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Genesis II

God offers to every mind its choice between truth and repose.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

 

L–45

"Abrahim Kurtaski was more than a friend, more than a teacher." Wallen Valori was standing behind a small pulpit beside the coffin. He stopped and looked down, his face registering the emotions caught in his throat, then looked back up to the assembly, as if to find the strength there to continue. Sitting in the right front row of the ranked chairs laid out in the vast main hangar of Ark's construction shack, Aurora Brady looked away, out the open hangar doors to the gentle green of the embryonic ecosystem. The hangar was the only space in the ship large enough to hold the complete complement of Ark's crew. Abrahim was her grandfather, but she felt disconnected from the funeral somehow, as though she were watching the proceedings from a great distance, watching someone else go through the motions of mourning and grief. A dozen of the small utility fliers were parked near the hangar door, moved there to make space for the ceremony, along with a trio of the larger cargo aircraft. Behind them the hangar grew taller, clearance for the huge colony landers being produced on a kilometer-long assembly line. The robotic machines there had been paused in their work and stood frozen, as if they too mourned the chief engineer's passing. The sight of the aircraft moved her in a way the service had not. I remember when Dedka taught me to fly. Her grandfather had been there, always been there for her, when she'd taken her first step, and her first solo flight. A world without Abrahim seemed impossible. Wallen was still talking, but his words washed over her without registering, the sound divorced of meaning.

The cargo fliers were designed by Antonov, and so were affectionately called aunties by the crew, which made the smaller utility fliers dadushka—literally "uncle" in the Slavic-English slang favored by the riggers. When she was very small . . . Was I three, or four? . . . she had learned the words but confused the meanings, and so wondered who the mysterious relatives her parents were always taking to this place or that place were. Tears welled up in her eyes as the day came back to her when her Abrahim sat her down to tell her that her parents weren't coming back, and then he had to explain how an auntie could crash. I met death far too young. Abrahim had loved to fly as well, and she would have given anything, anything to see one of the agile little craft come taxiing in, so he could pop open the canopy to smile at her, as he had so many times before. It seemed almost possible, and she kept her eyes closed, remembering . . . 

The flow of Wallen's words stopped and there was silence. She opened her eyes to see him stepping down to find his seat. She watched him, and saw the priest looking at her. It was her turn to speak, and she didn't want to go. Speaking would acknowledge that her last living relative was gone; speaking would make it real. And I don't want it to be real.

But not speaking wouldn't make it not real. She stood up, walked to the pulpit and took a moment to gather herself, looking out at the assembled crowd. There were thousands there, virtually Ark's entire crew, there to pay their last respects to their most respected member. And all of them waiting for me. She took a deep breath. She had prepared notes, agonized for hours over the right words to say. They were in her pocket, neatly folded, ready for just this moment. They were the best expression of her love for Abrahim that she could articulate. They were, she now realized, completely inadequate. She left the folded sheets in her pocket, and began speaking.

"My dedka devoted his life to this ship, this Ark. When he started it was a dream, nothing more. Today we are building the foremost achievement in human history. He knew he wouldn't live to see it finished, but he knew also that others would take up his task. We crew, in our community of purpose, are the ones to do that. Our children's children's children will live to see the human race break ground on a new world. That was Dedka's vision, and of all the things that he did to make this project real, perhaps the most important was that he shared that vision with the world. I am spaceborn, one of the first." She looked down, suddenly overcome with memories, and struggled to fight back the tears. I can't cry, not yet. She looked up. "I never thought he was special. It was a long time before I understood that not every little girl's grandfather had to build her a world to live in. He was special, though. I have always been very proud . . ." She paused, trying to overcome the emotion that was choking off her words. ". . . very proud of Abrahim. I know he was very proud of what we've accomplished here, and proud of every one of you, who have put so much of your lives into this project." She tried to go on but found her throat too tight to get the words out. She swallowed hard, and focused on the back wall of the hangar. "He lived a long life, and he filled every day of it. I know he wouldn't want us to put too much time into mourning him. I know he would want us to keep building his dream, our dream. We're going to the stars, we lucky few, and he's coming with us." She forced a brave smile to her lips. "He's coming with us."

She stepped down then, and the priest rose to take her place. "Ashes to ashes and dust to dust . . ." he began, and Aurora looked away and up, not wanting to see him, not wanting to think. His words seemed empty, quoting some verse in the Bible that promised eternal life after death in a place free of earthly wants. It was surreal to hear him talk about reuniting with loved ones in the afterlife. She looked over her shoulder, saw the somber, drawn faces of the assembly, friends and colleagues united in grief. Some were crying, others looked like they were about to. Nobody here is fooled, nobody thinks he'll be waiting for us in heaven when we die, nobody here is looking forward to paradise after death. The words that count are the ones from those who knew him.

Certainly Abrahim wouldn't have had much time for such mystical mumblings, her dedka had been a confirmed agnostic. Pokazukha, he called religion, shadowplay, form with no substance. "What kind of God is it who hides behind event horizons and beneath the quantum foam?" he had asked when the question came up. In life he had no time for priests or gods, so she was surprised that his will had asked for a funeral service, surprised again that he'd specified that it be conducted by a Russian Orthodox priest. Abrahim's mother had been Jewish, and had she expected any religious official at all, it would have been a rabbi.

Aurora returned her attention to the priest. Perhaps he did it for me. Her own Catholicism was limited to baptism and confirmation, only because her grandmother had asked that of her mother before she died, and before Aurora was born. She had hunted Easter eggs and unwrapped Christmas presents in happy ignorance of the underlying religious meaning of the celebrations. Then why this? Since she'd been a little girl Abrahim had delighted in surprising her, showing her the unexpected. And you can still surprise me, Dedka.

The sermon ended, mercifully short. He had specified that in his will as well, and all at once Aurora understood. She looked over to where Secretary-General DiAngelo sat, in the front left row with the other dignitaries. Many of them had wanted to speak at the chief engineer's funeral, but none of them were. If Abrahim had specified no funeral at all the politicians would have overridden his request, on the theory that Great Words must be spoken at the death of a Great Man, but the demands of faith carried more weight than the mere last wishes of a man. By insisting on the Orthodox service he had denied anyone else the chance to grandstand on his grave. The ceremony would be over quickly, and life would move on; it was her dedka's way. He didn't need the words of powerful men spoken over his grave. His legacy was Ark itself.

The priest stepped down and silence filled the improvised chapel, until mercifully the choirmaster raised his arms and the choir broke into a mournful hymn. The pallbearers came forward to the coffin and lifted it. It was plain fir, another stipulation of the will, made with wood cut from Ark's fledgling forests. Aurora fell into place behind the pallbearers as they carried her dedka out to the small graveyard beyond the hangar. Small but growing. When the graveyard was first established there had been only a square kilometer of soil around the construction shack, irrigated with pumps and covered only in special fast-growing grasses. The first to die on the Ark project had been returned to Earth for their burials, and most of the Siberskniks who'd been born downwire still were. Aurora's mother, Abrahim's daughter, had been among the first of the spaceborn, and had been buried in space because they had died before Ark had any soil at all; her father had been returned to his native Ukraine. Now a grove of young oaks had grown up around the graveyard, and it had become a landmark. The oaks were Abrahim's idea too, slow-growing and so not the best choice for Ark's designed-for-yield ecosystem, but a powerful symbol of enduring strength. She had seen full-grown oaks during her time on Earth and understood what he meant. He had taught her the importance of symbols.

The sun was shining through the foredome and reflecting off the vast mirror cone overhead to distribute its rays over the whole of the ship's interior world. All life comes from the sun. It shouldn't surprise me that the ancients thought that heaven was above. It was different when you already lived in space. Religious conviction was so slightly held among the engineers and scientists of Ark's construction crew that they'd had to call downwire to find an Orthodox priest to conduct Abrahim's service.

It was just half a kilometer from the hangar to the grave, but the walk seemed interminable, and then the priest had more incantations to say. The dignitaries looked appropriately somber, the secretary-general himself, the president of the assembly, the director of UNISE, and more she had been introduced to but couldn't actually recognize. The coffin was lowered into the grave, and the bagpiper began to play a mournful lament. She nearly cried then, the tears she had fought back in the hangar. Wallen came up and put an arm around her, and she had to swallow hard to keep from breaking down.

"He lived a good life, Aurora, and a long one." His words were true, and they were meant to comfort, but all she could think of was that her dedka was gone, was gone, was gone and was never coming back to her. He's all the family I had left. The priest began to move away, and the dignitaries to follow him. The ceremony was moving on, carrying Abrahim inexorably farther away from her, and she felt an urge to throw herself into the grave, to hug his coffin as if it were him, to beg the universe to bring him back to her. She did none of those things, because none of them would do any good.

"Come on . . ." Wallen's hand guided her, urged her forward, and she walked because she had to. Life moves only forward. There was a reception in back at the construction shack. It became a blur for Aurora, an endless round of people coming up to give her their condolences, most for the second or third time, more people congratulating her on her ascension to her grandfather's post of chief engineer. "So sorry it had to be under these circumstances . . ." but of course there were no other circumstances under which she could have risen to the position. True also, she had been doing the job in all but name for years now, though Abrahim, his mind sharp until the end, had continued to lend his wisdom and experience to guide the immense project forward. She found herself hungry, for the first time in days, and then found herself frustrated, trying to balance a paper plate covered in mango slices while embracing people and shaking hands, trying to talk and eat at the same time. Like all Ark's food the mangoes had been shipped upwire from Earth and were less than fresh, but she found she didn't care. Eventually the function ended and she went back to her rooms to fall asleep, exhausted.

Her desk woke her the next morning at the usual time. There was no such thing as a day off for the chief engineer, and today the secretary-general had asked to see her. She would rather have put that off, but he was going back downwire immediately so there was no way to postpone it. She showered and dressed, the emotional events of the previous day already seeming to belong to a separate lifetime. That done she took a deep breath, gathered herself, and went to the chief engineer's conference room. She would rather have met him in her office, but the secretary-general's staff had insisted on the conference room, and further insisted that the secretary-general would enter first, to be seated when she came in. Such are the protocols of power. To Aurora it seemed a trivial concern, and their insistence upon it was an annoyance that she would rather have done without. The Ark's construction crew lacked the numbers and the time to put much effort into the recognition of status; who you were meant nothing, it was what you did that counted. Aurora had earned the position of chief engineer entirely on her own merit, aided greatly by Abrahim's help and guidance, but not at all by his status. Not too much anyway. Her father had been slated to fill that role, and while Abrahim had never pressured her to follow in his footsteps, he had certainly been very pleased when she chose to.

The construction shack was a multilevel maze, a small city in a single structure, welded to the forewall base in successively rising levels like a vast stainless-steel fortress built against a protecting cliff. It was the construction crew's center of operations, housing everything from living quarters to fabrication plants, and even a few independent shops set up in disused sections by enterprising moonlighters. Newcomers routinely got lost, but Aurora had grown up in it and navigated it with practiced ease. The secretary-general's chief of staff met her at the entrance to the office wing and escorted her down to the conference room. There were a pair of Interpol police waiting by the door, an unnecessary formality. They saluted smartly as she came by, and the chief of staff opened the door and showed her in. The secretary-general was waiting, sitting in the chair at the head of the table, with Brison Keyls, the director of UNISE, on his left.

"Chief Engineer, good morning." D'Angelo rose to greet her, and shook her hand. He was a tall man, photogenically handsome. "I'm sorry your promotion had to come under such circumstances."

Aurora nodded. "Zdras. I appreciate your coming upwire. That was very considerate of you."

The secretary-general smiled, sat back down in his chair and motioned for her to do the same. "I couldn't not come. Abrahim Kurtaski was a legend, a great man in history. The Ark project is the largest single item in the world budget."

"It is a great undertaking, sir. We're privileged to be a part of it."

"And you have been doing fantastic work. Abrahim, especially, was key."

"It was his life's work."

"Yes of course." The secretary-general smiled broadly. "What I'd like to do today is discuss the direction that work should be going in."

"Of course. We're filling the ocean now, and we've got about four-fifths of that done. We're farther behind on soil distribution, but our base species seem to be doing well. We're doing well with lander production, though of course that's going to take another twenty years to finish."

"Yes, yes." D'Angelo cut her off, the smile gone. "As you may be aware, we are facing a number of challenges in the administration at the moment. I'm afraid we're going to have to look at some cutbacks."

Aurora's eyebrows went up. "Cutbacks? Why?"

"This is a very expensive project, in terms of raw materials, but more importantly in terms of the energy required to ship them up the cable."

"It doesn't cost anything on the ground. We generate all the power required right here on-station, and supply the global grid with a considerable surplus into the bargain."

"I know you're disappointed." DiAngelo wasn't really listening to her. "Unfortunately I have certain realities to deal with." He stood up. "Mr. Keyls here will work out the details with you." He gestured to the director of UNISE. "I'd like to express, one last time, my condolences, and those of the General Assembly and the people of the world, on your loss. Your grandfather was truly a great man, and he won't be forgotten." He shook her hand and went out, to find the boost car to the spin platform, and his shuttle, and the Earth far below.

Aurora sat back down, somewhat surprised at the sudden turn of the interview and the abruptness of the secretary-general's departure. She turned to Director Keyls. "All right then, what are the details?"

"We're going to be closing down some aspects of the project." He tapped on his pad and started going over his notes while Aurora listened in growing disbelief. She expected an in-depth discussion of trade-offs to be made, perhaps changes to construction schedules, changes to the ecological plan, adaptations to a reduced boost schedule for upwire shipments of water and soil. What she got was a set of instructions, brief and to the point. She was to mothball Ark's systems and move the construction crew personnel downwire, permanently. A skeleton crew would remain on the spin platform to maintain the solar arrays and keep power flowing to Earth. The initial plan should be under way in under a week, with the shutdown completed in two months, preferably less.

Aurora sat in shock when he had finished. Eventually she managed to find her voice. "You can't possibly mean this."

"I'm afraid I do." Keyls leaned back in his chair. "You understand, this is nothing personal. There is a great deal of support for this project in the aerospace world, and UNISE certainly intends to see it continue; however, the reality is, and more importantly the perception is, that this is simply costing too much. The secretary-general is having to make cuts everywhere, and we are no exception. Perhaps at a later date we can restart it."

"But the power we supply pays for . . ."

"And we fully intend to keep producing power on orbit. Don't worry, there's demand enough for every kilowatt you can produce."

"The solar farm can run with a maintenance check twice a year. I'm concerned about my people, not the hardware."

"Everyone will be looked after. Part of my job is to make sure there is an effective transition program for those transferred down to Earth. You're all part of UNISE. We're not going to just abandon you."

"Director, I don't think you understand. I'm spaceborn. There's over a thousand people who were born here, some who've never set foot on Earth. Every single one of us is committed to this project, not as a job, not as a career, but as a way of life, as the only life we've known."

"Yes, unfortunately you aren't the only ones involved in this. This project costs a lot of money . . ."

"So let us sell power and buy dirt."

