The Rise of Earth (8 page)

“You do the talking,” Tycho said to Yana.

“No way! That's your job!”

“Why is it
my
job?”

“Yana, your microphone's hot,” Diocletia said over their headsets.

Yana stabbed guiltily at her headset's controls while Tycho closed his eyes in dismay. They both heard their mother sigh.

“I don't know why everybody's getting along like cats in a sack today, but it needs to stop. You two can help by not embarrassing us for the next fifteen minutes. Tycho will greet the minister. Is that clear?”

“It's clear, Captain,” Tycho said with a final glower at his sister. “Quarterdeck, we are green to receive our passenger.”

“That's better,” Diocletia said. “Vesuvia, open her up.”

The inner airlock door rose smoothly into the ceiling. Standing in the ferry's airlock was a little man with
close-cropped white hair and a neatly trimmed beard, his eyes a bright blue. He carried a large canvas valise and wore a neat formal tunic and trousers—not a military uniform, but the garb of a government official.

“Masters Hashoone, my name's Vass. Nehemiah Vass,” he said in a crisp voice. “Permission to come aboard?”

“Granted, Mr. Vass,” Tycho said. “I'm Tycho Hashoone, and this is my sister, Yana. Welcome aboard the
Shadow Comet
.”

Vass extended his hand to Tycho, then bowed to Yana.

“You can leave your bag, Minister,” Tycho said. “One of our crewers will take it to your cabin.”

Vass set the large valise down gratefully. As Yana closed the airlock, he peered beyond Tycho into the dim depths of the privateer's lower deck, where crewers were rushing among the maze of struts and girders. Somewhere aft they heard Grigsby directing a string of impressively awful oaths at a crewer who'd done something to trigger his wrath.

Vass looked surprised by the paint-peeling torrent.

“You'll discover things can be a little . . .
informal
belowdecks, Mr. Vass,” Tycho said. “Um, our captain's ordered engines lit at 0930, but we can show you around first if you like.”

Vass brightened. “I would like that very much, Masters. I've never been aboard one of our privateers.”

“Then follow us,” Tycho said. “We'll show you to
your cabin and then give you a tour of the quarterdeck. The ladderwell is this way.”

“But what about this level?” Vass asked. “I'd like very much to see it as well. If there's time, of course.”

Tycho and Yana looked at each other, surprised. The bells clang-clanged for 0900 and Vass jumped at the sound.

“It's been a while since I was aboard a starship,” he said. “I forgot about all the racket.”

“We hardly notice it by now,” Yana said.

“You'll get used to it too,” Tycho said. “So this is the port side of the ship. There are eleven gunports on each side, eight fore of the airlock and three aft. Behind the gunnery ladderwell you'll find the main hold. And if you'll come this way, Mr. Vass, we'll show you the magazines, infirmary, and the mess.”

Crewers rushed around them in a blur of glowing tattoos and clouds of cheroot smoke, muttering greetings and touching their knuckles to their foreheads. Vass had to dodge a giant crewer with a mohawk who emerged from the head and gaped in horror at the sight of two members of the bridge crew.

“That ladderwell leads to the quarterdeck,” Tycho said as the big crewer smacked his knuckles to his scalp and fled. “And these are the cabins used by the belowdecks officers.”

“They're much smaller than the ones aboard a military vessel,” Vass said. “Are your quarters down here too?”

“No,” Yana said. “We're bridge crew, so we berth with the rest of our family on the top deck.”

“That's where you'll be staying as well, Mr. Vass,” Tycho added. “And this is the wardroom. The belowdecks officers eat here, but during combat this room is cleared and becomes the surgeon's operating theater.”

Vass nodded distractedly, peering at the crewers surrounding them.

“But these people can't all be officers. Where do they sleep?”

“In hammocks,” Yana said. “Back on the main portion of this deck.”

“I didn't see any,” Vass said, retreating to look up into the maze of struts and girders they'd passed through earlier. “Where are they?”

“We need to hurry, Tyke,” Yana said in a low voice. Tycho shrugged helplessly.

