The Rise of Earth (15 page)

“She's my sister,” Tycho said. “And a midshipman on our quarterdeck. Her pass is the same as mine.”

“Passes can get lost. And if two kids wake up belowdecks on a construction barge, it can take a while to sort things out.”

“That's not going to happen,” Yana said. “Give my
brother back his pass and go bother someone else.”

“Six against two ain't great odds, girlie. What if we'd rather bother you?”

“Then this gun turns your head into steam. What happens after that won't be your problem.”

“I hear there's easy pickings in the next dome, boss,” one of the crimps said after a moment.

The leader narrowed his eyes, then nodded. He let go of Tycho's pass, which fluttered to the ground. “Looks like it's your lucky day, kids.”

“Uh-uh,” Yana said. “Pick up the pass and hand it to my brother. Right now.”

The crimps' leader was no longer smiling.

“You that tough, kid?”

Yana said nothing. The lead crimp eyed her for a moment, then snatched the pass off the ground and thrust it against Tycho's chest.

“You two caught me in a good mood—but if I see either of you here again, I won't be so merciful,” he warned, then shot a last look at Yana. “Your sister's a piece of work, kid,” he told Tycho.

Tycho tucked the pass back under his cloak and managed a small smile. “You should meet our mother.”

When the last of the crimps had departed, Yana exhaled and lowered Huff's blaster.

“First thing I do when we get back is ask Mom for a gun that weighs less,” she said.

Shutters rattled upward around them, and within a minute Bazaar was nearly as crowded as it had been
before the crimps' interruption. The vendor held out the cowl Yana had been looking at.

“Synthetic chromatophores, miss,” he said. “The color changes in response to sound and movement. Just look at this workmanship—”

“I was looking before you left us to the crimps,” Yana said. “You're giving me a discount for that.”

The merchant shrugged as Yana stretched out the silk and watched ripples of red and blue chase themselves across its length.

“Wouldn't this be great for the banquet?” she asked Tycho, their encounter with the crimps apparently already forgotten.

“It's coming out of your allowance, not the restocking fund. I'm going to check out the Last Chance.”

He left his sister to her haggling and entered the sprawling depot, which was piled high with everything one might need to outfit a starship: cargo containers were stacked next to pyramids of batteries and bins of high-intensity lamps, while signs promised the best rates on Cybele for water, air, and foodstuffs. A short flight of steps led to a small café where spacers were comparing notes on their mediapads, and a brightly lit video board was crammed with blinking and flashing starship logos, the calling cards of captains seeking to fill out their crew rosters. Clerks scurried about, and big, hard-eyed men with iron bars in their hands stood around the depot's perimeter, ready to roll down the shutters or attend to other trouble.

Tycho's mediapad beeped. He looked at the device and scowled—it was his mother.

“Where are you?” Diocletia asked when he answered.

Tycho hesitated.

“The chandler's depot in a dome called Bazaar.”

Diocletia said nothing for a moment, and Tycho knew she was looking at a map of Cybele. He braced for impact.

“That's beyond the Westwell.”

“Just a few hundred meters. We'd need a year's worth of condemnations to meet any other depot's prices.”

“I see. Stay there. I'm on my way.”

Tycho put the mediapad away, wondering what his mother wanted. He supposed they'd find out soon enough.

“Like I told you the last two times, Jenks, no goods on credit,” a woman said in an angry voice. “I can't pay the rent with rumors about mineral deposits, you know. Which is all you ever have for payment.”

The woman stood behind a triangle of counters in the center of the Last Chance. She was tall and broad shouldered, with sharp features and black hair gone gray. She waited with her hands on her hips while the unfortunate Jenks's pleas turned to imprecations. One of the men with bars took a step forward, prompting Jenks to scuttle out of the Last Chance with a final offended glance.

The woman turned and gave Tycho an appraising look. “If you're cabin boy on some broken-down ore boat, I'll save us both some time and trouble—the answer is no.”

Tycho shook his head as Yana joined him at the counter, a parcel of opaque plastic tucked under one arm.

“Merle sent us,” he said. “We're restocking a frigate. Um, assuming you can service a ship that big . . .”

“I've outfitted prospector convoys trying their luck in the Kuiper Belt, kid—I can handle a frigate.”

Her eyes narrowed, then lingered on Yana.

“You and that girl are the ones who just faced down Jasper One Eye. Free advice—be careful of him. Whoever he's working for, they've got plenty of livres—and they're snatching up anyone who looks like they can figure out the right end of a power wrench. And Good Samaritans are in short supply around here.”

“I noticed that,” Tycho said.

“Well, don't forget it. Now show me your shopping list and I'll get you a price.”

