Verdant Pioneers—Excerpt

1: State of the Union

When the doorbell rang, Sergei was in the living room, not really watching the news on television. As he was aware that the moment seemed rote, like it had happened a hundred times before—and as it happened that he could remember nothing about what he had been doing immediately prior to that moment—he knew he was actually asleep, and having the dream again.

Nevertheless, he found himself getting up from the chair, walking up to the door in the foyer, and opening it. As per every other instance of the dream before, he saw a strange, futuristic flying machine, about four times the size of his car, parked on his front lawn and kicking up silent dust that whipped around but did not choke him, despite his not wearing his dust mask, and despite the fact that the porch door, which normally provided an extra barrier to the dust, was not there.

And on his stoop, like a hundred times before, was Anise Lenz.

“Sergei,” Anise said, a half-gasp as if surprised to see him, or at least, very glad to see him. She glanced over her shoulder, then turned back to him and said, “We don’t have much time. Come with me.”

“Anise, I can’t,” Sergei replied, as he always did. “You’re dead.”

Anise’s face dropped at the sound of his words. “No, I’m not. I’m right here!”

“No,” Sergei replied calmly, “Verdant was blown up over Mars. Or, you went out to deep space, and had an accident, or couldn’t find supplies, or ate each other… or something.” Over his shoulder, he could now hear a TV commentator discussing with a guest the government falsification of evidence that would prove their smuggled nuclear device had, in fact, destroyed the satellite Verdant while in Mars orbit. The guest was insisting that the satellite had probably escaped the blast, but had certainly been destroyed by the savage dangers of deep space. There was no doubt of her fate... at least, not in the dream. Sergei shrugged. “Either way, you aren’t still alive.”

“I am,” Anise insisted in a small voice. “Please, Sergei…”

But she was already fading… becoming transparent, before his eyes. As Sergei watched, Anise seemed to notice she was fading away, and as she realized he must have been right, a deep sadness shrouded her features. At the last moment, she reached out for Sergei. A voice, seeming to come from far, far away, said: “I love you…”

And then she was gone. A moment later, the weird aircraft on his lawn faded away as well, and as it left, so did his grass… leaving a front lawn of dirt and disturbed ash, and silence.

~

Sergei awoke a moment later, but did not immediately stir. He had no reason to: He had no place to go today, and all his assignments could be done from his home workstation. So he lingered in bed a few minutes longer, before dragging himself up and going to the bathroom.

The dream had already faded from his memory. As it had a hundred times before.

Sergei freshened up and used the toilet, then threw on a pair of workout pants and a T-shirt, his common wardrobe when working at home. He went into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and extracted a loaf of bread and two eggs. His last two… as tight as things were, and as expensive and hard-to-get as eggs were, they were probably his last real vice… maybe he’d be going out today after all, he mused. He put a pan on the stove and turned on the heat, then cracked the eggs and dropped them into the pan. He took a moment to cut two slices of bread, and slipped them into a small toaster-oven. Then he pulled a whisk from a drawer, and began to scramble the eggs. Along the way, he added pepper and oregano, and he paused long enough to take a plate from a nearby cupboard. He deposited the toasted bread on the plate, then moved the scrambled eggs onto one piece of bread. He flipped the other piece on top, killed the heat on the stove, and put his pan in the sink to wash.

He stood there at the sink, eating his egg sandwich and looking idly out the window to the back yard. The yard had once had a garden filling a quarter of it. Now, it was all garden, the grassy areas having been repurposed to grow vegetables and fruit that were increasingly hard to get at the stores. Thank goodness Sergei’s lawn had had a fence: It had made it easier to rig up a plastic cover over the yard, to keep most of the ash out and give the plants a chance to grow. As it turned out, a small amount of ash was actually very beneficial to plants, as they were rich in nutrients… but if left uncovered, the ash in the air would quickly smother anything growing out in the open. It had been fortunate for the northern hemisphere that Yellowstone had blown near the end of the growing season, giving them time to prepare for next spring with field coverings and new gardens; but the southern hemisphere had had no time to prepare in their Spring, and had lost most of its crops over the same period, creating an incredible hardship on food supplies worldwide. Once the sun came back, growing worldwide would improve… sometime in the next three-to-nine years, by the best estimates. But short-term, everyone was struggling to keep fed.

With the plastic tarp up, Sergei could not see the sky… but there wasn’t much of a sky to see, anyway. The ash had been up there all year, now in a layer of the upper atmosphere that, according to meteorologists, would take years to completely clear. Every day looked like it was terminally cloudy; as the centuries-old song went, “more skies of grey than any Russian play can guarantee.” On the occasional days when the Moon could be seen at night, it was always a dull red hue, never the white that had historically greeted human eyes… and no one ever saw it by day anymore. Wide-spectrum solar cells couldn’t run at better than thirty percent output these days, and visible-light cells were literally useless… energy conservation had tightened down to sometimes-painful levels, and scofflaws tapping into too much of the national reserves earned crippling federal fines under martial law. Today, he couldn't forget to hose down the tarp and roof cells, as he’d neglected to do the day before… or he’d be eating a cold breakfast, in a cold house, tomorrow.

Once he’d finished his egg sandwich, Sergei moved to his workstation, activated it with a swipe of his fingertip, and sat down. He had reports to finish, from data he’d collected over the past few weeks out in the field. He was a medical researcher by trade, and the impact of millions of metric tons of ash on the continent, and abroad, had given him plenty to do as global medical concerns rushed to document and treat the effects of ash exposure. The Caldera crisis had introduced him to a word that, he would have bet a year ago, hadn’t existed: Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis. He would’ve lost the bet: Apparently coined in the twenty-first century, it defined a lung disease caused by inhaling fine sand and ash dust near to a volcano. It also held the dubious distinction of being the longest word in the Oxford English Dictionary, being undisputed since 2011 and beating “honorificabilitudinitatibus” and “antidisestablishmentarianism” hands down. Though it had been popularly shortened to “PNMSVC” or “volcanoconiosis” in the media, his work often required him to add that jaw-breaker of a term to the many ash-relayed respiratory maladies that still appeared, a year later, all over the globe.

As he worked, he left a newsfeed open on the corner of his workstation, which would occasionally ping him if something related to his search parameters came up. Many of the pings he usually saw were about links to medical findings related to ash exposure, which he could add to the data in his report as needed. His other search terms—local produce alerts, gardening tips, physics breakthroughs, transportation quality updates, weather updates, and of course, any news of the still-missing satellite Verdant, vanished with the love of his life aboard—were silent now. No high-impact items were appearing, leaving his work environment quiet.

Outside, the occasional winds would kick around the ash and dirt in the front yard, and create a soft murmur against the walls and windows of the house. Sergei had not been raised in a religious house; if he had, he could almost imagine that he might have interpreted that murmur as the moanings of God over the state of his beloved Earth. Winds were like that… they always sounded like the voices or cries of someone or something, and it was no wonder that people had interpreted them as such throughout history. Usually, he tuned out the noises made by the ash and sand, wearing down the last of the paint from the outer walls. But today, some random pattern of blowing ash caught his ear… once, then twice… and caused him to pause, quite unconsciously, a distraction breaking his concentration. A few moments later, Sergei looked up from his work screen, then around the room, as if suddenly aware of something nearby, a ghost in the room. He tried to go back to work… but raised his head again a minute later.

Finally he got up from the workstation and walked about the room, examining the inner walls, the ceiling, trying to figure out what seemed wrong around him. Probably the ever-present ash, getting into the walls through some unknown crevice, maybe adding to the weight of the house and causing it to settle. His meanderings eventually brought him to the foyer, where he was beginning to have a distinct feeling of déjà-vu. Slowly, he turned to the door, and stared at it for a long time. He felt his mouth go dry; he brought his hand up to rub through his scraggly beard, and when it was through the beard, his fingers encircled the front of his throat.

Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime, he took a step forward. Ignoring the dust mask on the table next to him, he reached out and opened the door. The porch door kept the ash from blowing directly into the house, and allowed Sergei to peer outside through the slightly-sandblasted glass. As usual, it was quiet outside: Few people traveled out of their houses unless they had to, and electric vehicles were much quieter than their old internal combustion counterparts; and there were few animals around anymore, thanks to the ash, so no rustling of leaves or grass by passing vermin, no birdsong, and no dogs barking. Nothing else was on his stoop, or in his yard.

But Sergei could almost feel… something… before him. Something familiar… something missed…

Slowly, he stepped back and closed the door. A minute amount of ash had slipped under the frame of the outer door, drifted along the floor of the foyer and settled around Sergei’s feet. He turned away from the door, looking about the foyer stupidly, as if he didn’t even remember entering it, nor why.

~

“Good news: The ash seems to be thinning a bit locally; it may make for a better connection to Tranquil.” Col. Frederick “Fred” Ferguson, the President’s Chief of Staff, stood at almost-attention and looked expectantly down at the man behind the massive desk, his expression suggesting even minor news like this was nothing to sneer at.

The man behind the desk returned his gaze, but not with the same optimism. Matt Cohn, President of the United States by special election, rarely saw many reasons to be optimistic. His was an unintended presidency: President Gaston Lambert and his companion, Shay Vaughn, had somehow managed to utterly disappear into the night, not long after returning to Earth from Verdant; and Vice President Lena Carruthers had abruptly resigned before she could be sworn in as President; so the High House was left to him, as Speaker of the House of Representatives. Unlike his predecessors, knowing how difficult the job would be, he didn’t shirk his responsibility to lead the nation. And predictably, his tenure in office so far had been far from pleasant. Presently he tugged at his ear and said, “Is George ready at his end?”

“Major Bier is waiting for you, sir,” Fred replied.

“Fine,” Matt said, and he slid his workstation screen to the left, to afford him an unencumbered view of the wall screen. “Put him on.”

Fred used a control in his hand to queue up the screen, and it came to life displaying a man in a military-issue spacesuit, standing in a small office. The man on the screen seemed poised to salute as he stood, at attention, in the room. A helmet was on the edge of the desk behind him, and beyond a glass wall, personnel manned a gridwork of desks in the next room. The image was clear enough, though the signal occasionally froze, or displayed static across the screen.

Major Bier spoke first: “Good morning, Mister President.”

Matt nodded perfunctorily and replied, “Morning, Major. How are things on Tranquil?”

“As good as can be expected, sir,” the Major replied. “Apologies for the suit, but we had a bulkhead go bad on us, and I was just on-site with the repair crews.”

“Quite all right, Major,” Matt replied. “Give us your report.”

“Sir, as of this morning we and U.N. teams have restored ninety-four percent of the north hub to full integrity,” the Major said, glancing down at a datapad as he spoke. “Damaged crane assemblies and rails in the central access core are slowing us up, but we expect to have the last of those torn out in two weeks. Once we have those replaced, we’ll have full core usability again.” He consulted the pad again. “Air quality is at sixty percent in the open areas, so we’re still on respirators outside of the sealed offices. That’s because of their venting into the core areas, so again, once we get the core straight, the air quality will improve too. Ceo Miller has the farms started on high-altitude crops for now, to get them back up and running… subsistence stuff, but at these oxygen levels, that’s all they can handle right now.”

