by Devin Hanson
“Use your judgment,” Dennison spread his hands. “You know as well as I do that moods can swing wildly with sudden bad news. Whatever you do, you must hold off any retaliatory action. Give us time to infiltrate before the Council sends in the marines.”
Garrison nodded. “I’ll buy you as much time as I can. Alec, can you walk? I’ll fly us straight to Horizon.”
Alec rolled his legs over the side of the gurney and levered himself up to a sitting position. Evan caught his arm and steadied him, and gingerly Alec stood. He wobbled when he tried to take a step and cursed.
“Not yet. My inner ear is shot to hell.”
“A wheelchair, then,” Garrison said. “Sit down before you hurt yourself. Dennison, don’t worry about us. I’ll get us to Horizon. I’m counting on you, brother. Make that bastard Wharton pay.”
Dennison traded a clasp with Garrison. “Don’t worry. I’ll have mother back, safe and sound. You still have a month, at least.”
Garrison’s smile was grim. “Just get her back safely. Even if it takes a year.”
“What about you, Derek?” Dennison asked. “How is your eyesight?”
Derek unwound the bandages from his eyes and squinted into the room. His eyes were bloodshot and dried blood marked where it had trickled from his tear ducts, ears and nose. “Damn that stings,” he muttered, “but I can see. The doctors said I should have my eyesight and balance back in a day. I guess I got lucky with the exposure.”
“Are you sure?” Garrison asked doubtfully. “They’re going to have enough problems without having to take care of a cripple. There’ll be room in the skimmer for one more.”
“I won’t be left behind,” Derek growled. “My eyes are fine. My treatment was supposed to happen today, and I’ll be damned if I let anything get between me and my mother.”
“Don’t worry.” Evan squeezed his shoulder. “You’ll come with us. We’ll need your gun.”
Dennison nodded. “Fine. Let’s get moving, then.”
Farrell found a wheelchair in one of the side rooms and they got Alec seated and strapped in across the chest. Whatever inner-ear damage he had suffered made it impossible for him to sit up straight without getting dizzy. Given time that damage would heal but it would likely take a course of Helix treatment for him to fully recover.
Without waiting for anything else, Garrison wheeled Alec away, heading for the skimmer bays.
“Is he going to be all right?” Evan asked doubtfully. “Horizon is thousands of kilometers away from here. With the storm blowing…”
“He’s a pilot,” Dennison shrugged, “one of the best there is. He’ll make it, if he has to leapfrog from habitat to habitat to do it.”
Evan grunted. “Why do I get the impression he’s going to have the easy job?”
“Jealous?”
“Hah. You wish. No, I’m going to be right there in front, with you. Nobody takes a matriarch and gets away with it, and certainly not Cynthia Everard. There will be blood to pay.”
“Good to hear. All right, everyone. Listen up. We’ve little time to prepare. Here’s what I think might work. If any of you have better ideas, don’t be shy.”
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
Food production in the habitats was almost entirely locally produced. It wasn’t feasible to concentrate agriculture in only a few habitats and distribute it. The constantly changing wind and the distance between the habitats made travel dangerous and unpredictable. Consequently, the habitats had to dedicate a significant fraction of their population toward the cultivation, gathering and preparation of food.
As each habitat was an isolated environment, it was necessary for oxygen to be produced locally. The tried-and-true method of algae vats was ubiquitous, and supplemented by other vegetative growth in the aquaponics gardens. Like all sealed ecosystems, water is the primary building block, without which the cycle of life falls apart.
On Venus, production of water is achieved through a simple electrolysis of sulfuric acid precipitate. There is no shortage of the acid, as it rains from the clouds. The resulting oxygen and hydrogen is burned in a controlled environment, producing water. The excess oxygen is released into the habitat to build the air within or stored for emergency use.
In habitats with a high demand of water and low population like New Galway, the sulfuric acid electrolysis produces more than enough oxygen to supply the demands of the people living aboard, without the need of supplemental algae tanks.