Tycho specified the
Comet
's needs and studied his surroundings while the woman entered numbers into her mediapad. A knot of bearded spacers were arguing over the merits of different models of air scrubbers while a young clerk hovered nearby, looking for a break in the dispute.

“Those spacers look Saturnian,” Tycho said, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

“Are you asking me if they're Ice Wolves?” the woman asked with a raised eyebrow.

Tycho shrugged.

“Don't know and don't care,” she said. “Saturnians, Jovians, asteroid dwellers, Martians, Earthfolk—we get
them all in here. Their livres are legal tender, which is good enough for me. Anything beyond that is information, kid. And information isn't free.”

“Hey, jump-pop,” Yana said, peeking at a cooler behind the counter. “I'll take an orange—as long as it's cold.”

The depot owner eyed Yana, then placed a jump-pop in front of her. The bottle was covered with frost.

“Could I get a lime one, please?” Tycho asked.

“That's ten livres,” the woman said.

“
Ten?
” Yana asked in shock. “They're two for seven in the Southwell.”

“They're also warm and left over from last year's imports. Up to you.”

“Fine,” Yana grumbled, passing over a coin and downing a long swallow of jump-pop.

“All right,” the woman said, turning her mediapad around so they could see it. “Water, air, consumables as specified.”

“I think you put a decimal point in the wrong place,” Yana said.

“This does seems awfully high,” Tycho said.

“It's correct. And what I sell will weigh the same on the landing-field scale as it's listed on the manifest. Which won't be true if you buy in the Southwell.”

“It's still outrageous,” Yana said.

The depot owner sighed.

“Did you see all the ships in orbit when you made port, kid? This little rock is booming right now. That's
the price. If you don't want to pay it, within an hour I'll have two captains who will.”

Tycho and Yana looked at each other uncertainly.

“Does that include delivery to the landing pad, at least?” Tycho asked.

“It does not. We'll prepare a shipment for transport by your own people, but delivery is extra.”

“Last time we restocked on Ceres, it was half this price,” Yana said.

“So restock on Ceres,” the woman said, pointing. “It's one hundred million kilometers that way.”

Tycho started to argue, but the woman was looking past him, a curious expression on her face.

“So it's you,” she said. “It's been a long time.”

Tycho turned and saw Diocletia standing behind Yana, arms folded across her chest.

“It has, hasn't it?” Diocletia said. “Hello, Mother.”

Y
ana was the first to recover, peering curiously at the depot owner.

“You're our grandmother? That means your name is . . . Elfrieda?”

The woman nodded. “Elfrieda Stehley. You must be Yana. I should have guessed—you're the spitting image of Carina when she was your age. And this would be Tycho, then.”

Tycho started to say something, but Elfrieda's
attention had returned to Diocletia. The two women eyed each other in silence.

“Last I heard, you were running a hostel at the Hygiea roadstead,” Diocletia said at last.

“Gave that up years ago. So where's Carlo?”

“Back in our quarters. Dad's here too.” Diocletia's eyes jumped to Tycho and Yana. “In fact, he was supposed to be with the two of you.”

“He's at One-Legged Pete's,” Tycho said. “Uh, gathering intelligence on shipping.”

“That's one way of putting it.”

Elfrieda brightened for the first time. “Glad to hear the old pirate is still kicking. Send him by for a nip, will you?”

“I'll tell him you've fetched up here,” Diocletia said, glancing down at the mediapad. “So is our business concluded?”

“We were discussing that when you arrived,” Elfrieda said, passing the mediapad over. “That price doesn't include delivery.”

“I figured it wouldn't,” Diocletia said, studying the numbers on the mediapad. “And is there a family discount? Considering we're the only people you have left in the solar system?”

“Never mix business with personal. Didn't I teach you that, at least?”

“You did. Along with not to count on you for anything.”

Elfrieda took her mediapad back and shut it off with
a snap. “Since we have nothing further to discuss, I have other customers to attend to.”

“Oh, I'll take the deal,” Diocletia said. “I'll expect these goods to be ready for my crewers by 0600 tomorrow—a minute after that and I'll leave everything here and sue you for each and every livre you don't refund. Is that understood, Mother?”

“Perfectly. My people are never late, Diocletia. Have your crewers here ready to load up at 0600—a minute after that and you'll pay a restocking fee. And I know every lawyer in the asteroid belt, so don't think you'll get out of it.”

Diocletia nodded and the two completed their transaction in silence. Then Diocletia was striding out of the depot with Yana in her wake.

“It was nice to see you, Grandmother,” Tycho said, turning and hurrying after his mother and sister.

“Call me Elfrieda,” his grandmother replied.

