by Jason Fry
Tycho started to remind Huff they were privateers, not pirates. But instead he shut his mouth and smiled back.
9
HIGH SOCIETY
Diocletia, Mavry, and Carina returned from Callisto Station but said there was no time to discuss their mysterious meeting with the Jovian defense minister. If they were going to be on time for the party at Ganymede High Port, everyone had to get dressed now—and “dressed” meant well groomed and not wearing anything wrinkled or scuffed.
Tycho managed to get his tie reasonably straight and smooth out the worst of the wrinkles in his dress tunic, but his mother ignored all that, focusing instead on the seventy-five angles his hair was going in. Fortunately, he wasn’t the only one who’d incurred her wrath. She dispatched Parsons to salvage Mavry’s rumpled tunic, then whirled to ask Huff how he couldn’t have noticed that his mechanical arm’s lubricant reservoir was leaking. And then there was Yana, who was refusing to wear her dress. After a couple of rounds fought to a draw, Diocletia left that battle to her sister, while Tycho stood against the wall, happy to be ignored.
It was obvious that Diocletia and Carina were sisters—they had the same dark hair, long, thin limbs, and quickness with a sharp glance—but Tycho thought they looked less alike every time he saw them together. Diocletia’s hair was long, her skin was tan from exposure to the unfiltered solar glare of deep space, and her eyes tended to jump around, constantly monitoring her surroundings. Carina, on the other hand, wore her black hair short, and her skin was pale from her subterranean life at Darklands, where she kept track of the Hashoones’ finances from her overstuffed office. She had a habit of staring into the distance, teeth worrying at her fingers while her mind seemed to sort through some problem.
With Tycho’s hair tamed, Mavry’s tunic ironed, Huff’s arm repaired, and Yana’s rebellion put down, Diocletia assembled the family for a careful once-over while Carlo prepared the ship’s gig for the brief flight to Ganymede.
“Can’t you at least tell us about the meeting?” Tycho asked once they were aboard, Callisto shrinking to a speckled sphere below them. Outside the viewport loomed the gigantic bulk of Jupiter, striped in white and orange.
“No, because I want your minds focused on the party,” Diocletia said. “Your father and I will have our own business to attend to. Tycho, I want you to stick with Carlo. He’ll explain who’s who and introduce you. Listen and learn.”
“Wait a minute,” Carlo objected, turning in such agitation that the gig’s prow momentarily pitched upward. “Why am I stuck with some kid—”
“I’m not a kid—” Tycho began, but Diocletia cut him off.
“Your brother—who is, after all, a fellow member of the bridge crew—will accompany you, Carlo, because that is your captain’s order,” she said. “In the meantime, please fly this vessel like it isn’t your first time behind a control yoke.”
“Liftoff isn’t the best time to startle the pilot, Mother,” Carlo muttered.
“Far more startling things happen to pilots during liftoff,” Diocletia said. “Now, listen—”
“What about me?” Yana wanted to know. “Why am I always left out?”
Diocletia turned, one eyebrow raised.
“You could barely be persuaded to dress properly, and now you’re mad that I don’t trust you to make small talk with the most important people in the Jovian Union?” she asked.
Yana turned red and picked at the hem of her dress.
“Listen, Yana—and you too, Tyke,” Diocletia said. “You’re now old enough to go to events that are this important, but you have to know how to behave. Some of the people who are going to be there will think what we do is a great adventure. Those are the easy ones. Answer their questions—without giving away any of our secrets, of course. Emphasize that what we do is legal and that we do it on behalf of the Jovian Union. And be charming.”
“And what about the ones who think differently?” Carlo asked. “What about the ones who look down on us?”
“With those, be more charming,” Mavry said.
Carlo snorted. Yana rolled her eyes, sighed, and resumed her inspection of her dress. Tycho peered out the window, wishing they were going somewhere else. Huff opened and closed his hand, grumbling about stuffed shirts.
“Remember, it’s the support of these people that allows us to do what we do,” Mavry said. “Without our letter of marque, we’re just another pack of freighter bums looking for a break.”
