The Rise of Earth Read online

  TYCHO, THIS ISN’T ABOUT YOU AND ME. WHAT’S HAPPENING IN THE CYBELES THREATENS ALL OF US. WE NEED YOUR HELP—AND YOU AND YOUR FAMILY COULD USE OURS.

  Tycho shook his head.

  Forget it, he typed back, then waited for the next beep.

  YOU KNOW HOW TO REACH ME IF YOU RECONSIDER. PLEASE DO. UNTIL THEN, STAY AWAY FROM THE ICE WOLVES. LEAVE THEM TO US.

  Tycho archived the conversation with DeWise in an encrypted section of his mediapad only he could access, then sorted through his clothing and gear again, though he knew everything was in order. He pawed halfheartedly through his T-shirts and jumpsuits, then sighed and left his quarters, hoping to beat Yana and Carlo to the downstairs bathroom. Darklands’s water-recycling system was old and creaky—if you waited too long for the shower, the water would be tepid and faintly greasy from traces of soap.

  Tycho’s quarters opened onto a long spiral ramp that led down from Darklands’s airlock on the surface of Callisto to the living room and kitchen far below, passing bedrooms, storage areas, and simulator rooms. The homestead had begun as the central shaft of a mine excavated four centuries ago, when the Hashoones’ ancestor Gregorius had arrived from Earth. Here and there along the ramp, slabs of iron sealed off tunnels leading deeper into Callisto’s crust, dug before the mine was exhausted. When that happened, Gregorius’s great-grandson Lodovico Hashoone had bolted weapons onto his motley collection of ore boats and convinced his miners to sign on as pirates. Some of their descendants still served the Hashoones as retainers.

  Tycho found Yana one level down, outside the simulation room. Tycho thought about racing past her to get to the shower first, then noticed she had her head cocked to one side, her expression intent.

  “How’s the eavesdropping, sis?” he asked with a smile. Sound bounced up and down the old mineshaft of Darklands in odd ways, and by chance the simulation room was perfectly positioned for a person to hear what was happening a level above—or a level below, where the bedroom shared by Diocletia and Mavry opened onto the ramp.

  “Quiet,” Yana chided him, not the least bit embarrassed at being caught. “Mom and Grandfather are exchanging broadsides.”

  Tycho joined her, resting his elbows on the railing and peering down into the living room, which was dominated by the giant steel water tank that tapped into the lightless ocean many kilometers below.

  “—wish I hadn’t lived to see the day a Hashoone would take some Securitat spy aboard the Comet,” Huff growled from the next level down.

  Some Securitat spy? Tycho stared down into the living room, trying to stop his hands from shaking. No. It can’t be. They wouldn’t.

  “Like I told you the first time, Mr. Vass isn’t with the Securitat,” said Diocletia, sounding angry and tired. “He’s an intelligence minister with the Jovian Defense Force.”

  Tycho blew his breath out in relief.

  “Shh,” Yana said.

  “Intelligence means he’s a spy,” Huff growled. “And spies are all the same.”

  “You know that isn’t true,” Mavry said. “The Securitat and the JDF barely work together since what happened at Saturn.”

  “That’s what they want yeh to believe,” Huff said, his voice rising. “This Vass will break into the Log an’ copy the lot, give all our secrets to the Securitat.”

  “Vesuvia’s systems are secure—unless we’re talking about rogue programs you put in there without telling anybody,” Diocletia said sharply.

  “Arrr, that’s a low blow, Dio. Thought we agreed to let that be.”

  “When did we do that? I haven’t forgotten about it—just like I haven’t forgotten how you let Thoadbone Mox go, for some reason you’ve never seen fit to explain.”

  “The daughter I raised wouldn’t ’ave needed it explained. I let Mox go cause he’s a Jupiter pirate—the last of us, maybe. He deserves better than dyin’ in a courtroom because some politician’s declared us extinct.”

  “How romantic. And do you recall how Mox paid you back for this act of pirate brotherhood? I remember he tried to kill us at P/2093—and nearly succeeded at Saturn.”

  “Piratin’ is a dangerous business. But it’s better than playin’ ferryboat for the JDF. No matter how many livres some bureaucrat dangles in front of yeh.”

  “Agree with Grandfather there,” Yana muttered to Tycho.

