The Word Endangered: The Face of the Deep, #3

By Steve Rzasa

So much for peace and quiet. 

Now that the government overthrow is said and done, a new frontier awaits colonization.

That's where Zarco Thread and his wife enter. He and Ria head up a surveying crew, commissioned to report on worlds with potential for settlements. However, nothing is settling about what they discover.

A conspiracy threatens to unravel the progress the Five Realms made in the last decade. Not to mention, strain the development of Zarco and Ria's marriage.

This time it's more serious than revenge...

A dominating force exists in the Realm that has recruited their long-time enemies, tempting them with a greater plot, one that will endanger the Word once again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Enclave Publishing
• Release date: Jul 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9781683700173

Steve Rzasa

Steve Rzasa is the author of a dozen novels of science-fiction and fantasy, as well as numerous pieces of short fiction. His space opera "Broken Sight" won the ACFW Award for Speculative Fiction in 2012, and "The Word Reclaimed" was nominated for the same award. Steve received his bachelor’s degree in journalism from Boston University, and worked for eight years at newspapers in Maine and Wyoming. He’s been a librarian since 2008, and received his Library Support Staff Certification from the American Library Association in 2014—one of only 100 graduates nationwide and four in Wyoming. He is the technical services librarian in Buffalo, Wyoming, where he lives with his wife and two boys. Steve’s a fan of all things science-fiction and superhero, and is also a student of history.

Book preview

The pride of your heart has deceived you,

you who live in the clefts of the rock,

in your lofty dwelling,

who say in your heart,

Who will bring me down to the ground?

Though you soar aloft like the eagle,

though your nest is set among the stars,

from there I will bring you down,

declares the Lord.

Obadiah 1:3–4

Primary Cast

Crew of the Gunspar El Cazador

Captain Zarco Thread

Ria Threa, Zarco’s wife

Lyon Pict

Gaston Fuse Karasu

On San Vigilio Station

Orochi Kama

Crown Marshal Caila Toll

Starkweather Navy Battle Corvette

HMS Herald

Captain Colleen Verge, CO

Lieutenant Commander Lucia de Silva, XO

Chief Warrant Officer Abraham Lake, Tactical

Starkweather Navy Frigate

HMS Star Blade

Commander Emil Granza, CO

Lieutenant Sonja Malubay, XO

Starkweather Navy Frigate

HMS Typhoon

Commodore Ian Drivakis, CO, Sixteenth Royal Task Force

Uj Sorsat Facility

Dr. Gan Yenay

Dr. Sevda Birol

Nikolaas Ryke

Crew of the Navastel

Okami no Aka (Red Wolf)

Captain Tatsuo Ikeda

Crew of the Six-Brace Natalia Zoja

Captain Baden Haczyk

Gail Haczyk, Baden’s wife

Shen Renshu

Alec Douglas

Sasha Ris

Others

Lieutenant Benjamin Sands, 21st Starkweather Expeditionary Brigade, First Battalion, Echo Company

Crescens, one of the Seventy

Chapter 1

June 2612

Walpole Star System

Walpole Delta

A garrosk was a huge carnivorous mammal native to the Walpole System, six meters long from snout to broad, muscular flanks, with fangs protruding from its lower jaw that were as long as a man’s hand. It was not unlike a massive cousin to Earth’s endangered Kodiak bears, only with a much longer stride and temper far more volcanic.

Zarco Thread considered these facts as he ran top speed through the forest, with one of the brutes trying to eat him.

He leapt across a rain-washed gully and hit the ground running. He nearly lost his footing in the mud, but recovered by pushing off one of the towering, spindly pines that clustered in clumps throughout the taiga region of the northern continent on Walpole Delta. The air was cold, biting at his exposed face, and the mountains crowding the horizon to the north were blanketed with snow. Conifer branches slapped at his all-weather coat, leaving streaks of sap on the grey and green fabric.

The garrosk roared. The sound shook Zarco deep in his gut. He ran faster. Easier said than done, considering the elevation was several thousand meters above sea level.

Funny–the garrosk was found on six worlds across the interstellar region Zarco had surveyed; Zarco recommended in his reports that potential settlers steer clear of any continent on which the creatures were found.

This landmass would be the eighth to get such a warning label. Provided he lived long enough to write a report.

A blue light flashed on his wrist comm the same moment it pulsed. Of all the times to check in . . . He slapped it against his leg as he sprinted. Can it wait?

Zarco, I’m finishing my sweep over the northern polar region, said a female voice. My tracker shows you’re not at camp. Do you want me to pick you up en route to the ship?

Ah, no, hon, that’s okay! Disguising his panting was difficult at best. There was a collapsed pine right in his path. Zarco vaulted over it, slamming down the side of a steep embankment. He skidded along, boots kicking up rocks and dirt and moss.

