"We have to assume they're using the surveillance satellites—if we drop Zed, or open a com hole in it, we're immediately visible. And vulnerable. We can land this thing anywhere, just about—that's what a combat shuttle is for, after all."
Half a world away from the main base at Copper Mountain, a loose gaggle of rocky islands rose from the blue sea. Large and small, rough and rougher, cloaked in grass and trees, they had never been used for anything but occasional shuttle landing exercises. The pilots flew low over several of them, until they spotted the bright reflection of what might be a freshwater stream. That one was much larger than any of the Stack Islands, with a shallow grassy bowl set above low cliffs. The pilots eased the shuttle in vertically, and at last it came to rest.
The broad meadow was striped with shadows from the rocky outcrops. Overhead, a wavering cloud streamed, smooth on the windward side, and ragged on the lee. Beyond it, far across the ocean they could not see from this bowl, rows of cumulus drifted slowly before the wind.
"It's a large island, but it's still an island," said the professor. "At least we're safe up here from any reasonable storm."
Now that they weren't having to fly the unfamiliar shuttle, the pilots had time to work with the instruments and see what, if anything, could penetrate Zed's stealth blanket in an outward direction.
After an hour or so, one of the pilots came out of the shuttle and shouted to the others.
"Outbound. They're outbound, the whole lot of them." The others crowded closer.
"You're sure?" Garson asked.
"Well, unless this stealth thing is creating a very weird false image that looks just like a lot of ships moving into formation toward the jump point."
"Time to jump?"
"They're hours from a safe radius for microjumping—then it'll depend on whether they choose to microjump out to the jump point or not." The pilot grinned. "But they'll be out of nearscan range in a few minutes—behind the planet."
"It occurs to me to wonder why they didn't just incinerate this planet as they left," the professor said.
"You have such cheerful ideas," Garson said. "They know they have other allies down here?"
"Perhaps," the professor said. "Though I don't know how much they care about their allies. Are there resources here they still want, even though they think the weapons research stuff is all gone? Do they want this as a base later?"
"Once they're gone, we can just fly back to the main base, can't we?" asked Swearingen.
"If we built a wooden ship," the professor said, "it'd be less detectable by conventional means, and we could sail it back—"
"Gussie, I am not going to indulge your taste for historical re-creation and try to build a sailing ship from these trees," Swearingen said. "They aren't even straight."
"That's exactly why we could do it. Look at them—they're already shaped like keels and ribs and things. I'm sure Margiu thinks it's a good idea . . ." The professor gave Margiu a wide grin; she found it hard to resist, but the thought of going out on the water in a homemade boat terrified her.
"Look at her," someone said. "You've scared her, Gussie."
"We have a perfectly good troop carrier," Garson said. "We'd be crazy not to use it."
"All right," the professor said, with a deliberate pout, "but you're taking all the fun out of this."
"We'll leave when they're out of nearscan range and then go back to the main base," Garson said. "We've done what we came for, and they may need us back there."
"I don't suppose you'd agree to stop by some tropical island for a little recreation . . . ?"
"This is as tropical as you get, professor. Enjoy it while you can," Major Garson said.
"You're no fun." But he didn't seem really annoyed. He wandered off to look at the grove of twisted trees.
"We'd better leave soon," Garson said, "or he'll decide to have us make spears and crossbows from those trees."
"Nothing that simple," said Swearingen. "He'll go for trebuchets and ballistas and a couple of hang gliders."
Favored-of-God
, Terakian & Sons courier
Goonar Terakian looked at the newsfax and found it hard to breathe. Mutinies, markets collapsing in all directions . . . and all he'd wanted to do was work his way up to become a captain of one of the Terakian ships.
"We're free traders," he said, half to himself. "We're unaligned."
"Not exactly." Basil Terakian-Junos slouched against the opposite bulkhead. "I don't fancy running off to the NewTex Militia. Hazel says—"
"And that's another thing," Goonar said. "Hazel. We're mixed up with her family, which doesn't want to be mixed up with us."
"What do we want out of all this?"
"Well, we don't want a war, that's for sure," Goonar said. "We want a chance to make a living, same as anybody else."
"Not the same . . . a good living. And wars sometimes prosper traders."
"Well . . . yes. When they don't kill them outright. Protection for our property. Opportunity. Economic stability, so we can depend on credit and currency."
" 'Profits are highest in times of trouble,' " Basil quoted.
"Yes. But so are losses."
"The question is, which side offers us the best deal?"
"The question is, how do we define the best deal?"
"It's not our decision, Goonar. Our fathers—"
"Won't have to live with the outcome. We will. I'm not going to stand by and see them ruin us."
"Kaim is one of us—"
"Kaim is crazy. We both know that. Yeah, the mutineers are strong now, but they're not the sort of people we want to do business with, not in the long run."
"What about . . ." Basil hooked his thumb and gestured to the far wall.
"The Black Scratch? You'd try dealing with the Black Scratch?"
"Very cautiously, maybe."
"Not me," Goonar blew on his finger, expressively. "The tongs aren't long enough."
"If the Familias comes apart—"
"It won't if we keep our heads."
"We?"
"All the real people—the traders, shippers, ordinary people."
