“You’re saying aliens came here to St. Libra before us?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know that?”
“Zebediah told us. He knows this history of this world, this life.”
Saul absolutely refused to ask.
No way. I am not going down that route.
Instead he turned to Catrice. “Does everything fit?”
“Yes,” Catrice said.
“Then I am leaving.” It came out as a challenge. “No offense, but I don’t want to see or hear from you again.”
“You cannot escape the message St. Libra is delivering, Saul,” Duren said. “Look around you. Look at the immensity of what you are facing. What we are doing is such a small part, but we contribute what we can, and are proud to do so. Humans are not welcome here anymore. You should go home, old man, back through the gateway to live a happier life.”
“Whatever, dude.”
The door slid open, and Saul stepped out into the hot, arid air and blazing blue-white light of Sirius. A sensation of profound relief powered him all the way back to his Rohan. He switched on the fuel cells and drove out onto the switchback that led down to the Rue Turbigo.
“What the hell was all that about?” Emily asked.
“They’re nuts,” Saul grunted. “The whole goddamn coven of them. Rabid wackos: ancient aliens, flying saucers, HDA blowing up the planet. Zebediah has invented the mother of all conspiracy theories. What bugs me is how he gets them to listen to it all, never mind believe it.”
“Because they’re sad needy people,” she told him. “That’s who cults always recruit from.”
“Yeah, but … damn!” He turned onto the Rue Turbigo. Traveling into town was easy. There was no traffic on his side of the road. “I can’t believe Duren is involved. I knew him back in the day. He just wouldn’t listen to this kind of bullshit.”
“You said yourself he was just using it as an excuse to use violence on non-believers.”
“Yeah. Probably.” He twisted the throttle hard, picking up speed. On the other side of the Rue Turbigo, traffic was filling both lanes. Red and green taillights shone bright, even under the gleaming cloudless sky. He wasn’t really paying attention to the cars and trucks. Then something jumped out of the line of humming vehicles.
“Did you see that?” he asked.
“See what?”
Saul braked, craning his neck to get another glimpse of the big van that had gone humming past. “There.” He told his e-i to hold the image.
“Oh yeah,” Emily said.
He accelerated again. The side of the van had the same sharp yellow hoop-and-triangle logo that was on Catrice’s overalls.
“AeroTech Support Services,” Emily said, reading the lettering underneath. “I’m accessing it now. It’s a city-registered company, part owned by Abellia’s Civic Administration. They service aircraft at the airport.”
A cold panic started to rise, turning Saul’s skin clammy. “What are they doing, Emily? Oh fuck, what have I built for them? An aircraft? Are they going to sabotage an aircraft?”
“Saul, calm down. Nobody’s going to attack an aircraft. They’re delusional, not psychotic. They want to make statements, get themselves noticed and listened to. They want recognition, not jail.”
The image of Zulah’s hard face swam into his vision.
The bag!
He’d never told Emily about the surf bag Duren had carried onto the
Merry Moons
. Too weak, he railed at himself. Too scared of what was in there.
“We have to call the police,” he said. “Use the address I set up. Warn them.”
“Warn them about what?”
“Why did I build the cylinders for them? I’m so fucking stupid. I knew they’re crazy. What was I thinking?”
“You didn’t know anything, you still don’t. And you did it because they threatened you. You were scared. Hell, I was scared and I never met them. Those things you told me.”
You think that’s bad? There’s so much I never told you, so much I never can.
“Please, Emily. Use the address. Tell the police we think some political group is going to sabotage a plane, or the airport. Send them the blueprints, say the cylinders are part of the device. Maybe they’ll work out what Zebediah’s built.”
“Saul …”
“Emily, I won’t be able to live with myself if something bad happens and I didn’t try to make it right. Really, I can’t do that.”
Not again
.
“All right, darling. But I hope you set that address up right, else we’re going to be answering some very difficult questions.”
