“I am someone with whom your own interests coincide at this particular juncture, Mister Bartlett. You wish to know more about the Marchant Company.” Eades shrugged. “I wish to know more about the Marchant Company. Why should we not assist each other in this mutual endeavor?”
Jon swallowed, throat tight. He was becoming more and more uneasy about Malcom Eades and began to wish he’d never posted his inquiry.
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend?”
“The enemy of your enemy is sometimes a useful tool, Mister Bartlett. It would be foolish not to make use of him.” Eades smiled again. “I have no friends, I assure you.
“A new name, Mister Bartlett, untainted by scandal.” He frowned, examining Jon. “Records of … three years aboard ships, I think, so we’ll make you a year or two older than you are. You can pass for that. Rated Able … a brief stint as master’s mate aboard your last ship, one that’s now gone off far from the Sibwards, Lesser and Greater both, and away from any Marchant trading routes.”
“Solid records?” Jon asked. “You can do that?”
“Solid as rock, Mister Bartlett.” Eades smiled again, as though at some secret joke he found most amusing. “Solid as though Her Majesty Herself had stamped them for you.”
“And in return?”
“You tell me what you learn. Simple as that.” Eades held out his hand. “A bargain, sir?”
Jon eyed the hand for a moment. It was a deal with the devil himself, he suspected, but Eades was likely his only chance. No one else had responded to the message — it was as though no one had even seen it after Eades replied. Was vengeance worth it?
More than sup with the devil, I’d bend over for Lucifer himself if it would harm the Marchants.
He took Eades’ hand.
“I expect it’ll be neither simple nor a bargain, Mister Eades, but it is a deal.”
Eleven
Jon clenched his jaw and resisted the urges that were running through him.
This section of the Greater Sibward quay had been his family’s docks. He’d grown up running through them, dodging crates and men as they loaded and unloaded ships. The logo of Bartlett Shipping had graced a dozen docking hatches here.
Now it was all Marchant.
“Watch yerself!” a stevedore yelled and Jon skipped aside to allow the man’s load to pass.
The move put him next to one of the docks, its hatch screen bright with the Marchant logo. Jon stared at it for a moment, thinking about all he’d lost. His father, his mother, every member of his family scattered to far systems, and everything they’d worked for, five generations of Bartletts … gone. Gone to Marchant, the men who’d engineered his woes to begin with.
It wasn’t right that they should win. It wasn’t right that they should profit.
They needed to pay.
He forced his fist to unclench so that he wouldn’t punch the screen before him. His father’s voice echoed in his mind.
Patience.
Know your enemy. Learn everything you can about him. His habits, his loves, his hatreds, and his desires — then use all that to crush him.
He knew what Marchant loved. Their ships, their cargoes, the money that came from them.
He’d learn as much as he could about the company, pass what he thought best on to Eades — perhaps the man was serious about harming Marchant as well, perhaps not. Either way he’d use Eades as well as he could.
And when I know it all, I’ll crush them. Destroy them as they did us, Father. I’ll see they pay.
There was a recruiting table set up a few hatches down and another three docks after that. Some new Marchant ships, it seemed, had need of more hands, and that worked to Jon’s purpose. He approached the first table, struggling to keep a charming, friendly smile on his face and show none of his true feelings.
“Looking for a berth?” the man behind the table asked.
Jon nodded and scanned the woman’s rank tabs, then the docking information.
Second mate on … the Elizabeth.
A former Bartlett ship they’d taken with the rest of the company and not bothered to rename.
The very ship my father named for Mother.
All of the Bartlett ships had been named for the wives and daughters of the family. A five-generation tradition, fouled by the Marchants.
Jon clenched his jaw tightly, shook his head, and moved on. He couldn’t stand to sail on a former Bartlett ship, but, more importantly, it would be dangerous to do so. Marchant would have replaced the officers, but if Bartlett hands had stayed on they might recognize him.
He made his way down the corridor until he found a recruiting table for a Marchant ship that hadn’t come from their takeover of Bartlett.
A smiling woman greeted him. She nodded to the bag slung over his shoulder.
“Between berths?” she asked. “Looking for another?”
“I am,” Jon said, “if the bargain’s right.”
The woman raised an eyebrow, as though unused to anyone suggesting there was a bargain to be made instead of simply accepting Marchant’s terms.
“Ordinary spacer,” she said. “One and twelve the month. Two-year contract.”
Jon nodded. “I’m rated Able,” he said, “and struck for master’s mate on my last ship.”
The documents Eades had supplied would back that up.
“You look young for Able.”
The woman looked at him oddly and Jon realized he wasn’t behaving as a merchant spacer.
Play the part, he told himself. Hide the hatred and play the part.
He forced a grin and leaned down to rest his elbows on the table.
“I’ve skills and more skills,” he said. “Perhaps if we’re not to be shipmates I could show you some of my others over a pint?”
The woman looked him over and chuckled. “You’re a bit young for me, lad, and haven’t nearly the parts I prefer.”
Jon straightened and gave her a sheepish look. “Sorry, then … but about a berth?”
