When he put the Gypsy into orbit around Constantine III, keeping his sensors and eyes alert, he found no satellites, no ships, no sign of any industrial activity. Scanning frequencies, however, he detected a faint, repetitive blip, a weak signal broadcast into the poisonous clouds. Patrick plunged down into rapidly thickening air.
The beacon grew louder as he approached. It seemed calibrated to attenuate almost completely before it reached the outer atmosphere. A pilot would have to be searching for the signal—very carefully—to find it. The oscillating pulse contained no information, except to let Patrick know that someone was indeed down there. Roamers, undoubtedly.
He discovered a small buoy pressurized to float at a specific level like a bubble, thus needing no antigravity generator or position-maintenance rockets. Hovering next to the buoy, he swept the Gypsy’s sensors farther down and detected a second faint signal, which he followed deeper to another buoy—then another, and another. The buoys formed a trail of bread crumbs through the atmosphere, leading him toward a settlement on the inhospitable surface.
The winds were powerful; the air was a swamp of greenish mist as he continued to descend. When his proximity alarm sounded, he swerved sharply to the left and grazed past an enormous dirigible platform anchored by long cables to the surface half a kilometer below. Shaken, he approached the domed settlement, amazed at how many artificial objects cluttered the air: giant stretched sheets, colorful monitor balloons, mesh screens hundreds of meters on a side that stood on poles and swayed in the wind.
By now someone must have detected his approach. He opened a channel. “You’ve got quite an obstacle course! Hello? I could use some guidance getting to your landing pad.”
A gruff female voice answered. “We’re an industrial facility, not a tourist stop. People who come here know where they’re going.”
“Well, I’m here, and I don’t know where I’m going. I’m an unaffiliated pilot looking for information.”
“We might have information, if you’ve got news of your own to exchange.”
“Deal. I’ll tell you what I know—” Patrick jerked the ship sideways to avoid a drifting dirigible. “Whoa!”
“Be careful! If you wreck one of our zeppelins or collecting meshes, you’re gonna pay for it. Every damned credit.”
“Then give me a map out of this maze!” His hands clutched the controls so hard his knuckles turned white.
“Switch your sensors to low infrared.” She provided him with a wavelength range, and suddenly he could see dazzling spotlights. Specialized beacons on each dirigible, flying mesh, and gathering screen stood out like flares. Patrick heaved a sigh of relief and easily dodged them.
The cluster of boxy-looking protective structures had obviously been space-dropped to the ground. A circle of flashing lights marked the landing zone, signaling him. “Land in the decon bay. Don’t emerge until we give you clearance.”
He piloted the Gypsy down into the hangar pit, and the roof segments slid closed. He heard rushing jets, then torrents of air as the sealed chamber was purged of toxic atmospheric vapors. High-pressure steam nozzles scoured the hull, after which diagnostic lasers ran across his ship. The Roamers had this rigorous decontamination process down to a swift routine, and Patrick suspected that the facility managers were also doing a deep scan to see if his ship was carrying anything dangerous.
Finally, when the steam cleared and vacuum ducts sucked the fumes out of the bay, Patrick received permission to disembark. The gruff woman came to meet him, introducing herself as Andrina Sachs, a surprisingly petite woman for such a deep voice. She had elfin features and platinum-blond hair, almond-shaped green eyes, and a no-nonsense demeanor. “And how long do you need to park your ship here?”
He was taken aback by her brusqueness. “I wasn’t planning on renting a double suite for the week, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I’m asking about turnaround time. We’ve got only two decon docks, and the other one’s already occupied by a clan Sandoval ship. It’ll take us another six hours to load its cargo, and I have a new ship scheduled to arrive within five hours.” She frowned. “Of course, it’s being flown by Nikko Chan Tylar, and schedules don’t mean a whole lot to that kid.” From her expression, Andrina seemed to expect him to recognize the famous, or infamous, Roamer pilot.
“A couple of hours should be enough,” Patrick said. “I’m looking for someone, and any help you give will send me on my way faster.”
Constantine III was run by a consortium of clan Sachs, clan Tokai, clan Rajani, and, recently, investors from five orphaned Hansa colonies. By way of hospitality, Andrina gave him a bowl of rich, green gelatinous stew, which she called “primordial soup” and some delicious preserved medusa meat (whatever that was) from Rhejak, one of the new investors in the industries here.
The planet’s proto-organic clouds were filled with long-chain molecules, wispy aerosol debris that drifted in gossamer strands that connected to each other to form unusual structures, like balls of near-invisible string.
“These aerosol polymers cannot be manufactured in a chemical lab.” Andrina sounded as if she had given the lecture many times to potential investors. “We sift them out of the air with catchscreens, collect them on broad mats, and harvest the fibers. After treating and sorting them, we can either manufacture materials directly or perform experiments on any new ‘flavors’ we find. I doubt we’ve found even a tenth of the potential of what’s just floating around out there.”
By raising or lowering the screens on their tethers, the Roamers could selectively gather fibers of certain molecular weights. The moveable zeppelins were mist-collection sacks that moved through the deep atmosphere to secure desired chemicals.
