Lost Harvest: Book One of the Harvest Trilogy

by Joe Pace

  “My analysts, and yours, can see the truth of it. What of Djimonsu? Surely the Chamber has access to whatever experts it chooses, and can independently verify our findings.”

  “You hit close to the mark,” muttered Exeter, scowling. “The Chamber has nothing to gain from changes in the status quo, John. The data you report, and their terrifying import, threaten their bottom line. And so they choose experts who do their damndest to refute your findings.”

  “They would,” said Banks, aghast, “intentionally falsify information? Put everyone at risk to preserve their own wealth?”

  “You cannot possibly be this naïve. You are one of the best minds on the planet, Minister, would you please try to act like it? In any event, it is not a matter of falsification. It is a simple matter of selecting different sets of facts. Challenging your underlying assumptions. They do not wish to believe the truth you present, and so they craft a different, more pleasing one. You are a brilliant scientist, Minister, but a truly lousy politician.”

  “I take that as a compliment,” Banks sniffed.

  “You shouldn’t, not if you’re going to play at this level. It is that shortcoming that dooms your agenda, however righteous.” The Star Lord grimaced. “It is an omnipresent political truism, my friend. For those with the most, change brings the most risk. And to preserve their wealth and power, they will redefine reality itself.”

  Banks knew he spoke the truth. He pictured Rajek Djimonsu, nestled comfortably at the Privy table, deftly guiding the affairs of the Empire in the directions most profitable to the Chamber. For years he had jousted with the Chancellor, at times on this very subject, and always come off the worse for it, regardless of the force of his arguments. Even the current crisis might have been averted, had his ministry’s research on hybrid vigor not been shorn of funding by a nervous Treasury.

  “All that aside for the moment,” Exeter continued as Banks grit his teeth, “this is your audience, John. You told me last night that you have need of a ship. Ships I have, of course. I assume you have identified some remedy to the calamity you described to the Council?”

  “I have.” Banks leaned forward in his chair, thrusting one hand out, jabbing at the space between himself and Exeter. “I believe that our master grains can be revived.” The Star Lord’s chin moved forward, just slightly, but Banks knew the man well enough to know it was an encouragement to continue. “What we need are DNA samples from fresh strains of each.”

  “But there are only the single strains,” Exeter said.

  “Yes…here on Earth. In our headlong rush to perfect their DNA, we shortsightedly failed to retain genetic samples of earlier strains. We’ve done all we can in the decades since, exhausting the traditional – and some very innovative – means of replenishing them. We’ve introduced mutations, bred selective viruses, all the tricks. What we need now can only be found off-planet.”

  “And you believe it can be found?”

  “Not ‘can be found’, my Lord. Has been found. Let me show you what I would have shown the Council, had they allowed me to make my full presentation.” Banks slipped a data chip from a pocket inside his jacket and, with nodded encouragement from Exeter, inserted it into an aperture just below the surface of the beautiful teakwood table between them. A holo-monitor sprouted from the tabletop, and displayed the ghostly three-dimensional image of a slowly rotating sphere, variegated green and blue and white.

  “You found it,” Exeter whispered. Banks shook his head.

  “No, not I. Jane Baker, on her final voyage.” Banks reached one hand into the display, his thumb and forefinger apart, and deftly squeezed them together. The planet shrank, becoming a bright red dot against a galactic star-chart.

  “Cygnus.” The Duke’s hand rubbed at his beard again.

  “Yes,” Banks replied. “Kepler-22B, or as it’s more commonly known, Cygnus. Jane’s final discovery, as it turned out. Before…before the nasty business there, she unearthed how incredibly compatible the Cygni and human genetic structures are. More specifically, and more pertinent to our immediate needs, the xenobotanist on her crew, Dr. Tyson, made some startling observations about the nature of the flora there. Most notably, the rather remarkable congruence of nucleotide sequences between their staple grains and ours. It made some sense, of course, that with our similar digestive systems we would consume similar foodstuffs.”

  “Similar,” said Exeter. “Not identical.”