“Right now they're stowed for departure,” Tycho told Vass. “The crewers lash them to their footlockers, which are magnetized so they can be attached to the girders. ‘Lash up and stow,' we call it.”

“Ah. Can I see?”

Yana reached out to grab a young crewer's shoulder. “You there. Would you unfurl your hammock for a visitor?”

“Which I jes' stowed it,” grumbled the crewer, who wasn't more than a year or two older than the twins.

Yana took a step back, astonished.

“Yana, he's new,” Tycho said hastily—the crewer's
name escaped him, but Tycho had read the articles to him less than an hour before.

“Pardon, Master Hashoone,” the young man muttered, raising his knuckle to his forehead. “Didn't see yeh there.”

Yana stepped forward until her nose was a millimeter from the crewer's.

“I see you've met my brother. I'm Yana Hashoone—bridge crew. Now, do I need to repeat my order?”

Before the crewer could say anything, Grigsby emerged from the passageway that led to the wardroom.

“What's this then?” he asked.

“Mr. Vass, this is Mr. Grigsby, our warrant officer,” Tycho said.

“Pleasure,” Grigsby muttered, but his eyes were fixed on Yana and the crewer.

“I didn't mean to cause any difficulty, Masters,” Vass said. “Perhaps we could continue the tour later?”

“What's your name?” Yana asked the young crewer.

“Immanuel Sier. Signed on this morning out of Port Town.”

“You don't sound Jovian, Mr. Sier,” Yana said.

“Mum came to Port Town from Enceladus,” Immanuel said, raising his chin to stare back at Yana.

“A Saturnian?” Yana asked. “Who doesn't salute and talks back to officers? Like we don't have enough problems these days?”

“Yana, Mr. Sier signed the articles and has been read in,” Tycho objected.

“I'm Saturnian—and what of that?” Immanuel demanded. “Bein' Jovian don't make yeh better'n me, miss.”

One of Grigsby's big hands closed around the front of Immanuel's jumpsuit and dragged him away from Yana.

“That's
Mistress Hashoone
, crewer,” Grigsby growled, his eyes bulging. “You make your apology right now, Mr. Sier—or I'll throw you to the crimps.”

“Meant no disrespect, Masters,” said Immanuel, his knuckle rising slowly to barely graze his brow.

“‘Meant' ain't what matters on my deck,” Grigsby rumbled. “And now you'll come with me.”

Vass stared after Immanuel as Grigsby propelled the unfortunate crewer toward the wardroom.

“Um, as we were saying, Mr. Vass, once we're under way the crewers will tie up their hammocks between the girders here and sleep in watches,” Tycho said. “We have seven aboard the
Comet—
the first watch starts at 2000 and lasts four hours, followed by the middle watch, morning watch, forenoon watch, afternoon watch, first dog watch, and second dog watch.”

Vass frowned. “Is that right? Wouldn't that be twenty-eight hours?”

“Nicely done, Minister,” Tycho said. “Most dirtsi . . . um,
visitors
don't notice that. The dog watches are two hours each.”

Vass craned his neck to peer around their cramped surroundings. “Even with the watches, there can't be enough room here.”

“Each crewer gets half a meter,” Tycho said. “You get used to it. I thought it was cozy when I was an apprentice.”

That had been true . . . eventually. But first there had been nights spent hoping the crewers around him couldn't hear him sniffling—or, worse, the glassy-eyed middle watches in which he'd made mistake after mistake and been corrected by glowering, gigantic men and women who'd been rated able spacers decades earlier. How many times had he sworn that this was the last day, that tomorrow he'd ask to see his mother and plead for her to send him back to Darklands?

“But you said your quarters were elsewhere,” Vass said. Tycho noted with amusement that they'd struck a tacit agreement to ignore his still-fuming sister.

“Now they are. But as apprentices we slung hammocks belowdecks with the rest of the crewers. You stay here, learning your trade, until you're rated able spacer and made midshipman.”

“I see. And how long does this apprenticeship last?”

“As long as it needs to. I was read in on my eighth birthday—that's the usual practice—and needed a little over two years to make able spacer. And now are you ready to see your cabin, Mr. Vass?”

