by Ginger Booth
One of the guys, Carver Cartwright, reached up and switched off the sound, letting the others read the English subtitles if they felt like it. “Look who it is! Le Roy! You were in this merde show?”
“Yeah, just landed. Hell of a trip.”
“Drinks on me,” Carver told him. “For all of you worthy gentlemen! Garçon!” He turned back and clapped Remi on the shoulder with a smile. “Hero! Thirsty work!” Carver was an anglophone, of course – half of Sagamore spoke English as a first language. But nearly everyone was bilingual. Sag etiquette called for each man to speak his own fluency and trust the other to understand him.
“Damn straight,” Remi agreed in French. Francophones were less polite, the aristocrats downright rude. But Hell’s Bells pounded the engineer’s mouth cleaner. He shook his head in dismay. “Are we really so unpopular here? Spaceways and the evacuation?”
Carver shrugged. A new-made man, he arrived on Hell’s Bells and continued to Mahina during Remi’s lost decade. The engineer vaguely recalled he was in shipping too, finished goods for small operators. Of their class, there were about 700 Sag on Mahina, with their families. Plus over 4,000 freed paddy slaves who served them here in Saggytown, of course. Carver was an odd duck. Word was that his whole paddy slave troupe remained intact. When Lavelle came to liberate his little dome, Carver insisted he had no future except with his slaves, and chose ‘liberation’ right along with them. He married one, and had some young children here in the Saggytown mini-creche.
Remi’s jaw clenched at the thought. Someday, he’d have to figure out how to do that, acquire a wife and kids.
Carver answered the question forthrightly. “We have fifteen thousand Sag here now. Congratulations, Spaceways, the Denali now outnumber us!” He clinked his bottle to Remi’s. “Not entirely popular with the Sag, no. Pushy folk, Denali.”
Remi barked a laugh. “Try working with them! Arrogant as hell.”
Carver smiled. He did that a lot, a smooth talker, no surprise he’d landed on his feet, possibly the wealthiest man in Saggytown. “Kassidy Yang broadcast a while ago to give Spaceways’ side of the story. Deeply impressed. Still, the fact remains. We have thousands of undereducated paddies.” Their kind took for granted that the freed slaves were their natural childlike charges forever. “And the Mahinans have their unfortunate stretches. And now Spaceways dumps tens of thousands of smart, strong-as-an-ox, skilled, educated, pushy workers into the mix. You can see how that leaves us Sag wondering how to protect our people.”
“Protect them? From what?” Remi leaned forward on his elbows. “Do the pushy baldies want to steal the phosphate mine tunnels from our paddies? I don’t think so! Denali worship natural beauty.”
As an ex-mine engineer, Remi appreciated the rough-hewn charm of the spent mine tunnels the paddies claimed for their farms. But the hairless Denali wouldn’t be caught dead there. Well, the Denali city of Hermitage was mostly carved into a mountain. Judging from Quire, the Denali gardener Ben kept on staff, Hermits were gonzo for beauty as well. But the Hermits insisted they would stay and die on their world.
They wouldn’t die fast. Underground and at high altitude, Hermitage wasn’t hurting as much from the Denali warming trend. Yet. Nor were they willing to expand and take in their unfortunate neighbors from broiling Waterfalls and roasting Denali Prime.
Carver confided, “You’ve noticed a certain…casual approach to government on Mahina?”
“What government?” Remi agreed. “Didn’t you create your own creche for Saggytown?”
“That was a choice,” Carver explained. “We could send our children to the Mahina pre-schools. But our standards are so different. My eldest, he started this year at the Mahina school. Six years old, of course he’s already mastered reading, writing, and arithmetic, fluent in French and English. They skipped him straight to third grade.” He shook his head in dismay at Schuyler’s educational standards.
“But about you! Are you still enjoying Spaceways? Or do you miss your own people?”
“Little of both,” Remi confided. “Wouldn’t mind a little female companionship. Apparently the evacuation’s been called off. Unexpected R&R.”
“How nice! How long?”
“No idea. Haven’t been paid, either. This hero business is overrated.”
Carver laughed out loud. “I can always use talent if you get tired of the stretches.”
“Doing what? I’m a space engineer.”
