The Rise of Earth (25 page)

“Come on, let's get out of here already,” Yana grumbled from her seat.

“Hold for departure,
Comet
—we're prioritizing a launch from the surface.”

An annoyed Tycho could only sigh. “Acknowledged.”

“What the heck?” Yana asked. “Who's cutting the line?”

“Someone willing to pay a premium for a dirtside berth,” Mavry said. “Unless we're planning to shoot up the tower, we just have to wait.”

“Arrr, is there anything I hate more'n console jockeys an' their shenanigans?” Huff growled.

“Since being named to the bridge crew of this starship on September 17, 2838, you have identified seventy-four individuals, collective entities, situations, or abstract concepts you purport to hate more than any other items that could be assigned to those categories,” Vesuvia announced.

“An' how many times have I asked for yer opinion, yeh presumptuous blabbermouth stenographer?”

“All right, that's enough,” Diocletia said. “It's another minute or two in a docking cradle—I don't think it will kill us.”

“Whoever's cutting the line, they're taking off,” Yana said. “And it looks like their vector will take them right past us.”

A moment later, a sleek winged craft about the same length as the
Comet
rose smoothly into space in front of
them, the light of the distant sun flashing off her chrome engine baffles.

“Ain't that an elegant little firecracker,” Huff muttered. “Catamount-class, wouldn't yeh say, Mavry?”

“Looks like it. I believe that's the
Gracieux
.”

“It is the
Gracieux
,” Tycho said. “And she's hailing us.”

“Patch it through,” Diocletia said.

“Good morning, Captain Hashoone,” Captain Allamand said. “Apologies for burdening you—we had to extend our launch window to receive new orders. Good hunting, my friends.”

Diocletia maintained a stony silence as the
Gracieux
's maneuvering engines ignited. She waggled her graceful wings as she accelerated away from them.

“Arrr, that ship would look a lot better with a few holes in her,” Huff said.

The search was fruitless, leaving the Hashoones silent during the trip back down to Cybele in the gig and during the long walk back from the landing field. At the center of the Well, a glum Diocletia headed right, due for a briefing at the consulate, while the rest of her family turned left toward the Jovian fondaco.

When Mavry summoned them for dinner, Tycho emerged from his room and nearly bumped into his sister, who was sweaty from another unarmed-combat sim. Yana was breathing hard, but she was smiling too.

“Hot date tonight?” Tycho asked quietly.

Yana aimed a sidelong glance at their family assembling in the kitchen, but Huff was loudly explaining some strategy for boarding actions. A cruiser could have plowed into the fondaco without attracting attention.

“Just got the message,” Yana said. “We're meeting right after dinner. And you? You look a lot happier than you did on the
Comet
.”

“Same plan,” Tycho said. Kate had messaged him to say that the formal dinner she'd feared would never end was, in fact, breaking up.

“Good for you,” Yana said. “Now all you have to do is get through half an hour without killing Carlo.”

Tycho glared at his sister, but she just fluttered her eyelashes.

As they were passing the trays of vat-grown meat, Diocletia returned and sank heavily into her chair.

“So what news from the powers that be?” Mavry asked with a brave attempt at cheer.

“It's pretty much all bad,” Diocletia said, picking at her food.

“Out with it, Dio,” Huff said. “Bad news don't improve with age.”

“Let's see. Wages for shipbuilding workers have dropped by two-thirds since yesterday. How's that for starters?”

“Meaning that Earth ship's finished and ready to fly?” Carlo asked.

“Sounds like it. Except there's still no indication that
the life-support systems have been installed. Presumably you'd need workers for that. So go figure.”

“That's another sign Tyke was right and they stripped those systems from a seized ship,” Yana said.

“Which implies the
Leviathan
's at the shipyard,” Tycho said. “Find one and you'll find the other.”

“Or, as has been the case so far, you'll find neither,” Diocletia said. “Point is, we're out of time, or very close to it.”

“I hate to bring this up, but did you say ‘for starters'?” Mavry asked.

