The Rise of Earth

by Jason Fry

  “I figured it wouldn’t,” Diocletia said, studying the numbers on the mediapad. “And is there a family discount? Considering we’re the only people you have left in the solar system?”

  “Never mix business with personal. Didn’t I teach you that, at least?”

  “You did. Along with not to count on you for anything.”

  Elfrieda took her mediapad back and shut it off with a snap. “Since we have nothing further to discuss, I have other customers to attend to.”

  “Oh, I’ll take the deal,” Diocletia said. “I’ll expect these goods to be ready for my crewers by 0600 tomorrow—a minute after that and I’ll leave everything here and sue you for each and every livre you don’t refund. Is that understood, Mother?”

  “Perfectly. My people are never late, Diocletia. Have your crewers here ready to load up at 0600—a minute after that and you’ll pay a restocking fee. And I know every lawyer in the asteroid belt, so don’t think you’ll get out of it.”

  Diocletia nodded and the two completed their transaction in silence. Then Diocletia was striding out of the depot with Yana in her wake.

  “It was nice to see you, Grandmother,” Tycho said, turning and hurrying after his mother and sister.

  “Call me Elfrieda,” his grandmother replied.

  It was clear from Diocletia’s determined stride and baleful gaze that she wasn’t interested in discussing Elfrieda, but Tycho and Yana could barely keep their curiosity in check, and each began a silent campaign of stares and hand gestures meant to goad the other into breaching their mother’s wall of silence.

  As they returned to the Westwell, Diocletia grew weary of her children’s scowling and rolling eyes at each other on the periphery of her vision.

  “Whatever you want to ask, ask it now. I’ll give you until we reach the fondaco. After that, no more questions.”

  Tycho and Yana looked at each other, unsure of how to proceed. Then Tycho rushed ahead.

  “Why didn’t you tell us our grandmother was on Cybele?”

  “Because I didn’t know. Mother’s set up shop everywhere from Mars to Titan. She’s not one to leave a forwarding address.”

  “Did you ever try to find her?” Tycho asked.

  “It was fairly obvious she didn’t want to be found.”

  “We had no idea that was her, you know,” Yana said. “It’s not like we were trying to find her.”

  “Well, now you have—you’ll find it’s no great privilege. I’m not angry that you ran into Mother. Finding you beyond the Westwell, on the other hand . . .”

  “We stayed together,” Yana said. “When did Elfrieda leave again? I don’t remember her.”

  “When you were three or four. It was a long time ago, Yana.”

  “Why did she leave?” Tycho asked.

  “You’d have to ask her that. Now listen—we have more important matters to discuss.”

  That was breaking the deal she’d just struck with them, but neither twin dared argue the point.

  “We’re exchanging Haines and the Earth privateers we captured for the crew of the Nestor Leviathan,” Diocletia said. “Allamand brought them in an hour ago.”

  “And what about the Leviathan herself?” Tycho asked.

  “No sign of her. Perhaps the consulate will address that before the banquet. If there’s enough time after we talk table manners.”

  Tycho and Yana exchanged a baffled look.

  “Did you say table manners, Mom?” Tycho asked.

  “I’m afraid I did.”

  Tycho glowered at the formal suit waiting for him on a hanger in the bathroom, but he’d already showered, shaved, and made a vague effort to subdue his hair, so he couldn’t put it off any longer. Carlo was staring into the mirror, unhappily activating and deactivating various color schemes for his tie.

  “Go with the alternating yellow and red,” Tycho suggested. “Colors of the Jovian flag, right?”

  “And what a fine son of Jupiter I’ve shown myself to be today,” Carlo muttered.

  “I heard Dad say the hull damage is minor and we’ll be able to fly in the morning,” Tycho said, hoping to offer his brother some small comfort.

  Carlo shrugged. “The damage in the Log’s a little tougher to repair.”

  “Did Yana tell you about our grandmother? About Elfrieda?”

  That made Carlo look up, puzzled, and Tycho told him the story.

  “I thought she was dead,” Carlo said.

  “I did too. Mom said she left when we were three or four. Do you remember her?”

  Carlo stared into the mirror.

