Earth unaware

CHAPTER 16

Weigh Station Four

Lem was on the helm at the window when Weigh Station Four finally came into view. At first it was just a distant dot in space, indistinguishable from the countless stars behind it. But the navigator assured Lem that it was in fact the outpost, and Lem made the announcement to the crew. They answered him with whistles and applause, and a few of the crewmen nearest him gave him a congratulatory slap on the back, as if Lem had built the thing himself.

Lem didn’t mind all the positive attention. He had told the crew months ago that they would be stopping here for supplies and a bit of shore leave before pushing on to Luna, and ever since then the crew had treated him warmly, smiling when they saw him, nodding as he passed. Suddenly he wasn’t the boss’s son. He was one of them.

Granted, supplies and shore leave weren’t Lem’s true motivation for the visit, and he felt a slight stab of guilt at all the celebration. The real reason for coming was to drop off Podolski so he could wipe El Cavador’s computers. But since everyone did in fact deserve a little break, no harm no foul.

“Chubs, turn our scopes on Weigh Station Four and bring it up here in the holospace,” said Lem. “I want to see what amenities await us.”

In the Asteroid Belt, weigh stations were enormous enterprises, with all manner of entertainment for miners desperate to escape the monotony of their ships. Casinos, restaurants, movie houses. One near Jupiter even had a small sports arena for zero-G wrestling matches and other theatrics. So when the image of Weigh Station Four appeared large in the holospace for everyone on the helm to see, Lem knew at once that it was nothing like what everyone was hoping for.

The applause died. The whistling ceased. Everyone stared.

Weigh Station Four was a cluster of old mining vessels and sections of retired space stations connected haphazardly together through a series of tubes and tunnels to form a single massive structure. It had no symmetry, no design, no central space dock. Retired ships had been added to it over the years in a seemingly random fashion, connected to the structure wherever there had been room. It was like someone had rolled up a space junkyard into a sad little ball and decorated it with a few neon lights. It wasn’t a weigh station; it was a dump.

Lem could see disappointment on everyone’s faces.

“Well,” said Lem, clapping his hands once. “I’m not sure which is uglier, a free-miner weigh station or free-miner women.”

It wasn’t particularly funny, but Lem had hoped to elicit at least a polite chuckle. Instead he got silence and blank stares.

Time to change the mood.

“The good news,” said Lem, smiling and trying to stay chipper, “is that your stay at this delightful oasis of the Kuiper Belt is my treat. Drinks and food and entertainment are on me. Consider it an early bonus courtesy of Juke Limited.”

As he expected, this news prompted another round of applause and whistles. Lem smiled. He had been planning to spring this surprise on the crew regardless of the station’s condition, and now he was particularly relieved that he had thought of it beforehand. He would sell a load of cylinders to pay for the expense, but again Podolski was the real motivation here. Lem needed cash to fund Podolski’s stay on the station and subsequent flight home, and he didn’t want to use any corporate account for the expenses. Giving everyone a bonus was an expensive, albeit effective, cover for getting Podolski cash.

Lem ordered the crew to dock the ship near the depository, a massive warehouselike structure nearly as large as the station itself. Here free miners who didn’t use quickships dumped and sold raw minerals or cylinders to the station at below-market value. The weigh station then sent it all to Luna in quickships for a profit. Most established families and clans had their own quickship system and used the weigh station only as a source of supplies. But the newcomers and start-ups without the full array of equipment still sold their mining hauls here.

Lem and Chubs left the airlock of the ship and stepped out into the docking tunnel. The drop master was waiting for them. He was a dirty little man in a jumpsuit and a mismatched pair of greaves on his shins who carried a holopad that looked like he had beaten it against the floor a few times. The air was warm and thick with the scent of rock dust, machine oil, and human sweat.

“Name’s Staggar,” the man said. “I’m the drop master here. You boys are Jukies, eh? Don’t see too much of your type around here. Most corporates stick to the A Belt.”

“We’re testing the waters, so to speak,” said Lem. “There are a lot of rocks out here.”

Staggar laughed-a cackle that showed a train wreck of teeth. “Snowballs are more like it. If you can get through the frozen water and ammonia, you might find something. Otherwise, this is no-man’s-land.”

“You’re out here,” said Lem. “Business must be going well for you.”

“Business doesn’t do well for anybody out here, mister. This place used to be booming, long time ago maybe, but a lot of the clans have left. We scrape by like anybody else.”

“Where do the clans go?” asked Lem. “I thought this was a free miner’s paradise.”

Staggar laughed. “Hardly. Most of the clans scurry back to the inner system, to the A Belt. They can’t take all this space or the cold. I take it this is your first time out in the Deep.”

“It’s not deep space,” said Lem. “It’s only the Kuiper Belt.”

Staggar scoffed. “Only the Kuiper Belt? You make it sound like a vacation spot. Got a summer home out here, do you, Jukie?” He laughed again.

“We’d like to sell some cylinders,” said Lem. “For cash. Whom would we speak with about that?”

“You’d speak to me,” said Staggar. “But I should warn you, you won’t get the same prices here that you’ll get elsewhere. We have to adjust to reflect the greater distance we find ourselves at. This is the outer edge. I’m sure you understand.”

I understand that you’re a crook, Lem thought. But aloud he said, “We’re prepared to negotiate.”