“I did,” Diocletia said. “The Widderiches and Dmitra chased down what they thought was a convoy of Earth ore boats.”

“Uh-oh,” Tycho said.

“Uh-oh is right. It was a Cybelean convoy. They seized two of them and demanded ransoms for crew and cargo.”

“It's not like the Union couldn't have seen that coming,” Carlo said. “Sleep with snakes and eventually you get bit.”

“We should all remember that,” Tycho said, glaring at his brother.

“Arrr, serves them Cybelean swine right,” Huff growled. “How much ransom did our guys get?”

“That's not the important part, Dad,” Diocletia said.

Huff shrugged, his forearm cannon whining. “I'm interested is all.”

“What interests me is who compensated the ore boats' owner. It was Captain Allamand—as a gesture of friendship and solidarity from the people of Earth.”

Leaving the Southwell, a troubled Tycho turned up the furred collar of his jacket against the inescapable chill of Cybele. He pushed his way through the Well's usual evening crowds, then waited irritably as the constables at the entrance to the Northwell verified that he had a legitimate reason for being there.

His footsteps slowed as he caught sight of the gilded gates of Earth's fondaco and the holographic blue and red flag of Imperial Earth flying above them.

“Tycho!” Kate called, and he smiled when he saw her waiting just inside the gates, face framed by a halo of synthetic fur.

The gates opened and she hurried past the Cybelean guards, turning her face up to kiss him.

“Oh, your hands are freezing,” she complained.

“Where do you want to go tonight?” he asked. “What deserted corner of this frozen rock shall we investigate?”

“I've got a better idea,” Kate said, taking his hand and tugging him along. “Come on!”

She led him back to the center of the Well but then turned left, toward the long corridor that led to the landing field.

“Where are we going?” he asked, puzzled.

“You'll see,” she said as they passed sign walkers pacing back and forth beneath their holographic ads and a
morose gaggle of rickshaw drivers waiting for fares.

A gang of freight haulers walking down the seemingly endless tunnel looked at them curiously, surprised to see a beautiful girl in luxurious furs coming toward them with a young spacer in tow. Kate didn't break stride, and the freight haulers stepped to either side of the corridor, peering after her and Tycho before re-forming their ranks.

“Kate, wait—there's nothing down here. Just berths and customs offices and waiting areas for ferries.”

“Would you please trust me, Herschel Tycho Hashoone?” she asked, eyes merry.

They reached the customs station, and Kate showed the two Cybelean officials her mediapad. They scanned it, then looked questioningly at Tycho.

“My guest,” she said.

The officials looked at each other. Then one of them shrugged.

“Berth 12, ma'am.”

“Come on,” Kate said.

“Your father's ship? Really?”

“Really.” She stuck out her lower lip theatrically. “Unless you don't want to come.”

“I'm just worried you'll get in trouble.”

“I can take care of myself, Tycho. I'm tired of ministers' lectures. Like I told them, I'll spend time with who I want and I'll go where I want. Which right now means spending time with you, in my room aboard the
Gracieux
. Don't get any crazy ideas, but this way we get to be
alone—and without risking hypothermia.”

Through the curved glass wall of the docking terminal Tycho could see starships sitting on the landing field, connected to the terminal by umbilicals. The
Comet
's gig was just a few hundred yards past Berth 12, blocked from his sight by a bulky galleon.

Tycho found himself holding his breath as they reached the end of the umbilical, and he followed Kate up the gangplank. Belowdecks, the
Gracieux
was spotless dark steel and carbon fiber, silent except for the faint throb of air circulators. The
Comet
's corridors were stained and pocked by centuries' worth of abuse, and smelled of sweat, oil, and cheroot smoke. The air in the
Gracieux
held only the faintest whiff of cleanser. Captain Allamand's frigate was far less claustrophobic than the
Shadow Comet
, and she looked like she'd just emerged from the docking cradle where she'd been built.

“Come upstairs,” Kate said, then paused. “Oh. I should have known. You'll want to look around, of course.”