“Able’s two and seven, if the bosun approves you. You strike for master’s mate if there’s an opening, for we’ve none now.”
“Fair enough.”
The woman tapped on her tablet for a moment.
“You’ve your ratings?” she asked. “And your name?”
Jon nodded. He swiped his finger across his own tablet to send her his forged papers and ratings. He’d have to get used to the new name Eades had provided, as well. He forced his face into his best grin.
“Name’s Dansby,” he said. “Avrel Dansby.”
PLANETFALL
A Story of the Dark
by J.A. Sutherland
(c) Copyright 2016 Sutherland. All rights reserved.
Created with Vellum
Denholm Carew enjoys a life most would envy. Scion of a wealthy family on New London, he can have almost anything he wants. But what he wants more than anything is the freedom to make his own way and build his own legacy to pass down to his children. Together with his wife, Lynelle, he sells everything to buy shares in colonial company and settle the newly discovered world of Dalthus IV.
For the Readers.
This may be a bit hokey and all, but when I released the first book in this series, I had a rather modest idea of what I’d consider its “success”. The response from you, the readers, has been far beyond what I could have hoped for.
I’m thrilled that so many of you enjoy this series, and hope to continue with you for many books and years to come.
Foreword
Planetfall is a prequel to the Alexis Carew series, which starts with Into the Dark. If you’re new to the series, I strongly suggest starting with Into the Dark, rather than Planetfall, as this story was written more for someone who’s already a fan of the series and is interested in more background on some of the characters and customs.
Also, Planetfall is available free to subscribers to my mailing list … so there’s that.
J.A. Sutherland
P
art One
New London
One
Saying goodbye to an entire planet is harder than I thought.
Denholm Carew rested his hands on the balcony rail and looked out over the city he’d called home for his entire twenty-two years of life. A light breeze ruffled his hair and he was tempted to turn off the static wall that blocked most of the winds from reaching him, but a glance at the wind gauge put paid to that idea. Anything up to fifty kilometers would have him at the rail, teeth bared and exhilarated, but the winds today were topping one hundred fifty, gusting out of the nearby mountains and funneling through the canyons made by Shrewesport’s tall buildings.
He looked down to the ground over a hundred stories below and smiled sadly. He was going to miss this place. With a population of just over twenty million, it wasn’t New London’s largest city, but he’d called it home for a very long time. And then fought like hell to leave it forever.
Denholm felt hands on his back that slid along his sides to the front and pulled him into an embrace.
“Second thoughts, love?”
He turned around and wrapped his own arms around his wife, Lynelle. His smile turning from sadness to delight as he stared into her bright green eyes.
“Second. Third. Fourth. And more,” he admitted. “You?”
Lynelle ducked her head to lay it against his chest, her long dark hair tickling his chin.
“You overthink things, love,” she said.
There had always been a bit of the New Edinburgh system in her speech, the slightest hint of a burr, though her family’d been on New London proper for three generations. She hid it well in New London’s Society, not wanting to be looked down upon, but he’d found it came out more and more frequently as their departure date grew nearer.
The New Edinburghans, even hundreds of light years removed from their native Scotland, were a proud bunch and resistant to change. New Edinburgh had been settled during the expansion of nationalist colonies and had remained fiercely independent despite New London’s growing influence. It was only after all of the surrounding systems had come under New London’s rule that they’d finally given in and agreed to inclusion in the kingdom.
“It’s decided to go a’colony when just a wee lass, I did,” Lynelle reminded him. “And nae looked back for myself.”
Denholm pushed her away and raised her chin so he could look her in the eye again. “From a wee lass? Nigh a hundred years has it been, then?”
Lynelle growled at him and snapped her teeth at his hand. “Planned t’be gone at eighteen, so don’t be making me regret the year more I’ve waited through your hemming and hawing.”
Denholm grinned and leaned down to kiss her. Not the chaste peck on the cheek that would be approved of by New London’s fashionable set, but a full, deep, passionate kiss. One he hoped would leave her with no doubt of just how much he loved her — and how lucky he felt he was to have found her.
For years, he’d used his dream of leaving New London to found a colony as a foil, something to fend off the parade of marriageable dunces his family had trooped in front of him. Tell one of those hothouse flowers that he planned to sell up every bit of wealth he had to buy shares in a colony and … well, those that understood what was involved had coughed, excused themselves, and never been seen again. Those that hadn’t understood had, at least, been worth a laugh or two.
“What? Farm? In the dirt, do you mean?”
“Would we still be able to make it to The City of an evening?”
“Whatever is a cow?”
That last had been the topper, for when he’d asked her where she thought beef came from, she had, with absolute seriousness, replied, “Well, from Cook, of course, but she knows I prefer chicken.”
Lynelle’s response had been to pull out her tablet and begin discussing the pros and cons of the colony world brochures she’d already reviewed. Not a word of it that Denholm had remembered the next day, for he’d spent those hours simply staring at her, entranced that he’d found someone who shared his dream. He’d finally gotten over his daze enough to pay attention, and they’d spent two years going over the brochures and survey reports for each newly discovered world.
