“How do you know what’s ahead of you?” asked Mazer.
“Depth gauges,” said Wong. “They measure the density of mass ahead.” He made an adjustment to the holofield, and a colorful cross section of the earth appeared. “The darker areas are thickest,” he said, gesturing at the holo. “Probably granite. Hit those and you go hot, really cruising. The brighter spots like these here and here are soft earth, such as clay.”
“What about those white lines that crisscross through the image?”
“Those are tunnels we’ve dug with the drill sledges in the past. They’re all over this valley. It’s like a man-sized anthill beneath us.”
“What happens if you hit water? Like an underground lake or spring?”
“Better to avoid those. We try not to screw up the water table, but sometimes it’s unavoidable. Hit a water source on a dive, and the water chases you down the hole, like pulling the plug in the bathtub. Water isn’t much of a propulsion, either. It all goes to steam. So hitting water is like hitting the brakes. That’s why you always want to aim for rock. You ready?”
“Go easy on me.”
“There’s nothing easy about these babies.”
He made a few hand gestures in the holofield, and the drill bit roared to life, spinning quickly almost immediately and getting up to a screaming whine in less than ten seconds. The cockpit vibrated. Mazer felt as if his bones were rattling.
“What about the legs outside?” Mazer said into his radio.
“They’ll fold in automatically once we start down,” said Wong. “Get ready for a burst of cold. The suit cools instantly the moment we start digging. It’s kind of a shock.”
“Roger that,” said Mazer, though in fact he wasn’t the least bit ready. Diving underground felt unnatural. This is what we do with our dead, he told himself. Suddenly a dozen questions sprang to his mind. What happens if there’s a malfunction and the drilling stops? How do you repair that? How could anyone rescue you? Had that happened before? Was there a Chinese pilot somewhere deep underground, buried with his stalled drill sledge, dead of asphyxiation?
And then there was a brief drop and a momentary jolt forward as the drill bit hit the earth and tore into the surface.
Then spew shot out the back, and they were surging downward.
An instant later a blast of cold hit Mazer so quickly that he felt as if he had fallen into icy water. His muscles constricted; his teeth clenched; his hands clung to the armrests. He wasn’t going to die, he knew, and yet the fear of it wrapped its tendrils around his heart and squeezed.
Kim would love this, he told himself. She was like a kid when it came to amusement park rides. The scarier the better.
The drill sledge dropped a few meters as it hit a tunnel, and Mazer felt momentarily weightless. Then the drill sledge hit earth again, and Mazer strained against his chest harness.
“Granite ahead,” said Wong. “Prepare to go hot.”
A second later another burst of cold hit Mazer’s suit as the drill picked up speed and surged forward through rock.
The engine roared, and the drill bit screamed, and Mazer realized he was laughing, laughing with tears in his eyes, just like Kim would do.
CHAPTER 7
Rena
The helm of the space station looked nothing like the helm of El Cavador, but it reminded Rena of what she had lost nonetheless. It was the energy of the room that felt familiar—the hustle and chatter from the crew as they flew from one console to another, sharing intel or relaying orders or checking the various holocharts. It was the same energy Rena had felt every day of her life on board El Cavador. Except, in that life she had been surrounded by family, people who valued her and loved her and called her La Gallina, or Mother Hen, because she was a listening ear and a comforting friend to everyone on board. Here, aboard a depot owned and operated by WU-HU, the largest of the Chinese space-mining corporations, somewhere in the outer rim of the Asteroid Belt, Rena was no one. An outsider. A stranger.
She floated through the hatch and waited for someone to notice her, not daring to interrupt a member of the crew. After a moment, a young Chinese officer spotted her and came over, catching a handhold near her.
“You here about the nav sensor?” the man asked. His English was good, but his Chinese accent was thicker than most.
Rena nodded.
The man pointed. “Over there. Fourth workstation on the right.”
Rena thanked him and moved in that direction. Ever since she and the other survivors of El Cavador had arrived, carried here by Captain Doashang and his WU-HU vessel, they had earned their room and board by making repairs throughout the station and on whatever WU-HU ships docked here. Captain Doashang had vouched for them to the station chief, a kindly woman named Magashi, who had given them one of the storage rooms to sleep in. It was a zoo every night, all of them cramped in that tiny space, with little ones and infants waking up at all hours, crying to be held or breast-fed or reassured that their nightmares were nothing more than dreams.
Rena had dreams as well, though she never spoke of them to anyone. In them, Segundo, her husband, was always alive, stretched out beside her in her hammock, his arms wrapped around her, holding her close, telling her about a repair he had made or something he had overheard on the ship that day. Sometimes they laughed. Other times they marveled at how blessed they were to have Victor as a son. Other times he threatened to tickle her, and she threatened him serious bodily harm if he tried. Other times they said nothing at all; it was enough to simply be together, floating there side by side.
In every instance she could feel the thickness of his arms around her and the warmth of his breath on the nape of her neck. It was real, as real as it had ever been.
And then she would wake, and it was as if he had died all over again.
