The room buzzed with voices as the glass bubble was carried away, excitement and nervousness throttling the air. In his second-row
seat, with his nerves alight, Joshua felt it build around him, and shifted round uncomfortably, careful not to knock his legs
against those of his neighbours. His feet were still painful if he applied pressure too quickly. Medical nanonic packages
had swallowed both legs up to his knees, looking like strange green-leather boots, five sizes too large. The packages had
a spongy texture, and he felt as though he was bouncing as he walked.
Three auctioneer’s assistants carried a new bubble over to the table, it was a metre and a half high, with a dull gold crown
of thermo-dump fins on top, keeping the internal temperature below freezing. A faint patina of condensation misted the glass.
The voices in the room chopped off dead.
Joshua caught sight of Barrington Grier standing at the side of the stage, a middle-aged man with chubby red cheeks and a
ginger moustache. He wore a sober navy-blue suit with baggy trousers and neck-sealed jacket with flared arms, the faintest
of orange lines glowing on the satin material in a spiral pattern. He caught Joshua’s eye, and gave him a wink.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen, we come to the final item of the day, lot 127. I think I can safely say that it is unique in my
experience; a module stack of Laymil circuitry which has been preserved in ice since the cataclysm. We have identified both
processor chips, and a considerable number of solid-state crystal memories inside. All of them in pristine condition. In this
one cylinder there are more than five times the number of crystals we have recovered since the discovery of the Ruin Ring
itself. I will leave it to you to imagine the sheer wealth of information stored within. This is undoubtedly the greatest
find since the first intact Laymil body, over a century ago. And it is my great privilege to open the bidding at the reserve
price of two million Edenist fuseodollars.”
Joshua had been bracing himself, but there wasn’t even a murmur of protest from the crowd.
The bids came in fast and furious, rising in units of fifty thousand fuseodollars. The background level of conversation crept
up again. Heads were swivelling around, bidders trying to make eye contact with their opponents, gauge the level of determination.
Joshua gritted his teeth together as the bids rose through four million. Come on, keep going. Four million three hundred thousand.
The answer could be stored in there, why the Laymil did it. Four and a half. You’ll solve the biggest problem facing science
since we cracked the lightspeed barrier. Four million eight hundred thousand. You’ll be famous, they’ll name the discovery
after you, not me. Come on, you bastards. Bid!
“Five million,” the auctioneer announced calmly.
Joshua sank back into the chair, a little whimper of relief leaking from his throat. Looking down he saw his fists were clenched,
palms sweating.
I’ve done it. I can start repairing
Lady Mac
, get a crew together. The replacement patterning nodes will have to come from the Sol system. Say a month if I charter a
blackhawk to collect them. She could be spaceworthy within ten weeks. Jesus!
He brought his attention back to the auctioneer just as the bidding went through six million. For a second he thought he’d
misheard, but no, there was Barrington Grier grinning at him as if he was running wacko stimulant programs through his neural
nanonics.
Seven million.
Joshua listened in a waking trance. He could afford more than a simple node replacement and repair job now.
Lady Mac
could have a complete refit, the best systems, no expense spared, new fusion generators, maybe a new space-plane, no, better
than that, an ion-field flyer from Kulu or New California. Yes!
“Seven million, four hundred and fifty thousand for the first time.” The auctioneer looked round expectantly, gavel engulfed
by his meaty fist.
Rich. I’m fucking rich!
“Twice.”
Joshua closed his eyes.
“For the last time, seven million, four hundred and fifty thousand. Anybody?”
The smack the gavel made was as loud as the big bang. The start of a whole new existence for Joshua Calvert. Independent starship
owner captain.
A deep chime sounded. Joshua’s eyes snapped open. Everyone had gone silent, staring at the small omnidirectional AV projector
on the desk in front of the auctioneer, a slim crystal pillar one metre high. Curlicues of abstract colour swam below the
surface. If anything, Barrington Grier’s grin had become even wider.
“Tranquillity reserves the right of last bid on lot 127.” A mellow male voice sounded throughout the auction room.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake—” An angry voice to Joshua’s left. The winning bidder? He hadn’t caught the name.