Cynthia Everard jolted awake. She had a throbbing migraine, and a deep ache along her left side—bruising from when she had been tackled to the ground shortly after breaking free of the airlock.
It was completely black. She lifted her arms and the back of her hands knocked against corrugated plastic. Memory returned. She was in a tool case, only wide enough to fit her shoulders if she hunched inward. There was precious little space above her, maybe only a dozen centimeters. The air was thick and stifling.
The case lurched and she felt herself picked up. The bumping, swaying motion that followed told her she was being carried, and she crushed down the feeling of panic. Her sons would find her. She had no doubt of that. All she had to do was remain alive until they did.
Fear was an unfamiliar sensation. She knew caution, and took care to preserve her physical well-being, but outright fear was not something she had experienced for many, many years. Cynthia felt it now, though. Unmistakable fear gnawed at her gut and sent flashes of cold sweat down her back. She felt sick with it.
Cynthia prided herself on maintaining an even emotional keel. Accidents, emergencies, and other situations that raised emotions in the people about her, she had learned to weather and retain her calm throughout.
That familiar rock of calm was gone, now. Emotions rushed through her and she spun with them; she choked on her fear, then was blinded with rage, and then wept with uncertainty.
The jolting of her case seemed to go on forever. Claustrophobia was added to her emotional rollercoaster. She needed air. She needed to be able to move!
There was a lull, where her carriers were standing still. Through the muffling plastic, she heard the mechanical whine of a lift that seemed to go on forever. New Galway, her home, was a relatively small habitat, with only a single core. The habitable section of the habitat was only six levels, so any lift rides took a few seconds at most. This habitat, wherever she was, was huge, probably one of the mega-habs, with dozens of levels.
Finally, the lift chimed and the jolting sway of her case continued. They were nearing their destination. Cynthia crushed down her wildly vacillating emotions and tried to think logically. Dirigible docks were always on the upper levels of the habitats. Given the duration of the lift ride, she had to be near the bottom levels of the habitat where the levels were small.
She didn’t have much time before she would be arriving, wherever her destination was. She forced her breathing to slow and twisted her shoulders up to rub her cheeks dry. She couldn’t raise her hands to her face, so she could do nothing about the state of her hair. First impressions were vital. She needed to show her captors who she was. She was not just another woman. She was Cynthia Everard, Matriarch, scion of Annette Everard, and nearly three centuries old.
Cynthia had her emotions under control and her face smoothed to a formal stiffness when her bearers dropped her to the ground. She bit back a cry of surprise and pain and readied herself. This was it.
The clunks of locks disengaging around the perimeter of the case gave her warning and she took a final, deep breath. Glaring lights stabbed into her eyes as the lid hinged open. She would not cower. She would not flinch.
Stiffly, Cynthia sat up. She was in a storage room of some sort, with unlabeled boxes sitting on shelves lining two of the four walls. Simple strip lighting cast a harsh, white light into the room. Her case, and another like it, was in the center of the room. The shelves had been pushed to the edges to make an open space. A dozen men stood around her, with the weathered, tanned fac
es of extras.
All eyes were on her as she levered herself out of her tool case and stood. She looked around, and most of the men dropped their eyes, except for one, a bearded man with white in his hair and a nasty smile on his face. He alone met her eyes and held them.
“You are a matriarch?” he asked.
Cynthia nodded stiffly. “I am; Matriarch Cynthia Everard.”
“Shit,” one of the other men muttered, “an Everard.”
“Quiet,” the bearded man snapped. “This is a good thing, exactly what we wanted. Sorrel, open the other case.”
Sorrel stepped forward and knelt next to the case to fiddle with the locks. Cynthia remained standing, gauging the mood of the room. Not everyone present was completely on board with kidnapping a matriarch. They were already considering the inevitable reprisals. If they had kidnapped a no-name matriarch, they might have been able to leverage a deal, but they had kidnapped an Everard; and not some third-generation scion, but the fourth and youngest daughter of Annette Everard herself.
