“There’s nothing to defend ourselves against. Come on, Fernando, you know that. You probably saw shadows in the mist from the evaporating hail.”
“It was plain as day – and big!” Fernando stretched out his hands to indicate something extremely large.
“All right, then show me. Maybe it left footprints.” Vincent tried to brush aside his automatic uneasiness. If the thing truly existed, he knew such information would be valuable to the scientists. But he was sure Fernando was just pulling his leg.
“I’m not going back over there unless you give me a weapon! There might be more of those things. Let’s get back inside the Trakmaster.”
Knowing his friend’s penchant for exaggeration, Vincent was not convinced, but Fernando looked sincerely shaken.
22
The blistering, blue, giant star SVC-1185 was prominent in the skies of all twenty Crown Jewels, but its own planets were nothing more than lifeless rocks. Nevertheless, the uninhabited system was a perfect place for a substation along the stringline path to Ridgetop in the Deep Zone.
For years now, Turlo Urvancik and his wife Sunitha had run this route, monitoring the quantum lines that radiated outward from Sonjeera to the other planets in the Constellation. During their string-line-maintenance trips, they had traveled to countless waystation systems like this one.
As soon as their linerunner, HDS Kerris, arrived under the star’s electric sapphire glare, Sunitha disengaged the vessel from the iperion-marked quantum path. She noted their position with satisfaction as the telescoping external sensor whips took readings. “Exactly on point.”
“You are the master, my dear. The absolute master.”
“I’d rather be a master than a mistress,” she teased. “But don’t get any ideas about having a mistress.”
“Where would I find one out here? We’re the only human beings in a parsec or two.”
“More to the point, what other woman would have you? It’s taken me decades to learn how to tolerate your eccentricities.”
“Been a learning process for both of us.” Turlo leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. He loved her thick black hair, her dark skin, her almond eyes; he never got tired of looking at her. “In another thirty years, maybe we’ll figure it out.” He got up and stretched. “Since you drove, it’s my turn to suit up.”
“Make sure you have the codplate properly fastened this time. I’d rather not have to rub the cream on again, like after your last exposure.”
Turlo huffed; he had rather enjoyed the treatment. “Not as if I need the sperm anymore.” He quickly regretted the extra comment – they both knew they wouldn’t have children again. Even so, the photo-image of their lost son, Kerris, held a prominent place in the ship’s tiny living quarters. The young man had been dead ten years now, since the rebellion, but reminders still popped up like landmines.
In the uncomfortable silence, Turlo removed the appropriate suit from the his-and-hers closet. As he donned it, the suit’s multilayered protective fabric and life-support systems transformed his body into a blobby shapeless form. He always made a point of commenting on how nicely Sunitha’s suit fit her curves (even though it seemed to be getting a bit snug in the past year).
The uneventful life of a stringline maintenance technician could lead to ennui and physical decrepitude. Substation maintenance became a casual routine, though Turlo and Sunitha did not allow themselves to take any shortcuts. She helped him seal and link the suit systems, ran all the greens, ran them a second time, then slapped him on the back. “Ready to go.”
Listening to his own breathing echo in his helmet, Turlo cycled through the Kerris’s airlock and emerged into the emptiness. Outside, the substation was the only mark of human presence in the entire system. Its mirrorshine panels drank the constant outpouring of heavy solar radiation, which powered the station and kept the iperion path aligned and intact.
In an external tool compartment, the Kerris held a selection of spare parts that Turlo rarely had to use. With conservative bursts of compressed air from his suitpack, he maneuvered himself over to the hodgepodge array of machinery. Turlo used a magnetic grip to catch the substation, clipped himself on with a retractable line and carabineer, and began his work. He muted his transmitting codecall circuit, since his habit of whistling while working annoyed Sunitha.
Turlo finished the routine inspection, considered replacing one of the collimation projectors; it was just barely below 50 per cent and not really in need of being swapped out. He did it anyway. He could always hand the unit to Territorial Governor Goler once they arrived on Ridgetop.
