by Sharon Lee
Silk opened his eyes, flicked an ear and settled in. Silk knew how to deal with changes. And he already worked for his living.
Closing his eyes again, he left the Boss to his duties.
The Boss, for his part, saw that the day's green Action File was not yet delivered, this late in the day, and frowned. True, he'd barely returned from Solcintra, but surely procedures hadn't slipped so far so quickly. He rang the small bell he kept on a shelf above his desk, which would summon someone, likely a recruit from Miss Audrey's, to find Cheever McFarland or the green day file, or perhaps both.
* * *
The surly gaze of the double-star Chuck-Honey barely a light year away was flickerless in the breeze when he woke, more proof that the wind had turned and came now from the northwest rather than the southwest -- none of the road's smoke and smudge in the sky now, none of whatever latent heat the city and its spaceport might contribute to shimmer the sky.
This sleeping outdoors would have to stop, should have stopped now that Rollie was gone -- no one to remind him of the dangers of sleeping himself to death in the cold. And it was cold … or at least cool, despite his shirt and jacket; pulling himself to his feet using the rock he'd sheltered against. He'd managed last winter though, him and the cats. He'd get through. Boss Sherton told him when she'd walked up with some butter just a a few days back that he was a good neighbor, and besides, he traded her fresh coffee, and she told him the news.
This last time, she'd tried to get him to walk to town and trade direct, but Rollie'd got caught up in all that and never come back. And him, Yulie, he'd never been down to pick up the stuff Miss Audrey had. If he'd have really needed it, he would have known Rollie'd taken it. But trading direct was supposed to be better and safer now, said Melina. There was a new boss -- a Boss of Bosses! Not only was he a Boss, but he had brought ships to port, which had to be good for business. This Boss Conrad was a man who was making changes.
Changes -- Yulie didn't like changes all that much. Didn't trust changes, all that much.
Frost well before dawn then, that was his prediction, and the skittering he could hear in the leaves more evidence of the season and the weather. The wind on his face would quiet sometime before -- ah!
The flash of a meteor: a momentary scintillation fading into a green line fading into the gathered darkness, the light a comfort rather than a threat.
Rollie'd thought he spent too much time with Grandpa watching the sky, and Yulie wondered if he spent too much time now, on account of he knew the sky. Most of the changes in it were cyclical -- the sky would look much the same this time next year, aside from the barely perceptible flight of the double stars. His full panic came on him easily in the open day, but not as often in the night. Under the stars it was as if he sat more firmly in the universe, as wild as the universe was.
A flash -- meteor?
No, what had caught his eye was -- what? It clearly moved at an orbital speed, low to the horizon, but if he read it right it was easily as large as the largest ship he'd ever seen orbit Surebleak, maybe larger. There was more going on in the sky; it was as if a swarm of ships had arrived nearly at once -- a host of ships, orbiting almost in a stream or a ring, there were so many. He felt a flutter of energy, pushed the panic back. Boss Sherton had explained that the Boss of Bosses was busy, and that she trusted what Conrad was doing, and that there were ships. The big one that caught his eye was in a polar orbit crossing that stream; a small halo of other ships about it -- it might even be one of the legendary Korval trade ships Grampa'd always talked about.
Changes!
Yulie shivered, unsure if it was the weather or the times. Grampa had taught him to be wary of change. Change had taken away his ship, and then the Settlement Agreement he'd made with the company had turned into a debacle as the whole organization evaporated shortly after he'd set down to take over his property, prepared to lease out . . . well, a regional depression did nothing to make that work.
Yeah, change was difficult. Certainly Rollie'd never helped, always managing to take an advantage when something new did happen, from taking the newer bed when Mom left to pulling a muscle right at the time Grampa was setting work schedules so it ended up Rollie on perpetual light-duty, it seemed.
