Olaf handed the sack of vegetables to his son, Dale, who passed them to a young woman hovering next to him. She was slender and pretty, with strawberry blond hair and eyes that flashed very quickly. She opened the sack and frowned inside at the turnips, sweet potatoes, cucumbers, and carrots, still covered with dried dirt.
Olaf gave her a dismissive gesture. “Sendra, go prepare a celebration meal for us. Do whatever you think best with the vegetables.”
She sniffed. “I have no idea how to cook these. I don’t even know what they are.”
“Then you should learn if you intend to marry my son Garrison,” Olaf scolded.
“Why would I need to learn that?” Blushing furiously, she held up a round turnip, turning it from side to side. “When would we ever grow one of ... these?”
Rlinda offered to cook them up. “I’ve got experience—and recipes.”
Olaf seemed taken aback. “You and I have important matters to discuss, Captain Kett. If you are the Trade Minister, Rendezvous requires more materials, more funding, and more ships for the construction effort. If other clans had contributed to the work, we’d be much closer to completion by now.”
Choosing her priorities, Rlinda reclaimed the sack of vegetables and then took Sendra’s arm. “Important things first, Mr. Reeves. Anyone can do without politics, but we can’t do without cooking.” The young woman couldn’t seem to decide whether to be miffed or relieved.
Later, surrounded by delicious aromas, Rlinda and Sendra presented the meal as if to a fine dignitary at her Arbor Restaurant on Theroc. Olaf had prepared a place for himself, another for Rlinda, and a third seat for Dale. Even though Sendra had helped cook, the clan leader did not invite her to join them. “This is business,” he said, shooing her away. “When you’re married to the future clan leader, you can join us. For now, let us talk.”
Sendra frowned and flounced away.
After she left, Olaf’s expression softened. “That’s Sendra Detemer. She’s had her eyes on my Garrison, and I think it’ll be an acceptable match.” A troubled look crossed his face. “Maybe she can bring my son back in line.”
“Garrison’s doing what he thinks best, Father,” Dale said.
Olaf glared at his younger son. “He doesn’t need to think what’s best. I’ve already told him.”
“Will Garrison be joining us for the discussion?” Rlinda asked, hoping it might soothe the obvious tension.
“No, he’s off among the Roamer strongholds, gathering donations, materials, and trying to recruit workers.” Olaf took several bites of his food without remarking on the taste at all, which disappointed Rlinda. “More than a decade a handful of us have been working here, just clan Reeves. Do the Roamers not remember their heritage? Don’t they want us to be great again?”
Rlinda was surprised. “The Roamers are a respected part of human government now. They’re no longer outlaws. Many clans are turning great profits.”
“But it’s not the same,” Olaf said.
“Some might say the situation’s improved,” Dale said in a very small voice. He flinched as Olaf looked at him, but he added, “Roamers used to live only in the most hazardous environments. Now, we can live like normal people again.”
“Roamers aren’t normal people,” Olaf said. “We’re better. We develop survival skills that weaker members of the Confederation could never match. If we live under pampered conditions, we will forget what it is to be a Roamer.” He nodded to himself. “A knife loses its edge unless it is sharpened.”
Rlinda respected what clan Reeves had accomplished here, but rebuilding the entire complex seemed an insurmountable—and unnecessary—task.
“Newstation is quite remarkable,” she pointed out. “A huge ring station above a planet that holds a Klikiss transportal. They’ve even parked a comet nearby so they can extract water and oxygen from the ices. It seems to be thriving.” She hardened her voice, knowing what she had to do as Trade Minister. “In fact, many Roamer clans are wondering why you don’t join the efforts there. Newstation is obviously going to be the main hub.”
Olaf scoffed. “Rendezvous is where the first Roamers settled. This place is our history, and it’s always been good enough for us.”
“But it was just where a tired old colony ship encountered some rocks that could be made into a beachhead. Isn’t that true?” Rlinda had studied a little bit of Roamer history, though most people in the Confederation were unaware of the details. “This place was an accident. Newstation was founded on purpose.”
