The Rise of Earth (14 page)

“Yeah, you ought to be careful about that, Grandpa,” Tycho said. “Someone might get the impression that you were fond of Minister Vass.”

“Quiet, you two,” Carlo said.

Yana stuck her tongue out at Carlo. Tycho rubbed his arms, his head wreathed by his own breath.

“If the Cybeleans are making all these livres, why don't they spend a few on some heat?” he demanded.

The Southwell was a smaller version of the Well, dotted with merchants' stalls, hostels, grog shops, and kips. A pair of liveried Cybelean constables guarded the Jovian fondaco's gates, armed with pistols and staffs whose tips crackled with electricity. To Tycho's relief, he saw no sign of any Gibraltar cyborgs.

“Are they to keep others out or us in?” Yana asked as the constables checked the driver's credentials.

“Bit o' both, I suspect,” Huff said.

Beyond the gates was a spacious compound with a mess hall, offices, warehouses, and three-story dormitories hugging the rock wall. A uniformed Jovian official led the Hashoones to the third floor and gave them their passes, complete with shimmering holo-seals. Their rooms consisted of a sparse living room and kitchen, with a bedroom for Diocletia and Mavry on one side and four smaller, identical bedrooms down a short hall past the bathroom.

“Clean enough,” Diocletia said after a cursory inspection. “With any luck we'll spend most of our time in space. Your father needs to work with Vesuvia on the hull repairs, and I have business at the consulate. So I need you three to get the
Comet
restocked—assuming you can find a chandler who isn't completely crooked. Dad, will you go with them?”

Huff nodded and grunted, but Carlo looked up in dismay.

“I was going to get the flight simulator set up,” he
said, belatedly adding: “It's for all of us to use, of course.”

“We can handle the restocking on our own,” Tycho said, before Diocletia could tell his brother no.

“As long as Carlo also figures out how to get the heat on,” Yana said with a shiver.

Diocletia shrugged. Carlo gave his brother a small smile of gratitude, then turned away, escaping to the room he'd chosen.

But the restocking wasn't as simple as Tycho had expected—prices at the first three chandlers ranged from outrageous to rapacious. Huff clanked out of the third one roaring about greedy dogs what needed to be keelhauled.

“Come on, you lot—there's better prices in the Westwell,” he growled.

“Isn't it dangerous there?” Tycho asked, cinching up the fur-lined cloak he'd thrown over his jacket before leaving their rooms.

“So's blowin' the whole budget for the cruise and leavin' the
Comet
half restocked. Jus' watch yer back is all.”

“Oh, come on, Tyke,” Yana said. “We'll be fine.”

Tycho followed his sister and grandfather through the maze of tunnels that led to the Westwell. The passages were thronged by a mix of Cybeleans wearing synthetic furs in a rainbow of colors and burly, bearded spacers in merchant-association uniforms. Many wore carbines on their hips.

“Ice Wolves, do you think?” Yana asked.

Huff shrugged. “If yer mother's spy was right, they won't try no foolishness. An' if they do, well, that's what me persuader's for.”

He tapped his built-in forearm cannon against his gleaming chrome skull, grinning at his grandchildren.

Tycho was so busy gawking at the spacers that he turned too late and walked right through a sign walker's holographic image of a starship under construction, cycling from skeletal struts around engines to a completed gleaming hull and back again.

“Come build starships, son,” the sign walker urged, clamping a hand on Tycho's shoulder. “Safe work and good livres! Sign up today and I'll give you a pass—keep the crimps from snapping you up.”

“Building starships where?” Tycho asked.

“Don't worry about that, young man—all of our facilities offer safe, profitable working conditions. There's entry-level work here on Cybele and big jobs out there, provided you're rated for zero-G work. Now, if you'll just sign here—”

Up ahead, Yana turned around and beckoned irritably at Tycho.

“Let go—I was just asking,” Tycho said, shaking the man off and hurrying to catch up with his grandfather and sister.

The passage exited at the bottom of the Westwell, which was much shallower than the Southwell, with only a few levels of walkways above their heads. Power conduits spilled out of a central shaft, leading to a
jumble of stalls and open-air cafés surrounded by rickety tables.