What was that?

Zarco swore his wife could hear an airlock cycling in the vacuum of space. Nothing big, Ria! Just, ah, just some wildlife-statistic gathering.

The garrosk’s roar thundered behind him. Zarco glanced back. Obsidian claws ripped bark as it pounced off a tree, starting down the hill. Muscles rippled under a coat of dingy brown fur speckled with grey along the arms and legs.

There was momentary silence on the comm. You’re in trouble.

No. Nope! I’m good. Blast it, he was a dead man.

Do you at least have your scrambler?

Of course. Back at camp, hanging by its carry strap from a broken limb on a tree next to his fold-tent. The only thing he’d brought on this hike besides the scanning goggles, his delver and some rations were a condensing flask and his shiver-blade. Aerial scans had shown this area free of dangerous predators.

Hence the reason Zarco never left his work solely to the scanners.

I’m changing course to intercept your tracker, Ria said. ETA twelve minutes. Can you please not get yourself killed until then?

I promise to do my very best, my love. Gotta go.

He slapped the wrist comm to deactivate the signal, and spat, ¡Ay Dios, otro día!

Twenty more steps and he broke through into a shroud of underbrush that clogged this lower section of the forest and reached far overhead, shrubbery clinging in pale green webs to the trees. Ahead they thickened enough that he could barely make out the dim morning light and the green of grass in a nearby clearing. He slipped the shiver-blade hilt from his belt. At the squeeze of his palm, a 50 centimeter blade of nimonic alloy leapt out. He slashed at the brush, the chemically treated edges so sharp they severed anything in their path with the barest whisper.

He’d gotten deep into the brush when he heard the garrosk skid to a halt. It roared, the ground thumping as it paced just outside the wall of undergrowth.

Zarco gasped for breath, but didn’t stop for a rest. He moved through as quickly as he could. Noise didn’t matter. Its sense of smell would alert it soon enough to its lost prey.

On cue, the brush crunched under the impact of the garrosk bashing its way in. The creature didn’t make as quick progress as Zarco did, thankfully, but with every swipe of those claws, it ripped away gaping chunks of the scant curtain between them. Zarco could tell from the way more and more sunlight filtered through.

He cut faster.

Mid-swipe, he received an alert on his wrist comm—a green and amber alternating light. Vex checking in. He slapped at the comm to acknowledge, switching hands on the blade to continue slashing away. If Vex were checking in, that put his position within a kilometer. Zarco ran the numbers. Vex’s speed and position, coupled with the rough terrain—

A tree crashed down, bouncing off a boulder and vibrating so hard it lost a pile of brown needles.

Blazes. Zarco pushed and shoved with each slash at the brush, not caring that the broken branches jabbed into his arms and legs, snagging his coat. He charged through, taking a pair of cuts to his cheek and forehead. The brush thinned out ahead. He was only seconds away from safety.

With a final burst of energy he broke free from the brush, breaking down the last brittle sticks and careening off the trunk of a pine. He took off at a run on a broad, grassy clearing—but came just short of going headfirst off a cliff.

Oh no. He’d emerged from the forest, all right, but had miscalculated his exit by three hundred meters. The yellow and orange pyramid of his fold-tent sat in the valley below, amidst the clearing he’d found for a camp. There was the hole for the fire pit, and the food storage at a safe distance atop a pair of boulders.

He should have come out right at the head of a rough path down a winding slope into the camp. Instead he stood at the edge of the sheer granite cliff that dropped straight down fifty meters to a rocky, winding creek full of ice cold water far better tasting than anything a ship’s recycler could offer.

Vac-head.

No way down. Not fast enough to avoid the garrosk. The clearing was hemmed in on all sides by the heavy brush.

The garrosk broke into the clearing, grunting heavily.

Zarco spun around, blade ready. He stood hunched over, and waited until the garrosk thundered to within five meters of him.

The beast reared up on its hind legs and bellowed with such force that strands of drool slithered from between its fangs. Its breath was putrid; the stench roiled Zarco’s stomach.

He didn’t shy away. As soon as the echo of the roar died, Zarco shouted a counter challenge, hollering until his throat ached. He threw his arms wide and waved the knife in wide arcs.

The garrosk slammed down onto its front paws and backstepped. A low growl rumbled in its throat.

Zarco knew his display wasn’t enough to fully dissuade the creature from tearing out his intestines. It was only a distraction. He prayed for calm, and for timely intervention from a companion.

Come on, Vex!

The garrosk lunged for him. Zarco ducked and rolled to the left. Claws ripped up grass and tore ruts in the dirt. Zarco pivoted, and slashed at the furred arm with his knife. The blade severed flesh and tendon, rebounding off thick bone.

He leapt back as the garrosk roared, the pitch higher than its usual tone. It turned, clawing for him and taking a bite that missed Zarco by centimeters. Drool soaked his boot.

