by M. J. Locke
Being stuck on a backwater stroid for the rest of his days wasn’t Geoff’s idea of a good time, either. Joey had handed him the granddaddy of all good fortune, and now it was about to be snatched away by the same disaster that had stolen his big brother.
“I say we hold on to it,” Ian said. “My dad says that a big ice shipment is coming Down even now. Lots of people are hoarding till it gets here. Why should we give up our ice when nobody else is?”
No one said anything.
“Don’t you get it?” Ian demanded. “This is our very own sugar rock! Like the Eros sugar rockers!”
Kam said, “Uh … didn’t the original sugar rockers actually donate their ice to the cluster?”
“Whatever! You get what I mean.”
The compulsion was powerful to just go along with what Ian was saying. But Geoff kept picturing Carl’s face. He knew what he would say.
“It won’t wash, Ian.”
“Oh, I get it. You’re the big hero now. You saved the day and so you get to call all the ops.”
Geoff didn’t ordinarily lose his temper with Ian, but today his words grated. “It’s my ice. It’s my decision.”
Ian’s fists clenched. “You said we were going to share. The ice is mine, too. And Kamal’s, and Amaya’s. You can’t go back on that now.”
Geoff felt shaky all over. He felt like he had with his dad, back at the memorial. No, he thought. Not this time. “Too bad you didn’t get it in writing, because that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
“You bastard! Traitor!”
“Who’s the traitor? You’re the one holding out on the cluster.”
Ian launched himself at Geoff with a yell, and slammed him into one of the bug tanks, next to the piping. Geoff shoved him back, and leapt high into the chamber—bounced off the ceiling, tumbled to the floor. Ian had landed in a crouch. They both panted, glowering.
Ian said, “You’re a wuss. Cunt. Coward.”
“Hey!” Amaya said, indignant.
“I can see you about to piss in your pants from over here. You think you can beat me? Your brother fought all your fights for you. Who’s going to fight for you this time? Amaya? Maybe Kam.”
At the mention of his brother, Geoff felt something snap. Red washed across his vision. He had always thought that was just a figure of speech. He launched himself at Ian, barely registering his friend’s startled look, and grabbed him in a choke hold. In grim silence, he pummeled Ian’s head and face.
Ian fought back. They went into a wild, flailing tumble. Ian was bigger than he was, but that did not matter today. Three times Geoff struck furniture, equipment, walls, but he did not feel it. He rammed Ian into a corner and pinned him there, and hit him till Ian stopped fighting and started crying for him to stop. Kamal and Amaya finally managed to get Geoff off Ian, who bolted away, trailing small blood globules that tumbled, steaming, in the cool air.
Ian eyed Geoff from across the way, breathing heavily. Then he sprang over to his suit. Kamal went over and tried to calm him down, but Ian turned and spat blood in Kam’s face. The three of them just watched as Ian grabbed his bike and shoved off, blasting fumes into their faces as he headed for the airlock.
Amaya shook her head as the airlock door closed on Ian. “What a loser.” She tossed Geoff a shop rag. “Here. You’ve got a bloody nose.”
Geoff swiped the blood from his face. They all heard the outer lock release. The rage was fading and Geoff felt sick to his stomach. Kamal came over. “You OK?”
Geoff nodded, trying to staunch the blood. Now that the fight was over, the chamber’s cold draughts made him shiver. One of Joey Spud’s old vacubots hoovered through the air, humming as it sucked up the blood, spit, and debris that their fight had stirred up.
“He shouldn’t have said that,” Amaya said.
Kamal nodded. “He was out of line.”
Rather than reply, Geoff shoved off over to his own suit and helmet, tied to the seat of his bike. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?” Kamal asked.
Geoff struggled into his suit, trying not to wince. He was going to hurt even worse tomorrow. “To find Ian.” He belted himself onto his bike and ran through his prelaunch checks of air and fuel and suit environmentals. Amaya’s arms crossed and her lips thinned.
“He can go to hell,” she said. Geoff eyed her.
“Seriously,” she said. “I have had it with him. He’s a shit.”