“Very good, George,” Matt said. “So, you’re still on-schedule to recover Tranquil?”

“Yes, sir,” Major Biel replied. “Ceo Miller projects mid-August year for a skeleton crew, full complement nine months after that.”

Matt nodded again. “How are you and Miller getting along?”

“Professionally,” Biel replied. “He accepts our help, but he and his people aren’t exactly going out of their way to be helpful… or friendly. They work with us, and they answer questions easy enough… but they don’t volunteer anything. We’ve tried to keep close tabs on them, and as far as we can determine, the U.N. higher-ups are keeping something close to the chest, but we can’t determine what. And I’m sure they’re having their own meetings somewhere on the satellite, but we don’t know where yet.”

“Keep working on him,” Matt said. Tranquil’s CEO had been forced to accept U.S. assistance to rebuild Tranquil, by order of his superiors in Geneva. But Matt knew they didn’t want the U.S. there, that the U.N. didn’t fully trust them not to take steps to co-opt the satellite for their own use… something which Matt often wished he could do, if his military hadn’t been so tied up assisting with recovery projects. “Has Dr. Netter made any progress going through Tranquil’s data stores and GLIS?”

At the sound of the question, the Major’s head dropped slightly, and he checked his pad again before he spoke. “At this point, he reports no further progress. The science teams have recovered a great deal of operational data and cells, but he’s found no data that looks like anything pertaining to transportation research, nor anything earmarked to be sent to Verdant.”

Fred took that moment to speak up. “Have you been able to find any sign of the Ceo’s personal data cells? Good chance any data would be referenced there.”

“We’ve had teams scouring the system for it,” Bier replied smartly to the Chief of Staff. “Nothing found. We haven’t been able to recover data from any of the cells near the hub… the freighter collision did too much damage here. Miller might have managed to hide something, but we don’t see how we wouldn’t have found it by now if he had.”

“I see,” Matt said. “Well, keep at it. Anything else to report?”

“Nothing significant, sir,” Bier replied. “Details will be in my report transmission.”

“Very good, Major. Thank you.”

“Mister President.” The screen went blank.

Matt and Fred exchanged glances. The two men had served in the military together briefly, and had remained friends after that… Matt had appointed Fred his Chief of Staff immediately upon assuming the office of President. The two men knew each other well, and thought much alike. Volumes could pass between them with a single glance, and they shared one of those glances now.

“Maybe we’re reading too much into that intercepted transmission,” Fred finally voiced aloud. “I mean, if Tranquil was working on the same thing Verdant used to escape orbit, wouldn’t we have found some sign of it in their labs?”

“Maybe they didn’t have time to build it,” Matt suggested. “Or they didn’t have something they needed to do the job, and Verdant did. I don’t know. But I think there’s something there. Volov was trying to tell Lenz something in that message… I’m sure she passed something along to him too. We keep looking.”

Fred nodded formally, not inclined to argue the point. Matt had retired as a general from the service, so he outranked Fred in every way: As President and Commander-in-Chief; as formerly retired General; and as an elder, being eight years Fred’s senior. For a time, their relationship had been less formal, even after Fred had retired from service, but continued to use his rank as title in civilian life. But as the rigors of the presidency had borne down upon Matt, and he’d found himself falling back on his own military background when he declared the United States under martial law following the Caldera crisis, the two ex-military men had assumed an almost full military posture around each other when in the High House.

Matt went on to ask: “What’s the situation with Backtrack?”

“No further progress on Operation: Backtrack, sir,” Fred replied. “The team hasn’t put together any new ideas from their knowledge of Dr. Silver and her methods. They’ve had a few theoretical insights, but nothing that they’ve been able to turn into a practical idea. And we’re still searching for a number of key people who either worked with her in the past, or were more familiar with Silver’s recent activities… we’ve run out of leads.”

Matt looked at Fred. “Could they have gotten onto Verdant before it left, somehow?”

“According to the reports,” Fred replied, “there was a lot of confusion and a number of swapped identities during the period where we were exchanging citizens on the Makalu flight. I suppose it’s possible that some of the scientists managed to smuggle themselves out of here at that time. Earlier than that? I can’t say, there’s not enough evidence either way.”

Matt nodded. “Dr. Silver was able to con Verdant’s senior staff long enough to teach that whole satellite to fly. If she wanted to get those people up there quietly… I’d bet it was easy.”

Matt stood. “Well, at least we can report continued progress to the U.N.” Matt did not quite have the stature of the younger man, being noticeably shorter and sporting the beginnings of a paunch; but he still had a vital look in his eye, and a full head of thick hair with only hints of gray at the temples. “I think we’ll be able to convince Vinson that our assistance in restoring Tranquil will be worth a significant segment of the satellite being reserved for American occupation.”

Fred’s hair was so thin and close-cropped as to be almost invisible, an uber-military cut, that went well with his tall, strong frame. He fell in step with Matt as they left the President’s office. “As long as the U.N. people on Tranquil are getting along with our teams up there, I’d agree. But I don’t want our science teams making too many waves looking for Volov’s data. If they tip their hand, or get too gung-ho about retrieving it, it could put off Vinson’s people.”

“That data could be a useful bargaining chip,” Matt pointed out. “Being able to travel to other planets or asteroids… or maybe even to other stars, if that’s in fact what Verdant managed to do… might open up a wealth of minerals that could help us recover from the Caldera crisis. And it might even open up the possibility of bringing Verdant back; we could use their resources again. That would be worth pissing off Vinson.” He paused, and the two men exchanged glances again. “Very well,” Matt shrugged, “Tell George to keep a low profile… but keep looking.”

“Of course, sir,” Fred nodded.

They reached the High House commissary, a well-equipped kitchen and cafeteria that had a direct connection to a hastily- but well-assembled greenhouse not far from the Presidential Residence, on the grounds of the Rocky Mountain Arsenal in Colorado. They even had their own meat-growing plant, though that was kept publicly quiet, given the already-dropping availability of natural and grown meat worldwide. Though the greenhouse and cloned meat production plant were extravagant for the High House’s needs, Matt took solace in the fact that it was essentially a prototype for other greenhouses being constructed around the country, where there was horizontal space for such things (vertical farms were being built in the more crowded cities, on the sites of buildings that had gone mostly or totally vacant, thanks ironically to the crisis). Every effort was being made to erect the greenhouses as quickly as possible, as scientists were predicting a significant disruption to the global agriculture and food chain for the next 15-20 years.

As the two men collected their lunches, they continued their conversation. “I realize,” Fred was saying, “that data backs up the fact that our nuke didn’t destroy Verdant. However, we still don’t know if they were actually able to leave the solar system. Heck, they could still be here, hiding behind a moon or something, for all we know.”

“It’s possible,” Matt agreed. “But if they were nearby, would they have stayed hidden and undetectable for a year? What, they’re sitting behind—” he paused, taking a moment to conjure up the name of any planet or moon in the solar system “—Neptune, not moving, not sending out ships, no radio transmissions, nothing? No: I don’t think they stayed.”

“The other possibility,” Fred went on, “is that they didn’t survive the process of leaving the solar system.”

“Yes, that’s possible, too,” Matt nodded. “That might imply technological limits… but they’d be acceptable limits, if they still allowed us to travel within the solar system. And maybe we’ll figure out a way past those limits. I mean… after centuries of dreaming about faster-than-light travel, now we know it’s actually possible. That’s got to be worth something to our scientists, just to know it can be done! And if one scientist can figure it out, so can another! We just have to figure out what Dr. Silver used to do it. We have detailed inventories of Verdant’s imports and equipment. We know it’s scalable from a single ship to an entire satellite. Smart scientists ought to be able to put those things together and figure out what she could piece together… it’s like a giant jigsaw puzzle, sure, but it’s a puzzle we know has a solution.”

Matt looked hard at Fred. “I want that solution. The world needs it… it may make the difference between our surviving this environmental crisis, or falling back into the stone age. Or, if we can’t recover this planet, we’ll need it to try to find a new world to live on. Whatever we have to do… we must get out there.”

Matt paused, and for just a moment, his eyes wandered towards the commissary ceiling, before focusing back onto his Chief of Staff. “Imagine if they’re up there… what incredible things could they be doing right now?”

2: Stress

Officer Martha Twan expected to see any number of things, as she raced around the support bulkhead and followed the noise of the crowd.

She didn’t expect to see rain.

She was so utterly shocked at the site that she was taken completely unawares when her foot came down on the wet floor at a full run and slipped out from under her. Martha suddenly found herself sailing across the corridor, her body rotating under its own momentum, her arms windmilling in a futile attempt to control her fall. She landed hard on her side, and slid unceremoniously along the soaked floor until she impacted with the far wall. For the most part, the crowd rioting in front of the sewage treatment station scarcely noticed.

“Oww!” She had landed on her baton, and her right hip burned in protest. She shook her head to clear it of the pain, and water flew in every direction from her now-unbound and already-saturated hair. Her attention was drawn to a sputtering and snapping at her hip: Her baton’s taser circuitry, which had been malfunctioning more and more in the last four months, was shorting from exposure to the water. Martha winced, as she could have used the taser against the crowd now, and she had waded into too many situations wondering whether or not it would let her down that day. With a final disappointing pop, the baton answered the question for her.

Blinking against the water, she struggled to her feet, favoring her right leg, and surveyed the chamber. The first thing she looked for was the source of the water: Someone had gotten lucky, probably with one of those makeshift slingshots the peacekeepers were always discovering these days, and had actually pierced an overhead pressurized line. The water blasting out of the hole was almost invisible at that speed, and was accompanied by a high-pitched squeal that was hard on the ears, but it quickly slowed and formed drops that cascaded over the area and soaked down everyone and everything in a twenty-meter radius. Martha took a cautious snif, but detected no obvious odor… thankfully, it must have been an outgoing water line.

The second thing she surveyed was the riot itself. To Martha, there were only three important facets to a riot: How many were involved; how high were the emotions of the crowd; and how armed were they. Fortunately, this was Verdant, and one thing you could always count on was that crowds were never that large. And other than those damned slingshots, and perhaps a few public-issue tasers, the crowd wasn’t likely to be that heavily armed.

That left emotions… and despite the impromptu rainshower, the crowd was undeniably ugly.

“You okay?”

Martha’s partner, Humboldt Trevich, came up behind her. Like her, his uniform was already soaked clean through from just a few seconds’ exposure to the geyser from overhead. “Backup’s around the corner.”

“Tell them to watch their step,” Martha replied, rubbing her hip for emphasis. Then she caught sight of activity on the far side of the crowd. “Come on!” she rapped, drew her baton, and charged forward. Humboldt, who had been about to signal their backup with Martha’s warning, released his mike and followed after her.

“Peacekeepers! Stand down! Back off!” Without a working taser, Martha had to bull through the crowd, in some cases managing to run directly into a clot of fighting residents, and knocking them forcibly apart as she passed. Considering her short and wiry Asian build, her facility at mowing down those who were significantly larger than herself was nothing short of impressive. “Stay down!” she’d bark after them, and keep going. Humboldt followed in her wake, shoving rioters aside when he needed more room for his larger body to pass.

