12
CYBELE
The rest of the journey to Cybele passed in near silence, with Carlo hunched miserably behind the Comet’s control yoke.
The asteroid called 65 Cybele was a lumpy sphere nearly three hundred kilometers in diameter, its dark surface given definition by a spiderweb of lighted lines and dots. Attis, a smaller but still massive chunk of brownish-gray rock, orbited above the surface of the asteroid, crowned with sensor masts and towers. Between Attis and Cybele, a sprawling station hung in space, ringed by docking cradles and spindly umbilicals for servicing larger craft. And everywhere there were starships—angular warships bristling with guns, massive spherical tankers, boxy freighters, and tiny scout ships, gigs, and ferries.
The three Jovian privateers waited above the station while the bulk freighters and hoys docked, then headed for their own cradles. Tycho couldn’t help feeling a bit nervous as they passed into the shadow of Attis above them—he knew gravity had kept the satellite safely in orbit above Cybele for eons, but it still felt like the massive rock was about to smash down upon them.
“Those corvettes are military models or I’m a middie,” Huff said with a growl, peering out the viewports at a trio of dart-shaped starships hanging in space below Attis. “But they ain’t a model I’m familiar with.”
“Right you are, Captain Hashoone,” Vass said. “That, officially speaking, is the Cybelean navy.”
“Arrr, three corvettes ain’t no navy.”
“Agreed. The Cybeles’ importance is best measured economically, not militarily.”
“Tycho and Yana, muster out the crew belowdecks,” Diocletia said. “They’re to report to the Jovian fondaco, where they’ll get passes. There will be Jovian officials awaiting them to arrange everything, but warn them to watch out for crimps—Cybele is plagued with them, and they don’t always respect a pass. All hands are at liberty tonight, but as of 0800 tomorrow they should be ready to respond to a recall order with thirty minutes’ notice.”
“Thirty minutes?” Yana asked. “They won’t like that.”
“And yet those are my orders,” Diocletia replied. “We’ll be using Cybele as a base of operations, which means we have to be ready to fly on short notice. The rest of us will head dirtside as soon as the crew departs. Minister Vass, you can ride down with us in the gig, or we can have Vesuvia summon a ferry for you.”
“I’ll go with you, if that’s all right,” Vass said.
“What’s a fondaco?” Tycho asked the minister.
“A compound reserved for Jovian citizens. While we’re on Cybele we’re required to sleep there, though we can get passes to go most anywhere else on Cybele. Until curfew, that is.”
“A nicer kind of prison, in other words,” growled Huff. “Ain’t seen a place with fondachi since Mars.”
“Cybele has one reserved for citizens of Earth as well,” Vass said.
“Bet it’s nicer than ours,” Huff said as Tycho followed Yana down the ladderwell.
“Yes, I’m afraid it is,” Vass said.
The Comets knew what the loss of the dromond meant for the Hashoones and the Jovian Union, and took their leave with little of the normal boisterousness of crewers headed for shore leave. Tycho eyed his sister when Immanuel Sier came through the line, but the young Saturnian crewer put his knuckles to his forehead and nodded respectfully to Yana, who nodded back and even offered him a small smile. The last crewer to depart was Grigsby, accompanying Haines and the paroled Earth crewers. The Jovian consulate would decide whether to detain them further or exchange them for captive Jovians.
“So I guess you’ve forgiven Mr. Sier,” Tycho said as they shut down their mediapads and walked back through the now-empty lower deck.
“Immanuel? Oh, he’s not so bad. I saw him every day on the journey here—Mr. Dobbs is teaching us both unarmed combat.”
“Unarmed combat?”
“Sure—I’ll show you,” Yana said, putting her mediapad down on the deck. “But you’ll want to back up first.”
Tycho retreated until Yana told him to stop. His sister exhaled, then sprang forward onto her hands. Then she exploded forward onto her feet, cartwheeling across the deck in a blur of arms and legs that ended with her fist a centimeter from Tycho’s face.
