“That’s insane,” she said.
“Oui. They offered me more rations, first choice of bunk space.”
“Ostie, Émile. You can’t support the government and the Bank by joining the Sûreté.”
He shrugged. “I didn’t say yes,” he said. “I just think it’s funny that I haven’t even started and I’m already a dirty cop.”
“They’re all dirty cops,” she said. “And it’s also awful suspicious.”
“That they’d ask me? I’m big. I can knock heads.”
“That they offered you this while they’re trying to take away our home. It’s a bribe.”
Émile looked like he wanted to argue, but then that look diffused away.
“I need you here, Émile. The original plan was to let the Causapscal-des-Vents sink on its own, while I went off as a decoy. But it might not work unless somebody guides it. I think I need you to keep it safe on the way down.”
He shook his head and finally worried out a single rolling paper from the others and started to tap in the last bits of tobacco. “I’ll be the decoy. You go with the habitat.”
“The decoy has to be fast,” she said. “You’re too big. A wing-pack will fly me faster. And I don’t want you blamed for losing the Causapscal-des-Vents. We need the investigators to blame it on the lack of parts.”
“You’re no one’s favorite either,” he said. “You’ve caused so much trouble that they might think you’re committing sabotage. Which you are.”
“If we get caught, I don’t even know where they’d start,” she said. “Even if we don’t get caught, if we don’t nail this, the Causapscal-des-Vents will sink like a smoking can.”
He licked the paper then laughed bitterly. “No one really knows you, do they? No one in the government can see what you’re capable of, can they?”
“Are you in?”
“Does Pa want me in? Does Pascal?”
“Pascale certainly does. I’m working on Pa.”
“Shit, we’re all going to jail.”
“Pascale and Pa found a way to the stars,” she said. “This is for us.”
He rose, inhaled, blew smelly smoke into the cabin. He moved aft to his rack and shut the curtain. She heard him moving around back there.
She gritted her teeth, finishing her cigarette.
“If you become a cop, I’ll fucking kill you, Émile,” she yelled after him.
“Yeah, yeah,” he called back.
FIFTY-FOUR
MARTHE FLEW TO the Baie-Comeau an hour before she was to testify to the Resource Allocation Committee. She wanted to prepare. As much as their plans depended on Pascale and Gabriel-Antoine designing something sturdy and functional, and in Marie-Pier having the trawlers ready to catch their fall, if Marthe couldn’t delay the seizure of the Causapscal-des-Vents, it was all for nothing.
The Resource Allocation Committee was not one of the more exciting committees. Lots of people wouldn’t be watching what was happening, and she needed to get the public mood on her side. Gaschel needed it on hers, too. Marthe got to the committee room in the bowels of the big habitat about forty-five minutes early. She was surprised to find Noëlle cleaning the benches and folding desks with a cloth.
“Oh!” Noëlle said, with more ingenuousness in her expression than she normally brought to flirting. “Marthe. What are you doing here?”
Noëlle was sweating, adding a shine to her dark forehead and to her bare arms showing below sleeves rolled to her elbows. She was beautiful.
“I’m testifying here soon,” Marthe said neutrally. “What are you doing here?”
Noëlle shrugged enchantingly with the rag.
“The concierge is sick. They needed the chambers clean. Wouldn’t want l’Assemblée to clean their own rooms or anything,” she added derisively.
Interesting that Marthe’s on-again, off-again lover had replaced the concierge on the day Marthe was testifying. Someone was trying to rattle her? Or to get some dirt on her before the committee sat? The committee chamber had cameras, and it wouldn’t be complicated to run them without Marthe knowing. She didn’t look up.
“It’s nice to see you,” Marthe said, moving to one of the benches. She folded down the table and turned on her pad. “I’d better practice my lines.”
Noëlle might have been expecting more. Maybe she and Délia were on the outs again. She huffed loudly, and wiped at tables with palpable pique.
“What are you going to do if they take your habitat?” she asked.
