by Jason Fry
Earth’s fondaco was a massive building in its own right, constructed around an atrium filled with trees and plants and extending to the curve of the pressure dome overhead. The air felt wet and smelled strange, and Tycho blinked against the bright light. He shielded his eyes and peered up to find a brilliant spotlight trained down on the atrium. The pressure dome, he saw, was hidden by a hologram of a blue sky dotted with clouds.
Strolling in the atrium with his furred cloak over one arm, Tycho couldn’t resist poking a finger in the dirt of a planter. His finger came out wet and black with loam, and he brushed at it, sniffing the dirt, then wiped it on the seat of his pants. He heard birdsong above and looked up to see a blur of wings among the trees. He had not the slightest doubt that the birds were real.
“You there, boy, what are you doing?” someone barked at him.
Tycho looked down to see a gendarme striding his way.
“You’re no Earthman,” the gendarme said, staring at Tycho. “What are you—”
“He is a guest and is to be treated accordingly,” said a steely voice.
Captain Allamand, wearing a dark-blue uniform, was walking up behind the gendarme, with Kate trailing behind.
“Begging your pardon, Captain Allamand,” the gendarme said. “This one didn’t identify himself. I was only doing my duty—”
“Understood, and you are to be commended for it. But I assure you all is well.”
The gendarme made his getaway, and Allamand offered his hand to Tycho, who took it, reminding himself to make eye contact and shake hands firmly.
“So how do you find Cybele, Master Hashoone?” Allamand asked, turning to stroll with him through the garden, Kate following a pace behind.
“It’s interesting,” Tycho managed. “Wish they’d turn the heat up, though. Your fondaco and the banquet hall are the only places on this rock that aren’t freezing.”
Allamand smiled. “Apparently the Cybeleans prefer to spend their livres on furs in supernatural colors.”
Tycho laughed politely, risking a glance behind him at Kate. She was dressed simply: a white blouse above dark-green trousers and black boots.
“My daughter tells me you’ve never been to Earth. I hope one day you’ll do us the honor of being our guest at our estate outside Avignon.”
“Um, you’re very kind.”
“I’ve had the good fortune to visit Jupiter on a couple of occasions. One gains valuable perspective from an hour spent at a window in Ganymede High Port, staring at Jupiter and watching the Great Red Spot continue its eternal journey across the surface. I hope one day my daughter will be able to see that as well.”
“As do I, Captain.”
Allamand smiled.
“The gallantry of our way of life can be intoxicating, Master Hashoone. But peace between our countries would be better. Ah well. In time, I hope. Perhaps one day we can recall this conversation in Avignon. Or above Ganymede.”
Tycho fumbled for a reply, but Allamand had halted.
“And now duty calls,” he said. “Until we meet again, Master Hashoone.”
The Earth captain strode away down the path. Kate smiled at Tycho, cocking her elbow in his direction. After a moment of free fall Tycho realized what was expected of him and took her arm.
“I hope that wasn’t too painful,” she said.
“No, not at all. Where is your father going?”
Kate sighed. “Into space. On some dreadful new mission.”
Tycho went cold. “Into space?”
“Yes. But please let’s not talk about it.”
Tycho frowned. He ought to at least send his mother a quick message. But he looked at Kate, admiring her dark eyes and the tiny silver studs that glinted in her ears, and couldn’t bring himself to step away from her for even a moment.
“Uh, I brought you something,” Tycho said, disengaging and fumbling in the innards of his jacket.
“Is it that pistol?” Kate asked with a smile. “Honestly, Tycho. What kind of reception did you expect from us?”
“Oh, that was for . . . well, somewhere else.”
“I’m teasing you. Though I’m sure I could learn to be a wicked pirate.”
“Privateer. Here. I hope you’ll like it better than a carbine.”
They sat down on a bench tucked into a nook along the garden path. Kate opened the little box he’d bought at Hugo’s stall and smiled at the gleaming black stones inside.
“They’re lovely. What are they made of?”
