Dan consoled himself with the fact that his father was well cared for. Officially, Reid was part of Adam’s entourage. And a Space Fleet Commander was entitled to plenty of perks for him and his, enough to keep them in comfort. The younger siblings also chipped in a share toward their dad’s support. Dan’s contribution to the kitty was necessarily the smallest, which made him feel guilty.
“Your sisters and Lisi and Olav want to say ‘hi.’” Reid’s image put a recording wafer in an illusionary projector. Four small figures—Zoe and Naomi McKelvey and Naomi’s kids— appeared, holo-modes within a larger holo. A doll-like Zoe looked very spiffy in her medic’s uniform. Naomi wore a uniform, too; she’d recently been made Chief of Shuttle Operations for Alpha Cee Settlement. Dan hardly recognized her children. They were growing so fast! The kids waved enthusiastically to Uncle Dan.
Though the holo was miniaturized, voices were boosted to near normal. Dan’s sisters, niece, and nephew sounded as if they were in the lounge with him, chattering on and on. Dan propped his chin on his hands and stared morosely at the holo. Zoe’s gossip, Naomi’s news, how they and the kids looked—all of it distant history, recorded weeks or months ago on separate planets light-years apart from each other and from Free Port Eighteen. And at this instant Reid, Adam, and Adam’s family were traveling farther on out into the galaxy.
Dammit! Dan wanted to embrace his father, kiss his sisters and sister-in-law, tell Isabel how pretty she was, advise little Lisi and Olav to study hard. Dan even longed to give Adam a bear hug. That would shake up stiff-necked big brother and be a hell of a lot of fun!
But... he couldn’t touch them. They weren’t real, any more than that starfield on the bulkhead was real.
The starfield put things in perspective. Sol was shining, bright and golden. Scattered around her were the suns of Terra’s Settlement Worlds, and beyond those, the stars of neighboring alien planets. The room-size map encompassed six civilizations. How could humanity—or any similar species—hope to maintain close ties with its roots and families in so large an arena?
Frontiers continued to expand. Indie haulers like Dan helped that happen. He was one of thousands of spacers keeping open the communication and supply lines to outlying planets in the Terran sector. And yet he himself was becoming more and more isolated from people and places he loved.
Abruptly a paging message with Dan’s name and pilot’s reg number flashed on the monitor. Sighing, he pocketed the wafer and cued the system. That grudge-carrying dispatcher’s face filled the screen. “McKelvey? You done with your big get-to-gether? Want a cargo?”
Hastily he shifted mental gears. “I wasn’t expecting...” “You’re at the top of the list—again. Unless you turn this one down the way you did the earlier ones.”
“No! That’s—that’s great. Thanks!” Dan said. “I really appreciate this. What’s the load and where’s it bound?”
“Machinery. Prepaid. Destination, System T-W 593.”
He glanced at the bulkhead starmap. Quick calculations made him whistle. “That’s a Terran-Whimed Protectorate Listing, right out on the fringe.”
“If your ship lacks the range, I’ll bump you down.”
“Hey, the Fiona can do that easy,” Dan lied. The job would be a stretch for his starhopper, and fuel costs would reduce profits to a bare minimum. But he was in no position to be choosy. After that long layoff waiting for Adam, he needed a paying cargo quick. If he rejected this one, they might hand him a worse consignment later on.
“Okay, you got it. Lots of luck!” The beginning of a grin showed on her face as it faded from the monitor.
Dan frowned. Why should she seem so pleased about it all? Unless she thought he’d be stretched too far and have to call for a rescue. That didn’t seem logical. Then he shrugged and tried to dismiss it from his mind.
Numbers flickered on the screen. Dan studied the invoice. The customers were an archaeological expeditionThat rang a bell, His cousin Varenka had a nephew who was an archaeoligist and the last Dan had heard Feo was working somewhere in the Terran-Whimed sector. The name on the manifest, though wasn't that of a Saunder. So what? A delivery was a delivery. This cargo had been in storage at the Port for months. Those scientist on T-W 593 ought to be grateful to see it—maybe grateful enough to give a fat tip.
He looked forward to spacing again. It would wash the bad taste of this botched rendezvous from his mouth, for one thing.