“I’m not promising we’re buying, though,” said Staggar. “Depends on what you’re selling. We get a lot of folks trying to pass off gangue. So if that’s what you’re intending, don’t waste my time. We don’t want any worthless crap. We may look dumb to hoity-toities like yourself, but dumb we ain’t, and you’ll be wise to remember that fact.”

“You strike me as a shrewd businessman,” said Lem. “I wouldn’t dream of conning you. I think you’ll find our cylinders of high quality.”

Lem nodded to Chubs, who had been holding a sample cylinder all this time. Chubs gently floated the cylinder in the air toward Staggar, and the man easily caught it. Staggar limped over to a scanner on the wall-apparently his mismatched greaves had a different polarity and affected his gait-and he slid the cylinder into the designated slot. In a moment the reading came back. Staggar tried to appear unimpressed.

“Your scanner doesn’t lie,” said Lem. “That’s some of the purest iron-nickel I’ll bet you’ve seen in a while.”

Staggar shrugged. “It’s decent. Nothing special, really.”

“So are you interested or not?” asked Lem.

Staggar removed the cylinder from the scanner and turned to them, smiling. “Depends. You see, I got this little tickle in my brain that I can’t seem to scratch. Why would a bunch of Jukies want to sell cylinders here? You boys have your own depository down near Jupiter.”

“Jupiter’s a long way off,” said Lem, “and I’m eager to give my crew a break. All the cash you give us will likely go back into the economy of your weigh station here. So the way I see it, this is a win-win situation for you.”

Staggar studied their faces, his smile broadening. “Well, aren’t you the generous captain.” He turned the cylinder on its side and began expertly spinning it in the air in front of him on the tip of his finger. “You’re doing this out of the kindness of your heart, is that it? Giving the boys and girls on board once last hurrah before setting out for home?”

Lem didn’t like where this was heading. “In so many words, yes.”

Staggar laughed. “I told you I wasn’t dumb, Mr. Hoity-Toit, and I meant it. A, a corporate never says what he means, and B, corporates never do squat for their crews unless there’s something in it for them.”

“You think I have some devious motivation,” said Lem, acting amused. “Did it not occur to you that perhaps I want a break as well?”

Staggar shook his head. “No, it seems to me you boys want this one off the books, am I right? Don’t want old Ukko Jukes to know you’re skimming a little off the top for yourselves. Under-the-table mining, eh? Then you can scoot on home and tell your corporate stuffies that you didn’t quite mine as much as you hoped. And everything you sell here, as far as they’re concerned, never existed, while you drop a load of cash into your private bank accounts.” He laughed. “I wasn’t born on an asteroid, boys. I know a pocket scheme when I see one.”

“Is this how you always do business?” Lem asked. “By insulting your customers first?”

“We ain’t doing business until we understand one another,” said Staggar. “You corporates must have iron balls to show yourself around here. This ain’t the headquarters of the corporate fan club, if you catch my meaning. Lot of people here won’t be particularly happy to see you.”

“We didn’t come to make friends,” said Lem. “We came to sell a few cylinders and have a decent time. I doubt your merchants will mind us giving them our money.”

“My money, you mean,” said Staggar.

“How much per cylinder?” asked Lem.

“Can’t answer that until you have an account,” said Staggar. He began typing on his holopad. “Whose name should I put this in?”

Lem and Chubs exchanged glances.

“We’d rather avoid any record,” said Lem.

“I’m sure you would,” said Staggar, “but I can’t buy without adding it to the inventory. You boys can skimp off your boss, but I can’t skimp off mine. You get an account or no sale.”

“Put in my name,” said Chubs. “Chubs Zimmons.”

Staggar looked at Lem. “Not your name, mister? Fancy clothes like that and from the way you were talking, I figured you for the captain.”

“My name,” said Chubs.

The drop master shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He typed some more. With his eyes still down he asked, “Out of curiosity, where did you boys find this iron-nickel?”

“We’d rather not say,” said Lem. “Trade secrets. I’m sure you understand.”

Staggar smiled. “I figured as much. How much of this do you want to sell?”

“Depends on the price,” said Lem.

“I’ll pay you by the tonnage,” said Staggar, “not by the cylinder.”

“What price?” said Chubs.

Staggar told them.

Chubs was furious. “That’s outrageous. It’s worth twenty times that amount.”

Staggar shrugged. “Take it or leave it.”

Chubs turned to Lem. “He’s trying to rob us.”

“That’s the cash price,” said Staggar. “If you want to trade in food or fuel, I might be able to go a little higher.”

“A little higher?” said Chubs, angry. “You’re crazy if you think we’ll accept that.”

“You came to me,” said Staggar. “I’m telling you my price. You don’t like it, go elsewhere.”

“He’s right,” said Lem. “We should have gone to Jupiter. Come on, Chubs. We’re wasting this man’s time.” Lem turned and moved back toward the ship.

Chubs squinted down at Staggar. “Yes, you seem to have so much business here, why not let a big shipment like ours slip away? It’s not like you need the money.” He looked Staggar up and down, showing his disgust at Staggar’s appearance, then turned away and followed Lem back to the ship.

Lem had his hand on the airlock when Staggar shouted at them.

“Wait. I have another price in case you boys got all stubborn and annoying, which you have.”

“And what price is that?” said Lem.

Staggar told them.

“Double that amount and you’ve got a deal,” said Lem.

“Double!” said Staggar.

“You’ll still make a fortune,” said Lem. “Which, if my calculations are correct, is more than the alternative. Zero.”