After unclipping himself, he jetted around the substation to complete a visual inspection for any meteoroid damage, but found only superficial scarring. Satisfied, he returned to the Kerris and cycled through to the pressurized interior after humming his way through a ten-minute radiation wash.
While he was gone, Sunitha had pulled up records and images of Ridgetop’s tall goldenwood forests, even though they weren’t due to arrive at the DZ planet for two more days. “Going stir-crazy. Time to stretch my legs and breathe air that hasn’t come out of our lungs a thousand times over.”
Turlo brushed aside the sharp comment. At the end of long trips, they both tended to be edgy. After so many years of marriage, they were utterly dependent upon each other. They couldn’t live apart, and they knew for damn sure that neither of them could live with anyone else. At times, however, cooped up in this small vessel, they had a bit too much of each other’s company.
As they monitored the stringlines from Sonjeera to the Crown Jewel worlds, and now out to the Deep Zone, the two of them had the opportunity to see the settled galaxy. They had gone to Nicles and Oshu, Setsai and Boj . . . from Tehila to Hallholme to Ridgetop to Candela, all via the Sonjeera hub. In the wake of their son’s death, Turlo and Sunitha had both needed to get away from people, wanting time alone to grieve, to repair their relationship, and just to have silence, both outside and within.
Turlo took a quick recycled shower, then put on his comfortable singlesuit before returning to the cockpit. In the meantime, Sunitha had piloted them away from the SVC-1185 substation and realigned their ship with the stringline path. She began to accelerate out of the system. “We’re well ahead of schedule – ETA forty-three hours. Our first stop on Ridgetop is going to be a meal somebody else cooks for me.”
“I usually cook for you.”
“No, you usually reheat for me. Let’s not forget what real cooking is.”
Turlo came close to nuzzle her neck. “In the meantime, we should take advantage of our privacy. Want to fool around?”
“Hmm, you are nice and clean.” Sunitha rose from the pilot’s chair and turned to him.
A proximity alarm howled through the cockpit speakers, and Sunitha dove for the controls, saw radiating red lines streaming across the screen. “Vibration alert on the stringline – what the hell?”
Turlo took his own position. “There’s no cargo hauler due on this line for six days.”
“Too small for a cargo hauler, but it’s speeding this way.” Sunitha slapped the controls, and the linerunner disengaged from the quantum path with a lurch. The Kerris began drifting in empty space, spinning, while Sunitha worked the stabilizers. Turlo grabbed a support handle and pulled himself down into the copilot chair, running his own diagnostics. Once disengaged if they wandered too far from the hair-fine path, they might never find it again. The stringline was only a series of processed iperion molecules, and those quantum breadcrumbs were widely spaced, particularly out here between systems.
The alarm signal became a monotonous pulsing, sped up to a tooth-rattling staccato, then Dopplered down to a lower rhythm and zipped away.
“It’s a mail drone – a stupid unscheduled message packet!” Sunitha was already extending their sensor whips, searching, searching until finally she caught a ping of the iperion path. “What the hell were they thinking?”
Turlo finished his analysis. “Must be a d
iplomatic communiqué from the Territorial Governor. Why couldn’t he just wait for the next hauler?”
“The governor probably forgot to fill out a form or something, and the Diadem wanted it now.” Grumbling sarcastically, Sunitha called up their schedule and swore. “We’re three hours early – that’s why nobody thought to warn us. We weren’t supposed to be on the stringline path. According to our docs, we should still be at the substation. The mail drone thought the way was clear.” She turned on Turlo. “Were you cutting corners? Why did you get done so fast?”
“Me? I thought you were anxious to get to Ridgetop.”
“From now on, we have to adhere to the schedule – rigidly. No more of your hand waving.”
“Yes, dear. You’re right, I’m wrong.” That was usually the incantation that quelled the demon of her temper, but he sensed that Sunitha was still spoiling for a fight, and he would have to roll with it.
