The Rise of Earth

by Jason Fry

  “The adventure. For us, what’s happening in the solar system isn’t a game. My grandfather nearly died when an Earth destroyer fired on his ship. He lost his remaining hand fighting the pirates Threece Suud hired. And my brother will have a scar for the rest of his life.”

  “You can’t blame my father for that!”

  “No, but I can blame him for being part of it. And I do.”

  “And apparently you blame me as well,” Kate said, color flaring in her cheeks.

  When Tycho said nothing, she rose abruptly from her seat, nearly knocking over her chair, and stormed off before he could react. The other people at their table were staring at him.

  “What was that about, Tyke?” Yana asked.

  “Politics, I guess,” Tycho said helplessly.

  The waiters busied themselves picking up utensils and cleaning up crumbs.

  “Better to avoid such a dreary subject at dinner,” a young Earthman across the table said disapprovingly.

  Tycho frowned, folding his arms over his chest and trying to figure out what he’d do when Kate returned.

  “She’s probably in the head trying to calm down,” Yana said. “Maybe you should do the same.”

  He mumbled an excuse and got to his feet. He decided against the bathroom, fearing if he headed that way he’d run into a still-upset Kate. Instead, he’d get himself together outside the banquet hall.

  One of the tables of privateers exploded into laughter, with Jovians and Earthmen banging glasses together and then guzzling wine amid cheers from the other tables. One bearded privateer crept over to the string quartet’s stage, returning with a violin and bow and a huge grin.

  Tycho felt ashamed. The occupants of those tables had fought each other, sometimes hand to hand aboard ships, and they were managing to get along well enough. So why couldn’t he do the same thing with a girl making her first trip off Earth? He’d not only lost his cool but also fallen into the Cybeleans’ trap by squabbling openly in front of their hosts.

  He slipped out of the hall, thinking the dazzling view of the asteroids and stars might give him some perspective. He passed the Cybelean constables and the check-in desk, then followed a curving corridor past the elevators, his eyes on the jeweled expanse of the heavens above.

  Which meant he almost plowed directly into Kate. Apparently she hadn’t gone to the bathroom after all.

  She dodged and stood staring at him, lips set and eyes flashing.

  “It’s you,” she said.

  “It’s me. Um, I’m sorry. I was . . .”

  “Wrong?” Kate asked, eyebrows raised.

  “No, not wrong. Impolite.”

  “You certainly were that. Rude, intemperate, naïve . . . the very definition of a colonial.”

  Tycho found himself grinning.

  “What can possibly be funny?” Kate demanded.

  “You’re right. I am a colonial. Never seen a sky or grass, never breathed fresh air, never been outside of a pressure dome or starship.”

  Kate looked away, flushing.

  “Never read a book that wasn’t a prospecting manual.”

  “You said it, not me.”

  “Never held a fork that wasn’t made from a mining implement.”

  “All right, cut it out.”

  “In fact, before tonight I don’t think I’d ever held a fork at all. On Callisto we prefer shovels.”

  “I said cut it out! You’re absolutely infuriating!”

  She stared at him, chest heaving, and then the distance between them had shrunk to nothing and they were in each other’s arms, her lips against his and his hands in her hair. Their noses kept colliding and their teeth clacked together, but neither of them cared.

  Tycho didn’t know how long it was before they finally separated—it seemed like simultaneously forever and no time at all. His heart was pounding, and he felt dizzy. Kate reached up with one shaky hand in a doomed attempt to attend to her mussed hair, then mumbled something and hurried toward the banquet hall.

  15

  INTO THE LABYRINTH

  Tycho lurched in his seat when the Shadow Comet accelerated away from Cybele, his headset falling forward over his eyes.

  Yana snickered, and both of his parents turned around at their stations.

  “Tycho? Are you with us this morning?” his mother asked.

  “Sorry. I was thinking. Uh, about optimum search patterns.”

  “Really?” Diocletia asked, one eyebrow raised. “Then you won’t mind calculating those patterns and feeding them to Vesuvia. It’ll save your sister some work.”