Zarco kicked the beast square in the nose and gave it a second, albeit shallower, cut across the snout.

It backed away, pawing furiously at its face. Brush crunched behind it. The garrosk roared again. When it came at Zarco for a second time, it moved more slowly, and its attack was more of a wild swipe than a targeted lunge.

Zarco dodged the blow. There was enough sedative in the knife’s blade to take down the beast, but only if he managed to stick it home in a major blood vessel. Considering the thickness of the garrosk’s hide, he was thankful he’d been able to score deep enough wounds to have this much of an effect.

The garrosk staggered, thumping a shoulder against the tree. Now!

Zarco dove in, aiming a sideways slash at its haunches. It never connected.

The garrosk backhanded—or, Zarco supposed, backpawed?—him midway through his strike. The blow sent him sprawling across the clearing, scrabbling at grass and dirt. He wound up with his legs dangling over the edge of the cliff. A swift jab with the knife anchored him.

Except that buried his weapon in the ground.

Beneath the sounds of the garrosk, Zarco heard a light, steady tread coming from the forest—a metallic patter.

He grinned at the garrosk. This dance was on his terms now.

A spindly robot ran from the midst of the cut brush, headed directly for the garrosk. It was a couple of meters long, with narrow legs and a slender body, all covered with dull grey and brown metal. The quadramount bore a general resemblance to the canine species of dozens of planets, though its small, ovoid head lacked any visible eyes, mouth or nose. A twin ridge of short antenna studded its spine. A pair of sensor rods protruded from under its face, where a biological dog would have a chin.

Distracted by the intruder, the garrosk ignored Zarco and lumbered toward the quadramount.

He’s all yours, Vex. Zarco pulled himself onto his knees and covered his ears.

A thin, keening whistle blasted from Vex. It was an awful noise, worse to Zarco than having flit-biters buzzing in your ears. He ground his teeth as the annoyance grew into a powerful headache.

For the garrosk it was a thousand times worse. The beast reared up, clawing at the air, howling and moaning. It writhed, shaking its head as if it could dump out the painful noise. Finally, unable to bear it, the garrosk took off at a weaving, pell-mell run back out of the clearing.

Vex’s wail ceased soon after. He trotted over to Zarco, waiting patiently for his next set of commands.

Zarco jerked the knife free of the dirt and wiped the blade clean on his trousers. He returned it to its sheath, and checked himself for injuries. There was a jagged tear in his left coat sleeve, but no blood drawn—only a long scratch and more dirt where the garrosk’s claw must have scraped him.

Lights on the end of Vex’s ersatz snout flashed. An accompanying beep from the delver in Zarco’s pocket prompted him to retrieve it. The palm-sized device also doubled as his reader, his diagnostic tool, his communications relay, and a host of other functions. Everyone had one. A holographic readout reported no sign of major injury or infection on his person, complete with a 3-D miniature likeness of himself—medium height, medium weight, close-cropped jet-black hair, light brown skin and powder blue eyes.

Zarco patted Vex’s metal and composite hide as affectionately as he would any living pet. "¡Buen trabajo! Could not have done that better myself, my friend."

At his camp Zarco shed his backpack and jacket on the stump by the fire pit. The scrambler was precisely where he’d left it earlier in the morning, dangling by its strap from a crooked branch near his tent. The stun weapon was white and grey, a tubular design with grips custom fitted to Zarco’s hands. He checked the charge indicators. They were set at 100 percent intensity, meaning he could have brought the garrosk down with one or two of the thirty available bursts. It wouldn’t kill the beast, but it would temporarily shut down its voluntary nervous system. Brain, heart, lungs—all those would still work; however, the garrosk would go as limp as a stowed solar sail.

A light mist hung at the edges of the campsite. Sun warmed the rocks and evaporated the dewdrops beading the side of the tent. Zarco swung the scrambler over his shoulder. Vex, stay put.

Vex circled back to the entrance of the tent. He hunkered down on all fours, crouched against the dirt. His back split open, a pair of hatches springing aside and revealing solar panels. They shone blue and violet in alternating gleams as Vex bent his torso for an angle of maximum solar exposure. Zarco grabbed a washrag from the stump and headed for the stream.

It was a few meters wide and deep, with head-sized rocks protruding every so often. The gurgle of the water and the intermittent chirp of sparrows was a welcome change from the garrosk’s constant roaring. Zarco stripped off his shirt, revealing skin bronzed by the UV radiation of three dozen different suns and centuries of Corazoni heritage. He got on his knees and dunked his face.

Icy cold slapped him. The stinging wore off into numbness. He couldn’t hear anything but the rush of water around him.

Peace.

