The Outback Stars

CHAPTER


FIFTEEN





M

yell stayed firmly buckled in his seat for the journey to New Christchurch and tried not to dwell on trifling details such as gravity and acceleration. He didn’t mind death so much as the prospect of the minutes that would lead up to it, the shuttle full of screams and burning metal. You’ve watched too many disaster vids, he told himself. Adding to his general uneasiness was the presence of two ATs from Maintenance, both of them sitting a few rows be-hind him. Not Engel, Olsson, or Spallone, thank goodness. They had all had their leaves canceled. But the two ATs had a mean look about them that he didn’t trust. If Chiba meant to start trouble with Myell’s family, the bastard would regret it for the rest of his short life.



“You all right, Sarge?” asked the apprentice mate sitting beside him.



Myell forced his hand to unclench the seat rest. “Fine.”



The AM peered at the vid. “Were those our towers?”



Myell glanced over at the cargo being towed off by local freighters.

“Ten, twelve, and fourteen.”



“Do we get ‘em back?”



“The Alaska will pick them up in a couple months. We’ll be pick-ing up any left by the Chernobyl.”



The AM settled back in his seat and drummed his fingers restlessly.

“Are there any nice girls down on Mary River?”



An RT across the aisle said, “Hell, most of the girls on Mary River are frigid. You’d have a warmer time sticking it into a bucket of ice.”



Rowdy laughter. The AM blushed and didn’t ask any more ques-tions. The Rocks offered more lively entertainment than Mary River did. The planet’s lures were fresh air, true blue skies, and the chance to escape the ship, though you might have to put up with a sermon or a separatist lecture in the meantime.



Myell closed his eyes until final approach, during which time he squeezed them shut even harder and hoped to just die quickly. After the birdie was safely docked he was first in line to get off. The port had a spare, utilitarian look to it, with low ceilings and plain furniture and crucifixes emblazoning every sign. It took until another hour to clear Customs and Quarantine. Myell followed the ramps outside to blazing summertime heat and a curb crowded with minicabs, flits, and public buses. Beyond the glinting roofs of prefab warehouses, jagged green and white mountains soared back into the sky he had fallen from.



“Boring but beautiful,” was how Colby described it.



Myell took a bus to a discount lot and rented a cheap flit. It levitated well enough, but the fins were scratched and the engine was a little loud. Within minutes he was following a wide boulevard past New Christchurch’s handful of skyscrapers. Traffic flowed evenly and with-out snarls. Bright, well-tended flower gardens lined the roads. The an-nouncer on the city’s official radio station reminded Myell twice to thank the Lord for His Blessings, and billboards of happy, devout fam-ilies beamed proselytizing commercials into his flit.



“Not today,” he said, and snapped the radio off.



He drove to the Bethlehem Parkway North and started toward Colby’s farm. A mag-lev train, silver and bright in the sunshine, kept him company much of the way before veering east. If he’d spent more money on an upgrade, he could have turned on the flit’s autopi-lot and napped for the rest of the trip. Instead he rolled down his win-dow, stuck his elbow out, and tried to keep his thoughts from circling around and around to the Aral Sea, orbiting so high overhead. He hadn’t asked anyone to intervene on his behalf, and was still mad at Gallivan and the others for doing so.



Ninety minutes after leaving New Christchurch he turned off the parkway into a rich forest of pine and oak tress. When he stopped the car the pervasive quiet of nature wrapped around him like a blanket. He could hear insects in the bushes, the flap of birds’ wings, and the wind in the leaves, but no comm announcements. No Snipe vids. He heaved his rucksack over his shoulder and started up the lane toward the barn. Colby had built a long, low addition to the farmhouse and planted another vegetable garden. The old clunky housebot—Erma? Rema?—was hanging clothes on the line. Two broken speeders were parked by the horse stable and a few chickens pecked at the dirt.



A burst of mazer fire sent his heart racing.



“Space Patrol! You’re under arrest!” a voice yelled.



Myell obediently raised his hands. “I surrender.”



