The Rise of Earth

by Jason Fry

CYBELE

  The rest of the journey to Cybele passed in near silence, with Carlo hunched miserably behind the Comet’s control yoke.

  The asteroid called 65 Cybele was a lumpy sphere nearly three hundred kilometers in diameter, its dark surface given definition by a spiderweb of lighted lines and dots. Attis, a smaller but still massive chunk of brownish-gray rock, orbited above the surface of the asteroid, crowned with sensor masts and towers. Between Attis and Cybele, a sprawling station hung in space, ringed by docking cradles and spindly umbilicals for servicing larger craft. And everywhere there were starships—angular warships bristling with guns, massive spherical tankers, boxy freighters, and tiny scout ships, gigs, and ferries.

  The three Jovian privateers waited above the station while the bulk freighters and hoys docked, then headed for their own cradles. Tycho couldn’t help feeling a bit nervous as they passed into the shadow of Attis above them—he knew gravity had kept the satellite safely in orbit above Cybele for eons, but it still felt like the massive rock was about to smash down upon them.

  “Those corvettes are military models or I’m a middie,” Huff said with a growl, peering out the viewports at a trio of dart-shaped starships hanging in space below Attis. “But they ain’t a model I’m familiar with.”

  “Right you are, Captain Hashoone,” Vass said. “That, officially speaking, is the Cybelean navy.”

  “Arrr, three corvettes ain’t no navy.”

  “Agreed. The Cybeles’ importance is best measured economically, not militarily.”

  “Tycho and Yana, muster out the crew belowdecks,” Diocletia said. “They’re to report to the Jovian fondaco, where they’ll get passes. There will be Jovian officials awaiting them to arrange everything, but warn them to watch out for crimps—Cybele is plagued with them, and they don’t always respect a pass. All hands are at liberty tonight, but as of 0800 tomorrow they should be ready to respond to a recall order with thirty minutes’ notice.”

  “Thirty minutes?” Yana asked. “They won’t like that.”

  “And yet those are my orders,” Diocletia replied. “We’ll be using Cybele as a base of operations, which means we have to be ready to fly on short notice. The rest of us will head dirtside as soon as the crew departs. Minister Vass, you can ride down with us in the gig, or we can have Vesuvia summon a ferry for you.”

  “I’ll go with you, if that’s all right,” Vass said.

  “What’s a fondaco?” Tycho asked the minister.

  “A compound reserved for Jovian citizens. While we’re on Cybele we’re required to sleep there, though we can get passes to go most anywhere else on Cybele. Until curfew, that is.”

  “A nicer kind of prison, in other words,” growled Huff. “Ain’t seen a place with fondachi since Mars.”

  “Cybele has one reserved for citizens of Earth as well,” Vass said.

  “Bet it’s nicer than ours,” Huff said as Tycho followed Yana down the ladderwell.

  “Yes, I’m afraid it is,” Vass said.

  The Comets knew what the loss of the dromond meant for the Hashoones and the Jovian Union, and took their leave with little of the normal boisterousness of crewers headed for shore leave. Tycho eyed his sister when Immanuel Sier came through the line, but the young Saturnian crewer put his knuckles to his forehead and nodded respectfully to Yana, who nodded back and even offered him a small smile. The last crewer to depart was Grigsby, accompanying Haines and the paroled Earth crewers. The Jovian consulate would decide whether to detain them further or exchange them for captive Jovians.

  “So I guess you’ve forgiven Mr. Sier,” Tycho said as they shut down their mediapads and walked back through the now-empty lower deck.

  “Immanuel? Oh, he’s not so bad. I saw him every day on the journey here—Mr. Dobbs is teaching us both unarmed combat.”

  “Unarmed combat?”

  “Sure—I’ll show you,” Yana said, putting her mediapad down on the deck. “But you’ll want to back up first.”

  Tycho retreated until Yana told him to stop. His sister exhaled, then sprang forward onto her hands. Then she exploded forward onto her feet, cartwheeling across the deck in a blur of arms and legs that ended with her fist a centimeter from Tycho’s face.

  “Okay, that was impressive,” Tycho said. “But I’d just shoot you.”

  “Try it. Pretend you’re drawing on me.”