Keyls leaned forward. "Ms. Brady, let me be perfectly clear. This is a United Nations project, and you and I, and everyone else here, works for UNISE. We are employees, not citizens. The resources up here don't belong to us, they belong to the people of the world. You can't sell power for dirt, because it's not your power to sell. It's true that Ark has paid its way, in the sense that it has been a net positive contributor to the global economy. That's not at issue here. What's at issue is the fact that the return on investment for the public's money is not high enough. Ninety percent of the revenue generated here is returned to this project. If we simply run the solar power system, one hundred percent of that revenue will come back to the public. That's the math."

Aurora's jaw clenched. "You wouldn't be doing this if Abrahim were still alive."

"The timing is regrettable, but this has been in the works for a long time."

"And yet nobody bothered to inform anyone up here."

"This is a policy decision, and the secretary-general and myself have done you the courtesy of informing you first. The official announcement will be made in the secretary-general's address to the General Assembly this week."

Keyls's tones were mild, his expression bland, and Aurora found herself suddenly outraged at his casual dismissal of her entire future. "Spare me your courtesy, yobany sooksin." Her voice rose with her temper. "You go ahead and make your announcement, and then you see how good your policy looks when we don't come downwire. You think you've got yajtza enough to starve us out?"

"Ms. Brady . . ." Keyls tried to stop her, but Aurora was already storming out of the room.

She walked without thinking, navigating the corridors by instinct while her mind raced. I don't believe this. It was inconceivable that they could shut down Ark. She had been downwire, spent four years there learning to be an engineer at Cambridge, and another four earning her advanced degrees there. She hadn't liked one minute of the experience. There was grit in the air and wind and rain at random intervals. It got hot and it got cold and there were too many people doing too many things, and some of those people were actively dangerous. Abrahim had warned her about that, but she hadn't really understood until she experienced it firsthand herself. And it could have been much worse . . . Most of the spaceborn had been downwire for their higher education, and not a single one she knew had enjoyed it. What will we do?

She walked out of the construction shack on the eighth level up, and found herself on the ledge that ran all the way around the forewall at that height. Spin simulated gravity, and that made out into down, and turned Ark's nine-kilometer transparent foredome into a vast window of blue sky, with the sun in the middle and the land wrapped around it. Overhead the mirror cone stretched from the end of the spin platform, in the exact center of the foredome window, and stretched the thirty-kilometer axis cover almost all of the aftwall. The blue was light reflected from the ocean and filtered through the air, reflected again from the foredome to her eyes. When the sun went down the dome would fill with stars, a heartbreakingly beautiful sight.

She walked on, trying not to think about what Keyls had said. The cone served to reflect sunlight down to the soil that would become farmland, energy to feed the ship's nascent ecosystem. The area covered in soil was nearly two hundred square kilometers now, and Wallen's ecologists were starting to populate the land with larger animals. They already had plenty of small ones, honeybees to pollinate flowers and squirrels to scatter the seeds they produced, carrion beetles to bury the dead and earthworms to till the soil, robins to eat the invertebrates and keep their populations healthy, and peregrine falcons to prey on robins in their turn. Two by two the animals came aboard the Ark. We have come so far, Dedka. I'll miss you. Ahead of her a river outlet poured crystal-clear water out of the forewall and down to a canal a hundred meters below—enough height that you could see the stream noticeably displaced by the Coriolis force of Ark's rotation, first bowing spinward before curving back counterspinward. There were six such outlets in all, equally spaced around Ark's forewall. They existed to feed what would become six rivers that would wind their way down the ship's axis to the blue ocean at the aftwall. Not salty like Earth's, but it's the biggest body of water we have. When Ark was fully populated its people would use the rivers for water and transportation, but the system's primary purpose was to circulate silt through the ecosystem. Over ten thousand years virtually all the soil in Ark would be eroded away, to pass through the ocean and be revitalized before being pumped back up through the huge electromagnetic pump channels in the ship's floor to the spillway outlets.

But the water is still clear because the ocean has no silt yet. She looked out over her world, at the widening strip of green that followed the canal's course to the ocean at the aftwall. In the center of the strip the trees were tall, almost mature. Toward its edges shorter trees blended into shrubs and cereal grasses that faded into the dry brown of unwatered dirt. Machines there worked to extend the fertile land, looking like toys in the distance. To either side of the living patch the still uncovered hull material was shiny dark grey, curving up toward the vertical to arch overhead and disappear on the other side of the mirror cone. High up there were big sections that were pure black, areas where the transparent inner hull layer of amorphous diamond had yet to be wrapped in its protective cladding of nanofilament and steel. When the sun was down you could see the stars through them, and sometimes she liked to just lie out on the new grass and do that, watching as the u-carriers danced delicately overhead, nudging prefabricated cladding sections into position, blotting out another handful of stars, moving Ark another fraction closer to completion.

And so we fill the void with life. When Ark was full of soil the stars would show only through the foredome, green-and-blue would wrap all the way around the interior. Aurora frowned reflexively. Most of the hull still had no soil at all, and of the six river outlets only the one she was looking at was actually pumping water, and then only at a quarter capacity. We have done so much, and we have so much left to do. It seemed inconceivable that the General Assembly wouldn't want to see such a project through to completion, but she knew better than to imagine that they would change their minds. The world downwire had its own priorities. When she had first gone to Earth she had been amazed that people were largely indifferent to the great adventure coming to life literally right over their heads. Ark was just a bright spot in the sky to them, and most of them couldn't even pick it out from among the stars.

Dedka, where are you when I need you most? Abrahim was a wise and experienced man, and he would have had some good ideas on how to change the mind of the secretary-general. He had always had good advice for her, for as long as she could remember. The thought renewed the still fresh pain of losing him, and she sat down on the steel ledge and wept. It seemed wrong, somehow, to be crying like that at her age, and she realized that she hadn't cried, not once, since her parents had died. The realization only fueled her anguish, and she wept harder, curled around a tight knot of grief that seemed to gnaw at her belly like a wild thing in a cage. It was not right that she should be left alone in the world to deal with this, not right that Abrahim should be gone at all. It was not right, but it was true, and so she cried until she could cry no more, until the hurt had burned itself out, and then she stopped. She felt no catharsis after that, she simply felt empty, dazed. They did it on purpose. Abrahim was too well connected, too powerful, even downwire. He was too clever to let them get away with this, so they had to wait until he died.

And I can't let them just force us down. Anger began to grow in the space the tears had left behind. She was going to have to go downwire herself, to do what might be done, that was inevitable. It's either go down voluntarily now and stop this, or go down permanently later with everyone else. That realization came from the cold, rational part of her brain that still thought clearly even in her grief, and so she found herself already resigned to doing what had to be done. Still, she found herself strangely reluctant to stand up, to go back down to her office and begin making a plan. There were so many details to attend to, now that they were almost done filling the ocean. Hull cladding was an ongoing project, and the immense carbon-cycle fusion drive tube needed more tests for its confinement magnets, and the ecosystem, and the fuel system and . . . and . . . and . . . 

None of that mattered anymore, not until she could find a way to keep Ark going. Strange how every day seems urgent on a project lifetimes long. That too was Abrahim's legacy. He had infected the crew with his spirit, driving the work forward with his enthusiasm. Now the mantle of command was settling on her shoulders. I didn't think it would feel this heavy.

 

A soil spreader was working half a kilometer from Wallen Valori's spot by the side of the road, the roar and clatter of its operation muted enough by the distance that he could work undistracted. His attention was focused on a chamomile plant, one of the early colonists of the newly deposited soil. A high-pitched whine rose in the distance, grew louder, and he looked up to watch a fat-wheeled heavy hauler lumber past. Its passage stirred up a pair of monarch butterflies that had been feeding on milkweed growing in the ditch, and they fluttered high in the gentle breeze for a dozen meters before settling again. Wallen watched the huge truck for a minute as it jolted its way to the spreader. It paused at the bottom of the dump ramp between the spreader's broad caterpillar tracks while it changed gears, and then the turbine's whine rose to a scream as it heaved itself up onto the back of the larger machine. The scream faded again, and the truck tilted its bed backward to dump four hundred tons of sterilized topsoil down into the belly of the spreader, there to be sieved, aerated, inoculated with Ark's special concoction of soil bacteria, fungal spores, earthworm larvae, plant seeds and insect eggs, and then cascaded onto one of the multijointed conveyor arms that extended from the spreader like mechanical squid tentacles. The conveyor arms carried the soil out to extend the barren dirt field over the still pristine surface of Ark's inner hull. Most of the life so hopefully seeded into the soil would die, but that which survived would sprout and grow and spread and reproduce, turning brown into green, and preparing the soil to receive the succession of species that would gradually extend their reach into the newly created land.

Once emptied the hauler spun up its turbine again and lurched back down off of the spreader to make the return journey to the loading station at the base of the forewall. Wallen watched it carefully as it turned and wheeled past him again, standing well clear until it had gone by. It wasn't that the truck wasn't smart enough to avoid him, it was that he was smart enough to avoid the truck. Its churning tires were over twice his height, and if it should choose to swerve it wouldn't even slow down in running him over. Once it was gone he returned his attention to the chamomile plant. It was healthy, which was a good sign, its bright yellow and white flowers smiling up at the reflected sunlight streaming down from overhead. The plant was setting seed, and he carefully pulled apart the seed head. Some of the seeds had been eaten, and as he probed a tiny weevil was exposed momentarily. It turned and burrowed deeper into the flower, escaping light and movement and danger.

Wallen smiled to himself. This is good to see. The chamomile was a double-edged sword. It was a key transition species in the transformation of barren dirt to grasslands, preferring to germinate on open ground. It thrived on the boundaries between wet and dry and helped to prepare the soil for the genetically enhanced cereal grasses that would follow it. It was valuable in its own right too, as a medicinal species, Ark's variant being genetically engineered to enhance its natural properties as an anti-inflammatory. At the same time it also competed for light and nutrients with food species, and left unchecked it would seriously reduce crop yields, once Ark's ecosystem was established enough to allow full-scale agriculture. The environmental models said the weevils would prevent that, but the real environment was always far more complex than a simulation could ever be. It was Wallen's job to determine if reality matched the prediction. No one had ever constructed an ecosystem even a hundredth the size of what they were attempting to build here.

And we've already been surprised by the interactions we've found. Chamomile weevils had become a favored prey of button shrews, which meant that button shrews were flourishing in the sparsely vegetated areas the chamomile colonized first. That in turn had fostered a population boom among pygmy owls, who had moved from their preferred habitat in established woods to the edges of the tree line so they could hunt the shrews. It was a successful strategy in the absence of egg predators like black snakes, but no one knew if the nocturnal owls would be able to continue it once Ark's voyage began and the natural day-night cycle provided in Earth orbit was replaced with the permanent illumination of the fusion tube. Adapting plants to thrive on the voyage was an even bigger challenge, because not only would the fusion tube provide perpetual day, but its light output would peak closer to the red end of the spectrum than natural sunlight. The genomes of the major food crops had been modified with a chlorophyll variant that reached its peak of photosynthesis under those conditions, but it was impossible to change all of the hundreds of plant species necessary to make the ecosystem thrive. What would happen to those species once the changeover happened, and what would happen to the food webs they supported, couldn't be known in advance.

We'll lose some species, that's inevitable. Wallen opened another seed head and found another weevil. They seemed to come one to a flower, and he wondered if they were territorial. The rule of thumb was to provide at least two species for each ecological niche—that way if one went extinct the other would move in to prevent the ecosystem from being disrupted—but species like the chamomile weevils were so specialized that there were no others that had an exactly parallel role. The solution to that was to introduce generalist species that could take over if the specialists failed, but generalists came with their own set of problems, not the least of which was that they were prone to disruptive boom-bust population cycles. Ideally Ark would be a veritable paradise, with almost every species in it directly supporting the human population. In practice Wallen would count his job well done if they wound up with a thriving ecosystem of even normal productivity. His nightmare was an introduction that thrived far beyond expectations, outcompeting important balance species and collapsing the food web before it was fairly established.

But it isn't happening today, thank goodness. The weevils seem to be keeping the chamomile under control without wiping it out. Wallen carefully clipped off the seed head with the weevil inside and sealed it into a sample bottle, then turned to watch a honeybee busily collecting pollen from a dandelion. The bees had been specially bred on Earth to navigate using a linear source of sunlight, as both the mirror cone and the fusion tube would provide. That job had been done long before Wallen was born. Getting the altered bees introduced had been one of the very first problems he'd faced as an ecological engineer, some twenty years ago now. Bees needed nectar to survive, but flowering plants couldn't reproduce without pollination. That solution had been as simple as plastic flowers full of sugar water. Wallen smiled to himself. If only all our problems were so easy. The bee paused to comb pollen off its antennae, turned to orient itself, then flew off clumsily, its pollen pockets laden heavy with the fruits of its labors.

A distant whine rose in the air and he looked up, expecting another heavy hauler full of soil, but it was an Antonov flier, lift fans whirring as it came down toward the spreader. It circled twice around the area as though searching for something, and then came in to settle beside his own. He realized that it was looking for him.

Or rather its pilot was; he had grown too accustomed to machines that directed themselves. He stood up and hiked toward the aircraft, waited while the pilot popped the canopy and climbed out. Aurora Brady.

"Zdras, Aurora, how are you?"

"As well as can be expected." She paused, not wanting to say what she had come to say. "I couldn't raise you on your pad."

"I switch it off when I come out here."

She nodded. "That was a beautiful eulogy you said for Abrahim."

"Yours was better, I think. You made people weep, even me."

"Even myself. Wallen, I . . ." She hesitated, still not wanting to tell him.

"You've had a hard week. You should be taking the day off."

She laughed a laugh that almost turned into tears. "What do you think Abrahim would say if he caught me taking a day off just because he died? I'd never hear the end of that lecture." She swept an arm to take in the field. "I don't see you taking a day off."

"If I were to take a day to remember Abrahim, how would I spend it but alone in the fields, watching life and letting it watch me. And then also he wasn't my grandfather, droogymuy. It's different, and you drive yourself too hard."

"It runs in the blood I suppose." Aurora shrugged. "I have no choice but to work today anyway." She took a deep breath. Not saying it won't make it not be true. "That's why I've come out to see you."

"I don't think there's anything so pressing about weevils that they can't wait until tomorrow."

"It isn't about weevils." Quickly she outlined her conversation with Keyls as Wallen listened with growing amazement.

"Who else knows about this?" he asked when she had finished.

"Only you for now. I want to get my thinking straight on this before I tell everyone else."

"I'm flattered by your trust, Aurora. I am."

"We go back too far, Sibersknik. You're my oldest friend."

"I'm your oldest friend, but I'm no Sibersknik, born downwire or not." He paused. "So the secretary-general wants to stop the project. What is the chief engineer going to do?"

"I'm not going to stop Ark, not for a second. The first thing I'm going to do is go downwire and try to negotiate. I don't know how much success all have. After that, we need a backup plan. I need you to start thinking of how we can apply pressure."

"Apply pressure, to what end?"

"To keep the project going, of course."

"Why bother doing that? Just stay here. We have enough ecosystem now to support us indefinitely."

"Are you sure?"

"Da. Fully developed, and under full-scale agriculture we could support five thousand, at a rough guess."

"It isn't fully developed, and we can't implement full-scale agriculture, not even close."

