The Viridian System Series Box Set

By Jemima Pett

The Perihelix. A mythical weapon, long since destroyed, and consigned to the annals of history. So why do two superpowers want to get hold of it? And why is it worth kidnapping two successful asteroid miners? Just because they happen to have an affinity for orichalcum, the strange element that enables instantaneous communications across the galaxy? The element found virtually only in the Viridian system. Well, yes.
Big Pete and the Swede, aka Pete Garcia and Lars Nilssen, have no idea that they might be valuable as well as rich. And their women have no idea how to fly a spaceship. Yet.

Curved Space to Corsair. Now Pete reveals his destiny, to save his people, who are overrun by the Imperium on their planet, Corsair. It is time for action. But Dolores, in training to become a space pilot, takes them down the wrong wormhole. Can they get back to known space while anyone they know is still alive? And would that be due to time dilation, or just a simple war between them and their destination? (contains some adult themes)

Zanzibar's Rings. The war may still be raging, but other forces are at work. Failure of the entire orichalcum communication system leaves Dolores in space, with a very dangerous passenger in her shuttle; Pete in the south of the planet is settling his refugee relatives, and Lars is wondering why everyone has a purpose in life but him. And once Pete works out how to fly spaceships on manual, it's down to him and Lars to rescue Dolores and prevent the last gasp of the war destroying their planet.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Princelings Publications
• Release date: Nov 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005480349

Jemima Pett

Jemima Pett has been living in a world of her own for many years. Writing stories since she was eight, drawing maps of fantasy islands with train systems and timetables at ten. Unfortunately no-one wanted a fantasy island designer, so she tried a few careers, getting great experiences in business, environmental research and social work. She finally got back to building her own worlds, and wrote about them. Her business background enabled her to become an independent author, responsible for her own publications.Her first series, the Princelings of the East, mystery adventures for advanced readers set in a world of tunnels and castles entirely populated by guinea pigs, is now complete. The tenth and final book, Princelings Revolution, came out in October 2020. Jemima does chapter illustrations for these. She has also edited two volumes of Christmas stories for young readers, the BookElves Anthologies, and her father's memoirs White Water Landings, about the Imperial Airways flying boat service in Africa. She has compiled four collections of flash fiction tales, publishing in the first half of 2021. She is now writing the third in her science fiction series set in the Viridian System, in which the aliens include sentient trees.Jemima lived in a village in Norfolk with her guinea pigs, the first of whom, Fred, George, Victor and Hugo, provided the inspiration for her first stories, The Princelings of the East. She is now living in Hampshire, writing science fiction for grown-ups, hatching plans for a new series, and writing more short stories for anthologies.

Book preview

Viridian System series Book 1

By Jemima Pett

Second Edition fully revised

Published by Princelings Publications, Hampshire, UK

© J M Pett 2018

Smashwords edition v 2.2

Cover by Dawn Cavalieri and Jemima Pett

Vega asteroid field background graphic courtesy of NASA/JPL-Caltech

The rights of Jemima Pett to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of names or characters to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Acknowledgements

Many thanks to all those who have read and commented on the stories that led to the development of this series, in particular to Rebecca Douglass, Noelle Granger, David Prosser, Annette Abel, Patricia Lynne, Damyanti Biswas, and Vidya Sury for their continued support, and to these people together with Margaret Elcox and 'Hellvis' for their comments on early editions of the Perihelix.

As always, my thanks and appreciation goes to my editors, Dawn Cavalieri, who worked on the original document, the late Kate Jackson, who gave me honest and constructive advice on my revisions, and whose untimely death left me in a spin, to Mary McGuire for referring me to her, and to Rebecca Douglass who made sure I put all that advice into action eventually.

Thank you all.

Language and cultural notes

I attend avidly to the 'word of the day' feature on C4's Countdown, and note how words have evolved in their usage and meaning over a mere two hundred years. Having set this series some 800 years in the future, I wanted to let the language evolve, especially since the cultural influences of a many-species intergalactic society should have enriched 'Standard' extensively.

On the whole I have used words for technology that have immediate resonance with the state of technology in 2017, indeed, some of it may seem old fashioned within a couple of years. But as references to the 'Exodus from Old Earth' suggest, some technologies have continued and others have had to be rediscovered in those 800 years. I hope that technology has reverted to being a servant rather than a driver of society, but it means that I can use words for swearing on the basis of their sound or resonant effect, rather than their current usage in America, for example. Equally, old racial tensions on Earth have been displaced by questions of alien domination in the Alpha Quadrant, and skin color is not generally an issue, save when it is accompanied by poisonous skin secretions or a knife-blade tail.

I am also glad to see that sentience in ‘animals’ is no longer questioned.

For further discussions on world-building for the Viridian System series, and further revelations from the Cavalieri-Chang Modern Universal Word Usage, 2822 edition, please see the website viridianseries.uk

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Books by Jemima Pett

Chapter 1

Orichalcum: n. a rare metallic element, much prized for its malleability, ductile strength, and conductivity. Principal uses in the civilised universe are for components with instantaneous communication capability, those with super-sensitivity to heat-cold and esper radiation, and works of art. Naturally occurring in certain types of asteroid, generally a long way from civilised parts. Legendary use: as coinage in Old Earth Ancient Greece (pre-Exodus), for weapons with strange powers, and as a power source. Contrary to some descriptions in legendary uses, orichalcum emits a green aura, not red. (Cavalieri-Chang Modern Universal Word Usage, 2822 edition)

Just one more day. Just one. That was all.

Don’t mess up.

I won’t. I always check. You know that.

Lars Nilsson, known as the Swede, ignored the narrowed eyes and shake of the head from his partner, and swung himself into the airlock. Pete would always state the obvious. It was part of his safety check. But it was always Lars that did the tricky mineral extractions. Pete did ores, Lars did seams.

Twenty minutes later he was on the asteroid, checking the security of the pins in the rocky entrance to their current mining site. Next was the fiddly job of fixing the safety net behind him. Lars swore a few times as his space-suited fingers fumbled with the antique hooked tool. What was the name of the planet they’d found it on? It fixed the netting in place quicker, but it was still fiddly. He kept meaning to look up what ‘crochet’ was. He shook his head, reminding himself: concentrate—last day.

