Trident's Forge, page 2
The play clock resumed, and the quarterback started his snap-count.
“Blue forty-two. Hut, hut. Hike!”
He’d barely dropped back into the pocket before Benson blew his whistle again.
“Holding. Offense. Number thirty. Ten meter penalty.”
“That’s bullshit,” Hoffman, playing number thirty, said. “Why is it ten meters when the offense gets called for a hold, but only five when the defense holds?”
Benson shook the rules tablet in the air angrily.
“I don’t fucking know, OK? It’s football, it’s not supposed to make sense! Now just move the ball back, we’re burning daylight.”
Forty-five sweaty and profanity-laden minutes later, the Mustangs’ practice was over, just in time for the Spartans to take their turn on the field. Benson slapped shoulders and gave a round of congratulations to his new team, then turned down the path toward his home. The setting sun hung low on the horizon, shining ever so slightly more brightly in his left eye.
The vat-grown eye, courtesy of Doctor Russell, was just a bit more sensitive than his right. It, along with extensive burns on his hands and face, as well as a lungful of plutonium dust, were the keepsakes he’d earned fighting an utter madman named David Kimura and his patron among the crew, Avelina da Silva. The lunatic had detonated one of the small implosion-triggered nukes the Ark used for propulsion. Only a stray bullet from Benson’s gun denting the explosive shell surrounding the plutonium pile inside had prevented it from going nuclear, throwing out a huge fireball of conventional explosives and a cloud of vaporized plutonium in the process.
However, considering he’d saved all of humanity in the process, Benson considered the injuries a fair trade. Like his eye, Dr Russell had expertly healed his burns and lungs. Only an occasional itching under the skin of his left cheek where the nerves in his clone skin grafts hadn’t quite lined up remained to remind him of the damage he’d sustained in the fight.
Still, some nights, it was enough. Certain kinds of wounds ran deeper than flesh.
He shook off the thought as he turned onto the city’s central boulevard. Not for the first time, Benson marveled at how quickly Shambhala had grown. It wouldn’t be long before walking from one end of the city to the other wouldn’t be feasible. Public transit would be needed before long. The politicians were already fighting over the whats and wheres.
Benson glanced into the Bay of Landing where the space elevator’s anchor station floated. Its thin, carbon-nanotube ribbon shimmered in the deep red-orange hues of sunset as it reached tens of thousands of kilometers up to the Ark floating in the null-g of geosynch. Benson’s beloved Zero stadium had reverted to its original purpose: a dock and maintenance bay for elevator cars, as well as a warehouse and staging area for all the people, material, and supplies that continued to move back and forth between the Ark and the planet on a near-daily basis. Continue up some tens of thousands of kilometers more and the Pathfinder probe sat, now serving as the elevator system’s counterweight.
Humanity’s home for the last two and a third centuries had undergone a metamorphosis since it arrived in orbit around Gaia. Its three kilometer-long pleated conical meteor shield had been ejected just before decelerating for the Tau Ceti system. Only a handful of helium-three tanks still studded the outside of the reactor bulb, enough to fuel the ship’s fusion reactors for another fifteen years, at most. Only five thousand people remained behind to maintain its systems and tend the farms. Its stockpile of nuclear bombs all but exhausted, it would never move again, save for the occasional station-keeping thruster firing. The Ark had been reborn as a space station.
However, this new role was no less important than its original one. While the majority of mankind had moved down to Gaia’s surface over the last three years, Shambhala was still dependent on the immense ship’s fusion generators for power, her navigational lasers to deflect the Tau Ceti system’s population of asteroids, and what remained of its farmland for food.
As a posthumous gift to mankind, Avelina da Silva, the genius geneticist who had been in charge of the team adapting food crops to Atlantis’s biosphere and the woman who had nearly succeeded in killing every last human alive, had sabotaged the first batches of staple crop seeds with time-bombs hidden in their DNA that turned the plants into black sludge less than a month after germination. Their best scientists were still busy cleaning up the mess, damn her.
Benson took a moment to admire human tenacity. Despite possibly the best example of Murphy’s Law since the phrase had been coined, in less than three years their beachhead on Gaia had grown from a handful of tents and latrines huddled around the first landing shuttles to a fully functional and expanding city of twenty-five thousand people, complete with power, running water, sewers, networked data systems and a desalinization plant, all with a workforce that had been cut by two fifths just a month before they’d arrived.
Not that humans had done all, or even most, of the building. The majority of labor came courtesy of the army of machines that had spent the last two and a half centuries locked away in the Ark’s cargo bays. The explosion of activity only served to reinforce to Benson how much humanity had sat on its hands during the long road to Gaia. What he witnessed now was nothing short of a force of nature at work.
As he walked down the wide boulevard, nearly everyone paused to acknowledge his passing with something bordering on reverence. Benson had known celebrity in his life aboard the Ark as a Zero champion, but it was nothing compared to the legend that had grown around him as the savior of all mankind. It probably wouldn’t be long before they started pushing to put up some gaudy bronze statue of him in the city center.