  “I remember her,” he said quietly. “She left a week before I started my apprenticeship. The Comet was coming back from a cruise to Vesta. I was eight.”

  “Oh. And do you know why she left? Mom didn’t want to say.”

  Carlo sighed. “For once in your life, Tyke, leave it alone.”

  “But she’s our family.”

  “She was our family. She hasn’t acted like it in more than a decade.”

  Tycho started to argue, but there was a knock at the door.

  “Ready to learn about forks?” Mavry asked with a grin.

  “This whole thing is insulting,” Carlo muttered. “I already know about forks.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” their father said with the same grin. “Ready to teach the rest of us about forks?”

  The Hashoones knew better than to wait for Huff, and left his gaudiest yellow tie for him to find in the living room before setting off for the Well. When they arrived at the Jovian consulate, Vass was waiting for them in a black velvet suit that Tycho suspected had been made for a child. The minister complimented Yana on her cowl, which responded with a flurry of brilliant green, then bowed low over Diocletia’s hand. The Comet’s captain was wearing a plain black dress with a red and yellow shawl—about as fancy an outfit as she ever wore.

  Inside the consulate, a dozen privateers had gathered in a conference room with a vertiginous view of the Well. Tycho recognized Morgan Theo and Garibalda Marta Andrade, standing with their crews. He saw Carlo go rigid when he spotted Andrade—and he also saw the hard look in the veteran privateer’s eyes when she saw him.

  A gray-haired woman with a pinched expression entered the room and stood next to Vass, towering over the diminutive minister. Behind her, two of Gibraltar Artisans’ cybernetic soldiers took up positions on either side of the door.

  “Unfortunately some members of our party seem to have been delayed, but let’s begin,” she said. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m Elspeth Hastings, Madam President’s assistant secretary for protocol. We know that your . . . unconventional job descriptions have kept some of you from attending a formal banquet in the recent past. So we thought we would provide a refresher in the more complicated aspects of etiquette.”

  “That was delicately said,” Mavry observed, one eyebrow raised.

  Diocletia shushed him.

  “Before you you’ll see a typical table setting for a formal dinner,” Hastings said.

  Tycho studied the broad plate sitting in front of him. A smaller plate rested on top of it, crowned by an elaborately folded napkin. A bewildering number of forks, knives, and spoons flanked the two plates—there was even a fork and spoon above them, between yet another small plate (with a knife) and a diagonal line of ever-smaller glasses.

  “Looks busier than a docking queue above Ganymede,” grumbled one of Andrade’s officers.

  “It does seem like a lot, but you’ll see it’s not so hard to get straight,” Hastings said. “Let’s start with the basics. . . .”

  Some kind of commotion was happening outside the door. It opened to admit Huff Hashoone, bellowing laughter. Behind him came a squat, slab-faced woman with dark skin and spiky white hair, blinking tattoos, and a big grin.

  “Dmitra Barnacus, as I live and breathe,” Mavry said, smiling and shaking his head.

  Huff was wearing his yellow tie, though it had wound up thrown over one shoulder. A line of s
pacers entered the conference room behind him and Dmitra, all of them sporting scars and missing body parts and in the middle of a raucous conversation.

  “Why do I get the feeling there was a lot of intelligence gathering at One-Legged Pete’s?” Mavry asked Tycho.

  Tycho grinned, then peered at the new arrivals.

  “Wasn’t Dmitra at 624 Hektor?” he asked Yana.

  His sister nodded. “But she never got a letter of marque. Last I heard, she was running cargo out around Neptune. And, they say, hunting Earth haulers and prospectors as a pirate.”

  Huff nearly smacked into Assistant Secretary Hastings, pulling up with perhaps a millimeter to spare, then eyed the impassive soldiers.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, madam,” he said. “Had pirate business what needed attendin’ to.”

  “Privateer,” Tycho said automatically. A couple of the grizzled new arrivals looked at him curiously.

  The assistant secretary tried to restore order, then gave up and waited for the spacers to finish laughing and yelling and locate seats.

  “Canaan Bickerstaff, the Widderich brothers, and I do believe that’s Zhi Ning,” Mavry said in wonder. “It’s like old home week.”

  “On 1172 Aeneas, maybe,” Carlo grumbled.

