To Dream in the City of Sorrows (7 page)

The computer broke into her reverie. “Incoming transmission from Universal Terraform tachyon transmission channel four zero eight zero seven six.”

“Receive and record. Oh, and restore the lights.”

Sakai swam back to her seat and strapped in, eagerly watching the data log scroll by on the communications monitor: new planetary and jump gate coordinates, jump gate codes, updated mission instructions – but no personal transmissions.

Oh, well, she thought. It had been a nice hope. There was always next time – four more months of “next times.” For now, it was time to get back to work.

C
HAPTER 6

MARCUS Cole checked his instrument readings, took another visual check through the murky atmosphere of Arisia 3, brought up the nose of his XO-Sphere Personal Flyer, banked right just a touch, and saw his target – the massive natural rock formation known as Perdition Bridge. There was just enough width under the rock bridge for the wing span of his flyer to pass through, if his heading was straight and true. And it always was.

Marcus eased to full throttle and as his flyer hit maximum speed, he shot under the bridge and began his climb, eased into his backward loop to follow the 360degree path that would bring him back down and under the bridge again. Just as he came out of the last part of the curve back in front of the bridge, the planet, perhaps displeased at seeing this daredevil display one time too many, shook the small craft with an unexpectedly violent gust of wind, causing it to slip right.

Marcus had only seconds to fight the craft into a controlled slip left or he would lose the right wing of his craft – and everything else. The flyer swooped through the opening and shuddered as the right wing tip scraped the rock face in a shower of sparks, then emerged with a violent yaw to the left that was quickly becoming an uncontrolled tumble.

Marcus fought for control of the craft as it flashed through his mind that this would be a particularly stupid way to die. He had to risk activating the computer and the automatic stabilizers without shutting off manual control. He hit the sequence of buttons, causing the whole craft to lurch violently, but within a few seconds Marcus had the flyer back under control and on its original heading.

He quickly disabled the manual override and let the autopilot take sole control as he concentrated on getting his heart to stop thumping quite so wildly, then: “computer. Damage report.”

“Nonterminal damage to wing tip. Compensating for additional drag. Flight plan may proceed with caution, but fuel reserves at minimum.”

Marcus took back the controls and continued toward Mining and Refinery Site 7 to do the routine inspection for which he had come planetside in the first place.

Arisia 3 was a bleak, violent, and uninhabitable world, orbiting an unremarkable F5 star on the far edge of explored space. Two-thirds the size of Earth with three times the density, the small planet, with its 2-G gravity, its poisonous, radioactive atmosphere, the scorching winds, and high degree of tectonic and volcanic activity, was not a place where Humans could linger for long. It might have been simply dismissed as a tiny, forgettable piece of Hell, if it hadn’t been rich in the most valuable substance in the known galaxy: Quantium 40, the stuff that made jump gates, and thus interstellar travel, possible. It could be very profitable to mine, but cost-intensive and dangerous.

It was the rarest of minerals, naturally radioactive, chemically complex, and possessing an extremely unusual, naturally occurring quasi-crystalline structure. In its raw form, Q-40 could only be found in small amounts in other rock, mostly on Class 4 worlds like Arisia 3.

Mobile robot mining machines, directed from the colony in orbit, dug out the rock and delivered it to the squat, cumbersome but mobile automated refineries, which resembled, to Marcus’s mind, nothing so much as giant, steam-belching beetles. There the first crude processing took place, separating the Q-40 from the other rock.

This automation meant workers only went planetside to conduct inspections, carry out repairs, and pick up the crudely refined Q-40 for transfer to the Orbital Refinery Platform, where usable Q-40 was separated from tainted and improperly formed amounts.

Extreme care had to be taken during every phase of this process, as the resulting purified form of Quantium 40 was so radioactive two grams of it would kill a man within fifteen feet, and so extremely unstable, one mistake might cause an uncontrolled chain reaction that could result in massive irradiation or even an explosion.

Marcus nosed his flyer down to begin his aerial inspection of Site 7. He knew that Central Control on the orbiting colony had monitored his previous little escapade, but he also knew they wouldn’t say anything to him. It was one of the perks of being the boss.

