Early Spaceports

By Laura Montgomery

In the late 21st century, orbital industry floods the world with riches, riches which can wash up against the unsuspecting just as readily as they accrue to those who reach for them.

With his love for his girlfriend, his passion for the law, and his situation in a good firm, Eli Fisher possesses all that a man could need at the start of his legal career. He doesn't expect it to change when a billionaire who runs orbital powersats hires him for an art project.

But this art project comes with all kinds of strange, and it requires a pawn.

A novelette.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laura Montgomery
• Release date: May 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386990567

Book preview

More Fiction by Laura Montgomery

Waking Late Books

Sleeping Duty

Out of the Dell

Like a Continental Soldier (coming soon)

In the Ground Based Universe

Far Flung

Erawan

Manx Prize

Early Spaceports

No Longer A Mystery

The Sky Suspended

Mercenary Calling

Dedication

This one is for everyone who ever spent time on Wednesday mornings, 9 a.m. Eastern, on an FAA/NASA telecon.  You may recognize certain principles.  The setting is just a little different.

EARLY SPACEPORTS

THE AUCTION ROOM GLITTERED like the eyes of the estate’s heirs, with everything shining, from the chandeliers to the sconces to the special lighting over the art on the walls. An evening event might typically call for more subdued lighting, but with the light from so many sources, the variegated pools and reflections, the auction venue felt much like a living room, but only if someone had a living room the size of a ballroom. 

The building itself was a Beaux Arts beauty set slightly off Massachusetts Avenue and was resplendent in its aspect and its age.  Founded in 1878, it had once been a club for the sort of person who won a Pulitzer or maybe a Medal of Freedom.  Tonight, over two centuries after the club’s founding, the auctioneers of the Margolis estate had found the right setting for their endeavor, and their missives had spent as much time extolling the club as their catalogue raisonné.

Persons who made sufficient money to attend an estate auction of such caliber crowded the ballroom, the women attired in couture designed—with the doffing of a jacket—to make the transition from office to evening.  Beatriz had shed her jacket to reveal a top with sequined straps of emerald green and turquoise, the sequins spreading amoeba-like across her breasts, the occasional tendril reaching her waist, on an expanse of black silk.  She was a cream-skinned brunette with dark brown eyes and dark red lips. 

She was there to spend her bonus money on art.

Her escort had also received a bonus for that fiscal year, but had no intention of spending it on art.  At twenty-eight, Eli Fisher had his investment plans laid out, and was following them meticulously.  The cut of his suit was equally meticulous, but easily so given his height and the breadth of his shoulders.  The blazing white shirt against the grey pin stripe suit completed the look of a corporate litigator.  Close cropped hair, dark eyes, and black skin just meant he had the looks of several vid stars popular that year.

For the auctioneers the younger couple might have appeared no more than ornaments, but Beatriz had money to spend.  The O’Keefe the holo showed them was out of her league, but now she was browsing.  Eli watched the other attendees more than the art.  He had studied finance before law school, and, although the right kind of music might move him, holograms of still lifes and canvases filled with red rectangles left him cold. 

Eli’s perusal of the room made him realize others were doing the same.  A blonde with a recording eye ring wore a news badge from Baroque and Beaux.  She watched everyone.  Two well-dressed men were eyeing the room and smirking, exchanging obviously catty remarks about everyone else.  An older man, heavy, in an expensive suit but with no tie, stood watching Eli.  He was a clear mix of European and African, very much of the American mode. He nodded.

Eli nodded back, wondering if he had met the man and whether he was a client of the firm.  His large presence should have guaranteed recall.   It did not.  Perhaps he’d been on a vitz call in the background.

Beatriz wrapped her long fingers around Eli’s wrist.  I know what I want, she whispered.

Eli’s brows shot up.  This?  He did not find Georgia O’Keefe’s bleached bones attractive. 

No, the little Glorida over there, she said.

Then why are we standing here?  It seemed a reasonable question to Eli.

"For deception.