  “And that will be our salvation.” Banks manipulated the display again, and charts of data appeared, followed by two virtual double-helix DNA models. “Captain Baker ate their wheat, as did her crew, Admiral. Their corn. We can eat their grains, digest them, draw sustenance from them. But it is more than that. Dr. Tyson’s analyses survived the escape from Cygnus twelve years ago.” He indicated the helixes as they twisted in tandem above the table, the various nucleotides glowing with their assigned colors. “One of these is our master rice grain. The other is just one of many Cygnus equivalents. The genetic variations are still robust there, and haven’t yet been standardized. Watch.” With a swipe of his hand, Banks pushed the images into overlap. They did not match up exactly, but almost, enough. “Genetic compatibility. The grains can hybridize. These Cygni DNA strains can restore diversity to our stock, and avert this looming famine.”

  The holo folded in on itself and vanished. Banks forced himself to be silent in the next few moments, warring against his own tendency to keep chattering past need, burying his point in extraneous words. He watched as Exeter considered, stroking that beard, knitting that thick brow in concentration. Finally, the Duke spoke.

  “You really think it can be done.”

  “I do, my Lord. What’s more, it may be our only chance. The leading xenobotanists in the Empire tell me that we will need seed samples, and preferably living plants, in no more than a year’s time if they are to successfully engineer new, stable hybrid strains in time to avert the collapse of the food stocks. Cygnus is perhaps two months distant for our deep-space vessels. Factor in lead time prior to initial departure, plus several weeks of work by our scientists while on site, and the margins for error begin to grow uncomfortably slim.”

  “Cygnus.” Exeter blew out a ponderous sigh, like a great mythic whale. “We haven’t been there in all the years since Baker’s death. No contact at all. And when we left, it was with our tail between our legs; the greatest empire in the known galaxy fleeing a backwater planet not even capable of interstellar travel.”

  “From the reports of the Drake’s crew, it is a complicated planet, my Lord. Rival factions of intellectuals, military, and their clergy alternate control, and there is no way of knowing what the last dozen years have wrought in their internal politics. We have no time to reconnoiter for more intelligence. And, frankly, I see no other option.”

  The Star Lord rose with a grunt, not in a way that signaled an end to the meeting, but rather the restless movement of a man who spent most of his prime years on the command deck of a starship. Clapping both hands behind his broad back, he stood, silently gazing out one of the tall windows of his office. He then walked to the ornate sideboard and poured an amber liquid into two glasses. Exeter offered one to Banks, who tried to refuse.

  “Take it,” snapped the Star Lord, and Banks did. He brought it to his nose, and the Scotch had a wonderful, sharp aroma. Knowing Exeter, it was likely real, imported from the last true distillery in the Edinburgh District, rather than the synthetic liquor the commoners endured. Sipping, he allowed himself a moment to savor the drink before returning his attention to the Duke, who spoke in a low voice as he stared at his own glass. “You know, matters of the Fleet are my bailiwick, but I cannot act with impunity here. With the unknown conditions on Cygnus, the violent end to our last visit, and the urgency of our errand, I would sooner send an armada, but the forces against you at Privy are considerable. We must act swiftly, you say, and quietly, too, I think, to avoid bureaucratic entanglements. I can send a ship, but it will not be a ship
of the line, perhaps not even a frigate. And her complement,” he raised an eyebrow, “will be modest at best. I have no post-captains at hand, and I will only be able to send a minimal squad of machrines.”

  “I doubt a frigate would be the best option at any rate,” Banks said. “The amount of tonnage we’re talking about, with the irrigation and support systems needed for seedlings, would be far more readily accommodated by a cargo vessel.”

  Exeter nodded, and ran a weary hand through one of his graying temples with a sigh, looking up at the image of the Drake.

  “A shame, really, that we don’t have her to send. I would have greater confidence in your plan.”

  “As would I,” replied Banks, swirling his glass. “But I may have the next best option, to the extent that such a thing exists.”

