by Jason Fry
That was too much for Yana to take.
“If?” she asked. “I read the old media reports about the Iris raid, and we’re talking about a lot of money, Aunt Carina—years’ worth. Maybe it’s not polite to talk about it, but we could really use that money. Unless we want to count on Tyke getting incredibly lucky at the end of every cruise.”
“Hey!” Tycho said.
“Belay that, Yana,” Diocletia said. “Remember what a wise old pirate once said: luck is the residue of design.”
Tycho tried to smile, but he knew the luck was a lie, and the design had been DeWise’s. For what purpose, Tycho didn’t know.
“It is a lot of money, I agree. Perhaps millions of livres in high-end cargo,” Carina told Yana. “But the question is whether our chances of finding the treasure are worth the time required to try—time we won’t have for other things.”
“You want to talk about time?” Yana asked. “How about the fact that it’s running out? While we sit around yapping, that quantum signal is beeping down to nothing.”
“Don’t let a countdown force you into a bad decision,” Carina said. “What I’d like to establish here is where we think the treasure is. Because that will affect what we decide to do. If we think the Iris cache is in the hands of the Securitat—or in orbit around, say, Neptune—we may as well move on to our next order of business.”
“Agreed,” Yana said. “But it’s not in orbit around Neptune.”
Carina looked over at Diocletia, and Tycho saw his aunt’s eyes warm as some old memory or joke passed between the sisters. Then Carina leaned back in her seat and gestured to Yana.
“You may as well go first,” she said. “Where’s the treasure, and how did it get there?”
“Europa,” Yana said instantly. “I thought it over all the way from Ceres, and it’s the only answer. The signal is the clue.”
“Why Europa?” Carina asked.
“Josef Unger was from there, for one. But more important, the scanners were designed to be able to pick out an underwater signal from a fair amount of noise. Those are conditions you’d only find on Europa.”
“So you think Josef put it there?” Carina asked.
“Josef, or members of the Collective working together,” Yana said. “It doesn’t really matter. The treasure’s on Europa. Everything points to it.”
“But nobody lives on Europa,” Carlo objected. “Unless you count tube worms and armored fish.”
“We’re not talking about now—we’re talking about eight decades ago,” Yana said. “The Resettling wasn’t until 2817, remember? The Iris was seized eight years before that. And Josef Unger registered his ship there.”
Carlo looked embarrassed. “But hadn’t most of the residents left by 2809?”
“Not quite,” Mavry said. “The dead-enders resisted until the very end, when they were forced to leave.”
“Which means there would still have been subs, and underwater transmissions between homesteads, and other noise,” Yana said.
Every child of Jupiter knew the story of the Resettling and what had led up to it. Europa’s thick ice hid an ocean warmed by smokers, undersea vents surrounded by mountains of rich minerals that served as oases for aquatic life. After Earth’s mining subs destroyed many of the smokers, the Jovian Union declared Europa a protectorate, banning further economic development and paying its colonists to relocate. That had infuriated Earth and led to the Third Trans-Jovian War. Now the only inhabitants of Europa were a few rangers in research stations.
“If the Iris cache is on Europa, why hasn’t anybody found it?” Carina asked.
“Because it’s a big ocean,” Yana said. “Given the scanner’s short range, you’d have to be looking in the exact right place or get very lucky. And until we opened the case, the signal wasn’t transmitting. Just like it won’t be in eleven days, when we’ll still probably be sitting here flapping our lips while everyone else with a working scanner uses it to find the treasure that could be ours.”
“That will do, Yana,” Diocletia said. “Can I remind you this isn’t the first time the signal’s gone off? It must have done so three times before. That’s three opportunities for the treasure to be found, and for this argument to be a waste of time.”
Tycho scrubbed at his hair, agitated, then forced himself to tuck his fingers between his legs and his chair. It wasn’t a waste of time, he knew. But he couldn’t say how he knew that. He had proof from DeWise that would all but end the argument, but he couldn’t use it.
