As with all space engagements there was nothing left of the vanquished but weak nebulas of radioactive molecules. There was
no body to identify. But it couldn’t have been anyone else.
Now it seemed there must have been four blackhawks. Nobody could mistake that tall, imperious man standing on the steps of
the
Yaku
’s spaceplane, laughing at a cowering Graeme Nicholson.
The guests Matthias Rems invited into the studio, a collection of retired navy officers, political professors, and weapons
engineers, observed that Laton’s actual goal had never been declared. Speculation had been rife for years after the event.
It obviously involved some kind of physical (biological) and mental domination, subverting the Edenists through the (fortunately)
imperfect proteanic virus he had developed. Changing them and the habitats. But to what grandiose ideal had been thought for
ever unknown. The studio debate concentrated on whether Laton was behind the current conflict on Lalonde, and if it was the
first stage in his bid to impose his will on the Confederation again. Graeme Nicholson had certainly believed so.
Laton was different to the kind of planetary disputes like Omuta and Garissa; the perennial squabbling between asteroid settlements
and their funding companies over autonomy. Laton wasn’t a violence-tinged argument over resources or independence, he was
after people, individuals. He wanted to get into your genes, your mind, and alter you, mould you to his own deviant construct.
Laton was deadly personal.
One of the keenest observers of the Time Universe programmes was Terrance Smith. The Laton revelation had come as a profound
shock. He, and the
Gemal
’s crew, became the objects of intense media interest. Hounded every time he left the colonist-carrier, he eventually had
to appeal to Tranquillity for privacy. The habitat personality agreed (a resident’s freedom from intrusion was part of the
original constitution Michael Saldana had written), and the reporters were called off. They promptly switched their attention
to anyone who had signed on as a member of the mercenary fleet, all of whom protested (truthfully) that they knew nothing
of Laton.
“What do we do?” Terrance Smith asked in a bleak voice. He was alone with Oliver Llewelyn on the
Gemal
’s bridge. Console holoscreens were showing the Time Universe evening news programme, cutting between a studio presenter and
segments of Graeme Nicholson’s recording. The captain was someone whose opinion Terrance valued, in fact he’d grown heavily
dependent on him during the last couple of days. There weren’t many other people he confided in.
“You don’t have many options,” Oliver Llewelyn pointed out. “You’ve already paid the registration fee to twelve ships, and
you’ve got a third of the troops you wanted. Either you go ahead as originally planned, or you cut and run. Doing nothing
isn’t a valid alternative, not now.”
“Cut and run?”
“Sure. You’ve got enough money in the LDC’s credit account to lose yourself. Life could get very comfortable for you and your
family.” Oliver Llewelyn watched Terrance Smith closely, trying to anticipate his reaction. The notion obviously appealed,
but he didn’t think the bureaucrat would have enough backbone.
“I… No, we can’t. There are too many people depending on me. We have to do something to help Durringham. You weren’t down
there, you don’t know what it was like that last week. These mercenaries are the only hope they’ve got.”
“As you wish.” Pity, Oliver Llewelyn thought, a great pity. I’m getting too old for this kind of jaunt.
“Do you think fifteen ships is enough to go up against Laton?” Terrance Smith asked anxiously. “I have the authority to hire
another ten.”
“We’re not going up against Laton,” Oliver Llewelyn said patiently.
“But—”
The captain gestured at one of the console holoscreens. “You accessed Graeme Nicholson’s sensevise. Laton has left Lalonde.
All your mercenaries are faced with is a big mopping-up operation. Leave Laton to the Confederation; the navy and the voidhawks
will be going after him with every weapon they’ve got.”
The notion of taking on Laton was something the star-ship captains had been discussing among themselves. Only three were sufficiently
alarmed to return Terrance Smith’s registration fee. He had no trouble in attracting replacements, and bringing the number
of the fleet up to nine-teen—six blackhawks, nine combat-capable independent traders, three cargo carriers, and the
Gemal
itself. Virtually none of the general troops or the combat-boosted mercenaries resigned. Fighting Laton’s legions, being
on the
right
side, gave the whole enterprise a kudos like few others; old hands and fresh youngsters queued up to sign on.
Three and a half days after he arrived, Terrance Smith had all he came for. The one request from Commander Olsen Neale to
hold off and wait for a Confederation naval investigatory flight was smilingly refused. Durringham needs us now, Terrance
told him.