Geoff sighed. “He’s injured. It’s three hours back to Phocaea. Joey Spud always said, the Big Empty is a motherfucker. I’m not ready to lose anybody else I care about. Not even Ian when he’s in jerk mode.”
He did not wait for their answer, but finished suiting up. After a moment he heard them go for their own bikes, and felt relieved.
* * *
After the memorial Jane went to see her mentor, Chikuma Funaki. Aswarm in “Stroider” glitter, Jane stood at the gate at the Funaki family estate in Path of Seven Stones.
Chikuma approached. Her deliberate gait was not because she was old—antiage meds and exercise had kept her in good shape, for a woman closer to two hundred years old than one—and not because of the gee pull, though her home was in one of the heaviest districts in town. She simply did not see the point in hurrying. She had told Jane once that she preferred to take stock of the world as she went. There was always more time for reflection and appreciation of one’s surroundings, she said, than people credited. It was simply a matter of setting one’s priorities.
Chikuma unlocked the gate. As with Benavidez, the “Stroiders” infestation was not allowed into Chikuma’s home; a curtain of sparks and hissings—antimote spray—erupted around her as Jane passed through the gate. They bowed.
“Thank you so much for making the time to see me.”
“Not at all,” Chikuma said, “not at all.” She tucked her arm through Jane’s and escorted her through the house to the little garden where Chikuma preferred to hold tea ceremonies.
They knelt at the low table. Chikuma’s eldest great-great-great-great-granddaughter Yoko served them jasmine tea imported from Earth, and cakes. They chatted for a bit, exchanging news of their families. As Yoko departed, she knelt by the door and opened the valves on two small tanks there. A faint mist filled the air. It chilled Jane as it settled on her skin, and had a faint, spicy scent—cardamom, or turpentine. Then she bowed deeply, and left, closing the rice-paper shoji behind her.
Jane’s eyebrows went up, and she looked at her sensei.
“More protective enzymes,” Chikuma said. “A specially concocted blend. We’ve installed other new antispy measures as well.”
“Not taking any chances, I see.”
“There have been developments. You’ve heard Ogilvie & Sons is behind this?”
“I have,” Jane replied. “Their legal representative in the ice negotiation is a Nathan Glease, an attorney from Mars whose law firm is associated with the Ogilvie family. He just tried to bribe me.”
“Yes?” Chikuma’s eyebrows floated up on her wrinkled forehead.
“Yes. Also, my stores chief Sean came to me this morning with evidence that the warehouse incident was sabotage. I believe Glease must be responsible for it, but I don’t yet have proof. I just wonder what the hell else he has been up to.”
“Do you know who Benavidez has assigned to close the ice deal?”
“The prime minister himself is handling the negotiations.”
They were quiet for a few moments, sipping tea. Chikuma said, “We believe Ogilvie & Sons has already infiltrated parts of Phocaea’s power structure. We have to know who their local allies are.”
Jane eyed her sensei, appalled. “What a dreadful notion. Likely suspects? Do you have a list?”
Chikuma tilted her head; the jewel ornaments in her hair bobbed, catching the light. “Anyone who benefits if the current power structure is overturned. I can think of several, offhand. The opposition party. An ambitious official in Benavidez’s organization. Someone l
ocal with connections to a large shipping conglomerate we don’t currently service. The Viridians.”
“Whoa … wait. The Viridians? What do they gain if the mob comes in?”
“They are tolerated,” Chikuma said, “and as political refugees from the Downside Gene Purges, they have certain rights and protections. But most Phocaeans find the Viridians repugnant, and avoid them. They are isolated. They have their own little enclave, but are unable to wield much influence in Phocaean culture or government at large.”
“But I’ve always gotten the sense that they prefer it that way,” Jane said. “They don’t seem interested in anything beyond their gene tampering and their biodigital art projects.”
“Perhaps,” Chikuma replied. “Or perhaps they resent their isolation. Ogilvie & Sons may be offering them the opportunity to play a larger role in Solar politics. We’ve been having Mr. Glease watched. Look.”
