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Table of Contents
About the Author
Other Titles from Kristine Kathryn Rusch
Copyright Information
To Colleen Kuehne,
For everything
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This project is so massive that there is no way I could have done it without the assistance of Annie Reed, Colleen Kuehne, Judy Cashner, Jerimy Colbert, and Allyson Longueira.
Special thanks to my husband, Dean, for keeping me sane as the books morphed and changed and grew.
But…I reserve my deepest gratitude for all you readers. Thank you for coming with me on this journey—and for waiting while I completed the books. Your support has sustained me while I wrote. Thank you.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Dear Readers,
This book is the reason that I had to write all of the books in the Anniversary Day Saga before I released any more of them. This book and the next four. Before I explain that cryptic bit of information, let me address all of you in general.
If you are new to the Anniversary Day Saga, back up and start with the book titled Anniversary Day. If you’re new to the Retrieval Artist series, start with any book up to (and including) Anniversary Day. The first book in the entire series, The Disappeared, is probably best for you to start with, but all of those previous novels stand alone as, I hope, the novels after this saga will as well.
For those of you who have been with me all along and picked up this book without reading the rest of the saga, here’s what’s going on: WMG Publishing reissued Anniversary Day and Blowback in the fall of 2014, with new covers and new author’s notes inside (no new material, though, so if you’ve read them, you don’t need to scan through the reissues).
In January of 2015, WMG released A Murder of Clones, the third book in the saga. This novel, Search & Recovery, is the fourth book in the saga, and it appeared in February of 2015. The rest of the books in the saga will be released one per month in 2015 through June, when the last book in the saga will appear. For more information about the saga and the series, go to retrievalartist.com.
Here’s why you’re getting six books in six months:
I write stories out of order. I have always done so, for reasons I don’t entirely understand. Usually, though, my stories are contained in one novel that wraps up at the end, so before I release the novel into the world, I can put it in order. But when I write an entire saga, the saga is the story, not the novels that create the saga.
And in the past, traditional publishing schedules only allowed for one series book per year, so writing something like the Anniversary Day saga was almost impossible to do well.
When I started Anniversary Day, I had no idea that it would take so many books to finish the long arc. As I look at the story I was trying to tell, though, it makes sense. You can’t—well, I can’t—write about a vast epic in one or two novels and feel satisfied. I know some writers can, but honestly, I don’t much care for those books.
So, following the rule that all writers should follow, I’m writing a story I would like to read. It’s long, it’s involved, but it does follow a plan and an arc. I just had to write around various parts of the puzzle until I figured out exactly what the entire saga needed.
And I’m glad I waited to publish until I finished the rest of the saga. Because this is the book that reminded me why I chose to publish after I finished.
Search & Recovery didn’t exist until I had nearly finished the book I initially thought of as the third book in the Anniversary Day saga—The Peyti Crisis. The Peyti Crisis (which is the March book) will feature Miles Flint. I thought I had finished The Peyti Crisis in January of 2014, but something bothered me about it, something that I couldn’t put my finger on.
Then I started the next book in the saga, Vigilantes, and characters kept showing up, telling me what they had done on the way to the Moon. I figured I could write really boring “and this happened and this happened” dialogue, or I could write the actual stories.
Besides, at that moment, all of the villains revealed themselves, with some surprises, and I realized that I needed to understand why they did what they had done. I had a vague idea, but when you’re writing a long story arc, a vague idea wouldn’t be very satisfying.
I know I write out of order, and I knew the end of this saga was being written out of order. If I were still working in traditional publishing, out of New York, I would have written one or two books a year on this series for the next few years, and felt very frustrated when I realized I had told the middle section wrong.
I would have figured out how to make it work, but it would have felt like walking backwards in a windstorm. WMG Publishing has given me the freedom to write the story arc I want to write (which is essentially one giant book split into novel-sized chunks) and to publish the novels quickly so you folks don’t have to remember year to year what’s going on. That freedom makes all the difference in the world.
What this publishing schedule does for the saga is keep it unstuck in time, which is how it should be. Flint and his team were surprised by what happened on Anniversary Day. I had to preserve that surprise, while showing how the crisis unfolded and why. That’s why A Murder of Clones (January), this book, and the upcoming Starbase Human (May) are set in the saga’s recent past.
Search & Recovery is set shortly after Anniversary Day. The next book, The Peyti Crisis, returns to the days just after Blowback, when all the residents of the Moon must deal with the second attack that hit so soon after the first.
I am conscious that each book needs a beginning, middle, and an end. So even though the saga threads remain unresolved in these middle books of the saga, I’m trying to tell smaller stories within the larger one.
This is one of those smaller tales. I hope you enjoy it.
