really want to help.” He was watching some kind of scanning analysis, so this was not completely wasted time. “These alien radio messages are going to change our world, and I want my children to—”
The investigator frowned. “Huh! You just missed this Bidwel character, Fleet Captain. See, he’s been dead for ten years.”
Sammy didn’t say anything, but his mild manner must have slipped; the little man flinched when he looked up at him. “I-I’m sorry, sir. Perhaps he left some effects, a will.”
It can’t be. Not when I’m so close. But it was a possibility that Sammy had always known. It was the commonplace in a universe of tiny lifetimes and interstellar distances. “I suppose we are interested in any data the man left behind.” The words came out dully.At least we have closure—that would be the concluding line from some smarmy intelligence analyst.
The investigator tapped and muttered at his devices. The Forestry Department had reluctantly identified him as one of the best of the city class, so well distributed that they could not simply confiscate his equipment to take him over. He was genuinely trying to be helpful…. “There may be a will, Fleet Captain, but it’s not on the Grandville net.”
“Some other city, then?” The fact that the Forestry Department had partitioned the urban networks was a very bad sign for Triland’s future.
“…Not exactly. See, Ducanh died at one of Saint Xupere’s Pauper Cemeteria, the one in Lowcinder. It looks like the monks have held on to his effects. I’m sure they would give them up in return for a decent-sized donation.” His eyes returned to the constables and his expression hardened. Maybe he recognized the oldest one, the Commissioner of Urban Security. No doubt they could shake down the monks with no need for any contribution.
Sammy rose and thanked the private investigator; his words sounded wooden even to himself. As he walked back toward the door and his escort, the investigator came quickly around his desk and followed him. Sammy realized with abrupt embarrassment that the fellow hadn’t been paid. He turned back, feeling a sudden liking for the guy. He admired someone who would demand his pay in the face of unfriendly cops. “Here,” Sammy started to say, “this is what I can—”
But the fellow held up his hands. “No, not necessary. But there is a favor I would like from you. See, I have a big family, the brightest kids you’ve ever seen. This joint expedition isn’t going to leave Triland for another five or ten years, right? Can you make sure that my kids, even one of them—?”
Sammy cocked his head. Favors connected with mission success came very dear. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said as gently as he could. “Your children will have to compete with everyone else. Have them study hard in college. Have them target the specialties that are announced. That will give them the best chance.”
“Yes, Fleet Captain! That is exactly the favor that I am asking. Would you see to it—” He swallowed and looked fiercely at Sammy, ignoring the others. “—would you see to it that they are allowed to undertake college studies?”
“Certainly.” A little grease on academic entrance requirements didn’t bother Sammy at all. Then he realized what the other was really saying. “Sir, I’ll make sure of it.”
“Thank you. Thank you!” He touched his business card into Sammy’s hand. “There’s my name and stats. I’ll keep it up-to-date. Please remember.”
“Yes, uh, Mr. Bonsol, I’ll remember.” It was a classic Qeng Ho deal.
The city dropped away beneath the Forestry Department flyer. Grandville had only about half a million inhabitants, but they were crammed into a snarled slum, the air above them shimmering with summer heat. The First Settlers’ forest lands spread away for thousands of kilometers around it, virgin terraform wilderness.
They boosted high into clean indigo air, arcing southward. Sammy ignored the Triland “Urban Security” boss sitting right beside him; just now he had neither the need nor the desire to be diplomatic. He punched a connection to his Deputy Fleet Captain. Kira Lisolet’s autoreport streamed across his vision. Sum Dotran had agreed to the schedule change: all the fleet would be going to the OnOff star.
“Sammy!” Kira’s voice cut across the automatic report. “How did it go?” Kira Lisolet was the only other person in the fleet who knew the true purpose of this mission, the manhunt.
“I—” We lost him, Kira. But Sammy couldn’t say the words. “See for yourself, Kira. The last two thousand seconds of my pov. I’m headed back to Lowcinder now… one last loose end to tie down.”
There was a pause. Lisolet was fast with an indexed scan. After a moment he heard her curse to herself. “Okay… but do tie that last loose end, Sammy. There were times before when we were sure we’d lost him.”
“Never like this, Kira.”
“I said, you make absolutely sure.” There was steel in the woman’s voice. Her people owned a big hunk of the fleet. She owned one ship herself. In fact, she was the only operational owner on the mission. Most times, that was not a problem. Kira Pen Lisolet was a reasonable person on almost all issues. This was one of the exceptions.
“I’ll make sure, Kira. You know that.” Sammy was suddenly conscious of the Triland Security boss at his elbow—and he remembered what he had accidentally discovered a few moments earlier. “How are things top- side?”
Her response was light, a kind of apology. “Great. I got the shipyard waivers. The deals with the industrial moons and the asteroid mines look solid. We’re continuing with detailed planning. I still think we can be equipped and specialist-crewed in three hundred Msec. You know how much the Trilanders want a cut of this mission.” He heard the smile in her voice. Their link was encrypted, but she knew that his end was emphatically not secure. Triland was a customer and soon to be a mission partner, but they should know just where they stood.
“Very good. Add something to the list, if it’s not already there: ‘Per our desire for the best specialist crew possible, werequire that the Forestry Department’s university programs be open to all those who pass our tests, not just the heirs of First Settlers.’”
“Of course…” A second passed, just enough time for a double take. “Lord, how could we miss something like that?” We missed it because some
A thousand seconds later, Lowcinder was rising toward them. This was almost thirty degrees south latitude. The frozen desolation that spread around it looked like the pre-Arrival pictures of equatorial Triland, five hundred years ago, before the First Settlers began tweaking the greenhouse gases and building the exquisite structure that is a terraform ecology.
Lowcinder itself was near the center of an extravagant black stain, the product of centuries of “nucleonically clean” rocket fuels. This was Triland’s largest groundside spaceport, yet the city’s recent growth was as grim and slumlike as all the others on the planet.
Their flyer switched to fans and trundled across the city, slowly descending. The sun was very low, and the streets were mostly in twilight. But every kilometer the streets seemed narrower. Custom composites gave way to cubes that might have once been cargo containers. Sammy watched grimly. The First Settlers had worked for centuries to create a beautiful world; now it was exploding out from under them. It was a common problem in terraformed worlds. There were at least five reasonably painless methods of accommodating the terraform’s final success. But if the First Settlers and their “Forestry Department” were not willing to adopt any of them… well, there might not be a civilization here to welcome his fleet’s return. Sometime soon, he must have a heart-to-heart chat with members of the ruling class.
His thoughts were brought back to the present as the flyer dumped down between blocky tenements. Sammy and his Forestry goons walked through half-frozen slush. Piles of clothing—donations?—lay jumbled in boxes on the steps of the building they approached. The goons detoured around them. Then they were up the steps and indoors.
The cemeterium’s manager called himself Brother Song, and he looked old unto death. “Bidwel Ducanh?” His gaze slid nervously away from Sammy. Brother Song did not recognize Sammy’s face, but he knew the Forestry Department. “Bidwel Ducanh died ten years ago.”
He was lying.He was lying.
Sammy took a deep breath and looked around the dingy room. Suddenly he felt as dangerous as some fleet scuttlebutt made him out to be.Godforgive me, but I will do anything to get the truth from this man. He looked back