Chikuma linked their wavefaces and showed Jane a time-stamped image of an Upside-Down shuttle crawling across 25 Phocaea’s barren landscape to dock with one of the city-to-surface lifts. The date was a week ago. Jane cocked an eyebrow.
“Are you hacking ‘Stroiders’ now, Sensei?”
“Don’t I wish! But we do have access to nearly all the local surveillance systems. And they have come in handy. This shot is from one of your surface warehouses. This next, we switch to the lift that shuttle just docked with. See that woman there?” she said, pointing. The view clearly was from a camera mounted in the upper corner of a lift. The woman was tall and thin and wore standard Phocaean garb. Strands of Viridian double-helix lights twined around her shoulder wrap. “We reviewed Nathan Glease’s contacts from when he first arrived here, and did some cross matching. We looked for connections—meetings or calls that occurred within a short time of his contacting different groups. This one stood out.
“She is Vivian Waĩthĩra Wa Macharia na Briggs. Originally from Earth, Federal Africa, although her family moved to an Earth orbital when she was a teen. She is registered as a technology consultant. Upside-Down hired her only days after Mr. Glease had contact with Mr. Sinton, local head of Upside-Down.”
Jane studied the figure. “That sounds like an African name, but she looks Caucasian. What do we know about her?”
Chikuma lifted a hand in a shrug. “Very little. She has been around for a few months. She has duel citizenship, Lunarian and Kenyan.” Jane looked again. “You believe she is spying on Upside-Down for the mob?”
Chikuma replied, “Spying on Upside-Down for the Viridians more likely, or on the mob itself, while doing—or at least pretending to do—what Nathan Glease asks.” She gestured at the Viridian’s image with polished nails, and sat back cupping her tea. “I have no hard proof, but my instincts tell me that Glease may have struck a deal of some sort with the Viridians. But the Ogilvies certainly see the Viridians merely as useful perversions. They fail to understand their deeper motives. Of all of the aspects of the Ogilvies’ plan, that may be their weakest point.”
“What do you mean, Sensei?”
Chikuma stared into her teacup. She shook her head and again the jewels in her hair danced. “I cannot be sure. All I am certain of is that the Ogilvies do not understand the Viridians.” She sipped tea, and Jane waited for her to continue. Chikuma finally set down her cup, and arranged her kimono with a deft tuck under her ankles.
“To the outsider,” she said, “the Viridians seem deceptive. Manipulative. They wrap themselves in illusion. They skirt the edges of the law. At first glance, they are a natural ally to mobsters who wish to disrupt the existing order. But the Viridians respond to a deeper call. Their beliefs have led them to change themselves into something we do not fully understand. Those changes, that commitment, that vision—however repugnant we may find it—binds them to each other more deeply even than the family and business ties that bind the Ogilvies. Their way of being is not simply about their own status. There is more to them than that. Much more.” After another pause she said, “They will be a force to be reckoned with.”
Jane finished her tea. “I will bear that in mind, Sensei. Thank you.” She went on, “There is something else you should know. The Ogilvies have many ships stationed within one and two weeks’ passage of here. At least two dozen.” Chikuma looked at Jane. Her expression did not change, but Jane sensed her shock. “We believe they plan to send troops regardless of the disposition of the ice.”
“That is good to know sooner than later,” Chikuma said. “We will do all we can on our end to prepare.”
They spoke of other things, then: family and mutual friends and acquaintances. Jane took her leave, refreshed and with much to think about.
* * *
Geoff, Amaya, and Kam tried calling Ian during the ride back, but he did not answer, and he wasn’t in the bike hangar when they reached 25 Phocaea. But his bike was there, and the hangar owner said he had just left.
“Did he say where he was headed?” Geoff asked. The older man shook his head. “No idea. Sorry.”
“Where would he go?” Geoff asked the other two. Kam shrugged, but Amaya’s eyes narrowed. “I think I know where. Come on.”
They followed her to the lift station and boarded a lift. As they descended through the rock layers, she elaborated. “He went down to the Level-240 Promenade. To Industry Row.”
“Huh? Why?” Kam asked. But Geoff got it. “It’s the black marketers’ neighborhood.”
“He knows we’re going to turn over the ice,” Amaya said. “He’s going to try to sell it before we can notify the authorities.”