When the burning in his lungs exceeded his tolerance, he burst from the stream, gasping, water cascading down his face and chest. He toweled off and rubbed at his head, leaving short black hair standing up in spikes. His ears popped. Birdsong filtered back in. A breeze shook the pines.

This was the kind of thing Sensors could not report. Any drone could record the ambient temperature, changes in barometric pressure, and detailed DNA analysis of avian species. But Zarco’s firsthand experiences on a world untouched by humanity . . .

Well, that was what sold planets.

Somewhere high up the cliff and far in the distance, a garrosk’s roar echoed. Before it completely faded, a muted, more distant roar answered. Zarco exhaled. So its mate was nearby. No doubt there were a handful of cubs, too.

He glanced back at his tent. Vex was up, trotting over past the fire pit. His sensor lights flashed furiously.

Easy. They’re too far away for us to worry. Zarco cupped his hands in the water and drank deeply. He had no qualms about tasting from this stream—he’d already found minimal bacteria content with his initial scans and had traced the source to a spring a kilometer away, one of countless freshwater points he’d marked for potential settlers.

A low rumble built in the pale green-blue sky. Zarco wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and glanced at his wrist. Eleven minutes. Ria was prompt.

The skipjack ducked between the scattered clouds. It was a short, narrow craft with sharp angular wings that pivoted as the pilot adjusted her trajectory. Hoverjets blasted bright blue, letting it settle to the ground. The fuselage was pearl white, trimmed with grey panels. The right wing bore a bright red diamond containing the white silhouette of a man wearing a pack and standing on the edge of a triangle that symbolized a cliff, all outlined in double black. Black letters, overlapping in the center, marked it LT for Loose Thread, Zarco and Ria’s company.

Looks like our ride’s ready, Vex. He sat atop a rock jutting out of edge of the creek. She’d land in the clearing a few hundred yards to the south; meanwhile he had a few minutes of quiet time remaining.

His right pants pocket held a small Bible, clad in a simple red cover etched with a black cross. Somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to read Scripture in holographic form when he was dirtside. Made him feel he was disrespecting Creation. Aboard ship, he’d project the Word on a bulkhead or in the air. Down here, no matter the gravitational pull under his feet or climate around his body, he stuck to paper.

This is certainly tranquil. Ria Thread walked into the clearing with her scrambler clasped in both hands and a med-kit strapped to her right hip. Her eyes were deep brown, dark as the forest around them, and her skin a shade of mahogany. Long black hair dipped below her shoulders. She wore a simple light grey shipsuit, sleeveless, over a dark blue shirt. It was tight-fitting enough to accentuate the curves of her body, especially where her stomach had taken on a more pronounced shape in the past four months. You’d hardly think you’d been in ­trouble a quarter hour ago.

Who said I was in trouble?

I did. Don’t bother hiding it. She patted Vex on the snout. But I see your companion kept you safe.

Usually does. Good morning. Zarco smiled and brought her in close for a hug.

Likewise. She looped her scrambler’s carry strap over her shoulder, leaving both hands free to drape across Zarco’s shoulders. Ria Thread was shorter than her husband; the tip of her head came even with his chin. Has this been your dress code for the excursion?

Some mornings.

I like it. As first mate I recommend it become standard shipboard attire.

Zarco chuckled. Pretty sure the boys would object to my going constantly shirtless.

"So what did interrupt your final morning’s survey? I heard the word wildlife . . ."

A surly garrosk.

There weren’t supposed to be any! Ria frowned. Not in this quadrant.

I realize that, but the drone scans obviously missed something. Zarco kissed her. That’s why I’m here on the ground, remember?

To get eaten.

No, to verify. He kissed her cheek this time, then the base of her neck . . .

All right, you. Ria laughed. So the final recommendation’s good.

More than good. Atmosphere’s within 95 percent Earth comparable. Climate shifts aren’t too extreme—though I suspect they won’t send anyone to your neck of the woods.

Frozen tundra and frequent blizzards? No. This arboreal region seems ideal.

Considering the bulk of the remaining landmass is rainforest, I’d say so. But there’s at least a couple hundred square kilometers along the mountains we’ll have to mark with a caution. Garrosks abound.

The Lord seems to have kept you from becoming a meal.

He did indeed.

I spoke with Lyon en route to rescue you.

Never needed rescue.

She chuckled. As I was saying, Lyon has some good news from his second pass at the orbital scans.

Oh yes?

He thinks he’s found the wreck.

Zarco nodded. He gently pressed a hand to the top of her stomach. "You hear that, mi hijo? Our survey just became a salvage."

Chapter 2

June 2612

Walpole Star System

The skipjack boosted high into the atmosphere, clearing the clouds in seconds. Pale blue-green sky gave way to a darker hue, which in turn faded to the black of space. Stars filled the main viewport of the cockpit.

