Saga of Shadows 1: The Dark Between the Stars (8 page)

Sam Ricks let out a rude snort. “And you charge the clans as much as you charge Hansa customers. Anyone with real Roamer blood in his veins would give us better prices.”

Iswander was annoyed that Ricks would interrupt him, when he had politely endured his opponent’s bland speech. “That only proves you don’t understand business. My production costs don’t decrease because a Roamer buys the unit rather than some other customer. It’s business. Mathematics doesn’t play favorites. The clans have to stop living by the seat of their pants.”

From the Speaker’s platform, Isha Seward said, “Sam, no more interruptions. Be polite.”

A dour-faced man with a thick beard and shaggy gray hair scoffed. “Polite? Roamers sure have changed, and not in a good way. Convocations used to be an open exchange of ideas, now it’s like some prissy court dance. Should we bow and curtsy too?”

Iswander recognized the man as Olaf Reeves, Garrison’s father—an idiot by any measure. He wore traditional clothes with pockets, zippers, clips, and clan symbols embroidered on the fabric. Some might have called the clothes old-fashioned or woefully unstylish, but the clan head seemed to wear them as a badge of honor. “I don’t mind a frank and open exchange of ideas, Olaf Reeves,” he said, then couldn’t resist twisting the knife. “In fact, let me ask why you haven’t finished rebuilding Rendezvous yet? You’ve been working on it for years, and if you’d let me supply prefab modules, as I offered, you could have completed the job a decade ago. I did make your son an excellent offer.”

“We don’t need your shizzy prefabs,” Olaf said. “We’re Roamers. We’re self-sufficient. We don’t need help from outsiders.”

“I am no outsider,” Iswander said. “I am a Roamer, and Roamers adapt. I have adapted to the Confederation.” He was no fan of the stick-in-the-mud Retroamer leader, and he wondered now if Elisa’s husband had fled back to his family’s clan. Iswander crossed his arms over his chest, realized it was a defensive posture, and relaxed as unobtrusively as possible. “I offered you a way to finish your project at Rendezvous, but you tossed it aside. Aren’t Roamer clans supposed to help one another? Those who turn their backs on their cousins tend to fail.”

“You’ve had a few failures yourself, Iswander.” It was Ricks again, oblivious to the frown Speaker Seward gave him. “I checked out your business record—a lot of risky investments. Some might call them catastrophes.”

Iswander had been prepared for that. “Yes, I made some risky investments. Some failed, others were successful. Roamers can’t forget how to live on the edge—that’s where the profit is. And if Roamers made only safe choices, we would have learned nothing and petered out long ago.”

He looked around the room. “I understand what it is to be a Roamer. I also understand that we’re citizens of the Confederation now, not outlaws in hiding. It’s time to come into the daylight and be who we’re supposed to be. If you’re ready to move forward, I’d appreciate your vote for Speaker. I can see the Guiding Star, and I know where it leads.”

When it was time for his own summation, though, Sam Ricks couldn’t even articulate a reason as to why the clans should vote for him.

Iswander swept his gaze across the room, meeting as many eyes as possible. “The Roamers can have a bright future, and I’m willing to work hard for all of us to make that happen. Thank you for your time.”

Before the chamber was dismissed, Olaf Reeves bustled out with his younger son Dale and a few other family members. “Doesn’t matter which man you vote for—you’ll never be the same Roamer clans we once belonged to.”

E
IGHT

D
EL
K
ELLUM

For a man who had spent most of his life in space running spacedocks, shipyards, and asteroid settlements, Del Kellum loved the ocean. He stood on the metal grid walkway (he preferred to think of it as a “balcony”) of his distillery complex that rose on stilts from the shallow seas of Kuivahr.

He told his distillery workers, unconvincingly, that he went out there to ponder the process lines for the various brews they produced. Actually, he just liked to stare out at the water.

Green waves slurped against the breakwater and pilings, curling around the fermentation towers and plankton-separation tanks, in a slow-motion waltz as the twin moons of Kuivahr pulled the tides one way and then another. Hypnotic, beautiful . . . and a hell of a lot more peaceful than the arguing of Roamer clans when he’d served as their Speaker.