Whether they knew it or not, nobody in this room would live to see the end of the month.
The second case cracked open and Sorrel moved back, joining his fellows in the watching crowd. The lid swung open and Alana Romaine climbed out stiffly. She scanned the room and immediately identified the bearded man as the leader.
“You. What is your name,” Alana demanded.
The man grinned, took two steps forward, and drove his fist hard into Alana’s stomach.
Cynthia flinched despite herself. Alana doubled over, sobbing after breath. The man grabbed a handful of Alana’s hair and hauled her upright.
“My name is Remer Wharton. I’m only going to say this once, so listen very carefully. You are not in charge here. You live at my pleasure. If you do exactly as I say, then maybe you will survive to return to your coddled, endless lives.”
Cynthia folded her hands at her waist and stared straight ahead. Inwardly, she cursed, and was thankful she had not spoken out too soon. This was not a petty criminal hoping for a ransom payout. Wharton was an extra, and a wealthy man already. This was about something else than credits entirely.
“Mr. Wharton,” Cynthia said carefully, “I have no illusions about the danger we are in. You do not strike me as a man who acts without purpose. What do you wish to accomplish?”
Wharton stepped up to her, and Cynthia wondered if she was going to be struck as well. Physical damage didn’t worry her over-much. A course of treatment would heal everything but missing organs or limbs. The pain of being beaten would be transitory.
She told herself that and felt a bead of sweat forming at her temple. It would be transitory, but it would still be pain. She was not used to pain.
Wharton glared at her, and she met his eyes calmly. Finally, he barked a laugh. “Matriarch Everard, I think you and I will get along just fine. I’m glad you asked, actually. I do have a purpose, one which you are going to help me to accomplish.”
He snapped his fingers at Alana. “Stand up, woman. That’s better. Give me your name, so I know who I’m dealing with.”
Alana grimaced but stood. She was hunched, still, and her face was white, but she spoke evenly enough. “I am Matriarch Alana Romaine.”
There was some muttering among the watching men, and Wharton nodded, satisfaction on his face. “Well, well. We’re in exalted company, gentlemen! We have a second-generation Everard, and the scientific mind behind Romaine Automations, unless I’m mistaken.”
“You are quite correct,” Alana said quietly.
“You’re a smart woman,” Wharton leered, “and one of the eldest of the matriarchs. But don’t think that makes you too good to die. Cross me again, and I’ll put a bullet in your head.”
Cynthia cleared her throat and met Wharton’s gaze calmly when he spun to her. “We understand our situation, Mr. Wharton, you needn’t belabor it. I would, however, advise against killing one of us. Anything you hope to accomplish will be impossible with the blood of a matriarch on your hands. The Manifesto forbids it.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes. Tenet Thirteen.”
“Hey, Wharton, I dunno about this, man. These are matriarchs!”
Wharton turned and eyed the man who had spoken up. “If you want to leave, Markel, I won’t stop you. But I picked you to be here because I know your situation is unlivable. You’re the one we’re trying to help with this, and you have to carry your weight too. It is difficult doing what must be done at times, but without sacrifice, nothing will change.”
Markel dropped his gaze. “I’m sorry. I need change as much as anybody here. But…”
“But your wife is pregnant again, and there is no space in your apartment for another child. You already work extra shifts to make ends meet.” Wharton turned and spread his arms, encompassing everyone in the room. “Every one of you has been asked to assist because you are all in desperate need. I won’t force any of you to stay, but only those who stay will reap the rewards of our effort.”
Cynthia recalled Evan’s warning about unrest among the commons. Had it only been this morning? “You have a shortage of housing,” she guessed.
“Not a situation you would be familiar with,” Wharton growled. “You live on a habitat with only two hundred people. In an entire habitat! Do not attempt to empathize with us, Matriarch. We already know your hypocrisy.”