Ria’s hands stayed steady on the controls. Once they’d reached orbit, she shut down the main engines and the skipjack clipped along on its arc above the planet. Lyon doesn’t have much in the way of sensor data for us. The wreck site’s surrounded by dense jungle.

If the flora there is anything like the arboreal forests, its metallic content has to be playing havoc with any detail readings. Zarco craned his neck. His camp gear was packed up into two large bundles at the rear of the skipjack, secured with webbing against either bulkhead. The skipjack had seats for six and minimal cargo space, all arranged around a central walkway. Compact, but swift and maneuverable in any atmospheric conditions. What about the distress signal?

I haven’t made any headway pinpointing its origin, other than to say it originated somewhere within a light-second of the planet. The signal stays out in space, of course. It doesn’t seem there’s an active transmitter running.

The debris field should be clue enough for us.

Yes, but Lyon says there’s little he can follow. He has a whole detailed report for you.

Zarco nodded. There, framed in the central viewport, was his ship, El Cazador. She cruised along a wide geosynchronous orbit with respect to the planetary surface. Like all interstellar craft, she was divided into three parts: a sleek bow that was home to crew and cargo spaces; the bulging Raszewski sphere that permitted travel between star systems; and a blocky stern comprised of four huge main drive engine nozzles, each gaping maw big enough to swallow the skipjack. Assorted chemical rocket nozzles and banks of ion drive ports clustered like the eyes on a power conduit spider.

Ria matched velocities with Cazador, cruising alongside the ship. In position.

Zarco activated the comm. Lyon, we’re ready for docking. Open the front door.

As acting captain, I’m hesitant to turn over the power once you board, came the reply. I like it, the being in charge.

That’s arrogant of you.

I know, right? Cool your rockets. Opening forward hangar doors.

Ria boosted with the skipjack’s engines, bringing them beyond the bow. She eased to port with the starboard thrusters, chemical bursts visible on a tiny 3D hologram of the skipjack hovering between her and Zarco.

He toggled a control and an image of their rear view appeared inset on the viewport. The skipjack slid sidelong until the inset glowed green around the edges. We’re in the lane.

Reverse thrust in three . . . two . . . one . . . mark.

Bow thrusters fired. Feathery jets of white burst silently from either side of the viewport. The numbers detailing their velocity trickled downward.

Cazador continued in its headlong orbital track. Within thirty seconds, the ship had swallowed up the skipjack.

Ria waited until the flashing red lights on the deck and ceiling of the hangar bay were equally visible above and below the skipjack’s nose before she gave one last tweak with the thrusters. The craft shuddered as magnetic grapplers jerked it to a halt. The bay doors slammed shut in front of them. Sounds rose in volume as air flooded back into the huge compartment—alert klaxons, the creaks and pops of metal as it warmed from the desolate cold of space.

Beautiful, Zarco said. There’s a reason I let you fly.

Let me? Ria unstrapped and ran through the shutdown routines on her console. I think I make the staffing assignments aboard ship.

Subject to the captain’s approval. And I do approve of your handling.

If you two are done making me nauseated, you’ll get decontaminated and get up to the bridge, Lyon said, his voice tinny through the comm.

For the hundredth time, the sensor rods monitor us for biological contaminants. If we’d picked up any bugs, we’d clean up in the shuttle before the bay re-compressed.

So you say. I’ll wait ’til you run the secondary scan for confirmation. And you’re welcome, Skipper.

Always a pleasure to get my ship back, Lyon.

You get good data?

Only the best. You should have the whole packet uploaded momentarily. Zarco removed his delver from a pocket. He frowned at the sight of the pale blue S in the upper right corner that had remained tinier while planetside. It was overlaid on a grey outline of a cross. That S was his constant monitor when they got back to Starkweather space. As soon as it blazed brilliant blue, the authorities would have the ability to monitor his work.

Zarco transmitted the data up to Lyon and stowed the delver. Such was the price for wearing the cross.

The back of the hangar bay was divided into two floors, the bottom stocked with hefter robots and a pack of three more quadramounts like Vex. Equipment lockers lined the walls. Various cargo and specimen containers were strapped down along either bulkhead. On the deck above, more storage and the observation deck, complete with floor-to-ceiling transparent panels. From there crew could watch the arrival of the skipjack or a returning drone.

Since Zarco had only four crew on payroll—including him—the lack of a welcome-aboard party was unsurprising.

The corridors of Cazador were uniform in size and color—a few meters wide, with dark grey metal decking painted with maroon strips along the sides. The bulkheads were pale, eggshell in color, with various compartments and panels shaded ochre.