Once she had the Kerris aligned on the stringline path again and started accelerating, she continued to enumerate his faults. Turlo would just have to let the storm wash over him and hope that in the aftermath he could at least earn some make-up sex. Otherwise, it was going to be a long stopover on Ridgetop, indeed.
23
The palace of the Diadem was one of seven residences Michella used on Sonjeera, depending on her schedule or her mood. For private meetings, she actually preferred the Royal Retreat, built on a promontory in the hills on the other side of the valley.
Though her official calendar was light, the Diadem rose early. First, she attended a breakfast meeting with Torii Pence, trade representative for the Hirdan family, and they reached agreement on tax credits for Hirdan investment in the manufacture of stringline hauler frames. The Council still needed to pass the final proposal, but Michella would see to it that the votes were there.
After Pence departed, the Diadem signed a document renewing the confinement of her sister, Haveeda, for another three years. She took no pleasure in this action – Haveeda was still just a terrified little girl in Michella’s memory – but the action was necessary to protect Duchenet family secrets. If only her sister hadn’t threatened to reveal what she knew about the death of their younger brother, Jamos. According to the official report, the four-year-old had fallen out of a tree and struck his head, while the horrified girls watched, helpless to intervene. The actual events had been somewhat different, and Haveeda had unfortunately seen things she shouldn’t have . . .
After submitting the secret document for Haveeda’s caretakers, Michella went to her private library to read a book of her favorite poems, wanting to relax, but she found herself staring at the pages. Restless, she paced the large room.
Her other appointment of the day was problematic, though it shouldn’t have been. Selik Riomini was her strongest ally, and their goals were closely aligned. He employed his private army and behind-the-scenes connections to help the Diadem maintain her position, despite calls for her resignation due to advancing age. Because Michella allowed the Black Lord to have so much influence in her administration, it was in his best interests to support her.
But sometimes he overreached . . .
Though staff informed her that Lord Riomini was waiting on the top level veranda, she decided to ignore him for half an hour. He was a punctual man who considered lateness a personal insult, but the Diadem let him stew so that he could grasp her displeasure over what she had learned.
The original relationship between the Duchenets and the Riominis had involved the ambitious nineteen-year old Michella and an elderly lord, Gilag Riomini. There were whispered rumors that Michella was sleeping with the old man to arrange votes, but their relationship had been purely business. The two families promoted their own interests by thwarting a coalition of the Crais and Tazaar families that would have put Lord Albo Crais on the Star Throne . . .
Now, standing by her reading desk, biding her time, Michella stared at the Constellation Charter on the wall, a copy of the ancient original that resided at the Interplanetary Museum. Touching a button at the corner of the frame, she scrolled randomly through the long document, pausing at the Rule of Succession. The article related to the transfer of power from one Diadem to the next, specifically designed to avoid the corruption and inherent weaknesses of a generational monarchy, and yet it had also shaped the politics of the Constellation, forcing ever-shifting alliances among the nobles.
Because of that clause, Michella had no reason to groom her daughter for the position, and was forced to deal with outsiders like the Riominis. But no matter how closely allied, the interests of two families could not coincide all of the time. By law, the Diadem of the Constellation must take into account the interest of every noble family in the Council of Lords, without favoring one to the detriment of others. Not even the Riominis . . .
Finally deciding she had made Selik wait long enough, Michella went out onto the veranda to meet him for their luncheon. Lord Riomini stood at a viewing rail with his back to her. His body language clearly revealed his agitation and tension. Good. She wanted him to understand her displeasure with his suggestion that his planet become a second stringline hub, much like Sonjeera.
Like a black-uniformed statue, Riomini did not even turn towards her when she calmly went to a table that had been set for two. She accepted a glass of mint tea from the young female servant, then sipped the calming, warm beverage. Just the right temperature to enhance the mint; it was one of her favorites.
Gazing past the rigid Lord Riomini, she saw her main palace twinkling like a jewel in the sunlight on the other side of the valley. Some distance away, the sprawling government buildings of Council City were abuzz with ground vehicles and aircraft. On the horizon, the spaceport launched regular shuttles to the huge stringline hub complex in orbit.