Marthe had to assume that she was being filmed right now, with or without Noëlle knowing, to turn public opinion or to sharpen the government’s side of the debate. Noëlle was an unlikely femme fatale, but certainly capable of being an unwitting tool.
“I don’t know,” Marthe said.
“Shitty.”
“Oui.”
“It’s a shitty habitat,” Noëlle said.
“It’s home.”
“You can’t stay with me,” Noëlle said.
“Fine. I’ll send Émile to shack up with you and Délia.”
Noëlle snorted and turned back to wiping the benches half-heartedly. “We’re making it work.”
Marthe gave her a doubtful look. “I know.”
Marthe turned to her pad, and after a while, Noëlle took the hint. Maybe she thought Marthe was playing hard to get. Noëlle didn’t do any chasing herself. She preferred the thrill of being chased, and she lived on scandalized adrenaline. In some days or weeks, Noëlle would tire of Délia again, and detonate an explosion of drama, with Marthe, or someone else. Dealing with Noëlle was like riding a storm in the fifty-first rang—dangerous and exciting, easier with practice, until overconfidence caused something bad to happen. Marthe wouldn’t mind riding a storm right now.
But now wasn’t the time. L’Assemblée was more dangerous. Unlike Noëlle or a storm, intent lurked behind its dangers. And those dangers knew enough about Marthe to engineer Noëlle’s presence here today to throw off her concentration. They were taking Marthe seriously.
Noëlle left in a sulk before members of l’Assemblée started to come in by ones and twos. Félix Lévesque, the committee chair, was one of Gaschel’s allies, as were a few others, like Laurent Tétreau, the secretary.
The other committee members were indifferent, swingable one way or another, unless Gaschel had already gotten to them and engineered a foregone conclusion. Some witnesses filed in too. Catherine Nadeau, Charles Hébert, Boniface Lortie, and Éric Turcotte, none of whom had a stake in this fight. Marie-Pier Hudon entered shortly with her brother Marc, sitting a few rows behind her, not making eye contact.
Marthe wasn’t exactly nervous. She could play these cards. And she understood viscerally why her father could never have done what she’d been doing for eight years. He couldn’t hide his resentment and anger. He couldn’t store it for another time. He was all heart, and couldn’t set that view aside, even for an instant. She was better at this because she could hide what she thought.
Lévesque gavelled the meeting to order. Tétreau reviewed the agenda and witness list. Lévesque and other members had minor statements, points of order and records adjustments from previous meetings. It was fifteen minutes before they called Marthe. She rose, moved to the witness bench, and made eye contact with each of the committee members in turn. Most were neutral to her. Others did a poor job of disguising their loyalties.
“Thank you, monsieur, for giving me time to address the committee,” Marthe began. “You may imagine my state when I heard that the government intended to confiscate my home. I’ve taken some time to absorb the news and consider the rationale. My questions are more about the long-term plan for the confiscation of other family habitats by the government.”
“There is no plan to confiscate other family habitats,” Lévesque said, frowning.
“Will you put that into law?” Marthe asked calmly. “Will you guarantee that no other family will ever have their habitat confiscated like this?”
�
�The Causapscal-des-Vents is in terrible shape,” Lévesque said. “It’s almost not atmosphere-worthy.”
“The government had a large hand in bringing it to this condition,” Marthe said. “The government has systematically refused to supply parts and materiel for upgrades or even repairs. I have a list here of the standard parts I have requested over the last twenty-four months using the procedures set in place by this committee. Only ten percent of the requests have actually been fulfilled. To compensate, I’ve had to trade away my own food, clothing and vitamins to other habitats to get the basic parts needed to keep the Causapscal-des-Vents floating. I’ve kept it afloat, and now you’re taking it away.”
“Parts and materials are directed to the highest-priority needs.”
“Your neglect made the Causapscal-des-Vents a high-priority need.”
“Parts get recycled and repurposed all the time,” Lévesque said. “The Causapscal-des-Vents is a big part, but its dismantling will provide materials for a dozen other habitats. Better accommodations are available to you on other habitats.”