“Okay, that was impressive,” Tycho said. “But I’d just shoot you.”
“Try it. Pretend you’re drawing on me.”
Tycho shrugged, then stepped back. His hand shot to his hip, but next thing he knew he was on his back, with one of Yana’s knees pinning his wrist and one of her hands under his chin, fingers around his neck. Her other hand was up, fingers spread and aimed at his eyes.
“Point taken,” Tycho said. “Let me up already.”
Yana disengaged, grinning, as Tycho rubbed the back of his head.
“When everything went bad on the Lampos I felt helpless,” his sister said, suddenly serious. “That’s never happening again.”
“Welcome to Cybele,” Mavry said after a port official verified the Hashoones’ identities and recorded their arrival. “Now, I understand we’re to report to the fondaco, Minister?”
“Yes,” said Vass, staggering along with his valise. “While I am bound for the consulate. I believe transport has been arranged for us.”
“Arrr, gimme that parcel or we’ll never get there,” Huff grunted, ignoring Vass’s protests and snatching his bag away.
“Well, if you insist, Captain Hashoone,” the minister said with what dignity he could muster.
They followed a long tunnel from the ship terminal. Its walls were of thick plastic, cloudy with dust and accumulated scratches. Beyond, Tycho could dimly see 65 Cybele’s charcoal-colored plains. It was bitterly cold. He zipped up his jacket and huddled against the chill.
At the tunnel’s end stood a dour-looking man bundled in synthetic fur and scowling beneath a matching hat, both dyed a brilliant orange. He held a sign that said “Vass.” Behind him other men and women in furs were standing next to wheeled rickshaws, which were little more than benches on either side of platforms for baggage. The holographic banner of the Jovian Union rippled above one vehicle.
“I want that flag turned off,” Diocletia said as the orange-clad pilot loaded the bags.
“Diplomatic requirement, I’m afraid,” Vass said, nodding gratefully as Tycho helped him on board. “The driver will take you to the Jovian fondaco, but first I need to go to our consulate to be briefed on preparations for tonight’s banquet.”
“Did you say banquet?” Yana asked as the rickshaw started forward with a whine of motors.
“I did. The Cybeleans have invited the Jovian delegation to a gala tonight. All of Cybele’s power brokers will be there, from financiers and officials to shipbuilders, merchants, and mining executives.”
“Sounds awful,” Yana said. “Why all this fuss over us?”
“Oh, it’s not just for us. Earth’s delegation is invited as well.”
“After what happened today?” Carlo asked, his question accompanied by a puff of breath.
“Yes,” Vass said. “Which makes it even more important for us to be good guests. But I agree with your sister that it sounds awful. The Cybeleans have made a great deal of livres in the last few years, and they love showing that off.”
“We’re privateers, Minister, not diplomats,” Mavry said. “Sparkling conversation isn’t our specialty.”
“That’s why we’re meeting with the assistant secretary for protocol before the banquet. All the privateers currently based here in the Cybeles have been requested to attend tonight’s affair.”
“Includin’ yer new pirates?” Huff asked with a grin. “That’ll be a fine shindy.”
“It’s not a shindy, Grandfather—it’s a banquet,” Carlo said.
“If there’s pirates attendin’, it may start as a banquet, but ’twill end as a shindy.”
Carlo shook his head and turned his attention back to Vass. “Does that include the privateers from Earth, Minister? Such as Captain Allamand?”
“I have no doubt he will be in attendance.”
Carlo’s face reddened, turning his scar white.
“That’s intolerable,” he sputtered. “It’s a provocation.”
“No, my boy—just politics,” Vass said with a small smile. “But for now, a bit about security on Cybele. The Well is safe enough, and if you get an invitation to the Northwell you have nothing to worry about. But watch your step elsewhere—particularly beyond the Westwell.”
“What’s the Well?” Tycho asked as the rickshaw bumped through an open airlock.
“You’re looking at it,” Mavry replied with a smile.