“Rendezvous is our home,” Olaf said.
Hearing the finality in his tone, Rlinda gave him a conciliatory smile. “As Trade Minister, I’m just here to report. I don’t take any sides in clan politics. Once Rendezvous is up and running again, you’ll have plenty of people willing to come here to trade.” She spread her hands. “Who says there needs to be only one big trading center? There can be Newstation, and there can be Rendezvous.”
“And Ulio Station,” Dale piped up. “There’ll be a lot of trading complexes across the Spiral Arm. It shows how we’re growing, recovering after the War. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” He looked eagerly at his father.
Olaf simply frowned at his food. “Rendezvous is still our home.”
Rlinda did her best to be polite for the rest of the meal, steering the conversation to news about strengthening ties with the Ildiran Empire, about how the Roamers were skymining again because hydrogues had not been seen on gas giants for nine years. She didn’t mention the neo-Amish again, nor did she express that the more she saw of Olaf’s work here at Rendezvous, the more she thought he was tilting at windmills.
Her greatest regret in coming here, though, was in sacrificing all those fresh homegrown vegetables. As far as she could tell, Olaf Reeves hadn’t enjoyed a single bite.
Chapter Four
Garrison Reeves
On his regular supply run from Rendezvous, Garrison Reeves set a new course in the battered old clan ship, the Workhorse. He headed off to a system that was not only unexpected, but completely forbidden, according to his father. Garrison did it anyway.
He had been flying the clan ship on solo missions since he was seventeen, because there was so much work to be done at the construction site. The asteroids were scattered, but Garrison’s father would not turn his attention from his plan—his obsession—to rebuild the place. Garrison had spent years believing in the dream himself, swept up in his father’s enthusiasm and determination. But the task was insurmountable … and unnecessary.
Once, a year ago, Olaf had taken Garrison out in an inspection pod, flying around the drifting asteroids. In the cockpit he displayed a projection of how the main components could all be reconnected one rock at a time. “They’ll be refurbished with life-support systems and power blocks, and we’ll open up a warren of living quarters, just like it once was.” The big bearded man had gestured out into the glittering points of light in the starscape.
“As the next clan head, this task will fall to you, Garrison. I doubt it’ll be completed in my lifetime, especially since the other clans have abandoned our work. But the responsibility falls on you. Follow your Guiding Star. The end result will be worth it.”
When he was younger, Garrison had been just as angry that the clans had lost interest and moved on, choosing to build an advanced new trading hub rather than staying with their old home. Before long, though, he decided that his father’s glorious vision had simply become a stubborn delusion. And the more Garrison flew missions to Roamer outposts, speaking with traders and Confederation representatives, he began to make up his own mind.
Because Olaf Reeves had such an abrasive personality and tended to dominate conversations, Garrison was often a better mouthpiece to get their point across. He would go to Newstation and talk about the coming golden age of Rendezvous, but amidst the obvious success and energy of Newstation and the Roamer offices run by Speaker Del Kellum, Garrison saw more amusement than excitement in their responses.
> He had recently spoken to one plump and wealthy trader who had brought in a load of exotic alien fabrics from the Ildiran Empire. “Young man, if Olaf would just bring your clan’s dedication and hard work here, we’d finish Newstation in no time.”
“But Rendezvous is our history,” Garrison had quoted, as expected. “Our heritage.”
“I can read about history and heritage in a book. I’ve got a business to run.”
Unfortunately, Garrison’s heart wasn’t in it, and he no longer believed the arguments himself, so he didn’t bother making a rebuttal.
This time, after leaving Newstation, he made an extreme and intentional detour. Olaf would know about it if he ever reviewed the navigation logs, but Garrison didn’t care. He had to stand up for himself if he was going to be the next leader of clan Reeves.
This time, he flew the Workhorse directly to Earth.