The auction room descended into a bedlam of shouting.
Barrington Grier was giving him a manic thumbs-up. The three assistants started to carry the bubble and its precious—seven
and a half million!—contents out into the wings.
Joshua waited as the room cleared; a noisy crush of people jostling and gossiping, Tranquillity’s right to reserve the last
bid their only topic for discussion.
He didn’t care, last bid meant the agreed price plus an extra five per cent. The pillar of electronics would go to the Laymil
research team now, analysed by the most experienced xenoc experts in the Confederation. He felt quite good about that, virtuous,
maybe it was right they should have it.
Michael Saldana had reassembled as much of the team as he could after those first few traumatic years of exile, building it
up in tandem with Tranquillity’s new economy and rapidly increasing financial strength. There were currently around seven
thousand specialists working on the problem, including several xenoc members of the Confederation, providing a welcome alternative
viewpoint when it came to interpreting the more baroque artefacts. Michael had died in 2513, and Maurice had assumed the title
of Lord of Ruin with pride, continuing his father’s labours. As far as he was concerned, uncovering the reason behind the
Laymil cataclysm was Tranquillity’s sole reason for existence. And he pursued it vigorously until his own death nine years
ago in 2601.
Since then, the project had gone on apparently unabated. Tranquillity said Maurice’s heir, the third Lord of Ruin, was running
things as before, but chose not to seek a high public profile. There had been a flurry of rumours at the time, saying that
the habitat personality had taken over completely, that the Kulu Kingdom was trying to reclaim the habitat, that the Edenists
were going to incorporate it into their culture (earlier rumour said Michael stole the habitat seed from Edenists), throwing
out the Adamists. They had all come to nothing. Right from the start the habitat personality had acted as both the civil service
and police force, using its servitors to preserve order, so nothing changed, taxes were still two per cent, the blackhawks
continued their mating flights, commercial enterprise was encouraged, creative finance tolerated. As long as the status quo
was maintained, who cared exactly which kind of neurones were running the show, human or bitek?
Joshua felt a hand come down hard on his shoulder as he shuffled towards the exit, the weight pressed through his left leg.
“Ouch.”
“Joshua, my friend, my very rich friend. This is the day, hey? The day you made it.” Barrington Grier beamed rapturously at
him. “So what are you going to do with it all? Women? Fancy living?” His eyes lacked focus, he was definitely running a stimulant
program. And he was entitled, the auction house was in line for a three per cent cut of the sale price.
Joshua smiled back, almost sheepish. “No, I’m going back into space. See a bit of the Confederation for myself, that kind
of thing, the old wanderlust.”
“Ah, if I had my youth back I would do the same thing. The good life, it ties you down, and it’s a waste, especially for someone
your age. Party till you puke every night, I mean what’s the point of it all in the end? You should use the money to get out
there and accomplish something. Glad to see you’ve got some sense. So, are you going to buy a black-hawk egg?”
“No, I’m taking the
Lady Mac
back out.”
Barrington Grier pursed his lips in rueful admiration. “I remember when your father arrived here. You take after him, some.
Same effect on the women, from what I hear.”
Joshua raised a wicked smile.
“Come on,” Barrington Grier said. “I’ll buy you a drink, in fact I’ll buy you a whole meal.”
“Tomorrow maybe, Barrington, tonight I’m going to party till I puke.”
The lakehouse belonged to Dominique’s father, who said it used to belong to Michael Saldana, that it was his home in the days
before the starscrapers had matured to their full size. It was a series of looping chambers sunk into the side of a cliff
above a lake up near the northern endcap. The walls looked as though they had been wind-carved. Inside the decor was simplistic
and expensive, a holiday and entertainment
pied-À-terre
, not a home; artwork of various eras had been blended perfectly, and big plants from several planets flourished in the corners,
chosen for their striking contrasts.
Outside the broad glass window-doors overlooking the huge lake, Tranquillity’s axial light-tube was dimming towards its usual
iridescent twilight. Inside, the party was just beginning to warm up. The eight-piece band was playing twenty-third-century
ragas, processor blocks were loaded with
outrÉ
stimulant programs, and the caterers were assembling a seafood buffet of freshly imported Atlantis delicacies.