  “How many times have we had this conversation?” asked Mavry. “Huff, there’s nothing wrong with livres that don’t involve someone shooting at you.”

  “Agree with Dad there,” Tycho said, and his sister rolled her eyes.

  “Except these livres are for lettin’ a spy aboard our ship,” Huff growled. “At least keep him away from the kids.”

  “And how would I do that, exactly?” Diocletia asked. “It’s three days to the Cybeles—shall I tie our guest into a hammock for the duration?”

  “Second best to marchin’ him out the airlock, but that would do.”

  Then the old pirate’s voice changed, and Tycho had to strain to hear him.

  “Seen these Securitat types operate too many times, Dio—seen ’em be the ruin of many a good pirate. Keep him away from the kids. Is that too much to ask?”

  Tycho stared down into the living room. He realized he was looking at the very spot where he’d stolen the data disk for DeWise.

  “All three of our kids have their faults, but I’ve never worried about their loyalty,” Mavry said, sounding offended.

  “Arrr, I know they’re good kids, Mavry. But ain’t nobody born bad. Them Securitat types spin their webs, an’ little by little they wrap yeh up. Until yeh can’t find yer way out, an’ yeh realize they own yeh.”

  “You two are up early,” a voice said very close by.

  Startled, Tycho turned to see Carina standing on the ramp. One hand was around a mug of steaming tea. The other was on her hip.

  “You’re not the first middies to discover that spot, you know,” she said. “But you might be the first to be so embarrassingly obvious about it. Yana, I hope you run sensors a little more carefully than you monitor your own surroundings.”

  Tycho wondered how this would look in the Log—two midshipmen spying on their parents.

  Yana sighed. “What happens now?”

  Carina raised an eyebrow.

  “Officially, nothing. Unofficially, you’re volunteering to prepare the articles for the Cybele cruise, while your brother will make sure all hands sign those articles.”

  Yana crossed her arms over her chest and hung her head. She disliked all pixel work, but preparing the written agreement for each cruise was her least favorite assignment. Tycho stifled a groan—he’d have to spend an hour and a half standing by the airlock belowdecks waiting for the ferries returning the Comets from shore leave in Port Town, explaining the articles to crewers who had no interest in reading them, and clarifying minute points of order with the hands who fancied themselves space lawyers.

  “But Mom assigned the articles to Carlo,” Yana objected. “What will I tell him?”

  “That you’re the kindest, most generous of sisters. Why would that surprise him? Now I believe your captain wants engines lit by 0930, so get moving.”

  At the Shadow Comet’s port airlock, Tycho finished entering the last retainer’s name into his mediapad and deactivated the screen.

  “Full complement aboard and all hands have signed the articles,” he said wearily into his headset. “I’m coming up.”

  Up by the bow, the bosun’s pipes shrilled out an order, followed by the sound of a lone bell—it was 0830, an hour to engines lit.

  Tycho stepped around a new crewer dangling a malodorous hunk of dried fish in front of the ship’s cat, who sniffed at it suspiciously before walking off in disdain. He ascended the ladderwell and emerged on the brightly lit quarterdeck, where his parents were running diagnostics and Carlo was testing the flight controls. Next to Tycho’s station, Yana was quarreling with Vesuvia about how to deal with a stuck sensor mast, while Huff was in his usual spo
t between Tycho’s and Yana’s stations, forearm cannon jerking irritably.

  Carlo turned around as Tycho stepped off the ladder. He grinned, then stretched languorously.

  “Thanks for the extra sleep, Tyke,” he said, resting his sneakers on his console. “Really nice of you and Yana.”

  “Belay that,” Diocletia said, and then her gaze fell on her younger children. “I decided not to ask Carina what trouble you two managed to get into so early in the morning. You’re too old to be stealing cookies out of the pantry.”

  “That’s my department,” Mavry said.

  “Were you up early running a piloting sim, Tyke?” Carlo asked. “Figured out how not to fly into Jupiter yet?”

  “What part of ‘belay that’ was unclear?” Diocletia asked. “Our passenger, Mr. Vass, just left Port Town on a ferry. When he arrives, you two will give him a tour of the ship and get him settled in his cabin. I want you both back here at 0915.”

  “Aye-aye,” Tycho said, then hesitated. “What cabin is he using? I suppose he could bunk with Mr. de Pere—he’s most junior in the wardroom.”

