“You okay?”
Saul shook his head and smiled at his wife. “Sure.”
“You seemed a bit distant, there.”
He gave the rings-dominated sky a guilty glance, but none of the huge dark HDA planes were overhead at that moment. “Just this expedition nonsense, that’s all.”
“What’s to worry about? You don’t really think there’s a sentient species living out in the wilds there, do you?”
“No. Course not. It’s stupid, it’s just the disruption, that’s all. And the amount of bioil they’re using up may leave the city short. We don’t have that many algaepaddies, and it’s not like we can import it from Highcastle.”
Emily gave him a curious look. A hand waved up casually at the bungalow’s high sloping roof. “We have a photovoltaic roof, which produces more electricity than we use. The cars have auxiliary batteries for the fuel cells, which have enough charge to get us either to the school or the shop, and we can recharge them here if the tanks ever do truly run dry. So what’s your problem?”
He shrugged. “Our economy. It might turn sour. The farms need bioil, you know. Tractors don’t run on batteries—they have high-rated fuel cells—and a lot of them have biodiesel engines.”
“Tell me you didn’t just say that. That’s such establishment talk.
I’m awfully worried about the economy, the market’s down, you know, do you think we should we change the interest rates, old chap,
” she taunted.
“Ouch!”
“Sorry, but … come on. This is exciting for the kids. Jevon wants to drive out to the airport and watch the planes, especially those big SuperRocs.”
“Does he?”
“He’s eleven! And they are big chunks of shiny machinery whizzing around over his head, helping to discover aliens hidden in the jungle—what else does he want to go and see?”
Saul almost said
the surf,
but that would accelerate the argument and they’d both wind up getting stubborn and defensive like they always did when they fought, which wasn’t wise. Not at this time on a Sunday morning. “I’ll maybe take him out there this evening if there’s a SuperRoc flying. The airport must publish a flight schedule somewhere on the transnet.”
“That’ll be nice for the two of you. I’m surprised you haven’t been out there already, it’s the biggest collection of boys’ toys we’ll ever see here.”
“Military crap doesn’t really interest me.”
“Hmm.” She gave him a suspicious glance.
He smiled, as if admitting defeat, acknowledging that she was right about everything always—secret to a successful marriage.
Forty minutes later he was dressed in jeans and a gray sweatshirt, ready to go to work. Emily had put on a lavender beachsuit, ready for the waves and the sun. It was skintight and made her look utterly fabulous. She grinned when she caught him looking at her, and gave him a long kiss. “Hurry back,” she teased.
“Right.” He gave each of the kids a quick hug. “Be good. And do what your mother says; remember, the waves are not your friend.”
“I’ll be good, Daddy,” Clara promised solemnly.
“Yeah, I will,” Jevon yelled as he rushed out carrying his board.
“Bye, Dad,” Isadora smiled.
“Bye.” Saul said absolutely nothing about the blue-and-pink bikini she was wearing. Absolutely nothing, because there wasn’t a whole lot of it to comment on. The Ford Rohan sedan opened its driver’s door as he approached, and he climbed in. “Take me to the shop,” he told the auto.
The fuel cells powered up as the garage door slid open, and the auto backed the Rohan out into bright sunlight. Isadora would put a T-shirt on when she went out surfing, he knew, which was fine, and she also knew to apply high-factor sun cream before she spent an age getting her tan just right. He told himself it didn’t matter because there weren’t many people using the beach, mostly the families from the other bungalows. But the group of friends she hung out with after school and during the weekends was now starting to include more boys.
Saul sighed as the Rohan turned out of Camilo Village’s access road and onto the Rue du Ranelagh, which would take him straight down to the old town. Isadora and boys shouldn’t bother him, he knew, but even now he’d never managed to truly shake free from his formal Jewish upbringing back in Boston. He could still recite most of Rabbi Lavine’s stern lectures on the sanctity of marriage and the fundamental foulness of teenage sex; it was as if the old man had mistakenly picked up a book of Catholic commandments when he walked into the temple and nobody had ever corrected him.