"No, but neither are we going to have five thousand people."

"How many do you think will stay?"

"Most of the spaceborn, maybe even all of the spaceborn. How many of the Siberskniks will join us . . ." He shrugged. ". . . I couldn't guess."

Aurora shook her head. "Even if we stayed here. It would mean an end to the project. We'd never leave Earth orbit."

"That's our children's problem."

"I don't want to hand them that problem."

"You won't. As long as someone's living up here, Ark will be a living project, whether that's official or not. Sooner or later the balance of power will shift in the General Assembly, and some ambitious candidate for secretary-general will start it up again. And that will happen in our lifetimes."

She nodded slowly. "I suppose you're right." She looked aft and up, looking at her world reflected around her in the mirror cone. "I just don't like the way they did it, just waiting for Abrahim to die, and then pouncing."

"It was a dirty trick, but politics is full of dirty tricks, and like it or not, the chief engineer has to deal with the politics."

"I'm not going to live downwire, Wallen." Aurora's voice carried emotions choked back through force of will. "I don't care if I'm here alone."

"You won't be alone." Wallen's lips tightened. "I'm not going downwire either." He looked out over his field, from the fresh-spread soil to the dandelions waving in the breeze. Yes, his field, his possession of it no less absolute for the fact that he shared it with every other soul on Ark. Aurora looked away, her face hard and unreadable.

"I feel alone, Wallen." She turned to face him. "I had a plan; now it's gone. I'm not sure what the right thing to do here is." Her hard expression softened to let her worry show through.

Wallen concealed his surprise. Aurora had never shown weakness, not to him, not to anyone, and it surprised him that she was showing it now. Since they were children she had always been fiercely independent, driven by her intellect, her strength worn on her sleeve, as if daring anyone to challenge it. It was a reaction, he had long suspected, to the sudden loss of her parents, a defense against a universe that she had learned all too early might take away that which she most treasured, without any warning at all. She's still in shock from the loss of Abrahim. It hurt him that there was nothing he could do to help her when she needed it most.

Almost nothing. He put a hand on her shoulder. "Do what's in your heart, Aurora. Do your best at it, and let whatever happens happen. We can't control the universe, only ourselves."

Aurora sighed. "You're right." She looked back to the mirror in the sky. "I knew you were the right person to talk to." She paused again. "We'll have to call a senior staff meeting and let everyone know."

Wallen nodded. "We will."

That afternoon they gathered all the section heads in the chief engineer's conference room, a utilitarian space with a wide display wall, and two other walls dominated by huge sketchboards, still scrawled with boxes and arrows and bullet lists from the last meeting of the fusion-drive team. Wallen put strapping tape over the display system's camera eyes and disconnected the microphone array himself. In theory there was no way downwire could listen in unless they turned the system on, but there was no point in leaving anything to chance. It was the first time since Aurora and he had been small that he'd felt conspiratorial, and what they were about to discuss would earn them more than a scolding if they got caught. He sat at the far end of the table while she sat at the front, and he just listened as she got up and announced to Ark's leadership what she had told him the previous day. Most of the senior staff people were Siberskniks, and he'd assumed they'd go downwire with regret but little fuss. In fact they were strongly resistant to the prospect of abandoning the project. Petra Krychovik even put forward a motion to cut off power from the solar array to force UNISE to carry on with the project. "We're paying our way here, they're just trying to make short-term political points at our expense."

Bernarde Groot seconded her and went further. "We could take all the solar stations if we wanted. What does Ark provide? One percent of total global power, nothing at all. Now we take all orbital power, we have nearly twenty percent. That makes them sit up and listen, da. They take us seriously then."

"And how do we get to the other stations?" asked Wallen.

"Put auxiliary tanks on a u-carrier, on a bunch of them. We don't need a lot of delta-v, they're all in orbits coplanar with ours. I can have the flexfab turn out a bunch."

Petra nodded. "We can start that now, have the whole plan ready before they know what's coming."

Gervois Heydahl stood up. "Are you out of your minds? We could get away with dialing back our own power output, we could call that a labor strike. Taking over the other stations would be a criminal act."

Bernarde snorted. "Don't talk to me about criminal action." Bernarde had served ten years in Interpol before a wound received in a gang raid forced him to change careers for engineering. "Talk to me about results."

Gervois sat down as more protestations rose around the table. There was a lot of loud debate after that, and to Wallen's relief the more militant options got scant support. We aren't ready to go to war with the United Nations. Nevertheless there was a strong consensus that everything possible should be done to prevent the project from being shut down. But we'll see how that plays out with the younger crew. Siberskniks came upwire for the money and complained about the isolation and the endless work, and most Siberskniks wanted nothing more than to finish their contracts and then back to Earth to build a home and family that they couldn't otherwise have afforded, but Ark became a way of life for those who stayed, as much as for any of the spaceborn. The scale and scope of the project were seductive. It earned the commitment of those dedicated to a vision larger than themselves. For people like Bernarde or Gervois, who had most of their long careers tied up in the project, simply walking away was unthinkable. It was the riggers and jacks who did the hands-on work who were more likely to accept the end of the project without protest. They scheduled the all-hands meeting for the next day, and for the second time in under a week all work on the project came to a halt as the entire construction crew assembled in the hangar. Again Wallen watched as Aurora stood up to deliver the secretary-general's intention, this time with the senior staff behind her instead of in front of her. The bare details took just five minutes to deliver.

"I do not intend to go downwire," the chief engineer finished as she had the previous day. "I was born here, I intend to die here. It was my intent to spend my life working on this project. If I have to spend the rest of my life simply farming, then that's what I'll do. Those of you who would like to stay with me are welcome."

For a long, silent minute there was nothing but stunned silence, and then an explosion of voices. Aurora called for attention, called for attention again, called for it a third time, and eventually the noise died down enough for her to carry on with the meeting. She invited questions from the audience and a tall rigger stood up. "What severance package is UNISE offering?"

"I have the assurance of Director Keyls that Ark project personnel will be looked after. I have no details beyond that at this time."

"You mean to say, you're telling us we're losing our jobs, and you don't even know how that's going to happen?"

"That's exactly correct. I shouldn't be making this announcement at all, but I want you to be fully informed, with all the information we have available as soon as we get it. As the details come out you'll know as soon as I know, and anything you hear that isn't coming straight from me is a rumor with no substance behind it."

It was a good reply to a challenging question, but it earned a rising babble of voices, growing louder, and to Wallen's ear, angrier. Again Aurora called for silence, and again, but the cacophony on the hangar floor only grew, to the point were Wallen feared it might explode into a riot. Aurora gave up asking for quiet and simply waited out the crowd. After a long time the noise settled down again. There were more questions then, and more answers, but Wallen had given up listening, thinking ahead to the challenges that would be facing them. The ecosystem would support agriculture, but it would do so at some cost. Erosion would be a big problem. Ark's biosphere was designed to cycle its soil through the ocean and back, but with eighty percent of the water and just twenty percent of the soil they could wind up with a swamp if they weren't very careful. The species balance would change, and some would go extinct, that was inevitable . . . 

The meeting started to wrap up and he returned his attention to what was being said. There was a general understanding on several points. There would be an orderly shutdown of work in progress; nothing would be simply abandoned. The issue of contracts and severance pay would be addressed, and senior staff would negotiate with UNISE to maintain at least a skeleton crew to finish work on the hull and the fusion tube. If that went ahead, personnel to have their contracts extended would be chosen purely on merit. Virtually all of the spaceborn were determined to stay regardless of whether the project was officially extended or not, as well as a decent fraction of Siberskniks, mostly those who were older, with spaceborn children of their own. With no more support from Earth there would have to be a concerted effort to get farms going right away to feed the several thousand people who would be staying.

Farming. It's going to fall on me to lead that effort. It isn't going to be easy.

 

"May the Blessings of the Prophet be upon you, brethren." The bishop intoned the words of the ritual.

"May the Blessings of the Prophet be upon us," answered the congregation. Seated in his place of honor behind the pulpit, Norman Bissell stood, and raised his arms in benediction, as the Prophet was expected to. There was a time when he had actually given the blessing verbally in response to the bishop's request. Or is it an order? There had been a time before that when he had given the sermon himself, and a time before that when half a billion people had listened when he spoke and obeyed when he commanded. And now? Now I barely command myself. There had been a time when the True Prophet believed himself to be more than other men, even as he preached simplicity and humility. There had been a time when he had believed himself immortal, but age had a way of stripping a man of belief and substituting it with equal measures of doubt and painful reality.

The bishop was named Caleb Sully, and he reminded Norman of himself when he was young, ambitious and energetic. He was reading from the Bible. ". . . And God looked upon the earth, and, behold, it was corrupt; for all flesh had corrupted his way upon the Earth . . ." Bissell knew the words so well it was difficult to distinguish Caleb's recitation from the narrative unreeling automatically in his own mind. Genesis 6:12, the story of Noah. He watched with a critical eye as the bishop told the story. It isn't the words that matter, it's how the story is told. The young man was telling it well, projecting his voice to the back of the chapel, holding his Bible in one hand but keeping his eyes on his audience, only occasionally referring to the book he so obviously knew by heart.

"Thus did Noah according to all that God commanded him . . ." Bishop Caleb finished the reading with a flourish and paused dramatically before launching into his sermon. His performance was good, his presence was powerful, drawing the congregation into his words as he spoke about the dangers of sin. He knew how to grab their attention, hold it, shape it to his will—but as good as he was, he wasn't half the orator Norman Bissell had been. Bissell could tell that from the audience. They were paying rapt attention to the young preacher, but not quite captivated, not in his sway, willing to take whatever he said and make it their own. Bishop Caleb did not yet have the charisma that would allow him to become truly powerful; whether he had the instincts to create such charisma was another question. Norman looked higher, to the carved wooden beams that held up the church's vaulted ceiling. I once spoke as God's voice on Earth. As a young man he had believed, not just in his faith, but that he had been chosen by God to carry his faith to the world. But I wasn't God's servant, God was mine. The True Prophet had been past sixty when the steady decline of age had finally convinced him that he was not immortal, that prayer would not ease the growing pain in his joints, nor clear his eyes and smooth his wrinkles, nor give him once more a young man's strength, or a young woman's love. For a time after that he had raged against the universe, even turned his back on God for betraying him with mortality. As though by spurning Him, by withholding my faith I could punish Him for making me flawed and mortal. Perhaps had believed that a sufficiently chastised God might have relented and banished death, but God had not relented, and the slow decline had inexorably continued, compromising his abilities, replacing energy with infirmity, forcing him to accept, one by one, younger men in roles he had once reserved only for himself. And as he had come to accept that he could neither buy nor bargain for immortality he had come to fear death.

And in fearing death I have lost all faith. How could any Believer fear death, when the Kingdom of Heaven was waiting to embrace the faithful on the other side of the grave? When I believed I felt secure in the protection of the Holy Spirit. Age had stolen faith and replaced it with fear, but it had not stopped there. As the bodily pains of age came and slowly spread, as he grew tired more and more easily, as sleep became elusive and rest stopped being restful, the vision of death as a dark and threatening specter had faded, replaced by a softened version, still somber but no longer hostile. Death no longer seemed to reach out with cold and bony fingers to drag his struggling soul into the grave's cold embrace. Now it simply waited for him, with care and patience, like an old friend at the end of a long journey, there to offer respite from travel-worn cares. Oblivion offered relief, from physical pain and from the deeper pains that time could never heal. Death, now familiar, offered comfort and final forgetfulness. But it doesn't offer a renewal of faith, nor reunification with those you have have lost.

The sermon ended, the congregation rose, but he remained seated. The bishop looked to him, expectantly, waiting, and finally he stood up, allowing the service to end. I am a symbol now, little more than that. With his implicit permission given, the congregation filed out, and he followed them. He had made himself the True Prophet of the Holy Spirit Everlasting, and though his faith had failed him, the mantle he had assumed had turned out to be everlasting nonetheless. Symbols are still important, I must remember that. The church was a simple, wood framed structure, built solidly and well in the Believer way. It was large for a Believer church of the last forty years, much smaller than the vast stadiums he had preached in at the height of the Believer wave. And though I have lost my own faith now, I'm closer to God now than I ever was then. God, he had come to realize, did not exist separate from humanity, nor did people need to be led into His presence. God was not some being of boundless power, judging, punishing, rewarding. God, to the extent that He existed at all, was manifest in the hearts of every man and woman, expressed in the care they showed each other. God was family and community, and it frequently seemed that the demands of religion interfered with the fundamental message of Christianity. Love thy neighbor as thyself.

He was the last through the door. Outside it was sunny and warm, the summer heat baking the humidity out of a countryside still damp from the previous night's storms. A few families were already climbing into horse-drawn buggies, heading back to homes and farms in the rolling hills above the broad and lazy river below. The majority of the congregation were talking on the lawn in small groups, and he moved among them, chatting with old friends, shaking hands with the farmers and craftsmen who were the backbone of Believer society. Despite his loss of faith he still went to church each Sunday, dividing his time between the two dozen congregations of the local Believer enclave. There were still tens of thousands of Believer congregations across the continent and around the world, left behind like stranded pools when the Believer tide had receded, but very few of them lived the true Believer life of simplicity, humility and community.

"Prophet, could you . . . ?" The woman was young and pretty, nearly overcome by shyness in addressing him, and holding a tiny newborn in a pink swaddling cloth.

"Of course, I would be honored." Norman Bissell put his hands on the baby's forehead and looked to the sky. "I call upon the power of the Holy Spirit to bless and protect this child, today and forever, amen." He looked back down at the now beaming young woman. "What's her name?"

"Faith."

Norman smiled and stroked a tiny cheek. "You take good care of young Faith, my dear, and she will bless you more than Heaven ever could."

The young mother blushed and her husband came up beside her. "Thank you, Prophet," he said. "Your blessing means everything."

Norman accepted the man's thanks. My blessing means nothing, but at this stage in my life I simply can't recant. The community he had built was all he had left, and the community was built around the Church. And so he continued to appear at services, a living stage prop for those who had taken over from him. And I do good work here, I give of myself, I guide the young bishops as I wish someone had guided me. This is my redemption for my sins, not in heaven but right here on earth.

Bishop Caleb was also moving among the congregation, talking and shaking hands. One by one the families said their greetings and left. After the last had gone Caleb went to talk to his two servitors, still in their white robes. Norman waited for him and then they walked together down to the horse paddock by the bishop's residence, where the bishop's buggy and two grey mares waited to take them visiting.

"That was a good sermon today, Caleb," Norman said as the bishop stirred up the horses.

"Thank you, Prophet." Caleb paused as he guided the buggy out onto the road. "I was thinking that perhaps we should reach out to the towns around here. There are so few who know God in this day and age."

Norman Bissell shook his head. "No, Bishop. We have our ways and they have theirs. It isn't for us to draw them into our way of life."

"But there are so few of us. Once we were millions, tens of millions—"

Norman cut him off, more testily than he intended to. "Do you think I don't know that? I built this Church, I led it to its height, and I led it back down again. We have no need of numbers. We have ourselves."