High Port was a cluster of habitation modules orbiting Ganymede. The space station’s largest dome had been converted to a luxurious reception hall for the Jovian Union’s notable visitors. One side of the hall was dominated by massive radiation-shielded windows that looked out over the cratered surface of the moon below and beyond it to Jupiter. The gas giant had rotated so that the huge storm known as the Great Red Spot was visible. It stared out at them like a baleful eye, churning through Jupiter’s upper atmosphere as it had for more than a thousand years.
Every bigwig in the Jovian Union seemed to be there. The men wore high-collared tunics, white to suit the formal occasion, while the women wore tunics or dresses of black, red, orange, or yellow. At the center of the gathering stood the Union’s president, politely smiling as she received a steady stream of well-wishers. Other clumps of people surrounded key government officials; barons, counts, and earls from Io, Ganymede, and Callisto; and the heads of families made wealthy through mining or shipping. Scattered throughout the room were crisply uniformed officers of the Jovian Defense Force; cold-eyed agents of the Securitat; bearded, uncomfortable-looking delegates from the moons of Saturn and Uranus; a gaggle of rangers from the Protectorate of Europa; and a few men and women Tycho recognized as fellow privateers. And everywhere there were aides, valets, junior officers, waiters, and servants.
Tycho’s instinct was to retreat to a distant window and hide, but Carlo saw the panic on his face and shook his head.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Carlo said, grabbing his elbow and steering him into the crowd.
“I thought you didn’t want to be stuck with some kid,” Tycho said angrily.
“I don’t, but Mom gave me an order,” Carlo said. “Listen and follow my lead. These are important people, so you better not mess up and make me look bad.”
He grabbed two juices from a waiter’s tray, and they waded into the throng.
“It would be a breach of protocol to introduce you to President Goddard, but I’ve met Count Tiamat, so we can talk to him,” Carlo said.
“Who?” asked Tycho, puzzled.
“Tiamat Sulcus—that’s his title, not his name,” Carlo said quietly. “It’s a region on Ganymede. I’ll introduce you before Grandfather shows up to embarrass us.”
“Don’t talk about him that way!” Tycho said, raising his voice.
Carlo looked around, alarmed, and shushed him.
“Don’t be such a kid, Tyke,” he said. “I love Grandfather—you know that. But the way he acts makes people think we’re some kind of criminals.”
Tycho started to object, but Carlo had his hand on his shoulder and was guiding him across the room.
“Keep your drink in your left hand—that way you don’t shake with a cold hand,” Carlo said. “Now look over there. That’s Count Tiamat standing with Lord Rafsanjani, the head of Callisto Minerals. They’re probably having a really boring conversation about ore purification. You know Lord Rafsanjani—our great-uncle Ulric, the one from the Water Authority, married his daughter Anja after he quit pirating. Next to Rafsanjani is Hugh ap Wyvern, the Jovian resources minister, and his wife, whose name escapes me at the moment. And next to her . . .”
Tycho managed not to say anything too foolish and mostly limited himself to nodding and smiling at the right times, sneaking glances around the party when some important person wasn’t speaking to him. His mother and father never seemed to be in the same place twice, moving smoothly from person to person. Huff, he saw, had parked himself near a drinks table, where
he was deep in animated conversation with two other old privateers, whom Carlo identified as Min Theo and Lars Harken.
“You’re doing fine,” Carlo told him as they disengaged politely from a brief chat with a Prospectors’ Alliance representative and the son of a Ganymede shipping magnate.
“Now look, there are some people from the Helmsmen’s Guild I’d like to talk to by myself—pilot talk, you wouldn’t be interested. Would you go find Yana before she gets herself in trouble?”
Tycho wanted to object that he found pilot talk interesting, but Carlo had put up with his assignment with relative good humor, except for that remark about their grandfather. He nodded and let his brother go, then looked around for somewhere he might escape to.
To his surprise, he spotted Yana and Huff talking with Count Tiamat and his wife, a huge woman with tiny fingers hidden by a rainbow of rings. Beside them stood a craggy-faced man in a Jovian Defense Force uniform. Tiamat retainers and JDF aides were hovering nervously nearby. Tycho reintroduced himself to Count and Countess Tiamat with a bow, enjoying the sight of his twin sister scowling at him.