“Arrr, I wonder,” Huff muttered, craning his neck to peer into the upper levels. “Well, ain't that a sight for sore eyes. It's still there.”

“What's still there, Grandfather?” Yana asked.

“One-Legged Pete's,” Huff said, gesturing with his forearm cannon to a collection of metal rooftops above their heads. “That there's the finest grog shop in the outer solar system. Raised many a mug there over the years.”

Laughter and music spilled from the bar above them.

“Good place to hear what ships might be ripe for the takin', too. Y'know, kids . . .”

“We can get the ship restocked, Grandfather,” Yana said, elbowing Tycho in the ribs.

“Arr, I don't know. Yer mother wouldn't like it.”

“Yana's right—we can handle it,” Tycho said. “Besides, you might find some valuable intelligence for us to use aboard the
Comet
.”

“Good thinkin',” Huff said with a grin. “But yeh two watch yer step in these parts. Don't go beyond the Westwell—it ain't safe. An' here—yeh best take these.”

The old pirate opened his ancient leather jacket and extracted a pair of wicked-looking musketoons from his bandolier, handing one to each of his grandchildren—a gesture that instantly cleared a meter of space between the three of them and the rest of the crowd.

“Don't draw on nobody 'less they need shootin',” Huff rumbled, already clomping toward the ramp that
led to the grog shop. “An' if they do need shootin', don't miss.”

“This blaster's heavy,” Tycho complained, tucking it into the pocket of his jacket.

“Glad to have it, though,” Yana said, putting hers in her parka. “I don't like the look of folks around here.”

“Neither do I.”

The two of them poked through the marketplace, keeping a wary eye on the spacers around them.

“What do you think Mom will put in the Log about today?” Yana asked as they extricated themselves from an old woman who swore she'd give them a great price on leather boots from Earth—guaranteed as natural and not vat-grown.

“Nothing good,” Tycho said. “I bet Carlo wishes he'd come with us. Mom's probably giving it to him with both barrels now—and in person, not just in the Log.”

“All of which is good for you, you know.”

Tycho shook his head.

“Who cares? We
lost a dromond
, Yana. It's a disaster for the Jovian Union—and don't think those Earth captains won't be crowing about it tonight.”

“That's right—I forgot about that stupid banquet,” Yana said, wrinkling her nose. “But what happened wasn't our fault. It was Carlo's. He just had to show off, trying to chase down Allamand.”

“So you knew he was doing the wrong thing? Because I didn't.”

Yana shrugged. “I was just worried Mom would take
command back before he made things worse for himself.”

Tycho stared at his sister in amazement.

“If she had, we might not have lost the
Leviathan
. Don't you feel even a little sorry for Carlo?”

Yana snorted. “Would he feel sorry for us?”

Tycho knew she was right—Carlo would have found ways to bring up such a failure for months. And perhaps Yana was correct that Tycho's recent run of luck had given him a new opportunity to win the captain's chair—which was only what he'd wanted his entire life.

But Earth had seized an unfathomable amount of livres' worth of Jovian cargo and a Jovian crew—one the
Comet
had been protecting. And he took no pleasure in remembering his brother's misery. Carlo's smug self-assurance had annoyed Tycho many times—but the sight of his older brother stunned and despondent had left Tycho feeling hollow and somehow ashamed.

Prices at the two depots in the Westwell proved no better than in the Southwell. As Tycho and Yana huddled to consider their options, a grizzled tout leaned into their conversation.

“Restockin' a ship? You need to go to the Last Chance—all services and fair prices. All I ask is you tell the boss lady that Merle sent you.”

“And where's the Last Chance?” Tycho asked.

Merle pointed a grimy finger at the rock wall leading deeper into Cybele's maze of passages.

“In Bazaar—it's the next dome over, just a few hundred meters that way.”

“Beyond the Westwell?” Tycho asked.

“Only a few hundred meters. Safe enough for two strapping young spacers such as yourselves.”

“I don't know,” Tycho said when they'd freed themselves from Merle.

“Tyke, honestly—we're carrying enough firepower to outfit a strike fighter,” Yana said, patting the blaster beneath her parka.