"Prophet, I only—"

Norman held up a hand. "Caleb, no." They rode in silence for a while before he spoke again. "I'm sorry I snapped. I know exactly what you're thinking. The Bible calls us to spread his Word. We are so few, and there is strength in numbers. We could do so much good in the world, if only we went out into it." He spread his hands. "There are so many other reasons, and you are a good preacher, I'm sure you'd represent us well. Still, we must not do this thing."

"May I ask why, Prophet?"

"It's true our community is small, but that's not important. What matters is, we are a community. I made that very mistake when I was young, thinking numbers were what counted, that I had a mission to bring the Church to every man and woman in the world." He shook his head. "I was wrong. Souls aren't like pennies, one just like another, to be collected and saved in a jar. Every person is an individual, every person needs to be ministered to individually."

"We were discussing this at the Elder Council last meeting. We were so much stronger back then, we accomplished so much. You accomplished so much, Prophet. We could be that great again. . . ."

Norman looked at the younger man. He is ambitious, like I was. He craves power, though he hasn't even tasted the drug yet. "Caleb, our Church lost its soul during that time. A hundred million, half a billion, people listened to my sermons, and one in a thousand followed what I taught. People sent money, but they heard only that part of the message they wanted to hear. The world out there . . ." He swept an arm to encompass the valley and the globe beyond it. ". . . the world out there is full of people with hollow lives, looking to fill them with faith but unwilling to embrace simplicity, unwilling to be part of a community. That nearly destroyed us. I won't let it happen again."

Bishop Caleb nodded and stayed silent, but Bissell could tell from his expression that he was unconvinced. Bissell nodded to himself. He will bide his time and try again. That didn't matter so much. A man couldn't control everything, or even most things, even when he was alive. The best he could hope to do was live what life he had left well, in the service of the people he still believed in.

They called on several families, the momentary breach of the natural alliance of bishop and Prophet passing without further remark. It was a pleasant time, and they were plied with more meadowmint tea and home-baked delicacies than he could finish, though he politely accepted some at each home. Breaking bread with happy families was a bittersweet experience, the proud husbands and warm wives reminded him of his own now empty house. I was truly blessed, to have such love in my life.

There had been other women; that was a reality he regretted now. The man he had been didn't lack for female companionship any time he wanted it. He had been tempted, and yes, he had sinned, but never once had his heart been turned from his home. Beth and Marta should have been enough, more than enough. I didn't know how lucky I was. Beth and Marta were both gone now, and their children had all inherited their father's ambition and so were gone as well. How many years had it been since he'd seen any? None of them had stayed in the Church; Gabriel still visited at Christmas, that was all. Ambition. Easier to accept that reason than to listen to what his inner heart told him. You were gone too often when they were growing up, and now their love can't overcome their anger. The things that had seemed important then seemed unimportant now, and vice versa. We grow old too soon and wise too late. He had embraced the tools of the Devil's Playground to spread God's word, and that had cost him what was most valuable.

The last stop of the day was Arad Wegner's house, and it was there that he first heard the news. Arad had been up to Granby Crossing to shop for some tools, and had picked it up over conversation with a Mennonite man from farther north. The United Nations had canceled the Ark project. Arad mentioned it purely in passing and the conversation moved on to the topic of placement candidates for Arad's youngest daughter, approaching sixteen and marriageable age. It wasn't done in Believer circles to linger on news from the wider world, certainly not with the bishop and the Prophet himself visiting, but the news stuck in Norman's mind. Not one person here remembers when the Church fought this creation. Even their parents hadn't been born. He had been young then, ready to change the world, confident enough to face down the secretary-general himself. Ambition and arrogance. He had really expected to win, had been convinced of his rightness in the fulfillment of God's mission. Joshua Crewe had beaten him, and the hundred million voices who had stood behind his Church had abandoned him as quickly as they had picked him up. The politicians who had sworn allegiance to his cause had melted away as well, their espoused conversions revealed as nothing more than shallow political ploys. He had spent the next forty years preaching, praying, fighting to somehow reclaim what he had lost, and losing everything else in the process. I was such a fool. He looked up and saw Arad's daughter peeking around the corner of the stairs, determined to discover who she was to be wed to. She ducked back when she saw him.

Arad and Caleb hadn't noticed her eavesdropping, deep in their discussion over the pros and cons of the various families that she might join. It was improper for her to show such interest, but the Prophet let the moment pass without comment. Her whole life is in front of her, of course she wants to know. What was her name? Elesheva. He should have been listening to the discussion, but . . . but Ark had been canceled, the final victory was his in that battle that only he remembered. And how do I feel? I feel hollow.

 

Wallen Valori put down his hoe and wiped the sweat from his brow, and then leaned back to stretch his aching shoulders. Overhead the sun was beating down from the mirror cone in a way he'd never before experienced. He had known farming would be difficult to make functional in the half-developed ecosystem. He was learning it was also just plain hard work. It had fallen to him, as head of ecoscience, to devise the agriculture plan for those who'd chosen to remain aboard after the UNISE shutdown date. In taking that on he'd found that agriculture bore only a passing resemblance to the work of a field biologist. The digital library in the construction shack had every work ever published on farming, but reading about optimizing soil conditions for tomatoes and putting that knowledge into practice was a very different matter.

Wallen looked at his hoe, the proximate cause of the now nearly constant pain in his muscles. How did civilization ever function with only tools like this? Bernarde's flexfab was capable of producing almost anything, given the right inputs, but it was geared toward the production of one-off replacement parts for existing systems rather than for the mass production of complex machines. That made sense in an environment where major pieces of equipment would be shipped upwire from Earth. Except now there were no shipments coming up, and so the flexflab was working overtime to produce the tools needed to set up an agrarian economy from scratch. It took the facility four days to produce all the parts for a single hydrogen turbine, and there was suddenly a lot of demand for turbines, to run pumps for irrigation and tractors for cultivation and for a myriad of other uses that suddenly had become important. It took nearly another week to make the parts for a small tractor. A more serious problem was the lack of feed materials. Some, like steel and carbon, were available in almost limitless quantities. Others, like the polyresins needed to make feed lines and fuel tanks, were sourced from Earth and had suddenly become precious resources in need of rationing. And in the meantime we need to eat. For the time being the twenty percent of the crew who'd chosen to stay aboard were able to feed themselves with the onboard supplies meant for those who'd gone downwire. There had also been some success in gathering wild berries and fruit, and some trapping pigeons, but that wasn't sustainable for more than a few months at most. Agriculture was supposed to be a problem for my grandchildren.

All of which meant that most of the crew were out every day, working little plots of land with hand tools, and so far having little success. Work on actually building the ship had ground to a halt. Wallen looked down at the line of scrawny tomato seedlings he was trying to raise. They were dying, and he didn't know why. Was it too much water? Too little? Was the soil just fundamentally wrong for them? His books had a lot to say about hydroponics, greenhouse humidity, soil conditioning and other topics related to high-technology food production. They didn't say anything about the fact that new-laid soil's porosity made it soak up more water than he would have believed possible, or that, once saturated under forced irrigation, the soil would slump and collapse and in the process destroy an entire field. They didn't say that it was important to keep all your furrows aligned, or your improvised tractor would destroy half your crop as you worked the other half.

As a biologist he was used to watching nature take its course; now he was trying to coax nature into taking the course he wanted it to take. A big part of the problem was that not enough sunlight made it through the meter of amorphous diamond in the foredome. That made the crops grow much more slowly than they should have, and there was nothing he could do about that. Another problem was his dwindling workforce; fully a third of the crew who'd elected to stay had already changed their minds and gone downwire, disenchanted with the backbreaking labor they were suddenly called upon to do. Newsfeeds on Earth were framing their descent as a defection, and victory for UNISE in what they were presenting as a battle of wills between the spaceborn and the secretary-general over the abandonment of Ark. And having them make this a political issue is all we need.

He sighed, picked up his hoe and went back to work on furrow he was digging, soon to be home to another batch of seedlings, these ones to be watered slightly more. They were fortunate in having ample food-crop seed stocks in the biolabs. Though what this will do to the biosphere I can only guess. He was too busy trying to grow things to run any ecological models. Trying to avoid too much bending, he worked his way down the furrow, carefully breaking up the soil and mounding it. He was almost done when his pad rang, and he dropped the hoe again, more relieved at the interruption than he cared to admit, even to himself.

"Wallen, it's Aurora."

"What's up?"

"Can you come up to the shack, we've got a problem."

He looked up at the mirror cone, where the sun was already starting to fade, then down to his furrow, which seemed a pathetic result for all the effort he'd put in. "I'll be up right away."

When he got there she pointed her wall live. A newsfeed appeared, the camera focused on Director Keyls. "There is no confrontation in this situation," he said. "The holdouts aboard the colony ship don't pose any threat to the ship, or to the public. We are continuing to monitor the situation, and that is all there is."

The feed broke away to the anchor. "Meanwhile, rebel elements of the Ark ship construction crew continue to refuse to obey a UNISE order to return to Earth, in day thirty-nine of the siege."

Aurora pointed the display off again. "Now they're calling us rebels under siege."

Wallen snorted. "That's ridiculous."

"No, it's serious. I just got a call from Keyls himself. He's given me what he calls notice to vacate, and he wants me to go downwire again, to discuss a resolution to the situation."

"What's to resolve? It's just some feeder making news out of nothing. We're here, we aren't bothering anyone. They've abandoned the project, what do they care if we live or die?"

"Evidently they care. The feeds are counting the days we're up here, and it's making Keyls look like he's losing. He doesn't like that. The question is, what do we do about it? My instinct is to ignore him, but I'd like your advice."

"I'd say ignore him too." Wallen paused, considering. "Although this does give us a certain amount of leverage. Maybe we should use it."

"Meaning?"

"We're on the brink here, we really aren't ready for agriculture. I'm struggling to get vegetable crops growing and it isn't working well."

"Wallen . . ." Aurora paused, knowing what she needed to say, and trying to find a tactful way to say it. "I know that you know the importance of this. If we can't grow our own food, we're all going to wind up downwire. People have been farming since the dawn of time. What's the problem?"

"The problem is, I'm a biologist, not a farmer, and farming is a technical specialty all its own. Would you expect a downwire dirt farmer to be able to do your job? Of course not. Ark is its own unique environment, and we need to find the right crops to grow here. I could pamper a little patch of plants to grow quite nicely. I can't do that with a hectare or more."

Aurora swept her hand at the steel wall, taking in the rest of Ark's interior by extension. "Wheat is growing wild out there."

"Wheat finds its own way."

"So why aren't we growing wheat then?"

"Because we've got no way to thresh it or mill it, and we can't afford the labor to do those things by hand. We need time and equipment to put a mill together, and even if we had one we've got no yeast. That's a trivial detail, but the other ones aren't. In the meantime we need to eat, so row vegetables are what I'm working on because they'll give us the full range of necessary nutrients and they're easiest for us to process. I'm working on legumes too, because we're going to need the protein, since we got no domestic stock at all."

Aurora nodded slowly. "I didn't know our situation was so precarious."

"Neither did I. This has been an education . . ." Wallen absently rubbed the new calluses on his hands. ". . . in a lot of ways. I knew raising crops would be a challenge before we had the ecosystem finished. I had no idea it was going to be this difficult. I was going to lay out the situation at the next senior staff meeting."

"What do we need to do to make it work?"

"We need time, most of all." Wallen pointed a finger at the display. "That's what we can buy with all this feed frenzy about us."

"Meaning?"

"I'm sure the secretary-general doesn't really care what we do, he only shut us down to please his voters. Keyls wouldn't be calling now except the feeds are making him look like he's losing a confrontation. No politician can afford to look weak in public. Give him something to fend off the feeds, and we can get something back. Food shipments at least, maybe proper farming equipment."

Aurora nodded. "Not a bad plan." She pursed her lips. "Except it means I'll have to go downwire again."

"So go downwire. What, did you think you'd like being chief engineer?"

Aurora smirked. "I didn't think I'd hate it this much."

 

Ark was beautiful and, for all her immense size and strength, fragile in the vast empty blackness of space. Aurora Brady forgot everything to just enjoy the sight as her boost car fell away and downwire from the spin platform. The platform was set in the middle of the Ark's foredome, anchoring the orbital end of the Cable on one side, connected to Ark with a rotating transfer tube on the other. Beyond the platform the vast foundry mirrors glinted sun-bright, and still farther out huge monofilament nets held floating mountains of iron and carbon waiting to be smelted into steel and diamond and nanofiber. Through the still transparent sections of Ark's hull she could see the blue of the ocean, and the stripe of green that was their sliver of functioning biosphere. Here and there lights flickered in the darkness around the great ship, the attitude jets of u-carriers, each bearing hundred-meter sections of carefully curved steel and carbon-fiber hall cladding to complete the hull's triple-layered structure. It was ample armor against micrometeors and even a far-descended generation of colonists who might forget they lived in a ship and try to dig through the hull. Multilayered defense. If only that could protect us from what threatens us now.

She kept watching. It's beautiful, and it's ours. I'm not going to let them take it from us. The boost car accelerated down, and Ark slid out of Aurora's view, to be replaced with velvet black and brilliant stars. She reached out her hand as though she could touch one, felt the slick smoothness of the intervening silica pane. Somewhere out there, invisible in the night, was Iota Horologii. I'm coming. She smiled at the thought. Don't worry, I'm coming. She watched the view for a while. Sometime later there was a noise, and Petra Krychovik came up from the boost car's main level, and quietly floated over to watch the view as well. She was along on the journey to handle the newsfeeds and to publicize the crew's case if UNISE and the secretary-general remained obdurate. In service of that goal she had prepared info packets detailing the myriad technologies developed for Ark and now commonplace on Earth.

The rungs on the Cable slid past faster and faster until they blurred into invisibility, but the Cable nevertheless made its presence felt in the pervasive humming vibration that filled the car as it guided them downwire. The day passed uneventfully, and the next was interrupted only by the gentle deceleration as the car slowed to be transferred to the base tower's tracks. They continued down, into the atmosphere, still decelerating gently. They arrived on Mount Kenya in the middle of the night, to be met by a UNISE driver and hotel reservations. We're being well treated at least. There were a pair of Interpol officers there to guard their door, for their own safety they said.

"That's pizzdets," said Petra, once the door was shut. "They're there to make sure nobody knows we're here. This is all to keep the secretary-general from being embarrassed. He's come out and said he won't negotiate with us. He doesn't want to be caught with his fingers in the cookie jar." She patted her stack of press releases. "That's another lever we can use."

"Let's hope we don't need it." Aurora pursed her lips. She didn't have much hope they'd be able to alter the secretary-general's position. The feeds had him backed into a corner. That gave her power, but the sword of publicity was very much a double-edged one. So we need to keep these negotiations low key, offer to solve his problem if he'll solve ours, work within the sphere of shared interests.