Staggar glowered. “You corporates are all the same. Cocky thugs, the whole lot of you.”

“From one thug to another, I’ll take that as a compliment,” said Lem.

Lem had his senior officers dole out the cash to the crew. It was less than Lem had hoped to give them but more than enough for a two-day break. Because of the low price he had received for the cylinders, he had been forced to sell more than he had intended, but he didn’t worry. He still had more than enough to make an impression with the Board.

The inside of the weigh station was more attractive than the exterior, though not by much. Wherever Lem and Chubs went, merchants clamored for their attention, selling all variety of mining tools and worthless trinkets. It surprised Lem to see how many people lived here: several hundred if he had to guess, including children, mothers with infants, even a few dogs, which Lem found especially amusing since these had learned to jump from wall to wall in zero gravity. Lem soaked it all in, feeling at home for the first time in a while. He didn’t belong in space. He belonged in a city, where the energy was palpable and the sights and sounds and smells were always changing.

They found a woman in the marketplace selling men’s work clothes, and Lem bought nearly everything she had. Podolski and the two security guards might be on the weigh station for a while, and Lem thought it would be better for them to blend in and dress like free miners. He didn’t know if the clothes would fit perfectly, but since no one at the weigh station had any concern for fashion and all the clothes were baggy anyway, Lem didn’t think it mattered.

He paid the woman a large tip to deliver the clothes to the ship, and when the woman, who had a young boy with her, saw the sum of money in her hand, she was so overwhelmed with gratitude that she teared up and kissed Lem’s hand. Lem could see that she was poor and that the child was hungry, so he gave her another large bill before sending her on her way.

“You getting soft on me?” asked Chubs.

“It looked like she had sewn the clothes herself,” said Lem, shrugging. “Work like that should be paid well.”

Chubs smiled as if he knew better.

They found a shoemaker next. Lem guessed at Podolski’s and the security guard’s boot sizes and then argued with the man about the prices. When they left, after the purchases were made, Chubs laughed. “I think you were trying to overcompensate for being nice to that woman,” he said. “You took that shoemaker for a ride.”

“He was trying to cheat us,” said Lem.

“We could probably go back and find that woman,” said Chubs, teasing. “Your father would be thrilled for you to come home with a bride.”

Lem laughed. “Yes, my father would love a peasant free miner as a daughter-in-law. Especially one with a child. Father would be tickled pink.”

They entered the food court area, where a dozen aromas assaulted them at once: pastries, pastas, breads, stews, even a few cooked meats, though these were exorbitantly expensive. They ran into Benyawe, and the three of them took a standing countertop at a Thai restaurant. It wasn’t big enough in Lem’s opinion to call itself a restaurant-there was only room for six people at the most-but Lem preferred the privacy.

Late in the meal Chubs raised his bottle. “To our captain, Mr. Lem Jukes, who salvaged our mission and turned a profit in the process.”

Benyawe raised her bottle and joined the toast, but she didn’t seem particularly agreeable to it.

“You shouldn’t toast me,” said Lem. “Our real thanks goes to the lovely Dr. Benyawe here, who tirelessly prepped the laser and conducted our field tests with aplomb. Without her brilliance, perseverance, and patience with her hot-tempered captain, we’d still be shooting pebbles out of the sky.”

“To Dr. Benyawe,” said Chubs.

Benyawe smiled at Lem. “Toasting me doesn’t make you any more tolerable,” she said.

“Of course not,” said Lem. “I barely tolerate myself.”

“And we would be wise to remember that our mission isn’t over until we return to Luna,” said Benyawe. “We’re months behind schedule, and there are many on the board who no doubt have written this mission off as a cataclysmic failure.”

Chub’s smile faded.

“I’m not trying to spoil our evening,” said Benyawe. “I’m merely reminding us all that we’re still a long way from home.”

“She’s right,” said Lem. “Perhaps we’re a little premature in our celebrations.” He raised his glass again. “Still, I’ll toast Benyawe again for being such a wise counselor and an expert party pooper.”

“Hear, hear,” said Chubs, raising his bottle.

Benyawe raised her own bottle and smiled.

“Lem Jukes.” The words came from the doorway.

Lem and the others turned to the entrance and saw a mountain of a man standing at the threshold. He was flanked by three other men, all rugged and dirty and not the least bit friendly looking.

“So you are Lem Jukes,” said the big man. “Mr. Lem Jukes himself. Son of the great Ukko Jukes, the richest man in the solar system. We’re practically in the presence of royalty.”

His three friends smiled.

“Can I do something for you, friend?” said Lem.

The man stepped into the room, ducking his head through the door frame as he entered. “I am Verbatov, Mr. Jukes. And we are not friends. Far from it.”

“What grievance do you have with me, Mr. Verbatov?”

“My friends and I were part of a Bulgarian clan working the Asteroid Belt four years back. Nine families in all. A Juke vessel took our claim and crippled our ship. Our family had no choice but to break up. Each of us went our separate ways, working what ships would take us on. The way I see it, Juke Limited owes us for damages. The value of our ship and all the hell we’ve been through since.”

A silence followed. Lem glanced at Chubs and chose his words carefully. “You were done an injustice, sir. And for that I am sorry. But your fight isn’t with me. We aren’t the people who took your claim or damaged your ship.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Verbatov. “You’re Juke Limited. The son of the president. You represent the company.”