Tycho whistled in surprise as the rickshaw exited the lock. He’d expected to find himself in a pressure dome set on the asteroid’s surface, but instead a bridge crossed a gigantic cavern hewn from the rock of Cybele itself. A maze of walkways filled the space above their heads, supported by a web of guy wires that had been attached seemingly at random to pillars, other bridges, and the distant rock. High above were enormous mirrors that directed light down into the depths below. The walkway shivered beneath the rickshaw’s wheels, and the guy wires around them whined and sang as they flexed.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” Mavry asked. “This area was so heavily mined that the second generation of settlers just cored it out to make room for all this. Things don’t fall down as often as you might think, but make sure you get a map. I’ve been here a dozen times and I still get lost.”
“So do I,” Vass said, pointing up the shaft to where a collection of what looked like glass bubbles clung to the rock wall. “Those are the Cybelean government offices—with the Jovian and Earth consulates on either side. Keep going that way and you’ll find yourself in the Northwell, which includes Earth’s fondaco. But they won’t admit you unless you have business there. Behind us is the Southwell—you’ll find our fondaco there, as well as depots, mercantile offices, and the like. Same in the Westwell, but all manner of shady business takes place there.”
“Is there an Eastwell?” Yana asked.
“It was filled in to create the spaceport,” Vass said. “Like I said, don’t go beyond the Westwell unless you have a very good reason—your pass will offer theoretical protection, but the Honorable Constabulary of the Cybeles doesn’t patrol that far. The Securitat operates beyond the Westwell, but even they watch their step.”
“Why, Mr. Vass?” Tycho asked. “What’s out there?”
“Dozens and dozens of pressure domes—some abandoned, others not. You’ll find ice mines, factories, and fab units—but also crimps, smugglers, crime rings, Ice Wolves, and who knows what else.”
“We can handle ourselves, Minister,” Yana objected. “We aren’t children.”
“Then you understand I wouldn’t tell you this without a good reason. Cybele is a port of call for the Jovian Union, for Earth, and for the Ice Wolves—with the Cybeleans playing all of us against each other. There are wheels within wheels here, some set spinning by us, others by our enemies, and a few by those whose loyalties aren’t clear. Open hostilities are rare in the main Wells—no one wants to offend the Cybeleans. But elsewhere? Anything goes.”
They were crossing the center of the Well now, where a number of bridges met. A market had sprung up at the nexus, with hawkers calling out from tents and stalls. The rickshaw’s driver honked irritably as the crowd forced their vehicle to slow to a crawl. Tycho spotted sign walkers carrying holographic imagers that displayed starships with flags that morphed continuously, circulating among the colors of Earth, the Jovian Union, and a black circle surrounded by stars.
Vass noticed Tycho’s curious look.
“Registration transfers. With all the privateering going on, insurance rates are soaring for ships moving through this area of space. Cybele is reregistering ships under its own flag—and Cybelean companies are buying up starships on the cheap from both Jovian and Earth shipping firms that are tired of losing cargoes to privateering. Ah, but here’s our first stop.”
The rickshaw pulled up to an elevator bank guarded by soldiers in Jovian uniforms. They wore mirrored eyepieces and had forearms sheathed in metal. Tycho nudged Yana.
“Those are Gibraltar Artisans cyborgs,” he said. “Like Lord Sicyon’s bodyguard on Ganymede. Remember?”
Yana shrugged. “At least they’re on our side.”
“I wish they weren’t. Those guys give me the creeps.”
Vass hopped off the little vehicle and reclaimed his valise, nodding to the impassive soldiers.
“I’ll see you an hour before the banquet,” he called as the rickshaw puttered off in the direction of the Southwell.
“Arrr, thought we’d never be rid of that cursed spy,” Huff growled.
“The spy whose luggage you were kind enough to carry, Grandfather?” Yana asked with a smile.
“He has pluck, I’ll give him that. I ain’t above the occasional good deed, y’know.”
