The Matriarch Manifesto

by Devin Hanson

  One of them pulled Tovin’s hands out of the way, and Cynthia saw the mottled purple of the man’s trachea, and the unnatural bulge to one side.

  “He needs a tracheotomy,” Cynthia said.

  “What the hell did you do to him!”

  “He will die unless you do it right now,” Cynthia said louder, overriding the shout. “Cut me free, and I’ll perform the operation.”

  “No,” Sorrel shook his head. “Not a chance.”

  Cynthia shrugged as best she could. “His death is on you, then.”

  “Damn you, woman! Tovin has a family!”

  “You’re the one who abducted me,” Cynthia snapped back. “These consequences are on your head!”

  Alana laughed and spat blood onto the floor. “You idiots have no idea what hell you have unleashed upon yourselves. The Council will shoot this habitat out of the sky before it concedes to your extortion. You’ve doomed yourselves and everyone you love.”

  Cynthia watched the men fraying before her eyes. Wharton was the leader. He was the driving force behind this little rebellion, and he was lying face down where Cynthia had dropped him. There was no inspiration, no threats, no cajoling coming from him now. It was possible that she could talk her way out of this yet.

  Alana seemed to have assumed the role of bad cop, so Cynthia pitched her voice to a reasonable, motherly tone. “You’ve made a mistake, but it’s not too late.” The veins in Tovin’s face were standing proud, and his choking gasps were turning liquid, a grim counterpoint to her words. “Release us, and you have my word your punishments will be lenient. You can still walk away from this. You don’t have to end up like him.” Cynthia jerked her head at Tovin.

  She could see the uncertainty grow. They wanted to improve their lives. That was only natural. Wharton had convinced them that abducting a matriarch or two would give them a platform to speak from. They were wrong, but that mistake could still be made right. Tovin’s writhing was growing weaker, his gasps for air faint and whistling.

  “Or you can carry on your chosen course,” Alana said harshly, jumping in with perfect timing and wielding the brutal truth like a club. “You can expect nothing but death and suffering if you do so. You will have no opportunity to speak to the Council. Everyone you love, everyone you hope to benefit, all will suffer immeasurably.”

  “Just cut us free,” Cynthia wheedled. “Let us leave and it doesn’t have to get any worse.”

  Cynthia could see at least several of them men had accepted her word. They had looks of horror on their faces as they stared at Tovin, seeing their own mortality in his fading life.

  “You have until Tovin dies,” Alana snapped.

  Cynthia could see what Alana was going for. Spur them into action, snap them out of their fearful paralysis. But the timing wasn’t right yet. It made them realize that the matriarchs had killed Tovin, and perhaps two more. It made them angry, and angry men are impossible to convince with logic.

  “They’re trying to frighten us,” Sorrel cried.

  “Yeah. And it’s working,” one of the others spat. “How am I going to help my children if I’m dead?”

  “We have to keep going!” Sorrel argued. “We have control of the matriarchs. They won’t dare attack us! The moment we see them coming down the lifts we can kill our captives. They know this! We’re safe, and we’ll get our demands met. We’ll let the matriarchs go when it’s over. I don’t want to kill them any more than you do.”

  Cynthia licked at her split lip and felt the sting. The numbness was wearing off, and she was starting to feel the aches and pains of her bruises. She had to regain control of the situation. She had been so close!

  Tovin’s face was turning purple. His throat had swollen to the point where his airway was completely obstructed. Without a tracheotomy performed in the next handful of seconds, he would die. Then Wharton groaned and rolled onto his side, and Cynthia felt her hopes fade away with the last twitches of Tovin’s legs.

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  The Matriarch Manifesto

  Tenet Thirteen

  Terrorism is inevitable. There is much that matriarchs have that inspire jealousy and hatred. We must have an absolute response to terrorist actions. Only through action more terrible than that which is used in an attempt to control us can we show our enemies that we are not a viable target.

