.”
“Are you proud of how smart he is?”
“Oui,” Jean-Eudes said
sullenly.
“You helped raise him, Jean-Eudes. You changed his diapers. You washed him. You played with him. You taught him how to check valves and fix suits and clean up. But he’s growing up.”
Jean-Eudes scratched at his beard and brooded at the patched and repatched survival suit on the table.
“How do you think Pa felt before he put Marthe in charge of the Causapscal-des-Vents, to represent us all in l’Assemblée?” Pascal asked.
Jean-Eudes stared blankly.
“It was probably hard for him to realize that his daughter was better than him at dealing with people,” Pascal said. “Pa just makes people angry.”
Jean-Eudes gave a tiny snort and smiled.
“But Pa is happy she’s up there,” Pascal said. “And he’s proud of her. And he’s proud of what he did to make her who she is.”
“I don’t want to be bossed around by my nephew.”
“Look at them,” Pascal said.
Jean-Eudes followed his look, to where the talk between Alexis and his grandfather had become heated again. Alexis’s eyes were downcast and his face pinkened. George-Étienne’s words didn’t carry, but their tone was insistent.
“Alexis is probably going to be pretty frazzled the first time it’s all on him,” Pascal said. “He’s going to be worried and nervous and scared of making a mistake. It’s a tough job.”
Jean-Eudes grunted.
“Knowing his uncle believes in him will make it less scary.”
Jean-Eudes sighed loudly. Twice. “You’re a good brother.”
“So are you.”
Their father strode over. Still on the other side of the habitat, Alexis was rereading charts on his pad.
“You ready?” George-Étienne said.
“Oui, Pa,” Pascal said.
“Suit up, then.”
As Pascal suited up, Jean-Eudes walked over to hug a protesting Alexis.
TWELVE
The House of Styx Page 7