  Tycho shrugged, then stepped back. His hand shot to his hip, but next thing he knew he was on his back, with one of Yana’s knees pinning his wrist and one of her hands under his chin, fingers around his neck. Her other hand was up, fingers spread and aimed at his eyes.

  “Point taken,” Tycho said. “Let me up already.”

  Yana disengaged, grinning, as Tycho rubbed the back of his head.

  “When everything went bad on the Lampos I felt helpless,” his sister said, suddenly serious. “That’s never happening again.”

  “Welcome to Cybele,” Mavry said after a port official verified the Hashoones’ identities and recorded their arrival. “Now, I understand we’re to report to the fondaco, Minister?”

  “Yes,” said Vass, staggering along with his valise. “While I am bound for the consulate. I believe transport has been arranged for us.”

  “Arrr, gimme that parcel or we’ll never get there,” Huff grunted, ignoring Vass’s protests and snatching his bag away.

  “Well, if you insist, Captain Hashoone,” the minister said with what dignity he could muster.

  They followed a long tunnel from the ship terminal. Its walls were of thick plastic, cloudy with dust and accumulated scratches. Beyond, Tycho could dimly see 65 Cybele’s charcoal-colored plains. It was bitterly cold. He zipped up his jacket and huddled against the chill.

  At the tunnel’s end stood a dour-looking man bundled in synthetic fur and scowling beneath a matching hat, both dyed a brilliant orange. He held a sign that said “Vass.” Behind him other men and women in furs were standing next to wheeled rickshaws, which were little more than benches on either side of platforms for baggage. The holographic banner of the Jovian Union rippled above one vehicle.

  “I want that flag turned off,” Diocletia said as the orange-clad pilot loaded the bags.

  “Diplomatic requirement, I’m afraid,” Vass said, nodding gratefully as Tycho helped him on board. “The driver will take you to the Jovian fondaco, but first I need to go to our consulate to be briefed on preparations for tonight’s banquet.”

  “Did you say banquet?” Yana asked as the rickshaw started forward with a whine of motors.

  “I did. The Cybeleans have invited the Jovian delegation to a gala tonight. All of Cybele’s power brokers will be there, from financiers and officials to shipbuilders, merchants, and mining executives.”

  “Sounds awful,” Yana said. “Why all this fuss over us?”

  “Oh, it’s not just for us. Earth’s delegation is invited as well.”

  “After what happened today?” Carlo asked, his question accompanied by a puff of breath.

  “Yes,” Vass said. “Which makes it even more important for us to be good guests. But I agree with your sister that it sounds awful. The Cybeleans have made a great deal of livres in the last few years, and they love showing that off.”

  “We’re privateers, Minister, not diplomats,” Mavry said. “Sparkling conversation isn’t our specialty.”

  “That’s why we’re meeting with the assistant secretary for protocol before the banquet. All the privateers currently based here in the Cybeles have been requested to attend tonight’s affair.”

  “Includin’ yer new pirates?” Huff asked with a grin. “That’ll be a fine shindy.”

  “It’s not a shindy, Grandfather—it’s a banquet,” Carlo said.

  “If there’s pirates attendin’, it may start as a banquet, but ’twill end as a shindy.”

  Carlo shook his head and turned his attention back to Vass. “Does that include the privateers from Earth, Minister? Such as Captain Allamand?”

&
nbsp; “I have no doubt he will be in attendance.”

  Carlo’s face reddened, turning his scar white.

  “That’s intolerable,” he sputtered. “It’s a provocation.”

  “No, my boy—just politics,” Vass said with a small smile. “But for now, a bit about security on Cybele. The Well is safe enough, and if you get an invitation to the Northwell you have nothing to worry about. But watch your step elsewhere—particularly beyond the Westwell.”

  “What’s the Well?” Tycho asked as the rickshaw bumped through an open airlock.

  “You’re looking at it,” Mavry replied with a smile.

  Tycho whistled in surprise as the rickshaw exited the lock. He’d expected to find himself in a pressure dome set on the asteroid’s surface, but instead a bridge crossed a gigantic cavern hewn from the rock of Cybele itself. A maze of walkways filled the space above their heads, supported by a web of guy wires that had been attached seemingly at random to pillars, other bridges, and the distant rock. High above were enormous mirrors that directed light down into the depths below. The walkway shivered beneath the rickshaw’s wheels, and the guy wires around them whined and sang as they flexed.

