Earth Unaware (First Formic War)

by Card, Orson Scott

  “Where do the clans go?” asked Lem. “I thought this was a free miner’s paradise.”

  Staggar laughed. “Hardly. Most of the clans scurry back to the inner system, to the A Belt. They can’t take all this space or the cold. I take it this is your first time out in the Deep.”

  “It’s not deep space,” said Lem. “It’s only the Kuiper Belt.”

  Staggar scoffed. “Only the Kuiper Belt? You make it sound like a vacation spot. Got a summer home out here, do you, Jukie?” He laughed again.

  “We’d like to sell some cylinders,” said Lem. “For cash. Whom would we speak with about that?”

  “You’d speak to me,” said Staggar. “But I should warn you, you won’t get the same prices here that you’ll get elsewhere. We have to adjust to reflect the greater distance we find ourselves at. This is the outer edge. I’m sure you understand.”

  I understand that you’re a crook, Lem thought. But aloud he said, “We’re prepared to negotiate.”

  “I’m not promising we’re buying, though,” said Staggar. “Depends on what you’re selling. We get a lot of folks trying to pass off gangue. So if that’s what you’re intending, don’t waste my time. We don’t want any worthless crap. We may look dumb to hoity-toities like yourself, but dumb we ain’t, and you’ll be wise to remember that fact.”

  “You strike me as a shrewd businessman,” said Lem. “I wouldn’t dream of conning you. I think you’ll find our cylinders of high quality.”

  Lem nodded to Chubs, who had been holding a sample cylinder all this time. Chubs gently floated the cylinder in the air toward Staggar, and the man easily caught it. Staggar limped over to a scanner on the wall—apparently his mismatched greaves had a different polarity and affected his gait—and he slid the cylinder into the designated slot. In a moment the reading came back. Staggar tried to appear unimpressed.

  “Your scanner doesn’t lie,” said Lem. “That’s some of the purest iron-nickel I’ll bet you’ve seen in a while.”

  Staggar shrugged. “It’s decent. Nothing special, really.”

  “So are you interested or not?” asked Lem.

  Staggar removed the cylinder from the scanner and turned to them, smiling. “Depends. You see, I got this little tickle in my brain that I can’t seem to scratch. Why would a bunch of Jukies want to sell cylinders here? You boys have your own depository down near Jupiter.”

  “Jupiter’s a long way off,” said Lem, “and I’m eager to give my crew a break. All the cash you give us will likely go back into the economy of your weigh station here. So the way I see it, this is a win-win situation for you.”

  Staggar studied their faces, his smile broadening. “Well, aren’t you the generous captain.” He turned the cylinder on its side and began expertly spinning it in the air in front of him on the tip of his finger. “You’re doing this out of the kindness of your heart, is that it? Giving the boys and girls on board once last hurrah before setting out for home?”

  Lem didn’t like where this was heading. “In so many words, yes.”

  Staggar laughed. “I told you I wasn’t dumb, Mr. Hoity-Toit, and I meant it. A, a corporate never says what he means, and B, corporates never do squat for their crews unless there’s something in it for them.”

  “You think I have some devious motivation,” said Lem, acting amused. “Did it not occur to you that perhaps I want a break as well?”

  Staggar shook his head. “No, it seems to me you boys want this one off the books, am I right? Don’t want old Ukko Jukes to know you’re skimming a little off the top for yourselves. Under-the-table mining, eh? Then you can scoot on home and tell your corporate stuffies that you didn’t quite mine as much as you hoped. And everything you sell here, as far as they’re concerned, never existed, while you drop a load of cash into your private bank accounts.” He laughed. “I wasn’t born on an asteroid, boys. I know a pocket scheme when I see one.”

  “Is this how you always do business?” Lem asked. “By insulting your customers first?”

  “We ain’t doing business until we understand one another,” said Staggar. “You corporates must have iron balls to show yourself around here. This ain’t the headquarters of the corporate fan club, if you catch my meaning. Lot of people here won’t be particularly happy to see you.”

  “We didn’t come to make friends,” said Lem. “We came to sell a few cylinders and have a decent time. I doubt your merchants will mind us giving them our money.”