—Kristine Kathryn Rusch
Lincoln City, Oregon
May 31, 2014
FOUR YEARS AGO
ONE
BERHANE MAGALHÃES’S MOTHER put her arm around Berhane’s shoulder, pulled her close, and kissed the top of her head. Berhane flushed, but refrained from looking around the Armstrong Express car at the other passengers to see if they noticed her mother’s inappropriate display of affection. Berhane used to glance at others guiltily when she was younger, and all it would do was make her mother’s trilling laugh echo through whatever compartment they were in.
This compartment was large and wide, with silver built-in seats that accommodated most two-legged species, and some sideways booths for wider aliens. There was even a flat tabletop area for the Disty. A Disty sat cross-legged on it now, its tiny childlike shape belying its ferocity.
Berhane had grown up fearing the Disty. Apparently, her father had lost business associates to them, and he loved to talk about how awful the Disty were and how they murdered indiscriminately. Earth Alliance law allowed for it, he would say, and then he would add, That’s such a travesty.
She tried not to look at the Disty—and found herself looking at a wide variety of humans instead. They were standing, sitting, watching vids on their links, swaying to the train’s movement. Scattered among them, a few Peyti—gray aliens so thin that they looked like they would shatter with a tap to their twig-like arms. They wore masks over much of their faces, which she had grown used to in her time at the university.
Berhane hadn’t had a lot of contact with aliens before she graduated from the Armstrong Wing of the Aristotle Academy two years ago. Now, aliens filled her classes, and the hallway, and the public transportation she took daily to get to Dome University’s Armstrong ca
mpus.
Apparently, Berhane’s mother noted her discomfort with the aliens and pulled Berhane even closer. Berhane didn’t move away, although she wanted to. Her mother—and probably most of the humans in the car—would have found the movement rude.
And whatever she thought of her mother, Berhane didn’t want to be rude to her. She knew they just misunderstood each other most of the time.
Madeline Magalhães believed in laughter and affection and warmth; for some reason, she had married a man who believed in none of those things, leaving her children confused about the very nature of love and proper behavior.
None more than Berhane, who adored her father. He seemed to approve of her, although he rarely said so. But of all the family members, the only one he talked to about business and the future was Berhane.
Her mother grinned at everyone else in the compartment. Most of them looked away. Her mother rarely rode public transportation, but this morning, she was accommodating Berhane—sort of.
Berhane had mentioned that they’d be taking the five a.m. inner dome train in an effort to dissuade her mother from accompanying her. Predictably, her mother had mentioned bringing their own car, but Berhane had vetoed that.
She hated parking in the university lots. Not only was it difficult to find a space, but she found that having a car—particularly one of the most expensive models on the Moon—made her feel less like a student and more like a wealthy dilettante.
“You really need to listen to me,” her mother said softly, after she had kissed Berhane’s head.
“I do listen,” Berhane said a little too loudly. The big man near her looked over. She glared at him, wondering if his size was a conscious choice. He looked wealthy enough to afford thinness enhancements.
“My darling,” her mother said, laughter in her voice, “you have never listened to me. But you need to, now.”
“Mom,” Berhane said. “I have finals this week. I don’t have time to think about any big life changes.”
Whenever her mother got this tone, she wanted Berhane to do something. Change her major, be nicer to her father, talk to her brother about something he was doing wrong.
Given the timing, her mother probably wanted her to break up with her boyfriend. Her mother had never liked Torkild Zhu, believing him to be a cold-hearted bastard like her father. At least, those were her mother’s words.
And maybe her mother was right on some level. Torkild wanted to be a lawyer, not because he cared about people, per se, but because he found the law intellectually challenging—and because he thought being a lawyer would be a great way to make money. Not Bernard Magalhães kind of money (one of the richest men on the Moon money), but out-earning your own parents kind of money.
Torkild had said that if he were a lawyer, he would have to answer to himself, the courts, and no one else.
He seemed to think that a good idea. Berhane had not found a way to argue with him.
And she hadn’t felt like it. He had his passions; she wished she had hers. She was still looking for her place in the universe. Right now, she was that Magalhães girl, or Torkild’s girlfriend, or a Dome University student.
No one knew who Berhane was because Berhane didn’t know who Berhane was either.
Her mother’s smile vanished. “You need to make time to talk with me. I don’t think this can wait any longer.”
Drama. Her mother was all about drama—happy drama, but drama nonetheless.
Her mother must have seen the reluctance on Berhane’s face. She patted Berhane on the leg.
“Tell you what,” her mother said. “I’ll stop at the Shenandoah Café and get that cinnamon coffee you like. I’ll bring it to your favorite table in the quad in, what? An hour?”
Berhane resisted the urge to roll her eyes. That was what she got for telling her mother her exam schedule. She could almost hear herself blithely nattering last night:
I’m not worried about the first exam, even if it is at 6:30 in the morning. It’s Poetry of the New Worlds, which is going to be an essay exam, graded on creativity, which just means repeating the lectures the professor gave that he obviously thought were brilliant…
“I thought you had a meeting,” Berhane said, trying not to sound desperate. She hated heart-to-hearts with her mother. “That was what you told me last night.”