Kamal’s face darkened. “That asshole.”
Geoff said, “He’d share the money—he’s not that big a jerk. I don’t think. But we have to stop him before he makes an offer, or we’ll all be in for a heap of shit.”
“Yeah,” Kam said. “If our parents find out—”
“If the cops find out, you mean,” Geoff said. “We’ll probably go to prison if we sell to the black market.”
“That’s an exaggeration,” Kam said, but Amaya interrupted. “Neither of you gets it. It’s much worse. My older brother says some of them have ties with the mob. If Ian approaches the wrong guy, we’re all fucked.”
A lump settled, hard and nickel-iron cold, in Geoff’s gut. “We have to stop him before he gets hurt.”
“Yeah, so we can kill him instead,” Kam muttered. Geoff did not say it, but he was thinking the exact same thing.
* * *
Geoff and Amaya found Ian right where they had expected: in Industry Row, where the black marketers offered better exchange rates than the banks, for those foolish or desperate enough to believe their promises.
Kamal had gone to get help, but not before they wasted precious moments arguing, while catching their breath at a rest stop in the Noonie Spokeway.
Gravity tugged at them. A cold breeze, laced with the faint smell of ammonia, lifted their hair. Motes drifted up through the netting from the circle below that led to Bottomsville. Clots of commuters passed by their benches, headed down on the spiral stair. Across the way, another stream of people trudged upward toward the lower-gravity levels. Some eyed the three of them as they passed, and spoke to each other in whispers or gave them nods or pinged their sammy caches. Geoff’s own cache was bigger and greener than it had ever been, and getting greener by the minute. Geoff did not like it so much. Being recognized by everyone creeped him out. He did not know any of these people. He made a face at a little kid who stared at him, and the kid stuck out his tongue, hit him with a bad-sammy, and ran to catch up with his parents.
“Kam, you need to get going,” Geoff said. “And so do we.”
“No way!” Kam insisted. “We stick together.” He shivered, hands jammed in pockets, jacket zipped up to his chin. “He could be cutting a deal right now!”
“Somebody has to tell the authorities about the ice,” Geoff said. He began pacing back and forth in the tiny cul-de-sac. Kam could be so pigheaded. “If we all go, and we get into tr
ouble, who’ll know?”
“Why don’t we all go to the cops, then?”
“We’ve been over this! There’s still time to stop Ian if we hurry. If we don’t, they could force him to give them the coordinates to Ouroboros. They might hurt him.”
They had tried calling their parents on the way down, but couldn’t get a signal through because of all the newcomers in town jamming up the lines. Their families lived on the far side of Zekeston, over an hour away on foot. The centripetal transports were all booked hours ahead, and the spokeway lifts were running at a snail’s pace. Geoff had never seen Zekeston so crammed with people, not even during the Cluster Fair. Emergency lines were open to the police station, but the police sergeant on duty at the Bottomsville precinct—whom they had reached after four attempts—had been harried and distracted. When she learned that no bulkheads had been breached and no one was bleeding, dying, or firing weapons, they had not been able to get her attention. She had just told them in a weary tone to take their ice claim documents to one of the banks, and hung up.
“Somebody has to just go there and get in their faces,” Amaya said. “Force them to listen.”
“Why do I have to go? Why not you? Or Geoff?”
“Do you really want to tangle with a bunch of thugs?” Geoff asked. The truth was, Kam was not exactly tough. Shit, neither was he. Geoff would love it if he could hand this off to somebody else. But it was Geoff’s ice, and Geoff’s fight with him, that had set Ian off. And, he admitted to himself, he would rather have Amaya with him than Kam. She was no bigger than he, but she was tougher.
Amaya stood. “We don’t have time for this. Could you just do this?”
Kamal eyed them both, then sighed forlornly. “All right. I give. I’ll go.”
Geoff handed Kam a slip of paper. “Here are the coordinates for Ouroboros and my best guess on how much ice there is. That should get their attention.”
“We’re not far from New Little Austin,” Amaya added. “Go to the Phocaean Community Bank on Mall Row.”