“Carborundum. From Jupiter’s Trojan asteroids. It’s extremely rare as a natural substance on Earth, but you can scoop it up from asteroids and moons out here. A little souvenir from the rest of the solar system.”
“I think they’re beautiful,” Kate said.
Thank you, Hugo, Tycho thought.
“So are you,” he said, and leaned forward. But Kate pulled back, blushing.
“I’m sorry, Tycho. The other night—that was crazy. Nice, but crazy. Can we . . . can we go a little slower?”
Tycho nodded, embarrassed, and Kate leaned forward to let her lips brush his cheek.
“Thank you,” she said, then looked down at the earrings. “They really are beautiful.”
She handed him the box and her hand went to her ears. She placed her silver earrings in the box and replaced them with the teardrops of black carborundum. “How do they look?” she asked.
“Perfect,” Tycho said, and she smiled and reached over to lace her fingers through his.
The artificial sun was lower now—it moved on some mechanism he hadn’t seen before—and the holographic sky was edging from blue into purple.
“Is that what Earth is like?” he asked.
Kate looked up at the sky appraisingly.
“More like a cheap holo-drama of it than the real thing. But the trees and the birds are real. That’s nice.”
“It is,” Tycho said, squeezing her hand. She smiled, but her fingers slipped out of his and she colored faintly.
“Tycho,” she said. “It’s a funny name. Where’s it come from?”
“He was an astronomer from Earth. Actually, Tycho’s my middle name.”
“It is? What’s your first name, then?”
“You’ll laugh.”
“I will not.”
“It’s Herschel.”
Kate put a hand over her mouth.
“See?”
She reached over to squeeze his hand by way of apology.
“I’m sorry, Tycho. I have to ask, though: Why Herschel?”
“Another astronomer from Earth.”
“I see. I think you made a good choice there.”
“So do I,” Tycho said. “The dread pirate Herschel Hashoone doesn’t quite work, somehow.”
“Oh, I think it sounds terrifying. Herschel Hashoone, scourge of the spaceways.”
“Stop it. What’s your middle name?”
“It’s long. And a bit ridiculous.”
“Try me.”
“It’s le Bondavais.”
“Kate le Bondavais Allamand? No, wait. It would be Katherine, wouldn’t it?”
“Katarina, actually.”
“Katarina le Bondavais Allamand. Too complicated and fancy for a colonial like me to pronounce. I’d better stick with Kate.”
“I like that more anyway.”
“And where did le Bondavais come from?” he asked, eager for an opportunity to tease her back.
“It was my mother’s name. She died giving birth to me. My father gave up his commission in the navy to raise me.”
Tycho lowered his head.
“I’m sorry, Kate.”
“It’s all right,” she said, and smiled when he took her hand again. They sat there, hand in hand, as the birds fell silent and the holographic sky dimmed and disappeared, revealing the real stars overhead.
The chiming of Tycho’s mediapad marked the end of his time with Kate—Diocletia was summoning her children to dinner.
Besotted by thoughts of Kat
e, Tycho managed to walk nearly to the other side of the Westwell, completely missing the bridge that led to the Jovian Union’s fondaco. He was about to turn around when he spotted Carlo emerging from the passageway that led to Bazaar and the unpatrolled domes and tunnels of Cybele.
Their eyes met, and Carlo looked surprised.
“Mom wants us back for dinner,” he said.
“I know—I missed where you turn right. Where were you? Visiting Grandmother?”
“No,” Carlo said with a scowl.
“Are you ever going to? I think she’d like to see you.”
Once again Tycho wondered how three siblings could regard the same thing so differently. He was still worrying over the question of Elfrieda and why she’d left. Yana had pumped their mother for information, then moved on once her curiosity was satisfied. And Carlo had been instantly dismissive.
“Quit trying to fix everything, Tycho. I don’t want to see her—not now and not ever.”
“Why not?”
“You wouldn’t understand. You were just a little kid.”
“So explain it to me.”
They were near the center of the Westwell now, surrounded by girders and guy wires.
“There’s no point,” Carlo said, but then he leaned on the railing of the walkway and looked up at the pressure dome high above them. “You and Yana don’t even remember her.”