“Our lawyers represent the company,” said Lem. “I’m about as far down the chain of command as you can get. If you have issue with how you’ve been treated, I suggest you take it to the courts.”

Verbatov laughed. “The courts near Mars or Luna, you mean? Billions of klicks from here? No. I’ll take an out-of-court settlement, thank you. And don’t bother telling me you don’t have the cash. I have it on good authority that you just came into a bit of money and have a sizable load on your ship.”

“Staggar is a friend of yours, I take it,” said Lem.

Verbatov smiled.

“What’s the agreement you two have?” asked Lem. “You get back his money for him, and he gives you a cut? I find that surprising, Mr. Verbatov. You don’t seem like the type of person who gives back much of anything.”

Verbatov chuckled. “Am I that transparent, Mr. Jukes?”

“You are indeed,” said Lem.

“Pay us what we rightly deserve,” said the man.

“The money isn’t mine to give,” said Lem. “It belongs to Juke Limited.”

“Which owes us,” said the man.

“Write a complaint,” said Chubs. “We’ll see that it gets to the right people.”

Verbatov’s smile faded. He motioned to one of his men behind him. “You’ll pay us what is rightfully ours, Mr. Jukes, or we’ll be forced to have more conversations with your crew.”

One of Verbatov’s men entered, pulling a weightless body behind him. It was Dr. Dublin. His face was bloody and swollen, but he was alive.

“Richard!” said Dr. Benyawe, starting to move to him.

Chubs grabbed Benyawe’s arm, stopping her.

Dr. Dublin looked dazed, unaware of his surroundings.

“Dr. Dublin has been quite the chatterbox,” said Verbatov. “He told us all about this gravity laser you have on your ship. Turns rock into powder, he says. Very fascinating. Sounds like an entirely new way to mine rock. My brothers and I would appreciate a gift like that. That ought to cover our damages if Dr. Dublin was telling the truth, which I suspect he was, considering he broke a few of his fingers in the process.”

Lem said nothing.

Verbatov looked down at Dublin and patted the man’s head, gently pushing Dublin’s floating body down toward the floor. “Unless you and I reach an agreement, Mr. Jukes, Dr. Dublin may accidentally break his legs as well.”

The dart struck Verbatov in the throat, and for a moment Lem didn’t know what was happening. There was a series of pops, and the men with Verbatov each slightly recoiled as darts buried into their chests, faces, or throats. Lem was confused until Chubs launched from the table toward the door, the weapon in his hand. Chubs pushed past Verbatov and moved outside, sweeping his aim to the right and left, looking for stragglers. Verbatov’s eyes flickered and then closed. His shoulders slumped, but he stayed upright in zero gravity, his feet still held to the floor by his greaves. Chubs went back to him and put three more darts into his neck at point-blank range.

“What are you doing?” said Lem.

“My job,” said Chubs. He grabbed Dr. Dublin and pulled his body toward the exit. When he reached Verbatov, Chubs pushed the man’s upper body aside. Verbatov’s feet, like the trunk of a tree, didn’t move, but his torso bent to the side enough for Chubs to pull Dublin through the door and out into the hall. Lem and Benyawe followed.

Verbatov’s men stood motionless like their leader, shoulders sagged, eyes closed. Chubs checked the men’s necks for a pulse, clearly hoping not to find one.

“You killed them,” said Benyawe.

“You can thank me later,” said Chubs, pecking away at his handheld. “And I just sent an emergency command to every member of the crew on the station to get their butts back to the ship now.”

Lem’s own handheld at his hip vibrated as the message was received.

Chubs quickly pulled all the darts out of the men and deposited them into a small container.

“You killed them,” Benyawe repeated.

The owner of the Thai restaurant approached, shocked. Chubs instinctively raised his dart gun. Benyawe stepped between him and the restaurant owner. “Enough. We’re not killing innocent people.”

Chubs shrugged then turned to Lem. “We need to move. I’ll lead. You and Benyawe pull Dublin. Upright if you can. Not too fast. We don’t want to draw attention.”

Chubs put his hands in his coat pockets, concealing his weapon, and began walking quickly through the tunnels. They passed small pubs, kiosks, shops, and vendors. Everywhere they went they got looks from people-Dublin’s bloody face was hard to miss-and people stepped out of their way, giving them plenty of room. The closer they got to the ship, the more crewmen they encountered. Several joined them as they went, took one look at Dr. Dublin, and quickened their step.

They didn’t meet any resistance until they reached the docking tunnel. Staggar was blocking the way with four men. He carried a dart rifle draped across one arm. He saw the approaching crowd of Juke crewmen and smiled. “What’s the hurry, Mr. Jukes? Leaving so-”

A dart buried in Staggar’s chest, and an instant later his eyes closed. The rifle slipped from his grip and hovered in space in front of him.

The men with Staggar reached under their coats, but before they could extract anything, a cluster of darts embedded into their chests, necks, and faces. In seconds they were all silent and still.

Lem couldn’t believe what he was seeing. All around him seven or eight crewmen had their weapons out, having just fired. Lem hadn’t even known they had weapons.

“Are you out of your mind?” Benyawe shouted at Chubs.

Chubs turned to one of the crewmen, ignoring Benyawe. “I want every dart accounted for. No traces.”

“Yes, sir.”

The man and the other crewmen began removing the darts from the dead. Lem watched in amazement. No shock in their faces. No panic. Just quick unquestionable obedience. As if the crew had trained for moments such as these.

