“Pelli, Nat, go get yourselves a coffee,” Saul said.
“But I’ve just got—” Natasha started.
“Don’t argue, just go. I’ll call when I want you back. My dollar, okay.”
She frowned at him and glanced across at the three immobile figures outside. Confusion was conjuring up a lot of questions.
Saul gave Pelli an urgent signal.
“Come on, babe,” Pelli said, and ushered her toward the rear door. A suspicious Natasha allowed herself to be hustled away.
Saul told the store’s smartnet to open the front door. The bolts
snick
ed across loudly. For the first time in twelve years, opening up the business didn’t sound auspicious.
Duren came in first. For someone so big he moved easily. Saul remembered the hours they spent at the small gym they were both members of back in the day; while Saul’s ambition had been to keep himself lean for surfing, Duren went for building strength. And when he wasn’t on the gym weights, he was taking his kung fu classes or kickboxing—whatever allowed him to beat the crap out of other people without getting arrested. Outside of politics, it was what he lived for. He reached nirvana when the two could be combined.
There was a heartbeat while Saul looked at his old not-quite friend, too overwhelmed and nervous to react. Then Duren’s round face grinned widely, showing off a couple of canine fang implants. “Man, you look good for an old dude.” Duren grasped Saul’s hands, engulfing them completely in a hot, sweaty grip. “You haven’t put on a fucking gram in what, ten years?”
“Longer than that.” Saul grinned back, hoping it looked sincere.
“Still hitting the curves?”
“When I have the time.”
“Yeah,” Duren said, his voice like a wheezy whisper. “I heard you got married. You! And you’ve got, what, three kids now?”
Saul’s heart started racing.
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit
—this wasn’t casual, a happy tour around the old times. “Yeah, three.”
“Cool. Man, I want you to meet some friends of mine. This here is Zulah.”
The woman gave him a sullen nod, the glass beads in her dreadlocks clicking together smartly as her head moved. Saul couldn’t remember ever seeing someone with skin so black before. He suspected the pigmentation had been enhanced, it was like a stealth coating. Definitely a statement.
“And this—” Duren began proudly.
“Zebediah North,” Saul completed. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“Mr. Howard; I’ve heard a lot about you from brother Duren.”
“Oh dear.” He kept it light, the old-pals-never-stop-joshing act. “It’s not true.”
“That would be a shame,” Zebediah said.
“Come in, sit down,” Saul said. “We have some tea in the back.”
“You are most kind,” Zebediah said.
“Lock the door,” Zulah said as she walked past, making sure she was first into the back room.
Duren gave an exaggerated shrug at her behavior. Saul told the smartnet to seal up the shop and went into the back room, wishing the whole sensation of doom was just down to his age and paranoia. But … Zebediah North!
He was the only North ever to rebel against his family—effectively turning against himself and everything the Norths had achieved. He rejected it all: the company, his dead father, brothers, cousins, wealth, even his name. Saul couldn’t recall what it used to be, but he’d been born a 2, one of Bartram’s sons. His one-man uprising had started right after the slaughter. Everyone at the time had said how that must have pushed him over the edge. He’d broadcast across the transnet about how the human “occupation” of St. Libra was wrong, and how he would take this message out to the real people, educating them about their mistake. Over the next few years, spent as a nomad oracle traveling around the Independencies, his message had modified and softened somewhat to teaching people how to live in harmony with their adopted world. Mainly: Kick Northumberland Interstellar off St. Libra, and rip up the algaepaddies.
Zulah was examining the 3-D printers, which irritated Saul. But telling her to stop would make an issue of it, and he wasn’t ready for that yet.
“So are you still active?” Duren asked in his forceful whisper.