  “A JDF minister sharing a cabin belowdecks?” Diocletia asked with a raised eyebrow. “I don’t think they’d care for that on Ganymede. Mr. Vass will take Carina’s old cabin.”

  Shocked faces turned to Diocletia. Carina’s cabin had been empty since 624 Hektor.

  “Have you all gone deaf? Mr. Vass will use my sister’s cabin. I just made it ready myself.”

  It was Huff who spoke first. “Yer givin’ my daughter’s cabin to . . . to a spy?”

  “Let’s please not refer to our passenger as a spy. But yes, that’s exactly what I’m doing. It’s been fifteen years since Carina swore she’d never set foot on the Comet again. I don’t think she’s changing her mind.”

  Huff sputtered, his forearm cannon pinwheeling crazily.

  “The solar system’s changing,” Diocletia said. “Time we accept that. If we can’t start with something as obvious as this, what chance do we have of accepting things that are really important? Now, I trust my order is clear?”

  She looked at each of her family members in turn. Mavry put up his hands in acquiescence. Carlo offered his mother a nod. Tycho looked down at his sensor board, then nodded hurriedly when he felt his mother’s eyes lingering on him. Yana shrugged. But Huff just stared at his daughter, his artificial eye blazing white.

  An alert sounded on Tycho’s sensor board.

  “Inbound ferry requesting docking permission,” Vesuvia said.

  “Granted,” Diocletia said, gaze still fixed on Huff. “Direct the pilot to the port airlock and ask him to hold—in case my father decides he would rather return to Port Town.”

  For a moment the quarterdeck was silent except for the chug of the Comet’s air scrubbers.

  “I’m goin’ to me cabin before yeh rent it out to the next spy,” Huff said.

  Then he turned and clomped up the ladderwell to the top deck, his metal feet ringing out like hammers. Tycho watched his grandfather vanish, trailing a stream of invective.

  “Tycho?” Diocletia asked. “Are you joining your sister belowdecks?”

  “What? Oh—of course, Captain.”

  Tycho started to rise from his seat, but he had forgotten to unstrap his restraints and fell back into it. He fumbled with the straps, trying to ignore Carlo’s laughter, then followed Yana down the ladder. Crewers and retainers touched their knuckles to their brows, and Tycho and Yana nodded in return.

  The Comet shook faintly as the ferry’s docking ring aligned with the privateer’s, sealing the two craft together. The lights around the airlock blinked green.

  “You do the talking,” Tycho said to Yana.

  “No way! That’s your job!”

  “Why is it my job?”

  “Yana, your microphone’s hot,” Diocletia said over their headsets.

  Yana stabbed guiltily at her headset’s controls while Tycho closed his eyes in dismay. They both heard their mother sigh.

  “I don’t know why everybody’s getting along like cats in a sack today, but it needs to stop. You two can help by not embarrassing us for the next fifteen minutes. Tycho will greet the minister. Is that clear?”

  “It’s clear, Captain,” Tycho said with a final glower at his sister. “Quarterdeck, we are green to receive our passenger.”

  “That’s better,” Diocletia said. “Vesuvia, open her up.”

  The inner airlock door rose smoothly into the ceiling. Standing in the ferry’s airlock was a little man with close-cropped white hair and a neatly trimmed beard, his eyes a bright blue. He carried a large canvas valise and wore a neat formal tunic and trousers—not a military uniform, but the garb of a government official.

  “Masters Hashoone, my name’s Vass. Nehemiah Vass,” he said in a crisp voice. “Permission to come aboard?”

  “Granted, Mr. Vass,” Tycho said. “I’m Tycho Hashoone, and this is my sister, Yana. Welcome aboard the Shadow Comet.”

  Vass extended his hand to Tycho, then bowed to Yana.

  “You can leave your bag, Minister,” Tycho said. “One of our crewers will take it to your cabin.”

  Vass set the large valise down gratefully. As Yana closed the airlock, he peered beyond Tycho into the dim depths of the privateer’s lower deck, where crewers were rushing among the maze of struts and girders. Somewhere aft they heard Grigsby directing a string of impressively awful oaths at a crewer who’d done something to trigger his wrath.

  Vass looked surprised by the paint-peeling torrent.

  “You’ll discover things can be a little . . . informal belowdecks, Mr. Vass,” Tycho said. “Um, our captain’s ordered engines lit at 0930, but we can show you around first if you like.”