It struck Goonar suddenly as ridiculous that he had described Terakian & Sons, Ltd., as "ordinary people" but he didn't let that internal chuckle show in his face. Better if Basil didn't think about that one too long.
"Right now," he said, tapping the manifest display, "we have a cargo to worry about, customers to serve. Things won't get better if we start playing doom-caller."
"Spoken like someone who wants to be a captain," said Basil, only half-joking.
"And you don't?" Goonar cocked an eye at him. Their last recommendation had resulted in a solid profit; he and Basil had their bonuses, and he'd put his in the captain's pool for the first time.
"I do, but—captains always have to think of the long term, and you know, cuz, that sometimes I'm a bit more focussed on the short."
That was true, but this was the first time Basil had admitted it.
"I'd rather be your second and stay your partner: you steady me down, and I keep you from being stodgy."
"I'm not stodgy," Goonar said, trying to sound stodgy to hide the inner glow that came from Basil's admission that they weren't in competition for the next open captaincy.
"You would be," Basil said, "if you didn't have me kicking you every now and then. I told the Fathers two days ago."
Which meant Goonar was up to number three, at least, in the pool, and sending in his bonus money had been even smarter than he thought. Captains had to have ship shares before selection; he had been saving for years for this, investing carefully.
"We'll make a good team," Goonar said, accepting Basil as formally as the Terakian family ever accepted anyone.
"We already do," Basil said.
As they turned again to the manifest display, one of the clerks knocked on the door. "Goonar—there's a message from the Fathers."
"Thanks," Goonar said. He took the sealed packet—two levels below the highest secrecy—and thumb-printed it until the seal peeled back. He stared at the first line, and felt his face flush. "Basil—!"
"What is it, your first ship?"
"You knew!"
"I didn't . . . but Uncle did hint that something nice was coming to you, and did I want to ride your coattails, or strike out on my own."
"It's the
Fortune
." Old
Fortune,
one of the real prizes of the Terakian & Sons fleet, had close to the ideal blend of cargo capacity and maneuverability, including an ample shuttle bay and two drone cargo shuttles. Goonar went on reading. "It's Miro—he's developed some neurological condition, and they don't want to rotate captains through the ships in this political crisis—they want to keep people with crews they know, and routes they know . . ."
"Miro . . ." Basil said. "Did he ever rejuv?"
"I haven't a clue. Get off that, will you? People developed shakes and bad memory long before rejuvenation. But—what a plum! What a ship!" He went on reading. "We're taking over
Fortune
's regular routes, but I have leave to expand or contract them as I see fit . . . report acceptance/refusal by fastest secure route . . . As if anyone in his right mind would refuse this—" He stopped and looked at Basil. "Finish up that manifest check for me, Bas, and I'll go answer this."
The
Terakian Fortune
was everything Goonar had hoped for, and more. Miro's crew accepted him readily, the cargo couldn't be better—he couldn't lose money unless he flung it out the hatch—and the first two stops went so smoothly that he let Basil talk him into spending several days downside at the next, Falletta, meeting with Terakian's agents, lunching with local bankers, inspecting merchandise before it was packed up. He found a suitable thank-you gift for the Fathers and a pendant for Basil's wife. Basil came back from his own forays into the local markets to suggest an evening at the theater.
"I'm not going to sit through one of those acrobatic noise festivals," Goonar said.
"It's not that. It's something you'll like."
"Really."
"
Brides of the Mountains
. It's a really good company, too."
"Out here in the sticks?"
"Come on, Goonar; it's better than sitting in the hotel doing nothing."
The curtains opened on a stage set for the traditional drama
Brides of the Mountains
. . . a peasant village, with peasant men lounging around pretending to hold agricultural implements as if they knew what to do with them. The backdrop was painted with purple mountains that looked like nothing on any of a hundred planets.
Goonar nudged his cousin. "Even I know more about a scythe than that fellow on the left."
"Hssh." Basil gave him a brief glare. "Just wait."
The overture swelled, and the peasants drew breath. A flourish of pipes brought in the peasant women, brilliant shawls around their shoulders, and the men burst into song.
Lovely as the morning star
sweet girls, our brides to be
Goonar had to admit they could sing. Loudly, at least. He caught himself starting to hum along and stopped before Basil could poke him in the arm.
The women's chorus responded as the music changed keys.
Strong as the trees that dare the heights
brave boys, our husbands to be
Then they opened out, and revealed the most beautiful woman Goonar had seen.
And yet, my dears, we will not wed
until you prove your faithful love—
Rich red-brown hair—it might be a stage wig, of course, but it moved so naturally . . . lush figure, though of course it might be the costume. Her mellow voice filled the hall, and she seemed to be looking straight at Goonar. His breath shortened. He was too old to have this reaction—but his body paid no attention to his mind.
All through the first act, in which the men left on a dangerous quest, and the women of a neighboring village came to visit, Goonar argued with himself.
In the second act, as the women of the two villages changed places, to follow and test their respective suitors, Goonar thought he had himself in hand. Betharnya Vi Negaro—he had glanced at the program in the brief interval between acts—was a well-known actress and singer, and of course she wasn't looking at him. Not him in particular. Probably every man there felt she was flirting with him alone. Maybe she was. During the dance sequence, he tried to fault her dancing. That blonde was more nimble . . . that brunette had a wider smile.