‘Military crap doesn’t really interest me.’
‘Hmm.’ She gave him a suspicious glance.
He smiled, as if admitting defeat, acknowledging that she was right about everything always – secret to a successful marriage.
Forty minutes later he was dressed in jeans and a grey sweatshirt, ready to go to work. Emily had put on a lavender beachsuit, ready for the waves and the sun. It was skin-tight, and made her look utterly fabulous. She grinned when she caught him looking at her, and gave him a long kiss. ‘Hurry back,’ she teased.
‘Right.’ He gave each of the kids a quick hug. ‘Be good. And do what your mother says; remember the waves are not your friend.’
‘I’ll be good, Daddy,’ Clara promised solemnly.
‘Yeah, I will,’ Jevon yelled as he rushed out carrying his board.
‘Bye, Dad.’ Isadora smiled.
‘Bye.’ Saul said absolutely nothing about the blue and pink bikini she was wearing. Absolutely nothing, because there wasn’t a whole lot of it to comment on. The Ford Rohan saloon opened its driver door as he approached, and he climbed in. ‘Take me to the shop,’ he told the auto.
The fuel cells powered up as the garage door slid open, and the auto backed the Rohan out into bright sunlight. Isadora would put a T-shirt on when she went out surfing, he knew, which was fine, and she also knew to apply hifactor sun cream before she spent an age getting her tan just right. He told himself it didn’t matter because there weren’t many people using the beach, mostly the families from the other bungalows. But the group of friends she hung out with after school and during the weekends was now starting to include more boys.
Saul sighed as the Rohan turned out of Camilo Village’s access road and onto the Rue du Ranelagh, which would take him straight down to the old town. Isadora and boys shouldn’t bother him, he knew, but even now he’d never managed to truly shake free from his formal Jewish upbringing back in Boston. He could still recite most of Rabbi Lavine’s stern lectures on the sanctity of marriage and the fundamental foulness of teenage sex; it was as if the old man had mistakenly picked up a book of Catholic commandments when he walked into the temple and nobody had ever corrected him.
What Saul ought to be was happy that his daughter had lots of friends, that she’d find boys she adored and who worshipped her; but there would be other boys, the kind which he’d know at first glance before they even opened their mouths were no good at all, and he’d hate them and not be able to say; and anyway St Libra wasn’t a place with huge opportunities, not the right kind of opportunities anyway. Bartram North had set it up as an isolated community purely to service his beloved Institute far beyond the usual legislative restrictions prevalent on most trans-space worlds. It was pleasant enough with its unvarying climate and zero taxes, but without any real industry or economy the kids would never achieve much for themselves. What Isadora needed was a place where she could truly blossom, instead of fall into one of the hundreds of life-traps surrounding her in Abellia . . .
Hell, why can’t I be proud of her and have faith rather than worry all the time? He supposed it was the fate of fathers everywhere.
The Rohan drove into the Delacroix tunnel, powering up the slope. When it emerged the other side, the Rue du Ranelagh curved sharply along the side of the valley.
Up ahead was the remarkable Lazare Bridge, a white marble strip that rested on a couple of massive toroidal supports, the north end higher than the south. Big tankers full of raw trundled along it, electric axle motors straining against the incline. There was a lot of construction work under way in Abellia. With all the beaches around the peninsula now taken, the rich were having to build their tacky fifty-room mansions further inland on giant terraces carved into the mountains, or across plateaus raised up out of the valley floor to lift their foundations safely above the churning rivers. With each new extravagant, expensive site full of chittering automata and harried supervisors came another decent branch of infrastructure which Brinkelle required they contribute to the community as the price for her permission to live in her fiefdom. It was a splendid way of funding decent civic amenities for those who didn’t necessarily come here by choice, but were subject to economic necessity like most humans.