“New Galway is a farm,” Cynthia refuted gently. “The displacement mass is entirely taken up by culture tanks and water. We cultivate new strains and breeds of fish and vegetation for everyone on Venus. Our population is limited because of the life support and weight restrictions.”
Wharton flushed. “I’m not interested in your propaganda. Be silent.”
Cynthia bowed her head slightly in acquiescence. “My apologies.”
The room was silent as Wharton glared at the matriarchs. Cynthia met his eyes briefly, and then glanced down. She didn’t want to escalate the conflict, but she also refused to abase herself. Finally, Wharton growled something under his breath.
“All right. Here’s what’s going to happen. You are going to make a video describing our demands. You are going to read the exact script provided, with no additions or admissions.”
“No,” Alana said flatly. “We won’t.”
“Maybe I haven’t made myself clear,” Wharton said, stepping forward to loom over Alana. “You will do everything we ask of you.”
Alana spat in his face. Cynthia was already moving when Wharton recovered from his shock and threw a swinging punch at the side of Alana’s head. The blow went by, close enough to Cynthia that she would have caught part of it if she hadn’t moved.
Cynthia had been standing long enough to get the cramps from her legs, so when she dodged to the side, she moved without stumbling. Alana swayed back, letting Wharton’s fist pass harmlessly by, and she grabbed at his sleeve, giving just that little extra momentum to throw the bigger man off balance.
There was an opening, and Cynthia went for it. She kicked out at the back of Wharton’s knee, staggering him further, then slammed her open palm into the base of his skull. Wharton collapsed, unconscious. It was a blow she would never have dealt in a practice bout, as it had even chances of killing the person struck outright. This was no practice bout, though.
With shouts of alarm, the watching men started from their open-mouthed surprise. Cynthia danced backward, Alana at her side, and met the first of the angry extras with a swift judo throw over her hip to the ground and followed with a sharp blow to his throat. She was straightening up when a thick-bodied man crashed into her, tackling her to the ground.
He must have weighed twice was Cynthia did, but she fought him as best she could. With his weight crushing her and her jabs absorbed by the muscle of his shoulders, there was little she could do. He caught her arm as she pulled back to poke at his eyes, then slugged a heavy fist into the side of her head.
Stars burst into Cynthia’s vision and the world seemed to wobble.
He hit her again and she slumped backwards to the ground, groaning, with no fight left in her. The sounds of Alana scuffling with her captors went on for a little bit longer, then she, too, was subdued.
Cynthia concentrated on breathing. Her mouth stung numbly, and she tasted blood from a split lip. Rough hands flipped her over onto her stomach and her hands were dragged behind her. She resisted on reflex, until a sharp blow to her kidneys drained the last of her strength. Pain swamped her, and she couldn’t think.
Bindings were wrapped around her hands and ankles, several turns of the fiberglass-backed tape used to make repairs outside the habitat. It was strong stuff and had to be cut with shears. There was no way she would be able to break free on her own.
She was dragged into a sitting position against a shelf and turns of tape went around her shoulders and waist, fastening her to a shelf. Cynthia made no attempt to resist. They had had their opportunity, but it hadn’t been enough. Cynthia was short and slender, a hundred and sixty centimeters, and just under fifty kilos. Alana was taller and stronger than she was, but these men worked with their hands for a living. A fight against so many had had an inevitable outcome.
Maybe she had killed that piece of shit Wharton, though. It had been a solid blow, but he had enough muscle that she didn’t think she had been so lucky. If nothing else, he would wake up with a killer headache.
The men finished lashing Alana to a shelf and stood back, breathing hard. Alana hadn’t given up easily. Her nose was broken and blood ran down her face, along with the beginnings of a truly glorious shiner. Cynthia looked at the trail of unconscious and wounded men on the floor and felt a glow of vicious satisfaction. Alana had broken the arms of two men and knocked out a third. Cynthia’s contributions were the unconscious Wharton and the extra rolling back and forth on the ground, making choking noises and clawing at his throat.
“Jesus Christ, look at Tovin,” one of the extras cried.