Tycho shook his head. “I’ve tried, but you’re right—I don’t.”
“Well, I do.”
Tycho peered at his brother, puzzled. “Was she bad to you, growing up?”
“No. She was kind. She meant a lot to me, in fact.”
Tycho just looked at him, hoping he would explain. For a moment he thought Carlo wouldn’t—his fingers opened and closed on the railing. But then he looked at Tycho and began to talk again.
“When she left, I thought I’d done something wrong,” Carlo said. “I spent months belowdecks on the Comet in my hammock wondering what it was, trying to figure out what I’d done.”
“You were eight—you couldn’t have done anything.”
“Of course I didn’t do anything! She couldn’t have waited just a little longer? She was just selfish and not thinking of anyone but herself. It took me a long time to figure that out, while she was missing. But I did. And so she can stay missing.”
Carlo stared up at the struts of the pressure dome above them, his face pale. “Now do you understand?”
“Yes. And I’m sorry.”
Carlo waved dismissively. “It’s fine. Forget it.”
“But if you weren’t in Bazaar, then where were you?” Tycho asked, remembering the Ice Wolves and the deserted dome. “It’s dangerous out that way, you know.”
“I can take care of myself. I had something to do. Where were you?”
“I had something to do too.”
Carlo nodded, and Tycho realized they’d somehow reached an unspoken agreement: they didn’t believe each other, but they also weren’t going to pry into each other’s business. But he couldn’t keep from peering curiously at his brother. Did Carlo have a girlfriend too?
“Aren’t you tired of this awful place?” Carlo asked suddenly. “Being cold all the time, and not knowing what Earth is up to, and trying to figure out the Cybeleans and their double-dealing games?”
“Keep your voice down. We’re guests here, remember?”
“I don’t care. They’re toying with us—with all of us. It’s dirty and dishonorable. And now we’ve stooped to their level. Paying pirates to fly the Jovian flag. Remember when only Earth did that?”
Tycho nodded.
“It’s terrible for us as a family,” Carlo said. “It makes the JDF see us as all the same—like there’s no difference between Mom and Dmitra Barnacus, or between Captain Andrade and the Widderiches.”
“But they’ve always seen us that way,” Tycho said. “That’s what Yana and I were trying to tell you. We’re irregulars—expendable. Remember?”
“That’s where you’re wrong. This is making things worse for us. Making it harder for us to do what we need to do.”
“And what’s that?”
“What I told you before—win a place in the JDF. A way to continue the family business after they outlaw privateering and leave us with nothing. Which is going to happen sooner rather than later, if we keep letting unreformed pirates bring shame to our flag.”
Carlo turned to Tycho. His jaw was set, his fists clenched.
“I’m not going to let that happen to us, Tyke. I’ll do anything to stop it. You understand that, don’t you?”
“I don’t think Mr. Vass sees us as pirates,” Tycho said, taken aback by his brother’s fervor. “He flew here with us and saw how we worked. He knows we’re not like the Widderiches.”
“He’s just one man. And what did he see, anyway? He saw us lose a dromond.”
“Which we’re trying to get back. Besides, the Union wants us here. We’re a part of its plan.”
“But what is that plan? It feels like we’re all in over our heads—caught between Earth and the Ice Wolves, and trying to figure out what the Cybeleans are up to.”
“We’re trying to take Earth prizes and protect our own merchant ships to show the Cybeleans that Earth isn’t all-powerful. And stop them from making a shipbuilding deal with Earth. And recover the Leviathan if we can. I agree, I don’t like the Cybeleans or their games either. But sometimes not playing isn’t an option. And if that’s the case, you may as well win.”
Carlo turned to Tycho, studying him. After a moment he nodded.
“What is it?”
“Nothing. I was thinking that’s good advice. About a lot of things.”
Carlo looked like he was going to say something else but then ducked his head, staring down into the lower levels of the Westwell. He swallowed, and Tycho could almost see whatever had possessed him drain away, leaving him looking tired and unsure of himself.