She found that the discomforts of the homeworld hadn't changed. Mount Kenya was cold and windy, and she didn't want to think of the number of bodies who'd been in the bed in their hotel. The next day the newsfeed on the aircraft to New York told her of an epidemic, another epidemic, this one called type C hemorrhagic fever, caused by some unknown virus liberated from some newly violated tropical sanctuary, and it seemed to Aurora she could smell the taint of disease in the cabin air. New York was worse, steaming hot and stinking, of raw sewage in the rivers and pollutants in the air, and most of all of the compressed mass of forty million people crammed into too little space. The government volanter that carried them from the airport to the UN Secretariat building thankfully isolated her from the thronging crowds below, but she could feel them there as they flew overhead, and the thought made her skin crawl. Every single street was filled with more people than there were in all of Ark, jostling, struggling, competing for room, for power, for food, for survival. In New York those who could afford to wore filter masks and those who could not took their chances. Earth's population had doubled since she'd been born, and that actually represented a slowing of the birthrate. There was no credit to the mess that was UN family policy, it was the epidemics that were making the difference, both the mysterious new ones that could flash up, spread around the world in a week and vanish and humanity's old, old enemies like malaria, once more spreading north, and cholera, inexorably invading the crumbling water systems of the overloaded cities. Is it any wonder their life expectancy has fallen so far?

The volanter pilot offered them filter masks, and they both accepted. Aurora's chafed uncomfortably against her nose and cheeks. She took it off when she talked to people, which was a necessary politeness, but if she'd had her choice she would have worn a spacesuit. Every gram of soil that came aboard Ark was thoroughly sterilized before being shipped upwire and she hadn't realized until now how glad she was of that. Was it this bad when I was studying down here? She didn't remember it so. Petra, a Sibersknik and an urban native, seemed quite at home, spending most of the time on the flight making calls. She had set up a meeting with CERN for them after the meeting with the secretary-general. Centre European pour Researche Nucleaire was building the prototypes for Ark's immense fusion tube and had lost billions of euros in funding with the cancelation. The scientists and engineers put out of work would be Ark's natural allies. Presenting a solid front that included downwires could only help their cause.

They debarked and were ushered down into the building by another pair of Interpol operatives. Their first meeting was not with the secretary-general or even with Keyls but with his executive assistant, a somewhat pudgy, somewhat balding middle-aged man named Royer, who wore a harassed smile that never left his face. He smiled when he shook Aurora's hand, smiled when he beckoned her into his office, smiled when he offered her a chair and refreshments, and absolutely refused to be any help whatsoever.

"Now, Ms. Brady, I'm sure you're aware that you're in violation of government policy and the secretary-general's directive in remaining on board the Interstellar Colonization Project," he said, giving Ark its never-used formal title.

"I am, but that's really not the issue we're facing. We're here to do what we can to help the secretary-general manage the public's impression of what's happening. In return we'd like—"

"I'm glad to see we're all looking for a cooperative resolution to this," Royer smiled again. "I'm sure Director Keyls will ensure that all of your people's concerns are well looked after when they get down here."

Petra answered before Aurora could, a hint of acid in her voice. "Our people don't have any concerns you can look after, and they aren't coming downwire, that's all there is to that."

Royer looked nonplussed. "They have to return to Earth. The secretary-general has ordered it. Now, I'm prepared to assure you . . ."

Aurora and Petra exchanged a look, and Aurora tried again. "Mr. Royer, we aren't here to talk about returning to Earth. We're here to negotiate a resumption of some level of support for the Ark project. In return we can guarantee that there will be no disruption in electric power shipped downwire from our solar array and, in addition, offer the secretary-general a public statement to the effect that there is no rebellion against UN authority, which I'm sure he'll find helpful in dealing with the newsfeeds and public opinion."

Royer kept smiling, apparently not noticing Aurora's veiled mention of the possibility that Ark's crew might stop shipping power. "But Ms. Brady, there is a rebellion against UN authority, and really, it can't be allowed to continue. I'm sure you understand that, though perhaps you don't fully realize the position you've put the secretary-general in. Now we're willing to be perfectly reasonable—"

Aurora cut him off. "Mr. Royer, I haven't put the secretary-general anywhere. If he's finding his current position difficult it's entirely due to his own actions. Now, to avoid wasting more time here, do you have any authority to negotiate with us, or is your job here simply to parrot the lines Brison Keyls has given you?"

Royer's smiled vanished. "I hardly think it's appropriate to describe my role here in those terms."

"Appropriate or not, I'm here to negotiate for certain things, at a minimum for a continuation of food shipments, and for spares and equipment. Do you have the power to agree to those things?"

"Of course not, those are completely out of the question," Royer spluttered. "The director has stated—"

"I'm well aware of what Keyls has said. If you can only repeat what he's said, then perhaps it's better that I speak to him myself."

"I can assure you—"

"I'd rather that he assured me in person." Aurora stood up. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Royer." She offered her hand and he shook it coldly. The smile was back on his face, but there was no warmth there either. "You know where to reach us when Keyls is ready to talk."

They went out. The entire meeting had taken no more than twenty minutes. Their escort took them to their hotel. Their room was on a high floor, and Aurora looked out the window at the teeming city with something close to despair. You knew this would happen, Aurora. You had to do it anyway. She went to the desk and thumbed it to place a call upwire to Wallen Valori. When he came on she gave him a brief outline of her brief meeting.

He nodded. "And you're going to call the feed conference next?"

"Absolutely. We'll let them know that we can either work with them or against them. Petra is setting that up now. How are things on your end?"

"The same. Bernarde Groot has some progress on Plan B."

"How much?" Plan B was what they had taken to calling the more aggressive options, shutting down power shipments, possibly even taking over other orbital power stations, and using that as leverage to keep the project going. It would turn the newsfeeders' fantasies of an orbital rebellion into a reality, with unpredictable consequences. It might also turn out to be the only workable option, if Director Keyls and the secretary-general didn't prove to be more flexible than their underling Royer had been.

"Enough to make it work." Wallen paused. "We've also developed an option for direct action."

"Direct?" Aurora's eyebrows went up. This is something we didn't discuss.

"We're working on it. I'll brief you when you're back up here."

Aurora pursed her lips, tempted to ask him for more details. Not smart. She didn't know if UNISE would be bothering to listen to her calls or not. She had to assume they were. "We're flying to CERN tomorrow. I'll let you know how the conference goes."

They disconnected, and then she and Petra rehearsed what they'd be presenting to the feeds, going over the questions she might get asked. The key points they wanted to get across were simple. The foundation facts were that the Ark project paid for the resources it used with electrical power, and that the technical advances gained through Ark research were of benefit everywhere. Petra grilled her until they were too exhausted to continue, and then they belatedly realized they'd have to coordinate the arrival of all the feed reporters with the hotel. I'm not trained as a diplomat, and a real ambassador would have a staff to think of such things. Aurora had never had much respect for people whose work was primarily social; it seemed like an easy dodge compared to the rigorous study required to master a scientific discipline. She was quickly learning that not only could social interaction qualify as work, it could be hard work, demanding of considerable skill if you wanted to get a specific result. They ate dinner late, drained and not feeling that they had accomplished much for all the flurry of effort they had put in.

Fortunately the hotel concierge stepped in when they told him what they needed, and arranged a meeting room, public-address system and refreshments and organized the signage and the printing of agendas. The question of how to present themselves was a delicate one, because the goal was to show the secretary-general that they could make things difficult for him, but not to actually go so far as to do so. They decided that the best approach would be to have Petra introduce Aurora as the chief engineer of the Ark project, and use the project logo as a backdrop without any further reference to UNISE or the UN. Any questions on the question of rebellion would be avoided, they would focus purely on the benefits the project brought to the world at large. After that there was a scramble to get the backdrop made up, and then another one to get a frame to hang it on in the hotel's meeting room. Once it was up it was the only distinguishing feature in a space that was expensively furnished and yet somehow devoid of any particular character.

The next day they went down to make their presentation to find the small meeting room jammed to overflowing. Aurora had to fight her way to the front of the room. I hadn't thought we would draw this much interest. The efficient concierge had arranged a video feed to an overflow room and supplied two security guards to direct traffic. Petra handed out her information packets, running out almost immediately, and then made her way to the podium. She made a few opening remarks that covered the highlights of what the Ark project had accomplished, and then introduced Aurora. Aurora went through her presentation methodically, sticking to the facts, and when she was done she opened the floor to questions. There was an immediate flurry of hands, and she picked one at random. The feeder looked to be in his early twenties, a cartoon version of an eager cub reporter. "Are you telling us you intend to continue the standoff between your rebels and the United Nations?"

Aurora shook her head. "There is no standoff. We're working with the Institute and Director Keyls to find ways to continue the project."

"But you have ignored the secretary-general's order to vacate the Ark."

"We have, but I have to emphasize, this is because this project represents sixty years of investment by all the people of Earth. To cancel it now would be to break faith with the commitment our parents made," Aurora relaxed as she warmed to her subject. "We have to see this through to the end."

The reported nodded, tapping on his datapad, and Aurora called on another one, an older woman. "And tell me, why should the average person support this project, when the world is facing serious food and energy shortages?"

Aurora took a deep breath. "Because this is bigger than any one person, and more important than any one problem. This is about realizing a dream for all of humanity." This is the play line, the one that's going to be on the push tonight. "This is about unchaining ourselves from this planet."

There were more questions, some even more direct on the question of an orbital rebellion, some outright hostile. She fielded them as best she could, feeling somewhat besieged. And I should have remembered downwires have no manners. Before she knew it an hour had gone by. She closed the session, at which point the feeders simply started to yell questions at her, and the security guards had to step forward to prevent them from chasing her out of the room. The concierge knew what he was doing there. I have to keep in mind that I don't really understand this world. Back in their room she made a call to Royer, to tell him that they'd held the conference, but she had to leave a message with his reception because he was in a meeting. She smiled to herself. This should at least get DiAngelo's attention. The concierge called to warn that reporters were waiting to ambush them in the lobby, and arranged for lunch to be sent up for them. Before it arrived the call chime rang again. Petra answered to find an earnest feed reporter already asking questions. Before she'd managed to brush him off the Call Waiting indicator flashed. She finally got the reporter off the line, and the call chime sounded again. Petra switched it off. There would be time to grant follow-on interviews later.

"Let's see what the feeds are saying with what they've got now," Aurora suggested.

Petra nodded, and called up the newsfeeds on the display. The biggest item was about the northern-hemisphere drought. Western North America was getting rain for the first time in almost a year, but Eastern Europe and Central Asia were now facing crop failure. The next biggest were about type C hemorrhagic fever, which was now raging through Australia, with new cases showing up around the Pacific rim, from Tokyo to Los Angeles. She scanned for mention of Ark, and to see what the coverage was like. The first item they saw wasn't good. The focus was entirely on the supposed standoff, and the crew were described as "desperate holdouts." None of what she had said about the project's benefits had been picked up. Instead there was a single clip of her saying "We have to see this through to the end," presented not as a statement of resolve toward finishing Ark but as a blatant show of defiance directed at the secretary-general. After her statement there was a brief clip of a harried-looking Royer saying, "UNISE has no comment on the chief engineer's words at this time. The director will be making a statement tomorrow."

Aurora threw her hands up in the air. "They're taking me totally out of context,"

Petra pursed her lips. "Well, we were looking to make an impact. We achieved that mission, at least. Let's see what other coverage we got." She set up the display to show the Ark news items in sequence. They scanned through the feeds, and found a hundred variations on the same theme.

Aurora paced angrily for most of the casts. "I can't believe they did that to us."

"Believe it."

"Hmmm . . ." Aurora gestured the display off. "Let's see who's been calling us, maybe we can get a correction out there." They ran through the list of calls that had queued up while they watched the feeds. Most of the call tags were from feed reporters, or anonymous tags that could be assumed to be feed reporters. One was from UNISE, and she pointed that one live. It was from Royer, and his permanent smile had vanished. "Call my office immediately," his image said, "Director Keyls wants to speak to you as soon as possible."

Petra smirked. "At least we got their attention."

"He didn't sound pleased."

"That can only be a good thing from our perspective. What are they going to do? Shut down our world? We should probably call him."

Aurora shook her head. "We'll make him wait. We have their attention now." As she spoke the desk chimed and the hotel's logo appeared above the display. "That's probably him now."

"Make him wait?"

"If it's him calling us, we'll talk to him, but it's not him, it's the hotel's tag. It's probably the concierge." She pointed the call live.

It wasn't the concierge. "Aurora Brady?" The reception system's synthesized voice gave itself away only in its perfection.

"Yes?"

"I have a secured priority call for you."

"Who from?"

"The caller identity is private."

Who could that be? Maybe a feeder trying to trick them into answering, but a feeder willing to pay for a secure call might be worth talking to. We do need to get our message out, now more than ever. "I'll accept it." A green square flashed on the desk and she thumbed it to verify her identity.

A face replaced the logo, an old man, hair grey and wispy, face wrinkled, but with eyes still sharp. She pointed her own video on so he could see her too. "May I help you?"

"Ms. Brady, I'm Norman Bissell. I'd like to meet with you, if I could."

"Concerning?"

"An area of mutual interest. I'd rather wait until we can speak in person, at your convenience, of course."

Aurora pursed her lips, considering. We'll have to talk to Royer tomorrow, and probably Keyls, and go to CERN. "How much time do you need?"

He smiled. "An hour, no more. I'll send a car for you. Tomorrow morning, nine o'clock at your hotel lobby, if that works."

She nodded. "I'll look forward to it." She pointed the call off and turned to Petra. "It seems we've got the attention of more than UNISE."

Petra nodded. "I suppose we should see what he wants."

The next morning the car Norman Bissell was sending turned out to be a volanter, and when Aurora asked the pilot how long the flight was he told her three hours each way, far more time than she'd budgeted for. The man wants to talk for an hour, but this will take all day. On the spot Aurora decided to go to see Bissell by herself. Petra would stay behind to deal with Royer and Keyls, and would fly ahead to CERN that afternoon. The pilot took the little craft up and out of the city, heading west and south at seven thousand meters, threading a path through towering storm clouds that shook them with such violence that Aurora felt physically ill. Who can live in a world where the sky can do what it wants to you? She started to wonder if the effort to see Bissell was worth the discomfort and decided, reluctantly, that it probably was. The important thing is to gather support, wherever I might find it. I can't afford to turn anyone away, not at this point. She tried asking the pilot about exactly who Bissell was, but he was a private contractor and knew only the coordinates he was to take her to. And if I'd been smart I would have looked that up last night. The volanter was net-connected but the datalink wasn't working. The pilot told her it was because of the lightning in the storms, and pulled up the weather overlay on his navigation screen to show her all the strikes within range. That did nothing at all for her sense of well-being.

The flight seemed endless, but eventually they came through the line of storms, and the turbulence smoothed enough to allow her to wonder anew at the sheer size of the planet. She had to admit that it had a kind of wild beauty, a primitive power to it that the world inside Ark was missing. Not the kind of beauty I'd want to live in every day, but still impressive. Eventually they came down again, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, on a back-country road that ran through rolling fields and orchards, at the end of a tree-lined lane.

"Is this it?" she asked the pilot.

"This is it."

She looked around and saw a horse-drawn buggy parked in the lane, the horses placidly cropping grass from the verge, undisturbed by the arrival of the volanter. A man in plain working clothes and a long beard came over from the buggy.

"Aurora Brady?"

"Yes."

"Blessings." He touched his hat in a strangely quaint greeting. "I'm Joseph, I'm to take you to see the Prophet." The beard made him seem older than he was, but up close she could see he was not long out of adolescence. His rough hands and solid muscles spoke of a life of hard physical work, and he moved with a placid confidence.