She kept her tears silent and unseen. Even in the cramped quarters of the storage room no one saw her as anything but calm, confident, and optimistic. She couldn’t allow herself to seem otherwise. There were too many younger mothers who looked to her for reassurance and comfort and strength.
Of course there were those who despised her as well, regardless of what she did. Julexi whispered discontent whenever she had the chance. Her husband, Pitoso, had been the first to die in the attack on the alien ship. His explosive had detonated prematurely, killing him instantly and alerting the hormigas of the attack. The battle had been a disaster after that. The hormigas had poured out of the hole the explosion had created, literally throwing themselves at the men of El Cavador.
And since it had been Segundo who had modified the explosives and prepared them for the attack, Julexi was convinced that it was Segundo who had, in essence, killed her husband and set them all on the path to ruin. Segundo was the reason why El Cavador was destroyed. Segundo was the reason why they were cramped in this hellhole of a room one step above a closet. It was Segundo Segundo Segundo.
Abbi felt no different. Her son Mono had secretly stayed on El Cavador instead of coming with her onto the WU-HU ship. Had Segundo and Victor not filled her son’s head with foolish ideas and convinced him that he was a mechanic, Mono wouldn’t have died on El Cavador with the others. He would’ve stayed with his mother where he belonged. He’d be here, alive, helping her, holding her, speaking softly to her. He was only a boy, after all. He had no business as Victor’s apprentice. He was too young. Shame on Victor. Shame on Segundo.
A few others despised Rena as well, though why exactly Rena could only guess. Perhaps they felt the need to blame someone. Or perhaps they thought they should be making decisions for the group. Or perhaps they resented how some mothers came to Rena for comfort and not to them.
Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. Rena ignored them all. The women never confronted her directly with their grievances, so Rena let it go. Bringing it up would only escalate their complaints and divide them further. And division wouldn’t help them. Divided they might not survive.
She found the broken nav sensor at the
helm and immediately got to work. It was an easy fix if you knew what you were doing. Corporate ships and stations like WU-HU or Juke had crewmen who knew next to nothing about how the ship functioned; they each had a single task, and that’s all they did. But on a free-miner ship, families couldn’t afford that luxury. Everyone had to know everything.
And so on El Cavador they constantly taught each other, shadowing each other for a day or a week, or putting together trainings and seminars. Rena knew navigation of course, but she learned all other duties as well, mining and maintenance and cooking and piloting, every chore that kept the family functioning and alive. No one stops learning, Concepción used to say. Our strength is one when our mind is one.
Captain Doashang had learned this principle quickly. Every task he had given to Rena and the other women had been completed with exactness. There was no learning curve, no trial and error; the women of El Cavador simply did precisely what was needed as soon as it was asked. Sometimes before it was asked. Wait until something’s broken, and you’ve waited too long, Segundo had said.
Rena disassembled the nav sensor and swapped out the burned component. As she worked she noticed three crewmen nearby glancing in her direction and talking quietly. They spoke in Chinese, thinking she didn’t understand them, but El Cavador had snogged Shoshan, a Chinese bride, years ago, and she and Rena had become dear friends. Shoshan didn’t speak Spanish, and the two of them had set about teaching each other their native languages. Rena still couldn’t speak Chinese to save her life, but she could pick up words and phrases here and there if she listened close enough.
“… babies screaming at all hours of the night…”
“… we can’t keep feeding them…”
“… you should talk to Magashi … problems if they stay here much longer…”
“… supplies won’t last forever…”
“… feed one clan and then everyone wants a handout…”
Rena gave no sign that she understood and kept her eyes on her work. It wasn’t the first time she had heard such things. Many of the crew resented the fact that Magashi had let the women and children of El Cavador stay. Most of the station crew was kind and generous and eager to share the food they had in storage if the women of El Cavador worked for their share. But a few of the crew spread resentment like wildfire.
We can’t stay here, Rena told herself for the hundredth time.
Rena and the other women were already doing double the workload of the typical crewmember in some instances, but Rena knew that would never be enough. Those who spoke against them would always speak ill, no matter how much Rena and the others helped.
In fact, it would only get worse, she knew. As supplies continued to diminish, and as fewer supply ships from Luna arrived, the complaints would get louder and more frequent and sooner or later someone would take action. Rena didn’t think the crew would turn violent, but she didn’t rule out that possibility. People became desperate when they were hungry.
Yet where could they go? All the WU-HU ships that came in were ordered to stay docked. Everyone was on inactive status.
And whenever a free-miner ship approached the station, it was always to beg for food. The supply depots were hoarding their storage, the free miners said. “We have money. We’ll pay for food. Please. We have nowhere else to go.”
Initially Magashi had sold what little food she could. But she had faced such a fierce backlash by some of the crew, that she now turned every approaching ship away.
Rena couldn’t ask passage on a starving ship anyway. She had nineteen women and several dozen children. If the ship didn’t have the food to feed them, going with them would be suicide.
It was a problem without a solution, and the clock was ticking.
