Solar Heat

by Susan Kearney

  And got zip. Zero. Zilch. The canopy refused to budge. Her high-pitched gasp shamed her, and she hoped Kali put it down to the cold that seemed to have frozen her bones.

  This was insane. Surely every freaking system on the ship couldn’t fail . . . unless someone had sabotaged the mission. But who? If the slaves had known about her subterfuge, they would have killed her, or died trying.

  The delay didn’t seem to faze Kali. Instead of ejecting, he picked up a wrench and slapped the release button. “Let me.”

  Azsla shook her head. “It’s no good.” She pointed to the hull that had caved, crushing her pod, and the metal cross that kept her release mechanism from tripping properly.

  The hull howled like a wild beast, the last of the shields failing. From the ship’s bowels, the engines rumbled like a volcano about to erupt.

  The ship shook and Azsla stumbled and pain slammed her head. Hard.

  Her vision narrowed. Everything went black.

  Seconds later, she came to inside a pod, the canopy closed. Kali must have fixed it.

  Groggy, she peered through the faceplate. Sweet Vigo. Kali had slipped her into his pod.

  At the realization that he’d given up his life to save her, he ejected her pod.

  Her last sight of him floored her. Eyes closed, his lips moving, he’d appeared to be praying. But slaves didn’t pray.

  He seemed at peace with his decision, but the pain of losing him clawed at her.

  She shot into space, a rush of emotions flooding over her tranqed emotions. Relief. Hope. Astonishment. Sorrow.

  Kali had given up his chance to live. For her.

  She hadn’t even used her Quait. She closed her fingers into fists. Kali had meant nothing to her. Slaves were easily replaceable. Unworthy. Yet, she’d spent enough time with her second in command to know Kali’s life had meant everything to him. He’d planned to begin anew on Zor. Marry. Have children. His dreams would never have happened because of her mission . . . but Kali hadn’t known that.

  Turning, she watched the ship implode and vanish into the portal. Kali was dead, his body relegated to tactonic dust.

  She shouldn’t have cared. Cold from the sleep capsule spread over her skin like guilt. She told herself slaves died every day. So what?

  But if Kali’s selfless sacrifice didn’t matter, then why was her vision blurred? Why did her heart ache? And why were tears freezing on her cheeks?

  2

  DERREK ARCHER tunneled through his sash drawer in search of sleek and elegant, finding rumpled silk instead. Apparently disheveled was the current fashion. While the sash looked frumpy and silly to him, he didn’t keep up with planetside fashions.

  He didn’t need to.

  Before Derrek’s ship, Beta Five, hit Zor’s gravity well, his tailor Egan had downloaded the current style statement to his com system in the aft section of Derrek’s new spaceship. She’d worked him up this jazzy new wardrobe, and the tech knew her stuff. When Derrek debarked, he’d be good to meet or retreat with businessmen and manufacturers or to smartly hover off to sporting games. While he’d never been the least concerned with his appearance, he’d learned that dressing the part allowed him to win more concessions for his workers, tax breaks they badly needed in order to continue to bring the precious salt back to Zor. After his visit planetside was done, he’d happily give up making fashion statements and return to his home in the asteroid salt mines, which couldn’t be soon enough for his taste.

  His com unit vibrated. “Derrek here.”

  “Hi, boss. Sir, is this a good time?” Haywar, one of Derrek’s five assistants back home on Alpha One, spoke warmly, his voice crisp and clear, as if he stood alongside Derrek in the ship’s master cabin, not hundreds of thousands of miles away in the asteroid belt.

  “What’s doing?” Derrek always made time for Haywar. The man stayed on top of things, and he appreciated not only his efficiency but his loyalty.

  In preparation for landing on Zor, Derrek armed up. He slid a knife into the band at his ankle, a stunner into the holster at the small of his back, and hid extra credit chips in a pocket in his belt. Not that he expected trouble, but he never went out without arms. A decade of salt had strengthened all the former slaves’ Quait, but with their new strengths came new problems. Occasionally they settled disagreements with violence. As a wealthy spacer, Derrek was a target. It was all too likely he might link up with some nut job who’d injected more salt into his system than his legal allotment. Most slaves wanted nothing to do with the powers salt could give them—a power to dominate others who’d ingested less salt. But a few renegades were on a power trip and had yet to realize it wasn’t right to dominate others simply because one could.