Tycho surrendered, and they passed through an open airlock that connected the Westwell with a dim, dank tunnel hacked out of the rock. The passageway reminded Tycho of the lower levels of Port Town on Callisto—a frigid dumping ground for the luckless and those who preyed on them.

But the tunnel was as short as Merle had promised. Tycho saw a bright square of light ahead, and then he and Yana emerged into a pressure dome that had been erected on the surface of Cybele and inflated over curved struts adorned with clusters of brilliant white lights. Multicolored flags and wind chimes made of scrap metal hung from the girders above, giving the dome an oddly festive atmosphere.

Bazaar was filled with shacks and stalls made out of metal and plastic, where fur-clad shoppers bickered and bargained. Tycho and Yana stepped over forlorn men, women, and children who sat cross-legged behind
blankets covered with a miscellany of repaired machinery, or who mutely held up bowls in hopes that some passer-by would drop in a livre or two. In the center of the dome was a larger structure, a multilevel assemblage of old shipping containers and scrap metal that had been fused into a sprawling depot topped with a holographic sign that read “The Last Chance,” in neon colors bright enough to leave afterimages on Tycho's vision.

Tycho looked around the riot of stalls, trying to get his bearings amid the astonishing profusion of goods for sale. Bazaar offered everything from common spacer gear scuffed and yellowed by solar radiation to diaphanous silks that would have passed muster at a Ganymedan fete. Yana stopped at one stall to examine a cowl that switched from yellow to deep green as it moved in the dealer's hands.

A tout buttonholed Tycho to extol the virtues of an apprenticeship with a freight tender, then stopped in midsentence, looking anxiously over Tycho's shoulder. He blanched, then hurried away from the twins. The silk merchant snatched the cowl out of Yana's hands, causing the fabric to erupt in bursts of purple and rose, and reached for the metal shutter above his head.

Clangs and rumbles sounded all around them as the owners of stall after stall brought down their gates. The peddlers bundled up their merchandise and scampered away. A hard-eyed man slammed the last shutter at the Last Chance, transforming the depot into a blank
fortress. Only the seekers of alms remained, faces grave yet expectant, their children peeking out from behind their shoulders.

A half dozen men swaggered into the deserted marketplace. The leader had a cybernetic eye and animated tattoos chasing themselves up and down his arms. A blaster pistol rode low on his hip, and he carried a constable's staff over one shoulder, its tip flaring with white light. The others were armed as well—Tycho spotted guns, knives, and clubs in holsters, waistbands, and hands.

“Crimps,” Yana said. “I hate crimps.”

The leader saw the Hashoone twins and grinned.

“Hello, what have we here?” he asked. “Ever consider a career in space, kids?”

“Already got one,” Tycho said, willing his voice to be firm and deep. “We're midshipmen on the privateer
Shadow Comet
, operating under a letter of marque from the Jovian Union.”

The man with the cybernetic eye grinned.

“Fancy that. And I suppose you have passes that testify to your gainful employment and prestigious occupation?”

“We do.”

“I'll see them, then,” the leader said, as the gang moved forward.

“That's close enough,” Yana said, reaching her hand into her parka and emerging with Huff's pistol.

The crimps stopped. Their leader grinned, tapping
his staff absentmindedly on the ground. Curlicues of energy chased each other around his feet before dissipating.

“Mighty big gun for a little girl,” the leader said. “Careful it doesn't go off.”

“You take one more step and it will,” Yana said. “My brother will show you his pass. But just you—and you can look at it without that stick.”

The crimps laughed, but the merriment had an uncertain edge now. Their leader grinned again, but he also gave the energy prod to the man next to him before striding over to stand in front of Tycho.

Tycho handed over the pass, which the crimp eyed suspiciously.

“Looks legit. Or perhaps Mommy and Daddy have enough livres to pay for a good fake.”

“It is legit and you know it,” Tycho said, reaching to reclaim his pass. The crimp held it away from him, baring a mouthful of yellowed teeth.

“Relax, kid,” he said, turning to regard Yana. “And where's yours, missy?”

“Right here,” Yana said, inclining her head minutely toward the barrel of Huff's pistol.