As they approached the far end of the crowd, they could see energetic fighting along the wall and the entrance to the sewer processing station. Members of the crowd and employees or security guards at the station were having it out, no holds barred… some of them could really fight, and the impacts, grunting and swearing were enough to make a more sensitive person’s ears burn. Fortunately, the waterworks were making everything and everyone so slick that the fighters were having a hard time getting grips on each other, or even standing on the slick deck. A lot of the yelling and cursing were from people slipping and falling about, knocking others over and splashing water in others’ faces. In spots, the riot looked like something out of a comedy, flying water and pratfalls.

Martha largely ignored them. She had already zeroed in on a more important target: Someone at the station entrance gate, his back to the crowd, and who seemed to be frantically struggling to do something before she could reach him. She pointed at the more rowdy of the rioters, mostly for Humboldt’s benefit, and kept plowing toward the man at the station gate. She had to do a bit of work to get there, of course—an elbow here, the flat of the hand there, a trip or two—but she was rewarded with the other side of the crowd in excellent time.

She took advantage of a final surge of resistance by the crowd, and transferred that into enough forward momentum, to slam hard into the back of the man at the station entrance. “Oof!” he coughed, and flattened against the gate, his arms folding up in front of him. Martha saw a flash of metal between the man and the door… bolt cutters. She bounced off of the man, grabbed the back of his soaked shirt, and yanked him backward, around and down. Her knee was deep into his back the moment he hit the deck. The cutters had been wedged into the narrow access channel, almost far enough to have allowed them to cut the gate’s lock, until Martha’s impact forced him against the cutters and knocked them out of position; now out of the man’s hands, they went clattering to the deck.

“You’re under arrest, Gimpy!” Martha shouted above the crowd noise, unlimbering zipcuffs and securing his hands behind him as she spoke. Once his hands were secure, she lifted him to a sitting position and dragged him over to the gate. Then she used another set of zipcuffs to tie his ankle to the gate, while using her free foot to kick the metal cutters under the gate and out of reach of any other rioters. When she finally stood up, she said, “Feel free to gnaw your leg off while I’m gone, Gopher.” Then she ran off to help her partner and the station security men.

After ten minutes of breaking up fights, arresting individuals and finding inanimate objects to cuff them against, Martha eventually ended up simply tackling and hogtying the last of the rioters… then remaining on the ground, where she would simply trip the rioters from below and hogtie them. When the riot finally started to thin out and quiet, her partner looked down at Martha, sitting cross-legged on the floor, one elbow on her knee so her hand could prop up her head.

“Getting bored?” Humboldt asked with a smile. “I’ll be glad to find a better fight to pitch you into.”

“Maybe just a drier one,” Martha replied tiredly, throwing a nasty look at the still-gushing water line. Almost as if in response to her gaze, the shower of water suddenly began to thin out, the high-pitched keen dissipated, and the shower became a stream, then a drip. Someone had finally shut off flow to the line.

“About time.” She looked casually at an arrested rioter, lying on his stomach in front of her with his left wrist zipcuffed to his right ankle.

He glared coldly back at her, and shouted, “You can’t do this! We have a right to go home! We must go home! We must go home!”

The rest of the captive rioters quickly picked up the man’s chant, and began repeating it loudly. “We must go home! We must go home! We must go home!” Martha, unimpressed, slapped her hand on his ass with a wet smack, and used his soaked backside to lever herself to her feet while he protested nastily. She stretched her back to get the kinks out of it, and given her thin frame and relatively flat chest, she did not trouble herself that anyone would be ogling her through her soaked uniform as she did so. Finally, she walked around the hogtied rioters littering the ground, until she reached the one who had been trying to cut through the gate lock.

She knelt down until she was face to face with the man, who sat crookedly on the ground thanks to the awkward position she had left him in when she cuffed him. She wasn’t the kind to gloat, or to unnecessarily threaten, so she simply regarded him, and glanced at the bolt cutters she’d kicked out of his reach. “Who put you up to this?” she asked. When he didn’t respond, she added, “Are they here?” Again, no response. “What did you think you were going to do once you got inside? Were you planning to poison Verdant’s population?”

The man returned her gaze, but was clearly unwilling to speak. Martha didn’t bother to press the issue… she was tired. So she stood up and surveyed the area. There were at least three dozen people zipcuffed to nearby beams, against the gate fence, or hogtied to themselves. Their chanting had steadily died down, with no one nearby to inspire or impress, until it had become a background grumbling among the rioters. There had been scores more, but they’d fled when the peacekeepers and security personnel asserted themselves—despite the obvious intent to do infrastructure damage, most of them weren’t so intent that they were willing to get themselves locked up over it. Still, the more die-hard elements were growing in number, and Martha wasn’t sure where this bunch would end up serving their time… the lock-ups were pretty full already.

After a moment, Humboldt joined her, and surveyed the crowd with her. “Getting to be quite the nuisance, these Gophers, aren’t they?” Before she answered, he added, “Wagon’s on the way to pick them up. I think they’re bringing two of ‘em.”

“Why?” Martha shrugged. “They can just pile ‘em on top of each other.” She looked at Humboldt, and didn’t bother to hide her expression: As far as she was concerned, treating the rioters like so much cordwood wouldn’t be the worst thing she could imagine. Humboldt just grinned back at her without responding… then, a moment later, looked past her. Martha caught the motion, and turned to see what had caught his attention.

It was the EO, Reya Luis, coming up the corridor and staring about in dismay at the waterlogged scene. Martha wasn’t sure what had prompted Verdant’s Executive Officer to come down and see this—maybe the water leak had set off some extra alarms in CnC, maybe she was just passing through—but she was here, so Martha gave herself a quick shake to shuck off a bit more of the water from her uniform, and returned her fried baton to its holster. Reya saw her then, and approached her directly. Humboldt turned and left Martha’s side to assist in collecting rioters. When Reya reached her, Martha nodded and said, “Morning, Exec.”

“Morning, Martha,” Reya Luis replied, looking her up and down and not bothering to hide her sympathy. Reya was close to Martha’s height—which didn’t say much for either of them, as they were both petite in stature—but where Martha’s wiry build made her look like a wet cat in a peacekeeper uniform, Reya’s body nicely, though not extravagantly, filled out her executive staff uniform. And she was dry. After she regarded Martha, she looked around at the rioters. “Gophers again?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Martha replied. Martha and Reya actually knew each other on and off-duty, well enough to go by first names (Verdant was a big place, but most upper-level staff were at least acquainted with each other, especially due to the rigors of the last year), but in an official situation, they accepted formality and acted appropriately. Martha pointed to the rioter cuffed to the gate entrance. “Gimpy, there, had bolt cutters, and was close to getting the gate open when we got here.”

Reya nodded, suppressing a wry smile at the name Martha used—Gimpy Gopher was an old animated character from a child’s video series, around long enough to be fondly remembered by most adults—and looked up at the still-dripping water line. “Any idea who did that?”

“‘Fraid not,” Martha said. “It was going when I got here. Probably a slingshot did it.”

Reya reacted to that with a mixed expression, part incredulity, part disgust, part concern. “Everybody worries about pocket lasers and tasers… we end up fighting off the Gimpy Gopher brigade and kid’s toys. God, it’s been a long year.” She surveyed the crowd again. “Any sign of the leader?”

Martha shook her head. “But we may get lucky,” she said, motioning with her head to indicate the many zipcuffed rioters strewn about the area.

Reya looked at her dubiously. “Do you really believe that?”

After a moment, Martha smiled wryly and shook her head at her executive officer. So far, the Gopher movement had managed several protests, acts of civil disobedience, and now attempted vandalism, and not once had anyone been caught who could be considered the leader of the movement. Whoever they were, they were good at keeping a low profile.

After a moment, Reya finally nodded in indication that she had everything she needed to know. “As you were, then.” In a voice loud enough for the rest of the peacekeepers to hear, she added, “Finish up, then go get some dry clothes on, before you-all catch pneumonia!” Then she turned back to Martha and said, “Keep the faith, babe.”

“Doing the du, boss,” Martha replied. Reya turned and walked away, taking her time so as not to splash herself overmuch. Martha turned about and, along the way to help her fellow officers, deliberately kicked water at as many rioters as she passed.

~

“Where’s Dud?” Martha said loudly as she walked into her sector station. “Somebody find Dudley!”

Her yelling drew attention from many of the peacekeepers in the station… followed by additional attention directed at her and her partner, who still showed the effects of their being drenched at the riot site. Numerous shouts and laughter followed, and good-natured comments along the lines of: “So, you two showering together now?” “No, they swam here! Didn’t you hear Section 20 is under water?” “You guys been transferred to waterfront duty?”

The comments barely registered on Martha, and Humboldt likewise shrugged and grinned past them, as they proceeded on to the locker room. Along the way, Martha saw an officer come around the corner, and before he could join in on the laughter at her expense, she unlimbered her baton, switched on the taser, and quickly tossed it at his head. The officer caught the baton inches from his face, then recoiled at the sound of sizzling and popping.

“Went out on me again, in the middle of a riot, Dud!” Martha called at him impatiently. “Your guys get that thing fixed, or get me a new one, y’hear?”

The officer looked at the baton, then back to Martha. “No one told you to take it swimming! It’s not like I’ve got spares…”

Martha turned and leveled a finger at Dudley’s head as she walked past. “Every time that thing misfires, I’m gonna throw it at you harder and harder. Your choice,” she finished, and walked into the locker room before Dudley could respond.

Inside, she loudly slapped her hand on the lock sensor of her locker, creating a clang-a-lang-a-lang! that echoed through the room louder than she had intended. This served to cow Martha a bit, and she more calmly opened her locker and withdrew a fresh uniform. A few rows away, she could hear the much quieter sounds of Humboldt’s locker opening. She started to take off her soaked uniform, and used a towel to dry off her skin and underwear. “Y’know,” she said loudly enough for Humboldt to hear, “I don’t ask for much. A good job, serving my community. Competent, agreeable co-workers. The tools to do the job. And yes, an occasional head to crack when it needs cracking. Is that really too much to ask?”

It was a rhetorical question that Martha had asked herself, and others, far too often in the last few months. In return, she heard Humboldt give the same reply that had become an overused mantra in that time—in fact, as he spoke, she silently mouthed the words she knew he would say:

“We’re not over Kansas anymore.”

Martha narrowed her almond eyes and sighed deeply, but she did not respond. What was there to say? As overworked as the phrase was, it pretty well summed up Verdant’s situation, and the root of their problems, effectively. Being out of their orbital position with Earth—by a few thousand light-years, no less, and despite the Rios broadcasts, don’t ask her how that worked—had cut off their supply lines. No more could they depend on the gear and consumables that they used to ship up from Earth, whenever they needed it… now they had to find ways of fabricating things themselves, finding replacements, or doing without.

The rest of the satellite was dealing with the same shortages as the peacekeepers, of course, which made her job doubly frustrating. You’d think people would understand that we were all in this together. Yet, when stored items ran out, when there was not enough to go around, people tended to defer to the traditions of their ancestry, and started fighting over the scraps.

