She kissed him. “You’re sweet, Brindle.”
“That’s what my commanding officers always say.”
She playfully punched him. “Come on, let’s go see if these workers know what they’re doing.”
Sooner or later, somebody would design a logo for the Confederation militia, and Tasia would embroider it on her pockets (and Robb’s). But right now, their authority was implicit. She was delighted to be among Roamers again. Even if she didn’t know the clan members personally—it had been years, after all—the ribbons and zippers and embroidered pockets reminded her of her childhood when she’d tagged along with Ross or Jess to Rendezvous. Now she was here to boss the workers around and turn any available vessels into defensive ships.
The two took a small transport pod over to a central gathering station where they joined the dusty, sweaty members of a returning shift in the mess hall. Robb studied the bustle, listened to the loud voices, tried to identify the different uniforms, clan markings, crewmembers separating to join friends or relatives at other tables. To him, the whole Roamer culture was madcap and noisy; his parents had been coolly efficient, buttoned-down military personnel. “How do they get anything done in all this craziness?”
“Practice, I suppose. Everybody wants to make a profit, to survive and thrive, so any intractable ones get taken care of internally. Somehow it works—sort of like you and me.”
In the mess hall, they found Kotto Okiah sitting at a table, oblivious to the clamor around him. The eccentric engineer stared at a design screen, absentmindedly picking at a tray of food, spilling crumbs on his screen and brushing them aside. Kotto had no official position at the shipyards, but he redesigned equipment and vessels whenever he saw a flaw. He was like a child playing in a toy store, coming up with wild ideas, changing processes to see what worked and what could work better. All the Roamers had faith in him, regardless of how strange his schemes sounded.
Tasia approached him, peering over his shoulder. “Have you heard about the new job we have for you, Kotto?”
He was not at all self-conscious to be watched at his work. “Denn sent me a message, but I haven’t accessed it yet.” He glanced up from his screen at Tasia and Robb. He didn’t seem to recognize either of them, but apparently considered that more his problem than theirs. He brightened. “Did the little hydrogue derelict come back from Theroc? I wanted to work on that again—“
“We need you to help us add weapons and shielding to our Roamer ships.”
Kotto was startled out of his concentration. “Never needed them before. The drogues are defeated.” He looked around as if he had missed something. “Aren’t they?”
“We’re not worried about the hydrogues,” Tasia said. “In case you didn’t get the memo, Kotto, the Spiral Arm has changed. Marauders, pirates, and even the Eddies want a piece of anything we bring to market. We’ve got to defend ourselves.”
“There was a memo?”
“I was exaggerating.”
Robb added, “We understand that you’re the man who can help us put together a full-blown military. And we need it as fast as humanly possible.”
“They always do.” On screen Kotto called up a clean diagram of a modified trade hauler. Brow furrowed, he began tapping zones, thinking, then highlighting areas. “I can add additional hull armor here. We can manufacture traditional guns to be installed here and here.” His eyes had a distant look, and then he began to smile. “There are quite a few options, actually. I’ll start incorporating them into all of my blueprints.”
33 PATRICK FITZPATRICK III
By the time he reached Yreka in his borrowed ship and nondescript clothing, Patrick no longer thought of himself as an imposter. Flying around by himself had given him time to think. He felt like he was becoming a different person, shedding all vestiges of his rich and powerful family. He was tired of carrying around dark secrets, like unwanted cargo that had begun to go bad. . . . Painful as it might be, he had to clean house. Patrick Fitzpatrick III could be his own person for once.
Yreka had changed even more than he had, transforming from a small, relatively uninteresting Hansa colony into a bustling commercial hub. When he flew in, he expected the Yrekans to demand identification, but they put the Gypsy in a holding pattern, gave him a number, and told him he’d have to wait an hour before beginning his descent because of all the traffic.