  There will be no negotiation with terrorists. Once we begin negotiating, we lose our position of strength. The abduction of matriarchs, the threats against our lives and against those we love, must be met with absolute force. Collateral damage should be kept to a minimum, but the use of innocents as a shield cannot be used to dissuade us.

  Terrorism is war waged on a personal level. Therefore, it must be treated as war. A threat against one matriarch is a threat against all of us.

  Dennison gripped the handhold and braced himself in his seat as the skimmer lurched. The skimmer dropped a few feet before Ferguson caught it with a careful rev of the engine. With tight concentration, the pilot fought against the turbulence and guided the skimmer toward the open landing bay doors.

  Nueva Angela was on the edge of the storm system and the wind whipping around the habitat churned into turbulence. The skimmer flight from Nova Aeria to Nueva Angela had been in equal parts boring and nerve-wracking. Long stretches of clear sky offered no greater obstacle than the towering cumulus clouds, then sudden gusts of wind would toss them about like insignificant flecks. Ferguson rode through it all with steely focus, projecting a mien of bored calm.

  The last stretch of flight had been the worst. Nueva Angela was still at habitat-standard cruising height. For the majority of the flight, Ferguson had kept them high, at the same level Nova Aeria had lifted to, where the storm turbulence was minimized. Now, for the last kilometer of approach, Ferguson had gradually dropped them down until they were flying on a level with the habitat.

  The thicker atmosphere meant the pockets of low pressure and churning turbulence coming off the habitat were that much stronger. Ferguson guided the violently shaking skimmer carefully toward the leeward landing bay. There was another one on the other side of the habitat, but with the wind as unpredictable as it was, it was safer to make the approach from downwind where any mistake would blow them away from the habitat rather than slamming them into the hull.

  Ferguson’s first approach had them bobbing about on the brink of stalling, some twenty meters from the opening. Just when Dennison was sure Ferguson was going to give up and circle back for another attempt, a low-pressure front came through and the skimmer bounded forward and slipped neatly into the calm atmosphere of the landing deck.

  Dennison released the breath he had been holding with a sigh of relief. “Thank god that’s over with.”

  “Good to know you have such unshakable faith in my flying skills,” Ferguson said wryly. He cut power to the prop and guided them carefully in for a landing, settling down with only a small bump.

  “Hey, you’re the pilot,” Dennison protested. “If it was easy, anyone could do it. Okay,” he said louder, turning and addressing himself to Bryson and Edison in the back seats, “remember this is a low-profile engagement. We’re on a routine habitat inspection. We’re not ainlif.”

  Edison rolled his eyes and settled his rebreather mask in place. “You don’t need to remind us.” He popped open a hard-backed case and took out a compact pistol. He tucked the gun away into an armpit holster under his jacket. Wordlessly, Edison handed out weapons to the others. The need to remain inconspicuous limited the hardware to pistols.

  “What rounds do we have?” Bryson asked curiously.

  “Monomol,” Edison grunted. “The armory on Nova Aeria wouldn’t let me take out solids.”

  Dennison fit his rebreather mask in place. It made sense. Monomol rounds were made of compacted steel powder, designed to deliver their force to the first thing they hit, and then break apart into harmless dust. Against an unarmored man, the rounds had devastating effect, but did noth
ing to harder targets but scratch the paint. Body armor, the outer shell of the habitat, and other heavy materials were impervious to the rounds. “All set?” he asked and got a series of affirmatives from his brothers. “All right. Breaching to atmosphere.”

  He popped the door and dropped down to the deck. A trolley was already coming toward them to tow the skimmer into parking. Dennison waved at the driver and headed toward the airlock. Out of his brothers, he was the one who had the actual ratings to challenge anyone who questioned them. As the airlock cycled, he got his credentials pulled up. He was over-rated for an inspections officer, but with luck, nobody would think to challenge him on it.

  The airlock hissed open and Dennison pulled off his rebreather mask and breathed in the air of Nueva Angela for the first time. He was used to the air on New Galway, where the water extractors supplied them with more oxygen than their limited population could use. Nova Aeria had a much larger population, but they were over-stocked with algae tanks in case they had to deal with sudden influxes of guests. The air there was clean and fresh.

