Of Fire and Night (34 page)

85

ZHETT KELLUM

L
ightning lit Golgen’s nighttime skies with a simmering glow. In the troposphere, bright lights from new skymines blinked and signaled to each other. Exhaust lines marked where cargo escorts lifted up and away, and shuttles ferried visitors from one floating city to another. For the first time in years, Roamers were doing the jobs they were born to do.

Zhett sat in a mesh chair out on the observation deck, her long legs propped on a railing while breezes stole around her dark hair. Though she was listening, she pretended casual nonchalance as the facility operators and clan heads gathered to hear the news Nikko Chan Tylar had brought.

Young Nikko was enthusiastic about his task. He had arrived at Golgen that afternoon in his exotically transformed
Aquarius
and breathlessly asked to speak to representatives from each of the skymines. Zhett’s father had used the excuse to host a party on his largest observation balcony.

While the milling attendees served themselves steaming pepperflower tea or home-distilled alcoholic beverages, they listened as Nikko filled them in on what had happened. “This is our chance, our real chance to defeat the drogues. The wentals are just as powerful as the hydrogues—but they need us to distribute them. Roamers—
humans
—are in this, too.”

“Aw, we just got settled here, Nikko,” said Boris Goff, who looked as if he hadn’t slept in the four days since his clan’s skymine had arrived. “Give us a few weeks to catch our breath. By the Guiding Star, do you know how long it’s been since Roamers could produce enough ekti to sell?”

Nikko gestured over the railing of the observation deck, indicating the peaceful sea of clouds. “And the wentals are the only reason you’ve got a chance here. Jess Tamblyn released them into this gas giant’s clouds.
They
cleared the drogues out of Golgen.”

“Get to the point, kid,” said Bing Palmer, who captained a skymine operated jointly by the Palmer and Sandoval clans. “What do you want us to do? Find more water planets for the wentals to live and grow on?”

Nikko shook his head. “No, the other water bearers and I have done that already. Now it’s time to turn them loose. Roamer ships need to fill up with wental water and take them in a great offensive. Everywhere at once. It’s the only way we’ll ever finish this war.”

“By damn, that sounds like a mighty big operation,” Kellum said. “And a management nightmare.”

“Since when are you reluctant to tackle a big job, Dad?” Zhett put her hands behind her head while lounging in the chair. “We’re set here. We’ve got cargo escorts flying out every hour on the hour, delivering ekti faster than we can issue bills to our customers.”

“Now that the hydrogues know the wentals have returned, this war is going to heat up—and fast.” Nikko could not hide the urgency in his voice. “If we don’t defeat the drogues, then your skymines and the Roamer way of life spiral down a bottomless gravity well. The wentals need us, and we need them!”

“Well, the damned
Eddies
aren’t going to defeat the drogues,” grumbled a new skymine chief, someone Zhett hadn’t met. “They get their collective asses whipped every time they engage.”

Boris Goff let out a deep, rumbling laugh. “Ha, wouldn’t they be embarrassed if Roamers saved the day?”

“Why should we help the Eddies or the Big Goose, by damn?” Kellum snapped. “Look what they’ve done to us.”

Zhett finally stood from her chair. “I seem to remember one of your lectures, Dad, about taking the high road.”

“That was different, my sweet.” He scratched his beard as he pondered. The lights of far-off skymines continued to blink, lonely sentries above the clouds. Steam jets and exhaust plumes billowed like ghostly breath in the frosty air.

“Believe me, I’ve got no love for the Eddies,” Nikko said. “They wrecked my family’s greenhouse asteroids. As far as I know, my parents are prisoners of war in some hellhole work camp. But the hydrogues are a bigger problem. All I’m asking is that you commit some ships to haul wental water.”

The young man grinned at Zhett, but she turned her attention to the clan heads. “Look at you all! Do you really want to miss the biggest battle ever to hit the Spiral Arm?”

“That’s supposed to convince me?” Goff said. “After what we’ve already been through?”

Bing Palmer snorted. “Shizz, Boris, I’ve heard you brag for years about skymining through a moon-sized hurricane on Franconia. It’s time you got some new stories, if you want anybody to keep buying you drinks.”

“Just follow your Guiding Star,” Nikko insisted. “It’s time to take back more gas giants, like this one. You all know how many people died on the Blue Sky Mine here. On all the skymines.”