“The potential for new materials, pharmaceuticals, exotic textiles, and even architectural applications . . .” Andrina shrugged her narrow shoulders. “We’re limited only by our imaginations.”
Patrick watched from an observation lounge as the filter mats came into processing centers. The fluffy clinging mesh was delicately scraped from the collectors, then sorted into storage bins. The work was mostly automated, though a few Roamers wore sealed suits to monitor the process lines inside rooms filled with a blizzard of exotic materials.
She turned to him then. “That’s the sales pitch, Captain. Now you know everything any other customer knows about this place. But I believe you had a question of your own?”
“Yes. And I do have Hansa credits to pay for any services here,” he offered.
Andrina made a rude noise. “Hansa credits? You have any idea how devalued those are? The Confederation is going to issue its own currency soon enough. Besides, even before the whole shake-up with King Peter and Theroc, what good would Hansa money be at a Roamer facility? We were cut off.”
“It’s all I’ve got.”
“Didn’t you promise some news from the outside?”
Without revealing his real identity, Patrick told her what he knew of the horrific Soldier compy revolt, the battles with the hydrogues, the last stand on Earth. She seemed impressed enough that he quickly added, “I also hoped you could spare a little ekti. I know supplies are tight, but—”
“Ah, we’ve got plenty of ekti. New shipments come in from our skymines faster than we can burn it.” She reconsidered. “If you’re willing to pay through your nose, we’ll take your Hansa money. Maybe we can exchange it if the King and the Chairman ever settle their differences.” She snorted, making it clear just what she thought about that possibility. She glanced at her chronometer. “Only one hour before we need that decon vault, and you’ll have overstayed your welcome. Now tell me who you’re looking for, and I’ll see if I can help.”
“I’m trying to find clan Kellum, Del Kellum and”—he turned away so she wouldn’t see him blush—“most particularly his daughter, Zhett. I used to . . . work at the Osquivel shipyards. But now they’re evacuated, and I have no idea where everybody’s gone. I used up almost all my stardrive fuel just to find the c
lues that brought me to Constantine III.”
“Coming here certainly wasn’t a step in the right direction, but because of the story I might give you a discount anyway. I heard about the Eddies attacking the Osquivel shipyards, but I couldn’t tell you where Del would go.” Andrina scratched her platinum-blond hair, then shrugged. “If I were looking for general information about Roamers, I’d go straight to Yreka. That’s our main trading and distribution complex. Everybody’s got something going on Yreka.”
Patrick sat back in his metal chair. “Yreka? But that’s a Hansa colony, not a Roamer settlement.”
“It’s everything now. I can give you maps and directions.”
“No need. I’ve been there before.” Patrick had not wanted to remember much of what he’d done in those days. Another black mark on his past that Zhett didn’t know about. He wondered whether she would ever forgive him if she knew everything, but he had to give it a shot. “Thank you. It’ll be . . . interesting to go back.”
14 ZHETT KELLUM
Even a million Roamer skymines would not have made the gas giant Golgen seem crowded. Zhett spent day after day on the open decks of the Kellum facility with the sharp-scented breezes from high-level clouds blowing in her face. Now that gas planets were free of hydrogues, the clans could get back to skymining again. In the past month alone, twenty new skymines had appeared in the clouds above Golgen.
She watched cargo escorts fly off loaded with fresh stardrive fuel, supply haulers bringing gourmet foods and general staples for the skyminers. Feeling chilly, she went back into the control deck where her father would be busy. Following Roamer tradition, since she was the clan head’s only child, Del had made her his deputy, and Zhett took care of much of the daily business.
The control deck was abustle with activity. People shouted from station to station; screens mapped the trajectories of nearby sky traffic; monitors displayed graphs, schedules, and columns of figures. Business as usual. Because of the congestion, all Golgen skyminers had to coordinate their activities, arrange for distribution of ekti, and compete with each other over pricing and shipment options.
Kellum raised his voice to be heard above the din, already in the middle of his meeting with reps from the numerous skymines. “Sooner or later, some of you have got to move to other planets! It makes no sense to put all of our ekti stations and refineries on one single world. Why not distribute them throughout the Spiral Arm? By the Guiding Star, we’ve got plenty of gas giants to choose from! Go somewhere else.”
“But Golgen was the first planet cleared of the drogues,” said Boris Goff, chief of a nearby skymine. “Every one of us made a big investment to set up shop here. If we move now, it’ll take years to recoup our losses.”
One man muttered, “With prices going down, we have two choices: Stay here and slowly go bankrupt, or move and go deeper into debt.”
Del waved Zhett over. “Come here, my sweet. Maybe you can talk some sense into these . . . gentlemen.”
She formed a wicked smile. “Sure, Dad. Which one’s being the most unreasonable?”
Liona, an older female green priest, arrived looking out of place among the colorfully dressed Roamers. Her emerald skin was adorned with many tattoos, and she carried a small potted tree. “I apologize for being late.” She had been assigned here when the Roamers, Therons, and colonists agreed to work together. After weeks on the cold metal industrial facility, Liona was still unsettled, having been accustomed to forests and open spaces. On Theroc, the only way to see the sky was to climb the worldtrees above the dense canopy. Here, she could hardly escape seeing the sky.