"The Prophet? Is that Norman Bissell?"

Joseph nodded. "The Prophet."

She accepted that, thanked the pilot, and boarded the buggy. After the violent volanter flight the ride up the lane to the steady clip-clop of the horse's hooves was pleasantly relaxing. It had rained recently, probably from the very clouds that had tossed them around at altitude, and the air was full of the warm, fertile scent of wet apple blossoms from the surrounding orchards, the stench of the city entirely washed away. It was an aspect of Earth she had never seen before. But the planet is so large nobody could ever see all of it.

The ride to the main house was short, and her host was waiting for her on the front porch. He was taller than she'd imagined him, and his handshake was firmer than she would have expected from a man of his years.

"Good day, Ms. Brady. Please come in."

"Thank you."

He led her inside. The house was wood-framed with hardwood floors and, surprisingly, it was lit with what seemed to be fuel-burning lamps.

"You don't have electricity here?"

"I do, but only in my study. It's a compromise."

"Compromising what?"

"Practicality with idealism. Do you know who I am?" He led her through the kitchen and out onto a spartan study. The windows were open to let in the breeze, and there was an ancient vidscreen on one wall. "Please," he gestured. "Do sit down."

She sat. "I'm afraid I didn't have a chance to look you up before I came. The man who brought me up your lane called you a prophet."

He smiled. "Not a prophet, the Prophet. I'm the spiritual head of the Church of Believers." He paused and looked. "I fought against the Ark, did you know that?"

"I didn't."

"Long ago, it's a footnote in history now. Still, I did. Joshua Crewe was determined to build it. I was convinced he was a heretic." Bissell laughed without humor. "I tried to destroy his ambitions, and destroyed my own instead." He looked past her to a picture on a wall, and she followed his gaze, saw a picture of a young man in white robes with flashing eyes, giving a sermon to a stadium jammed with cheering worshippers. "That was me, when I was young. A different time, a different man. I don't look much like him anymore, do I?"

"You still have the same eyes."

"You're kind to say so." The True Prophet gave her a small smile. "I was the heretic, not Josh Crewe, you have to know that. I abandoned everything I stood for to rally people to my cause. It was a mistake. What good are people when the cause itself is bankrupt? I was so sure I was right at the time, so sure I couldn't be anything but right." He paused. "I met Dr. Crewe several times back then. He was a close friend of your grandparents."

"Abrahim often spoke of him. He was an inspiration, he used to say."

"He was a unique man, a man driven by a vision. He sacrificed everything to see your project come to life."

"I know the story."

"He died as alone as he lived, I think. He was missing something inside. In his own way he had the same disease I had. My failure cured me, too late perhaps. His success . . . I don't think he ever truly understood himself." The old man paused. "Ark has been back in the headlines. I saw you on the feeds, and was motivated enough to look into the status of your project. What I read motivated me to find you."

"I'm surprised you were able to. The feeds didn't mention where I'm staying."

Norman Bissell laughed. "Once I was a man of great power. Now I am just a man who knows others with great power. Some of them will still do me small favors, if I ask nicely."

Aurora leaned forward. "What can I do for you, now that you've found me."

"Dr. Crewe made me an offer once. You might be interested to know the details."

"I would be."

"He thought he was going to lose, not just the Ark but everything. He thought that I was going to defeat him." Bissell looked away again, remembering. "I thought so too. I thought God would ensure my victory. He was truly committed to that project. It was more than a goal, more than a dream. He needed it, somehow. He was driven, maybe driven insane by it, but willing to sacrifice everything to see this happen, even though he knew full well he'd never live to see it finished. He came here, to this house, sat right where you're sitting now, to bargain with me."

"Why was that?"

"He thought he was going to lose—well, that was part of it. I thought it was all of it. He offered to take my people on the voyage, Ark's voyage, as though that were an offer I couldn't refuse. I did refuse it, of course I did. What he was suggesting was blasphemy. The first Ark was built on God's orders, who was he to build another? He was planning to violate Heaven. But there was more to his offer. He knew he had no one to farm, you see, no one who could farm with horse and plow, work with wood and leather and hand tools. No machine made will last ten thousand years, he told me, and there would be no way to bring enough technology to repair and replace what broke. Everything would have to be made with natural materials." The True Prophet laughed. "He had no ship then, it was just an idea. Even his first Cable had been destroyed, he had nothing, and he was thinking ahead sixty years, eighty, a hundred years, to a time when Ark was leaving, and the civilization in it would have to be completely self-sufficient."

"He was a visionary. Truly a great man. Dedka told me that too."

"No, your grandfather was a visionary and a great man. Joshua Crewe was something higher, maybe a prophet, a real prophet, unlike me." Norman Bissell shook his head. "I thought I was a prophet, but I saw only what someone else had shown me. Joshua Crewe foresaw things. He told me then what the world would look like today, and he was right. He told me then of the need to build this Ark, and he was right." Bissell's eyes narrowed, ever so slightly. "And he knew you would need farmers who could work with horse and plow. Now I hear that you do."

He knows our problems. How? "You say you're not a prophet now?" Aurora avoided the question.

"I'm still called a prophet, by those who still believe in God. I don't believe in God, not anymore." He smirked at her surprised expression. "And I'm certainly not His prophet. All I am is a man, an old and tired man who came too late to an understanding of what's important in life. I won't bore you with the story of how I lost my faith, it doesn't matter here. Still, I understand the role God plays in my community. We are close, Believers are. We shun the cities, we shun the temptations of the modern world, and we work with our hands, and our backs, and our hearts. Faith is the glue that binds us together, and so I continue in my role, for the good it does others and not myself." As he spoke Aurora could hear a trace of the formidable orator he must have once been, a man who could challenge the secretary-general and expect to win. Bissell smiled wanly, as if recognizing his momentary transformation himself. "You can think of it as penance, if you like . . ." he continued, his voice lower, the flash of his eyes fading again, ". . . for the mistakes I made when I was young."

"And what can I do for you?"

"Do you need farmers?"

"Perhaps," Aurora hedged. "I'd like to know how you formed that idea."

Bissell laughed. "All the knowledge in the world is out there, for anyone who cares to look for it, though wisdom is still hard to come by. I looked into your story, and found that so many of your people had tried to stay but had abandoned the effort. I wondered why they might do that, and so I had some of them asked and learned of the difficulty they had with farmwork. It was then that Dr. Crewe's offer came back to me. It's been in the feeds that your supply shipments aren't coming anymore. I have enough wisdom left to put the rest together."

"Sophisticated wisdom." Aurora paused. To trust this man, or not. She searched his eyes, saw the openness there. But he's an experienced shaman, he can lie with his eyes as easily as his tongue. Still, he seemed to be an ally, and Ark certainly needed all the help it could get. "And yes, we do need farmers."

Bissell nodded. "I'd like to offer you my people, if you'll take them, as farmers, toolmakers, citizens, for your voyage."

Aurora put a finger to her lips while she thought about what he'd just put on the table. Finally she spoke. "It's a generous offer. Can I ask why you're making it?"

"It's simple really. I'm an old man. There are younger men ready to step into my shoes when I die, younger men who I'm afraid will repeat my mistakes, at a terrible cost to my community. The wider world is full of temptations for a young man, an ambitious man. While I'm alive I can stop that. After I'm gone . . ." He shrugged. "Aboard your ship there will be no wider world, nothing to tempt a man away from simplicity and hard work. There will just be us, our community, our way of life, for the whole time of the voyage. I would have that for my people, if you will give it to me."

Aurora raised an eyebrow. "Forgive my doubts, but if you avoid technology, I can't see how you can reconcile that with life on a starship."

"We don't avoid technology, not exactly. What we shun is disruption of the way we live. I use a steel plow, fabricated in a factory of great sophistication, so why not a powered tractor?" He raised an eyebrow, inviting her to consider the question before he gave her the answer. "Because it takes you one step away from working the soil with your hands. What harm is electric light? It separates you from the rhythm of night and day. What harm a store-bought quilt? Easy luxuries are something for other men to envy, divisive things that harm the community. We turn away from things that lead to pride, or to sloth, or envy or any other sin."

"And how will your people view those of us who live our lives in such a sinful way?"

"As we view the wider world today, with tolerance, though separate from us."

"You speak about men a lot. What about women? Are they immune from temptation?"

"Some might say they are temptation." The True Prophet held up a hand before she could argue. "I know you're an accomplished woman, I respect that your ways are different from ours. In our world men have their role and women have theirs. Men provide for families, women raise them, men lead and women follow. I won't say that's right, but it's what works for us."

Aurora considered that. "I'm afraid I'm not comfortable with bringing a religious movement on board, whatever other advantages there may be. Most especially not when you would outnumber us by a wide margin."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Still, the offer is there. Perhaps you'll reconsider in time."

"Perhaps." Her pad buzzed. "Excuse me, but I have to get this." The call was from her hotel, and when she tapped Accept the concierge's face appeared in the screen.

"May I help you?"

"I'm sorry to bother you." The concierge looked worried. "I probably shouldn't even be calling you, but I have some bad news."

 

Wallen Valori looked out over his fields and bit his lip. The agriculture initiative had become the primary, almost the only, priority in Ark. Before we do anything else we have to eat. As the one in charge of that initiative he had become, de facto and in Aurora's absence, the leader of the remaining spaceborn, though officially her deputy remained Dmitry Levenko, chief pilot. With his u-carriers floating idle in the spin platform's hangar Dmitry had not raised objections to the change in the pecking order. He was quite happy to devote himself to organizing the technical effort required to maintain Ark's systems under their changed circumstances, and leave Wallen to deal with the dirt.

Given a choice, Wallen would have done the same thing. Growing a crop hadn't been easy, but he was finding it was easier than harvesting one. He had ten hectares of potatoes that had grown relatively well, after he had figured out how to irrigate the field to the level they liked and managed to fend off the rabbits. Now a group of technicians turned farm laborers were collecting the harvest, and none of them were liking it. In the absence of any mechanical assistance the amount of manual labor required to get the job done was staggering. The flexfab had turned out poles and panniers to carry the produce, as well as larger versions to allow the handful of wheeled runabouts they had on board to do duty as carriers. They were storing the crop in an array of hastily constructed storage barns welded onto the construction shack, and a crew of Dmitry's riggers were even now rerouting the shack's climate controls in order to keep the potatoes within the required bounds of temperature and humidity for long-term storage. Preserving them was another problem they were ill-equipped to solve, but right now it was also a problem for the future. As the one directing the farming operation he wasn't necessarily expected to pick potatoes, but he felt it was important to do it, because it was dirty, tedious, hard work. Nobody wanted to do it, and there was a grumbling undercurrent among the rank-and-file that the senior staff weren't sharing the burden of their changed situation equally. And the last thing we need here now is dissension. If the spaceborn were to survive without Earth's support, they needed to work together.

Even so, he was glad when his pad rang, giving him an excuse to put down his panniers. He took a moment to stretch his aching back before he answered. "Valori."

"Wallen, it's Aurora. We have a problem."

"What is it?

"Petra has been arrested."

"What?"

"On the secretary-general's personal orders. There's an arrest warrant out for me as well."

"Why?"

"Have you seen the newsfeeds?"

"No."

"Let me give you a reference." Aurora's face was replaced by a feed reader Wallen didn't recognize, talking about the standoff between Ark's crew and the UN. The reader gave a brief and highly overdramatized summary of the conflict, and then summed up with "Today, in a press conference in New York, rebel leader Aurora Brady expressed her determination to continue her defiance." The image became Aurora again, speaking to the feed reporter. "We have to see this through to the end."

The display blinked and Aurora's live image replaced her recorded one. "DiAngelo must be howling mad."

"Where are you?"

"Safe, for now. I was lucky enough to be away when it happened, and luckier still to be warned before I went back. I've found some unexpected friends. I don't want to say who or where."

"Probably smart. Do you know what the charges are?"

"No, but the charges don't matter, they're trumped-up. What's really happening is the secretary-general is making a show of force."

"What can I do?"

"I don't know yet. We're going to have to organize some kind of legal defense. In the meantime, I'm stuck down here. How are things upwire?"

"They could be better, but we've got no problems you don't already know about." Wallen paused. "I think I should handle the legal arrangements from here. You should be staying completely underground right now, and you're taking a risk just making this call."

"A small one, I'm being very cautious. But you're right. I'm going to keep a very low profile until this is resolved. I'll call you when I can."

She disconnected, and Wallen looked at his potato field. This is escalating, and that's dangerous. With Aurora unavailable he was the de facto leader of the spaceborn now, and he had to step up to that responsibility. He took a deep breath and went to his auntie flier. Fifteen minutes later he was back at the construction shack. He went up to the flexfab to find Bernarde Groot bent over a partially disassembled manipulator bed. Quickly he filled him in on the situation.

"And what do you want to do now?" Bernarde stood up and went to his tool bench, walking stiffly where his Interpol wound still hobbled him..

"The secretary-general obviously has no intention of negotiating just because we're asking nicely. We're going to have to get our people back, and in order to do that, we're going to need power—not electrical, political. How fast can you get those auxiliary tanks you were talking about made up for the u-carriers?"

"I've had one of my best and brightest do up the design already. It'll take a few hours to reconfigure the line for them, about a day per tank, two tanks per carrier. How many do you need?"

"Six solar power stations, that's six carriers. We're going to take them all over at once."

"So twelve days, say fourteen to account for problems. You need to talk to Captain Levenko about getting them installed." Bernarde raised an eyebrow. "That's if you're serious about this."

"Deadly serious. They're going to play hard, we're going to play hard. We're going to show them we mean business. Are you up for that?"

"Of course I am. If it were up to me we would have done this right away. Still, I think we should put it to a general vote."

"Aurora's gone. I'm in charge. I don't think we need to vote on it."

"Hmmm, you should speak to Captain Levenko about that too."

"I have." Wallen's voice was curter than he meant it to be. "We have an understanding."

Bernarde put up his arms. "You have an understanding, but this is something else. You're about to make a very aggressive move against the UN. Things could get very dicey in the next week. If you want to have people's support then you'd better ask for it now, or you could find yourself suddenly very alone up here."

Wallen nodded slowly. "Perhaps you're right, but let's not wait for that, let's get those tanks started."

Bernarde nodded and pursed his lips. "Shutting down their power is only indirect leverage. I've got a more direct option in mind, if you want it."

"Tell me."

"This." He held up a section of steel bar stock, twice as thick as Wallen's thumb and two meters long. One end tapered sharply to a needle point; the other had three fingernail-size bumps on it. He handed it to Wallen. "This is just a concept model. I didn't waste any fab time on it."

It was heavier than it looked, and balanced perfectly in his hand. Wallen hefted it like a javelin and felt long-sleeping warrior instincts awaken in the back of his brain. But it's too heavy to be a weapon. "What's it for?"

"It's a kinetic energy projectile, basically a big steel rod. On a working model the aerospike and the steering tabs would be graphite, and it would have inertially corrected satellite guidance. I can turn out ten of these a day once I'm configured for it, and hit any target on Earth within ten meters."

"Did you say a target on Earth?"