“Ah, Master Hashoone,” said Count Tiamat. “Your grandfather and I were just reminiscing. Before duty called me home to Ganymede, I spent a few years in the Defense Force. I was gunnery officer on the frigate Copernican Pilgrimage—and a pretty good one, I might add! Back then we mostly looked the other way at pirates, but not always. Captain Hashoone and I even took a couple of shots at each other—though fortunately everyone emerged in one piece!”
No sooner had he said this than Count Tiamat seemed to remember that at least half of Huff’s body was artificial. He coughed thunderously, clicked his heels together, and continued on like nothing had happened.
“Anyhow, Master Hashoone, allow me to present Captain Holloway, of the JDF Perimeter Patrol,” Count Tiamat said.
Holloway gave Tycho the tiniest possible nod.
“Smart lad like you really ought to consider a career in the JDF,” Count Tiamat said. “I know I’m biased, but a JDF career can take you anywhere in the solar system, and introduce you to a better element than pirates.”
“We’re not pirates—we’re privateers,” Yana objected. “We serve the Jovian Union, just like Captain Holloway does.”
Captain Holloway cocked an eyebrow minutely. Huff grunted something and buried his face in a drink.
“I wasn’t referring to you, my dear,” Count Tiamat said smoothly. “I meant those you are forced to associate with in such a business. In the JDF there’s the threat of renewed conflict with Earth, of course, but—”
“My goodness, darling, don’t be so dramatic,” Countess Tiamat said with a theatrical wave that sent bracelets spinning up her arm. Her voice was so loud that Tycho wondered if she was going deaf and was too proud to get an implant. “That’s ancient history—it would never again come to such a dreadful pass.”
She leaned close to Tycho, a conspiratorial effect quickly ruined by the fact that she was as loud as ever.
“I have many old friends in the Earth diplomatic corps,” Countess Tiamat said. “Just the other day, one of them told me Earth has registered hundreds of new diplomats. That’s a hopeful sign, don’t you think? If there must be conflict, let’s at least pursue it through diplomacy and politics, not weapons.”
“Hmph,” said Count Tiamat, his displeasure at being interrupted obvious.
“But let’s not talk about such things,” Countess Tiamat boomed, then turned to smile at Yana. “Gallivanting around the solar system on some pirate ship is very romantic for you boys, but it’s not at all proper for this young lady. My dear, you have no idea what a lovely young woman you’re becoming. Why, within a couple of years you’ll be the prettiest girl in the entire Jupiter system!”
“I don’t want to be the prettiest girl in the entire Jupiter system,” Yana sputtered.
“Then what do you want, my dear?” Countess Tiamat asked, a polite smile plastered to her face.
For a moment Yana looked too speechless with rage to answer. Then she offered Countess Tiamat a little curtsy, cocked her fingers at the ceiling, and smiled.
“I want to be the girl with the most firepower,” she said.
Countess Tiamat looked like she was struggling to find words. A smile spread across Huff’s face, then turned into an explosion of hoarse laughter. Yana blew imaginary smoke from her fingertips, then excused herself and marched off across the room.
“Pardon us, Count and Countess Tiamat, Captain Holloway,” Tycho said, and led his grandfather after Yana. Huff was still snorting with laughter. But a moment later they both heard Countess Tiamat’s too-loud voice behind them.
“Well what would you expect?” she sputtered. “They can call themselves privateers, but we all know they’re just pirates with papers.”
Huff came to a sudden halt, the motors in his mechanical legs squealing in protest. He started to turn, the living half of his face bright red, but Tycho grabbed his arm.
“Grandfather, don’t,” he warned.
Huff glowered at him, but then his face softened.
“Yer right, Tyke, yer right,” Huff muttered. “Let’s find another glass of that fancy Ganymedan Reserve.”
With a glass of whiskey and another of fruit juice secured, Tycho led his grandfather to the window, where he figured any outburst would do the least damage. Huff stared out at the massive globe of Jupiter, still fuming.