Saul wondered how the expedition would affect the desirability of owning a place in Abellia. Not that the truly rich lived here permanently, it was just another house spread around the circuit of their eternal migration. Most of the big houses went unused for a year or eighteen months at a time before their plutocrat owners visited in the forlorn hope of witnessing some new spectacle or experience that might momentarily enrich their jaded got-it-all lifestyle. Maybe the chance of being shredded by a nonhuman monster would actually appeal to their type. Although knowing them there would be an influx of armed hunters, relishing the thrill of stalking their lethal prey through uncharted jungle.
That was the thing Saul feared as much as he admired about life in Abellia. Despite the allure of its beauty and ease, it was like nowhere else in the trans-stellar worlds. Here civilization really was a veneer, an incredibly rich one, but flimsy none the less. He’d come here twenty years ago to exploit some of the human savagery which lurked just below that glossy sheen of respectability, and now he had to live with his choices. Of course, he’d never expected to marry and have kids, but Abellia had smoothly gone on to convince him that life here could be normal. And he’d fallen into the nightmare of believing it.
Beyond the bridge, the valley opened out, revealing the rings hanging across the southern sky, glowing with a sunset-gold hue. And a big dark plane was flying along them, descending towards the airport away to the north-west of town.
Saul frowned at the plane as the distant growl of its jets washed around the silent car, knowing full well that was the real cause of his moody anger. It had been the same ever since this ridiculous expedition had been announced. Right from the start the official reason made no sense: evidence that there might be a sentient race living on the unexplored Brogal continent. Evidence that was never declared or defined. The HDA was going in to examine genetic diversity, they claimed vaguely; there were possibilities uncovered by on-going academic research that more than just plants had evolved after all.
Lies, Saul knew, pathetic, evil lies. Nobody was researching St Libra genetics; there was no profit in it, their biochemistry was too different from terrestrial. There had only ever been one single example of non-botanical life on Brogal: the monster which had slaughtered Bartram North’s household. The Abellia political sites had been positing that, too, resurrecting the events of twenty years ago, at the same time scornfully reminding everyone of the mad psycho girl who had actually been convicted of the murders. They at least were clear in naming that as the more likely cause of the expedition.
Saul suspected they were right. What he utterly failed to understand was: why now? Why after twenty long, squandered years did anyone suddenly decide to investigate a discredited rumour? And not just a small enquiry, either. Hell alone knew how much money the expedition was costing.
He wasn’t sure what he feared most: if they’d find something out there in the endless wilderness of jungles, or they wouldn’t. His life was settled now, however wrong he’d been to allow that to happen. He’d made his sacrifices, done his utmost for those he loved more than his own life, and moved on. He’d never expected anything to change. And that was what really bugged him, the cause of recent sleepless nights and general irritability. It was starting to look like events completely beyond his control were about to chew him up and spit him out once again. It just wasn’t fair. Not at all.
*
Velasco Beach extended for four hundred metres in a slight crescent curve to the west of the Alonso marina, itself an outgrowth of Abellia’s original cargo harbour. Its location in the middle of the old town, along with its size, made it a popular attraction for Abellia residents who couldn’t afford their own beach, a place they could relax away from the precocious demanding rich whom they served. The Hawaiian
Moon water sport store had a great location in the middle of the promenade behind Velasco Beach, jammed between Rico’s bar and grill, and the Cornish ice cream shop. The Rohan delivered Saul into the staff-only car parking slot behind the Hawaiian Moon at ten to nine that morning. Pelli and Natasha, the two surf-mad youngsters who worked behind the counters, were already there waiting for Saul to open up. The back door’s mesh of smartdust acknowledged the owner’s biometric signature along with his e-i’s code, and the locks clicked back.
Saul had owned the Hawaiian Moon for twelve years now. The concept had started off with just him and Emily at a stall down the far end of Velasco, with little Isadora toddling round enchanting the customers with her cheeky smile. Now he owned the store outright. Two-thirds of the long, single-storey, white concrete building was given over to beachwear, a mix of designer labels and more reasonably priced gear. Emily selected it all; her brief time spent in the fashion trade back on New Washington gave her an eye for what looked good and would sell here. The clothing side made a nice profit year after year.