“Yeah, you ought to be careful about that, Grandpa,” Tycho said. “Someone might get the impression that you were fond of Minister Vass.”
“Quiet, you two,” Carlo said.
Yana stuck her tongue out at Carlo. Tycho rubbed his arms, his head wreathed by his own breath.
“If the Cybeleans are making all these livres, why don’t they spend a few on some heat?” he demanded.
The Southwell was a smaller version of the Well, dotted with merchants’ stalls, hostels, grog shops, and kips. A pair of liveried Cybelean constables guarded the Jovian fondaco’s gates, armed with pistols and staffs whose tips crackled with electricity. To Tycho’s relief, he saw no sign of any Gibraltar cyborgs.
“Are they to keep others out or us in?” Yana asked as the constables checked the driver’s credentials.
“Bit o’ both, I suspect,” Huff said.
Beyond the gates was a spacious compound with a mess hall, offices, warehouses, and three-story dormitories hugging the rock wall. A uniformed Jovian official led the Hashoones to the third floor and gave them their passes, complete with shimmering holo-seals. Their rooms consisted of a sparse living room and kitchen, with a bedroom for Diocletia and Mavry on one side and four smaller, identical bedrooms down a short hall past the bathroom.
“Clean enough,” Diocletia said after a cursory inspection. “With any luck we’ll spend most of our time in space. Your father needs to work with Vesuvia on the hull repairs, and I have business at the consulate. So I need you three to get the Comet restocked—assuming you can find a chandler who isn’t completely crooked. Dad, will you go with them?”
Huff nodded and grunted, but Carlo looked up in dismay.
“I was going to get the flight simulator set up,” he said, belatedly adding: “It’s for all of us to use, of course.”
“We can handle the restocking on our own,” Tycho said, before Diocletia could tell his brother no.
“As long as Carlo also figures out how to get the heat on,” Yana said with a shiver.
Diocletia shrugged. Carlo gave his brother a small smile of gratitude, then turned away, escaping to the room he’d chosen.
But the restocking wasn’t as simple as Tycho had expected—prices at the first three chandlers ranged from outrageous to rapacious. Huff clanked out of the third one roaring about greedy dogs what needed to be keelhauled.
“Come on, you lot—there’s better prices in the Westwell,” he growled.
“Isn’t it dangerous there?” Tycho asked, cinching up the fur-lined cloak he’d thrown over his jacket before leaving their rooms.
“So’s blowin’ the whole budget for the cruise and leavin’ the Comet half restocked. Jus’ watch yer back is all.”
“Oh, come on, Tyke,” Yana said. “We’ll be fine.”
Tycho followed his sister and grandfather through the maze of tunnels that led to the Westwell. The passages were thronged by a mix of Cybeleans wearing synthetic furs in a rainbow of colors and burly, bearded spacers in merchant-association uniforms. Many wore carbines on their hips.
“Ice Wolves, do you think?” Yana asked.
Huff shrugged. “If yer mother’s spy was right, they won’t try no foolishness. An’ if they do, well, that’s what me persuader’s for.”
He tapped his built-in forearm cannon against his gleaming chrome skull, grinning at his grandchildren.
Tycho was so busy gawking at the spacers that he turned too late and walked right through a sign walker’s holographic image of a starship under construction, cycling from skeletal struts around engines to a completed gleaming hull and back again.
“Come build starships, son,” the sign walker urged, clamping a hand on Tycho’s shoulder. “Safe work and good livres! Sign up today and I’ll give you a pass—keep the crimps from snapping you up.”
“Building starships where?” Tycho asked.
“Don’t worry about that, young man—all of our facilities offer safe, profitable working conditions. There’s entry-level work here on Cybele and big jobs out there, provided you’re rated for zero-G work. Now, if you’ll just sign here—”
Up ahead, Yana turned around and beckoned irritably at Tycho.
“Let go—I was just asking,” Tycho said, shaking the man off and hurrying to catch up with his grandfather and sister.