What Saul ought to be was happy that his daughter had lots of friends, that she’d find boys she adored and who worshipped her; but there would be other boys, the kind he’d know at first glance, before they even opened their mouths, were no good at all, and he’d hate them and not be able to say; and anyway St. Libra wasn’t a place with huge opportunities, not the right kind of opportunities anyway. Bartram North had set it up as an isolated community purely to service his beloved Institute far beyond the usual legislative restrictions prevalent on most trans-space worlds. It was pleasant enough with its unvarying climate and zero taxes, but without any real industry or economy the kids would never achieve much for themselves. What Isadora needed was a place where she could truly blossom, instead of falling into one of the hundreds of life-traps surrounding her in Abellia …
Hell, why can’t I be proud of her and have faith rather than worry all the time.
He supposed it was the fate of fathers everywhere.
The Rohan drove into the Delacroix tunnel, powering up the slope. When it emerged on the other side, the Rue du Ranelagh curved sharply along the side of the valley.
Up ahead was the remarkable Lazare Bridge, a white marble strip that rested on a couple of massive toroidal supports, the north end higher than the south. Big tankers full of raw trundled along it, electric axle motors straining against the incline. There was a lot of construction work under way in Abellia. With all the beaches around the peninsula now taken, the rich were having to build their tacky fifty-room mansions farther inland on giant terraces carved into the mountains, or across plateaus raised up out of the valley floor to lift their foundations safely above the churning rivers. With each new extravagant, expensive site full of chittering automata and harried supervisors came another decent branch of infrastructure that Brinkelle required they contribute to the community as the price for her permission to live in her fiefdom. It was a splendid way of funding decent civic amenities for those who didn’t necessarily come here by choice, but were subject to economic necessity like most humans.
Saul wondered how the expedition would affect the desirability of owning a place in Abellia. Not that the truly rich lived here permanently; it was just another house spread around the circuit of their eternal migration. Most of the big houses went unused for a year or eighteen months at a time before their plutocrat owners visited in the forlorn hope of witnessing some new spectacle or experience that might momentarily enrich their jaded got-it-all lifestyle. Maybe the chance of being shredded by a nonhuman monster would actually appeal to their type. Although knowing them there would be an influx of armed hunters, relishing the thrill of stalking their lethal prey through uncharted jungle.
That was the thing Saul feared as much as he admired about life in Abellia. Despite the allure of its beauty and ease, it was like nowhere else in the trans-stellar worlds. Here civilization really was a veneer, an incredibly rich one, but flimsy nonetheless. He’d come here twenty years ago to exploit some of the human savagery that lurked just below that glossy sheen of respectability, and now he had to live with his choices. Of course, he’d never expected to marry and have kids, but Abellia had smoothly gone on to convince him that life here could be normal. And he’d fallen into the nightmare of believing it.
Beyond the bridge, the valley opened out, revealing the rings hanging across the southern sky, glowing with a sunset-gold hue. And a big dark plane was flying along them, descending toward the airport away to the northwest of town.
Saul frowned at the plane as the distant growl of its jets washed around the silent car, knowing full well that was the real cause of his moody anger. It had been the same ever since this ridiculous expedition had been announced. Right from the start the official reason made no sense: evidence that there may be a sentient race living on the unexplored Brogal continent. Evidence that was never declared or defined. The HDA was going in to examine genetic diversity, they claimed vaguely, there were possibilities uncovered by ongoing academic research that more than just plants had evolved after all.
Lies, Saul knew, pathetic, evil lies. Nobody was researching St. Libra genetics; there was no profit in it, their biochemistry was too different from terrestrial. There had only ever been one single example of non-botanical life on Brogal: the monster that had slaughtered Bartram North’s household. The Abellia political sites had been positing that, too, resurrecting the events of twenty years ago, at the same time scornfully reminding everyone of the mad psycho girl who had actually been convicted of the murders. They at least were clear in naming that as the more likely cause of the expedition.
Saul suspected they were right. What he utterly failed to understand was: Why now? Why after twenty long, squandered years did anyone suddenly decide to investigate a discredited rumor? And not just a small inquiry, either. Hell alone knew how much money the expedition was costing.