* * *
Though the world was a place of legend, Garrison had never been to the birthplace of humanity, the origin point from which thirteen huge generation ships had been launched centuries ago. Earth was a place of legend. Now, he hoped it would be a place to solve his family’s problems. He intended to find exactly what clan Reeves needed to finish the Rendezvous construction project.
Approaching Earth, he was careful to negotiate the navigational hazards posed by the destroyed Moon, the vast rubble field strewn in a broad swath along its former orbit. Nine years ago the faeros had blasted the Moon into shards of wandering rock that still drifted about; many had struck Earth in deadly meteor impacts.
Now, though, the rubble was abuzz with dozens of large Confederation Defense Forces battleships, Manta cruisers, and even two Juggernauts, as well as hundreds of commercial ships, trading vessels, industrial units, and construction centers. The CDF was building a large military complex among the lunar fragments, making use of the unlimited metals and ores to be extracted from the rocks. Many Roamers had volunteered for the work, which fit perfectly with their skills.
The sheer blur of activity, exuberance, and manpower reminded Garrison just how small the Rendezvous reconstruction project was. If he could make the proper connections here, he could find exactly the help they needed.
But, oh, his father would hate it!
He flew the Workhorse among the space traffic patterns, wary of the tumbling, sharp-edged rocks. So much destruction ... and Olaf Reeves insisted that the people of Earth had caused it themselves.
Garrison remembered the last and most vehement argument with his father over the very principle. He knew the Confederation was willing to help, and the Roamers—including clan Reeves—were part of the Confederation.
“The Hansa is gone now, Father,” he had said. “We should join the community for the benefit of all, not hide here and grumble about lost days.”
Olaf had fumed. “The Hansa is the root of all our problems! Chairman Wenceslas declared war on us for his own purposes. He sent EDF battleships to destroy Rendezvous purely out of spite, because we wouldn’t bow to his commands. It was because of his corrupt leadership and his provocations that the faeros destroyed the Moon! They caused the disaster, and they have to live with the consequences of their actions.” His face grew red. “But we don’t have to participate. I would never accept help from them.”
“The Hansa no longer exists,” Garrison repeated. “We’re the Confederation now. We should look forward.”
“If you look forward, you might not see the knife coming toward your back,” Olaf said with a huff. “We will have no dealings with Earth. We will not help them, nor will we ask for their help. They brought this destruction upon themselves.”
Incensed, Garrison had said, “But Rendezvous was destroyed too. Look around you, our asteroid cluster blasted apart, all those people dead, all those clans scattered. How is that different from the Moon being destroyed? Did we bring this on ourselves? Are we to blame?”
Olaf reached out and slapped him across the face. Hard. “I will not have insubordination from my own son. When you become clan leader, you can tell your own sons what to do, and if I raised you right, you will see your Guiding Star clearly. For now, you will do as I command.”
Garrison had pretended to be dutifully obedient after that, at least on the outside. He did his trading runs, he mumbled his inspirational speeches, he attempted to get funding to expand the Rendezvous effort, although when he did receive money, it was usually a donation instead of a loan, because the wealthy Roamers knew that clan Reeves wouldn’t be able to pay them back.
The more Olaf insisted that Earth was forbidden, however, the more Garrison researched it, the more he observed what those people were doing in the rubble of their Moon and how those efforts could be copied at Rendezvous. By using efficient new modules to piece together an operations center and habitation complexes, they had accomplished more in the first two years than clan Reeves had done in nearly a decade.…
Now, the Workhorse fit right in among the other Roamer vessels. The Earth ships were shiny, recent models, many constructed after the end of the War. Impeller tugs moved the orbiting rubble while mobile smelters created new materials that were used to build free-floating space stations or domes. Tunnel warrens were burrowed inside the larger rocks. He saw hundreds of identical-looking prefabricated modules forming the new habitation complexes.
Using such ubiquitous, and presumably inexpensive, modules, Garrison imagined his clan could rebuild Rendezvous and open it up to business and habitation in a few months. Those mass-produced modules would shave years or even decades from Olaf’s construction plan. The finished complex would not look exactly the same as the former Rendezvous, but it would be functional—and Roamers were supposed to adapt.