It was clear from Diocletia's determined stride and baleful gaze that she wasn't interested in discussing Elfrieda, but Tycho and Yana could barely keep their curiosity in check, and each began a silent campaign of stares and hand gestures meant to goad the other into breaching their mother's wall of silence.

As they returned to the Westwell, Diocletia grew weary of her children's scowling and rolling eyes at each other on the periphery of her vision.

“Whatever you want to ask, ask it now. I'll give you
until we reach the fondaco. After that, no more questions.”

Tycho and Yana looked at each other, unsure of how to proceed. Then Tycho rushed ahead.

“Why didn't you tell us our grandmother was on Cybele?”

“Because I didn't know. Mother's set up shop everywhere from Mars to Titan. She's not one to leave a forwarding address.”

“Did you ever try to find her?” Tycho asked.

“It was fairly obvious she didn't want to be found.”

“We had no idea that was her, you know,” Yana said. “It's not like we were trying to find her.”

“Well, now you have—you'll find it's no great privilege. I'm not angry that you ran into Mother. Finding you beyond the Westwell, on the other hand . . .”

“We stayed together,” Yana said. “When did Elfrieda leave again? I don't remember her.”

“When you were three or four. It was a long time ago, Yana.”

“
Why
did she leave?” Tycho asked.

“You'd have to ask her that. Now listen—we have more important matters to discuss.”

That was breaking the deal she'd just struck with them, but neither twin dared argue the point.

“We're exchanging Haines and the Earth privateers we captured for the crew of the
Nestor Leviathan
,” Diocletia said. “Allamand brought them in an hour ago.”

“And what about the
Leviathan
herself?” Tycho asked.

“No sign of her. Perhaps the consulate will address that before the banquet. If there's enough time after we talk table manners.”

Tycho and Yana exchanged a baffled look.

“Did you say table manners, Mom?” Tycho asked.

“I'm afraid I did.”

Tycho glowered at the formal suit waiting for him on a hanger in the bathroom, but he'd already showered, shaved, and made a vague effort to subdue his hair, so he couldn't put it off any longer. Carlo was staring into the mirror, unhappily activating and deactivating various color schemes for his tie.

“Go with the alternating yellow and red,” Tycho suggested. “Colors of the Jovian flag, right?”

“And what a fine son of Jupiter I've shown myself to be today,” Carlo muttered.

“I heard Dad say the hull damage is minor and we'll be able to fly in the morning,” Tycho said, hoping to offer his brother some small comfort.

Carlo shrugged. “The damage in the Log's a little tougher to repair.”

“Did Yana tell you about our grandmother? About Elfrieda?”

That made Carlo look up, puzzled, and Tycho told him the story.

“I thought she was dead,” Carlo said.

“I did too. Mom said she left when we were three or four. Do you remember her?”

Carlo stared into the mirror.

“I remember her,” he said quietly. “She left a week before I started my apprenticeship. The
Comet
was coming back from a cruise to Vesta. I was eight.”

“Oh. And do you know why she left? Mom didn't want to say.”

Carlo sighed. “For once in your life, Tyke, leave it alone.”

“But she's our family.”

“She
was
our family. She hasn't acted like it in more than a decade.”

Tycho started to argue, but there was a knock at the door.

“Ready to learn about forks?” Mavry asked with a grin.

“This whole thing is insulting,” Carlo muttered. “I already know about forks.”

“Well, that's a relief,” their father said with the same grin. “Ready to teach the rest of us about forks?”

The Hashoones knew better than to wait for Huff, and left his gaudiest yellow tie for him to find in the living room before setting off for the Well. When they arrived at the Jovian consulate, Vass was waiting for them in a black velvet suit that Tycho suspected had been made for a child. The minister complimented Yana on her cowl, which responded with a flurry of brilliant green, then bowed low over Diocletia's hand. The
Comet
's captain was wearing a plain black dress with a red and yellow
shawl—about as fancy an outfit as she ever wore.

Inside the consulate, a dozen privateers had gathered in a conference room with a vertiginous view of the Well. Tycho recognized Morgan Theo and Garibalda Marta Andrade, standing with their crews. He saw Carlo go rigid when he spotted Andrade—and he also saw the hard look in the veteran privateer's eyes when she saw him.

A gray-haired woman with a pinched expression entered the room and stood next to Vass, towering over the diminutive minister. Behind her, two of Gibraltar Artisans' cybernetic soldiers took up positions on either side of the door.

“Unfortunately some members of our party seem to have been delayed, but let's begin,” she said. “Ladies and gentlemen, I'm Elspeth Hastings, Madam President's assistant secretary for protocol. We know that your . . .
unconventional
job descriptions have kept some of you from attending a formal banquet in the recent past. So we thought we would provide a refresher in the more complicated aspects of etiquette.”