The strange message arrived in the network of Abellia’s police station at nine fifteen. Like every public department, the police were short-staffed that day as half of Abellia’s workers stayed home, trying to understand what was happening, and taking steps to safeguard their families. The detective who did finally get around to examining it at nine fifty-five didn’t know what to make of it—Zebediah North was in town with a bunch of crazed followers threatening people. Weird cylinders that might be connected with harming a plane. Nut-jobs working for AeroTech Support Services. It was all utter crap, of course, but given the current circumstances … He forwarded it to the small HDA security office operating out of the camp at the airport, as well as airport security. Both of them sent the blueprints on to engineering experts for a detailed analysis.
What came back
fast
shunted the threat level to a much higher grade. AeroTech Support Services was immediately suspended from operating, and its personnel ordered not to approach any aircraft. Fuel stores were also proscribed to them.
Major Griffin Toyne requested a secure private meeting with Vice Commissioner Passam to brief her on the potential threat. She agreed, scheduling him for a conference at the hotel suite she’d taken over at twelve seventeen—her next available appointment.
At twelve minutes past twelve, the expedition’s one Daedalus C-8000-KT tanker variant lifted off from Abellia’s runway. It was carrying a full load of various bioil fuels to resupply the tanks at Sarvar, a payload weighing ninety-two thousand kilograms. The four Pratt & Whitney H500-300 high-speed turbofans were producing 210 kilonewtons of thrust each, pushing the heavy plane on a steep vector up to its cruise altitude of fourteen kilometers. It had reached two thousand three hundred meters when an explosion blew out a center section of the fuselage approximately three meters in diameter. A blast that simultaneously punctured one of the five bioil tanks filling the center of the plane.
The resultant fireball expanded over two hundred meters in diameter as it cascaded down on the fields below, flinging wreckage fragments over an area seven kilometers wide.
Saul was out on the beach at the time, hammering posts into the sand above the tide line. Camilo Village residents had printed a whole load of warning signs, telling people not to go into the sluggish, corrupted water. The detonation rumbled in over the mountains, making him stop work and look up in puzzlement. The sound was like an approaching thunderstorm, yet the sky was clear of cloud. Only the borealis streamers remained, sending long flames of cold electron light flickering down to stroke the tops of the mountains.
As he paused, his e-i started to relay the news from the airport. Saul sank to his knees and started to cry in front of his children. It was the utter nadir of a life that only twenty-six years ago had overflowed with promise and joy.
Boston in midsummer was hot and beautiful. Saul loved the whole bustle of the place. It was his hometown after all, which added loyalty to the opinion. The densely packed buildings as he walked across the Common were a welcome sight. While he’d been offworld he’d missed the grandeur of both the ancient houses and the modern towers dominating downtown where he was heading. The contrast should have been too great, yet somehow they worked together here, creating the look of a vibrant city, exemplified by bustling streets and well-maintained infrastructure. Unlike half the East Coast cities, Boston’s population had remained steady while the new American worlds enticed the disaffected and the would-be empire builders, along with all the long-term welfare dependents who were relocated by the Federal Independent Landowner Act of 2057. The colleges helped keep Boston prosperous, of course, the students and sponsoring companies contributing to its civic identity, a commercial core whose steadfastness attracted a great many other enterprises that sought nothing more than stability during tumultuous times. New industry flourished. Older industries and businesses evolved and survived. As an entity, Boston had ridden the changes of the twenty-first century with alacrity, and come through relatively unscathed.
Saul left the Common behind and started off down Summer Street. Traffic was heavy, with everyone making their last dash for the office or studio or store. He never did understand where everyone who worked in downtown parked. Every block was packed with thriving businesses, evidenced by the animated residents thronging the sidewalk around him. That perpetual urban vivacity gave Saul a lot of pride in the old town. But he’d always known it was never for him. His elder brother Joseph would continue with the family firm; in Great-Grandfather’s day, that meant just dealing with property, but since land prices had collapsed during America’s trans-stellar expansion, Grandfather and his father diversified strongly into development and finance. Now Joseph had moved into the office on the top floor in Kilby Street, sitting behind the rosewood desk commissioned back in 1958. Joseph, who lived for The Deal, thriving on the endless accountancy minutiae and legal contract clauses and tax leverages that Saul found wholly tedious. And his younger sister Lindsey had already emigrated to Ramla with her orthodox husband Peter. Rather too orthodox for Saul’s more neglectful tenets, but Lindsey loved him, and was happy, or so it sounded in the infrequent, dutiful sibling calls they made to each other.