"Of course, did you think it was for throwing at people?" Bernarde smiled. "I got the idea when I realized that an up-fueled u-carrier would have enough delta-v to deorbit. We don't want to do that, but we can use one to put a bunch of these on a reentry trajectory to just about any point we want to hit." The fab engineer smiled a predatory smile. "Right into DiAngelo's living room, just for example."

"Do you have the fab layouts for it?"

"Already done. It's a two-day setup, because of the circuits and actuators."

"Directly attacking them is a serious step."

"This is serious business. This isn't pokazukha, Wallen, this is war."

Wallen nodded. "You keep saying that."

"And I mean it, hmmm. Have you ever read Machiavelli, or Clausewitz?"

"No."

Bernarde raised an eyebrow. "So? Well, perhaps you'd rather have me be the leader for the next while."

Wallen looked at the fab engineer. Is he challenging me? "Aurora left it to me, I think we'd better leave it that way for now."

"We'll see. In the meantime, let everyone know where you're leading us, they might not like it. Did you want me to turn out some of these?"

"Fuel tanks first. We'll take the power stations, and hopefully we won't have to go to war."

Bernarde snorted. "Taking the power stations will be war. There will be bloodshed before this is over, mark my words."

 

The storm hammered rain on the farmhouse roof while the wind tore at the doors and windows. Aurora Brady looked out the window at the rolling green pastureland beyond Norman Bissell's back porch and decided, for the hundredth or thousandth or millionth time, that Earth was never going to be nice to live on. Cambridge had storms sometimes, and she had never liked them, but the thunderstorms here were something else. This one wasn't so bad, with the lightning strikes indistinct in the clouds and the thunder a distant, delayed rumble, but the second day she'd spent on the farm a storm had brought a strike so close the flash had momentarily blinded her and the accompanying crack had left her ears ringing. She had jumped and fled blindly, but there was nowhere to flee except the other side of the house, and so she had stood there in the living room, gripping the back of a carved rocking chair so hard her hands hurt, shaking with fear, and wanting, more than anything, to be aboard Ark, where there was hardly any weather, and what was there was designed to be mild.

Norman Bissell had come to sit with her then, not saying anything, just letting his own calm acceptance of nature's rage be a steadying influence. The storm had passed and she had recovered, and now she could watch them without panicking, even when the lightning came close. Though it's never been that close again, thank God. There was a kind of majesty to the vastness of nature's power on Earth, and with nothing else to occupy her time she had ample opportunity to appreciate it. No, I'm never going to like life on Earth, but if I have to live it, this farm is the place to be. It was a different kind of lifestyle from the frenetic pace she had known in university, one governed by the sunrise and sunset and the cycle of the seasons.

"Why are you letting me stay?" she had asked Norman on the first night after Petra's arrest. "You know you're harboring a fugitive."

"Because we have a tradition of sanctuary," he answered. "And because it's the right thing to do."

"I'm putting you at risk just being here, you and your people."

Bissell shook his head. "I've seen no arrest warrant, and it isn't my place to know who they may or may not be looking for. If they find you here they won't bother me. There are still millions who will listen if I decide to stand up and speak. The Believer movement is a sleeping dragon, and the secretary-general won't want to awaken it any more than I do."

And so she had stayed, and found herself with time on her hands. Free time wasn't something she was accustomed to, something she hadn't really had, she realized, since she was a little girl. Ark had always been there to fill her life, but Ark was out of her hands now. Just for now, just for a little while. The UN was looking for her, she was certain, and she had managed just one further call to Wallen in the two weeks since Petra's arrest. Even that required a jouncing, three-hour journey in a horse-drawn buggy to Granby Crossing, the nearest town of any size, so she could call without using her personal pad. The UN hadn't yet tracked the hotel's call to her and with luck they never would, but it was too much to hope that they wouldn't be monitoring all the traffic between Ark and the ground. She'd switched her pad off so they couldn't track that either. It was a strange thing to do and she felt somehow incomplete without it, as though someone had reached in and removed a large part of her brain. For the first week she had carried around an overwhelming urge to turn it back on, to plug herself back into her personal information stream.

And yet, disconnected from the ongoing urgency of the construction schedule, separated from the everyday emergencies that were the daily routine of being Ark's chief engineer, and from the larger, looming crisis of the ship's cancelation, she found something else in the empty space where all that had been, something that at first she didn't even recognize, as her mind ceaselessly spun problem scenarios in her head, devising solutions that she had no way of implementing. It crept up on her slowly, as she paced the back porch and fretted and watched the slow-paced Believer farmhands go about their business around the fields and barns. Peace. There was nothing she could do, about Ark, about Petra, about Keyls or DiAngelo or even about her own situation. Wallen would have it all in hand . . . I hope he does, I pray he does . . . and so she had to simply trust that he did, and wait.

Peace. Norman Bissell's house was conducive to it. There was no electricity outside of his study, light at night was provided only by oil lamps. The second day she had managed to quiet her concerns with a book on the medieval church, picked at random from his extensive library, but she found the oil lamps hard to read by and so when night fell she had nothing to do but go to sleep. Norman had given her his guest room, more generously furnished than his own, and she slept beneath a hand-stitched quilt on a cotton-ticking mattress. It was hard to fall asleep those first nights; the thoughts she'd managed to keep at bay during the day came back full force, racing through her mind. What if . . . Maybe if . . . She would lie awake for hours, staring at the ceiling in the darkness until finally exhaustion overcame her and she fell unconscious. The next day she would be up before dawn, anxious and unrested and afraid that any moment the Interpol would arrive to arrest her. It took a week before her concerns faded and she fell into step with the rest of the farm, sleeping and waking with the sun.

On the third day she tried to make herself useful around the house, feeling the need to somehow repay the True Prophet's generosity, but there wasn't much she could do. Her domestic skills, already limited to begin with, were not compatible with a wood-burning stove and laundry tubs. One of the Prophet's neighbors' wives, a cheerful woman of fifty-something named Deliah, came by every day to cook and clean, sometimes with one or another of her daughters. Deliah was cheerfully welcoming of Aurora's fumbling help, but made it clear that it was really unnecessary. Norman himself was often out with one of his bishops to visit one of the surrounding Believer parishes, or else working in his workshop. He was a carpenter, she learned, and she found it surprising that at his age he still practiced his trade. There was datagrid access on the desk in his study, and he gave her free rein to use it. For the first couple of days she followed the news obsessively, but there was nothing new about Ark, just the usual feed sensationalization, made worse by the fact that there was no new information to disseminate. She resolved to check the news just once a day, in the evening. She spent the next twenty-four hours twitching for an update, but when evening came found herself strangely reluctant to tap the desk on. It wasn't that anyone told her not to, it was just that for some reason plugging into the dataflow seemed incompatible with her surroundings. It would disturb the feel of the house, in some subtle way, and she didn't want to do that. She left the room without turning on the desk.

With time on her hands she turned to reading. Norman Bissell's library was focused primarily on religion and secondarily on history, and most of the books were very old. She read Adam Smith on economics, wading through his flowery style to decipher his insights into the underlying rules of trade. She found understandings there that hadn't made it into her well-filtered and incisive textbooks in school, and she marveled at how much he had unraveled at time when science was really just beginning to take hold. She read about Peter the Great, and about Rodin, and, for a change of pace, she read the thick Bible that stood on its own pedestal in the center of the room. To her eye it was clearly a mismash of fact and legend, distorted through countless retellings, but it was compelling by turns and so she persisted.

At first she read in the library, but soon she took to reading on the comfortably padded swing on the porch, braving the unpredictable weather and the countryside scents that changed every time the wind did. She grew to look forward to the clop-clop of the work horses as they passed, and waved to the long-bearded farmhands as they came and went on their errands.

The storm arrived as she was rereading the story of Noah and his Ark, and she closed the heavy book and took it inside, to watch the rain through the window. Hailstones pelted down, hammering on the windows hard enough that they seemed certain to shatter, but she breathed deep and controlled her instinctive fear. This house has been here almost a hundred years. It's seen this before, and survived it. She wouldn't run, though her heart hammered in her chest, and she understood perfectly the ancients who saw lightning as the unleashed wrath of an angry God. The clouds overhead were so heavy that early afternoon had become a darkened twilight, and even after the hail passed the rain continued to come down with redoubled intensity, as if it truly intended to drown the world in forty days.

"Are you learning anything?" Her host's voice made her jump, and she turned to face him.

"From the book, or from the storm?"

"I didn't mean to startle you. I meant the book, but perhaps the storm is teaching you more."

"The storm is teaching me that I don't belong down here. As for the book . . ." She hesitated.

Norman smiled. "You don't need to worry about insulting me with your opinion. My faith is truly gone. To me it's history, no more."

"It's . . ." She hestitated again, not quite knowing which words to choose. "It's poetic in places, but even more violent than I imagined."

"Ah yes. Our mighty God was willing to command the death of the enemies of His people, to countenance rape and murder, and genocidal war. He wasn't so different from the other gods of his time."

"Or the rulers who spoke for them."

"Very astute. Who would dare to oppose someone whose commands came straight from God?" He smiled slightly. "Very few indeed, in my experience. You'll find the spirit of the New Testament comes closer to what you expected."

She flipped forward, after the rain stopped, and found Saint Paul preaching faith, hope and charity. What a contrast. Here in this book is the whole spectrum of humanity, at its darkest and at its best. It was, she supposed, no more than she should have expected. Religion was a quintessentially human pursuit; could its foundation documents be anything but quintessentially human? Bissell had the central works of other religions there, including the Koran and the Bhagavad Gita, and she dipped into them to see what they might offer. On the morning starting her second week of exile she prevailed on the True Prophet to arrange for a volanter and a pilot so she could place a call to Wallen. She didn't want to call from Granby Crossing again, to avoid giving Interpol something to concentrate on. He obliged and that afternoon she found herself flying to New York, thankfully in better weather than the day she'd first come to the farm. She called from a public desk and got Wallen on the first try.

"Aurora! Are you still safe?"

"I'm in the city, with friends." True as far as it goes, and still misdirection for the Interpol's ears. "What's the situation upwire?"

"We're holding out."

"And Petra? Any word, any negotiations?"

"She's been arraigned and is being held in custody, we're trying to work on that."

"Have you got a lawyer for her?"

"We can't, they've frozen all our assets." He laughed a mirthless laugh. "Gervois Heydahl nearly got away with putting one on retainer on our government account, but they caught that. She's got a lawyer from her own funds, and we're in contact. They aren't letting her speak to us directly."

"I'm not surprised. I am surprised they haven't cut off your uplinks."

"They did. A couple of the trontechs rejigged the . . ." Wallen caught himself and substituted words. ". . . found a workaround."

Aurora nodded. "Well done." We have to remember they're listening, always listening. "Any negotiations on the larger issues?"

"I've been talking to a guy named Royer."

"I know him."

"He's not giving us much to negotiate on. Keyls and the secretary-general want us downwire. They're willing to be lenient if we cooperate, that's as far as he'll go." Wallen paused. "We've got an action plan prepared, if there's no shift in their position."

"An action plan. Good." Aurora nodded. But I can't ask him what it is. "I'll follow the news and check in when I can."

There was little to say after that. She came away from the call reassured, but at the same time she was strangely unsatisfied. The few minutes they'd spent talking hardly seemed to justify the hours she'd spent in the air to get there. And yet it was necessary. I'm still chief engineer. If all I can do is let them know I'm still alive, that's what I'll do. She took the opportunity to check the feeds, and found there was no new information, although the talking heads were still counting the days since the "crisis" had started. Most of the people on the street were wearing filter masks, and she realized with discomfort that she hadn't brought hers. She hadn't worn it since she'd arrived at the farm. No one else did there, away from the epidemic prone masses in the city. Millions of downwires are dying, and they blame it all on us, and create a drama to distract the public from the real problems.

The flight back was uneventful, and she arrived just as the sun was going down. It was clear, and she waited until it was dark, watching low on the southeastern horizon to see if she could see the star that was Ark. She couldn't of course, she was too far west, but even the attempt made her feel more connected with those she had left behind. What is Wallen planning? They had discussed taking the power stations. Would he do it? And would it work if he did? She felt suddenly very lonely. Dedka Abrahim, I need you now more than ever. Norman Bissell was treating her very well, but the Believers were not her people. She went to bed, but sleep didn't come for hours.

She slept late the next day, and when she came down for a late breakfast she found Norman in the kitchen. "I've been lucky in your misfortune, you know," he said.

Aurora looked at him askance "Why is that?"

"You've had time to see what my community is like. Perhaps you've reconsidered your doubts about taking us on your journey."

It was a question she hadn't considered, and she wasn't quite sure how to answer. He sensed her hesitancy and stood up. "I don't mean to pressure you, but come with me, I'd like to show you something." He led her out of the study, back through the kitchen and down a hallway. It was a large house, too large for just one man, and Aurora found herself wondering where his own family was. And perhaps that's a question that it's better not to ask. There were no photographs anywhere in the house, but whether that was because photography was too technical for Believer simplicity, or because he simply chose not to have them she couldn't know. He opened a door, to reveal his woodworking shop, the pungent smell of cut wood strong in the air.

"What is it I should see?" she asked.

"Here." He went to a wooden case that lay open on one of the worktables and selected a tool from it, a small, straight, two-sided handle carrying a blade half a handspan wide in the middle. "This is a spoke shave, originally used to cut spokes for wagon wheels." He handed it to her. "Now it's used for any fine planning on a curve."

"It's beautifully made," she said, turning it over in her hands.

"Thank you. I made it myself. Look at the blade."

She did. It was hard, black and heavy, and at first she thought it was metal, but it wasn't. "It's wood."

"Lignum vitae, ironwood. It's very hard to work wood with wood, but I've been a carpenter all my life, and I've learned."

"Why?"

"In the service of simplicity." He took a length of wood from a shelf near the door and mounted it in a clamp with a deft twirl that belied his age. "This is clear white pine, nearly extinct now. We have one of the last stands not far from here." He took the spoke shave from her, put it against the work piece and deftly slid it away from himself. A thin shaving of wood curled up from the blade. He repeated the motion a few times, then stood back to show her how he'd shaped the pine. "Now you try."

She shook her head. "I wouldn't know how."

"It's simple, you can't make a mistake. Try it." He handed her the spoke shave. She took it and put it to the pine, slid it as he had. The blade sliced wood, dug in and nearly stopped, then came free again and continued the cut.

"Twist your wrist as you go forward, and come back smoothly." He demonstrated and she tried again. This time the blade cut evenly and the pine shavings curled up. "Again, just round off the corners."

She did as he asked, and found the simple process oddly satisfying, as she shaped the square stock into a roughly circular section, finishing the two corners on top, then loosening the clamp to do the other side.

"Ironwood makes the best blades," he said as she worked. "Not nearly as good as metal, of course, and a challenge to keep sharp, but it has its advantages too." Aurora's roundings weren't particularly even, but the rhythmic motion was relaxing, almost hypnotic, and she was sorry there wasn't more to do when she was finished.

"How was that?" he asked.

"Nice . . . Pleasant even."

