Starfishers Volume 1: Shadowline (5 page)

Was anybody else listening? Anybody in Edgeward? It seemed likely. The whole town would know by now. The old man had finally gone and proved that he was as crazy as they always thought.

It would be a big vicarious adventure for them, especially while he was clawing his way back with his telemetry reporting his sinking oxygen levels. How much would get bet on his making it? How much more would be put down the other way?

“Yeah,” he murmured. “They be watching.” That made him feel taller, handsomer, richer, more macho. For once he was a little more than the town character.

But Moira . . . His spirits sank. The poor girl would be going through hell.

He did not open comm right away. Instead, he stared at displays for which he had had no time the night before. He had become trapped in a spider’s web of fantasy come true.

From the root of the Shadowline hither he had seen little but ebony cliffs on his left and flaming Brightside on his right. Every kilometer had been exactly like the last and next. He had not found the El Dorado they had all believed in back in the old days, when they had all been entrepreneur prospectors racing one another to the better deposits. After the first thousand virgin kilometers he had stopped watching for the mother lode.

Even here the immediate perception remained the same, except that the contour lines of the rift spread out till they became lost in those of the hell plain beyond the Shadowline’s end. But there was one eye-catcher on his main display, a yellowness that grew more intense as the eye moved to examine the feedback on the territory ahead.

Near his equipment’s reliable sensory limits it became a flaming intense orange.

Yellow. Radioactivity. Shading to orange meant there was so much of it that it was generating heat. He glared at the big screen. He was over the edge of the stain, taking an exposure through the floor of his rig.

He started pounding on his computer terminal, demanding answers.

The idiot box had had hours to play with the data. It had a hypothesis ready.

“What the hell?” Frog did not like it. “Try again.”

The machine refused. It knew it was right.

The computer said there was a thin place in the planetary mantle here. A finger of magma reached toward the surface. Convection currents from the deep interior had carried warmer radioactives into the pocket. Over the ages a fabulous lode had formed.

Frog fought it, but believed. He wanted to believe. He had to believe. This was what he had given his life to find. He was rich . . . 

The practicalities began to occur to him when the euphoria wore off. Radioactivity would have to be overcome. Six kilometers of mantle would have to be penetrated. A way to beat the sun would have to be found because the lode was centered beyond the Shadowline’s end . . . Mining it would require nuclear explosives, masses of equipment, legions of shadow generators, logistics on a military scale. Whole divisions of men would have to be assembled and trained. New technologies would have to be invented to draw the molten magma from the earth . . . 

His dreams, like smoke, wafted away along the long, still corridors of eternity. He was Frog. He was one little man. Even Blake did not have the resources to handle this. It would take a decade of outrageous capitalization, with no return, just to develop the needed technologies.

“Damn!” he snarled. Then he laughed. “Well, you was rich for one minute there, Frog. And it felt goddamned good while it lasted.” He had a thought. “File a claim anyway. Maybe someday somebody’ll want to buy an exploitation franchise.”

No, he thought. No way. Blake was the only plausible franchisee. He was not going to make those people any richer. He would keep the whole damned thing behind his chin.

But it was something to think about. It really was.

Piqued by the futility of it all, he ordered his computer to lock out any memories relating to the lode.

Eleven: 3031 AD

Cassius stepped into the study. Mouse remained behind him.

“You wanted me?”

Storm cased the clarinet, adjusted his eyepatch, nodded. “Yes. My sons are protecting me again, Cassius.”

“Uhm?” Cassius was a curiosity in the family. Not only was he second in command, he was both Storm’s father-in-law and son-in-law. Storm had married his daughter Frieda. Cassius’s second wife was Storm’s oldest daughter, by a woman long dead. The Storms and their captains were bound together by convolute, almost incestuous relationships.

“There’s a yacht coming in,” Storm said. “A cruiser is chasing her. Both ships show Richard’s IFF. The boys have activated the mine fields against them.”

Cassius’s cold face turned colder still. He met Storm’s gaze, frowned, rose on his toes, said, “Michael Dee. Again.”