  Nueva Angela smelled like overpopulation, stale with an undercurrent of rank fetidness. He knew the specs for the habitat; it was rated for forty thousand people, but by the smell of it, the water processors and algae tanks couldn’t keep up with the burgeoning population. He wrinkled his nose. Just how many people were living in the habitat? The systems were designed to have a thirty percent safety margin and H&H must be processing well over that.

  No wonder the people were desperate enough to abduct a matriarch.

  Bryson elbowed him, and Dennison turned to see a short man hurrying toward them, his coverall blazoned with traffic control insignia. Dennison stepped forward and waved, trying on what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

  “Saw you come in,” the man huffed. “That was some ballsy flying.”

  Dennison extended his hand. “Thanks, our pilot has a lot of practice. I’m Dennis.”

  “Hi Dennis. I’m Lungren O’Malley, shift chief for traffic control. What’s your business on Nueva Angela?”

  “Habitat inspection,” Dennison said blandly and flipped his tablet around, letting O’Malley get a look at the lurid decals. “We’re doing a surprise inspection, part of a new initiative from Horizon.”

  “I haven’t heard of it,” O’Malley objected.

  “That’s why it’s called a surprise,” Dennison grinned, taking the heat out of his words.

  O’Malley snorted a laugh and shook his head. “What will Horizon think of next, eh?”

  “Seriously. You know how these new initiatives go. It’s all so important, such a hurry. They don’t care that there’s a storm beating hell out of this sector. We have to go now! Rush, rush, rush! You know how many habitats there are? Over seven hundred! Even a brief inspection of each is going to take us years.” Dennison scowled as he complained, getting into the act. “Waiting a day or two for the storm to blow past wouldn’t change a damn thing.”

  “Women, am I right?” O’Malley sighed. “Well, welcome to Nueva Angela, I guess. You have a place to stay?”

  “What do you think?” Dennison grunted. “We got rushed out before we had time to do more than set a flight plan. The other half of my team got blown off course, too. They should be a few minutes behind us. I figured I’d find us lodgings while we wait.”

  “Another four men?” O’Malley asked. He lifted his hat to scratch at his head then settled it back in place. “We’re hard up for space here, but I think you’ll find rooms on the fourth level. Search for directions to Burbank Garden, your tablet will lead you there. I hope you have a loose budget, though. It’ll cost you.”

  Dennison grinned. “The one part of working out of Horizon I don’t complain about. Say what you want, but my team is never hard up for credits.”

  “Must be nice,” O’Malley grumbled. “We’re strapped up tighter than an unpaid whore. I’ll keep an eye out for the rest of your team and send them your way.”

  “I appreciate it,” Dennison shook his hand. “Which way to the lifts?”

  O’Malley pointed, and Dennison led his brothers off.

  Once they were out of earshot, Edison muttered, “Over-selling it a bit, weren’t you?”

  “I think he did fine,” Ferguson shrugged. “Nothing allays suspicion like common ground. O’Malley will log us in as inspectors, and it’ll legitimize us for any poking around we do.”

  Burbank Garden was about as far from garden-like as it was possible to be on Venus. Uninspired, solid-color panels lined the walls, and the only plant in sight was a stunted fern on the receptionist’s desk.

  “What can I do for you?” the receptionist asked, barely bothering to look up from her tablet.

  “I need rooms for eight,” Dennison requested. “Adjacent, if it’s possible.”

  That got her to look up, if only for an incredulous snort. “Mister, nobody had that much unoccupied space in Angela.”

  “Then make room,” Dennison ordered bluntly. He spun his tablet around, flashing his credentials at the girl. “Money is no object. Whatever it takes.”

  “I do have six rooms open in the east wing,” she said dubiously, “but the other four are taken until the end of the week.”

  “I’ll take the whole wing,” Dennison said, on impulse. “You make the required moves. Offer them free nights on me if you must. Do it quickly, and there will be something extra on the side for you.”