Benyawe stared at the standing corpses, then hurried to catch up to Chubs, who was moving for the ship. “You can’t just shoot people like that and expect there to be no consequences,” she said.

“The consequences of us staying here were far worse,” said Chubs.

“They will come looking for us,” said Benyawe.

Chubs stopped and faced her. “Who? The police? This is a weigh station, Doctor. We probably just did every store owner and trinket vendor the biggest service of their lives by killing off the thugs and criminals who have been pushing them around.” He gestured to the dead. “These men are bad men. That simple enough for you? Probably murderers. Did you see the restaurant owner’s face when Verbatov came in? The man was scared witless. There was a history there. By tomorrow, he and his store owner pals will be building a statue of us in our honor. Now, if you’d like to stay here and wait for the station security guard so you can apologize all formal like, be my guest. But this ship is leaving in six minutes or less, and I suggest you get on it.”

Chubs went to the scanner Staggar had used earlier and called into his handheld. “Podolski, get out here.”

In moments Podolski came out of the ship wearing the free-miner clothing Lem had purchased for him.

“Erase our existence,” said Chubs, motioning to the scanner. “Every trace of this ship and our visit to this place is to be deleted. You understand?”

Podolski looked uneasy. He noticed the dead men at the end of the docking tunnel. “What’s going on? What happened to those people?”

“It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with,” said Chubs. “Just do your job.”

Podolski nodded.

“Now,” said Chubs.

Podolski hopped to it, tapping at keys on the scanner.

Chubs turned to Lem. “You’ll excuse me if I’m overstepping my authority here, Lem. It should be you giving these orders, not me.”

Lem looked at Chubs, as if seeing him for the first time. “You’re more than a ship’s crewman for my father, aren’t you?”

Chubs grinned. “You could say that.”

“My father sent you on this mission to protect me. To keep me from getting myself killed.”

“Basically,” said Chubs.

Lem nodded. “Good. Keep it up.” Lem turned to the gathered crew and spoke loud enough for all to hear. “My apologies, everyone. Our stay here is cut short. But frankly, if your day on this dump was half as unpleasant as mine was, getting back on this ship probably feels like a good idea.”

Lem opened the airlock. Two of the crew went in first, carefully escorting Dr. Dublin inside. The other crew followed.

Podolski took another moment at the terminal then turned to Chubs. “Scanner’s clean. We were never here.”

Two crewmen came out of the ship wearing free-miner clothing.

“I took the liberty of choosing two of our best men,” said Chubs.

“Good,” said Lem.

Podolski looked frightened. “I’ve been thinking about this agreement we made,” he said. “And I don’t think it’s a good idea anymore. This place isn’t safe.”

Chubs slapped him on the arm good-naturedly. “You’ll be fine. Mangler and Wain here will provide all the security you need.”

Lem regarded the two men. They stood there expressionless, like two cold soldiers. No, not like soldiers; they were soldiers. Father had loaded this ship with security personnel and Lem hadn’t even known it.

“You can’t leave me here,” said Podolski. “What if these people think I’m responsible? What if they know I’m a corporate?”

Chubs and Lem joined Benyawe in the airlock.

“You’ll be fine,” said Chubs. “Think of this as a vacation.”

Podolski opened his mouth and shouted a response, but the airlock door was already closed. Lem watched the man through the small window. Podolski looked panicked and furious. The two security personnel stood behind, not moving. Farther down the tunnel, Staggar and the other corpses stood with their boot magnets stuck to the floor and their arms out loose beside them.

“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why we’re abandoning three of our crew,” said Benyawe.

“Couldn’t you tell?” said Chubs. “They wanted to stay.”

Edimar flew down the corridor on El Cavador without looking at anyone. There were people all around her, going about their business, brushing past her, hurrying along their way, but Edimar pretended not to notice them. She couldn’t bear to see their faces. Among them would be one or two people who still looked at her as if she were a fragile child. It had been months since Father’s and Alejandra’s deaths, yet there were still some in the family who always gave her that pitying look that said, “You poor thing. Your father and sister dead. You poor, poor child.”

I am not a child, Edimar wanted to scream at them. I do not need your pity. I do not want your sympathy. Stop professing that you “know” what I’m going through or that you “know” what it feels like it or that you “know” how hard this must be for me. You don’t know anything. Was it your father who was ripped open by an hormiga and left to bleed to death? Was it your sister who had likely been blown to bits or had the air sucked from her lungs? No, it wasn’t. So stop pretending that you’re some fountain of emotional wisdom who understands everyone’s grief and pain. Because you don’t. You don’t know a thing about me. And you can jump in a black hole, for all I care.

She didn’t mean it. Not that last part anyway. But she did hate the sympathetic looks and the mournful sighs they gave on her behalf, as if all life was hopeless now, as if nothing mattered in the world and she was resigned to spend the rest of her life wallowing in misery.

The single most infuriating moment had been when her aunt Henrika had told her, “It’s all right, Edimar. You can cry.” As if Edimar needed permission from this woman. As if Edimar had been damming back all of her emotion and was just waiting for some grown-up to cue her to open the floodgates. Oh thank you, Aunt. Thank you. How kind of you to grant me the right to cry in front of you and humiliate myself just so I can prove to you and your snotty, gossiping sisters that I am in fact sad. Happy, Auntie? Look, here’s a tear, dropped from my very own eye. Take note. Spread the word. Edimar is sad.