Across the void of space the pale green light of Viridium, their sun, cast an eerie color wash over the asteroid’s surface; it was bright enough for Lars to read by, but then, he was born on a dim-sun planet. Further in, Pleasant Valley and Sunset Strip, the twin habitable Viridian planets, reflected the sunlight across the ecliptic, left and right, the furthest separation they would have when seen from the asteroid belt. It was a grand sight.

Sometimes Lars stopped to admire it, but not when he was drilling. He checked back across the one hundred meters to the skin of their craft. His partner, ‘Big’ Pete Garcia, waved his arm from one side to the other: ‘all clear’. He had a brief memory of their first few mining trips back on Excelsior, when they used voice comms—might as well put out a homing beacon for pirates. The Viridian system was too far from most places to be a target. A few claim-jumpers would love to know which rock the system’s most successful orichalcum miners were working.

Lars floated down the tunnel to the fresh rock face.

Don’t mess up. Safety first. Last day.

The end of a mining tour brought fatigue, greed, space-craziness, and over-confidence, and the outcome was nearly always irreversible. Lars checked his safety gear, his emergency pack, his tether feeding out along the tunnel, and hoisted the pneumatic drill whose hose stretched all the way back to the ship. He located the seam he’d hit at the end of the previous shift, and started to cut it out.

Back on the ship, Pete would be monitoring the hose. It was years now that they’d been using something that ran on compressed air, adapted to work in a vacuum, and they had been pleased with the results. Hacking orichalcum out with a pickaxe was effective, but tiring; the price of an uncontrolled rebound could be a pierced suit or a cracked helmet. Electronic machinery didn’t work well near orichalcum; it would cut out for unknown reasons, just as the ship systems could if you got too close to the asteroid. This drill’s compressor and hose were archaic, but worked. Lars could focus entirely on the rock face in front of him; Pete would be running through his checklist of safety precautions, keeping one eye on the net across the end of their current tunnel. Lars joked about the many redundancies Pete built into their operations, but it had kept them alive for more than twelve standard years. Every conceivable incident had a procedure. All had been tested, and most had been used.

Lars braced himself against one side of the tunnel and drilled between his feet on the other wall. Dust hung around in the vacuum of space. So much of this work was feel and instinct. The sound waves from the drill pierced the tufa, vibrating into his suit where he touched the surface. The feel of the drill in his hands changed; it juddered, hitting metamorphoid rock. Lars paused, watching swirls of dust and smaller rocks as the microgravity turbo-collector sucked them up to their ore processor. The routine helped him keep track of time without having to wipe the surface of his qwatch.

There! The seam of pure orichalcum he had hit the day before was now exposed for around forty centimetres. He started drilling above and below the edges, tracing its line. A long one—seams rarely went more than a few cents. It was not just the metal’s obscure locations that made orichalcum so rare. This find was a long, flat thread, almost a ribbon. He reached for his hand pick and carefully felt out all along the visible part. Pincers, where were they? He let the pick float and angled the pincers to cut through the ribbon where it dove deep into the rock. He retraced his path out of asteroid tunnel, and stowed the ribbon carefully in one of the holdalls that was anchored there.

Is that enough? It’s worth a few million credits on its own. We’ve got a good haul.

He rubbed the face of his helmet, wishing he could rub away the sweat and grime from his face. However clean they got the suits, rock dust got into the fabric in the airlock and accreted onto their skin while mining.

I hate this. One more go.

Back at the face, he lifted the drill, braced his feet, and tried to intercept the ribbon again.

The jet of gas spewed out with the merest microsecond of warning.

In the minuscule time it took to thrust Lars back down the tunnel to crash into the netting, he registered the miracle of missing the rough edges, the need to hang on to the netting with all his strength, and to make sure his suit’s integrity wasn’t lost. He screamed as the force threatened to cut him in two, and squirmed to avoid the blast as the net lost its seatings on one side. He grabbed the threads with his fingers, and fought to control his breathing in fear of decompression. Adrenalin rushed through his system as his tether tightened and he heard Pete’s calm voice saying ‘zed three’ in his helmet.

He let go of the net, crossed his arms across the blackening fabric of the suit, and allowed the auto-retract to pull him the hundred meters to the ship in under six seconds. He rolled into a ball, allowing the capture net to suck him into the airlock but minimise the damage to his soft human organs from momentum change. The hatch above him slammed shut just as his suit threatened to rupture. His vision blurred, but the color in the pressure gauge still showed red…. green!

Lars breathed. He shuddered. He made himself release his arms. He’d prevented a major breach in his suit, but the burn marks were still spreading where the jet had scorched them. He wanted to curl up with eyes closed, but he had to get out of the suit. As he struggled with the tough fabric, he realised that Pete was above him, looking through the porthole on the airlock hatch. He gave him a thumbs-up, and a weak grin. Pete responded likewise. One more safety procedure that worked in practice. Lars crawled out of the airlock back into the ship, and curled up in the medibunk to recover.

Two hours later, Pete woke him, having rescued the holdalls with their largest finds, and completed hosing up all the other debris.

You’re fixed, for now, according to the chart.

Damn chart knows nothing.

Pete smirked and went through to the console in what they called the office. Lars followed, groaning as he moved. Pete took a drink from the beaker of warm flavoured water they tried to imagine was coffee, and rubbed his moustache.

Okay, then?

Yeah. Maybe we need better auto-sealing suits. Lars scratched his head and looked at the result showing under his fingernails in disgust. Have I ever said how much I hate this job?

Once or twice. Always near the end, though. Maybe we should make the trips one month shorter.

We tried that when we finished at Kappa Venturi.

Well, next time…

Lars nodded. Yeah. My belly hurts.

Let’s get Zito to sort us out a real holiday place this time. Take it for six months. A year, even.

What about a place we could live if we really liked it?

Sounds good. After the Amberson, of course.

Sirtis! When did the entries close?

Lars tapped the console to bring up the rules of the Amberson Trophy. If they’d missed the entry deadline for the big flyer’s race on Pleasant Valley, he’d kill someone.