Even she was doing it… picking on Dudley, their equipment repairman, when she knew very well that he had no way to fabricate the optronic components needed to fix her baton, and had already torn apart every piece of optronics he could get his hands on to do what he could for the department. It wouldn’t surprise her to find out he was now prowling around at night, desperately looking for any control box, security scanner or loose gadget he could scavenge when no one was looking.

She was buttoning up when Humboldt came around the corner, himself still a few buttons short of finishing. “Got an assignment from Casch,” he said neutrally. “They need an escort from food processing. You ready?”

Martha closed her locker. “Soon as I find a spare baton.”

~

It was funny how much the simple appearance of a uniform could do. Despite there being only herself, Humboldt and two other peacekeepers, walking on each corner of a slow-moving freight pallet on its way to the markets, the residents they passed made no attempt to come near, no matter how much they clearly wanted to. In a way, Martha felt even more aggravated by this assignment than by the riot. At least the riot represented people with intense feeling, willing to put themselves at risk in order to further their agenda. Here, there were only people who eyed the passing pallet like starving rats, wishing for an opening that would allow them to sneak up, grab a few boxes of goods, and slink off into the shadows.

The worst part was, they were not starving… they didn’t have a reason to be hungry. There really was enough food to go around on Verdant, even if it wasn’t all the tastiest items that could be shipped from Earth. The aeroponics, hydroponics and traditional farms provided plenty of fruits, vegetables, legumes and tubers for the population; and the grown meat, while not Argentinean beef, was fine with a bit of creative preparation and seasoning. But since Verdant had moved, the residents had reacted to the lack of imported food as if it represented a serious shortage, and had taken to stealing and hoarding food whenever opportunities arose.

She glanced at some residents, her eyes connecting with a few of them directly. They stared back, their eyes reflecting a calculating docility. Rats. She actually couldn’t get that image out of her head. So she turned and directed her eyes straight ahead, concentrating on the slow march down the corridors to the transport line.

As they approached the entrance to the transport system, a man stepped out of the terminal and nodded in their direction. “Afternoon, peacekeepers. I’m Devan Fix, from the market.”

Martha stepped aside and waved him over to her, as she removed an ID verifier from her belt. The man obligingly ran his finger across the IDV sensor strip, and a moment later, the screen displayed Devan Fix’s face, name, ID number and position. It matched the ID she had been given at the stationhouse, their assigned escort to the market, so Martha nodded. “Nice to meet you. Are you ready to load?”

“The transport’s waiting,” Fix replied, and waved them on into the terminal. “Slot nine.” He fell in step with Martha as she followed the group into the terminal. After a moment, he looked down at her appraisingly, and smiled slightly. “Sorry to have to stick you with such a boring assignment, officer—?”

“Twan,” Martha replied, realizing a bit belatedly that he was simply trying to make small talk. In return, she grinned back and shrugged. “And that’s okay, it’s part of the job.”

“Who would’ve thought?” Fix said to her. “That we’d have to protect basic food stores, from our own people?”

Martha actually found herself using the words she had grown to dislike so much, though she tried to put a brave face on it: “We’re not over Kansas anymore.” Even Humboldt turned in mute reaction to her comment. Afterward, she wished she had said anything but that.

“Well, hopefully something will break,” Fix went on. “This is no way to run a satellite.”

The pallet automatically loaded itself onto the waiting transport, leaving enough room for Fix and the peacekeepers to step inside behind it. Fix entered the destination, and the transport closed and started along the track. They rode in silence at first, the peacekeepers mindful that they were hardly needed during this leg of the trip. But none of them seemed to indicate they preferred silence, and their open expressions prompted Fix to turn back to Martha, the only female of the peacekeepers on the transport. “I guess things are getting a bit tense with you guys lately, huh?”

Martha caught a knowing glance from Humboldt, before she looked up at Fix. “We’re keeping busy. But the majority of Verdant’s residents are managing to take our situation well.”

Fix cocked one eyebrow at her, in a way that looked to Martha to be forced and superficial… trying to impress her, and doing a bad job of it. Humboldt saw it, too, and knowing his partner, stifled a groan. “Situation… that’s a mild way of putting it. Ongoing crisis… forced exile… head in the sand… those are the phrases I more often hear about our… situation.”

“It’s not as bad as all that,” Martha said, hoping he wouldn’t intuit that she only half-believed her own words. “It’s a difficult stage we’re in… but not a crisis.”

“I’d very much like to see what you consider a crisis,” Fix stated.

Without a pause, Martha replied: “Tranquil.”

Fix returned her look, but did not respond. The satellite Tranquil had suffered serious damage from the attack on it, resulting in the death of the entire command staff, and structural damage that they assumed had caused further loss of life and forced an evacuation of the satellite’s population back to Earth.

Back down to life under the shadow of the caldera.

Verdant had left the confines of Earth mere days after the eruption, and no one had been back since… consequently, no one had an idea what state Tranquil was in… or Earth, for that matter. But it was assumed that their state was not good.

This seemed to take the flirtatiousness out of Fix, and he remained silent through the rest of the trip.

A group of offloaders were waiting at the market when they arrived, and as the peacekeepers stood watch, they made short work of transferring the food products to their closed containers and trundling off to their respective kiosks and eateries. Their finishing with the transport signaled the end of shift for Martha, Humboldt and the other two peacekeepers, who wasted no time bidding good-night and heading off on their own.

“Well… as long as I’m here,” Martha said, “might as well get some shopping done. See you tomorrow,” she waved to Humboldt.

“And you,” Humboldt returned, and after a moment, turned and walked casually back in the direction of the transport line.

They were relatively close to a vendor that Martha preferred, so she headed in that direction. The market was on Floor 16, which afforded a comprehensive view of the interior of Verdant from the market. It was easy for a resident to forget they were inside a giant space-borne satellite… except at the times when they could look out and see the vast curving cylinder, more than a kilometer in length, and the twenty terraced levels of residential, business, service and commercial suites and accessways, each cylindrical level rotating at differing rates to simulate a standard Earth gravity at most levels, increments of an Earth-Gee at a few, and zero-Gee at Floor Zero, the central column. Below, the open expanse of Floor 20 extended all the way to the southern end of the satellite, and was covered with an attractive mosaic of small and medium-sized buildings, greenspaces, farms and parks… like a picturesque rural town that had been somehow rolled up to meet itself, becoming its own sky. The terraces extended outward from the northern hub, at different lengths, so as to afford an unencumbered view from almost every terrace at some point of its rotation. Martha took in the expanse of Verdant’s interior as she meandered through the market.

Along her way, Martha examined much of the produce and merchandise of the other kiosks, and took careful note that most of the kiosks had smaller amounts of product, but very little empty shelf-space; despite the shortages inherent in their situation, they still had stock to sell. As she approached her vendor, she noticed a thin boy standing about near one of the shelves by the entrance. The proprietor was there, and was apparently aware of the boy, but was also busy with his own work. The boy had been showing interest in buying something, but not sure what to buy, so the proprietor had turned his back on the boy until he was ready. Martha could tell the boy was planning to use that moment to grab something and run.

Martha altered her approach, sidling up beside the boy quietly. When the boy noticed that someone was close by, his eyes came around while the rest of him tried to keep still and remain unnoticed. But he instantly realized he was staring at a peacekeeper, at which point his head followed his eyes around, and his entire body jerked as if plucked. Without making a further sound, he backed away from the produce he had been eyeing, stepped around Martha, and walked with a forced non-chalance out of the kiosk.

The proprietor finally looked up, saw the boy leaving, Martha watching him, and took in the situation in a glance. He smiled as Martha turned to him. “Officer Twan… I think I owe you a thanks for saving some of my stock.”

“Think nothing of it, Giotto,” Martha grinned back. “Glad to be of service. Do you have my usual order this week?”

“Mostly,” Giotto replied. “We had a run on grapes yesterday. I think our local winemakers are at it again,” he chuckled tolerantly. “I’ll get the rest.”

Giotto disappeared into the back, and Martha rummaged around to see if she’d find anything she wanted to add to her order. Orders were necessarily smaller nowadays, with the lesser availability of many products, so she often supplemented her usual order with something extra, mostly for Alix. He sometimes delighted in trying to think up inventive ways to prepare the miscellaneous items she would bring… almost as much as she delighted in pleasing him. If she picked well, it often meant a delightful evening all around.

As she shopped, her eyes happened to drift in the direction of a nearby café, where she and Alix had often stopped for lunch. At first idly reminiscing about how they’d first met, she slowly came to realize that she recognized someone in the café. Her eyes centered on Verdant’s COO, Aaron Hardy. The satellite’s Chief of Operations was seated at a table in a corner of the café, eating by himself. He seemed to be quietly absorbed in his eating, and paying no attention to his surroundings… at first. Then Martha noticed his eyes jump up to take in a woman who happened to pass his line of sight, hover for just a moment, then turn back to his food. A few moments later, he tossed out another furtive glance through the café, then back down.

Martha knew how to read that particularly male form of body language: Hardy was alone, and unhappy about it, but hoping no one else would notice. Martha, being female, had heard the talk about Hardy, poor man: Thanks to his subordinate, Dr. Silver, effectively snowballing him with false reports of experimental cargo technology, and leaving him looking foolish while she made good Verdant’s escape from Earth with technology he’d known nothing about—not to mention his losing the fairly public attention and favors of then-American-agent Kristine Fawkes to the CEO, Julian Lenz, during the crisis—he had been labeled “damaged goods” by just about every single female on the satellite. His position as third in command on the satellite used to mean at least a modest attention from the opposite sex, even given his increasing flabbiness, and distinct lack of any real sexual magnetism—now, there were those who couldn’t understand how he’d managed to keep his position, and the only women he spent time with were the ones he paid for in advance. And there seemed to be fewer and fewer of them lately, as well. Of the residents on Verdant, Martha imagined Aaron Hardy, one of the most powerful men on the satellite, was probably having less satisfaction with their present situation than most…

As she mused over the COO’s state, Giotto came out with a bag. “Here you go, officer.” Martha turned about, her thoughts of Aaron Hardy gone in an instant, and she accepted the bag of goods. “And here,” Giotto added, reaching past her and plucking a pear from the shelf that the boy had been hovering over. He tossed it in the bag, and smiled. “On me.”

“Thanks,” Martha said, and swiped her finger over the ID scanner Giotto held out to her. She waited until the cashier made its recorded ca-ching! noise, and turned to go. “See you later, Giotto!”

“Have a blessed evening, peacekeeper!” Giotto called back, pausing to watch her go for a moment before turning back to his work.

~

When Martha arrived at her flat, she could already smell dinner cooking. “Oh! Am I that late?”

A moment later, a man sidestepped out of the kitchen and looked out at her. Alix was a nice guy, with an attitude to life and a sense of humor that matched hers, average in looks, with a sexy body and hands that could get her screaming with ecstasy in minutes. He could even cook. He smiled back at her and said, “No, I started early. I wanted to put these beets to good use, and this recipe is slow.” She approached him, and slid a hand behind his neck as she drew him down and kissed him. Then she pulled back, reluctantly, and took her bag into the kitchen to put things away. As she did, Alix said, “I heard about a riot at an atmo station today. Were you there?”