The passage exited at the bottom of the Westwell, which was much shallower than the Southwell, with only a few levels of walkways above their heads. Power conduits spilled out of a central shaft, leading to a jumble of stalls and open-air cafés surrounded by rickety tables.
“Arrr, I wonder,” Huff muttered, craning his neck to peer into the upper levels. “Well, ain’t that a sight for sore eyes. It’s still there.”
“What’s still there, Grandfather?” Yana asked.
“One-Legged Pete’s,” Huff said, gesturing with his forearm cannon to a collection of metal rooftops above their heads. “That there’s the finest grog shop in the outer solar system. Raised many a mug there over the years.”
Laughter and music spilled from the bar above them.
“Good place to hear what ships might be ripe for the takin’, too. Y’know, kids . . .”
“We can get the ship restocked, Grandfather,” Yana said, elbowing Tycho in the ribs.
“Arr, I don’t know. Yer mother wouldn’t like it.”
“Yana’s right—we can handle it,” Tycho said. “Besides, you might find some valuable intelligence for us to use aboard the Comet.”
“Good thinkin’,” Huff said with a grin. “But yeh two watch yer step in these parts. Don’t go beyond the Westwell—it ain’t safe. An’ here—yeh best take these.”
The old pirate opened his ancient leather jacket and extracted a pair of wicked-looking musketoons from his bandolier, handing one to each of his grandchildren—a gesture that instantly cleared a meter of space between the three of them and the rest of the crowd.
“Don’t draw on nobody ’less they need shootin’,” Huff rumbled, already clomping toward the ramp that led to the grog shop. “An’ if they do need shootin’, don’t miss.”
“This blaster’s heavy,” Tycho complained, tucking it into the pocket of his jacket.
“Glad to have it, though,” Yana said, putting hers in her parka. “I don’t like the look of folks around here.”
“Neither do I.”
The two of them poked through the marketplace, keeping a wary eye on the spacers around them.
“What do you think Mom will put in the Log about today?” Yana asked as they extricated themselves from an old woman who swore she’d give them a great price on leather boots from Earth—guaranteed as natural and not vat-grown.
“Nothing good,” Tycho said. “I bet Carlo wishes he’d come with us. Mom’s probably giving it to him with both barrels now—and in person, not just in the Log.”
“All of which is good for you, you know.”
Tycho shook his head.
“Who cares? We lost a dromond, Yana. It’s a disaster for the Jovian Union—and don’t think those Earth captains won’t be crowing about it tonight.”
“That’s right—I forgot about that stupid banquet,” Yana said, wrinkling her nose. “But what happened wasn’t our fault. It was Carlo’s. He just had to show off, trying to chase down Allamand.”
“So you knew he was doing the wrong thing? Because I didn’t.”
Yana shrugged. “I was just worried Mom would take command back before he made things worse for himself.”
Tycho stared at his sister in amazement.
“If she had, we might not have lost the Leviathan. Don’t you feel even a little sorry for Carlo?”
Yana snorted. “Would he feel sorry for us?”
Tycho knew she was right—Carlo would have found ways to bring up such a failure for months. And perhaps Yana was correct that Tycho’s recent run of luck had given him a new opportunity to win the captain’s chair—which was only what he’d wanted his entire life.
But Earth had seized an unfathomable amount of livres’ worth of Jovian cargo and a Jovian crew—one the Comet had been protecting. And he took no pleasure in remembering his brother’s misery. Carlo’s smug self-assurance had annoyed Tycho many times—but the sight of his older brother stunned and despondent had left Tycho feeling hollow and somehow ashamed.
Prices at the two depots in the Westwell proved no better than in the Southwell. As Tycho and Yana huddled to consider their options, a grizzled tout leaned into their conversation.
“Restockin’ a ship? You need to go to the Last Chance—all services and fair prices. All I ask is you tell the boss lady that Merle sent you.”
“And where’s the Last Chance?” Tycho asked.