“We’ve discussed this,” Yana said. “The Moxleys didn’t get the treasure or everyone would have known about it. The Ungers didn’t get the treasure or they wouldn’t have lived the way they did. That leaves—”
“So why was Josef Unger’s scanner missing?” Diocletia asked. “Never mind where it is now. Why was it removed in the first place?”
“The pirates could have tested one of the scanners to make sure they could find the treasure again,” Yana said. “Josef’s would make the most sense.”
“That doesn’t sound too convincing,” Carina said.
“I admit that part bothers me too,” Yana said. “But everything else fits.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Carlo said. “Why would the pirates hide the treasure on a moon that was going to be abandoned?”
“They thought they’d retrieve it before then,” Yana said. “They didn’t know that Earth would get so angry about the raid, or that the Securitat would hunt them down as well. They thought they had time, but they were wrong.”
And all of that happened because they found something they hadn’t meant to find, Tycho thought. Something the Securitat still wants, all these years later.
“’Tis a fair point,” Huff said.
“Thank you, Grandpa,” Yana said. “It’s the simplest answer—which you’ve taught us is usually the right one. The treasure’s still where it’s always been. And we’re running out of time to find it.”
“You’re wrong—we’re already too late,” Carlo said. “Yana’s quantum signal is beeping in a Securitat warehouse somewhere—because their agents found our treasure a long time ago.”
“And how do you know that?” Tycho demanded.
“The other missing scanner,” Carlo said. “I’ll tell you what happened to it. Muggs Saxton gave it to the Securitat in return for a reduced sentence and a cut of the treasure—”
“You’ve got no proof of that,” Tycho objected.
“Maybe not, but it makes sense,” Carlo said. “Why’d Muggs get released early, then? He gave them the scanner, they found the treasure, and he got a cut of it—enough livres to quit pirating and make his investment in Gibraltar Artisans.”
At the mention of that name, Carina flinched—just for a moment, but they all saw it.
“I’m sorry, Aunt Carina,” Carlo said.
Carina leaned back in her chair, and Tycho could see the pain in her eyes. Diocletia, meanwhile, was looking down at her hands where they sat in her lap.
Tycho hoped Carlo would catch the hint and move on. But to his surprise, it was Carina who spoke first.
“It’s all right, Carlo,” she said. “There’s a lesson here for all of us. I know you didn’t want to hear about the Water Authority, or negotiations with the Mining Union, or any of it. But those things are important to this family. They’re important to every family in our business. The Gibraltars . . . they suffered a terrible loss, but today they make millions of livres a year supplying armaments and technology to the Jovian Defense Force. Because they had an alternative to piracy.”
She gestured at the walls of Darklands. “It wasn’t just taking prizes that built what you see around you—it was the kinds of businesses our cousins run, that you think are boring. In fact, it’s more accurate to say we depend on them than the other way around.”
The flesh-and-blood half of Huff’s face twisted scornfully, but he remained silent. So did the rest of the Hashoones.
“Anyway,” Carlo said tentatively af
ter a moment. “The point is, the treasure’s gone.”
“No, it isn’t,” Tycho burst out, before he could stop himself.
His family turned to regard him, and he felt himself flush.
“And what makes you say that?” Carina asked.
“Um . . . just a feeling,” Tycho muttered.
“A feeling?” his aunt asked, eyebrows raised.
“Already told yeh—Muggs made his fortune by jumpin’ a prospector,” Huff said.
“I know you did, Grandfather,” Carlo said. “But I don’t believe it. It sounds like a convenient story to me. Where did you hear it, anyway?”
“Oh, around,” Huff said.
“Well then,” Carlo said.
“Not a terribly flattering thing to have people to say about you,” Mavry pointed out. “If he were lying, wouldn’t Muggs have made up something that didn’t make him look bad?”
“No—that’s the whole reason why people believed it,” Carlo said.
Diocletia nodded. But Huff was shaking his head.
“From what Father and everybody said ’bout Muggsie, he weren’t nowhere near that smart,” Huff said.
“Maybe not,” Carlo said. “But the Securitat is.”