“The bloody drogues killed my Shareen on Welyr.” Kellum’s nostrils flared. “All right, by damn, you’ve got my vote, Nikko. We’ve been punched in the gut so many times that I’m sick of just folding over. I’d rather be wringing the Hansa Chairman’s neck for what he did at Rendezvous, but I suppose wiping out the drogues will have to do. For now.”

Nikko grinned with relief. “I’m going to give you the coordinates for a planet called Charybdis. It’s where Jess Tamblyn first seeded the new wentals. Meet me there and load up with all the wental water you can carry. We’ve got a schedule so that we, and all the other water bearers and all of
their
volunteers, can keep everything running smoothly.”

The gathering degenerated into excited talk about commitments of vessels and materials, schedules of when to arrive at the ocean planet, suggestions of who else might participate. Nikko paced the deck, and Zhett could tell the young man was sneaking glances at her. Aloof, she turned toward the cloud decks below. Nikko was a handsome young man, though a bit flighty; she’d seen him make deliveries to the Osquivel shipyards, showing up either late or early, rarely on time. Zhett sniffed, not at all interested in flirting. The bad experience with Patrick Fitzpatrick still left a sour taste in her mouth.

At some point, the pilot slipped away to deliver his message to other Roamer settlements. Zhett saw his oddball growth-encrusted ship take off from the lower landing deck and skim across the clouds and realized she should have said goodbye to him.

Tired of all the bluster, excited swagger, and brave talk, Zhett let her thoughts wander to smaller concerns. Confronted with such grand events, she found it odd to worry about personal feelings. But after leaving the Osquivel shipyards—and, yes, the EDF prisoners—she was lonely. She hated how Fitzpatrick had betrayed her . . . and she hated that she missed him, too.

86

PATRICK FITZPATRICK III

N
o exceptions,” his grandmother repeated, more annoyed at her failure than saddened to see him go. “I’m sorry, Patrick. It’s been decades since I served as Chairman, and the favors people owe me don’t count for as much.”

Late at night, he moved through the large stainless-steel kitchen, passing from pantry to refrigerator as he made a quick snack. He had not asked Maureen to pull strings for him, but he knew she did whatever she pleased if she thought it was for his “own good.”

“I’m sure you did your best,” he said, mentally running through his options. “No one is blaming you.” He couldn’t go back to serve in the Earth Defense Forces, not because of the trauma he’d been through, but because of what they stood for and what they’d made him do. He had frequent nightmares about Kamarov’s cargo ship, about giving the order to fire, about the explosion. The trader hadn’t even known what was coming.

No, Mr. Fitzpatrick. I have no recollection of that whatsoever. And neither do you.

How could he serve a man like General Lanyan? Instead, Patrick should be out atoning for the pain he had caused, getting at least a token measure of justice, exposing how the Roamers had been wronged. Maybe he could find a lead as to Zhett’s whereabouts. . . .

The Battleaxe wrinkled her lips in a frown. “Are you listening to me, Patrick? I can get Wanda to cook you something. It’ll be much better than—”

“This is perfectly fine.” The selections in her sprawling kitchen were dizzying: meats and exotic vegetables, elaborate sweets, cheeses from five different worlds. He wasn’t used to extravagance anymore, and now he found it unsettling, even offensive.

Back in the EDF, he’d eaten whatever nutritionally approved meal the mess hall served, and after an initial few months of complaining, he’d learned to be satisfied with whatever there was. Roamer food at Osquivel had been unusually spiced, but he’d grown to like it. This was just too much. He got a drink from the water dispenser, disdaining the exotic juices, energy beverages, and liqueurs his grandmother kept on hand.

“The EDF will assign you to an excellent ship,” Maureen continued. “Maybe even to General Lanyan himself. He always had a soft spot for you, dear. You’ll be out of harm’s way.”

Patrick gave her a cynical look. “The General is not a man to sit on the sidelines.”

“Oh. Well, then.” She seemed more disturbed by the fact that she might have miscalculated than by where her grandson would be stationed. “I promise I’ll get you home as soon as the emergency is over.”

He had to laugh at that, but only a bitter sound came out. “Which part of the ‘emergency’ do you mean? As soon as we’ve destroyed the hydrogues? As soon as we’ve recaptured our battleships from the Soldier compies? Or were you including a complete victory over all the Roamer clans as well?”

“Don’t take that tone with me, Patrick. I’m trying to help you.”