Merle pointed a grimy finger at the rock wall leading deeper into Cybele’s maze of passages.
“In Bazaar—it’s the next dome over, just a few hundred meters that way.”
“Beyond the Westwell?” Tycho asked.
“Only a few hundred meters. Safe enough for two strapping young spacers such as yourselves.”
“I don’t know,” Tycho said when they’d freed themselves from Merle.
“Tyke, honestly—we’re carrying enough firepower to outfit a strike fighter,” Yana said, patting the blaster beneath her parka.
Tycho surrendered, and they passed through an open airlock that connected the Westwell with a dim, dank tunnel hacked out of the rock. The passageway reminded Tycho of the lower levels of Port Town on Callisto—a frigid dumping ground for the luckless and those who preyed on them.
But the tunnel was as short as Merle had promised. Tycho saw a bright square of light ahead, and then he and Yana emerged into a pressure dome that had been erected on the surface of Cybele and inflated over curved struts adorned with clusters of brilliant white lights. Multicolored flags and wind chimes made of scrap metal hung from the girders above, giving the dome an oddly festive atmosphere.
Bazaar was filled with shacks and stalls made out of metal and plastic, where fur-clad shoppers bickered and bargained. Tycho and Yana stepped over forlorn men, women, and children who sat cross-legged behind blankets covered with a miscellany of repaired machinery, or who mutely held up bowls in hopes that some passer-by would drop in a livre or two. In the center of the dome was a larger structure, a multilevel assemblage of old shipping containers and scrap metal that had been fused into a sprawling depot topped with a holographic sign that read “The Last Chance,” in neon colors bright enough to leave afterimages on Tycho’s vision.
Tycho looked around the riot of stalls, trying to get his bearings amid the astonishing profusion of goods for sale. Bazaar offered everything from common spacer gear scuffed and yellowed by solar radiation to diaphanous silks that would have passed muster at a Ganymedan fete. Yana stopped at one stall to examine a cowl that switched from yellow to deep green as it moved in the dealer’s hands.
A tout buttonholed Tycho to extol the virtues of an apprenticeship with a freight tender, then stopped in midsentence, looking anxiously over Tycho’s shoulder. He blanched, then hurried away from the twins. The silk merchant snatched the cowl out of Yana’s hands, causing the fabric to erupt in bursts of purple and rose, and reached for the metal shutter above his head.
Clangs and rumbles sounded all around them as the owners of stall after stall brought down their gates. The peddlers bundled up their merchandise and scampered away. A hard-eyed man slammed the last shutter at the Last Chance, transforming the depot into a blank fortress. Only the seekers of alms remained, faces grave yet expectant, their children peeking out from behind their shoulders.
A half dozen men swaggered into the deserted marketplace. The leader had a cybernetic eye and animated tattoos chasing themselves up and down his arms. A blaster pistol rode low on his hip, and he carried a constable’s staff over one shoulder, its tip flaring with white light. The others were armed as well—Tycho spotted guns, knives, and clubs in holsters, waistbands, and hands.
“Crimps,” Yana said. “I hate crimps.”
The leader saw the Hashoone twins and grinned.
“Hello, what have we here?” he asked. “Ever consider a career in space, kids?”
“Already got one,” Tycho said, willing his voice to be firm and deep. “We’re midshipmen on the privateer Shadow Comet, operating under a letter of marque from the Jovian Union.”
The man with the cybernetic eye grinned.
“Fancy that. And I suppose you have passes that testify to your gainful employment and prestigious occupation?”
“We do.”
“I’ll see them, then,” the leader said, as the gang moved forward.
“That’s close enough,” Yana said, reaching her hand into her parka and emerging with Huff’s pistol.
The crimps stopped. Their leader grinned, tapping his staff absentmindedly on the ground. Curlicues of energy chased each other around his feet before dissipating.
“Mighty big gun for a little girl,” the leader said. “Careful it doesn’t go off.”