“A moment more, if you please. How many crewers from this level will be promoted to the bridge crew you talked about?”

“None of them,” Tycho said. “Bridge crews are drawn from the family.”

“That's not always true,” Yana objected.

“Well, sometimes a bridge crew needs to be filled out while the younger members of a family are still apprentices,” Tycho said. “In a situation like that, a captain might go down the ladder to fill a position, but everyone knows it's temporary.”

“Dad came up from belowdecks,” Yana pointed out.

“By marrying Mom. He only spent as long as he did belowdecks because Grandfather insisted on it.”

The bells clanged again.

“My sister and I are due on the quarterdeck,” Tycho said apologetically. “Yana, I have to run communications with Perimeter Patrol. Perhaps you could show Mr. Vass to the top deck?”

Yana nodded and led Vass aft, heading for the rear ladderwell. Tycho climbed up to the quarterdeck, blinking at the bright light.

“You're late,” Diocletia said, without turning. “I trust you managed to give Minister Vass a simple tour without causing some kind of incident I'll have to deal with?”

Tycho just sighed.

S
pirits lifted aboard the
Shadow Comet
once the privateer reached her long-range fuel tanks and accelerated away from Jupiter. Tycho filed the signed articles for the cruise and waited for Vesuvia to confirm that she'd archived them alongside centuries of similar documents amassed under generations of Hashoone captains.

It was spooky to think of all the records in Vesuvia's memory banks, reflecting all the people who'd spent
anywhere from days to decades aboard the
Comet
. Mr. Sier and three other crewers, for example, had just made their first appearance in those files. Tycho and Yana's first cruise was in there too, of course, along with Carlo's, and their parents', and Huff's. And those of countless other crewers and retainers, middies and captains. The records contained the names of dirtsiders who'd washed out after a single cruise and spacers who'd arrived centuries ago and now had descendants belowdecks. They preserved the names of boys and girls fated to win the captain's chair and less fortunate apprentices who'd been killed by a moment's inattention or bad luck.

Tycho looked around the quarterdeck. Mavry had the watch and was coolly scanning his instruments, his well-worn boots up on his console. Carlo was in his usual place, hands on the control yoke. He shoved the yoke to starboard but the
Comet
didn't respond, a giveaway that he was deep within a simulation. Yana was belowdecks having her shoulder looked at by Mr. Leffingwell, while Diocletia had retired to the captain's stateroom. And Huff was still sulking in his cabin.

Tycho yawned and excused himself, climbing the ladder to the top deck. The passageway connecting the family cabins was quiet and dim. He thumbed open the door to his cabin and crawled into his bunk, fumbling to set an alarm on his mediapad, and was asleep almost at once.

He awoke not to the alarm but to four bells—it had to be 1400. Blinking, he struggled out of his bunk and
saw that the passageway was illuminated by a square of light from the cuddy. He'd missed lunch, but some soup would do nicely.

Tycho poked his head in and found Vass sitting at the table where the Hashoones gathered for meals. Scraps of bright white paper surrounded his mediapad, and a steaming mug of something sat at his elbow.

“Master Hashoone,” the minister said. “I never thanked you for the tour of the lower level. It was illuminating.”

“My pleasure, Mr. Vass,” Tycho said, still a bit sleepy. “Are you hungry? Mr. Speirdyke won't arrive in the galley for a few hours yet, but I could make you some soup.”

“No thank you, Master Hashoone. I had a little something in my cabin. I hope my inquiries didn't cause a problem for that young crew member.”

“Mr. Sier? He caused his own problems.”

Vass hesitated. “If I may ask, what will happen to him?”

Tycho yawned and stretched. “Belowdecks discipline is Mr. Grigsby's department. But I can guarantee you Mr. Sier won't make that mistake again.”

“I see. The mistake, I take it, was being insubordinate to a member of the bridge crew?”

Tycho nodded as he sorted through the packets of soup mix.

“It may not seem like a big deal. But aboard a ship, discipline is everything. Every member of the crew has to follow orders from his or her superior officers, without
question. If anyone fails to do that, or even hesitates in doing so, it could mean all our lives. So obedience must be absolute.”