Some Roamers were suspicious of letting any outsider—even a green priest—learn too much about them, but more complained about not knowing of major events until much too late. Liona could pass along news through telink and also send messages to other clans. Once the workers realized the value of that offer, they had flooded the poor woman with requests. Del finally instituted a priority system for the messages. “Business first, love letters last,” he called it.
Liona delivered her regular report, naming six additional clans that had begun to trade at Yreka and a dozen worlds that now had access to green priests, thanks to King Peter’s new program and strong leadership. She tallied the total amount of ekti being shipped out through Barrymore’s Rock and other isolated depots, an amount that grew significantly every week. “Also, a team was just sent to reclaim the Chan greenhouse asteroids in the Hhrenni system.”
This started a chatter among them. “Big dreams and grand ambitions aren’t in short supply, although common sense tends to be.” Del looked at Zhett. “When you were talking with Nikko Chan Tylar, did he say anything about that?”
“It wasn’t high on his list of conversational priorities.” Nikko had been so nervous around her that he could barely stammer two sentences before stopping to collect his wits again. Zhett didn’t consider herself to be that intimidating.
“So, then, what else did he talk about? Hmmm?”
Zhett covered her scowl. “That’s something we should discuss later, Dad.”
“By damn, it sounds interesting.”
Zhett shot him a look that silenced him.
With all the important business done, he declared the meeting over, and the skymine chiefs hurried to thrust scribbled messages into Liona’s hand. The green priest would take them back to her treeling, sit on the open balcony, and read each one through telink.
Zhett and her father walked to the skymine’s commissary for lunch. “Sometimes I get tired of all that jabbering and politics.” He set his tray next to hers. “Don’t get me wrong. Skymining is my first love, but the part I enjoy is being all alone in the sky on a planet of your own.”
“We could move our facility someplace else.”
“Too expensive. Our investment here precludes that.”
“That’s what you’re telling all the other chiefs to do.”
“Right. But I was here first, by damn.”
“Ross Tamblyn was here first.”
He slurped his steaming tea and changed the subject. “I’ve been thinking about expansion.”
“Expansion? When you’re trying to get everyone else to pull out?”
“Not with skymines. We could reassemble our shipyards swiftly enough. Somebody’s going to do it if we don’t, and we’re missing a big market opportunity.”
“Are you trying to convince me, Dad—or explain what you’ve already decided?”
“Well, three of the spacedocks have already been put back into place, and I’ve sent crews there to work them.”
“How do you expect to manage the shipyards and this skymine at the same time? You can’t be in two places at once.”
“Well, one possibility is for you to take over the shipyards . . .”
She shook her head. “No, thanks. That would make me an old woman before I turned twenty-five.”
“You’ll always be a little girl to me.” He chuckled. She didn’t. “That’s what I thought you’d say, so I’ve been talking with Denn Peroni. He’s a decent enough manager, and he’s looking for something other than flying the Dogged Persistence around. He wants to be the next Speaker, follow in the footsteps of his daughter.”
“And I thought you were angling for Speaker yourself, Dad.”
“No, thank you. It would make me into an old man before I turned fifty.”
“You are fifty.”
“But I don’t look it, do I?”
“No.”
“Just dealing with other skymine chiefs is enough to keep me awake at night and give me headaches. I can’t imagine juggling all the different clans.” He began eating his meal with great gusto. Around bites, he said, “Now tell me what happened between you and Nikko. When is he coming back to see you?”
“I have no idea. He was late for a run to Constantine III.” Nikko’s flirting was clumsy in a way that at first seemed sweet, but eventually just became frustrating. He never said what he wanted, never even tried to
steal a kiss. A passive and indecisive young man was not the sort of mate Zhett was looking for.
“Well? So what did you two talk about?”
“You want to know the truth, Dad? What we talked about was how much he missed his parents and how worried he is about them. They disappeared when the Eddies seized the Hhrenni greenhouses. Nobody knows where they were taken.”
Her father nodded soberly. “We’ll learn a lot in the next few months, and it can’t all be bad news. Stay in contact with that young man. I can tell he has a crush on you.” She rolled her eyes, and Del cut off her retort. “I know, I know. Everybody has a crush on you. But it’s something to consider. I can’t start spoiling my grandchildren until you actually have some of them.”
“Not ready for that. In fact, I’m not interested in romance at all right now.”
“So you’re still not over Patrick Fitzpatrick then?”
Her eyes flared. “Over him? I was never interested in him at all. Never.”
“Of course not, my sweet. Of course not.” His knowing smile was maddening. He got up to fetch them some dessert, but Zhett hurried from the commissary before he could pepper her with more questions.
15 DAVLIN LOTZE
With methodical precision, the insect invaders began to reap the crops the Llaro colonists had lovingly planted and tended. Worker swarms razed every field, whether ripe or unripe; gatherers swept along, scything and collecting. A few farmers tried to defend their scattered plots on the outskirts of the settlement, and the insect workers just killed them.
But instead of devouring what they gathered, the Klikiss stored the unprocessed food in bins loaded on open-framework vehicles that rattled back to the ever-growing city.
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