  “Impressive, isn’t it?” Mavry asked. “This area was so heavily mined that the second generation of settlers just cored it out to make room for all this. Things don’t fall down as often as you might think, but make sure you get a map. I’ve been here a dozen times and I still get lost.”

  “So do I,” Vass said, pointing up the shaft to where a collection of what looked like glass bubbles clung to the rock wall. “Those are the Cybelean government offices—with the Jovian and Earth consulates on either side. Keep going that way and you’ll find yourself in the Northwell, which includes Earth’s fondaco. But they won’t admit you unless you have business there. Behind us is the Southwell—you’ll find our fondaco there, as well as depots, mercantile offices, and the like. Same in the Westwell, but all manner of shady business takes place there.”

  “Is there an Eastwell?” Yana asked.

  “It was filled in to create the spaceport,” Vass said. “Like I said, don’t go beyond the Westwell unless you have a very good reason—your pass will offer theoretical protection, but the Honorable Constabulary of the Cybeles doesn’t patrol that far. The Securitat operates beyond the Westwell, but even they watch their step.”

  “Why, Mr. Vass?” Tycho asked. “What’s out there?”

  “Dozens and dozens of pressure domes—some abandoned, others not. You’ll find ice mines, factories, and fab units—but also crimps, smugglers, crime rings, Ice Wolves, and who knows what else.”

  “We can handle ourselves, Minister,” Yana objected. “We aren’t children.”

  “Then you understand I wouldn’t tell you this without a good reason. Cybele is a port of call for the Jovian Union, for Earth, and for the Ice Wolves—with the Cybeleans playing all of us against each other. There are wheels within wheels here, some set spinning by us, others by our enemies, and a few by those whose loyalties aren’t clear. Open hostilities are rare in the main Wells—no one wants to offend the Cybeleans. But elsewhere? Anything goes.”

  They were crossing the center of the Well now, where a number of bridges met. A market had sprung up at the nexus, with hawkers calling out from tents and stalls. The rickshaw’s driver honked irritably as the crowd forced their vehicle to slow to a crawl. Tycho spotted sign walkers carrying holographic imagers that displayed starships with flags that morphed continuously, circulating among the colors of Earth, the Jovian Union, and a black circle surrounded by stars.

  Vass noticed Tycho’s curious look.

  “Registration transfers. With all the privateering going on, insurance rates are soaring for ships moving through this area of space. Cybele is reregistering ships under its own flag—and Cybelean companies are buying up starships on the cheap from both Jovian and Earth shipping firms that are tired of losing cargoes to privateering. Ah, but here’s our first stop.”

  The rickshaw pulled up to an elevator bank guarded by soldiers in Jovian uniforms. They wore mirrored eyepieces and had forearms sheathed in metal. Tycho nudged Yana.

  “Those are Gibraltar Artisans cyborgs,” he said. “Like Lord Sicyon’s bodyguard on Ganymede. Remember?”

  Yana shrugged. “At least they’re on our side.”

  “I wish they weren’t. Those guys give me the creeps.”

  Vass hopped off the little vehicle and reclaimed his valise, nodding to the impassive soldiers.

  “I’ll see you an hour before the banquet,” he called as the rickshaw puttered off in the direction of the Southwell.

  “Arrr, thought we’d never be rid of that cursed spy,” Huff growled.

  “The spy whose luggage you were kind enough to carry, Grandfather?” Yana asked with a smile.

  “He has pluck, I’ll give him that. I ain’t above the occasional good deed, y’know.”

  “Yeah, you ought to be careful about that, Grandpa,” Tycho said. “Someone might get the impression that you were fond of Minister Vass.”

  “Quiet, you two,” Carlo said.

  Yana stuck her tongue out at Carlo. Tycho rubbed his arms, his head wreathed by his own breath.

  “If the Cybeleans are making all these livres, why don’t they spend a few on some heat?” he demanded.

  The Southwell was a smaller version of the Well, dotted with merchants’ stalls, hostels, grog shops, and kips. A pair of liveried Cybelean constables guarded the Jovian fondaco’s gates, armed with pistols and staffs whose tips crackled with electricity. To Tycho’s relief, he saw no sign of any Gibraltar cyborgs.