  “The rooms you aren’t using aren’t going to be free,” the receptionist said. She was a little shaken by the speed of the bargaining, but there was a greedy gleam in her eye now that told Dennison he would get what he wanted.

  “Charge me ten percent extra per room,” Dennison offered. The overpayment wouldn’t find its way into the hotel’s bank account, but that was okay. This way the receptionist would be more eager to comply with the unusual demands. “I don’t have to tell you to keep quiet about this, do I?”

  “The Garden prides itself on client discretion,” she said quickly. “How many nights will you be staying?”

  “Indefinitely.”

  The girl’s eyes widened as she calculated the amount of money she was going to be skimming from the business. She nodded eagerly now, all traces of boredom and reticence gone. “I’ll need a deposit before I open the rooms for you. The first four nights is standard.”

  Dennison nodded and used his tablet to accept the payment without really looking at the number. The Romaine clan was wealthy from inter-planetary trade and patents on Earth and Mars. He had access to an expense fund that was enough to buy half the habitat if that was warranted, and when it came to recovering his mother, that would be a small price to pay. Paying for the rooms was insignificant.

  The receptionist grinned like Christmas had come early and rushed off after promising only a short wait.

  “The Everards have landed,” Edison reported quietly, looking up from his tablet. “They’ll be here in a few minutes. Apparently, O’Malley was more than happy to wave them through without fuss.”

  “I told you. It’s always easier to make friends.”

  Edison grunted noncommittally. “This time.”

  The receptionist came hurrying back. “Your rooms are ready, at least the back six. It will take some time to contact the other guests and inform them of the room change. If you’re ready, I’ll show you to them now.”

  “The rest of my team will be here in a moment and will need guidance,” Dennison said. “Just point us in the right direction and we’ll find our way.”

  “Oh. Of course. Here are your cards. Once the guests have moved out of the wing, I can give you a master card that will lock the wing.”

  “That’s perfect, thank you.” Dennison smiled. “What’s your name?”

  “Serina, sir.”

  “Well, Serina, that was fast work. I’ll have a good tip for you once we have the wing to ourselves.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Dennison led the way to the east wing and held the d
oor for Ferguson, who was lugging the heavy crate. Once out of the reception area, the Garden started to resemble its name. The walls were lined with planted troughs, turning the hallway into a verdant tunnel. The first four doors were locked, but the rear six were open and waiting for them.

  “Set up in one of the rear rooms,” Dennison suggested to Ferguson. “We’ll have the other extra for a conference room.”

  “Okay. Bryson, give me a hand with this thing.”

  Dennison followed behind and watched as Ferguson and Bryson broke open the crate. It was a mobile computer station, with an integrated server rack holding an array of processor cores. Ferguson had it turned on and plugged into the habitat’s network in a few minutes.

  By the time Evan arrived with the other Everards, the station had finished booting and the screen was showing a scrolling progress as the system integrated with the habitat’s network.

  “You boys do fast work,” Evan greeted them. “That’s some serious hardware,” he commented, nodding toward the station.

  “It’s Tabitha,” Ferguson explained. “Or, at least, it’s an early beta of her. We’ve been working on an AI to act as a habitat overseer. Right now she’s linking to the habitat’s network.”

  “How complex is the AI?” Chase asked curiously.

  “Smart enough that she’ll be able to help us find our missing matriarchs,” Ferguson shrugged. “She’s indexing the habitat’s central computer database now.”

  “That’s… thousands of terabytes,” Farrell estimated. “What kind of computer can index that much data in any sort of usable form?”

  “Tabitha can,” Dennison grinned. “Just give it a few minutes and we’ll be ready to go.”

  “I asked the receptionist to work out a caterer for us,” Farrell said absently, transfixed by the readout on Tabitha’s monitor. “We’re going to be too busy to run out to get food.”

  “I’ve intercepted Serina’s attempts,” a female voice spoke from the console. “The nearest quality restaurant is two levels away and specializes in stir fry and soup dishes. Food will be delivered within thirty minutes.”