It was so hurtful and demeaning and presumptive when her aunt had said it that Edimar almost had cried, right then and there in front of everyone in what would have been a burst of immediate tears. She had come so close. She could feel herself there at the precipice, so close to sobbing that the tiniest change in her breathing or the slightest tightening of her throat would have pushed her over the edge into uncontrollable sobs.

Yet fortunately, in some miraculous display of willpower, Edimar had kept her face a mask and not betrayed the horror and shock and pain she felt at Aunt Henrika’s words. How could people, in an effort to be helpful, be so clueless of heart, so thoughtless and cruel?

It was especially infuriating because Edimar did cry. Every day. Sometimes for an hour at a time. Always alone in the darkness of the crow’s nest where no one could see or hear her tears.

Yet apparently for the likes of Aunt Henrika, unless you’re crying in front of everyone, unless you wore your grief on your sleeve and paraded your tears for all the world to see, you had no tears to shed.

Edimar turned a corner and pushed off a wall, shooting up the corridor. She knew she shouldn’t be so petulant. No one was feigning sympathy. They all had her best interests in mind. Even Aunt Henrika, in her sad, condescending way. The problem was, the people who should shut up were the ones talking the most. It made Edimar grateful for people like Segundo and Rena and Concepcion, people who didn’t baby her or even broach the subject of Father’s and Alejandra’s deaths but who simply asked her about her work and told her about theirs. That’s all Edimar wanted: to be treated like a person who could handle her situation instead of being expected to act like a sad, blubbery sack.

Dreo was waiting for her outside the dining hall. They had agreed to meet here before going on to Concepcion’s office to give their report. After Father’s death, Concepcion had asked Dreo to assist Edimar with the Eye whenever she needed it, and Dreo, like the eager commander he was, had relished this new authority. Edimar didn’t need his help and certainly didn’t want it, but Dreo still found opportunities to insert himself into her work. For propriety’s sake, Dreo wasn’t to visit Edimar in the crow’s nest without another adult with him, and fortunately this had mostly kept Dreo away. Which was best. He knew next to nothing about how the Eye worked or how to interpret its data. He understood the operating system and nothing more. But just because you know how an oven works doesn’t mean you can bake a souffle.

“Did you bring your holopad?” Dreo asked.

So he was going to treat her like a child again. She kept her face expressionless and held up the holopad for him to see.

“Good. Is the presentation on it?”

Did he really think her an idiot? Or was Dreo this patronizing with everyone? Aloud she said, “You’re welcome to look at it if you want.”

He waved the idea away. “If there are flaws, I’ll talk through them. Let’s go.” He turned and moved for the helm, expecting her to follow.

How kind of you, thought Edimar. You’ll talk through my “flaws.” What a team player you are, Dreo. Good thing we have your great intellect to rescue us from my flawed presentation.

Edimar sighed. She was being bratty again. So what if Dreo is a pain. So what if he takes all the credit. The world could be coming to an end. There are more important matters than me getting my feelings stung.

They reached Concepcion’s office and were invited inside. Concepcion wasn’t alone. Segundo, Bahzim, and Selmo were also present as well.

“I’ve asked a few of the Council to join us,” said Concepcion. “I want their input on this. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” said Dreo. “We prefer it.”

It annoyed Edimar that Dreo would presume to speak for her. He was right of course; she did prefer more input. But Edimar hadn’t expressed that to him, and she didn’t like him making assumptions about her.

“We now know what the hormiga ship looks like,” said Dreo. “It’s close enough and moving slow enough for the Eye to create an accurate rendering. I’ll let Edimar give the presentation, and I’ll clarify points where necessary.”

Oh, he’ll “let” me give the presentation, thought Edimar. How kind. As if Dreo could give the presentation himself but was merely humoring a child, as if he knew the material better than she did, when in fact it was Edimar who had done ninety-five percent of the work. And he would clarify points? What points exactly? What did he know about the ship that she didn’t?

She didn’t look at him, worried that she might let her annoyance show. Instead she busied herself with the holopad, anchoring it to Concepcion’s desk and raising the various antennae. When it was ready, she turned on the holo. A computer-rendered image of the hormiga ship appeared in front of them.

The room went quiet. As Edimar had expected, everyone had the same slightly baffled expression. The ship was unlike anything humans had ever conceived. It was a large, bulgy teardrop shape, seemingly smooth as glass, with its pointy end facing in the direction it was traveling. Near the front was a wide-mouthed opening that faced forward and completely encircled the tip.

“To give you a sense of scale,” said Edimar, “here’s what El Cavador would look like beside it.” A rendering of El Cavador appeared next to the hormiga ship. It was like holding a grape next to a cantaloupe.

“How can a ship that big move that fast?” said Bahzim.

“It doesn’t even look like a ship at all,” said Selmo. “It’s circular. There’s no up or down. It looks more like a satellite.”

“It’s too big to be a satellite,” said Segundo. “Besides, we know the pod came from inside the ship. How it left the ship at such a high speed is anyone’s guess, but it must have. What stumps me is that I can’t see any obvious entrances or exit points.”

“What about this wide opening here at the front?” said Bahzim, pointing.

Segundo shook his head. “If I had to guess, I’d say that was a ram drive. Victor suspected the pod was powered by one, and this looks like a similar design. The ship scoops up hydrogen atoms, which at near-lightspeed would be gamma radiation, then the rockets shoot this gamma plasma out the back for thrust. It would be a brilliant propulsive system because you’d have an infinite amount of fuel, and the faster you move, the more hydrogen you’d pick up and therefore the more acceleration and thrust you’d generate.”