Dan was very busy for the next couple of hours, entering nav data on Fiona’s boards, moving her to the warehouse satellite so automated stevedores could transfer cargo to her hold, and paying bills. Parking fees were especially heavy because of Adam’s lack of consideration. Another bite went for the fuel package. Normally, before a lengthy starhop, Dan stocked up on entertainment and educational vids in the local shops. This time, feeling poor, he restricted his purchases to a few documentaries on archaeology. He’d never visited an archaeo Settlement before and he didn’t want to sound like a total fool when he met his customers.
He was still bothered by that dispatcher’s smile. With her grudge against him, it should have been a sign of something nasty to come. But everything seemed to move smoothly. There wasn’t even a delay from Traffic in giving him clearance, once the Fiona was loaded and primed.
Dan eased out of Port, nudging power, reaching toward FTL hop point. Big interstellar craft had to stand at least thirty kilometers off station before using hyperdrive. An indie ship, with its much smaller energy field, was allowed to engage at ten.
Final checklist showed all boards green. Fiona warped space and time, leaping across the light-years.
CHAPTER TWO
Saunderhome
For a time, Dan was busy fine-tuning vectors. But everything was going smoothly. He settled back, took out the holo-mode wafer, and stuck it into the slot beside his control board. He skimmed quickly over the part he’d already seen.
Reid’s image on the screen removed the holo of Dan’s sisters from the projector and inserted another wafer. “I wanted you to see this, Danny. Our kinswoman deserves our full cooperation. Now pay attention.”
The new scene almost filled the screen, an overlay that almost hid the other figures. A hawk-faced, elderly woman peered at Dan. As she started to speak, it took him a few seconds to pinpoint her accent: Earth, a Slavic inflection mixed with Basic.
“Greetings, dear ones, from Varenka Saunder-Nicholaiev. To those not conversant with our complex intrafamilial relations, I am the daughter of Brenna Saunder and Yuri Nicholaiev. My mother was the beloved granddaughter of our clan’s noble forebears, the inventive genius Ward and that immortal visionary, the tragically martyred Jael Hartman Saunder..
She needn’t have bothered with the elaborate and boastful intro. Dan hadn’t met his cousin since he was a boy but everyone knew who she was—one of the richest and most powerful of the Saunder-McKelveys, a force to be reckoned with, particularly on Earth. When she said “Jump,” Terra’s political and business leaders went into orbit.
Varenka began walking. The lens stayed in tight focus, following her through swaying trees and colorful beds of flowers. Behind her lay a white beach washed by dark waves. Tropical sunlight drenched everything. The landscape was on Earth; no other planetary environment quite matched Homo sapiens’ Mother World.
The old woman climbed a grassy slope to a ruined castle. Its glassene and stone were badly weathered, encrusted with vines and mosses.
“Look at it, Saunder-McKelveys!” Varenka cried. “Isn’t this disgraceful? This is Saunderhome. Yes, Saunderhome! This is where our family began a historic, unparalleled rise to eminence. We must treasure this shrine. Saunderhome is our soul!”
Dan snorted derisively at the highfalutin language. Why had his father insisted he watch this? Okay, so that was their stuck-up relative Varenka showing the viewer Saunderhome and weeping because it was falling to pieces. So what? Judging by the news from Earth, whole cities there had been in the same sorry state for a long time.
. an absolute desecration, brought about by neglect. I will not go into detail regarding the inexcusable legal problems that have prevented our acting to correct this situation until recently. You all know the story.” Dan was tempted to say he didn’t, nor did he care. Varenka went on. “I am sure you are thrilled to hear that the New Earth Renaissance Foundation has gained clear title to this sacred edifice. We intend to merge this restoration project with our much-heralded campaign to clone a living replica of our magnificent ancestress Jael. Both efforts are well underway. Naturally, funds are needed...”
Dan gasped in exasperation. So that was it—a pitch for money! She was hitting up all the Saunders-McKelveys, including impecunious distant cousins like Dan, for donations.