They’d married, announcing on their wedding invitations that, in lieu of gifts, guests could purchase them shares in the Dalthus Colonization Company. And, not incidentally, that all of Denholm’s and Lynelle’s trusts, family holdings, and possessions were being liquidated to the same purpose, so if you want that silver service of Great Aunt Mathilda’s then you should make an offer before the whole lot’s up for auction.
And now it was finally time.
“We should go,” Lynelle whispered.
Denholm nodded. They left the balcony and entered the apartment they’d shared since they’d married. It was empty now, all of the furnishings sold to buy one last fraction of a share or to pay the shipping on one last kilo of freight to make their start. Even the apartment had been sold, its walls already set to a neutral beige in preparation for the new owners and whatever their tastes were.
The Carew family’s long time solicitor, Beal Silvers, was waiting by the door.
“All set, Denholm?” he asked.
“Surprised you came, Beal,” Denholm said, taking the man’s hand. “But I appreciate it.”
Beal looked a bit sad at that. “I wouldn’t let you leave without saying goodbye, Denholm.”
“Why not when my own blood will?”
Beal pursed his lips. “Yes, well, the family would rather I had you declared incompetent. Your sister asked why I couldn’t place you in a nice asylum somewhere and simply tell you it was another planet. They’re quite convinced you’d never know the difference.”
“They’d bloody well ken the difference when I was done with them,” Lynelle said.
Beal laughed. “There’s more than one of them who’s that afraid of you, Lynelle.”
“Well I am glad you came, Beal,” Denholm said.
“Mind you,” Beal said, “I do think you’re barking. Stubborn, wrong-headed, reactionary, and stark, bloody, barking mad.”
Denholm grinned. “But?”
Beal grinned back. “Every New Londoner’s natural right to be so, family approval or no,” he said. “How else does one explain the farthing?”
Denholm laughed. The putative insanity of New London’s founders was a common position. They’d settled the world with the belief that a strong monarchy and a hereditary aristocracy based on each family’s shares in the founding corporation were a fine form of government. Moreover, they’d abandoned simple, decimal currencies in favor of an archaic system that drove the merchants mad.
Denholm clapped Beal on the shoulder. “Will you ride with us to the spaceport, then?”
“What I came for,” Beal said. “A few last bits of business we should discuss, yes?”
Two
The three of them left the apartment and made their way down the hallway to the aircar landing. As they stepped out onto the landing, Denholm said, “I was rather looking forward to a public car, you know, Beal? Haven’t been in one since I was at school.”
“They haven’t changed much since then — mine’s much more comfortable,” Beal said, gesturing for Denholm and Lynelle to precede him to the car.
The landing was open to the air, but protected from the winds by more static fields. Denholm concentrated on the view of the nearby buildings, wondering when he’d ever again see one more than two or three stories tall.
“Wait,” he said as they neared the car. His eyes narrowed. “That’s my car!”
Beal stepped close enough for the car’s door to open and shrugged. “No longer — told me to sell everything for you, after all.”
Lynelle laughed. “Did he give you a fine deal on it, Beal?”
“Quite — but still enough to ship a chicken or two to Dalthus for you,” Beal said, prompting Denholm to laugh as well.
“The real money’s in the shipping, no doubt,” he agreed. “Habitab
le planets’re two a penny compared to the getting there.”
They entered the car and seated themselves, Denholm starting to take the owner’s seat as he had for years, but then moving on with a chuckle. Beal seated himself there and closed the door.
“Port,” he said. “Dalthus Colony departure.”
The car lifted smoothly from the pad. It slid through the static field into the winds, but its antigrav generator and inertial compensators kept the ride smooth for the occupants. It slipped easily into the traffic patterns and headed for the spaceport.
“The shipping rate the colony company negotiated is about what I’d expect,” Beal said. “Still bloody usury, though, when you get down to it.”
Denholm shrugged. “It’s a far distance for their ships and little cargo for the return, at least until they get back to the Zariah system. They’re established enough there to have some exports.”
“Even so,” Lynelle added, “there’ll not be enough there to fill thirty ships.” She leaned close to Denholm and he wrapped an arm around her automatically. “Were they mine, I’d nae send them back all together. Have them take different routes so they’d have some cargo, at least.”
“The shipping company claims its safer,” Denholm reminded her, “in case of pirates.”
Lynelle made a rude noise. “I’ve read the reports they sent along. Pirates, my —” She grinned wickedly, “— arse.”
Beal looked at her in shock, but Denholm chuckled. He was used to Lynelle’s … earthier language, in private. Language that would make the prim, fashionable set of New London society faint dead away.
“What, then, Beal?” Lynelle asked. “I’m tae be a farm-wife, nae some proper lady, and free to speak as one.” She grinned again, the wicked one that made Denholm know she’d be doing as she liked and expecting him to ‘apologize’ for her after. “A’times there’s no proper word but —”
Alexis Carew: Books 1, 2, and 3 Page 97