  “My money, you mean,” said Staggar.

  “How much per cylinder?” asked Lem.

  “Can’t answer that until you have an account,” said Staggar. He began typing on his holopad. “Whose name should I put this in?”

  Lem and Chubs exchanged glances.

  “We’d rather avoid any record,” said Lem.

  “I’m sure you would,” said Staggar, “but I can’t buy without adding it to the inventory. You boys can skimp off your boss, but I can’t skimp off mine. You get an account or no sale.”

  “Put in my name,” said Chubs. “Chubs Zimmons.”

  Staggar looked at Lem. “Not your name, mister? Fancy clothes like that and from the way you were talking, I figured you for the captain.”

  “My name,” said Chubs.

  The drop master shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He typed some more. With his eyes still down he asked, “Out of curiosity, where did you boys find this iron-nickel?”

  “We’d rather not say,” said Lem. “Trade secrets. I’m sure you understand.”

  Staggar smiled. “I figured as much. How much of this do you want to sell?”

  “Depends on the price,” said Lem.

  “I’ll pay you by the tonnage,” said Staggar, “not by the cylinder.”

  “What price?” said Chubs.

  Staggar told them.

  Chubs was furious. “That’s outrageous. It’s worth twenty times that amount.”

  Staggar shrugged. “Take it or leave it.”

  Chubs turned to Lem. “He’s trying to rob us.”

  “That’s the cash price,” said Staggar. “If you want to trade in food or fuel, I might be able to go a little higher.”

  “A little higher?” said Chubs, angry. “You’re crazy if you think we’ll accept that.”

  “You came to me,” said Staggar. “I’m telling you my price. You don’t like it, go elsewhere.”

  “He’s right,” said Lem. “We should have gone to Jupiter. Come on, Chubs. We’re wasting this man’s time.” Lem turned and moved back toward the ship.

  Chubs squinted down at Staggar. “Yes, you seem to have so much business here, why not let a big shipment like ours slip away? It’s not like you need the money.” He looked Staggar up and down, showing his disgust at Staggar’s appearance, then turned away and followed Lem back to the ship.

  Lem had his hand on the airlock when Staggar shouted at them.

  “Wait. I have another price in case you boys got all stubborn and annoying, which you have.”

  “And what price is that?” said Lem.

  Staggar told them.

  “Double that amount and you’ve got a deal,” said Lem.

  “Double!” said Staggar.

  “You’ll still make a fortune,” said Lem. “Which, if my calculations are correct, is more than the alternative. Zero.”

  Staggar glowered. “You corporates are all the same. Cocky thugs, the whole lot of you.”

  “From one thug to another, I’ll take that as a compliment,” said Lem.

  * * *

  Lem had his senior officers dole out the cash to the crew. It was less than Lem had hoped to give them but more than enough for a two-day break. Because of the low price he had received for the cylinders, he had been forced to sell more than he had intended, but he didn’t worry. He still had more than enough to make an impression with the Board.

  The inside of the weigh station was more attractive than the exterior, though not by much. Wherever Lem and Chubs went, merchants clamored for the
ir attention, selling all variety of mining tools and worthless trinkets. It surprised Lem to see how many people lived here: several hundred if he had to guess, including children, mothers with infants, even a few dogs, which Lem found especially amusing since these had learned to jump from wall to wall in zero gravity. Lem soaked it all in, feeling at home for the first time in a while. He didn’t belong in space. He belonged in a city, where the energy was palpable and the sights and sounds and smells were always changing.

  They found a woman in the marketplace selling men’s work clothes, and Lem bought nearly everything she had. Podolski and the two security guards might be on the weigh station for a while, and Lem thought it would be better for them to blend in and dress like free miners. He didn’t know if the clothes would fit perfectly, but since no one at the weigh station had any concern for fashion and all the clothes were baggy anyway, Lem didn’t think it mattered.

  He paid the woman a large tip to deliver the clothes to the ship, and when the woman, who had a young boy with her, saw the sum of money in her hand, she was so overwhelmed with gratitude that she teared up and kissed Lem’s hand. Lem could see that she was poor and that the child was hungry, so he gave her another large bill before sending her on her way.