Giggles, and the sound of bodies jumping from the tree branches to the ground behind him. Something jabbed him in the back. “State your name!”



“Myell, Teren A. Sergeant, T.S.S. Aral Sea.”



“State your business!”



“I’ve come to kidnap small children,” he admitted, and swung around to grab Jake and Adryn and hoist them into the sky. The toy mazers shot more bursts of light into the sun-dappled trees. They fell into the bushes, the children squirming with laughter. They ganged up together to start tickling him.



“I surrender!” Myell shouted, twisting away from their devilish fin-gers.

“Get your presents!”



Eight-year-old Jake groped for the bag. “What did you bring us?”



“Anything expensive?” Adryn pushed her long bangs from her fore-head and joined her brother.



“Exquisitely expensive. And rare and unique.”



Jake unwrapped a square white package. “Wow,” he said, his eyes widening. “A basebot! Dad said I couldn’t have one until Christmas.” He grinned wildly. “Thanks, Uncle Terry!”



Adryn unwrapped her gift and asked, “What is it?”



“The Best of the Universe, honey.” Myell sat up and turned it on. An image of Fortune’s most famous Spheres sprang up in the center of the glass triangle. “You can visit hundreds of the most beautiful places in the Seven Sisters without ever leaving your room.”




“Oh.” With a distinct lack of enthusiasm she added, “Thanks.”



“Let’s go play basebot,” Jake proposed, jumping to his feet. The kids ran off to the field with the hologram left forgotten in the grass.



“There’s nothing harder to please in the universe than a little girl,”

Colby’s voice said behind Myell. “Unless it’s a little girl’s mom.”



Myell squinted up at his older brother. “Don’t let Dottie hear you say that. She already calls you one of the great last chauvinists.”



Colby pulled him to his feet and they spent a few seconds in mu-tual appraisal. Colby’s face was deeply tanned, his fair hair beginning to thin. He still had the strong, rugged look he’d picked up during his years on Mary River but his clothes hung loose on his medium frame.



“You’re getting skinny,” Myell said.



“You’re getting fat.”



Myell patted his stomach. “Muscle.”



“Between your ears.” Colby gave him an unexpected hug. “Wel-come back.”



When they broke apart the sun seemed brighter to Myell, the farm more familiar. “How’s Team Space treating you?” Colby asked, pick-ing up the rucksack and Adryn’s discarded gift. “Make admiral yet?”



“Not yet.”



“Lieutenant?”



“I’d be lucky to make chief. I don’t have the right tickets.”



“Get your degree, there’s a ticket.”



“In what? Agrofarming?” The last wasn’t meant to open old wounds, but university was still a sore subject. If Colby noticed the testiness he didn’t comment on it, and Myell didn’t have time to apol-ogize before the front door swung open.



“Terry! It’s been so long!” Dottie said.



Myell stared at her enormous stomach. At least nine months, I’d say.”



Dottie patted her tummy. She had always been pretty, but the preg-nancy had brought a new fullness and pinkness to her cheeks. “Give me a hug anyway.”



He did, surprised at the bulk of her, able to smell the rose shampoo in her hair. Dottie pulled them into the cool, sunlit living room and shut down her deskgib. “Sorry the place is a mess— Erma’s been acting up and Colby hasn’t managed to fix her properly.”



“Not fair,” Colby protested. “Every year I try to get a new house-bot, but no. ‘She’s one of the family’ is all I hear. Thing’s ready for the rustpile.”



Dottie wanted to get them drinks but Colby did it instead, insisting she rest and put up her feet. Myell sat on the comfortable sofa and let his eyes soak in the homey atmosphere of thick braided rugs, real wooden furniture, and hand-sewn pillows. A calico cat sat in the warm sunlight of a windowsill, her eyes opening only slightly to con-sider the stranger before her. From beyond the open windows Jake shouted for Adryn to get her hands off the basebot.



“Boy or girl?” he asked Dottie.



She beamed. “Boy. We’re going to name him Terry.”