A piece of litter caught his eye. A crumpled piece of paper, laying on the side of the road where it had been scrunched up and carelessly dropped. An old ache gnawed at him as Benson picked the trash up.
Trash. It was a word mankind hadn’t used in centuries. Nothing went to waste on the Ark. There, he’d have used the surveillance net to backtrack the culprit and slap them with ten hours of community service for breaking Conservation Code Seven.
But here in Shambhala, only three years into the experiment, humans were already falling into old habits. Bad habits. Benson carried the paper and dropped it into the nearest recycling bin, shaking his head as he did so.
One last turn and Benson was at the doorstep of the house he shared with Theresa, his wife of almost three years and the city’s first chief constable. It was a quaint yet comfortable affair straight out of the housing catalog, printed in a day flat by extrusion gantries. The rounded red roof tiles gave it a Mediterranean architectural flavor, but the flare did nothing to hide the fact it was still a standard unit. Not that Benson cared. It had Theresa inside it, so it was home.
The door recognized his plant and opened automatically, inviting him inside.
“Esa, I’m home!”
“Kitchen,” came her reply.
Benson hung his jacket and whistle by the front door, set his tablet down on the small entryway table, then took a deep, cleansing breath, letting the day’s stresses and frustrations leak back out of him on the exhale.
“You smell like a jockstrap,” Theresa said from the dining room.
“I love you, too.”
“I thought you’re just coaching the team, not rolling around in the dirt with them.”
“There’s a lot of yelling and running up and down the sidelines involved.” Benson stared up at the ceiling for several seconds.
“What’s wrong?” Theresa asked.
“Hmm?”
“You’re counting ceiling tiles again. That’s weird.”
Benson pulled out a chair and sat down heavily. “I’m not counting, I just… like having a ceiling.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. It just feels more secure. I guess I’m still not entirely comfortable with the sky. Sometimes I get caught up looking at a cloud or something and feel like there’s nothing keeping me from falling off the planet.”
“Only gravity,” Theresa teased. “You know, one of the four fundamental forces of the universe.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Mmm,” Theresa hummed. “I love the skies here, especially at night. The stars make me feel like I could stretch my arms out forever.”
“You could, and still never find something to grab onto, that’s the problem. I spent enough time out among the stars a few years ago, thank you very much. I’d still be out there floating through them if it hadn’t been for a safety tether.”
Theresa hugged him lightly from behind. “Don’t worry, you’re not floating away from me that easily.” She gave him a peck on the head, then pretended to spit it back out. “God, you’re as sweaty as a jockstrap, too. You’re taking a shower.”
“After dinner. I’m starving. Speaking of dinner, what did Jack send down the beanstalk today?”
Theresa held up a finger and turned for the small kitchen, then returned with a steaming plate of–
“Algae and mushroom casserole.”
“Again?”
“Hey, I slaved all day in the kitchen–”
“Heating up the package the casserole came in. The door told me you got home ten minutes ago.”
Theresa put up her hands. “All right, guilty, but it’s not like I’m choosing the menu. And it wouldn’t kill you to prepare dinner once in a while.”
“I’ve been busy coaching, you know that.”
Theresa sat down and cut herself a piece of casserole. “Oh yes, the work of our director of recreation and athletic preparedness is never done. Who could blame him for failing to perform his share of the household chores?”
“Have you seen some of the people coming down the elevator? A lot of them can barely lift anything heavier than the contents of their forks or chopsticks, much less do any physical work like, say, building the colony. They should have given me this job years ago.”
Theresa shrugged and set a piece on his plate. “Well, seeing as that means I’d have made chief years ago, I’m hardly going to argue the point. Now, can we eat?”
Benson picked up a fork. “I’m hardly going to argue the point.”
He had just enough time to get the first bite on his tongue when the call came in through his plant.
“I know who you are, Merick. Your name comes up in the corner of my vision, remember?” Benson said out loud as well as into his plant interface. “What I don’t know is why nobody down here knows how to ring first. I’ve just sat down to dinner.”
Benson stood up from his chair. “At least put yourself up on the screen in the living room.”
“The only other person here is the chief constable. Now please get out of my head.”
The link cut off, replaced by a gentle chime and an Incoming Call icon glowing on the far wall. Benson answered it.
“Ah, Deputy Administrator Merick. How are things in the Beehive?” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Busy, to say the least. I’m sorry to intrude, Mr Benson, but Administrator Valmassoi has called an emergency council meeting.”
“Ah, well then you’re talking to the wrong Benson. Esa, phone for you.”
“No, I was asked to contact you, personally. Your presence has been requested for the meeting.”
Theresa walked into the living room holding two beers. “What’s going on, Bryan?”
“Secret agent stuff, apparently.”
“Cool. I’ll get my coat.”
“I’m sorry,” Merick’s face tried and failed to hide his nervousness. “But the chief constable’s presence is not necessary at this time.”