“Incoming vessel,” said the spotter.
“Can you identify it?” asked one of the officers.
“Looks like a vulture, sir.”
Rena felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Several of the helmsmen looked uneasy as well, and for good reason. Vultures were recovery crews who salvaged dead ships for profit. Most of them were mining crews who had given up on rocks and found easier money stripping ships to the bone.
The rule was, if you found an abandoned or crippled ship unoccupied by living persons, then the laws of salvage applied: Whoever takes it, owns it.
The problem was, the rule invited fierce competition among vulture crews. Once a crew found a ship, they had to strip it of its most valuable parts as quickly as possible before another crew swooped in and tried stripping it as well. It was a feeding frenzy that always turned violent if the stories were true, and Rena had every reason to believe them. On more than one occasion El Cavador had found a salvaged ship that included dead vultures among the ship’s dead crew, suggesting that a competing crew of vultures had come in during the salvage and taken everything for themselves, killing everyone who stood in their way.
Piratas was the word Segundo had for them. Pirates.
“They’re pinging us,” said the spotter.
“Open a frequency,” said the officer. He moved to the holodesk and put his head into the field.
A head appeared in the air in front of the officer. It was the blackest man Rena had ever seen, skin so dark that the whites of his eyes were as bright as moons by comparison. His expression was fierce and unfriendly. “I am Arjuna,” he said. “I seek audience with the station chief.”
“For what purpose?” the officer asked.
“Are you the station chief?”
“No. I’m one of her officers.”
“Her? Your chief is a woman?”
“A very capable one. What’s your business?”
“That is for me to discuss with the station chief.”
“We’re not giving out food if that’s your request.”
“We do not seek food. I come with grievous news. And an offer. One that will help you extend the life of your supplies.”
“What news?” asked the officer.
“The destruction of more than fifty mining ships. All of them killed by the Pembunuh, as we call them. I can give you the coordinates. You can turn your eye there and see that I speak the truth.”
Pembunuh. Rena hadn’t heard the word before, but she knew what it meant. Every ship and crew seemed to have their own name for the aliens. Hormigas, Wageni, Bugs.
But fifty ships? The thought of it left Rena cold. So many people. So many families. Fifty versions of El Cavador. It was unthinkable.
“Give us the coordinates,” said the officer.
Arjuna complied, rattling off a string of numbers. The spotter put them in his computer, and everyone in the helm gathered around his screen. Rena hung back, craning her neck to catch a glimpse, but everyone was clumped together so closely she couldn’t see. It took several minutes to move the eye and zoom in on the coordinates, but eventually the images came through.
The crew fell silent. Hands covered mouths. Eyes widened. Rena pushed her way through the crowd to see. No one stopped her or seemed to even notice.
It was more wreckage than Rena had ever seen, most of it mere dots on the readout, stretched out across tens of thousands of kilometers of space and still moving.
“I do not lie,” said Arjuna.
The wreckage was between them and Earth, and the first of it was surprisingly close to their position. Only two to three weeks away perhaps.
“I will connect you to the station chief,” said the officer.
“I do not wish to speak to her via holo,” said Arjuna. “I want to speak to her in person.”
“You can’t dock your ship here. This is a private station.”
“My ship will not approach. I will come in a shuttle. Alone. You are free to search me when I arrive. Anyone who wants to return with me is welcome.”
Return with him? Why would anyone want to return with him?
The officer put Arjuna on hold, conferred with Magashi, and made the necessary arrangements. Four hours later, the shu
ttle docked in the cargo bay, and Arjuna floated from the airlock and turned on his greaves. The magnets pulled his feet to the deck plates, and he stood facing Magashi who had come with four of her armed guards. Rena stood off to the side, out of sight but within earshot.
Arjuna was a big man, well over two meters tall and wide in the shoulders. He wore a heavy coat cinched tight at the waist, thick boots, and padded pants. “Put your guns away, friends,” he said. “I come with money, not violence.” He reached into his pocket, and the guards flinched, their hands on their weapons. Arjuna slowed and delicately pulled out a money stick. “Relax. Five thousand credits can hardly harm you.” He pushed the stick through the air to Magashi, who caught it and examined it.
“We’re not selling any food,” said Magashi.
“I’m not here for food,” said Arjuna. “I’ve come for men. Twenty if you can spare them. These ships the Pembunuh have destroyed are there for the taking. I mean to salvage them for what parts we can find. I will give five thousand credits to every man who joins us.”
“My crew are employees of WU-HU,” said Magashi. “They have jobs.”
“Yes, jobs at a station that does nothing at present but burn up supplies. I can take them off your hands for a few months. They can earn a great deal, and you can save on supplies. How long do you think your food will last if you continue as you are? The interference has driven most supply ships back to Luna. The Pembunuh have destroyed others. Ask other travelers if what I say is not true. It will be months, maybe even a year before more supplies come. If the Pembunuh wage war on Earth, supplies may never come again. Your station is overpopulated. I can help alleviate that issue.”
Earth Afire (The First Formic War) Page 11