“You haven’t answered my question, Monsieur. What is the long-term family habitat confiscation plan? Who is next?”
“No one is next.” Lévesque’s irritation was growing.
“You claim not to have enough parts to keep the Causapscal-des-Vents floating, so it gets cannibalized into parts for other habitats,” Marthe said. “Conveniently, you don’t need to import more materials from off-world. But the policies of the government are not getting us any closer to being able to import new materials or to produce them on Venus. So, logically, in a year or two, the government will need to identify another habitat to confiscate and dismantle.”
“That’s a complete fabrication.”
“The pattern of denial of parts and materiel to the Causapscal-des-Vents is systematic, going back at least two years,” Marthe said. “But when I looked, I was surprised to find we’re not alone. The same pattern has been playing out over the last twenty-four months on La Mitis, Témiscouata, Mont-Joli, and Lac-Édouard.”
The last habitat housed Manon Dubé, the committee member sitting on the right, aligned with neither Gaschel or Tétreau. Émile wasn’t the only one in the family who could punch.
“What assurances will you give to the people living in those habitats that you will not be confiscating them?” Marthe asked.
“No one’s habitat is being confiscated!” Lévesque said.
“Will they believe you after you’ve just announced your intention to confiscate the Causapscal-des-Vents?”
“The Causapscal-des-Vents is a poor-quality, poorly maintained habitat that would cost the entire colonie too much to sustain.” A hint of stridence crept into Lévesque’s voice. “Should every habitat donate parts to keep it afloat?”
Marthe’s voice stayed even by comparison. “The government has also been denying parts to Batiscanie, Coucoucache, Lac-aux-Sables, and Cap-de-la-Madelaine. Not as bad yet, but if this continues, in four to six years, these habitats will be looking like the Causapscal-des-Vents.”
“That’s a lie!”
“It’s all in the public records of this committee,” Marthe said. “Is this the long-term plan? First Causapscal-des-Vents, then Témiscouata, then Batisc—”
Lévesque’s gavel hammered over and over as more voices on the committee and in the audience rose in irritation.
“No one in the fleet should have to sacrifice their well-maintained habitat to keep your piece of shit afloat! This witness is deliberately endangering other habitats by protesting the reallocation of surplus resources to higher-need habitats!”
Some of the voices supported Lévesque, and glares focused on Marthe. But others in the audience and on the committee looked less certain. Sometime during their exchange, both Marthe and Lévesque had come to their feet. Marthe slowly sat, keeping her face impassive. He didn’t. He was still yelling, partly at her, partly at people sitting behind her.
The amount of shouting would ensure that the video would be replayed at supper tables and evening smoke breaks all over la colonie. The official minutes and recording would be heavily edited.But Marie-Pier had recorded the whole hearing. And once the testimony had gotten heated, a few others had surely pressed record too.
Maybe after this was done, she’d see if Noëlle was in the mood for being chased.
FIFTY-FIVE
MARIE-PIER CAME UP from the Coureur des Tourbillons and met Marthe on the roof of the Marais-des-Nuages. The day was clear, with warm high-pressure cells pushing vast valleys into the cloud-tops, all the way down to the rolling yellowed vortices of Les Rapides Plats. Marthe would have invited Marie-Pier into the Phocas habitat as would have been customary and polite, if only to offer water, but Gabriel-Antoine’s grandparents were cranky and tired. She clasped Marie-Pier’s forearm briefly and they soared on wide wings towards the Détroit d’Honguedo, a big, aging habitat fifteen kilometers north, on the outskirts of the main colonial flotilla.
They didn’t speak. Marthe found herself mildly paranoid now that she was the architect of such a clearly criminal plan. It hadn’t been announced, but it was clear to anyone paying attention that more planes and drones had been patrolling most of the equatorial zone. A lot more. It might be as innocent as remapping, but unless the government had come into new sensing equipment, that wasn’t likely. She hadn’t found out what it was all for, but her suspicions were on a hair trigger.
