The Quiet Pools

CHAPTER 2 —GUA— “… for the Homeworld.”

The ESA Pelican Silesia sat at the top of the ramp at the west end of Johnson Field’s runway 1E like an overladen and aging beast of burden. Its twenty-four massive tires were spread wide by their million-pound burden, the delta wings and fat fuselage streaked and stained from five hundred previous missions. Four trunklike umbilicals extended up into Silesia’s underbelly from the ramp, as though the freight shuttle belonged in a hospital ward rather than on the flight line.

The notion that in a few minutes it would be in orbit was as ludicrous as the prospect that a corpulent, comatose man might leap out of bed to perform a breathtaking pas de bourrée. Yet that was exactly what was to happen. Like its namesake, the Pelican was a different bird in the air than on the ground. Aloft, it was stable and tireless, even graceful, equal to both the leap of faith and the leap to space.

In the shuttle’s cabin, the three-man crew laughed and joked among themselves as the autopilot counted down through the preflight checklist. Flight controllers in the tower warned all air traffic away from the field and from Silesia’s flight path with the call “LTO red, LTO red, five-mile interdiction now in effect.” Around the perimeter of the field, suppression teams checked their screens and weapons one last time.

A half mile from where the Pelican waited, Dola Martinez waited patiently on the observation platform for the launch. Nearly a dozen waited with her, watching the runway for the first sign. When a puff of white gas appeared under the shuttle’s wing and quickly dissipated in the hot breeze, there was a muted cheer. With binoculars, televiewers, or merely squinting with eyes sun-shielded by a hat brim, they watched as Silesia’s umbilicals detached themselves one by one and retracted below ground.

But three late arrivals to the platform showed only cursory interest in the shuttle. Dola had noticed them, two men and a girl, none older than twenty, and marked them as virgins—idle curious, drawn there by what they thought was chance. The two men took seats high on the bleachers; the girl lingered near the entry, looking back down the platform toward the tramway, as though she were expecting someone. Just like virgins to keep themselves apart, uncomfortable with the camaraderie of the regulars.

Dola remembered her first time, thirty-eight years ago in Florida, at the then-verdant Cape. Dragged there by the family to visit the museums, and remaining at her father’s insistence that they witness a fortuitously scheduled launch. It was the most inconsequential flight possible, a robot heavy-lift full of specialty metals bound for Horizon, then under construction. And yet, watching it—no, feeling it—roar into the cloud-dotted sky on a triple column of fire, she truly grasped for the first time where it was bound, and understood what that meant.

“It’s rolling!” someone cried, and Dola forgot the virgins. The stay cables had been released, and the Pelican lumbered down the ramp, gravity providing the initial acceleration. At the foot of the ramp, the idling transonic engines came to life, the boiling schlieren in the transparent exhaust the first clue, a thunderous roar the confirmation.

There was applause, there were tears. Dola felt her own heart soaring as the Pelican rumbled ever faster down the runway, half bouncing and half floating as it teetered at the balance between lift and gravity. She lowered her binoculars and watched with naked eyes as Silesia rose and the ground fell away, ten meters, a hundred, the massive landing gear vanishing swiftly to trim the shuttle’s ungainly profile.

It was at that moment that someone seized the strap of her binoculars where it rested on her neck and yanked violently. The hard-shelled glasses flew out of her hands and smashed against her face, the pain as sharp as it was unexpected. Dola cried out, her nose and mouth bloodied, as she ducked and twisted to escape. A moment later the binoculars vanished, torn away as she collapsed to her knees.

“Take them,” she pleaded blindly. “I don’t care.”

Her vision clearing, she looked up and saw one of the virgins standing atop the first row of the bleachers, whirling the binoculars over his head like bolas, his face a grim and twisted mask of hate. A few feet away, his companion shoved Archie, harmless little Archie, facedown on the concrete platform and then trampled him underfoot in pursuit of Eleanor. She quickly went down under a hail of punches.

“Fucking starheads,” the youth with the binoculars snarled, and leaped forward. “Fucking starheads.”

Dola ducked away from the whirling weapon and started to scramble toward the tram platform. It was then that she saw the girl standing in the exit, blocking the way with the aid of the black-tipped scrambler in her right hand. Her eyes were glowing with excitement, challenging, daring Dola to try to flee.

Then a kick exploded in Dola’s midsection, and she sprawled flat on the platform. The binoculars whistled through the air and came down on the back of her skull, driving her face down hard against the concrete. The snap of breaking teeth and the pop of shattered cartilage blended with the screaming, animal and angry, that filled the observation deck.

As Dola’s attacker looked for other prey, blood began to puddle beneath her, running freely from her torn and battered face. A sick, queasy chill raced through her, sucking the strength from her muscles, the spirit from her heart. She tried to raise her head once, a foolish, futile effort. Then, vision graying, she let go, escaping into unconsciousness, only realizing at the last that the most wrenching screams had been her own.

Mikhail Dryke stood rigid, arms wrapped across his chest, body vibrating with barely contained fury, as he watched the transit medics roll the last of the injured past him to the waiting flyer. The bloody parade had included four women, three middle-aged men, a handicapped teen, all battered and bewildered.