“Maybe just for a moment,” Tycho said. He headed toward the bow, his heels ringing on the decking. Above, hammocks were stowed in perfect lines. Eight bells rang out, the tone bright and clear. The gunports were pristine, down to the neatly coiled cables and gleaming pistons of the cannon housings.

He eyed the cannons unhappily. Those weapons had been aimed at Jovian starships, and the projectiles they'd hurled had killed Jovian crewers. And it seemed likely they would do so again.

He imagined looking up from Port Town and seeing the sleek shape of the
Gracieux
overhead, part of an occupation force. Not so long ago, he would have dismissed the idea as a paranoid fantasy. But now it seemed horribly possible. Earth could turn out dozens of frigates like this each month, if it had to—not to mention warships that would dwarf the
Gracieux
in both size and destructive capabilities.

“Are you all right?” Kate asked when he returned from his quick inspection.

“She's very . . . impressive,” Tycho said, trying to keep his voice light and unconcerned. “A beautiful ship.”

“She should be—the crew does enough work on her. I just wish it wasn't so cramped in here. Come on.”

He climbed up the ladderwell after her and emerged on the spacious quarterdeck, gaping at the bridge crew's wide, comfortable chairs. He ran his hand over the tawny tops of the consoles. They were wood, set in gleaming black metal.

“It can't be that different from your family's ship,” Kate said, noticing his dumbfounded look.

“Well, the layout of the quarterdeck is more or less the same.”

“And my room is down here, toward whatever it is you call the back of the ship.”

Tycho grinned. “Your cabin, Miss Allamand, is located aft, near the stern.”

He followed her down the passageway, passing a compact, spotless galley and the door to the head. Kate's
cabin was small, but as comfortable and well constructed as the rest of the
Gracieux
, with a desk running from bulkhead to bulkhead, opposite a berth. Between the two, cabinets were built into the starboard beam.

Tycho took off his jacket and sat in the chair, while Kate tossed her furs onto the berth. He peered at the ceiling, then smiled.

“What is it?” she asked, trying to see what he was looking at.

“It's silly. The ceiling of my cabin is covered with people's initials.”

“It is? Why?”

“Family tradition. Everyone who occupies a berth leaves his or her initials on the ceiling. They go back centuries—there are dozens of them.”

Kate considered that. “On my father's ship, I think someone would show up with a can of paint before you finished writing.”

“I'm sure you're right.”

“Anyway, this is where I spent most of the journey here from Earth, doing homework or practicing. It was crazy—our warrant officer had to disable the security on my console so I could play the viola. Something about the music simulator not working properly with the security settings.”

Kate settled herself on Tycho's lap, then reached past him to the computer console set into her desk. Tycho jumped a little as a hologram shimmered to life around them. A man and a woman in formal clothes sat to their
right, holding violins and bows. Tycho turned and saw a man with a larger stringed instrument sitting to his left. He heard the sound of tapping, and the three players around them nodded to each other. The violinists tucked their instruments under their chins, and all three musicians brought their bows up. They drew the bows across their instruments' strings, then immediately stopped, faces turning to Kate and Tycho.

“When I was little I wouldn't play because I thought it was more fun to make them stop and wait for me,” Kate said with a smile.

As he moved to kiss her, the first violinist looked at him disapprovingly over Kate's shoulder.

“Um, could we turn them off?” he asked.

Kate cocked her head at him, puzzled, then laughed.

“You know they're not real, right? Just checking.”

“I know it's crazy, but they're making me self-conscious.”

Kate laughed again, delighted, then gave him an apologetic kiss and got to her feet.

“I need a few minutes to freshen up,” she said. “And I was thinking of making some tea. Do you want some?”

“That would be great,” he said, eager to chase some of the Cybelean cold out of his bones.

“I'll be back. You and my musicians can make friends while I'm gone.”

And with a parting smile she was gone, the door shutting behind her. The musicians had lowered their hands and were waiting. Whenever Tycho shifted in the
chair, they turned to see if he was ready to play yet. He knew the responses were programmed, a simulation of life, but the illusion was eerily convincing.