“Hold on,” Benson took the lager Theresa offered and sipped it. It was crisp, without the skunkiness of last month’s batch. The brewmaster was getting the hang of things, finally. “Ah, that’s nice. Now, what sort of ‘emergency council meeting’ requires the Athletics director and not the chief constable?”
Theresa put a hand on Benson’s shoulder. “Did you forget to pay the deposit on your equipment rental?”
“I could have sworn…”
“Mr and Mrs Benson, if you’re finished, this is a serious matter that requires Mr Benson’s immediate presence. The meeting is starting in ten minutes, as soon as Captain Mahama is able to join us from the Ark.”
That got Benson’s attention. “Mahama’s coming all the way down here?”
“No, but she will be joining us by holo link. Administrator Valmassoi will be most grateful if you can join him and the rest of the council in the capital building.”
“Can we finish dinner first?”
“If you can eat it while you’re walking down here. Merick out.” The link went dark.
“This better be good.” Benson stood and chugged the rest of his beer. “I’m still starving.”
Theresa grabbed her jacket off a rack in the entryway. “It’ll reheat.”
“Yeah, because algae reheats so well.”
Three
Theresa crossed her arms close to her body against the brisk night air. With so little cloud cover, temperatures dropped quickly after the sun set. The capital was a short walk downtown from their duplex in Shambhala’s suburbs. Less than a block from home, they passed the new museum. The curator, Devorah Feynman, now officially past mandatory retirement age, showed no signs of slowing, and even fewer signs of trusting anyone else with the task of transferring her exhibits from the Ark to the surface. Not even the crew dared to broach the subject of stepping down with her. No one wanted to risk it.
Theresa smiled at the thought of the diminutive tyrant riding roughshod over not only her subordinates, but her superiors as well. Few people in the history of the species had ever been so perfectly suited for the role life had provided them.
“Any guess what’s gotten up Valmassoi’s backside?” Theresa whispered as they approached the Capital’s steps.
“You mean generally, or for this meeting in particular?”
“The late-night emergency meeting with the football coach. Isn’t it a little early for a performance-enhancing drug scandal? You haven’t even played the first games yet.”
“Honestly, I think my linemen could benefit from a few rounds of PEDs.”
Theresa answered him with an elbow to the ribs. “Be serious.”
“I don’t know, Esa.” He paused to nod to the two door guards, who waved them both through without the customary search. “But we’ll find out in a minute.”
The capital building’s inner rotunda was enclosed by a six-sided dome. The floor tiles came from locally sourced marble that had been quarried about five kilometers up the New Amazon river, the mouth of which spilled out into the Bay of Landing. The tilework was also hexagonal, as were many of the rooms surrounding the rotunda. Officially, the capital was dedicated as the Westminster Building, but everyone had quickly taken to calling it the Beehive.
Theresa and Benson reached the cabinet chamber where Deputy Administrator Merick waited for them.
“I thought we’d agreed that the chief constable wasn’t needed at this meeting,” he said tensely as they approached the door.
“You thought that, yes.” Theresa had little regard or time for the chairman’s lapdog.
“I’m sorry, but I must insist that–”
Ever the peacemaker, her husband put an arm around the smaller man’s shoulders. “Merick, c’mon. She’s chief constable, and my wife.” He pointed at the door. “Anything I hear in there is just going to be pillow talk in a couple hours anyway. This way, she doesn’t have to hear it secondhand.”
Theresa shrugged her shoulders. “He’s right, you know.”
Defeated, Merick opened the door with a theatrical sigh and announced their arrival to the council room at large. Administrator Valmassoi already sat at the nominal head of the hexagonal, twelve-seat table, flanked by the other council members, who doubled as his ministers of finance, health, agriculture, labor, and civil engineering. As far as Theresa could see, the ministers of education and the interior either hadn’t arrived yet or hadn’t been invited.
Standing off to one side, Theresa locked eyes with Chao Feng, formerly First Officer Commander Chao Feng. Certain improprieties had led to his being relieved of that title shortly after the Ark arrived at Gaia. Mainly his ham-handed attempt to protect himself from suspicion in a murder investigation by concealing his romantic relationship with the victim, leading Theresa’s husband on a wild goose chase while the real killer’s plot very nearly succeeded in causing the extinction of the entire human race. Instead, they only managed to slaughter two fifths of it.
In spite of his short-sighted and selfish behavior, Feng was far too capable and well-connected to discard entirely. He’d settled into the role of coordinator and liaison between the colony’s civilian government and the crew still running the Ark high above.
Feng nodded to her. Theresa nodded back. He didn’t make eye contact with her husband, however. There was still an awful lot of baggage between the two of them. Enough to ground a shuttle.
“Ah, Detective Benson…” Administrator Valmassoi said. “And our chief constable…”
“Is there a problem, administrator?” Theresa asked sweetly.
“No, of course not. I just hadn’t been expecting your presence for this meeting.”
“Neither had I,” Merick said from the doorway.