“If you don’t stop pouting, Selik, I’ll begin the meeting without you – and I shall play both parts, with me scolding you, and you trying unsuccessfully to fend off my verbal blows. Make no mistake, you are wrong this time. Very wrong.”
Surrendering, Riomini turned and made his way to the table. Tiers of decorations adorned his black military jacket, most of which she had bestowed herself for his service during the rebellion.
He took a seat across from her, ordered a glass of red wine instead of mint tea, and drank deeply without seeming to taste the vintage. “I think you’re being stubborn, Eminence. With all of Aeroc’s exports, I simply want to make my operations more efficient and cost-effective. It makes perfect commercial sense. The secondary stringline hub I proposed at Aeroc would connect with the five worlds that my family now controls, nothing more. I am willing to negotiate specific tariffs to be paid back to the Constellation.”
“You would not just be establishing a secondary hub, Selik – you would be establishing a precedent. Because the only hub is at Sonjeera, all commerce must pass through here. Sonjeera is the heart of the Constellation. It is the only way we can impose control and respect. If I let you have a secondary hub at Aeroc, then the Tazaars will want one, and the Hirdans, and everyone else. It could spell the disintegration of the entire Constellation.” She leaned across the table, met his dark-eyed gaze. “All paths lead to Sonjeera, and so it must remain.”
From its large hub complex, iperion lines led to each of the nineteen other Crown Jewel worlds and to each of the fifty-four Deep Zone planets. All ships, cargo, and passengers were required to come first to Sonjeera, then transfer to a different outbound stringline hauler headed to a destination planet.
Riomini did not give up his schemes easily, nor did she expect him to. “Each noble family has the right to improve operations and maximize profits, Eminence. The Charter says that we are a political and economic fraternity. A monopoly on transportation is not necessarily a good thing.”
“It most certainly is when you are the Diadem . . . and you may well be the next one, Selik.”
He fiddled with his eating utensils, as if anxious for his meal to be served. Behind him, on a pole that angle
d out from the veranda, fluttered the banner of her diademacy: red and silver – the colors of the Duchenets – surrounded by a black boundary, signifying the Riomini military power that supported her. Though Riomini legions were stationed on Sonjeera, and the Black Lord commanded the Army of the Constellation, Michella had the power and authority of her office. She knew she was more than a match for him.
Michella sipped her mint tea again. “Your proposal challenges one of the guiding principles established when I set up the stringline system. Your father understood the need for this and never questioned it.”
“That is history, Eminence. We must think instead of the future.”
She frowned at the very idea. “I have done that for more decades than you’ve been alive.”
Very early in her reign, while still in her twenties, Diadem Michella had launched a major public-works project to replace the slow FTL ships with direct stringline routes between the Sonjeera hub and the nearby Crown Jewel worlds. It was a paradigm shift for transportation and commerce; voyages that once took days or weeks could now be made in hours or days.
To pay for the stringline network and all the processed iperion needed to mark the routes, the Constellation charged a toll for each vessel and tariffs for cargo. Even so, transportation via stringline was vastly cheaper and swifter than using cumbersome FTL ships. Despite the expense of the massive project, the Constellation had earned back the investment. Through numerous edicts and skillful political maneuverings, the Diadem had made it impossible for other planets to connect directly to one another. Every ship had to go through Sonjeera.
Some old-style FTL vessels still made runs among the Crown Jewel worlds, but few people wanted to pay a much higher price for a much slower ship. Most of the antique craft had been decommissioned, and those that continued to fly became mere novelties and tourist attractions.
Linking the Crown Jewels with an efficient stringline network might have been enough for any ruler, but Michella had also realized the need to expand into new territory. She offered virgin worlds as a pressure-release valve for overcrowded planets and dissatisfied noble families. She had launched trailblazer ships to lay down iperion paths to the mysterious Deep Zone, eager to connect those frontier worlds to Sonjeera. Because of the vast distances involved, the trailblazer voyages took years.
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