  Tycho sighed but found himself smiling as he began the tedious task of mapping out search vectors. The Jovian privateers had each been given a different section of the Cybele asteroids to explore in hopes of finding the missing Nestor Leviathan.

  “What’s gotten into you?” Yana asked, perturbed that she’d lost out on a chance to gloat. “You’ve been acting strange all morning.”

  Tycho shrugged, looking away so his sister couldn’t see his face. The night before, he’d waited a couple of minutes before returning to the banquet hall, to find an Earth privateer standing atop a table playing a ditty on the violin while the other privateers sang along at the top of their lungs and threw rolls at him. Tycho had settled back into his place next to Kate and spent the rest of the evening sneaking looks at her—and repeatedly found her sneaking looks back at him.

  She’d slipped him her messaging recognition code as the party broke up, and then he’d spent much of the night tossing and turning, staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling of their new quarters.

  The Hashoones had just started eating breakfast when Diocletia’s mediapad began pinging. She’d excused herself, then returned and ordered all crewers to be aboard the Comet in half an hour. Amazingly, nearly every Comet had responded to the summons; the last to report had been Huff Hashoone, who shuffled up the gig’s ramp looking ashen, then retired to his cabin on the top level without even pausing on the quarterdeck.

  It had been that kind of night. By the end of it most of the privateers had been snoring at the table, and a good number of Cybelean grandees had misplaced their hats and furs. Tycho imagined a lot of the other Jovian privateers—and any Earth ships that had taken to space—were struggling with surly quarterdecks this morning. Fortunately, his parents had either moderated their own consumption or were doing a good job being brave.

  “Captain Andrade, we’re beginning our sweep,” Diocletia said over her headset.

  “Acknowledged, Comet. Good hunting.”

  The bells clanged eight times—it was 0800.

  “All right then,” Diocletia said. “We’ll search outbound for the forenoon watch, then inbound for the afternoon. Tycho, when you’ve got the route calculations, give them to Vesuvia and let’s fly.”

  “On the way,” Tycho said, giving the numbers a final look and transmitting them.

  “Course information received,” Vesuvia said in her clipped voice.

  “Locking it in,” Carlo said. “Keep the sensors peeled, Yana.”

  “Dialing them up to max,” Yana said. “But I don’t know what we’re expecting to find. Allamand stashed the Leviathan somewhere yesterday—he had enough time to bring her entire crew back to Cybele, and we know they didn’t take a direct course. So there’ll be no ion flux or anything we can trace.”

  “Not from the Leviathan, agreed,” Diocletia said. “But we might find a trace left by an Earth ship taking goods off of her, or bringing supplies to her, or maintaining whatever installation Earth’s stashed her in. And if nothing else, we’re looking—that’s important to keep the Union from blowing its collective stack.”

  Carlo glanced over at his mother, and Tycho knew he was wondering if he was being blamed. But Diocletia wasn’t looking his way—she was staring straight ahead at the starfield and the course information Vesuvia had projected over it.

  “Are we expecting Allamand to bring the Leviathan in for condemnation?” Tycho asked.
>
  “No,” Diocletia said. “Cybele doesn’t have an admiralty court. If Captain Allamand wants to bring her in as a prize, he’ll have to take her to Ceres or even Vesta.”

  “Which means he’ll want to keep her hidden,” Tycho said.

  “It’s what I’d do. Keep her under wraps until the politicians work out a deal that lets me bring her in.”

  “But why are we assigned to the search?” Yana asked.

  Diocletia cocked an eyebrow at her daughter. “Any number of reasons. One, this is a fast ship.”

  “Which makes us ideal for raiding shipping. We could be taking prizes instead of turning over rocks.”

  “Two, Captain Andrade doesn’t trust the newly commissioned privateers to give the Leviathan back if they find her,” Diocletia said as if she’d never been interrupted.

  Yana considered that and nodded.

  “And three, the Leviathan was taken on our watch. So it’s only right and proper that we try to get her back.”

  Carlo winced at that.