  Vass brightened. “I would like that very much, Masters. I’ve never been aboard one of our privateers.”

  “Then follow us,” Tycho said. “We’ll show you to your cabin and then give you a tour of the quarterdeck. The ladderwell is this way.”

  “But what about this level?” Vass asked. “I’d like very much to see it as well. If there’s time, of course.”

  Tycho and Yana looked at each other, surprised. The bells clang-clanged for 0900 and Vass jumped at the sound.

  “It’s been a while since I was aboard a starship,” he said. “I forgot about all the racket.”

  “We hardly notice it by now,” Yana said.

  “You’ll get used to it too,” Tycho said. “So this is the port side of the ship. There are eleven gunports on each side, eight fore of the airlock and three aft. Behind the gunnery ladderwell you’ll find the main hold. And if you’ll come this way, Mr. Vass, we’ll show you the magazines, infirmary, and the mess.”

  Crewers rushed around them in a blur of glowing tattoos and clouds of cheroot smoke, muttering greetings and touching their knuckles to their foreheads. Vass had to dodge a giant crewer with a mohawk who emerged from the head and gaped in horror at the sight of two members of the bridge crew.

  “That ladderwell leads to the quarterdeck,” Tycho said as the big crewer smacked his knuckles to his scalp and fled. “And these are the cabins used by the belowdecks officers.”

  “They’re much smaller than the ones aboard a military vessel,” Vass said. “Are your quarters down here too?”

  “No,” Yana said. “We’re bridge crew, so we berth with the rest of our family on the top deck.”

  “That’s where you’ll be staying as well, Mr. Vass,” Tycho added. “And this is the wardroom. The belowdecks officers eat here, but during combat this room is cleared and becomes the surgeon’s operating theater.”

  Vass nodded distractedly, peering at the crewers surrounding them.

  “But these people can’t all be officers. Where do they sleep?”

  “In hammocks,” Yana said. “Back on the main portion of this deck.”

  “I didn’t see any,” Vass said, retreating to look up into the maze of struts and girders they’d passed through earlier. “Where are
they?”

  “We need to hurry, Tyke,” Yana said in a low voice. Tycho shrugged helplessly.

  “Right now they’re stowed for departure,” Tycho told Vass. “The crewers lash them to their footlockers, which are magnetized so they can be attached to the girders. ‘Lash up and stow,’ we call it.”

  “Ah. Can I see?”

  Yana reached out to grab a young crewer’s shoulder. “You there. Would you unfurl your hammock for a visitor?”

  “Which I jes’ stowed it,” grumbled the crewer, who wasn’t more than a year or two older than the twins.

  Yana took a step back, astonished.

  “Yana, he’s new,” Tycho said hastily—the crewer’s name escaped him, but Tycho had read the articles to him less than an hour before.

  “Pardon, Master Hashoone,” the young man muttered, raising his knuckle to his forehead. “Didn’t see yeh there.”

  Yana stepped forward until her nose was a millimeter from the crewer’s.

  “I see you’ve met my brother. I’m Yana Hashoone—bridge crew. Now, do I need to repeat my order?”

  Before the crewer could say anything, Grigsby emerged from the passageway that led to the wardroom.

  “What’s this then?” he asked.

  “Mr. Vass, this is Mr. Grigsby, our warrant officer,” Tycho said.

  “Pleasure,” Grigsby muttered, but his eyes were fixed on Yana and the crewer.

  “I didn’t mean to cause any difficulty, Masters,” Vass said. “Perhaps we could continue the tour later?”

  “What’s your name?” Yana asked the young crewer.

  “Immanuel Sier. Signed on this morning out of Port Town.”

  “You don’t sound Jovian, Mr. Sier,” Yana said.

  “Mum came to Port Town from Enceladus,” Immanuel said, raising his chin to stare back at Yana.

  “A Saturnian?” Yana asked. “Who doesn’t salute and talks back to officers? Like we don’t have enough problems these days?”

  “Yana, Mr. Sier signed the articles and has been read in,” Tycho objected.

  “I’m Saturnian—and what of that?” Immanuel demanded. “Bein’ Jovian don’t make yeh better’n me, miss.”

  One of Grigsby’s big hands closed around the front of Immanuel’s jumpsuit and dragged him away from Yana.