Started down that thought road Yulie rolled on, right up to Rollie helping him choose a nettle-vined hideaway for one of his few forays into hunting oversized feral Cachura pigs -- apparently one of Rollie's least successful jokes on account of Grampa finding out about it -- and for that matter, for taking such an interest in his attempts to talk to the twins hanging around the small farm market near the inner tollbooth to Ira Gabriel's blocks that Rollie'd made it a threesome, leaving Yulie out of the mix entire, claiming of course that he'd been misunderstood. And once he'd made that connection . . .
Yah, that's how it was, often enough, Rollie doing what he wanted and when, and now this, right out of Grampa's dreams, traders coming here, big traders. Ships coming, lots of ships. That was the change he'd been told, that the new big Boss, Boss Conrad, was building the port up in part so he could bring in the trade. And Rollie, he'd missed this good thing, pushing too hard too soon. The road was open, now. Not so much of tariff at each tollbooth, not so much hassle.
Yulie shivered again and heard a distant complaint. It was likely the gray one. Some cats told time better than he did. Yes, he was late, and some people around here kept schedules, even if he didn't.
But he should. The strangers might be back tomorrow, and besides, he needed to walk down to Melina Sherton's and see if somebody would talk to him, assuming he could get that far. He had tubers and late greens and cabbages that needed to go to market, some way, and the folks down at the Boss Sherton's stands understood that sometimes it took him awhile to get a conversation going.
* * *
The news wasn't good, and it didn't come until he was at Prime. Pat Rin was unfond of the Terran habits which broke meals, though often as not here on Surebleak, necessity was Necessity.
Cheever's nod pre-spoke a problem, and though he needed no permission to sit at the evening's communal table he seemed unsure…and then decisive, making his way directly to the Boss.
Low voice, a touch of hand-talk -- a glance to make sure his large person was between the room and his words.
"The plot's tended, and the door's locked. We called, but it was getting late, and Sherton's people were a little unsure, on account of the guy's some strange, they say. Like you figured, Sherton wants the thing cured proper beforehand, and so does Boss Ira.
No use spooking him or annoying a good neighbor. The road itself -- the thing is, I don't know how stuff is going to fit together there, but it looks like a straight shot from the tollbooth to the ditch. Road goes right there."
Pat Rin looked away, not angered, but frustrated. On his left Natesa asked, "The door locked? How locked -- could they have been inside?"
The big man shrugged, palms up.
"Wouldn't think so, catwise. Couple or three right there, wanting us to let 'em in, kinda sleek. Some out cats was around while we searched -- pretty much ignored us, but the ones at the door, I'd say they were wanting someone to let 'em to supper." He shrugged again, looked to the Boss.
"Should I have forced the door? Didn't seem neighborly."
Pat Rin waved the hand-talk Negative Negative Negative with a touch of impatience.
"Surely not, Mr. McFarland. I may already have an aggrieved party on my hands; it clearly wouldn't do to give him any other advantages in negotiation."
"My take, too." Cheever glanced meaningfully toward his place at the table . . .
"Tomorrow, it should be done, even if it means I go out myself. The Passage is in orbit and soon enough the logistics of the landings will be organized. If need be, you can fly surveillance for us."
Cheever cleared his throat, hard.
"There's more?"
"Boss, if you go, take somebody with you. He's supposed to be a real fine rifle shot. Real fine. Boss I
ra says that, anyhow. Boss Melina says he's doing better now. Hasn't fired on people for a couple, four years, far as anyone knows."
Pat Rin nodded.
"Would I could say the same, Pilot. Thank you for your information."
* * *
Farming was like that, day comes after the night, sometimes it rains and sometimes it don't. This time of the year favored rain, so Yulie was just as glad to be up early, almost on schedule, the gray cat having forgotten to wake. Just as well, a few extra minutes was good, and he'd been a little tense anyway, when he came in, and the single glass he allowed himself did help . . . but he'd been a few minutes late getting to bed. The little Blair Road Booster news-sheet yesterday's visitors left him was a curiosity -- he mostly didn't take any of the radio feeds, and now this: talk about a clinic going to full-time, all day, all night, all the time, and something that made him laugh -- an image of road sign they called a stop sign that drivers were supposed to pay attention to even if there weren't a tollbooth and a gunman behind it.