  Tycho, who’d been thinking about the way Kate twirled a curl of dark hair around one finger, jerked himself back into alertness. The route calculations were still on his screen, describing a meandering thread through the vast field of shattered asteroids orbiting in concert with Cybele.

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “What if Allamand doesn’t intend to bring the Leviathan in at all?”

  “What do you mean?” Diocletia asked.

  “At dinner I was sitting next to this Cybelean kid whose father is some kind of big investor in shipbuilding. He said they can’t keep up with the demand, and there’s a big shipbuilding project that’s taking up a lot of the available raw materials and labor. It’s got to be Earth’s.”

  “What makes you say that?” Mavry asked.

  “And what does it have to do with the Leviathan?” Carlo asked.

  “One at a time,” Tycho said. “Whatever this big project is, we know it’s not ours—and remember what Minister Vass told me about Earth wooing the Cybeleans by dangling shipbuilding contracts in front of them. So whose project could it be but Earth’s?”

  “How do we know it’s not the Ice Wolves’?” Mavry asked.

  “They don’t have the livres for anything that big,” Diocletia said.

  “This mysterious project you were told about can’t be Earth’s,” Carlo objected. “Because they don’t have a shipbuilding contract like that yet. One of the reasons we’re here is to make sure they don’t get one.”

  “Maybe they do, but they’re trying to keep it secret,” Tycho said.

  “And why would they do that?” Carlo asked.

  “I can answer that one,” Yana said. “Because the Cybeleans want both deals—the shipbuilding contract with Earth and the raw-materials agreement with us.”

  Mavry grinned at Diocletia. “Can you believe our innocent children have become this cynical?”

  “It was bound to happen eventually.”

  “But the Cybeleans can’t get both deals,” Carlo said. “It’s one or the other.”

  “That’s what the politicians are saying, which means you shouldn’t believe it,” Mavry said. “Our industries want this raw-materials contract too.”

  “But how do you know it isn’t our project, Tyke?” Yana asked. “Is it because you think the Securitat wouldn’t lie to us?”

  “I don’t think that at all, believe me.”

  “Even if we could keep a project that big a secret, I doubt we could compete with what Earth can offer,” Diocletia said. “Go on, Tycho.”

  “Whoever’s project it is, they don’t have the labor they need. Sewickley—that’s the Cybelean kid—admitted workers are being supplied by crimps, which is why things are so dangerous on Cybele right now. He also said they’re short on raw materials. What if they’re trying to solve that problem by using seized ships for parts? Ships such as the Leviathan?”

  “That would be an outrageous violation of interplanetary law,” Carlo said.

  “Like Earth cares,” Yana interjected. “They strike a deal with Cybele, and a few months from now they admit wrongdoing and pay off the Leviathan’s owners.”

  “That does sound like a very Earth thing to do,” Mavry said.

  “So does building warships for its navy with seized Jovian craft and raw materials supplied by Jovian companies,” Tycho said.

  “Any Jovian companies that were part of such an arrangement would be guilty of treason,” Carlo said.

  “I’m sure they’d find a way to justify it,” Mavry said.

  “One thing, though: Allamand would never collect the prize money for the Leviathan if they did that,” Diocletia said.

  “He wouldn’t mind,” Tycho said. “This is just an adventure for him.”

  “From the way he and his daughter dress, they have plenty of livres,” Yana said.

  Diocletia nodded. “It’s an interesting idea, Tycho. When we get back to Cybele, I’ll run it by Mr. Vass and his ministers and see what they think. But for now, we search.”

  Tycho knew he should have been pleased by his mother’s praise. But Yana’s mention of Kate had frightened him into silence. The last thing he needed was his sister recounting his argument with Kate, which might start their mother asking questions, which might in turn cause him to slip up and reveal something. And that would lead to Diocletia learning everything.

  He winced at the thought of his mother lecturing him about enemies and being irresponsible, then leaving a blistering report about whom he’d kissed in the Log. But was he sure that’s what she’d say? As a veteran privateer, his mother knew perfectly well that any scrap of intelligence gathered in port could be valuable, and she wasn’t squeamish about how such information was obtained. What if she saw his connection with their enemy’s daughter not as a danger to be avoided, but as an advantage to be exploited?