The New Earth Renaissance! That head-in-the-sand bunch! Back to the “good old days!” Renaissancers yearned for a return to Earth’s “glorious past” and had done their best to cause trouble for the Chartered Settlement Planets and the expansion of Terra’s stellar frontiers. Varenka was president of the N.E.R. and often stated her goal was to “bring humanity’s heart home again, where it belongs.” She had her nerve asking spacer-oriented relatives who didn’t share her feelings about that “shrine” to chip into her charity! She wanted to restore Saunderhome? Fine! Let her and her rich friends pay the bills.
She continued to conduct a guided tour of Saunderhome, or what was left of it: fallen ceilings; obscene graffiti everywhere; and animal droppings on the floors. Most of the furniture had been stolen; the rest was a wreck. No settler on a backworld would house livestock in such a ruin!
“Terrible! Terrible!” Varenka moaned, dabbing at her eyes and sniffling. “This cannot be tolerated. We must return our Saunderhome to its former beauty, make it once more the true capital of mankind. I know you will be generous ...”
Reid McKelvey was an easy touch. That was one of the reasons he’d lost his fortune. Undoubtedly he’d sent his cousin some credits he should have kept in his pocket.
Well, that snooty old woman would wait till Sol froze before Reid’s younger son sent her any money!
Years ago, when Dan’s father was in desperate financial straits, Varenka and other wealthy relatives had pointedly looked the other way. Like too many successful Saunder-McKelveys, she’d been on top of the power ladder so long she tended to ignore the family’s losers—except when she wanted donations for her silly hobby!
To add insult to injury, she wasn’t doing anything worthwhile —just rebuilding a ruin and cloning a long-dead ancestor for purely sentimental purposes.
Dan scowled in contempt. Maybe Saunderhome was a historic monument, as Varenka was claiming. But nobody could eat history. History wouldn’t pay off the debt on his starhopper or buy him a much-needed replacement spacesuit. As far as he was concerned, they ought to forget that cloning project and tear down Saunderhome for salvage. Why waste more money on the thing?
Varenka hadn’t chipped in to help Reid, back when that could have made a big difference. So Dan wasn’t going to ante up for her “sacred causes.”
Her segment of the letter ended, and Dan leaned forward, hoping for more personal news from his immediate family. But his father merely signed off, promising to get in touch when Adam arrived at his new post. Dan withdrew the wafer it was a poor substitute for real interaction, but it would have to do Then the boredom of a long trip settled in. A week later he'd reread the vids several times and was dipping into his library Days clicked on. Dan wondered how the old-timers had coped, back when interstellar journeys took months rather than weeks. Starhopping must have been an ordeal in those days.
Seeking diversion, he scanned the subspace channels, eavesdropping on Terran and alien conversations from the star groups he was passing. He didn’t join in. That was too expensive.
He replayed his collection of holo-mode letters, usually dimming the lights to enhance the illusions. Thanks to the magic of tri-di, he could even see his mother again. The images reunited Reid, Fiona, their children, and the grandchildren, erasing death and distance.
Once he forgot to cut off the projector soon enough when Varenka’s segment appeared on the last letter. The repeat viewing made her sales pitch still more annoying. He found himself wishing Saunderhome would collapse around the woman’s ears. As for her hopes of cloning her ancestor, the histoiy vids warned that Jael Hartman Saunder might not have been a martyred heroine, but a murdering tyrant who merited extinction. It would serve Varenka right if her precious clone turned out to be a vicious beast.
Fiona entered unfamiliar stellar regions where most of the com chatter came from Whimed Federation worlds.
When T-W 593’s star finally locked on the nav screens, Dan reduced the length of the FTL pulses, then went sublight.
Destination was on the grids! He’d be damned glad to make planetfall. This had been a hell of a long haul.
He knew that few frontier Settlements employed a full-time sparks, so he requested landing coordinates while he was well out from the system’s fourth world.
Then he had nothing to do but wait—and begin worrying. The grin on that dispatcher’s face still bothered him. Maybe she’d known the archaeology site had been abandoned and there would be no one to sign his manifest. That equipment had been waiting for delivery a long time. Maybe down there they’d ordered and received supplies from other sources. A hundred possibilities began nagging at him, all leaving him stranded with the trip a total loss. And that could spell the beginning of ruin.
It was hours before anyone responded.
“Hello? Independent hauler Fiona! This is Praedar Expedition. Uh ... T-W 593. If you’re peddling supplies, we don’t need any.” The signal was scratchy. The face of the blonde who was answering Dan’s hail jittered all over the frame.