“That was delicately said,” Mavry observed, one eyebrow raised.

Diocletia shushed him.

“Before you you'll see a typical table setting for a formal dinner,” Hastings said.

Tycho studied the broad plate sitting in front of him. A smaller plate rested on top of it, crowned by an elaborately folded napkin. A bewildering number of forks, knives, and spoons flanked the two plates—there was
even a fork and spoon above them, between yet another small plate (with a knife) and a diagonal line of ever-smaller glasses.

“Looks busier than a docking queue above Ganymede,” grumbled one of Andrade's officers.

“It does seem like a lot, but you'll see it's not so hard to get straight,” Hastings said. “Let's start with the basics. . . .”

Some kind of commotion was happening outside the door. It opened to admit Huff Hashoone, bellowing laughter. Behind him came a squat, slab-faced woman with dark skin and spiky white hair, blinking tattoos, and a big grin.

“Dmitra Barnacus, as I live and breathe,” Mavry said, smiling and shaking his head.

Huff was wearing his yellow tie, though it had wound up thrown over one shoulder. A line of spacers entered the conference room behind him and Dmitra, all of them sporting scars and missing body parts and in the middle of a raucous conversation.

“Why do I get the feeling there was a lot of intelligence gathering at One-Legged Pete's?” Mavry asked Tycho.

Tycho grinned, then peered at the new arrivals.

“Wasn't Dmitra at 624 Hektor?” he asked Yana.

His sister nodded. “But she never got a letter of marque. Last I heard, she was running cargo out around Neptune. And, they say, hunting Earth haulers and prospectors as a pirate.”

Huff nearly smacked into Assistant Secretary Hastings, pulling up with perhaps a millimeter to spare, then eyed the impassive soldiers.

“Beggin' yer pardon, madam,” he said. “Had pirate business what needed attendin' to.”

“Privateer,” Tycho said automatically. A couple of the grizzled new arrivals looked at him curiously.

The assistant secretary tried to restore order, then gave up and waited for the spacers to finish laughing and yelling and locate seats.

“Canaan Bickerstaff, the Widderich brothers, and I do believe that's Zhi Ning,” Mavry said in wonder. “It's like old home week.”

“On 1172 Aeneas, maybe,” Carlo grumbled.

Huff swaggered over and executed a landing of sorts in the seat next to Diocletia, while the other newcomers navigated their way toward what empty seats remained. Introductions were made, which took a while, given the privateers' need to roar out hellos and exchange cheerfully obscene insults with old compatriots.

“My goodness, no, don't say that at the banquet table,” Hastings gasped. “Please be seated. Now, let's discuss the setting before you. The napkin goes in your lap, not around your neck. Then, to the left of the plates, you'll see a salad fork, a fish fork, and a dinner fork.”

“Y'know, you could melt these down and have a serviceable cutlass,” mused Canaan Bickerstaff.

Assistant Secretary Hastings chose not to hear that.

“That large plate on the bottom is the service
plate—you won't actually eat off it,” she said. “When the first course arrives, it'll be on a salad plate, placed atop it as shown. Now, to the right of the plate you'll see a dinner knife, fish knife, teaspoon, soup spoon, and shellfish fork.”

Tycho stared at the seemingly infinite utensils in dismay.

“If one of those utensils is missing, it means you won't be enjoying that course tonight. We included them all because the Cybeleans haven't shared tonight's menu with us—they want it to be a surprise.”

From the assistant secretary's expression, Tycho could guess what she thought of surprises.

Huff raised his blaster cannon in the air, drawing the baleful gaze of the cyborg soldiers. Hastings looked at the twitching weapon nervously.

“Do you have a question, Captain Hashoone?”

“Arrr, I'm allergic to shellfish. Had 'em once on Ganymede an' blew up like a hatch seal.”

“I shall inform our hosts. But just in case, your waiter should know if any dish contains shellfish.”

“But what if one of these thrice-cursed rock burrowers is fixin' to poison us?” demanded one of Barnacus's crew.

“That would be a serious diplomatic incident. I'm quite sure no one at tonight's event will be trying to poison anyone.”

Other privateers had their hands in the air now too. Captain Andrade's navigator was gluten-free, two
members of Morgan Theo's bridge crew didn't eat dairy, Kanoji Ali kept halal while two other members of his crew kept kosher, and several privateers ate only synthetic meat and were suspicious about the sourcing of the night's menu. Hastings fielded their complaints, looking increasingly flustered, while Vass stood next to her with a dazed smile.