But there was more interesting news: a new bakery, and a new school, and a meeting of the Bosses about a general safety patrol to take care of the road. And an events listing, which looked like so many times and days and things going on that it couldn't be his Surebleak.
He'd gone to sleep with a twitch of irony. That safety patrol was good from the port all the way out to the third Blair road intersection. But the road, the big road, it came all the way out to him. Was he gonna end up with more cat-hunters?
That germ of an idea had brought nightmares to wake him up -- flashbacks, Rollie'd call them -- ten of the cats from the greens field, laid out neat in a row, mostly shot, like they was food, laying on a bag. The sight of them made him throw up. Then he'd heard another shot and gone back to the house.
He'd always liked to shoot -- it relaxed him immensely. This time though, he'd brought out the rounds Grampa called Military Tops and loaded up, and walked calm as could be back past the dead cats, and found another one, along with some of the skulk rats it had taken, and so then he went to hunt mode.
Wasn't much to hunt, really: six of them, a couple with pistols, stupid about moving. He was going to try to stop them, that was his idea, but he come on them when two were sighting on a hunter-cat at work, and there, clear as could be, was his shot.
Five of them were dead where they fell; the sixth tried to pull a hideaway on him, way too late.
He'd gone back to the house with the dead cats, planning to bury them, and roused Rollie -- who'd been late getting back from a jaunt to The Easiery -- and told him he'd got himself some bad varmints, and Rollie'd better look, which Rollie did.
Eventually a couple of city-types claiming kin and friend came looking, and Rollie'd pointed out the signs about no hunting and told them there'd been a hunting accident that got out of hand, told them the farm didn't have any food animals no how.
Rollie'd already sold the intruder's guns to Boss Ira, anyhow, and wasn't much to show them, and that had been that, except of course Yulie'd spent every day for a year walking that route, back and forth, counting the cats, and some nights took the rifle out, waiting for people. Nobody else came, and eventually he'd learned to sleep again.
And so he'd got up, last night, and walked out to the disguised grow-house. He talked to a couple of the cats who guarded the coffee plants there in the cavern, told them he was sorry for not doing better by them. If they didn't say nothing back, at least they listened to his apology; then he slept well and woke up sharp, and ready to work.
The morning wake-up being what it was, he was standing at the window watching the gray horizon verging on pink, his coffee just warming his hands, gray cat leaning companionably against the back of his legs, when this thing appeared in the sky, dusty bright in the coming sunlight, unscheduled.
No meteor. No spaceship he knew of. Not even a Korval spaceship, big as Grampa had made them sound -- this thing looked like it had craters on it…and then it was out of sight.
He stood there for some time, feeling the gray cat against the back of his legs. He sighed, wondering if that hadn't been in the events columns there in the Blair Road Booster.
This time he was waiting for it, and since the world had turned under the orbit, caught it in just above mid horizon, and he stopped tossing the cabbages to stare.
It wasn't a ship, and it was cratered, but it wasn't a big thing by any means, "big" being a relative term when it came to objects in space, even in nearspace. Yulie'd heard of constructs that might be that size, but not constructs of rock; whatever it was, it was not the size of a tidal satellite, by any means.
Still, he was hardly an expert, having only the hand-me-down lessons from Grampa, and the optics scope. The sky was brilliant though, and blue, and it was still visible, with Triga and Toppa not yet risen to confuse with odd shadows. Not that Surebleak's two tidal moons were all that bright, but they both were capable of casting some light and when they were in sync were quite a spectacular sight, especially when they were in conjunction with Chuck-Honey.
Yulie checked the chronometer, almost doubting. Right. It was orbiting, and it wasn't high at all. Something that size could make a heck of a hole if it was on the way down. A heck of a hole.
He felt the panic gnawing experimentally at his vision, but no! There, an aircraft, flying low over Melina Sherton's land, or maybe over Ira's back farms. Almost noiseless, it banked, headed his way -- he thought to run, but the thing banked away, obviously interested in the growing little block-town Melina and Ira'd been working on, just in case the fools in the city actually did themselves in. Interested? Hah -- it might be it was landing somewhere over that way.