Ships rose into the air, heavy cargo vessels like metal bumblebees and small swift scouts and couriers marked with Roamer clan symbols. Other vessels were colony spacecraft that had been grounded during the extreme ekti shortages. Stardrive fuel was no longer an issue, since Roamers had gone back to skymining, and they clearly provided their allies with plenty of ekti. The Hansa and the EDF were still desperate for fuel, but he shook off any guilt as soon as he passed a former Hansa supply ship and noted that the encircled Earth symbol had been aggressively sandblasted from its hull.
When he finally received clearance, he followed the instructions and landed on a designated plot of what had once been cropland—cropland that he and the EDF had destroyed in a gesture of pique. Patrick had led part of that crackdown, blowing up an unarmed colonist ship that attempted to escape. At the time he’d been smug about his actions, sure that they were the only way to teach the unruly colonists a lesson. He hadn’t given a second thought to what pressures might have driven these people to defy the Chairman’s draconian rationings.
Another weight on his shoulders.
Patrick stepped out of the Gypsy wearing a plain jumpsuit and went to explore the town and search for the information he needed. New permanent structures were being erected around the landing field, while the slapdash marketplace grew like a weed. People had set up tents and shops everywhere.
All of Earth had access to only one or two green priests, but he already saw five here on backwater Yreka. Two green priests had even set up a business in an open stall, sending personal messages for a token fee. Food stands shaded by embroidered awnings sizzled forth enticing odors that made his mouth water. Patrick had to stop at three stalls before he found someone who grudgingly accepted his Hansa credits. He continued through the crowded streets, savoring the taste of spicy meat in his mouth.
Patrick wondered what his grandmother could have done if given free reign to set up a new government here. The old Battleaxe would have enjoyed the challenge.
Taking in the sights, he listened to the gossip. Many people excitedly discussed the prospect of the Confederation arming and defending itself. He was strangely delighted to hear the name of his old Roamer rival Tasia Tamblyn come up, but when they also mentioned Robb Brindle, Patrick dismissed the rumors; he knew Brindle had vanished a long time ago.
In the middle of town, he stopped where a crowd had gathered. First Roamer engineers and Yreka colony builders used heavy equipment to lay down a stone platform; then other workers used antigrav handles to maneuver into place and adjust an artfully rendered alloy sculpture of a man dressed in Roamer uniform. He looked brave and heroic, his features handsome, his long hair wild and free, as if blown by an imaginary stellar wind. The sculptor herself, a potbellied Roamer, stood shouting instructions and making corrections. When the statue was finally in the right spot and the antigrav plates removed, the heavy object settled down with a distinctly audible groan.
Patrick turned to an older man next to him. “What’s the statue for?”
“A memorial to Raven Kamarov. You know who he is, right? The Roamers are calling him the first victim in their war.”
Patrick swallowed. “Their war?”
“Well, Kamarov certainly didn’t die fighting the drogues. It was the stupid Eddies and the power-mad Hansa. They hammered this colony, too.”
Patrick always did seem to be in the wrong place. Uncomfortable with the conversation, he went his own way. No longer interested in politics, he focused on finding Zhett. He wasn’t completely sure whether he needed to search her out for selfish reasons, or for his own honor. But he was fixated on the
idea of apologizing, coming clean, atoning somehow for his actions. The Roamers had been treated unfairly for years, and he’d had no small part in that.
He entered a local drinking house unimaginatively named “The Saloon” as a reminder to ancient Earth frontier days. The proprietors, one Roamer and one local colonist according to the signboard, brewed their own beer using surplus Yrekan grains with hops extracts that the Roamer partner obtained from an undisclosed source.
At the bar, Patrick ordered a pint and tried to look appreciative as he sipped the bitter, watery brew. Customers sat at metal tables or along the bar, engaged in enthusiastic conversation and boisterous disagreements. Patrick swept his gaze around, looking for a friendly face. His grandmother and parents would never have approved of such a “common” place. Patrick had usually been introduced to new people in formal, social situations, where everyone knew who he was from the outset. And in the EDF, there had always been common ground for starting discussions. He didn’t even know how to walk up to a total stranger and initiate a conversation.
