Edge of Dark (42 page)

Her mother's face floated behind her eyes, like a ghost haunting her any time she stopped thinking of other things. She had buried it for part of the interview, but right now it wouldn't stay down.

Nona noticed. “Are you okay?”

“I'm thinking about mom.”

Satyana gave her a sharp look. “We're going to see the Economist next, and she's going to be harder to deal with than the good doctor of history.”

Her tone made Chrystal laugh, which anchored her back in the conversation. This was Satyana's strength: leading people, reading them. Helping them, even while she was talking them into doing what she wanted. “I'll do my best,” Chrystal answered. “But I'm only about three-quarter robot.”

That made Satyana and Nona both laugh. A little victory. It felt as if the three of them were friends, at least at the moment. “Let's go,” Satyana said.

“Don't you have to pay the bill?” Nona asked.

“I own the restaurant.”

The Economist kept them waiting in the outer foyer of her office for a quarter of an hour. When the door slid open, Chrystal rose a split second before Nona and Satyana.

The woman who emerged had to be eight feet tall. Her hair was every shade of purple, piled in buns and hanging in braids, and all of it sprinkled with gems like stars.

Tattooed flowers twined up both arms past the elbows. A wild woman, Chrystal thought, bemused.

The Economist's smile was as wide as her face. Her eyes probably came from the same exact designer as Satyana's. “I'm Leesha Lee Miles,” she pronounced, as if it were a very important fact. Then she held her hand out in introduction to each of them, giving exaggerated handshakes. She saved Chrystal for last. “Pleased to meet you,” she said. “Finally someone comes to visit who is stranger than I am.”

Chrystal smiled; for once it even felt natural. “Finally, someone who is so strange that I feel almost normal.”

The Economist's smile suggested she and Chrystal had been friends forever. “Well, then, we'll have a good talk. Follow me.”

She glided almost as if she wore wheels on her shoes. Her office was stark white: white walls, a white desk, a white floor with black rugs.

“Wow,” Nona said. “I like it.”

Satyana whispered, “The last time I was here it was all dark and gloomy.”

The Economist brushed two stray braids behind her shoulder. “That was before I got here. I have been very frugal with the station's investments in me, except for updating this place.” She pushed a button and a wall opened on a window view that looked over a froth of farms. Grains made multicolored golden patches in the closest bubble, each individual grain field lined all around with flowers in a myriad of colors. Beyond, the greens of vegetable crops colored four other farms. Further out, the frothy whiteness of bubble walls spread throughout a lot of space all of them open now to the sun.

“I've never seen the so many crops,” Chrystal said. “We went on field trips once or twice, so I've been in some. We had huge cylinder gardens on the High Sweet Home.”

Leesha smiled her wide, wide smile. “I love this place. The crop bubbles are the perfect example of my craft. They have to be right. They can't make us sick; they can't fail to grow enough food for our population; they can't fail to produce the right balance of proteins and micronutrients.” She held up a finger. “But at the same time, food is a business brimming with innovation. The hungry want new meals; restaurants want particular spices and wines of a certain quality.” She turned toward the three women. “How else might food be like economics?”

Satyana had an immediate answer. “You have reserves. The station has reserves of both credit and food.”

Nona added, “And while more of both can be grown, the supply needs to mirror demand.”

Leesha smiled approval. “That's an art. I know your family history. When Ruby Martin came here, there was more poverty than there is now. The distribution of wealth is currently . . . more fair.”

Chrystal risked adding an idea to the conversation. “Outside events affect the food supply. For example, the demographics are changing right now as people flee before the Next get here.”

Leesha looked pleased. “That's correct. So perhaps you understand some of the forces I'm trying to balance. Shall we sit down?”

They did.

“So tell me what you know about the Next's economy,” Leesha encouraged.

“I don't. Not really. We only saw the inside of one ship.”

Leesha frowned as if she were disappointed in Chrystal. “Do they own you?”

“Well, no. When I chose to come here, I was worried they wouldn't let me. But they said I'm not a slave.”

The door opened.

The Economist glanced toward it unhappily, the rebuke on her face keeping Chrystal's attention so that she saw annoyance turn to fear.

A man cleared his throat.

Chrystal turned to look. A woman with a pinched face and intense black eyes reached toward her. Behind the woman, there were three men with weapons.

Before she could decide what to do, the woman had thrown a cloth at Chrystal's face, momentarily stealing her vision. Two big men rushed her, tying her arms to her torso with strong, stretchy material.

Satyana struggled quietly, and Nona screamed for Chrystal.

PART SEVEN

CONFLICT

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

CHARLIE

The
Star Ghost
slowed hard, now less than a day away from Lym. Charlie could feel it, like a beacon calling him home. Minding Manny's warning, he kept the note he fashioned for Jean Paul simple: “I'll be returning to my duty station soon. Please help arrange transportation down for me.”

“There's my long-lost roommate.”

It was after midnight at Wilding Station, so Jean Paul's immediate answer caught him by surprise. Jean Paul sat in his office at the station, and even in the dull night light he looked thin and drawn. He'd grown a scraggly beard and looked even more like a wild man than usual.

“It's good to see you. No—great.” Charlie felt lighter already for seeing his friend, the delighted grin spreading across his face mirrored on the man below.

“I'll book the
Verdant Sun
to get you,” Jean Paul said. “Be sure you wait if you get there before she does.”

“Thanks. The
Sun's
a good ride.” She was also the only ship that could both get him from the Port Authority stations and land at the ranger stations. Most of the others were so big they had to use the spaceport in town.