I’ll send Zito a message. Relax, Lars. Go take another spray. Then sleep.

~~~

Zito, who if pressed for a first or second name would reply ‘Zito’, strolled back from Horatio’s bar to his own. The Amberson Trophy flyers’ race always caused them headaches. The influx of competitors and spectators stretched the limited resources of the city, yet it gave the Viridian System a good name for tourism, and that helped his bank balance. The solution they’d come up with this year was to kick the miners out of rooms into free board and accommodation in one of the spare hangars on the west of town. Most of them would be glad to save on rent and food. They were only here because they couldn’t afford to go to Sunset Strip. Competitors needed rooms, but since he and Horatio organised the race, they knew exactly how many by the time entries closed a week earlier.

In Horatio’s, Zito had taken a look at the race list and added two more names to it.

You can’t do that! Horatio had complained.

Zito had stared him down. Entry was in my computer. Why hadn’t it been processed?

The memory of Horatio’s sigh made Zito smile again.

Although they reckoned they’d covered all eventualities for this year’s festive season, Zito continued to look for problems, risks not properly assessed, unthought-of dangers, as he kept to the shadows. It was second nature to him—Pleasant Valley was anything but well-named. Maybe it had been appropriate a thousand years ago, but its orbit had brought it closer to Viridium, and one day they might have to leave it altogether. Or go underground, or even—as some visiting ‘expert’ had suggested—just relax and wait for it return to a tropical paradise climate again.

The middle of the day was siesta time. The bazaar was quiet. The dogs slept. Even the flies took a nap. Only the smells and the garbage took their usual strolls around the alleyways.

Zito turned another corner, crossed the dusty track that led from the spaceport, and went in through swing doors to a cavernous building with a balcony and three more floors above, hewn out of the side of a cliff. It stood in glorious decrepitude across the block from the pristine, classic architectural wonder occupied by the Exchange. A lot of money passed through Walton City, as the main settlement was officially known, and the Exchange handled all of it. Zito got the small change. There was enough of it for him.

He dusted himself down and went behind the bar to pour a cooling beverage, which he took back to the tiny note-strewn desk filling the cubbyhole that he called his office. He ignored the papers in favour of the incomings.

Took you long enough to ask for that, he muttered, as he read Pete’s request for entries and flyers for the Amberson. Sparking futzes! They had used his new system to book the girls, but Aramintha wasn’t available. Lars was upset. I bet he is. Serves him right. Book ’em straight away, why don’t ya? Well, if I can’t reschedule her, you’ll have to wait.

~~~

Lars! Wake up, you baboon’s backside; we’ve drifted.

In the second bunk, built into the wall of the spacecraft midway between the control room and the galley, Lars reacted with a groan and a shiver. Futzing fernandos, it was cold. Lars collided with the opposite wall in the space black of an unlit ship, as he sought out his coveralls to ward off the sub-zero temperatures. How long’ve we been down?

Who knows? How long have we slept for?

Lars cursed the timing. Why now, while they both slept? Why not earlier, when one would have been on watch. Then he could have blamed Pete. Mining was done for this trip—just a day’s ore processing, then they could leave. So both had slept.

Why had they drifted this time? They’d spent hours of waiting time throwing around possible reasons for the power-loss effect of orichalcum. This was the third time the ship had drifted closer to the belt, lost power, and gravity had taken over.

Lars emerged from his bunk right behind Pete and slid into the established routine. In the control seat, Pete tapped switches to confirm it wasn’t an ordinary failure, Lars prepared to take their position. Without knowing that, they couldn’t use the best ‘escape’ option. He pulled out an aluminium chest from a snug fit in the sidewall. Flipping the catch, he extracted an expanding wooden frame with a number of pegs sticking up. Then he snapped a round object into its centre and stretched the wood this way and that, looking from one peg to another and through the side window. He read some numbers on the round object, grunted, and repeated the operation through a porthole in the cabin roof.

Pete took out two grey shiny pads, each with a stick attached by string, and an assortment of hand tools.

One nine seven, one four five, zero three zero. Lars called his readings to Pete, who wrote the numbers on the grey pad with the stick.

Damn.

Space anchor’s still there.

Rate of descent?

Slow enough.

Solar sail?

Best option.

Having used the ancient device he had acquired from a junk heap on Beta Kareninas, Lars had fixed their position relative to Viridium and the arc of the asteroid belt. They could deploy the delicate sail that caught solar wind to move them away from the asteroid. Lars relaxed slightly: the only real alternative was to suit up, hope for a soft collision and bounce off fast enough to leave the orichalcum influence. They only knew of one mining outfit that had succeeded.

Pete climbed into his spacesuit and went out of the airlock to unfurl the solar sail. Lars crawled underneath the corridor into the hold to check that the air supply was still pressurised, then checked his scorched spacesuit. Only a fool would risk the integrity of that fabric. He squeezed into the spare and went to join Pete.

Lars controlled the base of the sail while Pete pulled himself along a rope attached to its head. The sail stretched out for hundreds of meters. Lars kept a close eye on his partner as Pete went just far enough to attach a second coil of rope to the gossamer fabric. He pulled the rope out as he came back, crabbing to the back of the spacecraft and then climbing some way along the drift anchor rope. Lars waited for his hand signals and responded, mainly with a thumbs-up. Pete tied off the rope and shimmied back to the hatch. They floated and watched for a while, swapped ‘maybe’ hand expressions, and re-entered the ship.

Either it will or it won’t, Lars grunted, pulling on his ice-planet coveralls.

Pete shrugged, dressed, and kept a lookout through the porthole. Lars smoothed medication on his bruised stomach and went back to bed, until the hum of the craft rebooting roused him.

By the time they’d finished pulling in and stowing the sail, the ship’s systems were recharged and the ore processor was ready to rumble.

What I don’t understand is—why did it drift? Space anchor stayed put.

Pete shrugged his shoulders. All systems go, anyway.

Lars gritted his teeth against the vibrations from the ore processor. At least it signalled the end of the trip. He concentrated on checking the log for a clue to when and why the systems failed. Something odd here, he commented.

Pete looked over at his screen. Lars pointed.

Computer, display security log.

Lars looked over at Pete’s screen as the log scrolled through. There.

A few taps and Lars brought up a comms exchange just before the computer had shut down through loss of power.

We lost power and then drifted? Weird.

I don’t remember that happening before. Ever. Lars sighed. We’re going to have to—

Yeah. Vvoice on. Hi, computer.

Working. The computer’s voice, emanating from the viewscreen level with their heads, raised hairs on the back of Lars’ neck. It had a flat, dull tone, not human, not quite electronic.

What does this exchange at 9073.25 mean? Lars put his finger on the log, to emphasise.

Unauthorised entry.

We were hacked?

An attempt was made, yes.

How far did they get in? Pete asked.

Preliminary interchange only. I’m not dumb, you know.