  “Are they to keep others out or us in?” Yana asked as the constables checked the driver’s credentials.

  “Bit o’ both, I suspect,” Huff said.

  Beyond the gates was a spacious compound with a mess hall, offices, warehouses, and three-story dormitories hugging the rock wall. A uniformed Jovian official led the Hashoones to the third floor and gave them their passes, complete with shimmering holo-seals. Their rooms consisted of a sparse living room and kitchen, with a bedroom for Diocletia and Mavry on one side and four smaller, identical bedrooms down a short hall past the bathroom.

  “Clean enough,” Diocletia said after a cursory inspection. “With any luck we’ll spend most of our time in space. Your father needs to work with Vesuvia on the hull repairs, and I have business at the consulate. So I need you three to get the Comet restocked—assuming you can find a chandler who isn’t completely crooked. Dad, will you go with them?”

  Huff nodded and grunted, but Carlo looked up in dismay.

  “I was going to get the flight simulator set up,” he said, belatedly adding: “It’s for all of us to use, of course.”

  “We can handle the restocking on our own,” Tycho said, before Diocletia could tell his brother no.

  “As long as Carlo also figures out how to get the heat on,” Yana said with a shiver.

  Diocletia shrugged. Carlo gave his brother a small smile of gratitude, then turned away, escaping to the room he’d chosen.

  But the restocking wasn’t as simple as Tycho had expected—prices at the first three chandlers ranged from outrageous to rapacious. Huff clanked out of the third one roaring about greedy dogs what needed to be keelhauled.

  “Come on, you lot—there’s better prices in the Westwell,” he growled.

  “Isn’t it dangerous there?” Tycho asked, cinching up the fur-lined cloak he’d thrown over his jacket before leaving their rooms.

  “So’s blowin’ the whole budget for the cruise and leavin’ the Comet half restocked. Jus’ watch yer back is all.”

  “Oh, come on, Tyke,” Yana said. “We’ll be fine.”

  Tycho followed his sister and grandfather through the maze of tunnels that led to the Westwell. The passages were thronged by a mix of Cybeleans wearing synthetic furs in a rainbow of colors and burly, bearded spacers in merchant-association uniforms. Many wore carbines on their hips.

&n
bsp; “Ice Wolves, do you think?” Yana asked.

  Huff shrugged. “If yer mother’s spy was right, they won’t try no foolishness. An’ if they do, well, that’s what me persuader’s for.”

  He tapped his built-in forearm cannon against his gleaming chrome skull, grinning at his grandchildren.

  Tycho was so busy gawking at the spacers that he turned too late and walked right through a sign walker’s holographic image of a starship under construction, cycling from skeletal struts around engines to a completed gleaming hull and back again.

  “Come build starships, son,” the sign walker urged, clamping a hand on Tycho’s shoulder. “Safe work and good livres! Sign up today and I’ll give you a pass—keep the crimps from snapping you up.”

  “Building starships where?” Tycho asked.

  “Don’t worry about that, young man—all of our facilities offer safe, profitable working conditions. There’s entry-level work here on Cybele and big jobs out there, provided you’re rated for zero-G work. Now, if you’ll just sign here—”

  Up ahead, Yana turned around and beckoned irritably at Tycho.

  “Let go—I was just asking,” Tycho said, shaking the man off and hurrying to catch up with his grandfather and sister.

  The passage exited at the bottom of the Westwell, which was much shallower than the Southwell, with only a few levels of walkways above their heads. Power conduits spilled out of a central shaft, leading to a jumble of stalls and open-air cafés surrounded by rickety tables.

  “Arrr, I wonder,” Huff muttered, craning his neck to peer into the upper levels. “Well, ain’t that a sight for sore eyes. It’s still there.”

  “What’s still there, Grandfather?” Yana asked.

  “One-Legged Pete’s,” Huff said, gesturing with his forearm cannon to a collection of metal rooftops above their heads. “That there’s the finest grog shop in the outer solar system. Raised many a mug there over the years.”

  Laughter and music spilled from the bar above them.

  “Good place to hear what ships might be ripe for the takin’, too. Y’know, kids . . .”

  “We can get the ship restocked, Grandfather,” Yana said, elbowing Tycho in the ribs.