“Pirates with papers, arrrr,” Huff scoffed. “As if it’s our fault we’re stuck with papers. What I wouldn’t do to keelhaul that old bat. Yeh know how the count of the Galileo Regio met Countess Tiamat’s mother, Tyke? She was a cocktail waitress on a luxury liner, that’s how. As for Count Tiamat, his grandfather was a prospector who owed money to every merchant in Port Town. And for the record, Tyke, the gun crews on the Copernican Pilgrimage couldn’t hit the surface of a moon if they fell out of orbit.”
Tycho laughed, but Huff was still angry.
“Count Tiamat’s kin run the resources ministry, which decides what the Union pays companies for raw materials,” he said. “Last year they reduced the price to hurt the count’s competitors. Meant lots of miners at those companies lost their jobs.”
Huff tossed back the rest of his whiskey and scowled, flexing his hand.
“That’s the thing of it, lad,” Huff said. “Nowadays some folks think it’s honorable to steal with words and computers, but they look down on us for doin’ it with cannons. They think they’re clean ’cause they don’t know the people paid to do their dirty work.”
10
THE CYBELE ASTEROIDS
When the Hashoones returned to Darklands, Carina told them to prepare for a family meeting. Fifteen minutes later everyone had found a place around the dining area’s big table. It was actual wood from Earth, an heirloom some pirate ancestor had claimed in a long-forgotten exploit. Tycho loved to trace the lines and rings visible beneath the lacquered surface, marveling at the thought that he was touching something that had once been alive.
Most of the Hashoones had happily shucked off some fraction of the night’s fancy clothes. Mavry was wearing a ratty T-shirt over his formal trousers, while Yana and Tycho had immediately shed every trace of their formal wear in favor of the loose-fitting jumpsuits they normally wore aboard the Comet. Only Carlo and Diocletia still looked ready to rub elbows with the elite—not counting Parsons, serving drinks with his usual quiet elegance.
“You’ve waited long enough to hear about our meeting with the Jovian Defense Ministry,” Diocletia said. “The basics are that the Shadow Comet has been given a mission—and after some discussion, we’ve accepted it. Sixteen Jovian merchant ships have disappeared in the Cybele asteroids over the last few months, and the JDF wants us to investigate.”
“The JDF has ships of its own,” Carlo said. “Why don’t they investigate?”
“Because tensions are increasing again with Earth, and they’re worried about sending forces that far from Jupiter,” Cari
na said. “And not many of the JDF captains know that part of the asteroid belt as well as we do.”
The Cybele asteroids were located on the outer perimeter of the belt, Tycho remembered, short of Jupiter’s orbit. Most of the Cybeles were poor in minerals, water ice, and other valuable commodities, making them a little-explored part of the solar system with a reputation for lawlessness.
“Are the ransoms on the missing Jovian crews really high?” Tycho asked.
“That’s the thing,” Carina said. “No ransoms have been asked for. The ships and their crews have simply disappeared.”
“If we go out there, we’re likely to do the same,” Carlo said.
“Look at it as an opportunity,” Diocletia said. “Maybe we don’t find the JDF’s lost ships, but we do find something else. Mineral deposits, say, or water ice.”
“Arrr, we ain’t no band of scurvy prospectors,” muttered Huff.
“Making a living in space is about opportunity, Dad,” Carina said. “You taught us that, remember? If you can find something valuable that you can take without someone shooting at you, that’s a good thing.”
Huff grunted and dismissed her words with a wave.
“Aunt Carina?” Tycho asked. “Aren’t there supposed to be slave camps out there?”
“How many times have I told you not to listen to tall tales while you’re belowdecks?” Carlo scoffed.
“Tall tales?” demanded Huff. “What about 171 Ophelia? Or the Tumbles? Them tall tales turned out to be true, lad.”
“That was forty years ago, Grandfather,” Carlo said. “Sure, there are corporate factories in the asteroids. We all know that, and I wouldn’t want to live in one. But the people who work there do so by choice. Slave camps are totally different—and they were all shut down long ago.”
“Maybe they were and maybe they weren’t, boy. It’s a big solar system,” Huff said. “But even if there ain’t slave camps anymore, folks on Earth and Mars spend their lives working for the same corporations that ran things back then—GlobalRex, Amalgamated Social Graph, the United Collective, the whole lot. Which ain’t much better than slavery. And if some on Earth get their way, that’ll be our lives too.”