“Uh-huh,” Martha replied. “I got in a week’s worth of showering in thirty seconds, too! It wasn’t much of a riot, though… Gophers may want to drive us back to Earth, but they’re not that dedicated to it, really. They scatter pretty easily.”

“Well, that’s nice to hear,” Alix smiled, and returned to the skillet on the range. “Mind you, if we manage to go back, I wouldn’t complain a bit… but I hope it won’t be because we can’t breathe, or all our water’s been expelled into space.”

“Hear, hear. Beets, huh?” Martha inhaled over the skillet. “Smells good. And how was your day?”

“Could’ve been better,” Alix replied matter-of-factly. “We still can’t crack our formula problem, and until we do, we can’t extend our growing capacity any further. It’s like a brick wall… I don’t know if we’re going to get past this one. And if we don’t… well, we may find ourselves going back to Earth just to get something to eat. Eventually,” he amended with a shrug.

“Well, keep at it,” Martha said, giving him a hug from behind. “I have faith in you.”

“Mmmm.” Alix turned around in her arms, until they were facing each other. “And I have love for you.”

They kissed again, held it, and after a moment, Alix started making amorous motions and putting his talented hands to work on her. It took all of Martha’s will to pull back from his mouth and say, “After the beets.”

Alix stopped pawing her, looked into her eyes and smiled. “Killjoy.”

“We’ll see if you still feel that way,” Martha cooed, “after dinner.”

~

Sex was sex, but foreplay was fun. Alix made it that way. He loved to chase her, to carry her, to stroke her, to knead her, to spank her, to nibble on her; duly encouraged by her squeezing, her biting, her gazing, her laughing and moaning. They were even accomplished rough-housers, though they never went as far as pain-dominance or bondage. They had attended an orgy once, invited by a couple who were trying to be a bit more experimentive… with the result of never being invited back to their flat again afterward. Foreplay was incredibly liberating for Martha and Alix, an appetizer much more important than even the main course.

Sex being the main course, naturally. When Martha and Alix finally settled down to good, old-fashioned sex, they actually quieted down a bit, and just let things happen. Martha loved the weight of Alex’s body over her, or his hands gripping her tightly as he moved rhythmically against her. She would let him move her around, posing her like a doll before resuming his efforts inside of her… he was insatiable, and she loved every minute of it.

But as Martha obligingly came about and allowed him to take her from behind, she was once again aware of a fleeting moment when something had… changed. It was subtle, barely noticeable, and at times she doubted her feelings herself; but of late, their sex had occasionally taken on a tiny alteration in tone. It was minutely more insistent. Clinging. Desperate. As if one or both of them was becoming afraid that something about this wouldn’t last—

And then the feeling was gone, as fast as it had appeared. At that moment, they were both reaching a climax, and Martha eagerly emptied her head and went with it. She came just seconds ahead of Alix, and they both cried out as they shuddered and released, finished, and collapsed sideways on the bed. Martha immediately twisted around and found his mouth, and they molded their bodies into each other as they used the last of their energy to seal the moment with a kiss.

Finally, Martha turned over, and allowed Alix’s arms to enfold her as she settled in to sleep. She barely remembered the quicksilver moment when things had been not-quite-right, and she was well past caring even if she had. She felt Alix’s incredible body against hers, and all was right with the world.

Inside this flat, at any rate. Outside of it… that was someone else’s problem.

~

Her morning’s assignment, the next day, was to watch over the repair crews at the sewage treatment station as they made repairs to the gate and the overhead water line. They had waited to get started until Martha and her peacekeeper team arrived, and as soon as pleasantries were exchanged, one work crew quickly erected a scaffold, climbed up and started removing roof panels to get at the damaged water line. Martha kept an exceptionally close eye on them as they worked overhead.

The repair crew at the gate busied themselves replacing some of the anchor posts that had been damaged by the rioters, especially around the gate, and replacing the gate lock itself, which the tool-wielding rioter had managed to damage to a small extent. They had brought along a replacement lock assembly, which was redesigned to shield the lock from future bolt cutter attacks. Martha had directed some of the other peacekeepers, who were more familiar with metalwork than she was, to monitor that crew to make sure the job was being done properly. It also meant that, if the crew at the water line messed something up, she’d be closer to the avenue of exit and could hopefully stay dry this time.

Martha noticed the confused voices and head-scratching from the water line crew, before they started to look around for someone in authority to speak to. Eventually, they saw Martha watching them, and one of the engineers came down from the scaffolding and approached her.

“That water line,” he explained, “wasn’t shot.”

Martha looked at him dubiously. “If you’re about to tell me that that line didn’t soak down me and everyone else in a thirty meter radius—”

“Oh, it failed, all right,” the engineer said. “But not from being shot at. The line failed at a connection seam… a bad join.” He turned and pointed, as if he could show Martha the exact spot from that distance. “The weld was fatigued there, see? So when pressure built up, it popped.”

“Pressure? You mean extra pressure?”

“Yeah.” He brought a pad up and showed her the figures on the screen. “According to this, the regulator about fifty meters along—” and he pointed again, at a section of bulkhead in the other direction “—closed and created a pressure backup. That caused the failure at the seam.”

“So,” Martha prompted, “when it stopped leaking later?”

“The regulator opened back up. See, it’s here.” He pointed to the figures on the screen.

“Uh-huh,” Martha said. “So, someone happened to figure out that closing and opening that particular regulator would soak down this spot where the Gophers were rioting?”

The engineer looked at her queerly, before responding, “No one closed and opened the regulator.” Martha’s face screwed up, and just before she started to contradict him, he added, “It’s an automatic system. It’s controlled by the GLIS. There’s no manual control for it.”

Martha regarded the engineer in silence for a few moments, alternatively looking at him and his pad. Finally she asked, “What’s your name?”

“Tabby Holiday.”

Martha did a double-take at the name, but did not address it. “Tabby, you need to give this report to Coo Hardy as soon as you can, understand?”

“Sure, I can do that,” Tabby replied. “I need to get a few more details, first.”

“Do that,” Martha told him. “Then talk to Hardy.” He hurried back to the scaffolding, leaving Martha to glance at the spot where the line had failed… then at the surrounding walls of the section, as if she expected them to start moving or signaling with the overhead lights. To herself, she muttered, “I hate this ‘ghost in the machine’ crap…”

At eleven hundred, Martha turned at the sound of voices approaching the station. A number of suits were heading in their direction… they looked either like engineers, or administrators. As they came closer, Martha realized they were being led by Aaron Hardy. They talked among themselves as they approached, only occasionally looking about as if they actually cared about the work being done… which told her they were certainly administrators.

Tabby saw the group coming as well, and climbed down from his scaffolding to give Aaron his report. The group paused close to Martha when Tabby approached Aaron, then moved on as Aaron listened to the report. Martha was close enough to be able to tell that Tabby had little to add for Aaron that he hadn’t already told her… and that Aaron Hardy seemed as perplexed as she had been.

Finally Tabby was done with his report, and headed back to work. Aaron, still standing there, glanced about and noticed Martha nearby. “Morning, officer,” he said amiably. “How are things going here?”

“The work is progressing, sir,” Martha replied easily, aware that she really wouldn’t know how well it was progressing. “If you need details, I think the guy on the left, over there, is the foreman. No one seems to be bothering us, though.”

“Good, good,” Aaron nodded, taking in the repair work with a glance. Then he noticed Martha’s nameplate. “Oh—you’re Martha Twan. You were on-scene at the riot.”

So, he read and remembered his daily reports… obviously isn’t as dim as the girls say. “Yes, sir, I was.”

“Good work, officer.” As the other suits seemed to be paying most of their attention to the repair work being done, or to themselves, Aaron moved closer to Martha and lowered his voice somewhat. “Tell me, what is your assessment of the severity of the Gopher problem, based on what you saw yesterday?”

Martha did not speak instantly, but took a moment to survey the scene while she collected her thoughts. “I wouldn’t call most of them ‘dedicated to a cause,’ sir. Considering the way the group was so easily scattered, I’d characterize most of them as frustrated into trouble-making. Probably people whose lives have been seriously disrupted by our present situation—”

“I’m sure that describes literally everyone on Verdant,” Aaron pointed out casually.

“Yes, sir,” Martha nodded. “But some people handle adversity… better than others. And for those who don’t handle it so well, there always seem to be places for them to go where someone will induce them to stir up trouble, or at least non-constructive activity. That makes up the majority of the Gophers, in my opinion.”

Aaron caught the meaning behind her words. “And the minority?”

Martha paused again, aware that she was getting into more subjective grounds here, but she plowed ahead anyway. “These people aren’t just spraying graffiti on public walls and staging harmless protests. The Gophers have attacked six infrastructure facilities so far, each of them capable of dealing a serious blow to satellite sustainability over time if they had been damaged. Even if the attacks themselves were ineffective, it shows their leadership knows where to strike. And if nothing else, they are succeeding to make a point. Two, actually.”

“Which are?”

“One, that we can’t ignore them; and two, that we are living on a precarious edge, environment-wise, and it won’t take much to push us over the edge… whereupon, we’d have to go back to Earth, just like they want us to.”

Aaron nodded. “Well,” he said, “there might still be other alternatives… but I agree, the seeds have been planted. So: What do you think their chances of success are?”

“Depends,” Martha replied. “On one hand, odds are that if they keep it up long enough, they’ll manage to hit a vital spot. On the other hand, we could do more to lock down station security, and make it harder for them to act in the first place.” After a minute pause, she added, “And there are other options.”

“Such as?” Aaron asked.

When Martha looked up at Aaron, her demeanor was less of a confident, independent professional and more as a hopeful subordinate. “Maybe we should risk contacting Earth, sir,” Martha replied quietly. “To see if we can re-establish relations and trade somehow.”

Aaron nodded lightly. In an equally low voice, he told her by way of assurance, “That’s been suggested by others, as well.” He seemed to be about to say something else, but at that moment he noted the activity between the suits and the workers by the gate, and apparently decided he needed to be part of it. To Martha, he said, “Thank you, officer… excuse me.”

“Of course, sir,” Martha replied as he walked off. She watched from her post as he injected himself efficiently into the discussion and took charge, answering questions, making sure the workers continued their work. It occurred to her that, at that moment, there was certainly no sign of the man she saw in the corner of a café the day before, brooding over his solitary existence. Despite his personal issues, he was still on top of it. In the midst of all the problems beset by Verdant’s situation, at least it was comforting to know that the COO was one of those people who managed to handle adversity better than most.

3: Encouragement

Command and Control was relatively quiet and still. At that moment, the background noises of the various monitors, and the background chatter that tended to fill myriad channels, were the only things making a sound. The people in CnC were silent, waiting, watching.

Ceo Julian Lenz had one eye on his command staff as he waited by the display column. He made an effort to project patience and alertness to the staff… though, given his position as Chief Executive Officer, ultimately responsible for everything that happened on Verdant, he naturally felt more alert than patient. But he didn’t want his staff to think he did not have full confidence in his people, here in CnC, and outside of Verdant on what he still had trouble accepting as a “routine” mission.