Joshua lay back on a long couch to one side of the main lounge, dressed in a pair of baggy grey-blue trousers and a green
Chinese jacket, receiving and dispensing greetings to strangers and acquaintances alike. Dominique’s set were all young, and
carefree, and very rich even by Tranquillity’s standards. And they certainly knew how to party. He thought he could see the
solid raw polyp walls vibrating from the sound they kicked up on the temporary dance-floor. He took another sip of Norfolk
Tears; the clear, light liquid ran down his throat like the lightest chilled wine, punching his gut like boiling whisky. It
was glorious. Five hundred fuseodollars a bottle. Jesus!
“Joshua! I just heard. Congratulations.” It was Dominique’s father, Parris Vasilkovsky, pumping his hand. He had a round face,
with a curly beret of glossy silver-grey hair. There were very few lines on his skin, a sure sign of a geneering heritage;
he must have been at least ninety. “One of us idle rich now, eh? God, I can hardly remember what it was like right back at
the beginning. Let me tell you, the first ten million is always the most difficult. After that… no problem.”
“Thanks.” People had been congratulating him all evening. He was the party’s star attraction. The day’s novelty. Since his
mother had remarried a vice-president of the Brandstad Bank he had dwelt on the fringes of the plutocrat set which occupied
the heart of Tranquillity. They were free enough with their hospitality, especially the daughters who liked to think of themselves
as bohemian; and his scavenging flights made him notorious enough to enjoy both their patronage and bodies. But he had always
been an observer. Until now.
“Dominique tells me you’re going into the cargo business,” Parris Vasilkovsky said.
“That’s right. I’m going to refit
Lady Mac
, Dad’s old ship, take her out again.”
“Going to undercut me?” Parris Vasilkovsky owned over two hundred and fifty starships, ranging from small clippers up to ten-thousand-tonne
bulk freighters, even some colonist-carrier ships. It was the seventh largest private merchant fleet in the Confederation.
Joshua looked him straight in the eye without smiling. “Yes.”
Parris nodded, suddenly serious. He had started with nothing seventy years ago. “You’ll do all right, Joshua. Come down to
the apartment one night before you go, have dinner as my guest. I mean it.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Great.” A thick white eyebrow was raised knowingly. “Dominique will be there. You could do a lot worse, she’s one hell of
a girl. A little fancy free, but tough underneath.”
“Er, yes.” Joshua managed a weak smile. Parris Vasilkovsky: matchmaker! And I’m considered suitable for that family? Jesus!
I wonder what he’d think if he knew what his little darling daughter was doing last night? Although knowing this lot, he’d
probably want to join in.
Joshua caught sight of Zoe, another sometimes girlfriend, who was on the other side of the room, her sleeveless white gown
creating a sharp contrast with her midnight-black skin. She met his eye and smiled, wiggling her glass. He recognized one
of the other teenage girls in the group she was with, smaller than her, with short blonde hair, wearing a sea-blue sarong
skirt and loose matching blouse. Pretty freckled face, a thinnish nose with a slight downward curve at the end, and deep blue
eyes. He had met her once or twice before, a quick hello, friend of a friend. His neural nanonics located her visual image
in a file and produced the name: Ione.
Dominique was striding through the throng towards him. He took another gulp of Norfolk Tears in reflex. People seemed to teleport
out of her way for fear of heavy bruising should her swaying hips catch them a glancing blow. Dominique was twenty-six, almost
as tall as him; sports mad, she had cultivated a splendidly athletic figure, straight blonde hair falling halfway down her
back. She was wearing a small purple bikini halter and a split skirt of some shimmering silver fabric.
“Hi, Josh.” She plonked herself down on the edge of the couch, and plucked his glass from unresisting fingers, taking a swift
sip for herself. “Look what I ran up for us.” She held up a processor block. “Twenty-five possibles, all we can manage, taking
your poor feet into account. Should be fun. We’ll start working through them tonight.”
Shadowy images flickered over the surface of the block.