If Marie-Pier was feeling any of this, Marthe couldn’t tell. So Marthe did the only thing she could. She breathed deeply, traced the bright cratering of the cloudscape with her eyes, and dipped here and there, following thin downdrafts and riding updrafts. The tirelessly-moving surfaces of the upper clouds were beautiful in the way make-up and jewelry could be beautiful. Even though she’d lived up here for eight years, Marthe still felt like a transplant. That she was indelibly a coureur des vents at her core comforted her. Someday she would move back down to take care of Pa and Jean-Eudes. Perhaps even to the surface, near their Axis Mundi. Whatever troubles they had upcloud, there were ways for coureurs to hide in the depths.
The Détroit d’Honguedo revealed its shape as she crossed layers of haze. It was one of the last original habitats, the big communal ones they’d sent from Earth for the first immigrants. The loss of a couple of them, like the Matapédia and the Montée de Corté-Réal, had changed the strategy to smaller, more easily managed habitats for three families, two, or even one, like Causapscal-des-Vents. The trend had only reversed recently, with better material science and engineering experience. Big habitats like Baie-Comeau might be the future, especially if some of the frames and the envelopes could be built on Venus with indigenous materials.
The outer faces of the Détroit d’Honguedo’s envelope had clouded with age and acid, making of it a blind eye floating above the clouds. It probably still housed eighty or ninety people and carried some of the machine and electronic shops to service the flotilla. It was unsurprising that this might be one of the places where the black market flourished.
They alighted on the roof port, stowed their wing-packs and neutralized before descending through an airlock into the envelope. They cracked the seals on their helmets when the stairway opened onto the wide arcade. Little one- or two-person shops—machinists, electricians, small-electronics repairs, all government-run—ran along the arcade, framed by transparent layers of envelope filled with greenery and even suited gardeners.
“I’ve never seen this part of the flotilla,” Marthe said. “When we get authorized for repairs at all, we get assigned to the Baie-Comeau or the Escuminac.”
“I come here often. The inspectors are all bought off, unless you do something really stupid,” Marie-Pier said, leaning her head close as they walked. “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“Did your father shave and comb his hair after you proposed the marriage?”
A fit of giggling burst out of Marthe. “He did!”
Mari
e-Pier was laughing too.
“Don’t worry,” Marthe said. “It’s not that kind of marriage. He can be very correct, though.”
“It’s not bad,” Marie-Pier said. “I wouldn’t have made the same choice he made about Jean-Eudes. I don’t think I’m strong enough. But I admire someone who did.”
“He’s not an easy man in many ways, as a father—or as a husband, I imagine, although maman seemed happy enough,” Marthe said. “Sometimes I don’t want to be like him. But other times, when I know it’s something that really matters, I worry that I’m not enough like him.”
“You are,” Marie-Pier said.
At the end of the arcade was a small hardware depot. The light beside the doorway shone red over hand-painted letters that said Present Requisition Forms. Marie-Pier showed her wrist computer and the light greened. The depot was small, but the parts in here could have helped run the Causapscal-des-Vents for years. Marthe understood that hers wasn’t the only habitat, but it didn’t make the bitterness pass easily. At the back of the depot was a door leading into an old repair bay. Machinery and scraps were piled high in rude Venus-made shelves and netting, but that wasn’t the main purpose of the room.
Within that circle of scrap sprouted rows of small stills, fans, fume hoods, a miniature bioreactor, and what looked like a homemade centrifuge. A few people in survival suits and regular clothes were cooking, measuring, jarring, labelling. The drafts carried scents of yeast and fermentation and sulfur and ammonia. Marthe got a few strange looks, but people seemed to know Marie-Pier. She and an older man kissed on both cheeks.
“This is Marthe,” Marie-Pier said. “She’s okay.” She didn’t introduce the man.
Marthe and the man kissed on each cheek as well. She tried not to gawk at the operation, although she ought not to have been surprised. A lot of things the colonie officiallydidn’t have, but really did, had to come from somewhere. Homemade. And the pervasive black market fed the raw materials for illicit industrial processes.
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