  “You getting soft on me?” asked Chubs.

  “It looked like she had sewn the clothes herself,” said Lem, shrugging. “Work like that should be paid well.”

  Chubs smiled as if he knew better.

  They found a shoemaker next. Lem guessed at Podolski’s and the security guard’s boot sizes and then argued with the man about the prices. When they left, after the purchases were made, Chubs laughed. “I think you were trying to overcompensate for being nice to that woman,” he said. “You took that shoemaker for a ride.”

  “He was trying to cheat us,” said Lem.

  “We could probably go back and find that woman,” said Chubs, teasing. “Your father would be thrilled for you to come home with a bride.”

  Lem laughed. “Yes, my father would love a peasant free miner as a daughter-in-law. Especially one with a child. Father would be tickled pink.”

  They entered the food court area, where a dozen aromas assaulted them at once: pastries, pastas, breads, stews, even a few cooked meats, though these were exorbitantly expensive. They ran into Benyawe, and the three of them took a standing countertop at a Thai restaurant. It wasn’t big enough in Lem’s opinion to call itself a restaurant—there was only room for six people at the most—but Lem preferred the privacy.

  Late in the meal Chubs raised his bottle. “To our captain, Mr. Lem Jukes, who salvaged our mission and turned a profit in the process.”

  Benyawe raised her bottle and joined the toast, but she didn’t seem particularly agreeable to it.

  “You shouldn’t toast me,” said Lem. “Our real thanks goes to the lovely Dr. Benyawe here, who tirelessly prepped the laser and conducted our field tests with aplomb. Without her brilliance, perseverance, and patience with her hot-tempered captain, we’d still be shooting pebbles out of the sky.”

  “To Dr. Benyawe,” said Chubs.

  Benyawe smiled at Lem. “Toasting me doesn’t make you any more tolerable,” she said.

  “Of course not,” said Lem. “I barely tolerate myself.”

  “And we would be wise to remember that our mission isn’t over until we return to Luna,” said Benyawe. “We’re months behind schedule, and there are many on the board who no doubt have written this mission off as a cataclysmic failure.”

  Chub’s smile faded.

  “I’m not trying to spoil our evening,” said Benyawe. “I’m merely reminding us all that we’re still a long way from home.”

  “She’s right,” said Lem. “Perhaps we’re a little premature in our celebrations.” He raised his glass again. “Still, I’ll toast Benyawe again for being such a wise counselor and an expert party pooper.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Chubs, raising his bottle.

  Benyawe raised her own bottle and smiled.

  “Lem Jukes.” The words came from the doorway.

  Lem and the others turned to the entrance and saw a mountain of a man standing at the threshold. He was flanked by three other men, all rugged and dirty and not the least bit friendly looking.

  “So you are Lem Jukes,” said the big man. “Mr. Lem Jukes himself. Son of the great Ukko Jukes, the richest man in the solar system. We’re practically in the presence of royalty.”

  His three friends smiled.

  “Can I do something for you, friend?” said Lem.

  The man stepped into the room, ducking his head through the door frame as he entered. “I am Verbatov, Mr. Jukes. And we are not friends. Far from it.”

  “What grievance do you have with me, Mr. Verbatov?”

  “My friends and I were part of a Bulgarian clan working the Asteroid Belt four years back. Nine families in all. A Juke vessel took our claim and crippled our ship. Our family had no choice but to break up. Each of us went our separate ways, working what ships would take us on. The way I see it, Juke Limited owes us for damages. The value of our ship and all the hell we’ve been through since.”

  A silence followed. Lem glanced at Chubs and chose his words carefully. “You were done an injustice, sir. And for that I am sorry. But your fight isn’t with me. We aren’t the people who took your claim or damaged your ship.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Verbatov. “You’re Juke Limited. The son of the president. You represent the company.”

  “Our lawyers represent the company,” said Lem. “I’m about as far down the chain of command as you can get. If you have issue with how you’ve been treated, I suggest you take it to the courts.”

  Verbatov laughed. “The courts near Mars or Luna, you mean? Billions of klicks from here? No. I’ll take an out-of-court settlement, thank you. And don’t bother telling me you don’t have the cash. I have it on good authority that you just came into a bit of money and have a sizable load on your ship.”