The other eye watched the display column at the command station. While the staff had immediate view of the specific readings of their stations, the command station consolidated all of it in a comprehensive and flexible three-dimensional display that hovered in the center of the station-to-ceiling display column. At the moment, many of the CnC monitors and systems were focused on a single nearby region of space, decidedly empty and quiet, waiting for something to happen.

The majority of the stations, however, continued to monitor and control the rest of the goings-on within Verdant. Despite their current situation, Verdant was still an independent city-satellite, with residents, workers, life support systems, supply and demand needs, power distribution systems, recycling systems, food production facilities, transit lines, banks, law enforcement… in short, the same issues as any city on Earth. They needed to be tended, twenty-four hours a day, by the people in CnC, and Julian’s staff was dedicated to their jobs. Yet, Julian noted that at any opportunity for a break, any lull in activity, the staffers would also turn their attention to the monitoring of the activity outside the satellite.

Julian happened to glance back at the column just in time to catch the event they’d been anticipating; another second, and he would have missed it. With no warning or preamble, a spherical object appeared in the empty space a few kilometers away from the satellite. A few monitors registered alert sounds to mark the moment, and in the display column, animated icons surrounded the sphere and highlighted it.

There was a barely perceptible sigh of relief in CnC in general. Julian concealed his relief as well, though he permitted a slight smile to cross his features. At once, the staff began to move and speak normally, and resumed their duties. The man at the communications console was first to speak aloud: “Sir, I have a standard status query from the probe. It reports green at the other end.”

More smiles of relief around the room. It was only natural; the probe had come a long way, and it was good to hear its senders were okay. “Good,” Julian replied, nodding in satisfaction. “Send our green signal, Geoff.” He turned back to the display column as the communications officer sent the requisite signal to the probe. Within seconds, the probe vanished as if it had never existed. The animated icons reacted to the disappearance of the probe in their preprogrammed way, registering its disappearance and pausing, not straining systems in an attempt to determine what had happened to the probe, or where it had gone. No monitor systems on Verdant were capable of following the probes or determining their status, though the science staff still had hopes that they could find a way to do so in the near future.

Julian happened to glance down at one of the technicians, and realized she was speaking to herself, silently, her eyes focused in the general direction of the ceiling. Julian had noticed that a few of his people had gotten into the habit of offering silent prayers as the freighters came and went; he considered it unsurprising, considering that few of them had a real idea how the freighters came and went at all. The staffer finished her silent prayer, and at that moment, noticed that Julian was looking at her. She returned his gaze, and Julian could see in her eyes that she wasn’t sure if her religious leanings were welcome in CnC.

In response, Julian shrugged and smiled. “I’ll take all the help we can get.”

Nearby, Reya Luis walked slowly among the workstations, casually monitoring everyone’s work. Reya’s petite stature made Julian look like a giant in comparison, whenever they passed close to each other; Julian’s fairly burly size, though it had slimmed down noticeably in the past year, still left him towering over his EO. She glanced Julian’s way, and they exchanged professional smiles in satisfaction of the efficiency of their charges. Then the EO returned to monitoring the technicians as they worked.

Again, they waited, watching the same spot, but with noticeably less apprehension than moments before. They didn’t have to wait long before their monitors registered the sudden but expected appearance of a Cetacean class freighter, in exactly the position occupied by the much smaller probe moments before. Again, monitors and icons registered the presence of the ship, and scanners gave it a standard once-over as it began to swing in their direction.

A moment later, the speakers in CnC activated, and everyone instinctively craned their heads back to listen to the voice from above: “Verdant, this is the Maybelle, reporting in.” The com officer opened a response channel, and nodded at Julian.

“Welcome home, Maybelle,” Julian responded. “What’s your status?”

“We’re in the green, Verdant,” the voice responded. “Mission completed. Requesting docking assignment.”

Julian turned to another staffer, who consulted her board and opened a mike at her station. “Maybelle, we have slot A-29 waiting for you.”

“A-29, confirmed, thank you. See you inside.”

As the freighter began to advance towards Verdant’s hull, a new voice spoke up from the overhead speaker. “Remote scan of Maybelle indicates no surface anomalies or hazardous radiation levels.”

“Thank you, GLIS,” Julian nodded, and threw a glance at the ceiling-mounted sensor cluster that represented the eyes and ears of the Governing Logistics Intelligence System. Only briefly, he held his glance, considering the issue of the GLIS’ unusual past performance… but his reverie was broken by Aaron Hardy’s voice. He was standing by one of the workstations, looking over the technician’s shoulder.

“Telemetry from the Maybelle is coming in,” Aaron reported, as he watched the readouts on the station’s screens. Other officers and techs watched Aaron, and Julian noted how many of the expressions barely concealed a lack of respect in the satellite’s COO… an attitude that didn’t seem to affect performance in CnC—yet—but which couldn’t be doing anything good for morale. Aaron’s professional and personal reputations had taken a serious hit by the events surrounding their exodus from Earth, and Julian worried that if things got worse, he’d have to replace Aaron, just to maintain efficient operations on Verdant. Problem with that idea was that there weren’t too many people on Verdant even remotely qualified to take over Aaron’s duties… and it wasn’t as if they could petition the U.N. for candidates…

As Aaron watched the screens, his brow furrowed slightly. Finally he raised his head and reported, “No neodymium.”

Reya looked over to Aaron. “None? What happened? They said they’d be able to bring back a few tons.” She started towards the workstation. “Double-check that.”

“I know how to read it, thank you,” Aaron retorted icily. When Reya reached his side, he pointed at a set of figures on one of the screens. “What does that say?”

Reya obligingly looked at the screen, then looked at Aaron. She said aloud, for Julian’s ears as well as Aaron’s, “No neodymium.” Even from across the room, Julian could see the look of acceptance in Reya’s eyes… but if there was a hint of apology in there, it was fleeting. Reya’s opinion of Aaron had slipped in the last year as well, and given her reactive, no-nonsense nature, she did not manage to hide it well.

Julian sighed, not bothering to hide his disappointment. “Let’s go meet the Maybelle,” he said. “Come on, Aaron. Reya, hold the fort.”

“Against what?” Reya asked facetiously, and allowed them to go without pestering them for an answer.

~

Julian didn’t exactly dread walking through Verdant’s corridors these days, but at the same time, he didn’t look forward to it. As he and Aaron proceeded down to the large freighter bays, they were constantly accosted by staffers and residents with questions. Most of them knew by now not to try to stop Julian’s forward progress, so they usually fell in step with them and tried to ask their questions on-the-run. The questions ran the gamut, everything from the status of various fabrication projects, designed to replace some piece of machinery they could no longer get from Earth, to whether he personally was doing anything about the “Lima bean crisis.”

His answers had become stock: “Hopefully soon.” “I don’t know.” “Speak to the appropriate department.” “We’re working on it.” “I doubt it.”

When they reached a lift which was refreshingly empty, Julian sagged against the back wall. “God… what I wouldn’t give to be able to walk five meters without being bothered by all these questions. Maybe I should wear earplugs and put a sign around my neck that says, ‘Don’t ask me’.”

“I know what you mean,” Aaron said sympathetically. “It never stops, now. I’d hoped that neodymium deposit would work out… that, at least, would have answered a few of those questions…” He didn’t bother to finish the statement. Neodymium was a rare-earth metal useful for electric motors and optronic devices, and they had a laundry-list of optronics and light-to-heavy equipment in the fabrication plants and factories that needed the element to be finished or repaired. They had been cannibalizing other devices to get at it, but their supply was very low. Preliminary scans of neodymium in the asteroid field surrounding the 55 Canri system were among the chief reasons they had come to 55 Canri. Returning with nothing was more than disappointing.

“And now,” Aaron added, “the GLIS has pulled another surprise on us.” Seeing Julian’s curious glance, he went on. “The Gopher riot was apparently cooled off, literally, by the GLIS’ popping of a water line seam to drench the area, which it cut off once the riot was quelled by peacekeepers.”

“Are you serious?” Julian goggled at Aaron in amazement. Julian had had Aaron’s staff look into the Governing Logistics Intelligence System’s recent demonstrations of “unexpected initiative,” which had started after their first translation to Mars orbit and the blackouts and malfunctions exhibited by most optronic systems during the incident. It had started in a small way, by operating systems which were supposed to be manually operated by staff… and in every case, proving to be beneficial about its actions and timing. One inattentive hull worker’s life was saved, apparently, by the GLIS’ opening a roof vent, a loud mechanical affair that brought the worker’s attention up and to the cargo boom that was about to strike his head a blow that would have surely killed him.

Then had come somewhat less subtle events—like the diverting of supplies from one department, to prevent their using up a vital element that had recently become scarce on the satellite. Or, more accurately, was about to become scarce, when the freighter sent out to retrieve some of the element at Fomalhaut had come up dry, but its captain had not had time to file his report. Fortunately, that captain had radioed CnC of his failure, and apparently that had been enough to prompt the GLIS to independent action.

After months of investigation, all that the teams had discovered were sectors of the GLIS that had apparently had its programming data “shuffled,” or altered, in ways that seemed to streamline some internal processes and mysteriously alter others. Unfortunately, there was no sign of how it had been done, who or what (if anyone or anything) had done it, or if the result was essentially good or bad. The “if anything” had been suggested by Aaron, who postulated that the GLIS had somehow gained an unexpected ability to rewrite its own core code, possibly triggered by the unexpected chaos of translation.

“Maybe it was severely disoriented—as were the rest of the systems—and it took measures to recover itself that weren’t known to be within its operational ability,” he’d said at the time. And considering how severely disoriented everything else had been when they first translated to Martian orbit, Julian could well believe it. But the matter hadn’t really been resolved, as they still didn’t know the extent of the GLIS’ alteration, nor how it had reacted to subsequent activations of the Verdant Drive (it had never gone down so completely as it had after that first translation, but no one was sure how significant that was, either).

The fact that the GLIS’ newfound insights always seemed to have been beneficial to Verdant in the last year, had removed much of the concern over the issue. But strictly speaking, they were all outside of the GLIS’ programmed parameters. And Julian still reacted with a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach every time the GLIS acted out of character. What would happen the first time it acted, and it didn’t benefit Verdant?

Julian and Aaron didn’t need to speak further on this subject, either: Aaron knew he had standing orders to figure out what was happening with the GLIS, and he was still on it.

Stepping out of the lift into the freighter level renewed the barrage of personnel’s questions as they proceeded, with the same stock answers. But as they approached the Maybelle, the attention gradually shifted from them to the freighter; work crews were standing about near the transfer control bays, arguing and gesticulating, but not handling any cargo. As Julian and Aaron reached the access tubes to the Maybelle, Julian waved away the last of the questions, and asked a crewman standing nearby, “What’s going on?”

The crewman turned abruptly, preparing for an argument… but when he saw his CEO and COO standing there, his demeanor cooled instantly. “The freighter isn’t releasing the cargo, Ceo…” his explanation was drowned out by other crewmen, still arguing amongst themselves, and who were apparently upset that their day was being inordinately extended by this unexpected delay. The crewman before Julian and Aaron looked at them sheepishly, unable to say more.

Julian nodded impatiently. “Where’s Captain Hikara?” The crewman could only shrug and hook a thumb at the nearest access tube into the freighter, so Julian and Aaron boarded the freighter and headed amidships.