Snarky comments will get you turned off again. Lars rolled his eyes. He could swear the computer sniffed. Where did the hack originate?

Attempted hack origin unknown. Three waypoints detected before blocked.

Path? Pete asked.

Unreliable data.

Go on, give us your best guess. Lars had a hate-hate relationship with the computer in voice mode. After years of attempting to train it to their preferred style, they had given up.

Imperium Security 30%; Federation 28%; Imperium agency 21%; Imperium Senate 12%; Brotherhood 8%; someone else 1%.

That’s only 99%, Pete said.

1% error.

Yours or theirs? Lars pounced; he was sure the computer sniffed.

Rounding errors.

He grinned at Pete, then wondered. How come you included Imperium Senate separately?

Comms fingerprint. You asked for a best guess. You got it.

Thank you, Vvoice off. Pete cut in as Lars started a rejoinder. Doesn’t take much to remind us why we keep him off.

Lars took in a deep breath and let it out audibly. Why the Senate, though?

Why not?

Why not indeed, Lars thought, shoving unwelcome memories away as he checked the rest of the comms to make sure everything was normal. Maybe he was behind with his own hacking skills. Maybe he just needed a woman. His favourite woman—Aramintha.

Twenty-seven hours later they docked at Pleasant Valley’s space hub—rather than the more expensive groundside space port—leaving an order for full service and parking until further notice.

On the walkway to the transit, Lars stood out among the arrivals; his height and colouring were a throwback to legendary fair-haired warrior nations. Most miners knew him and ignored his appearance. A couple of other space travellers spat at his feet. He ignored them. He was easily mistaken for an Ouroboron or the detested Imperium Inner Circle. He walked tall and chose his adopted names to support the third alternative, Scanian.

He sometimes envied Pete’s deep-space tan over his already copper-coloured skin, typical of his origins on a farming planet. He passed unremarked amongst the various shades of spacer. The large sack of orichalcum ore swung over his shoulder was another matter; it drew admiring glances.

They waved their miner tags at the securicop, who nodded at them while responding to a flashing light; the cop steered the female behind them into an interview room at the side. Lars looked at Pete, shrugged, and pulled the cuff on his coverall over his telltale scar. Eighty percent of people in this part of the galaxy had a similar scar where they’d dug the legacy of their birth out from their bodies. Nobody here wanted microchips, all had hidden pasts, and most enjoyed Pleasant Valley’s lawlessness. People with microchips were from an Imperium planet, and only their wealth was wanted.

An assorted lot of space jetsam pressed against them as they took the transit planetside. When Pete growled at the second who attempted to touch their sack of orichalcum ore, Lars took it from him to carry in better view. He looked down at Pete’s shaggy hair, heavy eyebrows, and rumpled outfit. He could have done better to clean himself up. He looked what he was: just out of the asteroid belt. Lars could see own his reflection in the mirrored panel; a hint of chubbiness over good bone structure might once have made women call him attractive, but the twice-broken nose and his complexion spoiled the overall effect. He hefted the sack artlessly over one shoulder, and he trusted Pete to make sure that nobody got their hand or other appendage on it.

A few minutes in the miner’s transit area in the space port allowed them to use the spa facility for a real wash and change into their clean planet-style clothes. Brown-haired, green-eyed Pete emerged in his customary dark brown pants and loose tan shirt, supported by an unnecessary faux animal-hide jerkin and matching boots, while Lars let his well-developed shoulder muscles and biceps stretch the fabric of his white shirt, which was neatly tucked into tailored dark blue pants.

The dusty streets of Walton City greeted them like old friends. Lars breathed in the heated atmosphere and sighed, then ducked as two drunks reeled out of an alley throwing fists at each other. Pete grabbed the wrist of a slithy Barbarian, twisting it back till it clicked. The Barbarian howled.

Try someone else’s pocket, fool.

Lars grinned at him. Home! They passed three bars with varying degrees of raucous laughter, shouting, and what passed for music from the Aldebaran dive. By the sound of it, there was a cockfight going on in Swindle’s Alley. Not their scene. Gambling had always seemed a waste of time and money to Lars. Pete was usually happy to play, provided it was for small change. He led the way into their favourite bar. They took up positions on two stools, elbows on the stone counter, the sack on the floor between them.

Big Pete! The Swede! Welcome back! Usual?

Pete and Lars ignored covert glances from the other customers; most would be assessing the size of their sack. The two miners had eyes only for the golden liquid as the bartender drew them two liters of the local brew.

Just in time for your Krismas, eh? the bartender asked as he put the glasses on neat mats and wiped the bar around them.

Lars always enjoyed the welcome that they received at Zito’s Bar. They might look like dozens of other workers, but the pairs’ presence aroused whispers among the other customers. At least three groups would by now be taking bets on how much was in the sack.

The asteroid miners sank half their ale in one long draught, savouring the cold freshness and the hop flavour as it passed over their tongues. They put the glasses down and wiped their mouths with the backs of their hands. Pete wiped his moustache as well.

Good pickings? The bartender was used to miners fresh out of space. They nodded and sank their noses in their glasses again.

Boys! Welcome back! Zito came scurrying from the depths of the back rooms to greet them. The exchange is closed today. Do you want anything put in my safe?

Still drinking, Lars leaned sideways, lifted the sack with one hand, and swung it onto the counter. Zito put one hand on it, then the other, dragged it to the edge, and grappled it to the safe in the back room. Lars listened for the whizz and clunk of the safe being opened and closed.

How long are you staying? Zito called.

Four or five nights, assuming you’ve got us in the Amberson, Pete called back.

I haven’t got a room with a view till full moon. I’ve booked you in the Amberson, though, he said, coming out. Here. He handed the miners a card.

Thanks, Zito. Lars pocketed it.

First floor back.

Lars valued Zito’s care of them. Apart from the bar, its hotel, recreation rooms, and a couple of other hangouts, he ran a number of useful enterprises, including his thriving escort agency—the only official one in the system—and could supply most things other than space hardware for travellers vacationing on Pleasant Valley and Sunset Strip. If you wanted space hardware, he’d introduce you to someone else. Sometimes Lars wondered how he did it all, but most of the time he took him for granted.

Whadda ye haf t’do t’get service roun’ here, shouted a black-chinned fellow who appeared to come from a desert planet, since he had crinkly edges to his skin-folds, designed to save moisture. Zito started to turn, since the bartender was sorting out a problem at the far end, but a tall female dressed in a voluminous robe caught his arm.