Two more flights of stairs and they reached Deck One, home to the probe launching chutes, primary sensor arrays, defensive countermeasures, and at the middle of it all, the bridge. It wasn’t anything fancy—a five by eight meter room, with rounded corners and three consoles. Just inside the hatch and to the left was an airlock to the dorsal hull. Beyond that, an array of communications equipment, so many lights and readouts it would have been mind-numbing except for the African violets growing in a vertical planter down the right side. Zarco’s chair, the captain’s seat, was farthest from the hatch. It sat amidst a horseshoe of holographic displays and a big, wide screen that recreated a 180 degree view of space ahead of Cazador.

But the centerpiece was the holographic display bowl. The concave slate grey unit, its interior segmented into hexagons by obsidian lines, glowed with a blue mist. Green lights filtered down from the ceiling. An array of simple controls lined the edge.

Lyon Pict was its master, and judging by the way he sat with one elbow leaned upon its console, he was fully aware of the fact.

What’ve we got? He smiled. Always a scheme pushing that smile to the front. Lyon’s face could have come straight from the public safety ads spanning the Realm of Five—handsome, with a square jaw and stubble across the chin. Piercing hazel eyes gave Zarco the impression that his every move was tracked. Lyon’s hair was jet-black, an unruly mop that only seemed to attract more women to him whenever they were aboard station. Even though he wore gloves at all times—the first three fingers black and the other two, along with the palm, pale grey—his paranoia concerning disease didn’t seem to keep his admirers away. Or him away from them.

Have you seriously been sitting here waiting for us to fly back up instead of reviewing the data? Zarco tossed his jacket over the back of the captain’s chair. There was a small statue of an ancient Earth sailing ship tipped on its side atop the main drive controls. Zarco frowned and righted it.

Yeah, no. I was being polite. Attempting to, that is.

Failed. Next?

I’ve got everything uploaded into the Bowl. Lyon sidled over to the holographic projector. He stuck his hands through the sheen of pale light, reminding Zarco of sticking his hands beneath the stream down on Walpole. Lyon cupped them together in a circle and squeezed. A blue globe mottled with browns, greens, and whites appeared, no bigger than a grapefruit.

So. Walpole. Nothing much to offer the interstellar traveler, unless they’re looking for mind-numbing solitude and pretty birds. He pulled his hands apart. The image of the planet sprang up in magnification, reaching the max display setting of a meter and a half.

That’s exactly what they want, Lyon. Ria leaned against the edge of the Communications console. And that’s what we provide.

Oh, I know, and the money’s well worth it. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here. I’d be pursuing other lucrative opportunities.

Actually, you’d be in jail. Zarco dropped into his seat and kicked his feet up onto the main console.

Erm . . . right. Lyon scratched the back of his neck and grinned. Thanks, for the four hundredth time. He spun the globe.

Zarco felt he could stare at such an image forever, the same way he could appreciate a marble sculpture or a new sunset. The Bowl was worth every bit of its considerable cost. Only official Starkweather naval survey vessels carried gear capable of better scan resolution. They’d only had it for a few months, and already the profit they earned from elaborate presentations to starry-eyed colonists had covered the price.

Still, he’d rather not know where Lyon had procured it.

So, this ship, Lyon said. It was a pain to pinpoint. The scans of the debris we found in orbit weren’t much help. Too dispersed. Whatever traces of particle weapons discharge I was hoping for didn’t pan out in terms of tracing a crash route.

We know that, Zarco said.

"Yeah, but while Ria was flitting around being useful and you were playing Nature Boy, I managed to back trace reentry tracks for what little debris there was. Lyon scooped up his delver from the scanner console nearby. A trio of purple lines appeared, conjectural trajectories arcing toward the planet and diving through a hazy pale green shell that represented the atmosphere. Two of them were wrong. Nothing up by the northern polar ice cap. The ocean possibility was a dead end, because there was no sign of damage you’d get from a tidal wave—and with a starship crashing at high speed less than ten kilometers from a coastline, it would have been messy. Many thanks, Ria, for eliminating those possibilities."

I take it you have a winner, though.

Aced. Lyon removed two arcs with quick swipes of his hands. Our champ, lady and gentleman. Equatorial jungle.

Zarco squinted. Yellow lines glowed around the jagged edges of the fourth largest continent, a pale green landmass resembling two overlapping crescents.

Didn’t our drones come up empty when they made their initial pass? Ria asked.

Sure did. That’s the problem. This place gets pounded by monsoons for—well, at least half the local year. I stripped away the storm for this little presentation. Observe. Lyon held his palm over the continent. A huge swirling mass of thick white and grey clouds obscured the entire thing, spreading far beyond the yellow lines that glowed through the storm cover.

"Que desastre. You see, Ria? That’s why I didn’t want you flying over that hemisphere," Zarco said.

She shrugged. I’ve roughed through worse, love. Come in low enough, and the skipjack’s just as happy in storm as it is in vacuum.

Captain’s prerogative.

You might change your mind about that, Skipper, Lyon said. Between the storm’s electrical discharges and the metallic content of every blasted plant on this world, I can’t get you anything better than a good guess as to the ship’s final location. Here.