They found a small knot of people at the control bulkhead for the bulk transfer systems, crowded around two men who were wrestling with a large control lever. Apparently, the lever was frozen in position, and the men were arguing over how to fix it, and what got it stuck in the first place. Abruptly, the lever came loose and rotated downward, followed by a sudden spray of a dark liquid at its base. Men rushed forward to staunch the flow with rags and tools, while others held the lever in place. This, Julian reflected, was becoming more and more common as freighters were forced by circumstances to work beyond their specified maintenance schedules, and as proper repair materials were becoming harder and harder to obtain or fabricate.

Finally the group seemed to get the leak under control, and began calming down as they worked to repair the lever. One crewman happened to notice Julian and Aaron over his shoulder, and caught the eye of another man standing nearby. The other man turned around and saw the CEO and COO, nodded, and slapped the man on the shoulder, before leaving the group at the lever.

“Morning, sirs,” he said as he approached. Captain Hikara was a compact man, short and wide, with arms like hawsers and hair cut short, standing erect like brush bristles on the top of his head. He extracted a rag from a back pocket and wiped his hands before offering his right to Julian.

“Morning, Captain,” Julian returned, and shook his hand. “Problems here?”

In response, Hikara rocked his head back at the control bulkhead. “Those refurbished valve control servos… I dunno what old rust-bucket they were pulled off of, but it was a bad refit to begin with, and now they barely work worth a damn.”

“We make do with what’s available,” Aaron stated simply. This earned him a veiled look of scorn from Captain Hikara, but otherwise he did not reply.

Julian ignored the exchange, and got to the point. “Seems you didn’t manage to bring back any neodymium. What happened?”

“I think we were misled by the scan reports, Ceo,” Hikara stated plainly, shaking his head. “Martin, our geologist, thought the surface traces indicated neodymium throughout the structure of the asteroids… at least, he said that’s the conclusion he would’ve drawn at home. But when we cracked ‘em, we realized it was all just a dusting on the surface. We cracked twenty-five rocks out there… all the same.” He shrugged in apology. “I’m not saying there’s none out there… after all, they got that surface dust from something. But we haven’t found it.”

He nodded over his shoulder at the bulk transfer bulkhead. “Did get you some tellurium for the photocell boys, though… and even a trace of phosphorus. That don’t hurt.”

“Yeah, we can use those,” Aaron confirmed.

“We’ll want to see your geologist’s logs, Captain,” Julian said. “Hopefully they’ll help us figure out where we went wrong.”

“Sure, Ceo,” Hikara replied. “I’ll go get ‘em together for you now.”

Hikara stepped around them and headed forward, leaving Julian and Aaron to watch the crew at the transfer controls a moment. After a moment, Aaron said, “Bad break. Might have been a single neodymium-rich rock that was shattered at some point. Probably a collision with another rock. Maybe we can figure out a way to… I dunno, scrape the asteroids’ surfaces for the dust, and purify it here. But I’ll bet there are larger pieces out here somewhere. We just have to look farther out.” He shrugged. “Nothing stopping us from doing that, fortunately.”

At that moment, there was a loud noise from the transfer controls. A piece of the control machinery popped off and thumped a crewman in the chest, and a spray of liquid immediately followed, catching half of those around it with the dark fluid. Crewmen jumped and cursed to staunch the flow, as Julian and Aaron watched.

“Nothing yet,” Julian amended, as he turned to leave the freighter.

~

One by one, on schedule, the other freighters returned to Verdant from their prospecting missions. Asteroid fields could be rich sources of minerals, as Verdant had discovered upon their first appearance at Fomalhaut a year ago. Once they had accepted that they would have to fend for themselves, the Verdant staff had immediately dusted off speculative plans developed for mining the Solar System’s asteroid belt, which had been archived for such a time as travel to the orbits beyond Mars became practical for heavy freighters. Using those as a guideline, they had set upon establishing procedures to find the resources they needed, and harvest them with the many freighters and other craft that had been aboard when they escaped Earth. The science departments had assisted them in identifying likely locations to prospect, thanks to their new probes, capable of “translating” to a new system, taking scans and returning to Verdant, and by the interpretation of more traditional telescope and long-range sensor readings. They had started at Fomalhaut, after establishing that the Earth-analog planet predicted by scientists centuries ago had turned out to be lifeless and devoid of any but the most basic minerals… then they moved onto another system that had been identified to be similar to Sol’s system, including a planet in the habitable zone. Each freighter had its own assignment in various zones of the local asteroid fields orbiting 55 Canri, and most of them brought back at least a modicum of what they were sent after.

But the loss of the expected supply of neodymium turned out to be the bad note that soured the rest of the day for Julian. Once word was out that there was no new neodymium, CnC was besieged by the fabricators that had been waiting for that element to allow them to finish backlogged projects… as well as department heads demanding their overdue projects be delivered before some irreversible calamity befell their work, and by extension, all of Verdant. Early on, Julian actively participated in reasoning with people and quelling tempers; but as the day wore on, he deferred to Aaron to salve the complaints, or he simply pointed Reya at them, and let her chase them away (giving him some vicarious satisfaction, at the very least).

When, finally, Julian knew he could leave CnC and not expect to be needed again until morning, he didn’t delay; he handed off command, and exited the main control room at his first opportunity, mumbling in response to the “good-nights” that were offered to him.

He deliberately chose a route home that would avoid the maximum of people. Those he did encounter were dismissed with polite but minimal comments, and a final glance to tell them that he was tired and trying to go home. In truth, Julian hated to give anyone that impression. But over the last few months, a feel of oppression had begun to cast a pall over Verdant, a pall he often felt he could not escape. He passed a few open areas, some of which afforded him a grand view of the inside of Verdant: Its many terraces and balconies, arranged in a staggered pattern that allowed for generous views of the interior from almost any location; the open floor of the cylindrical satellite, dotted with buildings, parks and agricultural plots, and of course enclosing the vast and slightly cloud-wisped atmosphere that the residents of the satellite depended on; and the hilled areas of the far side of the satellite, the “south” region, which terminated in the main power and bulk storage systems. But today, as most days lately, Julian was in no mood to enjoy that sweeping vista, or even afford it a moment’s glance.

He came around the corner preceding his flat, and blinked when he found a crowd by his door. His first thought was that some irate group was lying in wait for him, ready to launch another barrage of complaints—but a moment later, realized that it was only a cleaning crew at work on the wall adjacent to the door. He glanced over at the wall, and saw that it was smeared with hastily-painted graffiti that read: “We must go home!”

The trademark slogan of the Gophers… he actually groaned subvocally when he saw it, a sound which emanated as a low growl from his chest, and which was heard clearly by the workers, who stopped and stared at him. Perhaps more than anything else, the Gopher movement infuriated him the most: With all the effort he and his people put into preserving their lives and safety, the Gophers actually worked to sabotage their life support systems, jeopardizing people’s lives, and trying to force them to return to a planet that no one had seen in a year… for all they knew, a planet that might have devolved into complete and utter chaos, wars over remaining resources, and either lava-covered or radioactive nightmares, take your pick…

Julian mentally pushed the thoughts away… they were not contributing positively to his mood. They didn’t know Earth’s status… there was no point in speculating about it, nor in assuming the worst. All they knew is that they had been attacked when they left—twice—and they had no reason to assume they would not be attacked again when they returned.

Glancing impassively at the cleaning crew, he stepped around them and reached the door. A finger swiped over the lock slot opened the door, and he stepped inside, closing the door deliberately behind him. He sagged against the door, thankful to be safe inside his home once again.

“Oh, dear… I’d hoped the cleaning crew would have been finished and gone before you got home.”

Julian looked up and beheld what was, no doubt, literally the best single thing he’d seen all day. It was an angel, a living angel, who glided towards him with a calming, promising, almost worshipful smile on her face. Her tall, strong figure, a rich light-tropical skin tone and fine Egyptian features, combined with a polished, nigh-regal bearing, almost made Julian feel as if he was in the presence of the Queen Nefertiti herself.

Kristine Fawkes pushed close, laid her hands gently on Julian’s shoulders, and kissed him warmly. Julian took her in his arms gratefully, returning the kiss with as much energy as he could muster. When their lips finally parted, Kris looked at Julian and said, “Should I ask how your day went?”

Julian, in turn, looked her up and down, sighed, and said, “What day?” Then he pulled her to him again, and allowed her lips to finish searing away the remainder of his ill-temper and frustration. Finally they pulled apart again, and Julian took a deep breath, and smiled. “Good to be home.”

Kris smiled. “I’ll get you something to drink.” She turned and headed for the kitchen, Julian following her. “I’m sorry you had to see the graffiti… it’s partially my fault.”

“Your fault?” Julian repeated. “How’s that?”

“Oh, I heard something outside, around lunchtime, but I was busy, and didn’t look into it, and I forgot straight away,” Kris explained. She reached into a cupboard and extracted a bottle and a glass, then turned to fetch some ice from the icemaker. “I went out later to shop, and there it was. If I’d come out and seen it sooner, I could have had the crews clean it off and be gone by now.”

“Ah,” Julian nodded, watching her pour the clear liquid into the glass… the liquid danced across the ice, but it did not splash overmuch. “I thought maybe you’d gone out and pissed off a Gopher personally.”

Kris chuckled. “If I did that, they’d be more likely to throw their paint on me.” She turned and held out his drink.

“Not if they knew what was good for them,” Julian said as he took the drink from her hands. He saluted her, and took a sip… yes, it was the potato vodka, one of the few local alcohols that he could stand to drink. “So,” he said after he let the vodka slide warmly down his throat, “other than petty vandalism, how was the rest of your day?”

“Oh, fine,” Kris replied, as she began to remove things from the cooler and place them on the counter. “I spent some time consulting with the Tannenbaum Group today… they’re planning to try a new teaching algorithm that tracks student retention in realtime.”

“I remember,” Julian said. Kris had mentioned in the past the group’s interest in her unique skill at reading people, a talent that the United States government had tried to put to good use by deploying her against Verdant’s staff after the Yellowstone Caldera blew. Her ability to see past deception, to read between the lines of someone’s words, to interpret body language, and to recognize the intent behind the eyes, seemed uncannily close to telepathy at times—in fact, not a few people, including Reya Luis in her less-than-sober moments, had gone on record as honestly believing she really could read minds. Unfortunately for the U.S., Kris was better at her job than they realized… and it hadn’t taken her long to read both sides of the situation and decide which side she’d rather be working for. Their whirlwind romance, begun in the midst of the crisis, had resulted in their getting married a month later. Remembering the times she’d applied her innate skills on him, Julian could well imagine how those skills might be applied to students. “I pity the child whose attention wavers under your supernatural powers.”

“Ha!” Kris began to assemble various vegetables on a cutting board, and went to work slicing them and dropping them into a skillet. “Supernatural, am I? If only I could say a few mystic incantations, and make dinner cook itself.”

“If you said the right thing,” Julian told her, “you could get half the men on this station to cook it for you.”