Ione and Joshua walked down one of Tranquillity’s winding valleys in the late afternoon, dew-heavy grass staining their sandals.
She was wearing a long white cotton skirt and a matching camisole, a loose-fitting outfit which allowed the air to circulate
over her warm skin. Joshua just wore some long dark mauve shorts. His skin was tanning nicely, she thought, he was almost
back to his old colour. They had spent most of his stopover outside; swimming with Haile, riding, walking, having long sexual
adventures. Joshua seemed to get very turned on having sex beside and in the bountiful streams meandering through the habitat.
Ione stopped at a long pool which formed the intersection of two streams. It was lined by mature rikbal trees, whose droopy
branches stroked the water with their long, thin leaves. They were all in flower, bright pink blooms the size of a child’s
fist.
Gold and scarlet fish slithered through the water. It was tranquillity, Ione thought, small t, created by big T; name chasing
form, name creating form. The lake—the whole park—was a pause from the habitat’s bustle; the habitat was a pause from the
Confederation’s bustle. If you wanted it to be.
Joshua pushed her gently against a rikbal trunk, kissing her cheek, her neck. He opened the front of her camisole.
Hair fell down across her eyes, she was wearing it longer these days. “Don’t go,” she said quietly.
His arms dropped inertly to his sides, head slumping forwards until his brow touched hers. “Good timing.”
“Please.”
“You said you weren’t going to dump this possessive scene on me.”
“This isn’t being possessive.”
“What then? It sounds like it.”
Her head came up sharply, pink spots burning on both cheeks. “If you must know, I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t be.”
“Joshua, you’re flying into a war zone.”
“Not really. We’re flying escort duty for a troop convoy, that’s all. The soldiers and combat boosted are in at the hard edge.”
“Smith wants the starships to provide ground strikes; he’s bought combat wasps for interdiction missions. That’s the hard
edge, Joshua, that’s the dead edge. Bloody hell, you’re going up against Laton in an antique wreck that barely rates its CAB
spaceworthiness licence. And there’s no reason. None. You don’t need mayope, you don’t need Vasilkovsky.” She held his arm,
imploring. “You’re rich. You’re happy. Don’t try and tell me you’re not. I’ve watched you for three years. You’ve never had
so much fun as when you gallivanted around the galaxy in the
Lady Macbeth
. Now look at what you’re doing. Paper deals, Joshua. Making paper money you can never spend. Sitting behind a desk, that’s
your destination. That’s where you’re flying to, Joshua, and it isn’t you.”
“Antique, huh?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“How old is Tranquillity, Ione? At least I own the
Lady Mac
, it doesn’t own me.”
“I’m just trying to shock some sense into you. Joshua, it’s Laton you’re facing. Don’t you watch the AV recordings? Didn’t
you access Graeme Nicholson’s sensevise?”
“Yes. I did. Laton isn’t on Lalonde. He left on the
Yaku
. Did you miss that bit, Ione? If I wanted to go on suicide flights I’d chase after the
Yaku
. That’s where the danger is. That’s where the navy heroes are going. Not me, I’m protecting my own interests.”
“But you don’t need it!” she said. God, but he could be bonehead stubborn at times.
“You mean you don’t.”
“What?”
“Not convenient, is it? Me having that much money. That much money would mean I make the decisions, I make the choices. It
gives me control over my life. Where does that fit into your cosy scenario of us, Ione? I won’t be so easy to manipulate then,
will I?”
“Manipulate! One glimpse of a female nipple and your fly seal bursts apart from the pressure. That’s how complicated your
personality is. You don’t need manipulating, Joshua, you need hormone suppressors. All I’m doing is trying to think ahead
for you, because God knows you can’t do it for yourself.”
“Jesus, Ione! Sometimes I can’t believe you’re bonded to a cubic kilometre of neuron cells, you don’t display the IQ of an
ant most days. This is my
chance
, I can make it. I can be your equal.”
“I don’t want an equal.” Ione jammed her mouth shut. She’d nearly done it, nearly said: “I just want you.” But torture wouldn’t
bring that from her lips, not now.
“Yeah, so I noticed,” he said. “I started with a broken-down ship. I made that work, I earned a living flying it. And now
I’m moving on, moving up. That’s life, Ione. Growing, evolving. You should try it sometime.” He turned and stomped off through
the trees, sweeping the hanging branches aside impatiently. If she wanted to say sorry, she could damn well come after him
and do it.
Ione watched him go, and fumbled with the front of her camisole. What an arsehole. He might be psychic, but only at the expense
of common sense.