  “One of her officers?” the Duke frowned at this, thinking. “Clark is commandant at Greenwich, and I can’t move him without attracting notice. Zhu is dead. Martinez and the Agincourt are out past Nelson Station, and won’t be back for a year or more. Who else is there?”

  “Pearce.”

  “Pearce? William Pearce?” The Duke’s brow furrowed as he tried to dredge up what he knew of the man. “A Lieutenant, wasn’t he? Commoner? Never made commander, if I recall. Last I heard, he had left the service to become a commercial cargo-runner.”

  “He’s an experienced navigator, my lord,” Banks said smoothly. “He’s been in space these last few years, not ashore growing fat and lazy on the captains’ list. Sailed with Jane on her last voyage, so he’s already been where we need him to go. He speaks some Cygni, and there are few enough in the service who can boast that claim. Besides,” he added, “who better than a cargo-runner to run some very precious cargo?”

  Exeter slumped back into his rocking chair. “So you propose we send a merchantman, commanded by a failed naval officer, with only a handful of machrines, to a planet that killed our greatest explorer and routed her crew.”

  “You sum it up aptly, sir. And yet it would seem to be our only hope.”

  Two

  Pearce

  The Britannia was an old ship, and as she settled into her berth at Spithead Orbital Station, her ancient titanium-steel hull shuddered. All the same, Captain William Pearce wore a seldom-seen smile as he gave the orders from the command deck to reef home all gravity sails and make the ship fast to her moorings. Pearce’s starmanship was second to none, and he expected his crew to follow every order with precision and alacrity. Now, though, his commands were a little less brusque, his tone a little less grating than usual. Their just-completed run to the New Indies system had been his third in the last two years and by far the most profitable. The Britannia might be a relic, but she had a big belly, and her holds were stuffed with the rare liquors and exotic delicacies the New Indies were known for. Opal rum, greatfruits, actual meat -- the sort of food and drink only the very wealthy could afford, the very symbols of aristocratic status. The take from this voyage would vault Pearce and his family out of a working-class life and into the lowest tier of affluence.

  Born into the laboring world, without the benefit of exalted family name or inherited wealth or property, his prospects on Earth had been limited. Gone to space as a young man of eighteen, educated but not a gentleman, Pearce had learned the Royal Navy’s trade before the mast as an able-bodied starman. By virtue of his talents as a navigator and his own constant effort, he was soon rated a midshipman and eventually Lieutenant, but there his career had stalled. Without name or sponsor, with little all-important “interest” at the Admiralty, let alone having been present for one of the worst disasters the Fleet had ever known, he stood scant chance of advancing to post-captain rank. So he had made the move to the merchant marine, and improved his financial prospects. He had begun to make peace with his lot, though he would still dream at times of the second epaulette, of making the post-list, of someday raising a flag of his own as an Admiral.

  Dreams are for children, he thought, trying not to think about what post-rank could mean for his family. A weary thirty-five, he was no longer a child, and dreamed even less than he smiled.

  Pearce came from an earlier generation of star-mariner, before the Navy had begun to filter artificial sunlight into His Majesty’s ships to regulate body chemistry, and he was pale, almost chalky. When he had joined the Royal Navy years before, Pearce had expected to endure aheliopathy, the malady that for more than a century had afflicted half or more of the crews on the years-long voyages of deep-space discovery. Star-mariners called it space scurvy, as a nod to the malady of their seagoing forebears, though lack of vitamin C, or any nutritional deficiency, could never be isolated as the cause. A solution eluded researchers for decades, but Pearce was lucky to sail under the legendary and visionary Captain Jane Baker. Baker had no medical or scientific background; indeed, she was a commoner, born to mineral-diggers on Io, but she had a rare instinct for psychology, and part of her genius was to pinpoint the effects of aheliopathy as related to emotional, rather than physical health. Among her many innovations was a photocell that captured stellar light and amplified it to ward off the effects of the disorder on her crew. On her three legendary voyages, Captain Baker lost men and women to accidents and ill luck and, most famously and tragically, native insurgency, but never a one to space scurvy. It had been from her that Pearce learned stellar navigation, crew management, enlightened interaction with the indigenous peoples of other planets, and avoided illness.