I hear your establishment is the best in this city.

She had a husky, throaty voice that spurred Lars’ attention. He admired her over Pete’s shoulder.

Who’ver said thass’a liar! called the crinkly guy.

Of course, madam. How may I be of—

Bullets rang out, some striking the mirror behind Zito’s head, others whipping into the woman’s robe. Lars dragged Pete to the floor and tried to pull her down too. . She evaded his help and turned to her assailant, flicking a knife from somewhere in the folds of her garment. A foul stench filled the air as her blade hit home, puncturing Venusian hide. The submachine gun clattered as it fell, and the shooter oozed to the ground.

The silence dissolved into a murmur, which grew as things settled back into normality. People’s attention shifted from Lars and Pete to the woman.

You okay, Zito?

Lars was more concerned about his readiness to fill their glasses than his health. Zito nodded, tended to their needs, called the bartender back to the crinkly chap, and returned to the woman. Lars vaguely registered the cleaning animal as it removed the Venusian, and the blast of cold air that took the stench away.

As I was saying, madam, how may I be of assistance?

I need accommodation, and a meal. I booked an escort when I entered within range of your system.

Certainly madam. I’ll check whether your escort has arrived. Will you eat now?

Yes, unless the escort has not eaten.

Here is our menu; we cater for all tastes and requirements. Zito brought out a portview and handed it to her. This will give you an idea of our table. Your name, or reference, madam?

Karina.

Zito moved away while he sorted out her accommodation and served three customers. His bartender had his hands full at the other end now.

And one of those, she said as he passed, pointing at Pete’s half-empty glass.

In swift succession, Zito gave her a card for a second-floor room, asked if she’d seen anything she liked, and handed over her litre of brew. He served two more customers while she keyed in her order. Zito checked on her choices.

I’m afraid this one is not available.

She was available when I booked.

Pete raised an eyebrow at Lars. Lars leant forward to peer over Pete’s shoulder at the booking, but the screen cleared too quickly for him.

If you’re contacting escorts, Zito, Lars said, are the girls ready for us? The usual, four months renewable.

Ah, yes. Zito sounded troubled. He continued to serve the newcomer. There may have been a glitch in the system, madam. Perhaps someone else? He made to pass the screen to her but she waved him away.

She was available when I booked, she repeated. Shall I put in a complaint?

Well, no, but I’m sure someone else will suit your needs just as well. I have the best range—

Would you like me to draw the attention of the Imperium to your backward planet?

Zito’s demeanour didn’t change. How long will you need your escort for, madam?

Four months, renewable, I guess, she said, with a cool smile at the miners.

I’ll see what I can do.