“Flatterer!” Kris laughed again and pushed him towards a chair. “Now sit and relax while I do my magic.” As Julian obediently took a seat, Kris made small-talk while she prepared dinner… nothing vital or important, all calculated to help Julian come down from the pressures of his day. Kris could honestly say it was her greatest wish to see Julian happy and content: Of all the people she’d known in her life, he had turned out to be the most noble, most pure, and most deserving of happiness and the devotion of others; and he possessed a powerful masculine quality that, to her, glowed like a visible aura when he was put in the right mood, and, as it turned out, she could not resist.

With the exodus from Earth and the cessation of her duties as diplomat, Kris had had no regular work to do. Eventually she found outlets for her skills as a reader, and often contracted herself out for one group or another. But she made sure that whatever work she had never interfered with what she considered her greater duty, which was to preserve the morale, focus and good humor of the Chief Executive Officer of Verdant, a job she knew she could do better than anyone else on the satellite… which helped the satellite as a whole to function better… and which had personal fringe benefits of its own, after all. So she worked her “magic” on him, and as she did, she watched him slowly recover from the rigors of the day, and bit by bit, regain his center.

Dinner—even for the Ceo of Verdant—was simple, a small amount of grown meat and some sautéed vegetables. But Kris had a touch with food, as well, and Julian couldn’t recall a bad meal she had ever made (though he’d confessed jokingly on occasion that she probably had it in her power to make him forget the bad meals outright). After dinner, they sat in the living room and chatted lightly for awhile… until the pressures of the day finally gave way to the pressures of romance, and they found themselves drifting to the bedroom.

Kris was delighted to see that she had properly managed to restore her man’s sense of self and confidence; it would not be long before she would get her own reward.

~

“I swear, I don’t know how he keeps from blowing a fuse, every single day.” Reya Luis paused to take a sip of wine. “The things he puts up with, the nonsense… ‘Where are my replacement gaskets?’… ‘Why can’t we take what we need from someone else?’… ‘When are the Lima beans going to grow back?’…”

Lemuel Carter laughed at her forced whine as she recounted the insanities of her day. He loved listening to Reya, even when she was complaining about a day in CnC, because he could tell from her voice that she wasn’t really bothered by any of it. Somehow, it all rolled off her back… or, maybe, her natural Latin fire simply burned it off.

“…but somehow,” Reya continued, “he comes back every morning, ready to take on the day as if nothing happened. The man is incredible, verdad. I hope nothing ever, ever happens to Jules… I couldn’t do his job.”

“I’ll bet you could,” Lem smiled, and took a sip of wine.

“Never,” Reya said. “I’d be keel-hauling people within a week. Ten days, tops.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Lem replied. “I know exactly what you’d do: You’d take us back to Earth, throw all of them out the nearest hatch, and tell ‘em they were on their own!”

Reya laughed at first… then seemed to consider the suggestion. “Now, why didn’t I think of that? And I can think of a few people to toss, right off the top of my head…”

“Down, girl.” Lem rolled his eyes and took another bite of his casserole. “I had a crew come by the liner today, and take out the port landing gear servos. I suppose that means the boys didn’t bring back any of that neodymium today, huh?”

Reya’s face sobered. “Not a gram. Sensors fooled us into thinking there was tons of it out there… turned out to be just dusted on the surface. They think there might still be some out there, though.” She looked at him sympathetically. “Anything left of that ship of yours?”

“You kidding? Can’t even play a good game of hide and seek in there, now.”

Lem shrugged good-naturedly, but Reya said, “Sorry,” anyway. Lem was the captain of a luxury liner that had been among the first ships to be slowly cannibalized for parts and materials for the more vital freighters and other systems. She still thought fondly of the night Lem had lured her into one of the liner’s cabins, and had given her a romantic night she would never forget—the night that inevitably led to their marriage, three months later—and it saddened her to think of their first lovenest being dismantled to provide some freighter with a working commode, or to supply a researcher with a fresh batch of ball bearings. “I don’t think I could bear to look at it now… all stripped out.”

Lem shrugged again. “Could be worse. At least we got some good use from her before then. As far as I’m concerned, she did her job: Taking people to the places they needed to go. And thanks to her, people are still flying.” He raised his glass to her.

After a moment, Reya nodded, and raised her glass. “ Salud.” Reya drank, thankful that she had Lem to be with… although she never would have believed it would be true, it turned out that his easygoing style and good-natured humor always managed to cool her fiery temperament… when she wanted it to. At the other times, she found him a fantastic lover, always romantic, making every effort to please her first. That, alone, was amazing to her, considering he’d lost his piloting job to the Yellowstone crisis, then lost his ship, literally nut by bolt, to the cause of daily survival. She had no idea how anyone could allow all that to slide off their back so easily, but he managed it with calm and grace, and never made demands for himself.

Of course, she considered wryly, maybe sharing a home and bed with one of Verdant’s command staff was compensation enough… and almost immediately, she was sorry she’d even thought it. After all, she was hardly a catch… and she certainly didn’t do anything to help him, she only came home and complained, and marveled at how well everyone else seemed to be able to handle things…

“Lem, are you sure you don’t want me to get you a slot on one of the freighters?”

“No,” Lem replied easily. “I know how in-demand those slots are…”

“But you could be flying again,” Reya asserted. “I know it’s not a liner, but wouldn’t you like to get behind the controls again?” He shrugged the idea off casually, and Reya fairly goggled at him. “How do you do it? How can you be so cool about not doing something you loved to do so much?”

Lem smiled. “I just think about what I have now, and it makes the sacrifice worthwhile.”

“Lem,” she said abruptly, and came around the table to sit in his lap. “I really am sorry… this is hardly a place for you!”

“No, it’s okay,” Lem insisted quickly, and patted her knee reassuringly. “Really. It’s not like it’s your fault a volcano blew up North America and stuck us out here. Besides, some good has come out of it… like us. Right?”

Reya looked into Lem’s eyes, and could only smile. “Yes…” They kissed for a moment, and after a moment, Reya settled against him. But slowly, her smile faded. “It’s just me, I guess… I didn’t sign on for this ‘Brane-Boy’ stuff… I want to see Earth spinning under my feet. I want to know that I’m part of humanity… not some bit of meat that’s been cast off, never to be seen again…”

“Well,” Lem said, “if we’re cast off… I guess the most important thing is to pay more attention to those cast off with us. Case in point.” He kissed her forehead, and when she lifted her head in response, their lips came together. Before Reya knew it, another familiar fire was rekindling inside her. Silently, she thanked the Lord that she could still feel it.

~

In the spaces above the freighter bays that filled the outer skin of Verdant, accessways of all shapes and sizes bridged the oddly-shaped bay areas. In fact, they weren’t so much “places” as they were “spaces between places,” specifically between the bays and the lower levels of Verdant. As such, the accessways were poorly monitored, which made them popular places for people who did not want their activities to be observed. The spaces were very irregular, and while some were only large enough for a single person to crawl through, or maybe for a desperate couple to make out in, others could hold a small congregation if pressed into the task.

One such space held just such a group at that moment, a collection of twenty-odd people who stood or sat on the support members or the decking, their attention centered around one woman.

The woman looked to be in her late thirties, though she was almost a decade older than that. Her reddish-brown hair was long and straight, and tied into a ponytail at the base of her neck to keep it out of the way. She was dressed in a simple casual outfit, nothing flashy, colored in Earth tones. Her demeanor was calm, but her voice was strong and confident… the voice of a leader. As she spoke, she took in all of the others at once, locking in on each of them in-turn, in a way that assured each one of them would feel an essential part of the group.

“Certainly not,” she was saying to the group. “The attack on the treatment station was not a failure. Obviously, if we’d actually gained entry into the sewage treatment plant, we could have done some constructive damage—”

“I fail to see,” someone interrupted her, “how we’ve accomplished anything, Brigitte. We did no damage, and thanks to this, the peacekeepers will simply step up security on Verdant.”

“Ah,” Brigitte replied, “but there are not nearly enough peacekeepers on this station to cover everything effectively. But even a sign that they try to step up security is a victory.”

“How?”

“It demonstrates that they recognize us as a threat,” Brigitte explained. “They understand that the Gopher movement is a serious one, and ignoring us will have serious consequences. They know that it’s only a matter of time before we get access to the right facility, or we find a sympathizer in the right station, and we manage to damage this station’s delicate life support or maintenance systems. And when we accomplish that, they will have to return us to Earth, whether they like it or not.”

She took them all in with a glance. “We must remember that we cannot allow the leadership of this satellite to force us to cower like mice out in the nowhere of space, when our fellow human beings need our help and support. Everything we do must be dedicated to getting us back to Earth, where we belong. This satellite was designed to provide services and resources to Earth and its people. We will re-establish that function, before it’s too late for Earth, and us. We’re that much closer to going home… and we’ll get there yet.

“Now, we’ll have more to do… soon. For now, let’s lay low until the next scheduled meeting. The movement will be a success… we will go home.”

The rest of the group bowed their heads and murmured as one: “We will go home.” Then they began to disperse, slowly, silently, so as not to give their hiding place away to sensitive ears above or below the accessways. Brigitte watched them go, saying goodbye to them one by one, until she was alone in the secluded space. She pushed off of the bulkhead on which she had been leaning, and started for the exit of the accessway. She made a few confusing turns and detours along the way, and finally came out into a long corridor that opened into a storefront area, near a café.

The Café Bongo, on Level 24, was one of those places that underwent a striking change between day and night cycles: During the day, it was bright, airy and open, with vibrant music, a place where people of all positions would come in for meals. But at night, the music dimmed to a whisper, and the place seemed to grow deep shadows in the corners and back booths, wonderful places for people who did not want to be seen to fade into and disappear.

Brigitte stood within view of the café and watched, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the gloom inside, and satisfying herself that there were no other lurkers about. She checked the time, then walked into the café. She immediately headed for the back, the booths in the deepest shadows, until she found who she was looking for: A familiar face who had asked to meet her, in order to make an introduction. Seated next to him, against the wall, was another man, his hands clasped calmly on the table before him. His face was completely lost in the darkness.

“Hello, Spaulding,” she said once she could make out the face of her contact.

“Hello, Brigitte,” the man addressed as Spaulding replied. A silent signal passed between them, indicating everything was good, so Brigitte sat down on the side of the booth opposite the two men. Spaulding nodded at the man next to him. “This is the man I told you about. Works at the atmo filtering station in B-10. We’ve had a number of conversations, and based on them, I thought you’d want to meet him.”

Instead of providing further introductions, Spaulding got up, nodded at the both of them, and walked casually out of the café. When he left the booth, the man against the wall slid outward, until he was in the center of his side of the booth, facing Brigitte. When he did, his face came partially out of the shadows, and Brigitte could finally take in his features. He looked to be close to her age, with a face that suggested a life of labor, not luxury… a working man, like so many in the Gopher movement.

He extended his hand. “Macintyre Penn. Everyone calls me Mac.”

Brigitte took his hand and shook it confidently. “I’m Brigitte Koral. Nice to meet you.” She folded her hands in front of her, and smiled. “So: Tell me about some of the conversations you and Spaulding have had.”

Mac regarded her. In a low voice, he asked, “About going home?”

“That’s a good place to start.”

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