  Still, Pearce was pale, as were many of those under his command. Not so Christine Fletcher, his ship’s master and second in command. This was no surprise; in most respects Fletcher was unlike her captain. She was jovial where he was taciturn, dark and attractive where he was not, and beloved rather than merely respected by the crew belowdecks, with an easy charisma that beguiled most everyone. Perhaps most importantly, she came from less common stock than did Pearce. Fletcher was an Ochoa on her mother’s side, an old family that held a baronetcy in St. Kitts, with, the rumor went, an entire quarter-acre of their own land. Pearce had never visited, but Fletcher had told him there was actual soil there, and grass. Like most those of his social class, Pearce had never trod on Earthly grass. Her family’s house, on Brimstone Hill at the knees of Mt. Liamulga, even had a view of unreclaimed patches of the Caribbean, black-green and lifeless, but still, water under sky.

  Despite their differences, Fletcher’s association with Pearce had been profitable for them both. She was an excellent first officer, a talented pilot, a virtual genius at systems repair, and though he would never admit to anyone, Pearce had privately vowed never to go to space without her. He watched her in silence as the last groans and clicks of the Britannia died away, admiring her flawless management of the exercise. She was efficient and competent, and if she were friendlier with the crew than he, so much the better. As the commander of the vessel he was a god among the stars, necessarily apart from and above the women and men under his authority. Despite her gentile birth, Fletcher had a common touch that Pearce, a commoner himself, lacked. If she gave the crew someone on the upper deck to trust, the ship could only benefit. As he watched, he was also reminded how beautiful she was, how broad-shouldered and strong and yet undeniably feminine. Still, nothing stirred in him except deep professional regard and camaraderie. For this he was exquisitely thankful. If there had been anything more, if he had desired her, it could have threatened their lucrative association. And he would never hurt Mary, not for all the Opal rum he had ever carried.

  “Christine,” Pearce said once she had finished seeing his orders carried out. She turned to him and smiled, her teeth a perfect blinding white, her lips black against her mahogany skin.

  “Bill.” He nearly flinched at the casual address, but then remembered they were at anchor now, and she was, after all, his social superior. Back ashore, he wasn’t Captain Pearce. Just Bill, he thought.

  “If you will be so good as to coordinate the unloading with the terminal officer, I will p
roceed straight to the surface to make the advance arrangements with our import agent.” Fletcher nodded.

  “The usual for Brit?” She patted one of the walls of the vessel. “Inspection and recondition?”

  “Yes. She’ll be a few weeks in the yards, at least. Please ask Garwood to pay particular attention to her anterior mainmast; I think the last fluxstorm might have shifted her hips a fraction. Nothing else out of the ordinary. I suspect you and the rest of the crew should be ashore by tomorrow.”

  “Sounds good. Well done, Bill, as always.” She turned to leave the command deck, then stopped when Pearce coughed quietly.

  “Mary and I…we would be delighted to have you to dinner tomorrow night. Should your schedule permit, of course. James does so love to see his Aunt Christine.” That blinding smile again.

  “Oh Bill, that is sweet, but I’m skiffing over to the island to see my grandfather.”

  “Ah. Yes, of course. Of course. Another time, then.” She must have detected the disappointment in his voice, because she hesitated. Into the intervening silence came a loud bang from outside the ship, and angry voices. Pearce waved a hand.

  “Best lend a hand,” he said. “Or the stevedores will play harry with our cargo.” In another moment, without a backward glance, she was gone.

  Social superior, Pearce thought, but only for an instant. His mind shifted swiftly to thoughts of home, of Mary, of his son. He had not seen them in months, and yet he still lingered. By skill and temperament he was a creature of the stars, confident with a full spread of sail and star-room to navigate. Planetside, he stumbled and diminished. When he finally disembarked from the Britannia, he wondered how long it would be before he would feel the completeness of space again. Competition was fierce for merchant commissions, and there was no guarantee when the next would come his way.