Lars watched Zito as he hurried down to the other end of the bar to serve the rest of his customers. Was Zito was avoiding them?

~~~

Aramintha McInerny received an urgent call from Zito as she wrapped her legs around Gareth Pargetter on the narrow berth in his spacecraft.

Ignore him.

I can’t. You know that.

I wish I could buy you out.

It’s a lot of money.

I know. One day, I’ll have money. I’ve been working on something for years. People will pay a fortune for it, when it’s finished.

Aramintha covered his mouth with her own to stop him talking. Gareth was a big talker. He had hinted before about some big secret project. He’d be a hero when it was finished. Sure.

Aramintha knew about heroes. She knew about being admired by everyone. She knew what the Imperium did with heroes. All she’d cared about since she was twelve was survival—and revenge, if she ever got the chance.

Getting Gareth to take her on a little tour around the system had been easy. These few days off were a luxury, and she had made the most of her time, even if it meant a little work, too. Poor Gareth, such a sap. Pete and the Swede were back in town, and working with the Swede was more like a holiday. She even looked forward to his company.

Once back at the spaceport, she checked in at the spa and made herself ready for him. Black hair cascading free in waves over her shoulders and down her back. A hint of smoky eyes and enhanced lip gloss, nothing too artificial. A figure-hugging green dress with gauze drapes that showed nothing yet hinted at everything. She smiled into her own blue-green eyes. Yes, he’d be looking forward to seeing her, just like this.

Zito saw her as she came through the door, and hastily steered her to one of the shadowy booths.

Ah, Aramintha, good. This is Karina. She has need of your services. Standard contract.

Aramintha looked from Zito to Karina and smiled. Pleased to meet you. She looked back at Zito with the eyebrow away from Karina raised.

He shrugged. System fault.

Have you eaten? Karina demanded.

Yes, thank you.

Good. We go to my room and I will brief you.

Aramintha had ample experience with clients of all types to know that there was something dangerous about this one. For a start, she was chipped, which meant she was Imperium, yet she had not been isolated to the resort facility on Sunset Strip for their leisure stay in the Viridian System.

You will be accompanying me there later, Karina said in response to her query. I wished to check that the escort I had booked—you—were suitable, before leaving.

Aramintha nodded, showed her around Walton City as she requested, and steered her clear of the revelry that broke out to celebrate Krismas. She heard Lars’s voice singing in one bar, and thought she caught a glimpse of his hair.

Karina hurried her on towards the spaceport. We will leave tonight. There are too many people here.

As you wish, madam.

Zito had mentioned ‘standard contract’, so Aramintha had no fear of being kidnapped. Taking a visitor’s own spacecraft to the Imperium resort compound at Sunset Strip was unusual, but not unknown. Karina was not talkative, but encouraged Aramintha to tell her all the information there was about the few sights of Walton City without appearing to take any interest in them. Aramintha was going through the motions, alert for any hint of why this woman wanted an escort, and why, in particular, she had chosen Aramintha. Zito charged top prices for her.

They shuttled up to her spacecraft, an unmarked but Imperium-made vessel. Aramintha was surprised to find a pilot in attendance. Karina waved him to the bridge, and took Aramintha to a cramped seating area.

Please take this seat.

Karina checked that Aramintha was properly strapped in, and took her own seat opposite. Once in space she got up again.

Now… Karina pressed a control pad and the chair morphed into a medichair. Aramintha’s head was locked into position by padded restraints, her arms and legs were secured in their resting positions. It was so sudden, she could do little but tense her muscles. Listen carefully. Do not resist, it will be easier for you this way. There, it is done.

Aramintha screwed her eyes up too late as the medichair delivered something into her eye.

This machine has inserted a tiny robot, a nano, in your eye. In a moment I will test it is working correctly. It will not hurt you, unless you try to remove it. Or if you fail to act normally. If you do anything other than what I tell you, it will burn your eyes out. You understand? Any minor transgression will deliver pain.

Aagh! Aramintha cried out as she received a jolt of pain into her brain.

So. If you continue with minor transgressions, it will repeat that shock, at random. You never know when the pain will strike. So do not transgress.

What do you want? Aramintha had her fists clenched, and her hands were sweating. Worse, she was trembling and she did not want this woman to think she was afraid. She was angry—as angry as she had been when the Imperium had raped her planet.

You will go back to Walton City in a few days, when the man they call the Swede has had time to miss you. Then you will join him. You will stay with him. You will go everywhere with him.

That won’t be difficult.

Everything you do, we will see. When the time comes, Lars Nilsson will be found by the one who wants him; he sent me to place this trace on him. Remember, there is no escape. Tell him, and you receive pain. You want a reminder of that pain?

No, Aramintha whispered. Her brain roiled, searching for any way to not betray Lars like this.

Good. Remember, everything you see, we see. Most of what you hear, we hear. Carry on as normal. Let no-one know what you carry with you. Pain is worse than death, you know. Karina came right up and put her face in front of hers. Remember, she hissed. And in case you think you are oh, so clever, this nano can see through your eyelids. Even when your eyes are closed, the nano can see. Would you like a demonstration?

Yes.

Karina released her from the medichair and gestured her forward to one of the screens at the side. Here… this is what you are looking at.

Aramintha saw a screen displaying the wall with the screen she was looking at in the middle, with the same view in the middle of that, into infinity.

Now, place your hands in front of your face, so… and use your fingers to count. One, two, exactly, and continue with your eyes closed. And stop. I shall replay that for you. See? I told the truth. The nano sees everything, even when your eyes are closed.

Aramintha watched as her fingers displayed the numbers through to ten. She could see when she had closed her eyes. And they were definitely her own fingers.

How long will this continue? she whispered.

Until the owner is satisfied.

Aramintha stared at the screen as Karina laughed and went off to talk to the pilot. Nothing in her years of training while she was a child, nor her experiences as a slave from Talia Prime, all the way through to being picked up by Zito on Paradisio, nothing was as bad as this. She drew on all her initial training, steeled her back, and concentrated on enduring that which cannot be avoided.

But how, in all the gods’ names, could she explain to Lars?

Chapter 2

Viridian System: n. planetary system of Viridium, a type G star within the green spectrum. Location Alpha NM9. The system consists of seven orbital paths: the third path contains two planets in opposition to each other; the fourth path is an asteroid belt. The system would be entirely avoided were it not for the asteroid belt, which is currently the richest source of orichalcum in the galaxy. (Cavalieri-Chang Modern Universal Word Usage, 2822 edition)

The beer was flowing in the Irish Bar. Krismas was a festival celebrated in sufficient systems around the galaxy to make it a common cause for feasting. Different customs clashed on occasions, since anyone from over Lyra way tended to treat it as a formal occasion, whereas the New Donegal, Centauri and Praxis systems tended to use it as an excuse to get drunk, dance, and play games involving tests of strength. Pete and the Swede joined some other miners on a bench seat and played some good-natured games of peanuckle before a red-faced humanoid from the planet Grapple took a swipe at the Swede, connected with Big Pete, and promptly challenged him to a duel.

Duel! Duel! The chant was taken up by enthusiastic miners who knew all about Pete’s specialty.

Pete reluctantly got to his feet. I choose arm-wrestling.

The Grappler roared with laughter, rolled up his sleeves, flexing his biceps in Pete’s face, which involved stooping, since he was a good twenty cents taller than Pete. Then he pushed a guy off his chair at a centre table and yelled at Pete to sit opposite.

Pete stopped for another sip of his beer, wiped his moustache, and took his seat opposite.

Best of three?

Nah—is for sissies! One out, all out! roared the Grappler.

Pete shrugged and put his elbow on the table. The Grappler raised both arms, stretched, roared a war cry akin to a strangled ox, spat on his hands, rubbed them together, and spat on the floor for good measure. Lars passed Pete a handcloth.

Wha? The Grappler looked confused.

More hygienic, Pete explained.

Bah! He grabbed Pete’s hand, accepting the cloth, dropped his elbow to the surface and squeezed.

Pete squeezed back, arm rigid and ready.

The Grappler strained to push his arm over.

Pete pulled some faces for show, but although his shoulder muscles swelled with the additional work, his demeanour remained relaxed.

A circulatory vessel in the approximate location of the Grappler’s temple started to throb. Beads of sweat exuded from his nose pores. He grabbed the edge of the table with his other hand. The onlookers roared their disapproval and he took it away again. He started to move Pete’s hand across, and smiled. Hah! Not so easy now, eh?

Pete watched his hand as it moved into the losing sector. Steadily, slowly, it sank to thirty degrees from the table. Bets were being laid and taken against him. Lars took a few to win several drinks and a couple of hundred credits. He put his head down to Pete’s. Make sure you win, partner, I’ve got money on you.

How long do you need to take some more?

Lars shrugged. Pete’s hand sank lower. The Grappler’s eyes were bulging. Pete wondered if he had red blood or some other color.

The barman called over: Hey, guys, hurry up will you, it’s nearly midnight.

Oh right, said Pete, calmly, his hand less than three inches above the tabletop. He snapped the Grappler’s arm across to his own winning side, with an audible slap on the table, and stood up. I win, I think.

Lars grinned and collected his winnings. The Grappler staggered off, strong-armed by his cronies, who made sure he didn’t do anything he would regret.

Next time pick on someone your own size! one of the miners called after him. The Grappler lurched back towards him, but the barman stepped in, and let off a shower of sparks.

It’s Krismas! Happy Krismas, everyone! The room erupted in cheers and backslapping, hugging and toasts.

Do you think Zito’s still got some food on? That’s made me hungry. Pete rubbed his hand and picked up his mug of beer, draining it as the refills came round again.

Probably. Or we can pick up something at the corner and take it in, he won’t mind. Oh, you won this lot. Lars handed over the winnings he’d taken from the bets.

Two of the hostesses came over and linked arms with them. Oh, guys, you’re not going, are you? The blonde was perky, red-lipped and in a full-bodied costume. Pete happened to know that appearances could be deceiving, and in her case, definitely.

’Fraid so, Sana’a, we only got in today, Lars said. Besides, I’m injured—I could never do you justice.

That’s not what I hear, Mr Swede, the other girl put in.

New around town, aren’t you? Where did Zito find you? Lars took in her dark sleek hair and brown eyes, the smattering of freckles across her nose with a practised eye.

Oh, well, it was a sort of fair exchange. Fair for my ex, unfair for me.

Ah. Where’s he now?

Poof! Who cares.

They extricated themselves from the girls and sidled back to Zito’s.

I reckon she’s stayed ten gallons high since he sold her. Lars looked back over his shoulder.

Probably for the best. I heard her man got killed on this trip.

Before or after he sold her?

After. Maybe he actually cared about her. He went solo.

It was a sobering end to the evening. ‘Going solo’ was a euphemism for going out on a trip on your own simply to end it all. Very few miners worked alone.