In fact, it was the only perk Marcus could think of, but he hadn’t taken over running the Arisia Mining Colony for perks or excitement or fun, he thought grimly. The Arisia Mining Colony was the last chance to save his family’s mining company, one of the few family-owned, independent mining companies left.

Marcus had been born on a mining colony, and then been raised on a succession of colony worlds and mining colonies, rugged frontier places where Earth was only a remote irritant in the inhabitants lives that was resented for its high-handed treatment of colony worlds, particularly during the Minbari war.

Marcus had resented being just the boss’s son, and didn’t care much for the mining profession in general. He had been determined not to make it his life, dreaming of greater things.

But the war nearly bankrupted the company, and Marcus found that family duty was too powerful to ignore. He agreed to temporarily help his father, just until the company got back on sounder financial ground. But he found himself taking on ever-increasing amounts of responsibility as his father’s health began to fail and the months turned into years. When his father died, Marcus was already almost fully in charge of the company. His mother died two years later, leaving Marcus determined to preserve his parents’ legacy, even if he had to do it alone.

Marcus completed the perfunctory inspection and entered the proper log notes. Knowing he didn’t have enough fuel for any further practice of maximum-performance maneuvers, he reluctantly turned his craft back toward space and the colony.

The orbiting Arisia Mining Colony consisted of two main structures: the Orbital Refinery Platform and, in a parallel orbit at a safe distance, the Inhabitants’ Platform that housed one hundred and fifty workers. Marcus maneuvered his ship into the I.P. docking bay and was met immediately by his chief of maintenance, who whistled at the sight of the XO-Sphere’s damaged right wing tip.

“Boy, you were lucky,” the older man said. “That could have been a lot worse.”

“I don’t believe in luck,” Marcus replied. “I expect the worst to happen at all times, so I’m always prepared for it. That’s how you walk away unscathed.”

“And what exactly did you walk away from this time, Chief?”

“Just make sure it gets repaired immediately, Hank. I’ll be expecting to take it out again tomorrow.”

Marcus left the docking bay and started down the narrow corridors leading to his office. It was night on the colony’s time schedule, so, thankfully, he saw very few people on the way, and they knew enough just to nod and keep moving.

He entered his office, the lights coming on automatically. He went to his desk, gathered up the stack of papers he had instructed his secretary to leave out for him, and stuffed them in a briefcase to take to his living quarters. He had a lot of work ahead of him that night.

Marcus stepped back into the muted light of the corridor and turned to lock the door. From behind him, someone called out.

“Marcus. I was hoping to catch you.”

It was Hasina Mandisa, the chief of Planetary Forecasting. It was the task of her department to keep track of the weather, earthquakes, and volcanic activity and issue hazard warnings so that the mining machines and planetary processors could be moved out of harm’s way.

“I’ve got that report – with the modifications you requested. I just finished it and thought I should get it to you immediately.” She handed him a thick sheaf of papers with an attached computer disk. “I had it printed because I thought you might want to discuss some of the points.”

Marcus smiled. “That’s very good of you. I’ll look at it tonight and if I have any questions I’ll contact you first thing tomorrow.”

“Actually,” she said. “I’d be happy to discuss it right now.”

“I couldn’t ask that,” Marcus replied. “You’ve obviously put in your overtime for the day. Tomorrow will be fine.” He turned to go, but she stopped him.

“Well, I thought, heck, I haven’t eaten yet, and I was betting you hadn’t had the chance to get anything yet, so I thought we could discuss it over dinner, you know, get it out of the way. In the last shipment we got from Earth, my mother sent me a stasis package with a fully cooked traditional West African beef stew, with all the trimmings – I mean the mangoes, broiled bananas, chutney, the works. She’s the best cook in all of Lesotho City. Her restaurant is the place to eat. Anyway, I thought I could share it with you – and we could get some work done at the same time.”