“Not after you.” Colby returned with the drinks. “Some other Terry we know.”



The tart lemonade was refreshing after the long drive. Myell leaned back and caught up on the details of their lives that would have been dull in an imail. The crops were less than anticipated but profitable, the kids were doing well in school, Dottie was due in twenty-two days, and Mary River was becoming more religiously conservative than ever imagined.



“There’s talk the bishops want to ban women from work,” Dottie said, a worry line between her eyes.



“They couldn’t do that,” Myell protested. “It’s against the Assem-bly Constitution.”



Colby said, “They could withdraw from the Assembly.”



“Pull out of the Seven Sisters?” Myell asked. “That’s nuts. There’s too much at stake—shipments, tourism, trade—”



Dottie’s gaze locked on her husband, although it was ostensibly Myell she was speaking to. “Some people feel the disadvantages wouldn’t be so bad.”



“Colby?” Myell felt a sudden chill. “Have you joined the CFP?”



“No. Of course not. But not all their ideas are bad ones—”



“They blew up a Team Space ship!” Myell said.



Colby held up his hands. “I’m just saying that maybe Mary River would be better off by herself, cut off from the worst of union   poli-tics.”



“And how far are you willing to go to support that?” Myell could no longer hear Jake and Adryn playing in the field, only the hum of insects and the tick of an old-fashioned clock. The cat rose from her perch and picked her delicate way across the sofa arm to the floor.



Colby shook his head. “It’s all just talk, Terry. Nothing’s ever going to come of it. For better or worse, the Seven Sisters will always stay together.”



Myell wondered if he should leave. He couldn’t stay in that house if Colby really did support the CFP. Erma called them all to lunch in the airy kitchen, and he decided to let the subject go for the moment. The kids entertained him with stories about school and their hobbies, and after lunch he helped them set up the basebot. The sun and a full stomach soon had him ready for a nap. He stretched out on the guest-room bed, which was twice as large as his rack on the Aral Sea. When he woke the sun had dipped and Adryn was shaking his shoulder.



“Mom says you should get up now or you won’t sleep all night.”



“Okay, honey.” Myell rolled over. Sleeping all night sounded like a good plan.



“And she says I should tell you I really like my gift, because you’re a bachelor and shouldn’t be expected to know what kids like any-way.” Adryn circled the bed and gave him a wet kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, Uncle Terry.”



“You’re welcome,” he murmured. He fell into a dream filled with images of Jodenny and Strayborn and that commander who’d knocked him down, Osherman, and in the dream they were all drink-ing cocktails at the No Holds Barred with an oversized gecko sitting on the table. The shaman, naked as always, stood behind the bar serv-ing drinks. Gallivan was playing a grand piano with Wendy Ford draped across the top like a chanteuse.

“I’m not who you think I am!” Myell heard himself shout, over and over, but Jodenny snuggled closer to Osherman and didn’t seem to hear him. The shaman nod-ded wisely and slammed his staff against the counter. The thunder of it sent Myell bolting upright in his bed. The room was dark and very quiet, and as he navigated to the bathroom and the kitchen he had the strange, lingering conviction that he was still dreaming, not awake at all.



A glass of water helped clear his mind. Outside the windows Mary River’s moon bathed the fields and far mountains in cool sheets of silver-white light. Colby was sitting out on the porch, wrapped in a sweater. Myell fixed himself a tomato sandwich and brought out an-other one to Colby, who shook his head.



“Sleep okay?” Colby asked.



“Yeah. Well enough.”



“I want you to know I have nothing to do with the CFP I didn’t mean to upset you.”



Myell tore off the crusts of his sandwich and chewed the soft middle.

“Yeah. Whatever.”



Colby sighed. “So how are things going for you? You wrote some-thing about getting out next year.”




He shrugged. “It’s not the place for me anymore.”



“Ten years is a lot of time to throw away.”



“I won’t be throwing it away. I’ll be getting it back.”



“You’re not happy?”