“Business is good. I’d like to expand. I don’t know about buying a ship. That seems like overkill. I just want to hire more shipping. Predictable, reliable freight, once a month between here and HB. Is that so much to ask? But at times I could use a consulting engineer. Clients wish to ship the damnedest things.”
“Anytime I’m in port,” Remi agreed. “Happy to. Need to earn money to pay the girls, yes?”
“My treat. You deserve a hero’s welcome home! Ah, it’s late and you’re tired! Shall we visit my compound now?”
Remi happily decamped with him, exiting into the unnerving olive twilight. Carver led confidently through the charmingly haphazard warren of Saggytown. Ruled by dire superstition, the paddies erected their fanciful little foamcrete huts to face in odd directions instead of toeing the line of a street. This formed accidental alleys that surprisingly widened into pocket parks, and odd corners graced by tiny shrines, and an air-scrubber poisonous fruit tree installed in mid-intersection. No vehicle bigger than a balloon-tired motorbike could possibly navigate the district. Averse to taxation, under the vast glowing orb of Pono above, the scruffy boomtown of Schuyler supplied little outdoor lighting on the weekend murk. And most locals slept behind blackout curtains, a necessity during the hot bright half of the week. Remi walked close against Carver’s shoulder through the maze.
“Rich Saggies!” someone hissed out of a black corner. That accent was pure Mahina stretch. Carver paused, seizing Remi’s arm.
A clink sounded behind them to the left – their current position was a three-way intersection of alleys. Remi hadn’t heard anything yet from behind and right. He lightly tugged Carver thataway, but the other man pulled him back. Sure enough, footsteps approached from the third alley. Remi sighed.
“I’m a paid client of Josiah,” Carver called out. “You don’t want an argument with Josiah. Do you?”
Remi knew Josiah in passing, king of the Schuyler underworld, and a personal friend of John Copeland, president of Spaceways. Apparently Josiah served as Cope’s mentor as a wayward teen. One of many things which made Remi go ‘hmm’ regarding his employers. Though Abel and Ben seemed fairly upstanding, law-abiding folk. Correction, Abel. Ben was a creature of the Rings. Tough to be law-abiding where no law applied.
“And what’s he?” demanded the man behind to the right. Dammit, a Denali. Remi started to sweat. “He’s Thrive crew! That just abandoned the evacuation of my people!”
“Oh, dear,” Carver breathed.
“I’m confused,” Remi called out. “Are you gentlemen together?”
“No!” replied the Denali. “But no need to argue. The morons want the rich Sag. We want the Thrive traitor. We call dibs!”
“Uh, sounds fair,” agreed the stretch ahead of them uneasily. He’d now stepped out of the inky shadows. And he was indeed a stretch, looming nearly three meters tall across their path. “Ain’t you worried about Josiah?”
The Denali scoffed. “Why would I be? Just one more stupid stretch like you!” Suddenly a hunter dodged past Remi, shoving him into Carver. He dove feet first into the towering stretch, hitting him at full momentum in the chest, felling him like a tree.
Carver had enough. He pulled out a flare gun and shot it straight up, bathing the scene in eye-searing lurid red. Remi wheeled to eyeball what lurked behind them. Only one Mahinan stretch hulked to his previous left. But three Denali hung back in group two. Born and raised in 1.1 g gravity, these guys were solid muscle.
Trained by Thrive service, Remi immediately grabbed Carver and cut in his
grav generator. “Jump!” With a good push-off, they sailed over the head of the rear Mahina goon, and did a bank-shot off a high wall onto another paddy’s flat roof, tripping into the inevitable lawn furniture.
One nice thing about fighting Denali hunters – they didn’t know grav generators. Below, running footfalls approached, Josiah’s rent-a-cops to the rescue. The Denali crew, bereft of their chance to bloody Remi, set into the stretch goons instead. But screeching imprecations, a little paddy grandma emerged from the one-story house the pair stood on, waving a steel skillet.
Who cooks with those anymore, mon chere?
“Your pardon, madame!” Carver cried in French. “We hide but a moment from ruffians below! Remi, get us off her roof, please.”