For a moment, Marcus considered it. And it wasn’t just because of the offer of real food instead of another commissary meal. He genuinely liked Hasina – she was intelligent, capable, warm, attractive.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s very kind of you to offer, but I can’t. I’ve got this fiscal report to finish, all the department reports ...” It sounded lame to his own ears, but damn it, it was true. He couldn’t take the time. Shouldn’t take the time. Couldn’t afford personal entanglements right now. It wouldn’t be fair.

“That’s all right,” she said. “I understand. But listen, I haven’t opened it yet. Maybe a little later. It’ll keep almost indefinitely.”

“Sure,” he said. “Maybe later. Thanks.”

He watched her retreat down the hall until he could no longer see her in the dim light, and then turned to go the other way, toward the commissary where his dinner, as always, would be waiting for him.

The commissary was on the other side of the rec room and bar. The smell of alcohol and the sounds of loud talk, laughter, music, and the electronic cacophony of a variety of 3-D games assaulted him as he approached.

He didn’t like to go in there, wasn’t comfortable around his employees and coworkers when they were drinking. The intake of alcohol was strictly regulated on the colony. It had to be in a work situation like theirs where one mistake could prove lethal. But his workers were employed in a dangerous profession and living in a drab environment, and many wanted that outlet on their days off.

Above the general din, Marcus heard one inebriated patron singing, very off-key, a moronic song that had been inexplicably popular on Earth a couple of years back.

“Oh, be a fine girl and kiss me right now! Smack! Smack! Smack!”, he sang, making appropriately annoying kissing sounds. “Oh, be a fine girl and kiss me right now! Smack! Smack! Smack! Oh, be a–“

“I’ll smack you all right if you don’t shut up!” somebody else suddenly roared.

By the time Marcus reached the two men at the far side of the bar, they were rolling on the floor, throwing punches, while the others in the bar scampered out of the way.

“That’s it!” Marcus shouted. He motioned for some of the other men to help him separate the two combatants. Neither man would look Marcus in the eye.

“Your drinking day is over, both of you. Now get back to your quarters and stay there until you can pass the blood-alcohol test. Do I make myself clear?”

They nodded wordlessly, appropriately chastened, and Marcus turned them over to the custody of their friends.

His appetite was gone now, but he went to the commissary and picked up his meal anyway, then returned, at last, to his quarters.

The incoming message light was blinking on his computer console. He put everything down and called up the list. Just one recorded message, originating from Earth, dated a month ago, which was typical as getting mail to the outer colonies wasn’t a high priority with StellarCom. What wasn’t typical was that the recording was from his only brother William. They hadn’t seen each other since their mother’s funeral, barely speaking to each other then.

Young Willie, immature and irresponsible, jumping from this job to that, working just long enough to get the money to travel aimlessly around, leaving Marcus to try to hold everything together on his own.

“He probably wants money,” Marcus muttered angrily. He considered simply erasing the message, not even listening to it, but in the end, he called it up.

His brother’s face smiled nervously at him from the screen. “Hello, Marcus. This is expensive so I’ll make it short, especially since I know you’ll probably just hit the erase button and not even hear this. Well, hello if you’re there. I’ve been on a real tour of the Solar System since I saw you last – saw all those sights we used to talk about wanting to see, remember? I’ll tell you all about it when I see you next. But I just wanted to let you know where I’m going next, in case you need to contact me.” He paused, then broke into a big grin. “Minbar! I’ve always wanted to go there, and I’ve been learning the languages. Well, I’m running out of time here. I’ll try to write you, or better yet, I hope somehow I’ll see you soon. Bye.”

Marcus stared dumbly at the blank screen for a moment. Minbar! He half suspected his brother was going there just to irritate him. As far as Marcus was concerned, the Minbari had a lot to answer for. Their bloody, pointless war had dragged him into military service unwillingly, killed several of his best friends, and had nearly destroyed his parents’ company.

He counted it a certain measure of payback that the Minbari were among his best customers, sending freighters for regular Q-40 shipments. He always made sure they were charged the allowable maximum – nothing illegal or unethical, mind you, but no breaks, no bargains, no discounts, ever. It rather bothered him that they didn’t seem to mind.