  “Is Beta Five tricked up the way you wanted, boss?”

  “Oh, yeah. Double. Yeah. This prototype has given us one sweet ride.” Derrek hadn’t been so hyped about a new project in years. This ship’s technology would give his people more options, letting them explore farther for precious salt than ever before. “The ship’s moves are smooth, but navigation needs an upgrade.”

  “Just don’t get lost,” Haywar teased.

  “You won’t get rid of me that easy. Besides, if I let anything happen to Taylo’s new design, he’d jettison my hide out the nearest airlock.”

  Beta Five might need tweaking, but she was a thing of pure beauty. Now she could really go fast. Really far. Maybe buy all Zorans freedom from the ever-present fear of recapture from their former masters who lived back on planet Rama. And it was all thanks to Taylo Misa, a brilliant engineer Derrek had hired.

  Five years ago Taylo had discovered a way to open a portal for sound waves, allowing for instant intersolar communication. Derrek had paid Taylo a small fortune to give up tinkering in his garage to work for him. He’d tricked out a lab with the latest and most esoteric equipment he could buy. The payoff had been worth the enormous expense. Taylo had taken the same sound wave principles he’d discovered and applied them to moving mass through space—inventing the hyperdrive for Derrek’s newest spaceship. But Derrek wouldn’t say more over an open com. Not when he didn’t trust his scrambler to keep his business private. Not when he didn’t know who might be spying this close to Zor’s atmosphere.

  Last time he’d been dirtside, some grifter had planted a bug on his com unit, broadcasting Derrek’s conversations to the highest bidder. He wouldn’t get nailed again. As a target he had to stay one step ahead of the pack nipping at his heels. That meant planning. Using his head. Never taking anyone or anything for granted. He owed it to Taylo and his team to make sure their hard work wasn’t stolen.

  Currently Derrek’s company ferried salt through a stationary portal, but the journey still required expensive fuel and skilled man hours to transport the salt to and from the portal. The mind-blowing possibility of using Taylo’s technology to open a portal whenever and wherever it was needed, of shooting salt directly through hyperspace with no spaceship required, had Derrek charged. Soon there might be enough salt to increase the planetary population threefold. The beauty of a point-to-point delivery system was an idea he couldn’t let drop—even if the research cost him a fortune in salt. Success would open up space travel like never before possible. And it would ensure their children, who wouldn’t have to spend months in space, grew up with strong bones and muscles as well as clever minds.

  “Sir, can you hear me?”

  “Like you’re planetside.” The question drew Derrek from his plans back to this awesome ship. Once he’d mined enough light metal to mass produce the craft, her sweet design would revolutionize space travel for the masses. Well, maybe not the masses but for the salt miners and the military and the unstable Zoran government. Not even the home planet of Rama had this kind of technology. And with the Zorans gaining technological superiority, they could remain free. Finally he could make a lick of differen
ce. A fleet of these ships could be the answer to freeing the rest of the slaves on Rama—especially if the spaceships came blasting through hyperspace with high-tactonic weapons.

  Knowing Haywar wouldn’t have linked just to chat about Beta Five, Derrek asked again, “What’s up?”

  “The drill bit on Asa Major cranked out. Until we replace the diamondite heads, we’re shut down.”

  Derrek’s eyes narrowed. Any stoppage in the salt supply had serious consequences attached. He wasn’t just thinking about company profits, but the strength and well-being of all Zoran citizens. For them to stay healthy, the salt supply had to remain steady. “When can Vanguard Mining send us a replacement?”

  “There’s a waiting list.”

  So what else was new? Resources on Zor were scarce. They needed more labor to keep up with the high demand for manufactured equipment, but Rama refused to release any slaves. And none were escaping—not since the mass revolution a decade ago. Now Rama was locked down tight, preventing the other slaves from leaving. And the birth rate on Zor wasn’t growing fast enough, either—due to lack of salt.