“I’m a great pilot,” he said hesitantly. “And you’re . . . well, you’re not so hot.”
“I really hope there’s a ‘but’ coming,” Tycho said.
“There is, if you’ll be quiet and let me get to it.”
Tycho studied the contours of the pressure dome high above them—the thin membrane that kept the life-giving air around them from vanishing into the black void beyond.
“I’m a great pilot, but it’s taken me a long time to understand there’s more to being captain than piloting,” Carlo said. “In that respect, Tyke, I could learn a lot from you.”
“Thanks,” Tycho said, then laughed nervously. “I don’t suppose you’ll ask Mom to put that in the Log?”
Carlo’s eyes came up and met Tycho’s for a moment. Then he looked away, grimacing. “Come on. Before we’re late for dinner.”
When Tycho and Carlo entered their temporary quarters, Yana was standing at the dinner table, breathing hard, her face red and her hair dark with sweat.
“Unarmed-combat sims,” she said in response to her brothers’ questioning glance.
“They’re a lot noisier than pilot simulations,” Mavry said, wrapping an arm around Carlo’s shoulder.
“And smellier,” Tycho said.
“Mr. Speirdyke needed hot water to cook,” Yana said with a shrug. “Would you rather eat next to a dirty sister or starve next to a clean one?”
Somehow Tycho doubted that Earth’s fondaco was ever short on hot water.
“And where have you two been, anyway?” Diocletia asked as Carlo and Tycho settled themselves at the table. “I was about to comm Mr. Grigsby and have him lead a search party.”
Carlo and Tycho muttered excuses without looking at each other, prompting an amused look to pass between Yana and Mavry.
“Never mind us—where’s Grandfather?” Tycho asked.
“Visiting my mother,” Diocletia said in a tone that indicated the subject was not to be pursued further. “I’m afraid salad dressing is beyond Mr. Speirdyke’s skills, but this burgoo isn’t bad. An
d there’s duff for later.”
Tycho gave the stew a sniff, then scooped it into his bowl. He wondered what Kate was eating, and if she had company. He imagined a table surrounded by handsome young Earth nobles, each with a liveried servant behind him, eating some delicacy he’d never imagined existed.
“Tyke, quit glaring at the burgoo and pass it already,” Yana said.
“Huh? Oh. Right.”
It was odd to eat as a family accompanied neither by bells nor by the quiet, dignified presence of Parsons, waiting to bring things to the table or take them away as needed. The Hashoones ate in silence for a few minutes, each lost in his or her own thoughts.
“Are we heading back into space tomorrow?” asked Yana.
“Most likely,” Diocletia said. “There’s a meeting at the consulate in the morning. It seems Captain Allamand has taken another prize.”
Tycho looked up from his burgoo.
“When was this?” he asked.
“I just received word. The Gracieux and the Argent Raptor snatched a couple of ketches making the run from Ceres to Ganymede.”
“Did any of our captains try to intercept?” Carlo asked.
“Dmitra was on station and made a run at Allamand, but he moved fast—put prize crews aboard the ketches and sent them back inbound before she could get there.”
Tycho’s appetite vanished. While he’d been sitting in the garden with Kate, the Jovian Union’s enemies had been ambushing his countrymen in space. And he’d done nothing to warn them.
“They’re not huge prizes, but the insurers are screaming,” Diocletia said with a sigh. “So I suspect we’ll be back looking for the Leviathan tomorrow. That or this shipyard of yours, Tycho. I shared your idea about the Leviathan being turned into parts, and Mr. Vass and his ministers got very interested.”
Yana offered her brother a small smile, while Carlo stared into his burgoo. Tycho knew what both of them were thinking: he’d get credit for his theory in the Log.
“Whatever this big shipbuilding project is, our ministers suspect it’s almost finished,” Diocletia said. “They’ve been keeping an eye on the Cybelean shipbuilders for a while to get a better sense of what kind of deal Earth might offer them. In the last couple of days the sign walkers have basically stopped recruiting.”
“Does that mean we’re running out of time?” Yana asked.