He kept an open expression on his face, hoping someone would respond. Two men at the bar were sketching schemes on an old dataplate. “No, look. You just take some nets made of high-tension fiber, corral the drifting rocks, then use momentum transfer—either portable engines or small explosions—to knock them back into position.”
“That would be like reassembling a jigsaw puzzle with your eyes closed!”
“And is that beyond you? Just bring the asteroids together, salvage what you can, put new girders in place. Inflate fresh domes, bring in supplies and equipment. Six months, we’d have Rendezvous back in business.”
Patrick blinked at the sheer audacity of the idea. Reassemble Rendezvous? It was inconceivable, yet he didn’t doubt their ability to do it.
“We’ve got plenty of commercial opportunities to focus on instead. What’s the point of that?”
“The point is to show the Eddy bastards that they didn’t win! I don’t feel like just letting them get away with it. A symbolic gesture. I heard Del Kellum’s already got a team looking into the feasibility.”
“If anybody’s got the credits to burn, clan Kellum does.”
Patrick perked up. “Excuse me, but I . . . I used to work in the Kellum shipyards.”
The two men looked at him without antagonism. “You don’t look like a Roamer. What’s your clan?”
“Clan Fitzpatrick.”
“Never heard of it.”
He ignored the comment. “Do either of you know where I can find clan Kellum? I heard they packed up and left Osquivel.”
“Oh, those shipyards are up and running again. Kellum’s not scared of the Eddies.”
“What’s left of the Eddies, you mean.” The second man snorted derisively. “Kellum appointed somebody else to manage them. He’s not there himself.”
“Do you know where he went?”
“I thought you said you worked in the shipyards.”
“I worked for Del Kellum,” Patrick said with all the bluster he could manage. “If Del wants to send me back to Osquivel, then I’ll go there. But if he’s got other work for me, then I’ll listen, by damn.” He intentionally used the clan leader’s favorite phrase.
The two men chuckled. “Sounds like Del, all right.”
The first man blanked his scribbles on the datapad and took a long drink of his beer. “Del and his daughter went back to skymining. They set up the first of the new facilities on Golgen. No matter how much business the Osquivel shipyards bring in, I doubt you could tear Del away from his skymine.”
Patrick was so excited to get such a concrete tip that he almost left without finishing his beer, but he couldn’t afford to let the two men grow suspicious. He listened as they talked about new trade routes into the Ildiran Empire and the proposed tax structure and parliamentary makeup of the Confederation. All he could think about, though, was Zhett.
He thanked his new friends without exchanging names, then hurried back to the Gypsy. Now he knew exactly where to go.
34 GENERAL KURT LANYAN
General Lanyan’s peacekeeping ships arrived at Rheindic Co, which would be his staging point for securing control over the fledgling new colonies on Klikiss worlds. He doubted that any of them had heard of the new Confederation or Peter’s rebellion, since they had no direct method of receiving outside information, and he would make sure it stayed that way.
Lanyan sat back in the Jupiter’s command chair, pleased with the immensity of the Juggernaut. The great battleship seemed extremely safe, like an entire kingdom around him. No wonder Admiral Willis had been upset about surrendering her ship.
During the first year of the Colonization Initiative, the Hansa had gotten more volunteers than it could accommodate. Many groups of hopeful pioneers had been shuttled here and dispatched to their new homes through the transportal in the ancient cliff city. By the luck of the draw, they emerged on barely explored worlds to settle. When Chairman Wenceslas had cut off ties with all colonies, claiming every available defense for the protection of Earth, the Colonization Initiative had been mothballed, leaving only a skeleton crew here to watch over the equipment.