“You take one more step and it will,” Yana said. “My brother will show you his pass. But just you—and you can look at it without that stick.”
The crimps laughed, but the merriment had an uncertain edge now. Their leader grinned again, but he also gave the energy prod to the man next to him before striding over to stand in front of Tycho.
Tycho handed over the pass, which the crimp eyed suspiciously.
“Looks legit. Or perhaps Mommy and Daddy have enough livres to pay for a good fake.”
“It is legit and you know it,” Tycho said, reaching to reclaim his pass. The crimp held it away from him, baring a mouthful of yellowed teeth.
“Relax, kid,” he said, turning to regard Yana. “And where’s yours, missy?”
“Right here,” Yana said, inclining her head minutely toward the barrel of Huff’s pistol.
“She’s my sister,” Tycho said. “And a midshipman on our quarterdeck. Her pass is the same as mine.”
“Passes can get lost. And if two kids wake up belowdecks on a construction barge, it can take a while to sort things out.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Yana said. “Give my brother back his pass and go bother someone else.”
“Six against two ain’t great odds, girlie. What if we’d rather bother you?”
“Then this gun turns your head into steam. What happens after that won’t be your problem.”
“I hear there’s easy pickings in the next dome, boss,” one of the crimps said after a moment.
The leader narrowed his eyes, then nodded. He let go of Tycho’s pass, which fluttered to the ground. “Looks like it’s your lucky day, kids.”
“Uh-uh,” Yana said. “Pick up the pass and hand it to my brother. Right now.”
The crimps’ leader was no longer smiling.
“You that tough, kid?”
Yana said nothing. The lead crimp eyed her for a moment, then snatched the pass off the ground and thrust it against Tycho’s chest.
“You two caught me in a good mood—but if I see either of you here again, I won’t be so merciful,” he warned, then shot a last look at Yana. “Your sister’s a piece of work, kid,” he told Tycho.
Tycho tucked the pass back under his cloak and managed a small smile. “You should meet our mother.”
When the last of the crimps had departed, Yana exhaled and lowered Huff’s blaster.
“First thing I do when we get back is ask Mom for a gun that weighs less,” she said.
Shutters rattled upward around them, and within a minute Bazaar was nearly as crowded as it had been before the crimps’ interruption. The vendor held out the cowl Yana had been looking at.
“Synthetic chromatophores, miss,” he said. “The color changes in response to sound and movement. Just look at this workmanship—”
“I was looking before you left us to the crimps,” Yana said. “You’re giving me a discount for that.”
The merchant shrugged as Yana stretched out the silk and watched ripples of red and blue chase themselves across its length.
“Wouldn’t this be great for the banquet?” she asked Tycho, their encounter with the crimps apparently already forgotten.
“It’s coming out of your allowance, not the restocking fund. I’m going to check out the Last Chance.”
He left his sister to her haggling and entered the sprawling depot, which was piled high with everything one might need to outfit a starship: cargo containers were stacked next to pyramids of batteries and bins of high-intensity lamps, while signs promised the best rates on Cybele for water, air, and foodstuffs. A short flight of steps led to a small café where spacers were comparing notes on their mediapads, and a brightly lit video board was crammed with blinking and flashing starship logos, the calling cards of captains seeking to fill out their crew rosters. Clerks scurried about, and big, hard-eyed men with iron bars in their hands stood around the depot’s perimeter, ready to roll down the shutters or attend to other trouble.
Tycho’s mediapad beeped. He looked at the device and scowled—it was his mother.
“Where are you?” Diocletia asked when he answered.
Tycho hesitated.
“The chandler’s depot in a dome called Bazaar.”
Diocletia said nothing for a moment, and Tycho knew she was looking at a map of Cybele. He braced for impact.
“That’s beyond the Westwell.”
“Just a few hundred meters. We’d need a year’s worth of condemnations to meet any other depot’s prices.”
“I see. Stay there. I’m on my way.”