“No. But you already know that.” For a while Saul had been involved with the fledgling political opposition groups in Abellia. There weren’t many of them. After all, Bartram had been a pretty benign dictator, and that at least hadn’t changed under Brinkelle. Some civic issues could actually be voted on, nobody came here against their will, and anyone could leave at any time. In theory. Economics wasn’t entirely favorable to the non-wealthy who got stranded, but if you were in real monetary dire straights you could always get a charity passage on one of the cargo boats back to Eastshields and either go back through the gateway or settle in an Independency. Even so, Saul and others had been agitating for a more open style of democracy; an elected city council would be a good start rather than the occasional online referendum on trivia like where to site a new school. And there was also the question of rights for those born in Abellia—not many admittedly, but their numbers would only ever increase. Saul’s principal cause, the reason he had gotten involved, was health care. There were excellent hospitals in Abellia, including the massive Institute itself, which Bartram had founded, Abellia’s whole raison d’être, and arguably the best medical facility to be found among the trans-stellar worlds. But financially they were all out of reach for any of the independent workers. You simply had to have a health plan paid for by your employer, and that wasn’t compulsory. Everyone attracted to the meetings had been equally aggrieved by the health coverage situation, but they had a host of other issues as well.
The problem with all this hot radicalism was the quality of people it had attracted. After a couple of years attending meetings of new-formed “people’s committees”—where even the most dynamic chairperson could rarely get a vote passed on what kind of coffee was going to be served at next week’s meeting—Saul had walked out never to return, completely fed up and dispirited at achieving nothing for democracy’s progress within those two years. Besides, Brinkelle had started to move toward establishing a universal health plan—not a particularly good one, but definitely a safety net for the worst cases. He knew he was being too judgmental—that most of his fellow agitators meant well—but there was a limit to how many hours of his life could be spent on procedural points and backstabbing and ideological schisms and who called who what in the bar last night. Duren, on the other hand, was attracted to the scene by precisely that kind of debate, which spilled over into the physical.
“Yes, Saul,” Zebediah North said. “We know that.”
“So why are you here?” It was almost a rhetorical question. Their arrival couldn’t be coincidence. For one frightening moment he thought the North might know the true reason for him coming to Abellia all those years ago. After all, Northumberland Interstellar’s security department was good. But if they did know, he wouldn’t still be walking around, let alone allowed the liberty he enjoyed.
“The expedition, of course.”
“Yeah, I figured that.”
“It is another violation of St. Libra’s sanctity.”
Saul couldn’t help glancing at Duren. But the big man didn’t show a hint of amusement. He was a true believer now, Saul realized. Zebediah had provided both cause and leadership, everything that had been missing from the heart of Duren’s life before.
“Yeah,” Saul said wearily. “But at worst they’ll spend six months running around the northern jungles then go home and have to try and justify how much they’ve spent to their governments. Unless there is a monster living out there?” He deliberately left it open.
“There are no monsters on St. Libra,” Zebediah North said. “Only the evil that humans have brought with them.”
It was a strange thing, but Saul could believe what he heard. The way Zebediah spoke the sentiment—without shouting, without a politician’s faux-hand-clasp sincerity, but instead with utter from-the-soul conviction—simply made it a universal truth. No wonder poor Duren was such a devout disciple these days. It would be hard to resist such evangelicalism.
“Right,” Saul said, shaking off the mesmerizing delusion. “So what do you want to do about it?”
“I must learn exactly what they are doing. I need to see for myself the level of the violation they commit. Only then can justice be leveled against the perpetrators.”
“I see. And how do I fit in to all that?”
“We need some information, man,” Duren said. “That’s all.”
“What kind of information?”
“On the expedition.”
“Yeah, I get that, but it’s all there on the public sector of the transnet. Why come to me?”
“I need the full personnel list,” Zulah said abruptly.
Saul did his best not to chortle at her. “I can’t get you that.”
“Three years with Abellia TeleNet, working to establish the third-generation communication architecture for the city,” Duren said.
“Twenty years ago,” Saul blurted.
“The systems you helped design and install are the backbone of today’s local net,” Zebediah said. “There have been no technological revolutions since then, only expansion. The net has grown with the city, but that’s all.”
“Okay, but that doesn’t make me some kind of bytehead super hacker.”
“No, probably not, and yet …”
And Saul had never felt so judged before—Zebediah’s stare was relentless, allowing him to gaze upon Saul’s very thoughts. Exposing his guilt.