“And my boys are determined to keep him away from me.”

Cassius kept his counsel as to the wisdom of their effort. He asked, “He’s coming back? After kidnapping Pollyanna? He has more gall than I thought.”

Storm chuckled. He killed it when Cassius frowned. “Right. It’s no laughing matter.”

Pollyanna Eight was the wife of his son Lucifer. They had not been married long. The match was a disaster. To understate, the girl was not Lucifer’s type.

Lucifer was one of Storm’s favorite children, despite his efforts to complicate his father’s life. Lucifer’s talents were musical and poetic. He did not have the good sense to pursue them. He wanted to be a soldier.

Storm did not want his children to follow in his footsteps. His profession was a dead end, an historical/social anomaly that would soon correct itself. He saw no future or glamour in his trade. But he could not deny the boys if they chose to remain with the Legion.

Several had become key members of his staff.

Of the men who had created the Legion only a handful survived. Grim old Cassius. The spooky brothers Wulf and Helmut Darksword. A few sergeants. His father, Boris, and his father’s brothers and brothers of his own—William, Howard. Verge, and so many more—all had found their deaths-without-resurrection.

The family aged and grew weaker. And the enemy behind the night grew stronger . . . Storm grunted. Enough of this. He was becoming the plaything of his own obsession with fate.

“He’s bringing her back, Cassius.” Storm, smiled secretively.

Pollyanna was an adventuress. She had married Lucifer more to get close to men like Storm than out of any affection for the poet. Michael had had no trouble manipulating her unsatisfied lust for action.

“But, you see, when he added it all up he was more scared of me than he thought. I caught up with him on The Big Rock Candy Mountain three weeks ago. We had a long talk, just him and me. I think the knife did the trick. He’s vain about his face. And he still worries about Fearchild.”

Mouse did his best to remain small. His father’s gaze had passed over him several times, a little frown clicking on and off each time. There would be an explosion eventually.

“You? Tortured? Dee?” Cassius could not express his incredulity as a sentence. “You’re sure this isn’t something he’s cooked up to boost his ratings?”

Storm smiled. His smile was a cruel thing. Mouse did not like it. It reminded him that his father had a side that was almost inhuman.

“Centuries together, Cassius. And still you don’t understand me. Of course Michael has an angle. That’s his nature. And why do you think torture is out of character for me? I promised Michael I would protect him. All that means, and he knows it, is that I won’t kill him myself. And I won’t let him be killed with my knowledge.”

“But . . . ”

“When he crosses me I still have options. I showed him that on The Mountain.”

Mouse shuddered as a narrow, wicked smile of understanding captured Cassius’s lips. Cassius could not fathom the bond between the half-brothers. It pleased him that Storm had circumvented its limitations.

Cassius was amused whenever a Dee came to grief. He had his grievances. Fearchild was still paying for the hand.

These are truly cruel men
, Mouse thought, half-surprised.
My own people. I never really realized
 . . . 

He had been gone too long. He had forgotten their dark sides.

“To business,” Cassius said. “If Michael has Pollyanna, and Richard is after him, there’ll be shooting. We belong down in Combat.”

“I was about to suggest that we go there.” Storm rose. “Before my idiot sons rid me of this plague called Michael Dee.” He laughed. He had paraphrased Lucifer, who had stolen the line from Henry II, speaking of Becket. “And poor pretty Pollyanna along with him.”

Poor Lucifer
, Mouse thought.
He’ll be the only real loser if he manages to keep Michael from docking
.

Storm whistled. “Geri! Freki! Here!” The dogs ceased their restless pacing, crowded him expectantly. They were free to range the Fortress, but did so only in the company of their master.

Storm donned the long grey uniform cloak he affected, took a ravenshrike on one arm, strode off. Cassius trailed him by a half-step. Mouse hurried along behind them. The dogs ranged ahead, searching for the trouble they would never find.