A red rectangle pulsed on the eastern half of the continent, several hundred kilometers from any coast, in deep jungle. Man-made object of indeterminate origin, he continued. Computer can’t give us anything more than its composition is not materials you find in the wild. Heat signature’s inconsistent with a vessel that size—probably the reactor’s shut down, and we’re getting leftover traces. Some gamma radiation but I can’t tell how bad.

What size are we talking?

Between 200 and 300 meters in length.

So twice or three times our size.

Yeah, it’s not anything we could drag up off the planet. Whatever you want to salvage is going to have to be small—internal hardware, data packets, and such. And . . . Lyon’s mouth twisted into a scowl.

What?

We had another addendum to our survey permit come across the Reach today, while you were down there. Starkweather’s increased their fee for Enrolled Faiths, up to 15 percent.

Zarco groaned. Again? They just raised it two quarters ago.

Nothing’s stopping them from doing it whenever they feel like it, Z. If you’re an EF, you’re not left a lot of legal recourse. Or if you work for an EF.

This is what freedom of religion looks like, Ria said. We can worship openly, but we’re subject to more rules and regulations than the unchurched.

Hey, you’re not the only one, Lyon said. I’m Associated. Means I get all the hassle of being around religious people without actually being one. At this rate, I’d be better off recruiting my own denomination.

You complain an awful lot for a man getting paid by those same faiths to explore new worlds.

Hmm, let me see. Lyon held up two hands, mimicking scales. Taxes and scrutiny on me based on your religion, or profits from surveying because every nut job with a Bible or a Koran wants to skip out of Realm space for the wilds beyond the MarkTel comms satellite range?

Just delete it, Zarco said. Lyon, you have anything else?

Oh, sure. You’re going to love this. The charged particle residue didn’t point me in any direction for the crash, because there was too much of it. Whoever was up here was shooting pulsed particle weapons like crazy. And I’m not talking defensive fire from a laser turret, either.

Zarco’s gut tightened. A warship.

Lyon nodded.

Ria moved over to Zarco’s side, touched his shoulder. We should contact Rescue Ops.

He put his hand over hers and shook his head. No, it’s too soon. There’s no evidence of any survivors—no homing beacons activated, no life signs at the wreck.

Besides, we’re too far out, Lyon said. It’d take a couple of days for the nearest Rescue Ops cruiser to show up.

Well, the Starkweather Navy, then.

No. Absolutely not. Zarco rose from his chair.

I know Commander Granza has leaned hard on us, but he is the ranking officer in this region.

A fact he reminds us of every time we tract shift home to report, Zarco said. He’d like nothing more to enforce the new salvage fee, and find some excuse to slap another demerit on our survey permit. Granza’s out of the question.

Ria frowned. You’re not leaving us with many options.

We need to know what’s down there, before we take any action.

Hence my heads-up about the weather, Z. Lyon flexed his fingers, and Walpole shrank down to just half a meter across. A perfect replica of Cazador, constructed of light, orbited the planet. Ria sounds like she’s up to it.

I am.

Zarco mulled their options. If there was a warship down there, Starkweather Navy would definitely want to know. But he didn’t want to bandy the discovery about on the Reach. Every scavenger and pirate within three tract shifts of the Walpole System would come beating on their airlock hatch. No, he needed to investigate firsthand, gather as much data as he could in person, and make sure every byte was date- and time-stamped.

I’ll go, and take Samson. He can help with any heavy lifting. Zarco snatched up his jacket.

Right now? We only just returned. Ria stood in his path, arms folded. I don’t like this. It’s not safe.

Zarco placed his hands on her upper arms and looked down into her eyes. I am a capable pilot, my dear. With Vex and Samson, I’ll be well protected.

I’m pregnant, Captain, not an invalid. She took a step back, freeing her arms. What I meant is, I’m coming with you.

Zarco took in her determined stance, the captain in him warring with the husband and soon-to-be father. You’re up to it?

When am I not?

When you were vomiting daily in the bathroom.

She poked him, and he grinned.

Settled then, Ria said. We’re both going.

Zarco swore she needed less rest than Cazador’s engines after a full burn. Get Fuse on the intercom. Have him meet us at the hangar bay. The sooner we clear up this ghost ship the better.

The young engineer was waiting for Zarco and Ria by the time they’d resupplied their bags and hustled back down to the hangar. The bright blue hair, fading to brilliant purple above the ears, was as alarming as a proximity klaxon. Two strips of uncolored black hair bisected the gaudy display. Fuse Karasu was in his mid-twenties and thin as a post. He wore a lemon yellow shipsuit covered with so many pockets that Zarco couldn’t begin to count them. A thick leather belt hung loosely at his hips, dragged down on the right by a half dozen pouches and containers. The sleeves of the jumpsuit had been inexpertly severed, stray strands waving in the air from the ventilation systems, and revealed a black shirt underneath with the sleeves pushed up. Fuse drummed a steady beat on the skipjack’s exterior, tendons twitching beneath grease-streaked olive skin.