I’m so sorry,
Tranquillity said gently.
She sniffed hard.
What about?
Joshua.
There’s no reason. If he wants to go, let him. See if I care.
You do care. He is right for you.
He doesn’t think so.
Yes, he does. But he is prideful. As are you.
Thanks for nothing.
Don’t cry.
Ione glanced down, seeing her hands as blobs. Her eyes were horribly warm. She wiped at them vigorously. God, how could I
have been so stupid? He was just supposed to be a fun stud. Nothing more.
I love you,
Tranquillity said, so full of cautious warmth that Ione had to smile. Then she winced as her stomach churned, and promptly
threw up. The bile was acid and disgusting. She cupped her hands to capture some of the cool pool water so she could rinse
her mouth out.
You are pregnant,
Tranquillity observed.
Yes. The last time Joshua came back, before he made the Norfolk run.
Tell him.
No! That would only make it worse.
You are both fools,
Tranquillity said with unaccustomed ardour.
Stars slid across the window behind Commander Olsen Neale. Choisya was the only one of Mirchusko’s moons visible, a distant
grey-brown crescent sliver peeping up over the bottom of the oval every three minutes. Erick Thakrar didn’t like the sight
of the starfield, it was too close, too easy to reach. He wondered, briefly, if he was developing a space-phobia. It wasn’t
unheard of, and there were a lot of associations involved. That horrified, distraught voice coming from the
Krystal Moon
; a fifteen-year-old girl. What had Tina looked like? It was a question he’d been asking himself a lot recently. Did she have
a boyfriend? What mood fantasy bands did she cherish? Had she enjoyed her life on the old interplanetary vessel? Or did she
find it intolerable?
What the fuck was she doing in the forward compartment below the communication dishes?
“The micro-fusion generators were handed directly over to the
Nolana
as soon as we docked,” Erick said. “They never even passed through Tranquillity’s cargo-storage facility. Which means there
was no data work, no port manager’s inspection. And of course we were all on board the
Villeneuve’s Revenge
until the transfer was finished. I couldn’t get a message out to you.”
“We’ll track the
Nolana
, of course,” Olsen Neale said. “See where the generators go. It should expose the distribution net. You’ve done well,” he
added encouragingly. The young captain looked haggard, nothing like the bright eager agent who had wangled himself a berth
on the
Vil-leneuve’s Revenge
those long months ago.
It hits us all in the end, son, Olsen Neale thought soul-fully to himself. We deliberately bring ourselves down to their level
so we can blend in, and sometimes it costs just too much. Because nothing can go lower than human beings.
Erick remained unmoved by the compliment. “You can have Duchamp and the rest of the crew arrested immediately,” he said. “My
neural nanonics recording of our attack on the
Krystal Moon
will be more than enough to convict them. I want you to tell the prosecutor to ask for maximum penalties. We can have them
all committed to a penal planet. The whole lot of them, and that’s better than they deserve.”
And it transfers your guilt, as well, Neale thought silently. “I don’t think we can do that right now, Erick,” he said.
“What? Three people have died just so that you have enough evidence against Duchamp. Two of them I killed myself.”
“I’m truly sorry, Erick, but circumstances have changed somewhat radically since your mission began. Have you accessed Time
Universe’s Lalonde sensevise?”
Erick gave him a demoralized stare, guessing what was coming. “Yes.”
“Terrance Smith has signed on the
Villeneuve’s Revenge
for his mercenary fleet. We’ve got to have somebody there, Erick. It’s a legal mission for a planetary government, there’s
nothing I can do to prevent them from leaving. Christ, this is Laton we’re talking about. I was about ten years old when he
destroyed Jantrit. One and a quarter million people just so he could make a clean getaway, and the habitat itself; the Edenists
had never lost a habitat before, their life expectancy is measured in millennia. And now he’s had nearly forty years to perfect
his megalomaniac schemes. Shit, we don’t even know what they are; but what I’ve heard about Lalonde is enough to frighten
me. I’m scared, Erick, I’ve got a family. I don’t want him to get his hands on them. We have to know where he went on the
Yaku
. Nothing is more important than that. Piracy and flogging off black-market goods are totally irrelevant by comparison. The
navy has to find him and exterminate him. Properly this time. Until he’s dead, we have no other goal. I’ve already sent a
flek to Avon, a courier left on a black-hawk an hour after the Time Universe people told me about their recording.”