Saul’s part of the business took up the remaining third of the store as well as the whole back room. That he knew so much about surfing and boards still occasionally amused him, but even though he’d been bitten by the surfing bug relatively late in life, the addiction wasn’t one he could kick – and didn’t want to. So now he supplied surfboards to fellow enthusiasts, and lessons for those who’d seen people gliding effortlessly along the tops of the waves and mistakenly believed they could do just as well. Several types of board were on display in the front, but it was the back room which had two state-of-the-art 3D printers and five tanks of specialist raw. They allowed Saul to microfacture any kind of board listed on the transnet, and there were tens of thousands. He’d even designed a few of his own, more suited to the milder waters of St Libra, which were popular.
Pelli went in and started examining the holographic decals on yesterday’s boards, seeing if they’d adhered properly overnight, while Natasha dumped her bag in the little staff room that also served as a storeroom. Saul told the store’s network to open the security shutters. Given Abellia’s minuscule crime-rate he always thought them a waste of time, but the insurance company insisted. As they rolled up, he looked out across the vitrified sandstone promenade. There weren’t many people about, as the shops and stalls were only just opening. A few early swimmers were in the water, and families with very young children were setting up camp on the sand with towels and sunshades.
Three people walking along the promenade stopped in front of the Hawaiian Moon, staring in past the mannequins dressed in rainbow sarongs and wet-look beachsuits. Recognition kicked in, giving Saul a nasty shock. He didn’t know the woman with dreadlocks down to her hips, but the other two . . . It had been fifteen years since he’d seen Duren. The man was twice Saul’s width, and none of that bulk was fat. The jet-black hair was thinner now, tied back in a tiny pony-tail with a silver band; and there were a couple of demon-eye tattoos glimmering fire-red round his eyelids, but other than that it was as if no time had passed. The other man was a North, dressed in a simple white shirt and green shorts, with worn leather sandals on dirty feet. And Saul knew exactly which North. Only one member of that clone-hoard had a greying beard that came halfway down his belly, which along with his garb marked him down as some mad preacher prophet, an analogy which was best not spoken out loud.
The three of them regarded him without moving. It was as intimidating as he supposed it was meant to be.
‘Pelli, Nat, go get yourselves a coffee,’ Saul said.
‘But I’ve just got—’ Natasha started.
‘Don’t argue, just go. I’ll call when I want you back. My dollar, okay.’
She frowned at him, and glanced across at the three immobile figures outside. Confusion was conjuring up a lot of questions.
Saul gave Pelli an urgent signal.
‘Come on, babe,’ Pelli said, and ushered her towards the rear door. A suspicious Natasha allowed herself to be hustled away.
Saul told the store’s smartnet to open the front door. The bolts snicked across loudly. For the first time in twelve years, opening up the business didn’t sound auspicious.
Duren came in first. For someone so big he moved easily. Saul remembered the hours they spent at the small gym they were both members of back in the day; while Saul’s ambition had been to keep himself lean for surfing, Duran went for building strength. And when he wasn’t on the gym weights, he was taking his kung-fu classes or kickboxing, whatever allowed him to beat the crap out of other people without getting arrested. Outside of politics, it was what he lived for. He reached nirvana when the two could be combined.
There was a heartbeat while Saul looked at his old not-quite friend, too overwhelmed and nervous to react. Then Duren’s round face grinned widely, showing off a couple of canine fang implants. ‘Man, you look good for an old dude.’ Duren grasped Saul’s hands, engulfing them completely in a hot, sweaty grip. ‘You haven’t put on a fucking gram in what, ten years?’
‘Longer than that,’ Saul grinned back, hoping it looked sincere.
‘Still hitting the curves?’
‘When I have the time.’
‘Yeah,’ Duren said, his voice like a wheezy whisper. ‘I heard you got married. You! And you’ve got, what, three kids now?’
Saul’s heart started racing. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit – this wasn’t casual, a happy tour round the old times. ‘Yeah, three.’