  Huff swaggered over and executed a landing of sorts in the seat next to Diocletia, while the other newcomers navigated their way toward what empty seats remained. Introductions were made, which took a while, given the privateers’ need to roar out hellos and exchange cheerfully obscene insults with old compatriots.

  “My goodness, no, don’t say that at the banquet table,” Hastings gasped. “Please be seated. Now, let’s discuss the setting before you. The napkin goes in your lap, not around your neck. Then, to the left of the plates, you’ll see a salad fork, a fish fork, and a dinner fork.”

  “Y’know, you could melt these down and have a serviceable cutlass,” mused Canaan Bickerstaff.

  Assistant Secretary Hastings chose not to hear that.

  “That large plate on the bottom is the service plate—you won’t actually eat off it,” she said. “When the first course arrives, it’ll be on a salad plate, placed atop it as shown. Now, to the right of the plate you’ll see a dinner knife, fish knife, teaspoon, soup spoon, and shellfish fork.”

  Tycho stared at the seemingly infinite utensils in dismay.

  “If one of those utensils is missing, it means you won’t be enjoying that course tonight. We included them all because the Cybeleans haven’t shared tonight’s menu with us—they want it to be a surprise.”

  From the assistant secretary’s expression, Tycho could guess what she thought of surprises.

  Huff raised his blaster cannon in the air, drawing the baleful gaze of the cyborg soldiers. Hastings looked at the twitching weapon nervously.

  “Do you have a question, Captain Hashoone?”

  “Arrr, I’m allergic to shellfish. Had ’em once on Ganymede an’ blew up like a hatch seal.”

  “I shall inform our hosts. But just in case, your waiter should know if any dish contains shellfish.”

  “But what if one of these thrice-cursed rock burrowers is fixin’ to poison us?” demanded one of Barnacus’s crew.

  “That would be a serious diplomatic incident. I’m quite sure no one at tonight’s event will be trying to poison anyone.”

  Other privateers had their hands in the air now too. Captain Andrade’s navigator was gluten-free, two members of Morgan Theo’s bridge crew didn’t eat dairy, Kanoji Ali kept halal while two other members of his crew kept kosher, and several privateers ate only synthetic meat and were suspicious about the sourcing of the night’s menu. Hastings fielded their complaints, looking increasingly flustered, while Vass stood next to her with a dazed smile.

  “If your waiter can’t tell you what’s in a dish, you can of course politely decline it,” Hastings said. “Now, why don’t we move on? Above and to the left of your service plate—”

  “What’s this blasted extra fork and spoon up here for?” Huff asked Diocletia in a whisper that could be heard halfway down the table.

  “I have no idea, Dad,” Diocletia said.

  “Yeh don’t know?” Huff asked, looking surprised. “After all them governesses I got for yeh an’ yer sister?”

  “They ran off with pirates.”

  Hastings had stopped her lesson and was waiting for the discussion to cease.

  “All of ’em ran off with pirates?” Huff asked in shock.

  “Or Mother got rid of them.”

  “Huh. Deuced waste of livres, that.”

  “The spoon and fork above your plate are for dessert, Grandfather,” interjected Carlo.

  “That’s correct,” Hastings said gratefully. “And the small plate to the left of them is for bread—you’ll find your bread knife atop it.”

  “If yeh need to stab someone, don’t use that one—it won’t do nothin’ unless yeh get ’em right between the ribs,” Huff said. “Picked up the wrong knife once in a dustup at Hygiea. Embarrassin’, that.”

  “Don’t stab anyone with any utensil!” gasped a suddenly pale Hastings.

  “Well, of course not,” grunted Sanco Paz, Canaan Bickerstaff’s grizzled first mate. “Stabbin’ people ain’t proper company manners.”

  Several privateers grunted their assent to this.

  “Well said, sir,” Hastings said. “Now then, let’s consider glassware. Who knows what this largest glass is for?”

  “Grog!” declared a member of Dmitra’s crew. “With any luck, they’re all for grog!”

  Several privateers cheered, and a couple raised their empty glasses and clinked them in mock toasts. Tycho heard glass break somewhere at the far end of the table. Hastings winced.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please! The largest glass is not for alcohol, but for water.”