Tycho put the mediapad away, wondering what his mother wanted. He supposed they’d find out soon enough.
“Like I told you the last two times, Jenks, no goods on credit,” a woman said in an angry voice. “I can’t pay the rent with rumors about mineral deposits, you know. Which is all you ever have for payment.”
The woman stood behind a triangle of counters in the center of the Last Chance. She was tall and broad shouldered, with sharp features and black hair gone gray. She waited with her hands on her hips while the unfortunate Jenks’s pleas turned to imprecations. One of the men with bars took a step forward, prompting Jenks to scuttle out of the Last Chance with a final offended glance.
The woman turned and gave Tycho an appraising look. “If you’re cabin boy on some broken-down ore boat, I’ll save us both some time and trouble—the answer is no.”
Tycho shook his head as Yana joined him at the counter, a parcel of opaque plastic tucked under one arm.
“Merle sent us,” he said. “We’re restocking a frigate. Um, assuming you can service a ship that big . . .”
“I’ve outfitted prospector convoys trying their luck in the Kuiper Belt, kid—I can handle a frigate.”
Her eyes narrowed, then lingered on Yana.
“You and that girl are the ones who just faced down Jasper One Eye. Free advice—be careful of him. Whoever he’s working for, they’ve got plenty of livres—and they’re snatching up anyone who looks like they can figure out the right end of a power wrench. And Good Samaritans are in short supply around here.”
“I noticed that,” Tycho said.
“Well, don’t forget it. Now show me your shopping list and I’ll get you a price.”
Tycho specified the Comet’s needs and studied his surroundings while the woman entered numbers into her mediapad. A knot of bearded spacers were arguing over the merits of different models of air scrubbers while a young clerk hovered nearby, looking for a break in the dispute.
“Those spacers look Saturnian,” Tycho said, keeping his voice carefully neutral.
“Are you asking me if they’re Ice Wolves?” the woman asked with a raised eyebrow.
Tycho shrugged.
“Don’t know and don’t care,” she said. “Saturnians, Jovians, asteroid dwellers, Martians, Earthfolk—we get them all in here. Their livres are legal tender, which is good enough for me. Anything beyond that is information, kid. And information isn’t free.”
“Hey, jump-pop,” Yana said, peeking at a cooler behind the counter. “I’ll take an orange—as long as it’s cold.”
The depot owner eyed Yana, then placed a jump-pop in front of her. The bottle was covered with frost.
“Could I get a lime one, please?” Tycho asked.
“That’s ten livres,” the woman said.
“Ten?” Yana asked in shock. “They’re two for seven in the Southwell.”
“They’re also warm and left over from last year’s imports. Up to you.”
“Fine,” Yana grumbled, passing over a coin and downing a long swallow of jump-pop.
“All right,” the woman said, turning her mediapad around so they could see it. “Water, air, consumables as specified.”
“I think you put a decimal point in the wrong place,” Yana said.
“This does seems awfully high,” Tycho said.
“It’s correct. And what I sell will weigh the same on the landing-field scale as it’s listed on the manifest. Which won’t be true if you buy in the Southwell.”
“It’s still outrageous,” Yana said.
The depot owner sighed.
“Did you see all the ships in orbit when you made port, kid? This little rock is booming right now. That’s the price. If you don’t want to pay it, within an hour I’ll have two captains who will.”
Tycho and Yana looked at each other uncertainly.
“Does that include delivery to the landing pad, at least?” Tycho asked.
“It does not. We’ll prepare a shipment for transport by your own people, but delivery is extra.”
“Last time we restocked on Ceres, it was half this price,” Yana said.
“So restock on Ceres,” the woman said, pointing. “It’s one hundred million kilometers that way.”
Tycho started to argue, but the woman was looking past him, a curious expression on her face.
“So it’s you,” she said. “It’s been a long time.”
Tycho turned and saw Diocletia standing behind Yana, arms folded across her chest.
“It has, hasn’t it?” Diocletia said. “Hello, Mother.”