  Tycho couldn’t decide which was worse. But he knew he didn’t want either to happen.

  The airlock had barely closed on the last of the Comet’s departing crewers when Tycho messaged Kate asking when and where they could meet.

  He sent the message, then checked that it had sent properly. It had. He looked at his message queue for a moment, then checked to see if any new messages had come in. Then he checked again. And then one more time.

  He looked up from his mediapad, worried that Yana would notice him obsessively resending the same command. But his sister was engrossed with her own device.

  A clank and a slight rattle under their feet indicated the ferry containing the crewers had detached itself from the privateer and was on its way to Cybele below. Tycho activated his headset.

  “Last crew ferry is away,” he said.

  His message indicator pinged. Stabbing at his mediapad’s screen, he navigated hurriedly over to his message queue, reminding himself that it was probably a junk message or a cranky homework reminder from Vesuvia.

  But the message was from Kate.

  “Tycho, did you hear what I said?” Diocletia asked in his ear.

  “Um—”

  “I’ll take that as a no. I told you to get any gear you need for the trip down. We’ll be dirtside for a day or two, unless something happens. Gig’s leaving in ten minutes.”

  “Right,” Tycho said distractedly, vaguely registering his mother’s annoyed huff of breath before she broke the connection.

  CAN YOU COME TO NORTHWELL AFTER LUNCH? I PROMISE WE WON’T TALK POLITICS. KA

  Tycho reread the message four times while packing his duffel bag, his smile getting bigger each time. But as the gig detached from the Comet, his smile faded away. Should he get Kate a gift? He decided that wasn’t necessary, then that it was, and by the time they cleared customs and entered the passage that led to the Well, he had no idea what to do.

  He glanced at the rest of his family. The idea of asking Yana was obviously insane, as was broaching the subject with his mother.

  His father? Mavry would be able to help, and probably wouldn’t immediate
ly interrogate him. But despite his easygoing nature, Tycho’s father was all business when it came to privateering. He’d figure out that Tycho had met someone at the banquet and need to know who it was, and when it turned out that someone was Captain Allamand’s daughter . . .

  No, his father was out.

  Tycho’s eyes lingered on Carlo. His older brother had been on dates—he even remembered a couple of girlfriends from the Helmsmen’s Guild and another who’d been the daughter of someone important in Port Town. And Carlo could be helpful if it meant an opportunity to demonstrate that he knew something his younger siblings didn’t.

  But his brother was self-absorbed on his best days, and racked by misery at the moment over his decision to abandon the Leviathan. And he never missed a chance to gain even the smallest advantage in the Log.

  No, it was too dangerous to ask Carlo.

  Then there was Huff. Tycho looked appraisingly at his grandfather. He’d been married long enough to have two daughters, hadn’t he?

  “Arrr, they oughta space the dimwit what decided this tunnel should go halfway to Vesta,” Huff growled, then began to cough raggedly.

  “Are you all right, Grandfather?” Tycho asked.

  Huff pounded on his chest with his forearm cannon, then spat out something vile that hit the wall of the passageway with a glutinous splat and stuck there.

  Tycho decided not to ask him either.

  But then he thought of someone who might be able to help.

  Tycho’s shoulder holster didn’t fit quite right and kept riding up into his armpit, forcing him to reach under his heavy cloak and paw at his jacket to push the carbine back into place. But the weapon’s weight was still a comfort as he left the Westwell for the dim, frigid tunnel that led to Bazaar.

  He wasn’t used to carrying a weapon and kept thinking the carbine was horribly conspicuous, even under a thick, fur-lined jacket. Tycho and Yana had told their parents about the crimps that morning. Diocletia had listened with a grave expression, then summoned Mavry to their bedroom for a brief consultation. She’d reluctantly agreed that they could carry carbines, then given them a stern lecture on the importance of not using them unless there was no other alternative.