They resumed their imitation of drunken, hard-bitten miners by rolling into Zito’s, smashing a few (empty) glasses on their way through to the bar and tipping Zito the eye so that he encouraged them to call it a night. You had to keep up appearances if you were an asteroid miner. Hard, tough, and rich. Or hard, tough, and poor, depending on which end of a vacation you were.

The Swede swung the bag of ore onto his back and stepped out onto the sandy street, closely followed by Pete on back-up alert. They’d slept in long enough for most of the customers to have left Zito’s—even those who hadn’t slept in rooms—and retrieved the sack from the man himself to make good on their hard work. Lars stretched, and breathed great draughts of air: dry, with a hint of dust, but fresh in from the plains. He wondered if Pete could replicate it to avoid the recycled body odour that predominated in both space and the bars they frequented.

Lars scanned the surroundings for trouble. He saw plenty, but none was heading in their direction. Pete walked crabwise behind him, making sure nobody jumped them from the back or side. The exchange was only thirty meters away, plenty for an opportunist.

Two Kairans leapt out from behind the pillars either side of the entrance just as they reached the Exchange steps. Their assailants grabbed the bag, but Pete strong-armed one away while the Swede dealt with the other. Lars proved his theory that the stone pillars were harder than a Kairan’s skull and left the debris for someone else to sweep up.

Good afternoon, gentlemen. Ah, welcome back. The porter inside the exchange entrance changed his tone as he recognised Pete and Lars. He took the bag and parked it in a small room full of slim cases, weapons, and outerwear; he took both men’s jackets and brushed the worst of the dust off before hanging them next to finer cloth. I believe Mr Artimus is free. Would you care to discuss your business with him? Room 3.

Pete grimaced at Lars, who made the decision. Mr Artimus is perfectly reasonable, but if Mr Garelli is available we’d rather see him.

Whu’— of course. The porter recovered after their rejection of his first choice. I’ll check.

I’ll never understand how they came to build this place here, Lars murmured, looking up at the arched windows and vaulted ceiling. There was only a semblance of privacy. He could see anyone his height or taller in the ‘rooms’ on the main concourse. They were just were partitions, with doors and a small grid window in one side, but open at the top. There was a Venusian in one near the end. Very rich, judging from the emerald sheen to her skin.

The porter scurried back. This way please; Mr Garelli will be free in an instant.

Lars grinned as he thought of several responses, including an instant what? He followed the porter, careful not to tread on his tail; Pete’s smirk suggested he had the same reaction. They reached the room at the end, where the porter waited with them. As the Venusian emerged, she bowed and thanked Mr Garelli for his attention. Not as rich as all that, then. When they spoke to Mr Garelli, he was usually the one doing the bowing and thanking.

Ah, welcome, welcome, Mr Nilsson, Mr Garcia. Please, be seated. Although, maybe first, your goods?

Lars sat on a chair to ensure no tall person outside could see him, and removed his shirt. Then he removed several packets from slim pockets on the vest he wore underneath. Pete did the same and then emptied his pants pockets. Lars took off his boots, slid the soles aside, and took out some blocks of metal, including short pieces of the ribbon he’d released just before hitting the gas pocket.

Lars tried to keep his face straight as he watched Mr Garelli’s expression change: merely observant at first, his left eyebrow rose higher at each hiding place the miners revealed. When they had finished, all three sat looking at the heap of orichalcum in its various forms that spread like lava over the table.

I suppose you would like me to dispose of the bag of dust in the usual way? Garelli asked.

Exactly, Pete said. We find it an excellent diversion. Thank you for suggesting it.

Garelli sorted through the heap, separating the grades into ingots, nuggets, and fines. He weighed each group on an archaic balance, wrote each result with an antique pencil on a piece of synthpaper, and totalled the figures. Pete and Lars watched carefully and agreed his figures at every stage.

Just one thing. Lars interrupted as Garelli started to tell them the current price for orichalcum. He picked up three of Garelli’s weights, placed them on one side of the balance, and brought out a weight from his pocket. They watched as the scales swung evenly. Fine.

If the dealer was offended, he didn’t show it. He hadn’t shown it on the previous occasions either. The Swede always brought a different weight to check the scales. He wanted to keep Garelli on his toes. The banker made a good income from them, but it was worth showing him it was better dealing straight, despite all the deals and rackets on Pleasant Valley.

Garelli told them the price on the previous dealing day and on that morning. I’ll buy from you at the monthly average and as usual I’ll release it into the market over several months. He paused and looked at the lava pile. Years, unless you need cash. I’ll credit you anyway. There’ll be a glut for a few days while the other miners realise their profits. I trust that is satisfactory.

Yeah, fine. Zito suggested we invested in some property this downtime. What do you think?

Property is always a good long-term investment, provided we have no unwelcome visitors, of course.

Lars frowned at Garelli’s proviso.

I’m planning to invest in a new spaceship, so we don’t want to spend too much. Pete’s announcement was a surprise to Lars. He redirected his frown to his partner. Why should there be unwelcome visitors? he added.

You didn’t see the Pavanian deputation in town? Special dispensation to visit the city and talk to the City Council. Garelli shifted in his seat, and laid his hands carefully along the edge of his desk.

No. I saw an Imperium woman, though, probably a spy. Lars thought of the attempted hack into the ship’s systems. He wondered where the Karina woman was now.

Exactly. It would be criminal of us to ignore early warning signs.

Lars felt Pete tense; he was staring at the banker with narrow eyes, his demeanour alert, then after a couple of seconds he relaxed again.

It would be wise, the banker continued, steepling his fingers, for wealthy and successful businessmen such as yourselves to take every reasonable precaution against losing their wealth to avaricious third parties.

Even out here? We’re lightyears from any casual trading routes. Lars valued his security. Was Garelli serious in warning them?

The Imperium wouldn’t come here even to take the asteroid belt. It’s not worth their while. Far cheaper to rely on us lot, we’re expendable, and they’re major players in the market. Pete reassured Lars; he kept up to date with galactic economics while in space.

You think that, but it would take an oracle to foretell what the Imperium might or might not do, or how the Federation would react if they made a move on the orichalcum market. Garelli’s shoulders relaxed as he saw the Swede’s shoulders tense. Chill, gentlemen. Take a cup with me. He turned to pour three thimbles-full of light amber liquid and handed them round. To our investments!

The three men tossed back their shots, and rose to leave. Garelli shook each of the miners by the hand. Worry not, gentlemen, you’ve earned enough this session to buy you anything you might want for the next five years. And by the might of the Exchange, you can access it from anywhere in the galaxy.

Lars and Pete had brought in as much orichalcum that day as all the miners in the last ten months added together, but neither spoke as they left the banker. Garcia and Nilsson might be the most valuable assets in the Viridian System. But had Garelli really just passed on coded messages to each of them?

The villa is available whenever you want it. Zito finished showing Pete and Lars around the property via the vidscreen in his back office. I sent Maggie over in case you wanted to spend your Krismas in it. Of course, I’d pre-entered you for the Amberson Trophy, as I reckoned you would rather waste the entry fee than watch from the sidelines.

Good work.

Dolores will be with you tomorrow. You can have another night carousing like good asteroid miners should.

Lars wrinkled his nose. As far as he was concerned, he’d shown up at all the bars he had to, and played the part of the successful space miner well enough. He’d endured the disdain of off-worlders, got drunk with the regulars, and been sponged off by the no-hopers. Now he wanted to relax with his favourite girl and a good flyer.

I have some bad news for you, though. Aramintha is on another contract. Regrettably—

It’s not that Karina woman, is it? Lars spoke sharply.

Er, yes. A mistake on someone’s part left her in the system as an ‘available for hire’. You know I tried to shift her onto someone else.

As I recall it, Zito, you didn’t try very hard. You backed down at a mere mention of the Imperium.

It was very awkward. The system should show only available escorts—

You could have said no. Pete fully supported Lars on this, although when they’d discussed Karina the previous night, Pete confessed he hadn’t thought to specifically book them himself. Lars had forgiven the oversight. Zito should have known.

Look, guys, I know you’re disappointed, but I did get you into the Amberson, and you didn’t exactly get your entry in before the time limit. Things aren’t easy at the moment. What with the spectators, the extra competitors… The number of Imperium-chipped visitors is making everyone anxious about security. We even had a mayor’s meeting the other week, just to talk about the remote possibility of the Imperium making moves on the Viridian System.

You should have said no! Lars’s frustrations were starting to show. He’d refused to take any relief with Zito’s hostesses, torturing himself some more. Pete patted his arm.

Zito rarely allowed anyone into his tiny back office; Pete was virtually doubled up in a small fabric chair behind the wooden desk, while Lars had parked one well-honed gluteus maximus on its polished surface. Zito himself was juggling with an antique described as a ‘hat stand’ as he manipulated the vidscreen interface with his other hand. They all ignored the sounds of fighting coming from the bar.

"I am very sorry, guys. I am sorry, Lars, I know she’s a favourite. But Dolores and Maggie will look after you well, as you know. Do you want a third girl, or shall I just send Aramintha along as soon as she’s free?"

Lars glared at the screen, knowing he should accept Zito’s apology. But all Zito did was sit around down here, drinking beer and enjoying himself, while they were up in the asteroids, risking their lives. He tensed his stomach muscles, which screamed in protest.

Zito took advantage of the silence to change the subject. He pulled at the air above another part of the screen. The slowly rotating representation of a brutalist style villa built into the hillside, surrounded by lawns and trees, set against a backdrop of mountains with a lake or beach in view, was replaced by a ground-based flying machine.

This is the XL-550, Zito explained. Note the additional thrusters and the redesigned flanges. The dorsal fins are also modified. I’ve reserved two of them for you for the race.

Pete squirmed to get a closer view. Does that inlet manifold detach?

Which one?

Pete pointed to it, his finger sliding into the light effect and causing moiré patterns to shimmer down the flyer’s fuselage.

Er, I don’t know. Why?

Could be a weakness.

Who’s the contact at Xolomium? Lars intervened, knowing that Zito procured items for his customers; he didn’t profess to know anything about them. Pete needed to ask the manufacturers.

I’ll give you the details, Zito said, returning the hat stand to its corner. The local guys will be able to answer your questions. Here—he handed them a plastic token—this’ll home you to them in a yelocab. They’ll be expecting you by now. You’ve total access to them until the race ends, but they only have the two allocated to you. Spare parts but no spare flyers.

Pete shrugged and Lars grinned. As if they’d crash their flyers before the race itself.