Since when did happiness matter? It hadn’t mattered when they were children. It hadn’t mattered when Colby went off to college and left Myell with Daris to contend with. He’d been happy on his first ship and his second, but those were jobs and positions he’d left be-hind. All that mattered now was surviving the Aral Sea until his con-tract expired.



Just as Myell was ready to go back to bed, Colby stood up and made his chair squeak. “Something I want to show you. Out in the barn.”



The horses blinked and stirred when Colby lit a lantern. Yellow light pooled on the straw and dirt floor. Colby reached up to a shelf and pulled down a small traveling trunk. It was well worn, but the weatherproof lining was intact and the contents well protected. Myell touched only what he could see—a red blouse, a green and blue flan-nel shirt, a teak jewelry box. He held up the blouse and smelled a faint, fruity perfume. Old memories woke in him, accompanied by old grief.



“Where did you get these?” he asked, keeping his voice even.



“Daris. Came through here almost a year ago, just after your last visit.”



Myell stared down at the trunk, his eyes stinging but dry.



“He’d sold what was left of the farm and was on his way to Warramala. Wanted me to have this and share it with you. Said you didn’t take anything with you when you left, just the clothes on your back.”



“Not true,” Myell said. Then again, Daris had always been com-fortable bending the truth any old way he wanted to.



“He’s got a job now, in Waipata. Works at the port.” Colby fin-gered the blouse. “He’s a changed man, Terry. Gave up the liquor and all. He’s very… sorry. About everything. He apologized.”



“Apologized?” A laugh bubbled out of Myell, propelled by in-credulity.

“Jesus.”



Colby’s face was grim. “He said he’s been working on his temper for a couple of years now. He sounded genuinely sorry.”



Myell stifled a set of giggles. He was sure if he kept on with the merriment Colby would think him insane. Still. Apologized. He rubbed his hand over his eyes and smelled his mother’s perfume on his fingers.



“He wanted to know how to reach you,” Colby said.



The discussion was no longer funny. “If you ever tell him, I’ll break your neck.”



“Terry, it’s okay to put this in the past—”



“It’s not okay.” Myell shut the trunk firmly and turned away. “The past isn’t far enough away.”



He didn’t sleep for the rest of the night. Izim killed a few hours, and browsing sample questions for the chief’s exam took care of the rest. When pale light showed at the horizon he put his gib aside with relief. He made sure Colby was up and out of the house before he ventured to the kitchen, where Dottie was making pancakes.



“Good morning, sleepyhead,” she said.



“Sit down,” he told her. “I can do that.”



She eased herself into a chair and let him cook breakfast. Jake and Adryn wolfed down their portions before they logged into their re-mote classrooms. Dottie folded her hands over her belly and gave Myell a long look.



“Colby says you’re going to settle down.”



“I’m getting out of Team Space,” he said. “Maybe not the same thing.”



“You could get your own farm. Colby and I can help. There’s plenty of young women around here who’d throw themselves at a handsome and eligible man. There’s a dance Saturday night that we’ve promised to go to. Not that I’ll be much on my feet, but it’s Colby’s chance to hang around with other men. If you come, I can guarantee you’ll be more popular than you can imagine.”



“I thought you were an engineer, not a dating service.”



Dottie smiled. “Don’t you want to get married and have kids?”



He did, eventually. Myell imagined himself on a farm with Jodenny raising kids, sharing a marriage bed. But that was the route his parents had taken. His mother had withered under Baiame’s sun, and his father had broken under the weight of failure. Maybe he and Jodenny would live in a skyscraper on Fortune, with a bedroom over-looking a shining city of light and commerce. They could settle in a beach house somewhere, the ocean waves crashing on sand as they made love. Or maybe somewhere in the desert, where they could al-ways see the stars.



Utter fantasy. Ridiculous. She was no more likely to give up Team Space than she was to stop breathing oxygen, and would probably marry a commander or admiral someday, someone more on par with her rank and ambition.



“I came here for rest, not romance,” Myell said. “Trust me. There are no women in my immediate future.”



* * * *