Del closed his eyes and pulled in a deep breath, savoring the salt and iodine smell that was integral to so many ocean worlds. Instead of fresh sea air, though, he smelled the crisp, malty scent of roasting Kuivahr kelp in the seaweed kilns, blended with the sour chemical tang of plankton mash. But that was a good smell too, if he adjusted his expectations accordingly.

Gray clouds across the sky obscured the two moons. He had erected his distillery in Kuivahr’s tidal transition zone, where the shallow oceans sloshed back and forth, filling the basin with fresh frothy water for part of the cycle, pulling in rafts of succulent kelp, and leaving noisome plankton-rich mudflats when the waters receded. There was always something to harvest.

Not far away on a rock outcropping tall enough to remain above the highest tides, the ancient Klikiss race had left one of their transportals—a giant stone trapezoid that allowed access to interdimensional tunnels connecting a whole network of worlds. A quarter century ago, humans had figured out the mysterious gateways and now used the transportals as shortcuts to certain connected planets. It formed a fine subsidiary transportation system among the worlds that had once been inhabited by the Klikiss. On Kuivahr, Del was pleased that the transportal made shipping his “aqua vitae” (twenty-three varieties, so far) much easier, although cargo ships and Ildiran vessels also came here on their regular routes.

Kuivahr meant “refuge” in the Ildiran language. The halfbreed Ildiran researcher Tamo’l managed her medical sanctuary domes not far from Del’s distillery, but the mixed-breed genetic misfits kept to themselves. They had been on Kuivahr longer. Ildirans, as a race, took comfort in bright sunlight and areas of higher population. Though humans and Ildirans lived in separate settlements on Kuivahr, they benefited from living close together and traded with each other on a regular basis.

Below, Del heard hooting laughter out in the water and saw five Ildiran swimmer kith, the sleek otterlike breed, splashing about. They tugged polymer coracles behind them as they harvested kelpflowers. The swimmers reserved the richer, more intense plankton slime for Tamo’l and her facility, but they gave Del most of their harvest, so long as he brewed the nasty kirae they liked to drink.

Since Ildirans didn’t understand economics or payment, it was hard to convince the swimmer kith to bring in regular deliveries of ingredients so Del could plan his distillery process lines. But they were good neighbors, he supposed. He made do.

A grating buzzer sounded from the speakers mounted above the distillery decks. Shift change. He had been meaning to get rid of the abrasive tone: workers should be pleased when their shift ended, and that noise sounded like a punishment. He would get around to it, but these days he didn’t get too concerned about small things. He’d had enough of that during his fifteen years as Speaker.

He entered the distillery office levels, greeted the off-shift workers going either to the recreation hall or their own quarters. Many were his distant cousins, or apprentices from other clans who had applied for jobs because they felt Del owed them favors from old political days. He wasn’t sure that working in his distillery counted as a “favor,” but it was a decent job and better than many Roamer outposts, such as the lava-harvesting operations on Sheol.

Marius Denva, his line supervisor, met him at the rec-room hall and led him to a table, where he had set out four goblets filled with khaki-colored liquids that exhibited varying degrees of murk.

Del placed a hand on his stomach, which had grown much rounder in recent years, though he pretended not to notice it. His beard was now almost entirely salt with very little pepper. Serving as clan Speaker was enough to ruin anyone’s health and peace of mind, and he had promised himself he would get back in shape as soon as he had time to focus on that again. Someday.

“Del, we’ve got samples of Batch Nineteen,” Marius said. “Different filtration levels, residual yeasts, and three separate plankton varieties.”

“How do they taste?” Del asked.

Marius had curly, dark brown hair, heavy eyebrows, and smoky eyes that squinted when he showed off his trademark smile. “
I’m
not going to be the first one to taste it.”

“Yes you are.” Del handed one of the goblets to the man.

With a hesitant frown, Marius took a sip, taking great care to maintain a neutral expression, though the flinch at his eyes was unmistakable. “Tastes like shit—but noticeably better than Batch Eighteen.”

“That’s a relief. The seasonal plankton blooms are so unpredictable that the taste varies widely. At least we have six batches good enough to distribute. It sells well.”

“As a novelty, not because anybody loves it. Give people time to develop a taste, while we improve the process.”