“Scoop-field propulsion,” said Concepcion.

“Is that even possible?” asked Bahzim.

“Theoretically,” said Segundo. “It would only work on a ship built in space and intended for interstellar travel, though. You couldn’t use a propulsion system like that to exit a planet or atmosphere. Too much G-force. You’d die instantly. But in a vacuum, you could accelerate quickly, safely. I wouldn’t exactly call it a clean form of propulsion, though. It would be putting out massive amounts of radiation. You wouldn’t want to fly behind it. Even at a great distance. If it’s powered by gamma plasma, the plasma would likely interfere with electronics and sensors as far back as, say, a million kilometers or so. Stay in its propulsion wake too long, and it would cause tearing on the surface of the ship. And at closer distances, you’d probably get a lethal dose of radiation. Be right behind it, and you’d be disintegrated instantly.”

“Lovely,” said Selmo.

“What I don’t understand,” said Bahzim, “is how they can even see where they’re going. I don’t see any windows or visible sensors. The surface is completely smooth.”

“It looks smooth, but it isn’t,” said Edimar. “At close inspection you can detect seams, indentations, and ridges. Like these circles.” She typed a command, and four massive circles appeared on the ship, side by side, around the bulbous end of the teardrop. “We don’t know what these are,” she said. “Doors maybe. Or perhaps smaller ships that detach from the main ship. Whatever they are, they’re massive.”

“The whole thing is massive,” said Bahzim. “Which makes me wonder about defense. How does it protect itself against collision threats? It would get pulverized by asteroids without a good PK system. But look at it. No pebble-killers. No guns. No weapons whatsoever.”

“I couldn’t discern any weapons either,” said Edimar. “But it does have a PK system. I’ve seen it. Any object on a collision course is completely obliterated. Asteroids, pebbles, comets. All vaporized by lasers from the surface of the ship.”

“The surface?” said Bahzim. “Where?”

“That’s just it,” said Edimar. “From any where on the surface. It can fire from any spot on the ship. It’s like the entire ship is a weapon.”

“How is that possible?” said Bahzim. “Lasers have to come from something.”

Edimar shrugged. “Maybe there’s some system below the surface that unleashes them. Maybe it has thousands of pores all over its hull that open and release the lasers. However it works, it’s more powerful than anything humans have because it can fire as many of these as it wants at once. So instead of firing a single beam from two cannons like we do to hit a collision threat, the hormigas can fire a whole wall of laser fire.”

The room was silent a moment.

“That’s not exactly comforting,” said Concepcion.

“Nothing about this is comforting,” said Selmo.

“Do we know what the lasers are composed of?” asked Segundo.

“No,” said Edimar. “But I don’t think it’s photons. Their beams can be up to a meter thick and they act differently than our lasers. If you’re right about the ram drive, if they’re using gamma plasma as propulsion, it’s not far-fetched to suggest that they use coherent gamma rays as their weapons, too. I mean, why not? If they can harness gamma plasma for propulsion, why not harness it and laserize it as a means of defense?”

“Weapons and fuel from the same substance,” said Concepcion. “That’s certainly economical.”

“Laserized gamma plasma?” said Selmo “That makes our PKs sound like a joke.”

“They are a joke,” said Bahzim.

“The composition of the lasers is all speculation,” said Dreo. “What we do know is that their lasers only target collision threats. The hormigas aren’t blasting everything in sight. They’re conservative with their fire. They follow the same protocol of any other ship in that regard. Unless the object is set to collide with them, they ignore it.”

“That’s good news for us,” said Edimar. “We’re moving in the same direction as it is alongside the starship’s trajectory. We’re not on a collision course. When it passes us, it should ignore us.”

“Unless it’s blasting every ship in sight,” said Bahzim. “Just because it didn’t blow up a bunch of rocks out there, doesn’t mean it won’t gun us. What do we know? Maybe its mission is to destroy every human ship it sees. It didn’t exactly leave the Italians alone, and they weren’t a collision threat, either.”

“We won’t be close to it when it passes,” said Dreo. “We’re moving parallel to its trajectory but at a great distance. It’s never fired on anything remotely close to this range.”

“So it will pass us before we reach Weigh Station Four?” asked Concepcion.

“Yes,” said Edimar. “Which obviously means it will pass the weigh station before we reach the station, though not by much.”

Concepcion turned to Segundo. “Any luck with the radio?”

They had been trying for weeks to contact the weigh station, but without any success.

“Radio’s only working for short distances,” said Segundo. “We’ve been sending out messages to the station, but all we hear back is static. There’s a lot of interference.”

“Maybe the hormigas are scrambling radio,” said Bahzim.

Segundo shrugged. “Who’s to say they even know what radio is? They may have another communication system entirely. Or the problem might be the radiation their ship is emitting. Maybe that’s disrupting transmissions somehow. Even at this distance. I don’t know.”

“So the station still doesn’t know the ship is coming?” asked Bahzim.

“Not unless they’ve detected it themselves,” said Segundo. “Which is possible, but I doubt it. It’s not heading directly for them-it will miss them by a hundred thousand kilometers-so their computers probably won’t alert them. And you know the guys they have manning the control room. They’re overworked dockworkers, picking up overtime. They’re not experts like Toron or Edimar. If it’s not a collision threat, what do they care? If I had to guess, I’d say the station is completely unaware.”