“Gladly.” He grabbed Carver around the waist and launched again to the next roof. He thought that was their direction of travel, anyway. But Carver pointed across the…street, courtyard, whatever, and Remi launched them again, sailing in slow motion. He didn’t quite make it across. They bounced off the wall and down among a rat’s nest of laundry clotheslines.
Remi reset his grav to 0.9 g, favored by Hell’s Bells and Sagamore alike. Holding Carver’s forearm, he led through the linens at a jog, groping his way toward open pavement.
They stood and looked around. The sounds of fighting had vanished, and so too the flare light, fallen into a different light-well. Carver admitted, “I’m lost.”
“Hm.” Remi drew his comm and brought up a map, rotating the device to match the angles of arbitrary walls. He showed it to Carver.
“Ah, this way!” He strode off in confidence again. “Sorry about that.”
“The Josiah goons, they’re quite prompt,” Remi admired. “My apologies. You had all under control.”
“Not at all! I must learn these gravity tricks. Please spend the night, and teach me tomorrow!”
“But of course!” Remi passed a sudden narrow bit, and a generous courtyard spread before them. This one featured a mansion in pride of place, Carver’s house. “Is this trouble typical?”
“Yes, stretches resent these new people. But our little paddies are easier to pick on than Denali. A hunter can beat a Mahina stretch into a pretzel. But a paddy? Easy prey. The Denali, well, that seemed personal.”
“That’s just not right,” Remi commiserated. “Where are the police?”
“What police? What government? Paying Josiah is cheaper than buying off the sheriff directly. No, my friend, Mahina is not ready for this influx. Schuyler has become a dangerous town. Promise me, you won’t walk back to the spaceport alone. But we Sag, we take care of our own.”
Remi purred, “But of course. Thank you, my friend. And I will treat your girls kindly.”
“Of course! Say nothing of it. We are friends.”
Carver’s house proved lovely, heavy with rich textiles in the Sagamore style, with devoted servants aplenty, though his home was smaller than the airy ‘Thrive mansion.’ His wife and children had gone to bed long since. But after another fortifying drink – a fine vintage – a couple cheerful paddy girls led Remi to a comfortable guest room. They expected to entertain him as a duo, but bore no ill will when he sent one away. Perhaps he’d try her tomorrow. But for now the saucier little darling bathed his feet, then danced him a strip-tease for one.
Ah! It wasn’t home, for Remi had none, and hadn’t for decades. Hell’s Bells in his era housed almost entirely men, stinking of sweaty feet and invariably stoned on their off hours. If anything, the monastic student dorms on Sagamore Orbital partied even harder. As for Roy Dome, the spare aristocrat couldn’t wait to escape from under his father’s thumb.
No, Carver’s guest room was a far more comfortable and charming rendition of Sagamore taste, and the girl so very well-appointed and accommodating. For Remi Roy, this was as close to homecoming as it got.
4
Devoted husband that he was, Cope settled uncomfortably on the armchair next to the couch, facing off against the psychiatrist. With the long couch offering many seating options, Ben elected to sit right next to him, dusty boots on the upholstery.
Cope expected to wait in the reception area and get some work done. Not that he particularly relished the chance to triage email from the legions of Spaceways’ angry creditors and irate employees. But Ben made clear this outing was Cope’s idea, not his, and he wasn’t walking through that door alone. I’m not crazy! I don’t need a shrink! And if I need to go in there, you’re damned well going to suffer alongside me!
“Doctor,” Cope greeted the urb with a wary nod. “Kind of you to see us on such short notice.” The guy looked 25 and perfectly fit, as did every other urb from the elite city of Mahina Actual. His credentials suggested he was actually in his fifties, and not especially successful in his profession, or he wouldn’t set out his shingle here in Schuyler, the settler bastion.
Nor was it generous of him to see Ben today. His receptionist made clear that an immediate visit would cost 100% extra. For a mere 50% extra, she might be able to squeeze him in sometime next month. At Dr. Wankler’s base fee, Denali would freeze over first. The secretary didn’t schedule more than a year in advance. ‘And so much trauma among the immigrants, you understand.’
Cope understood fine. Though he wondered how much of Dr. Wankler’s fees the chick out front skimmed off the top. But that was business, Schuyler-style.
Wankler smiled a wintry grimace at Cope, probably intended as friendly. “You are Ben Acosta?”