‘Cool. Man, I want you to meet some friends of mine. This here is Zulah.’
The woman gave him a sullen nod, the glass beads in her dreadlocks clicking together smartly as her head moved. Saul couldn’t remember ever seeing someone with skin so black before. He suspected the pigmentation had been enhanced, it was like a stealth coating. Definitely a statement.
‘And this—’ Duren began proudly.
‘Zebediah North,’ Saul completed. ‘Pleasure to meet you.’
‘Mr Howard; I’ve heard a lot about you from brother Duren.’
‘Oh dear.’ He kept it light, the old-pals-never-stop-joshing act. ‘It’s not true.’
‘That would be a shame,’ Zebediah said.
‘Come in, sit down,’ Saul said. ‘We have some tea in the back.’
‘You are most kind,’ Zebediah said.
‘Lock the door,’ Zulah said as she walked past, making sure she was first into the back room.
Duren gave an exaggerated shrug at her behaviour. Saul told the smartnet to seal up the shop, and went into the back room, wishing the whole sensation of doom was just down to his age and paranoia. But . . . Zebediah North!
He was the only North ever to rebel against his family – effectively turning against himself and everything the Norths had achieved. He rejected it all: the company, his dead father, brothers, cousins, wealth, even his name. Saul couldn’t recall what it used to be, but he’d been born a 2, one of Bartram’s sons. His one-man uprising had started right after the slaughter. Everyone at the time had said how that must have pushed him over the edge. He’d broadcast across the transnet about how the human ‘occupation’ of St Libra was wrong, and how he would take this message out to the real people, educating them about their mistake. Over the next few years, spent as a nomad oracle travelling around the Independencies, his message had modified and softened somewhat to teaching people how to live in harmony with their adopted world. Mainly: kick Northumberland Interstellar off St Libra, and rip up the algaepaddies.
Zulah was examining the 3D printers, which irritated Saul. But telling her to stop would make an issue of it, and he wasn’t ready for that yet.
‘So are you still active?’ Duren asked in his forceful whisper.
‘No. But you already know that.’ For a while Saul had been involved with the fledgling political opposition groups in Abellia. There weren’t many of them. After all Bartram had been a pretty benign dictator, and that at least hadn’t changed under Brinkelle. Some civic issues could actu
ally be voted on, nobody came here against their will, and anyone could leave at any time. In theory. Economics wasn’t entirely favourable to the non-wealthy who got stranded, but if you were in real monetary dire straits you could always get a charity passage on one of the cargo boats back to Eastshields and either go back through the gateway or settle in an Independency. Even so, Saul and others had been agitating for a more open style of democracy; an elected city council would be a good start rather than the occasional online referendum on trivia like where to site a new school. And there was also the question of rights for those born in Abellia – not many admittedly – but their numbers would only ever increase. Saul’s principal cause, the reason he had gotten involved, was healthcare. There were excellent hospitals in Abellia, including the massive Institute itself which Bartram had founded, Abellia’s whole raison d’être, and arguably the best medical facility to be found among the trans-stellar worlds. But financially they were all out of reach for any of the independent workers. You simply had to have a health plan paid for by your employer, and that wasn’t compulsory. Everyone attracted to the meetings had been equally aggrieved by the health coverage situation, but they had a host of other issues as well.
The problem with all this hot radicalism was the quality of people it had attracted. After a couple of years attending meetings of new-formed ‘people’s committees’ – where even the most dynamic chairperson could rarely get a vote passed on what kind of coffee was going to be served at next week’s meeting – Saul had walked out never to return, completely fed up and dispirited at achieving nothing for democracy’s progress within those two years. Besides, Brinkelle had started to move towards establishing a universal health plan – not a particularly good one, but definitely a safety net for the worst cases. He knew he was being too judgemental – that most of his fellow agitators meant well – but there was a limit to how many hours of his life could be spent on procedural points and backstabbing and ideological schisms and who called who what in the bar last night. Duren, on the other hand, was attracted to the scene by precisely that kind of debate which spilled over into the physical.