“The upside,” said Dreo, “is that based on the hormiga ship’s prior behavior, it will probably leave the weigh station alone and move right on by. We’ll get there a day later, and we can use their laserline then.”

Concepcion leaned forward, staring down at the starship in the holospace. “For the sake of everyone on board that station, I pray to God you’re right.”

Podolski was hiding in a small rented room adjacent to a noodle shop on Weigh Station Four when the authorities found him. They kicked in the door after Podolski didn’t answer it, and he cowered to the back corner of the room. He could tell at once that they weren’t real police officials. They were rough men, dressed like the men Chubs and the ship’s crew had killed at the docking tunnel before rocketing away and leaving Podolski here, stranded.

“Hello there,” said the big man in the front. He had a European accent Podolski couldn’t place. “You’re a tough bird to find, friend. I had to ask three different people before we tracked you down.” He laughed. “That was a joke, friend. Come on now. No need for tears. We just want to ask you a few questions.”

Podolski wiped at his eyes. Was he crying? He hadn’t noticed. He wondered where Mangler and Wain were. They were supposed to be protecting him. They were supposed to be right outside.

“Who are you?” said Podolski.

“You might say we’re the keepers of the peace around here,” the man said. “And seeing as how there’s been a disruption in the peace recently, our first question is: Who are the new people on the station? Maybe they have some information on this. You follow me? Logical detective work.”

“I don’t know anything,” said Podolski.

The man smiled. “Now, now, friend. Don’t cut yourself so short. You know lots of things I’m sure. Like your name for instance. You know that much, don’t you?”

“Gunther Podolski.”

“Podolski,” repeated the man, smiling. “You see? You do have information. Now, what ship did you come in on?”

“Where are my friends?” asked Podolski, finding his courage now. “The ones who were outside.”

The big man tried to hide his annoyance. “Your friends are being cooperative, Podolski. We’re asking them questions, and they’re happy to answer them. You should answer them, too. It’ll make it easier for everyone.”

Podolski said nothing.

The big man eyed Podolski’s bag anchored to the table and opened it. Inside were various holopads and equipment for accessing and wiping El Cavador. The big man whistled. “You’re not packing light, are you Mr. Podolski? These are some fancy machines, all so shiny and new. If I didn’t know any better I’d say this was corporate gear.”

Podolski said nothing.

“I won’t lie to you, Mr. Podolski, this is bad news for you.” He held up the bag. “This is incriminating evidence. One of the honorable entrepreneurs of this weigh station was robbed and murdered two days ago along with several of his employees, and this bag makes you a prime suspect. Personally, I didn’t much care for the man, but he was one of our citizens, and more importantly, he owed me a good deal of money. Then suddenly I find you, Mr. Podolski, a stranger with all this equipment for robbing people.”

“That’s not what it’s for,” said Podolski.

The man raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Got other plans, do you? Enlighten me.”

Podolski said nothing.

The big man sighed. “You’re not being cooperative, Mr. Podolski. I’m no lawyer, but that makes you look guilty.” He took a step closer. “Now if you have Mr. Staggar’s money, this could all be resolved rather easily.”

“I don’t have his money,” said Podolski. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

The man smiled. “You may not know his name, but you know the man. I’ll refresh your memory. Dead guy. Docking tunnel. Ugly as a rock, probably from getting hit in the face over the years for being obstinate just like you.”

The man’s hand was suddenly around Podolski’s neck, squeezing. Podolski gagged. His windpipe felt crushed. The man’s fingernails dug into Podolski’s skin.

“These aren’t difficult questions, Mr. Podolski. I’m trying to be reasonable, and you’re not meeting me halfway. So I’ll be clearer for your sake. You give me whatever cash you took from Mr. Staggar, and I’ll do a poor job with the paperwork and forget you and I shared words. That strikes me as a reasonable proposition. What do you say?”

Podolski saw spots. His lungs screamed for air. He wanted to assure the man that he didn’t have what he was looking for. He tried to say, “I can’t give you what I don’t have.” But all that came out in a wheezy desperate whisper was, “I can’t.”

The man took it as defiance.

Podolski was flying. The man had thrown him, and Podolski was weightless. Podolski went through the doorway and out into the marketplace, his arm striking the door frame as he passed. He heard something snap. His body spun. People screamed and dodged. He hit something else midflight-he didn’t know what-then struck the shielded glass wall opposite and bounced away. The big man caught him in the air and slammed him back face-first against the glass. Podolski’s arm was broken. He could feel it bent awkwardly behind him. The man was at his ear, saying something, but Podolski couldn’t make it out. Everything sounded muffled and distant.

Beyond the glass was space, black and silent and sprinkled with stars. Podolski wanted to tell the man that he had money for passage to Luna. The man could have that. Podolski didn’t care. But the words wouldn’t form in his mouth. They were buzzing around inside him, but he couldn’t grasp them and get them out.

He is going to kill me, thought Podolski. I am going to die here, alone, eight billion klicks from home.

There was a distant flash of light in space.

Then the sky was no longer black. It was a wall of green, flameless fire rushing forward. And in the microsecond before it consumed everything and burned up the world, Podolski realized that death was coming after all, though not in any way he had expected. Nor was he-it turned out-going to die alone. Wasn’t life full of surprises?