  Taking advantage of the new technology that could open a window anywhere on the hull’s surface, Derrek widened the view port to the planet below. The greenery looked . . . messy. As they hovered, waiting for permission to dock, he zoomed in on his estate, pleased with Beta Five’s magnification upgrades. Every blade of grass had been neatly clipped, edged, and manicured, but already Derrek missed the sharp edges of home. Green didn’t impress him. Space where a man had room to grow was more to his taste. Back home, his house looked out on spectacular vistas of Alpha One’s twirling water crystals and the three blue spectrum moons that revolved and cast an array of changing hues over the pristine granitite face of Mount Crion. On Alpha One, the air was filtered and pure, not clogged with the reek of Zor that awaited him below.

  He drummed his fingers on the view port. “Simon owes me a favor, I’ll look him up after I’m dirtside.”

  “Thanks, boss. The sooner the better.”

  “Understood. Make sure to send Simon a case of salt. Use express shuttle.”

  “Got it. Have fun, boss man.”

  Like that was going to happen. Derrek didn’t do fun. He stuck to what he was good at. Business. And bribes were standard operating procedure. A little extra salt went a long way toward easing a lot of headaches.

  Spending most of the last decade building Archer Intersolar Mining from a four-bit operation into a mega-corporation that employed thousands had its perks. He spent most of his time where he wished. In space. Yet, business occasionally required Zor-side networking and his personal touch. So he made a trip in-system every few cycles.

  Once he landed, he had meetings set up to fill every waking hour. But like a little kid who didn’t want to leave his new toy, he wished he could stay aboard, really rag her out. He reminded himself this was a shakedown cruise, and he wasn’t a test pilot. But Holy Vigo, he ached to see what she could do in a flat-out race for the stars . . .

  Truth be told, meetings with government diplomats were more his brother’s thing. But with Cade off on a second honeymoon and incommunicado, Derrek couldn’t ask him to stand in for him—especially with President Laurie.

  He’d best finish dressing, or he’d miss the landing. He shot firestone links through his cuffs, a gift to himself on his thirty-fourth birthday last year. He’d mined the precious stones while prospecting for salt, and the flashing magenta and sapphire hues reminded him of who he was and how far he’d come—from former slave to salt miner to influential and wealthy entrepreneur. He donned a jacket, its severe style tightly fitted to his chest and shoulders, and suppressed a shrug. It wouldn’t kill him to link face-to-face with the current president. As always, he’d keep the visit short.

  Derrek didn’t belong dirtside. Never had. Civilization and Zor reminded him of . . . Poli, his ex-wife. And his children.

  While resigned to the fact that the only family he’d ever loved didn’t flipping want him in their lives, he’d nevertheless used his influence to ensure they’d escaped Rama during the first wave of colonization. He’d even allowed the new husband to accompany his family. Reports said they were happy, happy, happy. But their wellbeing didn’t stop the pain of losing his wife and children from stabbing like an ice pick in his heart.

  He still resented the fact that they neither needed nor wanted him. So maybe it was better he was in full-avoidance mode. While his blood pressure still soared during his perusal of the weekly reports about his former family, at least afterwards he no longer had to toss back a whisky to score bunk time. That was progress. Sometimes he even squeaked by with a few hours of sleep. Yeah. He was fine. In another decade or so he might not even care they’d shut him out.

  “President Laurie’s tough to read.” Sauren Kalow, his friend, a straight-shooter and Derrek’s VP of Archer Intersolar Mining, ducked through the bulkhead door into his cabin. With his lips curving into a smile, his eyes twinkling, he plucked out of the drawer a wrinkled white sash with tiny sparkles on the edges and offered it up. Sauren, stunted by a severe lack of salt at birth, made up for his diminutive stature with a positive attitude and fierce determination. He knew his way around Derrek’s dirtside estate quite well, probably better than Derrek did—since he stayed there more often—but this journey through hyperspace had faded his bronzed skin to a puckish green. Finally, last shift, he’d kicked the nausea, and the healthy glow was back. “Any idea what the pres wants from you?”