“Travel safe.” Jean Paul's voice sounded thick. “I'll talk to you when you get here.”

“Okay.” Charlie flicked the window on his slate shut, wondering at the quick dismissal. Both Jean Paul and Manny sounded awful.

Charlie called up a picture of Lym on the view screen. They were close enough he would have been able to see it using the camera, but it would have been the size of a berry. The image in front of him showed Lym in all her glory. Mountains bisected continents, rivers flowed, forests grew. He could touch anywhere and zoom or pan on the image. He sat there for a long time, looking at the biggest rivers and deserts and the seas.

He had breathed recycled air for almost a year now, and been surrounded by walls. He could smell home from here, and now he could hardly wait.

The next eight hours or so were going to take forever.

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

CHRYSTAL

A
man as tall as Gunnar and half as wide filled the doorway to the Economist's office. A long braid wrapped in blue and red cloth fell to his waist; he'd tucked the end into his belt. He carried himself with a bright and angry intensity, dominating the room without speaking.

A blonde woman bound Chrystal's arms with wide, smart material that held them tightly, constricting if she flexed.

There were too many people to fight, and she only had her feet free. Surely she'd get a better opportunity.

Most of their enemies had multiple weapons; at least one in their hands and one or two on belts or in shoulder holsters. Small beam weapons, but she spotted a few knives sheathed on belts.

She stilled her features, playing robot. These people felt twitchy.

The leader said, “You will come with me. You will walk slowly and easily or we will stun you and carry you. We don't expect to pass anyone, but if we do, you will not show that you are restrained in any way. If you are greeted, you will smile. If you don't, you'll be killed on the spot. Do you understand?” He waited for each woman to nod. He saved Chrystal for last; she met his night-black eyes for a brief moment before nodding. She didn't like what she saw there—hatred, fear, and a deep determination. This man was in charge, and deeply passionate about whatever drove him.

One of the women on his team carefully draped beautiful shawls over each of their shoulders. The Economist's and Satyana's shawls matched their eyes perfectly, and were made of high quality material that they might have chosen themselves. Nona and Chrystal were both draped in blacks with dragons in forms that complimented their own tattoos. Covered by the shimmering and beautiful material, there was no outward sign of their captivity.

The chilling level of preparation suggested they had been specific targets.

The tattooed man had not given his name, but Satyana and Leesha both seemed nervous of him.

He led off, and three of his people followed. The blonde who had tied her prodded Chrystal into going next, followed by two other guards. Satyana followed them, then an armed guard, Leesha and a guard, then Nona and three guards. The long train of people walked steadily, with discipline. They stopped from time to time to consult a slate. Their whispers were meant to be too low for Chrystal to hear, but they were clearly checking directions. The line bunched and swelled as they worked their way through corridors.

Chrystal's brain raced and stuttered through all of the things she had noticed the night before. The influx of new ships must have stretched security thin. The station took so much pride in being open and inclusive that Chrystal had no trouble imaging that these people were invaders who had infested the Deep top to bottom.

They turned another corner and climbed into an empty high-speed train car. She had no chance to talk to the others, but she glimpsed their faces as they boarded. Nona looked frightened, Satyana oddly serene. The Economist looked mostly appalled.

Chrystal searched the public station data for clues. Most of the formal news had gone cold, and the articles she did find were fragmented. The socweb talked of missing people and lost connectivity, of protests, and of unexpected locked doors.

She might die again. In spite of the muted edge so many of her other emotions had acquired, the will to live felt sharp and painful.

She ached for Yi and Jason. Yi would be planning a clever escape and Jason would be in front, between her and danger.

They rode for an hour. No captive was offered food or drink or access to rest facilities, or allowed to talk.

Chrystal listened carefully and decided that their captors were in fact an invading force. But they were too disciplined to say anything about who had sent them, what they wanted, or what they planned to do next.

One of their kidnappers called the tattooed man Vadim. The woman who had first helped to bind her seemed to be a favorite of his. He called her Nayli. There were no tattoos visible on her exposed skin, and she wore her long black hair in a braid almost exactly like his. From time to time they touched each other discretely.

For a full hour, it wasn't much to learn.

When the train stopped, Vadim and Nayli stood by the door. The man closest to Chrystal nudged her with his weapon. “Get off.”

She did. Vadim, Nayli, and five others also disembarked.

The door closed behind her, and she turned to find Nona's face pressed against the window, her eyes locked onto Chrystal's. “Stay safe,” Nona mouthed.

A rough hand pulled her away before she could offer an answer.

CHAPTER SIXTY

NONA

Nona, Satyana, and the Economist were ushered off the train half an hour later, and escorted through a long hall. Eventually they stopped and two guards pointed weapons at them while a dark-eyed woman with high cheekbones removed their restraints. Nona grimaced as the blood rushed, tingling, back into her arms.

Their guards ushered them into a suite of rooms. Except for the armed guards, it looked like they had been invited to an awkward cocktail party. Councilors gathered around and on a large blue couch in the middle of the room. Here and there, other captives stood in small groups near the walls, talking amongst themselves in low tones. Nona recognized the assistant who had let them into Dr. Nevening's office.

Dr. Nevening waved at Nona from the sofa and said, “Hello again. I'm so sorry to see you here.”

“Me, too,” Nona replied, suddenly awkward and unsure what to say, if anything.

The Futurist sat beside him on the sofa. Nona had never met him, although she had seen pictures. His casual black pants and simple, flowing white shirt came from the high end of the Exchange and probably cost a year's worth of her teaching salary. A gold band held his black hair in a single, short ponytail, and he wore two gold earrings in each ear.