“What did we do?” one woman had asked beseeching as she was led away. “Why did they hate us so much?”

Because you still have dreams, Dryke had thought impulsively. The medic attending her did not attempt an answer. His soothing words were empty balm, and, in that, were doubtless kinder.

Jim Francis stood silent and uncomfortable beside Dryke, vacillating between empathy for the victims and concern for himself. The report had come in from the north gate as he and Dryke were reviewing system security. On his own, Francis would have merely acknowledged it and carried on. His office was his domain; the gates and fences belonged to those who worked for him.

But Dryke had insisted on responding, and Francis had been obliged to trail along. The moment they were close enough to read the streaky red lettering smeared across the observation deck’s plex, Dryke’s countenance darkened. When they mounted the platform, hard behind the first medics, and saw the litter of bodies, he had gone white.

The ambulance lifted and roared away toward the city, and Francis took a step forward. “I don’t think there’s anything we can do here,” he suggested.

With a wordless look of contempt, Dryke started down the platform toward the observation deck and the trio of city police still working the scene.

“Officer,” he said, accosting the nearest, “I’m Mikhail Dryke, Allied Transcon security.”

“You folks made the call on this?”

“Yes. If there’s something we can do—”

“You did it.”

“Did the medics give you any report on the injured?”

“Nobody’s dead, if that’s what you mean.” He checked the screen of his slate. “The Martinez woman is about the worst of them—ribs, spleen, facials, concussion.” The officer shook his head. “You’d think the word’d get around,” he said. “You’d think they’d learn.”

Dryke’s brow wrinkled. “This has happened before?”

“Third time I know of. First for that, though,” he added, gesturing at the plex and the sun-baked graffito FOR THE HOMEWORLD.

Dryke stared. “I didn’t know,” he said.

“Well, this should be the last. City manager’ll probably recommend we close this up,” the officer said. “We can’t have someone here all the time, after all.”

“We can,” Dryke said firmly. “Would that step on anyone’s toes?”

“Not mine,” the officer said with a shrug. “You’ll want to check with Lieutenant Alvarez. Transit Division.”

“I’ll do that,” Dryke said. “Excuse me.”

Francis saw Dryke returning and brightened; he was eager to leave the platform. Then he saw how Dryke’s expression had hardened and began to quail.

“Your office,” Dryke said curtly as he stalked past.

But Francis’s office could not contain Dryke’s rage. It spilled over into the adjacent hallway and the Building 1 courtyard, into a cascade of whispers and gossip.

“Why didn’t our people respond?” Dryke demanded, backing Francis toward his desk. “They were right there—they could have stopped it.”

“The observation deck’s not Allied property,” Francis said defensively. “It’s not our responsibility.”

Dryke balled his fists as though he were about to strike Francis, then caught himself and turned away. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered.

“Besides,” Francis went on, emboldened, “it could easily have been a diversion aimed at getting through the north gate. In fact, we don’t know that it wasn’t. The standard gate complement is three. If two of them go racing up to the platform to play hero, that’s as good as throwing the gate wide open. And considering what happened this morning, prudence—”

Whirling, Dyke raged, “What about the last time? And the time before that? What excuse do you have for them? And why the hell didn’t I see something about this in your monthlies?”

“That’s not Allied property,” Francis began bravely. “None of our people were involved—”

“They should have been, goddammit, aren’t you listening?”

Francis tried to stand his ground, though it had turned to sand beneath him. “I don’t believe that these incidents are properly the concern of Corporate Security.”

” ‘For the Homeworld’ painted in blood and it’s not our concern? Christ, would I have even heard about this one if I hadn’t happened to be here?”

“These incidents are off-site, only outsiders are involved, and there’s been no threat to our people or our operations—”

“A moment ago you were trying to convince me that there is a threat,” Dryke said coldly. “You can’t have it both ways.”

Francis surrendered, the resilience leaving his body as he slipped down into his chair. “There were three incidents before today, not two,” he said. “The first time, a woman alone up there at night was raped. We didn’t know about it until it was over. The second time involved a couple, about thirty, who got roughed up a little. The third time, a couple of thugs scattered a pretty good crowd with pepperguns. I didn’t see where any of it touched us. If I was wrong, I was wrong.”

“You were wrong,” Dryke said curtly. He flexed his shoulders and sighed. “All right. We’ve got some making up to do. Find out who those people were. I want flowers in their rooms by visiting hours. Sympathy and our sincere regrets. And if any of them have exposure on the medical bills, I want them to know we’re going to cover it.”

Francis squinted questioningly at his superior. “Mr. Dryke, I understand the gesture, really I do. But isn’t that just going to make it seem like we’re admitting responsibility?”

“We are responsible,” Dryke said. “If you don’t see that yet, you’re even denser than I thought.”

“I was just concerned about liability—”

“Let them sue us. We should have done more. Will do more. I want two of your people stationed on the ob deck around the clock, starting immediately. In uniform. I want them to be a presence,” Dryke said. “But a friendly presence—find some people with personality. Those folks that come to watch our ships fly are our friends. And we’re damn well going to start taking better care of our friends.”