“You’re a curious man, Saul Howard,” Zebediah said. “Here you are in Abellia, though your early involvement with the democracy movement illustrates your dissatisfaction with it. Now you’ve evolved into an aging surf dude with a sweet family, demonstrating a streak of independence. Yet to be contracted by Abellia TeleNet, you needed to be a fully fledged corporate software nerd. I’ve had a lot of experience with them, decades, and you don’t strike me as the type. You’re not dedicated to code and systems and protocols, not you, not a free human soul who delights in the joy of riding the waves, feeling the spray of freedom in your face. Such dreary things can be learned by anyone with half a brain, of course, if there was a good enough reason for it. So why would you do that?”
“I was young, I followed the money. And no one stays with the same job for life.
You
know that, don’t you?”
“Touché. But you weren’t
that
young even twenty years ago. Why did you come here, Saul? And more to the point, why have you stayed?”
“Wife. Three kids. Surf’s up every day.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Tough shit, pal.”
“I can see I make you uncomfortable, Saul, and I’m genuinely sorry for that. I simply came here to ask a favor from someone I was led to believe shared some of my ideals. Do you really wish the expedition to go completely unchallenged? For if I don’t question it, who will?”
Saul looked from Zebediah to Duren. Neither of them was giving away a thing, just waiting patiently, pleasantly even. He didn’t bother making eye contact with Zulah; she scared him more than Duren ever could. “The personnel list?” he asked finally.
“If you could, I would be in your debt,” Zebediah said.
“Nothing else?”
“No.”
“This may take a while. I’m not exactly up to date on this kind of thing.”
“Thank you, Saul. St. Libra is grateful for your help.”
“Sure.”
*
Vance Elston walked over from his tent to the Remote Observation Center—a grand name for three Qwik-Kabins locked together, with aircon grilles thrumming and an elaborate antenna dome on top. A trailer with two high-output fuel cells was standing along one side, with thick power cables plugged into the Qwik-Kabin’s utility sockets; gentle plumes of steam drifted out of their vents as they hummed away. Just as he was going up the five metal steps to the entrance, he paused to watch a SuperRoc touch down on the runway. Even after three days at Abellia airport the sight of the big planes flying their airlift mission was impressive. They were still flying around the clock, mainly delivering equipment now. After he’d arrived in Abellia, engineers had converted both the SuperRocs back to full cargo configuration. AirBrogal 2757s were scheduled to bring in any remaining HDA personnel.
The Abellia compound was a muddy temporary city of tents and Qwik-Kabins inside the airport perimeter, bordered along one side by the rows of pallets and ground vehicles due to be shipped out to the forward bases. Several types of helicopters were parked down an apron at the other end of the airport, waiting their turn to fly forward. So far, Vance had been very impressed by the skills of the pilots. The whole process of setting up Edzell had gone a lot smoother than he’d been expecting.
Vance glanced up at the sky as he went through the door to the Remote Observation Center. It was another cloudless morning, with the rings shimmering a pastel silver above the mountains of the Abellia peninsula. Humidity was strong, and the wind was starting to pick up from the south. Rain was coming in maybe three hours. Weather wisdom was a sense he’d quickly developed after arriving. There had already been five torrential downpours, two of them at night, which made sleep impossible in a tent.
He went through the anteroom, allowing his eyes to adapt to the subdued lighting inside the inside the Remote Observation Center. The Qwik-Kabins had formed a large central space, with a row of zone consoles and some big panes along the front wall. Pilots on two zone consoles monitored the six e-Rays so far operational, making sure they maintained position in the relay chain over the jungle. The drones were beaming back a lot of information for the big displays. Most prominent was a weather radar image of the southern portion of Brogal. Vance was pleased to note a big cloud front massing out at sea, and due to make landfall in three and a quarter hours. Other displays were showing camera images of Edzell. Front and center was one with an over-the-pilot’s-shoulder view from a Daedalus cockpit as it approached Edzell.
The back of the room was crowded with senior expedition staff, headed by Charmonique Passam herself, closely attended by the official GE press corps: a small troupe of reporters with a sole camera crew, all carefully marshaled by Carole Furec, the expedition press officer. Brice North was also in attendance, one of Brinkelle’s daughters, and obviously a one-in-ten—she looked about seventeen even though the file in his iris smartcell grid said she was twenty-three. None of Brinkelle’s five children shared any characteristics, either with one another or with their mother; and she’d only had one herself, Beatrice, her first; the remainder were all surrogate born. Some North traditions just didn’t change, he thought.