Mavry paused, then nodded. “Point taken.”
“And you, Tycho?” Carina asked. “Do you have a theory to go with your feeling?”
“No,” Tycho said, then saw his mother frowning and rushed to fill the silence. “I’m not worried about Muggs Saxton’s scanner, or what happened to Josef Unger’s. But I am worried about what happened to Moxley’s. If Thoadbone knows the signal’s transmitting and has his uncle’s scanner, he’s going to do something about it.”
“And if so, what should we do?” Carina asked.
“I agree with Yana. Everything about the scanner suggests the treasure was hidden on Europa. If someone moved it, our scanner’s useless and we’ll never find it. But if it is still there, we need to find it before the signal stops transmitting or someone else beats us to it.”
“Hear, hear,” Yana said.
Carina tapped at her mediapad. “So that’s two Hashoones who think the treasure’s on Europa and one who thinks it’s gone. What do the rest of you think?”
“Wherever it is, let it stay there,” Huff said.
“I think it’s gone,” Diocletia said.
Carina nodded. “I think it’s gone too. I think the Securitat leaned on the Collective members pretty hard at 1172 Aeneas, and one of them cracked. Probably Muggs—Carlo’s scenario makes a lot of sense—but it could have been one of the others.”
“If you’ve all made up your minds already, why even have this stupid meeting?” Yana spluttered, drawing hard stares from her mother and her aunt.
“Yana, control yourself,” Diocletia said.
“You know, I might have an opinion on this subject,” Mavry said.
“And that opinion is?” Diocletia asked.
“That the treasure’s gone,” Mavry said.
“Dad!” Yana yelped.
“But I wouldn’t bet the Comet on that,” he added. “Stranger things have happened. And I don’t see any harm in letting these three investigate further—yes, you too, Carlo. They could start by calling on Loris Unger and Lord What’s-His-Name and seeing if we can acquire their shares and obtain some more clues.”
“That could be an interesting exercise,” Carina said.
“Exercise?” asked Yana incredulously.
“Exercise,” Mavry repeated. “Who knows? It might even teach some of our midshipmen how to be more diplomatic.”
Yana made a face.
“And what about Oshima Yakata?” Tycho asked.
Mavry’s smile disappeared.
“That’s different,” he said. “Leave her for last. If we get to the point where we think it’s worth calling on her, we’ll discuss it then.”
Mavry exchanged looks with Diocletia and Carina. Something passed among the three of them, silently debated and settled in that strange fashion reserved for adults.
“Very well then,” Carina said. “The three of you can continue the hunt—provided you take a few precautions. Don’t do anything without clearing it with the rest of us, and don’t do anything rash. Parsons will give you currency chips to acquire shares, within a reasonable budget.”
“And work together,” Diocletia said. “You might not succeed even if you do—but you’re guaranteed to fail if you don’t.”
10
LORIS UNGER
The moment the Hashoones’ family meeting was over, Yana marched up the curved ramp of Darklands. Tycho hurried to catch up with her.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“To find Loris Unger, of course,” she replied. “If you want to come, better hurry.”
“I’m coming. But relax, Yana. Port Town’s not going anywhere.”
He called down to Carlo, who looked up and nodded. “Get the grav-sled ready and I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”
“‘Get the grav-sled ready,’” muttered Yana, wrinkling her nose. “Who does he think I am, Parsons? I don’t care how good a pilot he is—when I’m captain, he’s off my quarterdeck. He can enjoy the Water Authority or however he wants to spend the rest of his life. I’m serious. I’ll get someone from belowdecks before I let him try to order me around.”
“Don’t blow a regulator—I didn’t do anything. What are you so mad about? We got what we wanted, didn’t we?”
“Easy for you to say—you didn’t spend the whole afternoon being criticized,” Yana snapped, then sighed. “It’s just so unfair, Tyke. We’re supposed to show initiative, but if you do, it goes in the Log that you were out of line. Sometimes I wish Mom would just admit we’re judged on how close what we say is to what she’s already thinking.”