He nosed around the lunar orbital complex, spoke with contract Roamer construction crews, even tracked down one of the main engineers to ask about the modules. The engineer said, “They’re manufactured by an Earth-based industrialist who was a Roamer clan member. I bet you can work out a deal.”
“A former Roamer?” Garrison had never heard of such a thing.
“Oh, Lee Iswander is still a Roamer, though he now wears business suits. Iswander Industries manufactures these modules. I bet he’d extend credit for another Roamer family, especially in the name of Rendezvous. We all still have a soft spot in our heart for that place.” The engineer chuckled. “Though I’ve heard tell that Olaf Reeves has a soft spot in his head.”
* * *
Flying in, he was overwhelmed by the enormity of the cities, the towering skyscrapers, the flying craft in the skies, the people crowded in the streets, the water, the trees, the clouds. Roamers had always lived in crowded conditions with tight resources. Even their thriving colonies were sparsely populated, young but growing.
Earth was ... tremendous, and he drank it all in.
He tracked down the headquarters tower of Iswander Industries—which he learned later was merely one of many, since the industrialist had set up diversified businesses in numerous other systems, using Roamer talents to innovate old processes. After identifying himself, Garrison was surprised to be granted a brief meeting—ten minutes only—with Lee Iswander himself.
When he arrived, on time, he found Iswander sitting at his desk, with a woman sitting beside him in a guest chair. She was maybe five years older than Garrison, trim and beautiful with auburn hair and gold-flecked green eyes. Her beauty was unmarred by any smile or softness, but he immediately noticed that she had a depth to her.
As Garrison entered the office, Iswander stood and extended his hand across the desk, though his expression was skeptical. He was tall and fit, with dark brown hair frosted with gray at the temples. “The last person I expected to see in Iswander Headquarters is the son of stick-in-the-mud Olaf Reeves.”
Garrison wondered if the industrialist was trying to insult him or tease him, although his tone seemed neutral. He answered spontaneously. “I am not my father, Mr. Iswander.”
Softening his expression, the industrialist sat back
at his desk. “Glad to hear it, Mr. Reeves. Roamers need to look forward now, and many of my workers are clan members. The old ways have been wrecked, thanks to the hydrogues, the faeros, and the Klikiss. But we can rebuild—if we have the will to do so. We have the whole future ahead of us, and fossils have no place in our forward motion.” He introduced the silent woman at his side. “This is my deputy, Elisa Enturi.”
Elisa formally extended her hand, and Garrison took it. She seemed to look past and through him. “Your jumpsuit is ... interesting.”
He brushed at his chest, looked at the embroidered clan markings, his pockets, zippers, and clips. He sensed that her comment was not a compliment.
Iswander laughed. “Don’t criticize his attire, Elisa. There’s very little cause for a suit and a tie in a space construction site, and rebuilding is what we do.” He narrowed his eyes. “Is that what you’re doing, Mr. Reeves?”
“My father is. We’re trying to rebuild Rendezvous.”
Elisa rolled her eyes, and Iswander let out a low groan in his throat. “To what purpose? Nostalgia isn’t a good enough business reason to make such an investment in time, money, and effort.”
Garrison shrugged. “I don’t disagree. That’s why I’ve come to you for help. I think Iswander Industries may have a solution. I’ve seen your prefabricated modules—I assume you’re manufacturing them in large quantities?”
“Massive quantities,” Iswander said, “and they’re designed to be easily transportable. We have them emplaced on more than forty planets, colonies damaged in the War, where the people are seeking to rebuild.”
Garrison said, “At Rendezvous we have refurbished and reconnected four of the orbiting rocks, but there are dozens more to go. It’ll take years. With your modules, though, we could be open and functioning in no time.” He swallowed. “I have a line of credit from clan Reeves.”
Whistling Past the Graveyard Page 3