He wasn’t sure what he feared most: if they’d find something out there in the endless wilderness of jungles, or if they wouldn’t. His life was settled now, however wrong he’d been to allow that to happen. He’d made his sacrifices, done his utmost for those he loved more than his own life, and moved on. He’d never expected anything to change. And that was what really bugged him, the cause of recent sleepless nights and general irritability. It was starting to look like events completely beyond his control were about to chew him up and spit him out once again. It just wasn’t fair. Not at all.
Velasco Beach extended for four hundred meters in a slight crescent curve to the west of the Alonso marina, itself an outgrowth of Abellia’s original cargo harbor. Its location in the middle of the old town, along with its size, made it a popular attraction for Abellia residents who couldn’t afford their own beach, a place they could relax away from the precocious demanding rich who they served. The Hawaiian Moon water sport store had a great location in the middle of the promenade behind Velasco Beach, jammed between Rico’s Bar and Grill and the Cornish Ice Cream Shop. The Rohan delivered Saul into the staff-only car parking slot behind the Hawaiian Moon at ten to nine that morning. Pelli and Natasha, the two surf-mad youngsters who worked behind the counters, were already there waiting for Saul to open up. The back door’s mesh of smartdust acknowledged the owner’s biometric signature along with his e-i’s code, and the locks clicked back.
Saul had owned the Hawaiian Moon for twelve years now. The concept had started off with just him and Emily at a stall down the far end of Velasco, with little Isadora toddling around enchanting the customers with her cheeky smile. Now he owned the store outright. Two-thirds of the long, single-story, white concrete building was given over to beachwear, a mix of designer labels and more reasonably priced gear. Emily selected it all; her brief time spent in the fashion trade back on New Washington gave her an eye for what looked good and would sell here. The clothing side made a nice profit year after year.
Saul’s part of the business took up the remaining third of the store as well as the whole back room. That he knew so much about surfing and boards still occasionally amused him, but even though he’d been bitten by the surfing bug relatively late in life, the addiction wasn’t one he could kick—and didn’t want to. So now he supplied surfboards to fellow enthusiasts, and lessons for those who’d seen people gliding effortlessly along the tops of the waves and mistakenly believed they could do just as well. Several types of board were on display in the front, but it was the back room that had two state-of-the-art 3-D printers and five tanks of specialist raw. They allowed Saul to microfacture any kind of board listed on the transnet, and there were tens of thousands. He’d even designed a few of his own, more suited to the milder waters of St. Libra, which were popular.
Pelli went in and started examining the holographic decals on yesterday’s boards, seeing if they’d adhered properly overnight, while Natasha dumped her bag in the little staff room that also served as a storeroom. Saul told the store’s network to open the security shutters. Given Abellia’s minuscule crime rate he always thought them a waste of time, but the insurance company insisted. As they rolled up he looked out across the vitrified sandstone promenade. There weren’t many people about, as the shops and stalls were only just opening. A few early swimmers were in the water, and families with very young children were setting up camp on the sand with towels and sunshades.
Three people walking along the promenade stopped in front of the Hawaiian Moon, staring in past the mannequins dressed in rainbow sarongs and wet-look beachsuits. Recognition kicked in, giving Saul a nasty shock. He didn’t know the woman with dreadlocks down to her hips, but the other two … It had been fifteen years since he’d seen Duren. The man was twice Saul’s width, and none of that bulk was fat. The jet-black hair was thinner now, tied back in a tiny ponytail with a silver band, and there were a couple of demon-eye tattoos glimmering fire red around his eyelids, but other than that it was as if no time had passed. The other man was a North, dressed in a simple white shirt and green shorts, with worn leather sandals on dirty feet. And Saul knew exactly which North. Only one member of that clone-horde had a graying beard that came halfway down his belly, which along with his garb marked him down as some mad preacher prophet, an analogy best not spoken out loud.
The three of them regarded him without moving. It was as intimidating as he supposed it was meant to be.