“But if you’re captain, isn’t that a good way to pick your replacement?” Tycho asked.
“If you’re making the right decisions. But Mom isn’t doing that. More and more she’s distracted, or changes her mind, or forgets things. You’ve noticed that, haven’t you?”
“No,” Tycho said, but the thought stuck in his head the rest of the way up the ramp. Yes, Yana was blind to family signals, particularly the ones that indicated it was time to stop arguing. But Tycho knew he had blind spots of his own. And maybe his view of their mother was one of them.
Like Darklands, Port Town had originally been a mine, one dug much deeper into Callisto’s outer crust. Atop the settlement, landing fields ringed a dingy transportation hub where the Hashoones rented a grav-sled stall. From there, elevators carried visitors deeper into the old mineshafts and the tunnels connecting them.
The upper levels were well lit and clean, home to government offices, guild halls, and the complexes of Port Town’s rich—most of whom were related to the Hashoones in one way or another. Below those levels lay caverns that were still patrolled, but here and there lights were dim, waste pipes leaked, and heat units were broken. And finally there was the lawless maze of the underlevels, where the families of starship crewers and contract miners lived in hovels, waiting for mothers and fathers to return from the stars or the mines.
Carlo, Tycho, and Yana started their search in the mining offices of the midlevels. Several of the companies had employed Loris Unger at one time or another, but he wasn’t working for any of them now. After six visits, the siblings had been asked repeatedly to give people’s regards to Carina, but they didn’t have a single lead on the man they were looking for.
At the seventh company, a guild recruiter said Loris had worked on a dig in the Valhalla craters a month ago. The woman didn’t know where he was but said that between jobs he depended on the lower levels’ churches for food and shelter, moving between houses of worship as he wore out his welcome or refused offers of help.
“I don’t understand—what’s wrong with him?” Tycho asked.
“The bottle is what’s wrong with him, Master Hashoone,” the woman said. “It’s the same thing that’
s wrong with too many miners and crewers here.”
The Hashoones thanked her, made their way through the throngs to the elevator banks, and descended into the lower levels. There they stepped out into a corridor lit by flickering lights. Fog wreathed their faces, and Yana zipped up the thin jacket she’d worn for the short trip from Darklands.
“I wish I had my parka,” she muttered as they skirted shallow, evil-smelling puddles and piles of trash.
“And I wish I had my carbine,” Carlo said, snapping his coat out of the grip of a ragged figure with a wheedling voice.
“Should we go back?” Tycho asked, peering through the gloom.
“No,” Carlo said. “But let’s get this over with and be on our way.”
At least the churches were easy to find—their doorways were brightly lit and free of graffiti. At the Harmonious Home of the Bodhisattva Jizo, a monk directed them to the Port Town Temple and Tzedakah. There, the rabbi apologetically suggested they check with the imam at the Musallah of the Third Pillar. Finally, they were standing outside a boisterous saloon, arguing about whether they were lost, when the door burst open and a trio of wild-eyed, bearded men in spacers’ outfits scrambled out, splattering the Hashoones with muck in their haste to be elsewhere.
“And don’t stop till you hit Saturn!” bellowed a brawny brown-skinned man with white dreadlocks, shaking a meaty fist at the fleeing spacers’ disappearing backs.
“Mr. Grigsby?” Tycho asked.
The Comet’s warrant officer looked at them in shock.
“What in the name of thunder are you three doing down here?” he asked as a knot of rough-looking men and women rushed out behind him, hands clutching mugs, pistols, truncheons, and razors. The Hashoones recognized Dobbs, Laney, Naisr the loblolly boy, and other familiar faces from belowdecks.
The scrum of Comets came to an abrupt halt, colliding and cursing but managing not to shoot or stab one another. They stared at Tycho, Carlo, and Yana in amazement for a moment, then hastily bowed and muttered greetings.
“Sorry to interrupt what looks like a fine shindy,” Carlo said.
“Oh, we were just settling a point of disagreement,” Grigsby said. “But this is no place for you, Masters—down here you’ll be swindled, robbed, or worse.”