Lanyan’s goal was to deliver two thousand ground troops to the transportal center on Rheindic Co. He suspected a hundred or so would be enough at each colony world. Those isolated hayseeds wouldn’t dare raise a fuss when they saw his soldiers and overwhelming weaponry.
Using the intercom, he alerted his troops. “Prepare for immediate deployment. I want to do this quickly and efficiently.”
The subcommanders rounded up their uniformed teams. The General decided to accompany the first group on its mission as an important gesture of support.
The shuttles landed in the empty canyon in front of the Klikiss cliff city. Hundreds of troops disembarked and quickly set up a base camp on the trampled ground. Some of the colonists’ amenity stations remained functional, with pumps to supply running water and solar-power grids to provide subsistence energy. The soldiers would have to sleep here for a few days, the time it would take for Lanyan to organize the various missions through the transportal.
The crew of Hansa technicians and researchers on Rheindic Co were shocked when Lanyan barged into the central complex. In total, only fifty men and women remained at the base within the cliffside ruins. They peered out of the high caves, shaking their heads at the sight of the landed transports. “Well, well, I hope you all brought your own supplies,” said the senior technician, a fidgety and balding man named Rico Ruvi.
Lanyan brought four engineers and data specialists with him into the cliff city. “The Chairman insists on having an EDF presence at every one of our Klikiss colony worlds.” He directed his team to the control room. “Start checking out possibilities.”
Ruvi shrugged. “Be my guest. We’ve had the transportal offline for some time now, running diagnostics. But we can get it powered up again in an hour if you like.”
“An hour will be sufficient. While your technicians get the transportal running, my men will review their missions, clean their weapons, and get ready to move out. They’ll bring along whatever they need. Don’t worry, we have sufficient supplies for ourselves.”
The administrator’s eyes lit up. “We could use a few mealpax, if you’ve got extra.”
“I’ll talk to my supply sergeant.”
“By the way, most of those colonies you’re going to are strapped for food and supplies, too, General. They won’t look kindly on your soldiers coming in with hungry bellies.”
“I’m not interested in public relations or how kindly the soldiers are viewed. They’ve got a job to do, and we’ve got our own rations.”
Ruvi shrugged. “Whatever you say. You’re the boss.”
“Show me your list of colony worlds. Do you keep dossiers on the people who went to each planet?”
“General, we processed thousands every day. Once they come here, they’ve already signed up for the Initiative and been cleared by the Ha
nsa. We just ship them out. Were you looking for someone in particular?”
“No, just choosing the first target.”
“Target? What are you planning?” The man’s smooth brow wrinkled like a leathery accordion.
“We are simply going to each planet to assist the colonists in remaining loyal to the Hansa.”
The control room in the cliff city held the large flat stone wall framed by tiles marked with strange symbols. Lanyan skimmed the portable data-screens, calling up image after image of the planets that were deemed acceptable for human settlement. He studied how many people were sent to each world, reading the projected outlook for every settlement.
Since he was the EDF’s General, Lanyan would lead one of the first expeditions and take along an overwhelming force for that all-important initial impression. He would leave behind only a handful of men at the colony and bring the rest back to Rheindic Co, from where he would mount another expedition, and another.
He began to take notes, jotting down estimates for the peacekeeping forces that would be required in each place. A bucolic planet called Happiness had been settled by a few neo-Amish colonists and would likely pose no trouble at all. Passively independent, yes, but only because they paid no attention to Spiral Arm politics. The larger, more established settlements might have delusions of blatantly declaring their independence from the Hansa.
A planet that seemed most in need of watching was Llaro, which had first served as a resettlement station for the evacuees from Crenna and later added a whole population of Roamer detainees. He could bring a few hundred troops there with impressive armaments and uniforms, give a good show of force, have a military parade. Noting that a detachment of EDF troops was already stationed there, he decided that they should be capable of keeping a few colonists in line, even if the settlers proved to be unruly.
Searching for a better alternative, he smudged the screen with his finger. “This one. Pym. It’s a good place to start.”
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