Yo Skipper! Update, man. Fuse’s voice echoed around the hangar.

Zarco frowned. A tiny blue light blinked at the base of Fuse’s left earlobe. That blasted tune-spiker again. Shut off your brain racket, Fuse.

Heh? Cool your rockets. Fuse cocked his head to the right. The light died, and when Fuse next spoke his voice had halved its volume. Whoa. Quiet as dead space. What’s the deal?

We’re headed back down to the surface. Zarco opened the skipjack’s aft hatch and secured his backpack to one of the empty racks affixed to the fuselage. Ria passed him hers, which he similarly attached while she dropped into the pilot’s chair. The wreck we detected? Likely a warship.

Dump me in a black hole. Fuse’s eyes went wide with astonishment. Well, his right eye, a deep brown, went wide. The implanted spectrum scanner jutting from the left socket was an implacable black rectangle with top and sides bordered in grey. Well, ain’t found anything wrong with your ride except for the usual micro-meteorite impacts. Gimme a couple microsecs and I’ll have the hamsters fill ’em in, polish her up.

No thanks, Fuse. All we need is Samson.

Light rippled across Fuse’s blue hair while the purple stayed its normal shade. Zarco didn’t have the slightest data why these young rich kids spent their parents’ money on bioluminescent follicle implants. Something about broadcasting certain emotions appealed to them. With Fuse, it was a matter of deciphering how the blues flashed across his head. As if his grin weren’t a dead giveaway. Hey, yeah! Sammy’s been kinda neglected, Skipper. He’d love to get out. Two microsecs.

While he hurried off to the machinery cubicle, Zarco slipped inside the shuttle. He removed one of the four hazardous excursion suits from the cabinet. The bio-meter on the right sleeve told him this suit had regenerated the most. He stripped down to his undergarments and yanked on the tight-fitting, one piece jumpsuit. It was a pale grey streaked with shimmering lines. The suit would take on a camouflaged appearance in any environment, and could also turn a brilliant red if he needed to be rescued.

The decontamination rating on that one is eleven days, Ria said. It’s still regenerating from the expedition to Silica Six.

Yeah, remind me not to get that close to an active uranium deposit again.

Heavy, clunking steps of metal on metal drew his attention. Zipping the suit, Zarco ducked outside the hatch.

Fuse walked alongside a huge robot, tapping commands furiously into his delver. A blue hologram of indecipherable code dripped through air in front of him. The robot stood three meters, shorter than the typical hefter loading robot, but Zarco didn’t need the typical hefter. It had a tiny head with a wide optical band glowing green, atop a thick burly body as graceful as an anti-matter containment block. Its legs were shorter than the standard HFR-40, but were reinforced with additional pistons and twice as a many shock absorbers.

Here ya go, Skipper! Ready to roll—or run, I guess. Fuse patted the robot on thick, long arms that ended in massive gripping claws. I think he’s gonna enjoy not schlepping crates around.

We don’t carry that much cargo, Fuse.

"Yo, Skipper, you run the ship, and I’ll keep my ’bots happy."

Zarco took one look at that smirk on the kid’s face and paused outside the hatch. "Listen up, Gaston. You keep the main engines firing smooth, and I’ll decide who’s giving the orders aboard Cazador. Is that understood?"

At the name Gaston, Fuse’s grin vanished and he stood rigid, attempting a faux military posture. Didn’t work well, but Zarco appreciated the effort. You got it, Skipper. I’ll get the bay ready for your departure.

Zarco shook his head as Fuse scurried off. Great kid. Brilliant ’bot wrangler. But a complete vac-head when it came to authority.

The flight back down was not nearly as bad as Lyon advertised. Sure, there was turbulence as soon as Ria flew them through the fringes of the monsoon, but it was of a level that only made Zarco glance back to make sure the backpacks hadn’t rattled clear of their rack. Samson, lights glowing dully yellow in standby mode, barely shook.

A pair of heavy bumps, one right after the other, jarred Zarco’s attention back to the monitors. Descending to a thousand meters. The cloud cover was thick enough outside the rain-spattered cockpit window that he couldn’t see beyond the skipjack’s nose.

Ria entered a command sequence, and pale green images ghosted into appearance, giving Zarco a rough rendering of the terrain below.

Direct approach to the LZ, Zarco, Ria said, her voice calm and soothing. "Feeding the sensor input back through to Cazador."

Anything new?

Lyon says there’s a clearing five klicks southwest of the wreck. Got the coordinates.

"Five klicks?