“I am Captain Benjamin Acosta,” Cope’s beloved growled. “And I don’t need to be here.”
“I see. Although I’m not quite sure why both of you are in the room?”
Ben glared at the man. Cope reflected that he’d probably get hit if he spoke for his husband again.
“Well, perhaps, Ben – may I call you Ben?”
“I prefer captain.”
“Very well, let’s keep it professional.” The shrink’s smile reminded Cope of a painful bowel movement. “Have you visited a psychiatrist before? Your counseling history form is blank.”
“No.”
“Not even a school counselor?”
“No.”
Cope offered, “I don’t think Poldark had –”
“Shut up, Cope,” Ben invited.
Wankler’s eye twitched as though wincing. “Ah, you’re from Poldark. Did you move to the city for wider career prospects?”
“Perhaps you’ve seen me on the news, doctor,” Ben replied icily. “I’m world-famous for my inconvenient nervous breakdown, endangering the lives of a thousand helpless immigrants over the Denali equator. Lead captain of Thrive Spaceways. He’s the president. My husband.” His tone suggested that last point remained negotiable.
“I don’t follow the news. Why don’t you tell me what happened?”
Ben’s face took on a bitter rictus. “I took off from Waterfalls. I fought the ship through a storm. I freaked out halfway up Denali’s atmosphere. I don’t remember much after that.”
“How long have you flown a spaceship?”
“Half my life. Two decades. I’m the best pilot in – anywhere, so far as I know. And I’ve visited four star systems.”
“And you’ve done this takeoff before, I trust. What was different this time, captain?”
“Not a rego thing.”
“Hm. Thrive Spaceways so far has transferred, what, thirty thousand Denali refugees? In two months? Eight round trips, and you led this effort?” Cope’s eye narrowed at the doctor, not nearly as uninformed as he claimed. “How do you feel about that?”
“I – Dammit.” Ben’s eye leaked a tear again, the muscles around his mouth set in bitter ridges. “Proud. Exhausted. Overwhelmed. Humiliated.” Cope reached for his hand.
“I see. Those are very different feelings, aren’t they? Let’s try to tease them apart, shall we? A moment.” His secretary opened the door and conveyed a nonverbal message to check something on his lap tablet. He stilled, taking in the information blank of face. But th
en he looked to Ben to respond to the question. “What makes you proud?”
“I saved half of Denali. Well, half of who wanted to leave, anyway, almost. And my team – our team. Not me personally.”
“You’re very precise. And remarkably well-educated for your generation.”
“Yes. We both are.”
The flick of a smile betrayed some humor that time. “You’re not willing to take credit or blame for this alone. Yet sometimes it must feel as though you’re carrying all these refugees personally, you alone. How many lives is that, captain?”
Ben’s eyes bugged out. He shifted back in the cushions. He uncrossed and recrossed his legs, then dropped both heels to the floor and hunkered forward onto them. “Seventy thousand lives. Forty thousand to go.” He dropped his head to his arms and blew out.
“That makes you anxious, doesn’t it?”
Ben exploded out of his seat. “Of course it makes me rego anxious! And I can’t do it!” His voice rose to a full-out yell. “No more fuel! No ground support on Mahina! And you, you useless yutz!” Cope sank lower in his chair as the onslaught targeted him. “Why am I handling the ground game? Why am I begging for fuel, from people I can’t pay? Why am I the one telling my crews I CANNOT PAY THEM! Again, dammit!”
“Mm, so captain, do you perceive this as a marital problem? Or perhaps exhaustion?”
Ben slammed his hands down, one after the other, on the arms of Wankler’s chair. He stuck his face within inches of the man’s. “You tell me, doctor! Could it be that I’m a little STRESSED OUT?” He shoved off with enough force to rock the chair back, yet not quite dump the shrink on his head.
“Buddy, maybe you should sit,” Cope suggested.
Ben copped a pose, fist on hip, then toppled backward onto the couch, which creaked alarmingly but did not break.
During their divorced years, Cope had observed that Ben developed an uncanny precision with tossing furniture and punching bulkheads. He seemed to know exactly how much force to almost but not quite break a wide variety of objects. Cope suspected his then-ex imagined his face on all of them.