“Mouse,” Storm growled, stopping suddenly. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I sent for him,” Cassius replied in that cold metallic voice. Mouse shuddered. He was imagining it, of course, but Cassius sounded so deadly unemotional and lifeless . . . “I contacted my friends in Luna Command. They arranged it. The situation . . . ”

“The situation is such that I don’t want him here, Cassius. He has a chance to go his own direction. For God’s sake, let him grab it. Too many of my children are caught in this trap already.”

Cassius turned as Storm resumed walking. “Wait in my office. Mouse. I’ll bring him around.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mouse began to feel what his father felt. An air of doom permeated the Fortress. A sense that great things were about to happen hung over them all. His father did not want him involved. Cassius thought he belonged. Mouse was shaken. A clash of wills between the two was inconceivable, yet his presence might precipitate one.

How could the Fortress be in danger? Combat simulation models suggested that only Confederation Navy had the strength to crack it. His father and Cassius got along well with the distant government.

Alone in the Colonel’s inner office he began to brood. He realized he was mimicking his father. And he could not stop.

Was it Michael Dee?

The foreboding was almost palpable.

Twelve: 2844 AD

Costumed to the ears, wearing the heavy, silly square felt hat of a Family heir, Deeth stood beside his mother. Guests filed past the receiving line. The men touched his hands. The women bowed slightly. Pugh, the twelve-year-old heir of the Dharvon, honored him with a look that promised trouble later. In response Deeth intimidated the-ten-year-old sickly heir of the Sexon. The boy burst into tears. His parents became stiff with embarrassment.

The Sexon were the only First Family with a presence on Prefactlas. They had the most image to uphold.

Deeth recognized his error as his father gave him a look more promising than that of Dharvon w’Pugh.

He was not contrite. Hanged for a penny, hanged for a pound. The Sexon kid would have a miserable visit.

The evening followed a predictable course. The adults began drinking immediately. By suppertime they would be too far gone to appreciate the subtleties of his mother’s kitchen.

The children were herded into an isolated wing of the greathouse where they could be kept out of the way and closely supervised. As always, the supervision broke down.

The children shed their chaperones and got busy establishing a pecking order. Deeth was the youngest. He could intimidate no one but the Sexon heir.

Sexon fortunes would decline when the boy assumed his patrimony.

The Dharvon boy had a special hatred for Deeth. Pugh was strong but not bright. Only by malign perseverance did he corner his prey.

Deeth refused to show it, but he was terrified. Pugh was not smart enough to know when to quit. He might do something that would force the adults to take official notice. Relations between the Dharvon and Norbon were strained enough. Further provocation could escalate into vendetta.

The call to supper, like a god out of a machine, saved the situation.

Why did his mother invite people with grudges against the Family? Why was a social slight less easily forgiven than a business beating?

He decided to become the richest Sangaree of all time. Wealth made its own rules. He would change things around so they became sensible.

Deeth found the meal unbearably formal and ritualistic.

It was a dismal affair. The alcohol had had its effect. Instead of raising spirits and stirring camaraderie, it had eased restraints on the envy, jealousy, and tempers of the Families the Norbon were excluding from the Osirian market.

Deeth struggled to keep smiling down that long table of sullen faces. The meal progressed lugubriously. The faces grew more antagonistic.

During the desserts the senior Dharvon,
sotto voce
, expressed his animosity in words. His voice grew louder. Deeth became frightened.

The man was falling-down drunk, and had a reputation for verbal incontinence even when sober. He might say something that would push the Norbon into a corner of honor whence there was no exit save a duel.

The Dharvon was little brighter than his son. He did not have sense enough to avoid offending a better man. And the stupid pride of his heir would, of course, lead the Dharvon into vendetta. The Norbon Family would strike like a lion at a kitten and swallow the Dharvon whole.

But the mouth of a fool knows no restraint. The Dharvon kept pressing.

His neighbors edged away, dissociating themselves from his remarks. They shared his jealousies without sharing his stupidity. Sullenly neutral, they hovered like eager vultures.

Sangaree found feuds entertaining when they were not themselves involved.

Fate interceded just seconds before challenge became inescapable.