  The privateers began to boo.

  “This next glass is for red wine, and this one is for white wine,” Hastings said, raising her voice. “And then this flute is for champagne, and this smallest glass is for sherry.”

  “What’s sherry?” Tycho asked his father, as the privateers debated how many of those beverages counted as grog.

  “It’s for cooking,” Yana said. “Mr. Speirdyke always has a bottle of it open in the galley.”

  “Oh dear,” Mavry said.

  Karst Widderich raised a hand—or rather, the stump of one.

  “Begging pardon, ma’am, but where do you extinguish a cheroot?”

  “That one’s easy—in the water glass,” said his brother, Baltazar. “Ain’t you got no manners, you bilge-born cur?”

  “Duty compels me to correct you—” began Hastings.

  “I didn’t know, Balty, which is why I was asking,” Karst told his brother in a wounded voice. “So can the water glass be used as a spittoon too? Or is that another glass?”

  Dmitra brayed laughter. “You nitwit. You really would spit in your own water glass, wouldn’t you?”

  “SHUT UP!” Hastings bellowed. “ALL OF YOU! THIS INSTANT!”

  The privateers looked at the assistant secretary in shock.

  “No glass should be used as a spittoon! Or for extinguishing smoking materials! Neither activity is permitted at tonight’s banquet!”

  “All these glasses and not one of ’em’s a spittoon?” muttered Karst Widderich. “That ain’t proper planning.”

  Hastings breathed deeply and closed her eyes, then opened them and attempted a smile.

  “You will all receive place cards when you enter the banquet hall,” she said in a voice that now sounded only slightly strained. “You’ll find your table assignments on them. Please do not rearrange the cards or engage in disputes over them.”

  “That means no stabbin’ people, you lot,” Huff said, gesturing emphatically with his forearm cannon.

  “I believe we have covered the etiquette of stabbing. Now, with each course you should alternate whom you speak with at the table—the person on your left and then the person
on your right.”

  “First port and then starboard,” Dmitra growled as Karst Widderich regarded his hands.

  The privateers looked left and then right, shrugging agreeably.

  “As this is a diplomatic event, I have some subjects I suggest you avoid with your tablemates. Politics, for one. As well as piracy and privateering.”

  “These options do not leave much about which to converse,” observed Zhi Ning.

  “There’s grog,” Canaan Bickerstaff said.

  “And weapons,” said Kanoji Ali. “Can we talk about them things, ma’am?”

  Hastings sighed. “I suppose so. Grog and weapons it is.”

  Vass whispered in her ear and Hastings nodded.

  “I have an idea,” she said, smiling brightly. “Perhaps we could speak to our hosts about an alternate seating arrangement. How many of you would prefer the company of your fellow privateers at this banquet?”

  Most of the privateers put up their hands—or in some cases, lifted forearm cannons and other artificial appendages. Mavry raised his hand, only to have Diocletia haul it back down and shake her head warningly at Tycho and Yana.

  “Very well, I shall see about the arrangements,” Hastings said. “I . . . look forward to seeing you all shortly for what I’m certain will be a memorable evening.”

  And with that the assistant secretary fled, leaving the privateers arguing about points of etiquette.

  “I think that went well,” Mavry said.

  The banquet was held at the pinnacle of the pressure dome sheltering the Well, which meant the Jovian officials and privateers had to wait patiently for room in the lone elevator serving the consulate.

  Tycho had noticed that Huff’s indicators were flashing yellow and decided to make sure his grandfather was monitoring his power levels—he occasionally got too excited to pay attention. Tycho waved for the rest of the Hashoones to go ahead and pushed his way back to where the privateers were laughing about old times.

  “Arrr, yer a good lad, Tyke,” Huff said, ruffling Tycho’s hair affectionately with his artificial hand. “Brought along a spare power pack, so don’t yeh worry about me.”

  Tycho nodded and tried not to wince as his grandfather patted him on the head again—Huff’s artificial hand didn’t provide much in the way of feedback, so the pats were more like slaps. He squeezed into the elevator with Huff and several other privateers, winding up with his nose wedged in Canaan Bickerstaff’s armpit.