With his fingers, he pulled out several slices of nutty-smelling cheese and ate them straight off the gleaming counter. “Trying to be realistic, Grandmother. I’ve been in battle before.” His throat suddenly thickened with a spasm of panic. Vivid memories of the massacre at Osquivel flooded his mind: warglobes destroying EDF ships faster than anyone could count . . . abandoning the wreck of his Manta, watching from the lifepod’s tiny observation port as the rest of the EDF fleet fled, leaving him to drift all alone. “We’re going to be sitting ducks.”

Maureen began to pick up wrappers and packaging, putting away the food even before Patrick was finished with it. She scowled at the fingerprints and the food smears on the countertop, but she tried to sound reassuring. “If the hydrogues or Soldier compies intend to destroy Earth, then you might have a better chance of surviving away from here.”

He looked at her and didn’t need to say anything. As the awkward silence drew out, Maureen became visibly uncomfortable. She preferred to snap orders to servants and underlings, knowing that her wishes would be followed. She didn’t quite know how to deal with her grandson. Finally she backed away. “I just wanted to let you know I did my best. I’ll leave you to your . . . snack. We can discuss this more in the morning.”

Patrick continued to eat the cheese, though he’d lost his appetite. He had already made up his mind.

He remembered the grudgingly satisfying work he had done at Osquivel. Here on “civilized” Earth, he’d been brought up to believe the space gypsies were rowdy and disreputable. No one in the Hansa had ever bothered to pay attention to what the clans could do; instead, they spread rumors and insults, portraying the Roamers as shiftless con artists who didn’t deserve any respect.

Since then, Patrick had seen with his own eyes how Roamer families labored together and accomplished miracles. And he had enjoyed being with Zhett Kellum. He still regretted how he’d tricked her for a chance to escape. He hoped he could make it up to her somehow, someday.

He’d served the Earth military, worked with General Lanyan, and seen firsthand the capricious and unfair way political decisions were made. Patrick was convinced that the EDF and the Hanseatic League had caused their own problems. But from inside, Maureen simply could not see the flaws.

He went to his ridiculously spacious room, though he wasn’t tired—which was a good thing, since he had a long night ahead of him. No turning back.

He changed into a serviceable outfit and packed fresh clothes, untraceable currency, and food supplies he’d taken from the kitchen. In the EDF he’d learned how to travel lightly, how to make swift decisions and carry them through. When he was finished, Patrick padded quietly through the mansion and deactivated the intruder alarms and perimeter surveillance. He slipped into the service bay where his restored antique cars sat smelling of polish and engine oil.

On the far side of the bay rested Maureen’s sleek space yacht, a ship purchased by an extremely wealthy person in a time of prosperity. Had the old Battleaxe paid for it herself, or had one of her political cronies simply offered it in exchange for a plump contract? He intended to take it out on loan, use it for important work. He could find Roamer outposts, Hansa colonies orphaned by the Chairman’s decrees, tell his story to anyone who would listen. He was sure he could find a sympathetic ear somewhere. A person of his lineage and status, someone with a relatively high rank in the EDF, certainly had enough credibility to make even the most skeptical person think twice. It was about time his family name was used for something
worthwhile
.

His grandmother had always controlled his life. Patrick Fitzpatrick III had been trapped by expectations, forced to do whatever somebody else told him. And he had already given one life to the EDF. “Now I’m going to do something for the right reasons.”

He silently opened the hangar doors and climbed into the yacht, noting that the cockpit controls were far less complex than a Remora’s. This vessel was designed for someone unfamiliar with the nuances of flying, certainly not made for sharp evasive maneuvers or swift battle scenarios. He could fly it easily.

The fuel tanks were full. He snorted in disgust: With such tremendous shortages, with so many colonies desperate for medical supplies and food, how did one old woman warrant a supply of ekti? Well, he would put it to good use.

Patrick powered the engines, felt the ship vibrate, and heard the reverberations building in the reaction jets. Even with the house alarms shut off, the noise was bound to wake someone up. His grandmother had always been a light sleeper—probably because of her heavy conscience.

He didn’t look behind him, didn’t leave a farewell note, and he certainly didn’t request clearance or file any flight plan. When Patrick activated the propulsion systems, his stolen yacht slipped into the night sky, rising over the rugged Colorado mountains toward the starry emptiness above.

Somewhere out there, he would find the Roamers. He would find Zhett.