  “He’s got his hands full, I’ll give him that. I’m guessing he requires money, salt, or advice.”

  Sauren snorted. “Too bad you can’t give him some common sense about taxing miners.”

  Derrek pinned the sash to his shirt’s shoulder, then ignored the silly flash. Although he’d contributed heavily to Laurie’s campaign, Derrek had also funded the other side. He found it valuable to be connected, no matter who was in power. “Our president won’t be effective until he stops trying to gain a consensus. He talks out of both sides—”

  “He’s a politician.” Sauren rolled his eyes in disgust. He wouldn’t have been Derrek’s second in command if he hadn’t known how to get things done, and the current political mess annoyed him almost as much as it did Derrek. “Politicians negotiate. That’s who they are. What they do.”

  “They get nothing done.” Derrek had no time or patience for the eternal squabbles over how much salt each person should consume. Some slaves argued they should strengthen themselves until they were as strong as the Firsts on Rama. Other recalled that the ability to dominate and steal the will of others had a way of making good people go bad. After thousands of years of slavery, freedom and Quait didn’t solve every problem. Zorans had real issues to deal with. Hard problems to solve. And most citizens wanted a say in how Zor should be run. So instead of consensus, controversy was the norm . . . and no one decided, never mind accomplished anything. As a result, the planet’s defense was a mess. The economy verged on catastrophe. They needed a larger labor force. If only they could free the rest of their people still on Rama, these problems would be solved, but since everyone feared incurring the wrath of their former homeworld, the matter had been put off.

  The Zoran government lacked balls. They acted as if they believed if they hid from the Firsts on Rama, the Firsts would forget them. But that wouldn’t happen.

  That’s why Derrek was making plans. Long-term plans to free the people still enslaved on Rama. He didn’t mind depleting his fortune to construct the hyperdrive engines as well as a self-sufficient city in space—another one of his ongoing and expensive projects—if it would eventually lead to freeing all his people. And he didn’t have time for tax debates—

  As if reading his thoughts, Sauren interrupted. “Not even you can ignore a presidential invite.”

  “I could if I had the right excuse.” Derrek allowed himse
lf a tight smile, then adjusted the sash over his dark emerald suit and slipped his feet into boots of soft leather. Thank you, Vigo, the heels that had been so popular during his last visit were now history.

  With that thought, Derrek altered the material’s light refraction until the boots’ color exactly matched his fitted trousers, tailored jacket, and his deep-set eyes. This moon cycle on Zor, monochromatic color symbolized power, and his tailor had smartly capitalized on his assets. More than once, Egan had told him that his eyes were his best feature.

  Derrek knew better. Women were attracted to his salt stash. Without his showing an iota of encouragement, women hit on him. Often. But he’d kept his nose in the salt dust, where life was simple. The more salt he mined, the more people he helped. After growing up with nothing, life was . . . good. Excellent, really.

  Still . . . he wondered if the pres would be insulted if he didn’t accept the invite. Likely—the answer was yes. So although he had a dozen links to make, he went to the bridge to take the president’s message, fully expecting that the busy politician might have had to reschedule or cancel the invite to the mansion.

  With one last image-check in the mirror, he raked his fingers through his collar-length black hair. Although the most successful salt miner on Rama could get by with eccentric, Derrek had never been interested in merely getting by. After he’d figured out that information was the key to getting ahead, he’d worked on having more information, getting it faster, and jumping on it more quickly than anyone else. To acquire that information, he had to network. And to network to best advantage, he had made himself fit in. The formula was simple and one he adhered to religiously since it had always served him well.

  Almost always. If one discounted the total memory scrub that had cost him his family.

  Shove it.

  It had taken one brutal year of pushing himself to the max to learn to walk and talk again. But that determination had helped him to build an empire. Later he’d done as much as any man to help his people free themselves from slavery and salt deprivation. He had friends. Success. For him the payoff for years of hard work had been millions of tons of life-giving salt—and the satisfaction that neither he nor his people would ever be kept down again. This was his life.