  “Staggar is a friend of yours, I take it,” said Lem.

  Verbatov smiled.

  “What’s the agreement you two have?” asked Lem. “You get back his money for him, and he gives you a cut? I find that surprising, Mr. Verbatov. You don’t seem like the type of person who gives back much of anything.”

  Verbatov chuckled. “Am I that transparent, Mr. Jukes?”

  “You are indeed,” said Lem.

  “Pay us what we rightly deserve,” said the man.

  “The money isn’t mine to give,” said Lem. “It belongs to Juke Limited.”

  “Which owes us,” said the man.

  “Write a complaint,” said Chubs. “We’ll see that it gets to the right people.”

  Verbatov’s smile faded. He motioned to one of his men behind him. “You’ll pay us what is rightfully ours, Mr. Jukes, or we’ll be forced to have more conversations with your crew.”

  One of Verbatov’s men entered, pulling a weightless body behind him. It was Dr. Dublin. His face was bloody and swollen, but he was alive.

  “Richard!” said Dr. Benyawe, starting to move to him.

  Chubs grabbed Benyawe’s arm, stopping her.

  Dr. Dublin looked dazed, unaware of his surroundings.

  “Dr. Dublin has been quite the chatterbox,” said Verbatov. “He told us all about this gravity laser you have on your ship. Turns rock into powder, he says. Very fascinating. Sounds like an entirely new way to mine rock. My brothers and I would appreciate a gift like that. That ought to cover our damages if Dr. Dublin was telling the truth, which I suspect he was, considering he broke a few of his fingers in the process.”

  Lem said nothing.

  Verbatov looked down at Dublin and patted the man’s head, gently pushing Dublin’s floating body down toward the floor. “Unless you and I reach an agreement, Mr. Jukes, Dr. Dublin may accidentally break his legs as well.”

  The dart struck Verbatov in the throat, and for a moment Lem didn’t know what was happening. There
was a series of pops, and the men with Verbatov each slightly recoiled as darts buried into their chests, faces, or throats. Lem was confused until Chubs launched from the table toward the door, the weapon in his hand. Chubs pushed past Verbatov and moved outside, sweeping his aim to the right and left, looking for stragglers. Verbatov’s eyes flickered and then closed. His shoulders slumped, but he stayed upright in zero gravity, his feet still held to the floor by his greaves. Chubs went back to him and put three more darts into his neck at point-blank range.

  “What are you doing?” said Lem.

  “My job,” said Chubs. He grabbed Dr. Dublin and pulled his body toward the exit. When he reached Verbatov, Chubs pushed the man’s upper body aside. Verbatov’s feet, like the trunk of a tree, didn’t move, but his torso bent to the side enough for Chubs to pull Dublin through the door and out into the hall. Lem and Benyawe followed.

  Verbatov’s men stood motionless like their leader, shoulders sagged, eyes closed. Chubs checked the men’s necks for a pulse, clearly hoping not to find one.

  “You killed them,” said Benyawe.

  “You can thank me later,” said Chubs, pecking away at his handheld. “And I just sent an emergency command to every member of the crew on the station to get their butts back to the ship now.”

  Lem’s own handheld at his hip vibrated as the message was received.

  Chubs quickly pulled all the darts out of the men and deposited them into a small container.

  “You killed them,” Benyawe repeated.

  The owner of the Thai restaurant approached, shocked. Chubs instinctively raised his dart gun. Benyawe stepped between him and the restaurant owner. “Enough. We’re not killing innocent people.”

  Chubs shrugged then turned to Lem. “We need to move. I’ll lead. You and Benyawe pull Dublin. Upright if you can. Not too fast. We don’t want to draw attention.”

  Chubs put his hands in his coat pockets, concealing his weapon, and began walking quickly through the tunnels. They passed small pubs, kiosks, shops, and vendors. Everywhere they went they got looks from people—Dublin’s bloody face was hard to miss—and people stepped out of their way, giving them plenty of room. The closer they got to the ship, the more crewmen they encountered. Several joined them as they went, took one look at Dr. Dublin, and quickened their step.