He reached the junction with Purchase Street and braced himself against the abrupt increase of pedestrians surging out of South Station. Noah was waiting for him on the junction with Congress Street, his forty-three-year-old land manager who was in on the meeting to make sure he didn’t make a total ass of himself. Saul thought they made a good team, his money and enthusiasm coupled with Noah’s experience and practicality. A sure foundation of success. They went into the modern, carbon-black office block and took the elevator to the eleventh floor.
Massachusetts Agrimech had a corner office which provided a view straight down onto the narrow Fort Point Channel Parks. Standing in the reception room, Saul watched the little automated tractors buzzing about, trimming the park’s yellowy grass. He wondered idly if Massachusetts Agrimech made them as well; it would be a good advert, and they did seem to produce every conceivable type of machine used for agriculture.
“Mr. Castellano will see you now,” the receptionist said, a handsome young man dressed in an imitation of this year’s Yomoshi business-style suit.
Saul and Noah went through the tall black wood doors to an office that was Spartan expensive, with white walls and black and red furniture. There was no desk, only a conversation area arrangement of couches around a smoked-glass-and-walnut coffee table. Brando Castellano was rising from the red couch with a professional, welcoming smile. Pretty much what Saul had been expecting, a man in his fifties who didn’t put in enough time at the gym, and had to have his dark suits cut accordingly. Only slightly off-putting was the Stetson on the coffee table. But then Brando Castellano greeted them with a very Texan: “Howdy, folks.”
By then Saul was oblivious to Brando’s accent and personal appearance. There was a girl standing behind the red couch. She wore modest heels, which put her level with Saul. An enticingly athletic build was easily discerned through the sharp, tight business suit with its above-the-knee skirt. Her hair was blond and bushy, woven into a long tail that was barely constrained by a silver mesh that hung all the way down her back. Despite her figure, it was her face that made him stare, knowing he was being rude yet unable to stop himself. She was beautiful, with a pronounced bone structure framing a pert nose and heavenly moist lips. Enchantress-green eyes were giving him a tolerant look that clearly wasn’t going to last long.
“I … hello,” he stammered. Behind him Noah stiffened in disapproval and concern—five seconds in and the boss was already thunderstruck in love. Saul couldn’t help it, he’d dated his fair share of well-to-do nice Jewish girls, but none of them had ever come close to having this impact. He was only mildly put out by her age—she looked about eighteen. Would she be troubled by a ten-year age gap? Should he be? What would Mother say?
“My assistant, Angela Matthews,” Brando Castellano introduced with gentlemanly good nature.
“I thought Angela Matthews owned this office,” Noah said.
“That’s Mom,” Angela said. “I’m actually Angie Jr.”
“I’m glad you’re here, not her,” Saul said before he could stop himself.
The green eyes lost their last trace of amusement. Noah just groaned. Saul flushed crimson and shook her proffered hand limply.
Brando Castellano gestured for everyone to sit. “So you gentlemen are looking for some farm machinery?”
“Er, yes,” Saul said. Angela was still standing behind Brando. He tipped his head back to look at her. More like admire. She was so much more intense than any teenager he’d ever met. Poised, too. “I’m establishing a new farm offworld. We’d like to see what sort of deal you can offer.”
“With us you get the whole package,” Angela said.
Was that a flirt line? It sounded like one. “Yes, absolutely.”
Noah actually covered his eyes with his hand, massaging his temple as he let out a sigh. “Have you had time to review our list?”
“Why, I swung through it all last night,” Brando Castellano said. “I’m pleased to say we can meet every requirement.”
“Can you?” Saul asked.
“This office represents a big trans-stellar company,” Angela said. “And the size of your order makes you very attractive to us.”
It was flirting. It was!
“Anyone can supply the equipment,” Noah said. “What really concerns us is the after-sales support.”
“A company without happy clients goes out of business very quickly,” Brando Castellano assured him. “We all understand that.”