“Understood. Though—and forgive me if I'm overstepping my bounds, Master Hashoone—your sister did escalate the argument.”

Tycho allowed himself a smile. “Escalating arguments is one of Yana's specialties.”

He hesitated but supposed there was no harm in letting Vass know the rest of what had happened. “Mom—Captain Hashoone—always says that obedience flows more easily in response to respect and trust. Which is why she ordered Yana to go down and apologize to Mr. Sier. She said Mr. Sier had been insubordinate, but had the excuse of not knowing whom he was addressing. My sister, on the other hand, was rude—and there's no excuse for that.”

Vass nodded.

“It's very interesting seeing the workings of a privateer up close,” he said, waving vaguely at the scattered papers in front of him. “Quite different from scouring reports to try and figure out what's happening in the Cybeles, Master Hashoone.”

“So what
is
happening in the Cybeles?” Tycho asked as he tore off the corner of a foil packet and poured the soup mix into a mug. “Oh, and you can call me Tycho.”

“Well, Tycho, what's happening is only obvious once it's over,” Vass said with a smile. “Until then, you ask different people and you get different answers. Right
now when President Goddard asks what to do about the Cybeles, the Jovian Defense Force tells her one thing but the Securitat tells her something else.”

“What is it that you and the Securitat disagree about?”

“How we keep the Ice Wolves from getting control of Titan and the outer planets, but without going to war with Earth. All of which might be at stake in the Cybeles.”

Tycho looked up from pouring hot water into his mug and gave a low whistle.

“The entire future of the Jovian Union, in other words,” Vass said with a smile. “Before the Battle of Saturn we advocated a cautious approach, while the Securitat thought a show of strength would put down the Ice Wolves' rebellion and discourage Earth from meddling. President Goddard sided with them—and she's regretted it ever since. But I don't need to tell you that—you were there.”

Tycho nodded grimly, remembering the screams of the dying crewers belowdecks at Saturn.

“But wait a minute,” Tycho said around a spoonful of soup. “It wasn't the Securitat commanding the task force at Saturn. It was you—the Defense Force. You treated us like hired guns—
irregulars
was the word Admiral Badawi used—and abandoned us when things went bad.”

Vass nodded and shut his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Yes,” he said simply. “To Badawi's shame and ours.
We have our own disagreements, Tycho. Some people in the JDF think we need to build a Jovian navy that could hold off an Earth invasion. One that's organized the way Earth would organize it—and to them, that means JDF-commissioned warships with navy crews. Not privateers that they can't control.”

“But Earth just started commissioning its own privateers,” Tycho objected. “And the Jovian Union issued a bunch of new letters of marque.”

“We live in interesting times, don't we?” Vass said with a chuckle. “That's because some of us in the JDF think an arms race with Earth would be madness. I happen to be one of them. A few big warships and support craft is about all we can afford, so we have to be creative. We have to rely on . . . well, ‘irregulars' might not be the worst word.”

“So you can't make up your minds even within the Jovian Defense Force?”

Vass smiled. “Does your family always agree about what to do?”

“Fair point.”

“The Securitat knows it made a mistake at Saturn and is now determined to crush the Ice Wolves. We in the JDF think it's far more important to prevent Earth from getting control of Cybele.”

“How would Earth get control? With an invasion fleet?”

“No, with livres. Earth's ministers are pouring money
into the Cybeles in an effort to buy off the people who run things there.”

Tycho knew what Yana would say:
As usual, it all comes down to money
.

“So why haven't they taken control already?” he asked. “We can't possibly match what's in their treasuries.”

“Because it isn't that simple. Independence has worked out well for Cybele—its financiers and merchants make a pretty good living playing Earth and the Jovian Union against each other. The same goes for their shipwrights—who may, in fact, be the key to everything.”

Vass took a sip from his mug, then continued.

“Cybele's shipwrights might be the best in the solar system. They'll build anything you're willing to pay for—and have done so for centuries. Cybeleans built some of the first long-haul ships for prospectors in the outer solar system, and since then they've moved on to ore haulers and tankers . . . but they'll also make cogs and caravels. And small craft with oversized engines and heavy weapons.”