He wasn’t surprised by the lack of formality and sloughing of com procedure. It was normal for remote colonies. “I’m not selling,” he answered, gratefully letting his worries evaporate. “I’ve got a machinery shipment for you. Where do I set down?”
The silence on the other end of the connection went on so long that Dan checked his receivers to be sure there was no malfunction. At this range, com-time lag was minuscule. The scientists should be able to get back to him almost instantly.
The blonde eventually came back on line. “You’ve got our machine replacement parts? Where the hell have they been all this time? Come on in! Oh, you need coordinates, don’t you? Hang on. Kat, where’s that tape we play for the supply shuttle?” A second, darker Terran woman came into view alongside the blonde. The two whispered together a moment, then the data feed started.
That, too, was sloppy. Dan had to ask for several repeats. He supposed these big brains were occupied with heavy subjects and couldn’t be bothered to maintain com gear in top condition.
A bare-bones nav satellite orbiting the planet cross-linked with the coordinates, guiding him in. He put Fiona into descent mode and started final approach.
Whenever he made planetfall, he thanked Brenna Saunder. Her company had developed the one-man single-stage starhop-pers. Of course, she’d intended those to serve as a subsidiary flotilla for S-ME Interstellar’s full-size craft. Those big guys needed shuttles to offload cargo or passengers for planetside delivery. Single-stagers combined FTL and shuttle functions, though their kilotonnage was severely limited. As things had turned out, that limitation made them too unprofitable for major carriers. But the little ships were perfect for independent haulers —and a new profession had been bom on the starlanes.
Fiona demonstrated her versatility now. Her FTL drive on standby, atmo wings extended, she dropped toward T-W 593. With each successive, lower orbit, waters and landmasses became more distinct. Dan saw deserts, rugged mountain ranges, and shallow seas. There were no cities or roads. The only sign of civilization was the local Settlement, a tiny dot on the equator Its landing strip was a few kilometers to the east, atop a mesa.
Crosswinds made touchdown steering tricky. There was no tower, ground guida
nce, or landing grid. The situation demanded seat-of-the-pants skill. Dan relished the challenge. Fiona kicked up a lot of sand and dust as she taxied to a stop. He swung her around, aligning for later takeoff, and began shutting down non-essential systems and running routine environmental scans. On the exterior monitor, he noted surface vehicles—a two-seater rover and a fat-wheeled truck with a scoop welded on its front end—bucketing through the flying grit. But he completed his chores before he cracked the hatch and stepped outside.
The blonde and brunette he’d spoken to on the com were dismounting from the rover, a Terran male and two Whimeds from the track. “Hi!” the blonde said. “Welcome to Praedar’s planet.” She tossed Dan a supplementary med patch. “Local bugs are fairly benign, and the air’s tolerable. But there’s a fungus that likes to chew on humans, so you’d better use that.” He nodded and slapped the patch on beside his embedded boosters.
Four additional passengers sat in the truck’s scoop. The naked little male humanoids alternately panted or grinned inanely. Their eyes were yellowish ovals, their complexions flushed. Wrinkled skin formed folds around their necks and ribs and the wrists of their shovel-shaped paws. They had no ear flaps and mere bumps for noses. Aborigines? Very probable.
The rest of the welcoming committee was thoroughly scruffy. Both humans and Whimeds wore frayed and dusty jumpers, the legs cut short and sleeves detached. Neck scarves and headbands were sweat-stained; their boots were dirty. The Terran women’s hair had been braided messily. The felinoids’ topknots were so long that strands flopped in their eyes.
Dan held out a hand, said “Hello,” and told them his name.
The scientists exchanged startled, cryptic glances. The busty blonde responded, “I’m Sheila Whitcomb. That’s Yvica and Drastil, our honeymooners. This is Joe Hughes and Kaatje Olmsted.”
Dan wasn’t aware he’d reacted particularly to the intros, but as he took the brunette’s hand she snapped, “Kaatje is Old Earth Dutch. If it’s too tough for you to pronounce, you can call me Olmsted or Kat.”
Juanita Coulson - [Children of the Stars 04] Page 2