~~~

In the silence of the Sunset Strip Resort apartment, Aramintha sat still, using the techniques she’d learnt in her youth to control her impatience and prevent unwanted thoughts spiralling into panic. Karina was out, enjoying the luxury of time at a leisure complex. The monotony was broken by the cleaningbot’s entry.

Apologies, gracious visitor, I will leave you.

No, carry on. After a second, her spirits lifted. Stepping to the door to look out incurred a mild pain in her eye. Resigned, she stepped back again. A warning, perhaps?

She went through her stretching routine, then helped herself to fresh fruit and a tumbler of water. How long would this last? Surely the plan was to send her to Lars to spy on him? Maybe Karina wanted to give him time to really miss her. Stupid. He’d be living it up with some other woman, Dolores, or Maggie, or someone else he’d hired.

The cleaningbot finished and left.

Karina’s plan wouldn’t work. Her place would have been taken.

Although… they were creatures of habit. They wouldn’t miss her till after the Amberson. Did Karina know that?

Having discovered that cooking wasn’t on Aramintha’s list of talents, Karina relented and took her to dinner. Aramintha recommended three of the beachside restaurants, and Karina took a table upstairs, on the balcony of the most expensive. At Aramintha’s suggestion, Karina ordered a thali, a tray of complementary dishes from the extensive menu.

"They’ll include the freshest ingredients, either grown here on