Moving down the line, he and Marius sipped the alternate varieties, their grimaces growing progressively worse. They were attempting to brew a unique celebratory beverage to be served after the new clan Speaker was chosen.

“Anything’s better than that Ildiran kirae, by damn.” Del shook his head. “We’re shipping tankers of the stuff, but I still think it tastes like eyeballs boiled in urine.”

“One of these days, Del, I’m actually going to cook eyeballs in urine, so you can do a comparison taste test.”

Del laughed. “Don’t need to, and the Ildirans can’t seem to get enough kirae, so we’ll keep it flowing. Maintain the goodwill between races. A long time ago, we Roamers took over their skymines and supplied stardrive fuel from gas-giant planets. Supplying Ildirans with their new favorite liquor needs doesn’t sound as essential, but it’s profitable, by damn.” He set the sample aside. “Well, I suppose this batch is good enough if Iswander wins. And he’s going to win.”

Marius maintained his smile. “I thought you weren’t interested in politics anymore.”

“I’m not. Not in the least.”

“Right. Don’t tell me you haven’t looked at the new Roamer Charter to see if there’s a way you could run for Speaker again.”

Del made a rude noise. “I’d sooner fight the hydrogues again.” He even thought he meant it.

After the end of the Elemental War when the Roamers came together again, there had been more than a year of convocations. Fed up with the ineffectiveness of squabbling clans and committee meetings, Del Kellum had put himself forward as Speaker. He was a blustering businessman who pretended to modesty, as if he could convince anyone that he wasn’t really interested in the position of leadership.

He wanted the clans to be strong, and he wanted decisions to be made. His slogan had been “decisions not dithering,” and Del was not a man who dithered. In fact, some complained that he didn’t take enough time to contemplate his decisions. Over the course of fifteen years as Speaker, though, the shine wore off. He had more arguments than triumphs. The Roamer clans had changed. Some integrated themselves so well into the business mindset of the former Hansa that they were indistinguishable from the people they had despised in the past. Like Lee Iswander.

Five years ago, Del retired after one particularly ridiculous feud over two clan embroidery designs that the families felt were too similar, and neither clan wanted to change theirs. Del hadn’t taken the argument seriously—until it came to blows and even bloodshed with one young man attacking and injuring the leader of the rival clan. Stupid people!

Del tried to make it look as if his decision to retire was not made in anger, but that maddening feud was when he made up his mind that he wanted nothing more to do with the nonsense. He gave eight months’ notice and set about picking his own successor—a competent, uninteresting woman named Isha Seward, who was so bland and unprovocative that none of the clans could object to her selection.

Del retired to a warm and sunny beach on the planet Rhejak, planning to drink ale and lead an idyllic existence among the reefs. He’d always kept aquariums of angelfish and exotic sea creatures even in the ring shipyards of Osquivel, so he expected to enjoy having Rhejak as his personal aquarium. Within a year, he was bored out of his mind.

After months of intensive research, he established the distillery here on Kuivahr and got back to work. . . .

He and Marius walked the process lines, smelling the tang of saltwater boiled with kelpflowers and the wickedly pungent smell of fermenting kirae. He did hope that one of his aqua vitae concoctions made from kelp and plankton extracts might become a real fountain of youth, but he was more pragmatic than that. “I’d be happy just to create something that tastes good.”

“And is marketable,” Marius added. “I think you need to change the name from Primordial Ooze, though.”

They were standing above the giant copper pots that gurgled as they slow-cooked kelp mash when Del received notice that the Klikiss transportal had been activated. A new arrival was not itself unusual, except that the visitor was a lone man requesting to speak to the distillery manager. His name was Tom Rom.

“He’s probably selling something,” said Marius.

“If he is, then you’ll deal with him, by damn.”

“That’s why I get the big salary.”

Tom Rom was a tall, striking man with dark skin and a lean physique. His sinewy muscles were in all the right places, wrapped like monofiber cables around his bones. He had a long face with prominent cheekbones and bright eyes. A formfitting polymer suit clung to him like a reinforced skin. “Mr. Kellum, I’ve come to investigate your distillations for possible medicinal uses.” His voice was rich and deep as if he had taken Shakespearean training, but this man did not look like an actor. Not at all.