Yulie threw the striped orange cabbage from his hand to the crate, willing to call the thing full. That ought to do it. Five full crates -- time to get things moving. No time to be worried about aircraft, and --
He twisted, catching a glimpse of some low clouds coming from the northwest, which could portend a rainy morning on the morrow, perhaps even a snowy tomorrow night.
The moon-thing was out of sight now, but he was going to watch for it. Meanwhile, it was time to go if he was going to hit Boss Sherton's farmer's market before the last of the day-buyers left.
The walk was doing Yulie good, even if the plane had come by for one more pass before disappearing for good. He knew it was too soon for the return of the new moon, but scanning the sky was helping him keep the world in perspective as he trod the down slope toward the farmers market. His backpack held six cabbages -- one each for the two local bosses, and one each for the tollbooth crews to share. The other two were promise-proofs for the farmers who might come to help, knowing good food when they saw it.
The slope got steeper, and then the road went through a short valley, still tending downhill, with rocky hills acting as a kind of weather break and demarcation for the land below.
Originally, of course, that natural wall the valley pierced made for good siting for the test dig that had become World's End, and for the company's first management zone. Once the dig got going Management was inclined to prefer the portside bar and restaurants and then -- and then the company had gone slowly into decline as the commercial timonium need drove the independents, and later the big boys, to follow the joint trail of creation and destruction that was the legacy of Chuck-Honey's rapid path through the regional space.
Somewhere Chuck, or Honey, or the pair together, had swarmed upon a stony-cored brown-dwarf remnant of the same monster cloud that had formed Surebleak and its system, and that dwarf's bounty lay in the metals and transuranics -- and the encounter, sundering the dwarf, created a rogue field of rocks and high grade ore, loosely trailing behind. Asteroids and comets and potential moons, the rocks now transited interstellar space. Lucky ships could come up with lumps of near pure timonium, or gold, or lead. Hardworking ships and companies could mine instead the broken chunks, needing no excavation equipment to speak of, no investment in people and governments and law --
The company stuck with appurtenances -- excavators and law clerks and straw-bosses and crewship pilots and -- it had contracts and plans and goals enough to get it through a couple financial ripples, but in the end it was easiest to sell the company to a shell corporation and merge that with another and drag what funds there were in transit out -- and then abandon to the tender mercies of the jackals of interstellar finance the remains. The people stuck onworld belonged there after all -- who needed dirt-miners in a good clean space-rock roundup?
Grampa -- Grampa had been owed big-time when the company was going to dust, and he'd fought for what was owed him for the ship he'd bought, fought for his plans to retire to a nice planet somewhere with lots of water and lots of willing ladies . . . and filed liens and lawsuits.
The company capitulated and in a final act of law, after seven years, offered a settlement. They gave all the company's current right, title, and interest to all its holdings on Surebleak to Grampa. That included the original administrative area, and the marshaling yards . . .
Like so many others, he'd been swindled: the ditch was worked clean and worth nothing, and the marshaling yard had long been converted into farms for the portside executives.
In the end Grampa moved to his holding, found himself a wife and a girlfriend and some monographs on farming, and dug in, sure that eventually, things would turn out. It wasn't long before he was doing well enough, in the strange way that things worked on Surebleak. His daughter, of course, was brought up to farm, and then her sons, after she left…and now Yulie walked to the people next door, hoping for a boon. He had good food, what he needed was transportation and trade for it . . . especially now, a way to replace the lighting that Rollie'd always traded for.
It was a trick of geography that could let him arrive first at the market and then at the small streets and buildings, and then go through the tollbooth, if he were so inclined -- but really, since he wasn't much interested in anything but the market and the farmers, he headed that way, the day warming on him in a way that warned of incoming moisture. He walked more slowly now, not liking to overheat if he was going to be seeing people, the road now a sandy gravel as he approached the market.