Her mother’s smile was wide and warm, deepening the creases around her eyes and making her seem even more cheerful than usual.
“I do have a meeting,” her mother said. “It’s with you.”
Berhane felt a surge of irritation. Her mother always manipulated her like that. But before Berhane could say anything, her mother stood. The train was slowing. Her mother headed to the nearest exit, along with two Peyti, three Imme, and a short woman who didn’t quite block Berhane’s view of her mother’s face.
Her mother smiled at Berhane, then waggled her fingers. Berhane gave her a reluctant shake of the head. Her mother knew that Berhane was annoyed at her—and in typical fashion, her mother didn’t really care.
The train stopped, the door eased open, and the group of seven from this part of the car stepped onto the outdoor platform—although nowhere in Armstrong’s dome was really outside. Outside was the Moon itself, with its own gravity and lack of oxygen. Berhane had gone out there several times in an environmental suit, generally with her father on business, and it had always freaked her out.
The platform glowed golden in light from Dome Dawn. Her mother’s hair had reddish highlights from the fake sunlight, and her matching black pantsuit glowed reddish as well. She walked to the side of the platform, heading toward the stairs, as the train eased forward.
Berhane felt a longing for cinnamon coffee. The Shenandoah Café made the best in Armstrong. Her mother definitely knew how to bribe her. And after this stupid final, Berhane would want some kind of refreshment, even if it meant letting her mother harangue her.
The train sped up, heading across the famed University shopping district with its funky stores and fantastic restaurants (including the Shenandoah Café), before it reached the first of five University stops. Berhane didn’t settle in. She would get off on the second stop and walk less than a block to get to her exam.
Berhane felt annoyed. Instead of focusing on the exam (which was going to count for 75% of her grade), she was thinking about whatever it was that her mother wanted. And it had to be something important (life-changing, her mother had said) to merit cinnamon coffee and a forced meeting.
The train slid sideways.
Berhane’s heart rose and her breath caught.
Trains weren’t supposed to slide sideways. They couldn’t slide sideways.
Berhane felt a surge of alarm.
Then the train car toppled backwards, and the people near the door flew toward her.
A big man landed on her, knocking the wind from her. Screams echoed around her. Beside her, a Peyti—its face grotesque and strange—gasped. It had no mask. It was on its side, groping for its mask with its twig-like fingers. Somehow Berhane managed to grab the mask and give it to the Peyti, all without dislodging the big man on top of her.
More people had landed on him, and the screaming continued.
Then another thump occurred, making the car jolt upward as if nothing held it down, not even the weight of the people inside. The car had gone dark.
She managed to catch a thin breath, although it hurt. Then she realized that the air tasted of chemicals. Burned chemicals. She peered through the window, which was now above her, and saw a blackened dome.
The car hadn’t gone dark—or maybe it had—but the dome had gone dark too. Domes didn’t go dark. That meant the power was off, the environment was no longer being filtered, and everyone would die.
They would all die.
She gasped for air again, her chest aching. The air burned its way down her throat.
She willed herself to think—not about dying, but about surviving. She needed to survive. She needed to live. If she thought ab
out dying, she would, underneath the big man who smelled of sweat, in a closed car filled with screamers, and near a Peyti clutching its mask to its bony little face. Its eyes met hers, and in their liquid depths, she thought she saw panic.
She wouldn’t panic. She couldn’t.
The car hadn’t shifted any more. Whatever had happened was over—at least for the moment.
She moved her arms under the big man, finding his back or his shoulders or some solid part of him, and she shoved.
“We have to move,” she said.
She could barely hear herself in all the screaming. The Peyti was still staring at her.
She shoved again.
“Move!” she shouted at the big man, and he did, somehow, sliding toward the seat behind her.
A tangle of people and a Disty tumbled on top of her and she kept shoving.
“Move!” she yelled again, and this time, her voice cut through the screams. The fact that someone (she) had taken charge seemed to galvanize everyone.
People started picking themselves up, rolling away from each other, asking questions instead of screaming.
“Anything broken?”
“You okay?”
“Can you slide this way?”
Berhane tuned out the words and managed to pull herself upright. She was now standing on the window of the car, her back against the ceiling. The train had derailed, something she hadn’t thought possible. Weren’t they built so that they couldn’t derail? She remembered hearing about that in one of her classes. Something about magnetized couplings and nanobots and—
She wiped a hand over her face, and took another deep breath of the chemical-laden air. She was in shock, or sliding into shock, and she didn’t dare, because they were trapped in this car. Judging from the smells around her—those chemicals, the stench of burning—something had gone very wrong somewhere, and she couldn’t know if it was the train itself or if it was the dome.
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