“Pirate ships, you mean.”

“In the Cybeles, they'd say that's the customer's business.”

“So they build ships. Why does that make them the key to everything?”

“Because Earth is offering Cybele a contract to build warships for its fleets. That could lead to a supply
depot. And then a naval base.”

“A naval base that would be on our side of the Kirkwood Gap.”

Vass looked grave. “That's correct.”

“And we can't match what they're offering.”

“No, but we don't have to. Cybele wants to keep its independence. Its leaders know they risk losing it by making a shipbuilding deal with Earth. So we can win by offering them a deal that's good enough to outweigh the risks.”

“And what deal is that?”

“Raw materials. We're trying to negotiate a deal, but it's off the table if Cybele takes the shipbuilding contract. So Earth is trying to make its offer impossible to refuse by throwing livres at the Cybeleans and demonstrating its power—but without sending warships across the Kirkwood Gap and risking a war. That's how we wound up with privateers flying Earth flags, and commissions for our own privateers.”

When Tycho shook his head, Vass flashed a surprisingly boyish grin. “Now throw in the Securitat and Earth's intelligence agencies and a whole pack of diplomats. An interesting situation, wouldn't you say?”

“That's one word for it,” Tycho said. “What's the Securitat doing on Cybele, then? You said they wanted to fight the Ice Wolves.”

“For now, we're working together—President Goddard has ordered them to support our mission on Cybele.”

“And are they?”

“You don't approve of the Securitat, do you?”

Tycho realized his expression must have betrayed him. “I don't like the way they use people. It's dishonorable. I prefer to see my enemies coming. They'll shoot at me, but at least I'll get a chance to shoot back.”

“Your enemies?” Vass asked, his bright-blue eyes narrowed. “Do you put the Securitat in that category?”

Tycho felt his cheeks flush. “You don't approve of them either. You just said you disagreed with them.”

“That's frequently true. But we have the same goal—to defend the Jovian Union and its citizens. And the Securitat believes in that as passionately as my colleagues in the Jovian Defense Force do. The Securitat's efforts have saved many lives, Tycho. Without them, we might now be caught between two enemies, each emboldened by the other's strength.”

“That doesn't make their methods okay, though,” Tycho said. “At least not to me.”

Vass looked down at the table. Outside, something clanked in the passageway.

“The Jovian Union needs the Securitat. It can do things the Defense Force can't—things we like to imagine we wouldn't do,” he said quietly.

The clanking noises stopped. Tycho held up his hand, but Vass wasn't finished.

“The thing about the Securitat is they're an organization trained to learn secrets, ferret out threats, and eliminate those threats without anyone knowing,” the minister said. “The danger for a group like that is it can
start seeing threats everywhere, and turn secrecy to its own—”

Huff Hashoone strode into the cuddy. Vass looked up at the half-metal pirate, eyes jumping from Huff's blazing artificial eye to his forearm cannon, which had stopped spinning and was now pointed in Vass's direction.

“What're yeh doin' in here, Tyke?” Huff growled.

“Speaking with our guest,” Tycho said, putting his mug down. “Mr. Vass, this is Huff Hashoone, my grandfather.”

Vass stood and extended his hand. “Captain Hashoone,” he said. “It's a pleasure. Your reputation precedes you.”

Huff eyed his outstretched hand like it was something that had been fished out of the bilge.

“Arrrrr, yeh ain't worth goin' to the gibbet for. But I catch yeh talkin' to any of my grandchildren agin an' yeh'll go back to the Securitat on crutches. Yeh got that, Mr. Vass?”

“Grandfather, he doesn't work for the Securitat,” Tycho protested.

“Don't care who he works for—a spy's a spy.”

Huff took one step forward, the motors in his mechanical legs whining. Vass retreated until his shoulders were against the wall of the cuddy. Huff advanced and tapped the minister in the chest with the muzzle of his forearm cannon.

“Yeh leave my grandchildren alone, Vass,” he said. “Don't make me say it agin.”

Vass slowly reached up and moved the deadly forearm cannon aside so it was no longer aimed at his face.