He nodded. "A machine could do that work, better, faster, cheaper, but it would also disconnect you from the things you make and use. All of the furniture in this house I've made right here, myself. That's what our life is about. You've seen some of what it means to work land with your own hands, and put your own food on your own table; that's our life too. I can't show you what it is to have the same neighbors all your life, to know you've helped build their homes and barns and families, but it all starts here . . ." He picked up the spoke shave. ". . . with simplicity. Our ways aren't your ways, but perhaps this is enough to show you what I'm trying to preserve, and what I'm offering you in our community. This is what I want to bring to your Ark."

She nodded. "I understand better than I did before, I think. We have a small world too, those of us who are spaceborn."

"I hope you'll reconsider your position about the compatability of your community and mine."

She paused and thought before answering. "I'm willing to be open-minded. Making agriculture work is a concern for us, one that's rapidly coming to the forefront." And how is Wallen doing with the farming project? "We have a bigger problem though. Before we can discuss populating Ark we have to have an Ark to populate. The secretary-general is shutting us down. I don't suppose your sleeping dragon has power enough to change that?"

Bissell laughed. "It might, but dragons are difficult to put to sleep once you wake them up. I have bishops eager to do just that, and that's exactly why I want to remove my community from the wider world, so power and ambition can't destroy what we have here, as my own very nearly did."

"But you could do it, if it came right down to it. Mobilize enough people to force the secretary-general to change."

The True Prophet shook his head slowly, his expression suddenly distant. "No, I'm sorry. I can't."

 

Wallen remembered the thousands that had filled the construction shack's main hangar when Abrahim Kurtaski had died. The few hundred crew assembled now to save Abrahim's life's work were a pitiful sight in comparison. We've lost all the Siberskniks, and half the spaceborn. He squared his shoulders and walked out to the podium. "Fellow crew members, as you know we've been struggling to stay afloat here since UNISE pulled the plug. Such success as we have had has been due entirely to you. I know it's been hard, and the future remains uncertain. Nevertheless, I'd like to thank you all for the faith you've put in myself, and in the senior staff, in our quest to keep this project alive, and viable."

There was a smattering of applause and he waited for it to die out before he went on. "As you know, we have been trying to negotiate with the United Nations, and they have presented an increasingly uncooperative front. Not only have they refused to negotiate with us, they have arrested our emissary, Petra Krychovik, and they have stranded Aurora Brady, our chief engineer, on the ground. They have cut off even food shipments upwire, and attempted to cut off our communications." He gave a nod to Dmitry. "Although thanks to the ingenuity of Captain Levenko's techs at hijacking their ground station, they weren't successful."

There was laughter and louder applause from the crowd in reponse to that. And that's good, because I need them in a positive frame of mind, or this is over. He moved away from the podium, opening himself up to his audience. "We are at a crossroads now. We can either push back, or we can surrender. The senior staff and I have come up with a plan to take over the orbital solar stations, with the intent of using them as leverage to earn us fair treatment. It might work, a lot of Earth's energy is coming out of orbit these days, but it will also brand us as criminals. Right now we're being offered amnesty on the ground, if we'll only come downwire. If we do this, I am quite sure that offer will vanish. If we don't win we'll face prison, on the ground. If we do win, we'll have freedom in the stars."

Wallen had more to say, but he didn't get a chance to say it. The crew rose as one, cheering and applauding, and someone started chanting "Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!" The rest of the crowd took it up, pumping their fists in the air, and then suddenly he was being picked up off the stage and carried around the room. It was unexpected but exhilarating, powerful and frightening. He had another ten minutes of speech prepared, to carefully lay out the options. There was supposed to be a vote on that, and then a call for nominees to stand for leader, and another vote. He had been prepared to step down, had expected to in fact. He caught Bernarde Groot's eye as the crowd finished its circuit. There would be no need for a vote now, there was no point, the crowd had spoken. Ark's crew would face down their mother planet, and Wallen Valori would lead them in the effort. The die is cast.

There was a vote anyway, of course, but it was a mere formality. The vote to defy the United Nations was unanimous, and the vote to confirm Wallen as leader, title to be determined, was equally unanimous, not that it mattered since nobody chose to stand against him. He insisted on stating that he would only take the position until Aurora returned, but even as he said it he knew that it wasn't true. The social forces at play wouldn't allow him to step down. Her power came from her position, but my position has arisen from my power. That he had not sought his power, that it had come purely as a matter of circumstance and timing, mattered not at all. How Aurora would react to the change was something he couldn't know in advance. First I have to get her back.

Afterward the senior staff held a conference. Wallen found himself presiding over a heated debate over exactly how to go about their chosen course of action.

"The last thing we want to demonstrate here is weakness," said Bernarde Groot. "I say we take over every power station and shut them all down at once. The only hope we have is to show them that it will be far too costly to challenge us. We want them to doubt our sanity, and be certain of our ruthlessness. We want them to believe we might just blow the damn things up if we don't get our way, and damn the consequences."

Gervois Heydahl, who had handled logistics, advocated a more graduated approach. "Let's just stop shipping power from our own solar array. That will let them know we're serious, that we can do more, but it won't polarize the situation. If we back them into a corner, they'll have to fight. Leave them room to negotiate."

Bernarde snorted. "That's what we sent Aurora and Petra to do, and look what happened there."

The discussion went around the table, while Wallen kept himself out of it, listening, judging. I don't have the knowledge to make the right decisions here, but ultimately I'm going to have to decide. The debate waxed and waned, went back over old ground for a second time, and then a third, while he considered what was being presented. Finally he spoke. "We're going to take them all at once." Bernarde smiled, and Wallen held up a hand. "We're not going to shut them down all at once. We're just going to make sure we're in control before we start giving them ultimatums."

"You realize that there's a maintainance crew aboard Solar Two right now," Gervois said. With no shipments coming upwire he'd had no logistics to deal with, and so had become the group's de facto intelligence officer. "We don't want to have a confrontation."

"We don't know that for sure," put in Bernarde. "But we send our people armed, just in case."

Gervois gave him a look. "Armed with what?"

"Anything." Bernarde shrugged. "It doesn't matter. They're going to be confronting a pilot and two techs who won't be armed at all."

"And what are you going to do with them? Throw them out the airlock?"

"They can go back down in their own shuttle."

"And what if they fight us anyway? We won't be able to negotiate with blood on our hands."

Bernarde smiled a nasty smile. "We'll be able to negotiate better, da? Don't let yourself think this will be clean."

His words echoed in Wallen's brain a week later, as he rode a boost car up from the construction shack to the spin platform. The boost track the car rode was a scaled-down version of the Cable that linked Ark to Earth, built to carry the same cars but running at much slower speeds. Because the foredome curved inward, the track dangled in a gentle curve that grew closer to the dome as it went higher, which made the car's floor tilt at an odd angle. It was night and as they climbed past the top of the forewall it felt like they were falling into a sea of stars. As the car rose toward the ship's center of rotation his weight fell away, until he could push himself up the ceiling with a nudge of his toes and then drift gently back down. For the duration of the short journey he forgot all about tactics and negotiations and simply enjoyed the view.

Reality returned when the car reached the spin platform's landing deck. The spin platform was at the very center of the foredome. Automated handling took their gear off the boost track and cycled them through the transfer tube that linked rotating Ark to the non-rotating spin platform. The platform anchored the upwire end of the Cable, and served as the control center for Ark's immense solar array. It had housing for the riggers who worked the foundries and melt mirrors that floated in space all around it, and the utility carriers nested there, either floating at the end of their docking arms or in the big hangar module. In the years before Ark had pressure it had been a virtual city in space, with schools and shops and even a park in its spun-for-gravity cylinder, tiny by Ark standards, but immense for the time it was built. The gravity cylinder was long gone now, dismantled and smelted down to become part of Ark's hull.

He went to the docking level, where six utility carriers had been fitted with Bernarde's extended-range fuel tanks. Six volunteer carrier crews, four each, had been hastily trained on the mission and were preparing to launch to the solar power stations. In truth there was no reason for him to be there to see them off. He didn't know any of them personally, but they were carrying the hopes and dreams of all the crew with them, and so he thanked them for stepping forward, shook their hands, wished them good luck. Leadership is about presence, and so I am present. They didn't look like soldiers but they were all armed with shockrods, newly produced by the flexfab. Bernarde had offered heavier weapons, but the rods were nonlethal, not a threat to the pressure integrity of the solar stations and usable in zero gravity. Dmitry Levenko had insisted that all the crews be armed with them, even though it was only at Solar Two that there was any chance they'd have to use them. "You never know what might happen," he'd said. And he was right, we are launching into the unknown here. Wallen didn't let his uncertainty show, though the pilots especially worried him. They were orbit-rated, but there was a wide gulf between the delicate, up-close maneuvers needed to nudge a hull plate into position and the long-range transfer orbits they were being asked to fly now.

He didn't linger afterward, leaving them to suit up and do their preflight checks. He went up from the docking level to the control dome. The controllers greeted him as he came in, then returned their attention to their displays and the jargon in their headsets. He found a place out of the way and waited, watching while the world inside Ark rotated majestically beneath him, like a display model under glass. From five kilometers up most of Ark's interior was the shiny grey of exposed hull material; the strip of green and brown that represented the established ecosystem seemed all too small. We need so much more dirt to make this possible. The tiny patches they actually had under cultivation were completely invisible.

One of the controllers tapped on his console. "Carrier twelve, you are go for lock release."

There was a brief flare from below, and one of the fat, delta-winged utility carriers drifted backward from its docking arm. A second flare, and it started to rotate gracefully. The utility carriers were obviously meant to fly, but their streamlining was totally ruined by the heavy manipulator arms grafted onto their front sections. They were aerodynamic because they were too big to be sent up the Cable and, at the time they were built, too complex to be put together on-orbit. Accordingly they were built on the ground and launched to Ark, where their arms were added as a separate package. Originally they had a backup role as reentry lifeboats in case something went badly wrong on-station, but that function had faded once Ark was pressurized. Still, the wings remained, vestiges of the craft's earthbound genesis.

"Charlie twelve, flight director, throttles up, you are in the groove."

As Wallen watched the craft's main engines fired, and it began to fall away from the spin platform.

"Flight, this is charlie twelve. Confirmed, we have a good track." The pilot's voice was clipped flat on the repeater. The carrier dropped Earthward. UC-12's ungainly manipulators had been made even less streamlined by the big auxiliary fuel bubbles attached to them, and to Wallen's eye it seemed like they should make it tumble out of control. Our carriers have wings they don't need to fly, so my brain expects an atmosphere that isn't there. All of Ark was like that, to one degree or another, conceived on Earth for a voyage no Earthly mind could comprehend. What else have we brought from Earth that we no longer need?

The carrier fell away, gaining speed. Space was crowded near the foredome, and UC-12 was heading straight for an ungainly construction of pressure-sealed cylinders, Ark's hull-plate foundry. Wallen held his breath, sensing disaster, but the controllers seemed unconcerned, and as he watched the carrier's path took it below and past the foundry. He breathed out in relief. The impending collision had just been a trick of his point of view, the foundry looked closer than it was because there was nothing in space to give it perspective. I've lived in space most of my life, but I have no real experience with orbit. It was a reminder that he had no experience leading a revolution either. And what we have now is a revolution, whatever it was before. With the departure of UC-12 the Ark's crew had moved from passive resistance of the UN's dictates to active rebellion. When the day was over, they would have declared their independence from Earth. Whether they would get to keep it was another question.

The carrier's engines flared again, brighter this time, driving it straight down toward the planet below to trade orbital height for angular velocity. It would fly an inverted parabola that would have let it catch up to Solar Five in just under twelve hours. Dmitry Levenko had calculated the orbits so all six carriers would arrive at their targets at the same time. Such precision coordination wasn't strictly necessary, since only Solar Two had even the possibility of resistance, but Bernarde and Dmitry had come up with the plan, and Wallen had gone along with it, if only because it allowed them to practice planning for an eventuality where they might well be an active enemy.

The controller keyed his microphone. "Charlie four, flight director, you are clear for lock release."

Wallen watched as another delta-winged shape drifted backward from the spin platform. Twelve hours to go.

 

The prairie sun was brilliant in a cloudless sky, beating down remorselessly, and Norman Bissell, the True Prophet of the Church of Believers, found it uncomfortably hot in the back of the buggy, though the breeze through the windows did provide some relief. The car from the airport had been air-conditioned, and in the transition from one to the other he'd wished, temporarily, that he'd simply let the car take him all the way into town. It would have been an excusable luxury; horse-drawn vehicles weren't allowed on the highway to the airport, and so the car was unavoidable anyway. The driver had even offered to waive the fare for the rest of the journey when he realized Norman intended to get out by the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. Believers weren't as common here as they were in the East, and he'd been surprised when Norman had explained that the problem wasn't money.

And now the problem is heat. Actually the problem was much larger than heat. The heat is just uncomfortable, not dangerous. The brother who'd brought the buggy to meet him had been thoughtful enough to bring a jug of cool mint tea, and Norman swigged from it gratefully as the horse clopped steadily along past endless fields of golden wheat stretching to an infinite horizon. Big sky country. Zooming along in an air-conditioned car would have robbed him of some fraction of that beauty, disconnected him to that degree from the world around him. And so even as I hurry, I have to remember why it is that I am hurrying, and not sacrifice it in my haste. To arrive in a car at the Elder Council would send entirely the wrong message, and today was a day when every message would carry weight.

He made idle conversation with the driver as they traveled, a man of middle years named Silas Born. Silas was a second-generation Believer, a wheat farmer himself, with three wives and nine children. As they talked Norman learned their names and their accomplishments. His oldest son was a servitor at the local church now, his oldest daughter had just been placed with a fine family two counties north, his youngest was just cutting her first tooth. Silas himself was eager to hear the opinions of the Prophet on any subject at all but Norman mostly just listened. Would we have connected so well in a car? Not quite. Driving a car demanded more attention, and a shorter journey gave less time to talk. Technology erodes community, this is the lesson it took me so long to learn, though it was there in my heart all the time. The problem was, the lesson wasn't clear-cut. Without the car to collect him from the airport, without the plane itself, without all the intermeshed machinery of the modern world that made the plane and the airport and the car possible, then he and Silas Born would never have met at all. Even this road we're traveling was built by machines. He learned that Silas's parents had become Believers at a stadium rally that Norman himself had held, back in the time when he'd staged such events like rock concerts. If I hadn't done that then, he wouldn't be a Believer today.

No, it wasn't simple to decide when to use technology and when to reject it, nor were machines the only threat to community. They came into the town of Drover, a cluster of buildings that stood out from the prairie so starkly they seemed almost alien in the endless golden landscape. A pair of tall, angular grain elevators dominated the center of town, and the next largest building was the church. There were more buggies on the streets; Brother Silas raised a hand and called "Blessings" to every one as they passed, and to most of the cars too. The Prophet nodded approvingly. This is what is threatened here, and this is what I have to preserve. It would solve so many problems to take his people to Ark. Aurora Brady's sudden presence seemed to be an omen. Or maybe I'm just looking for the easy way out, using technology to solve the problems of technology.

Silas turned the horses into the church drive. A man was waiting by the door for them. Bishop Caleb Sully. Of course he would be waiting.

"Blessings, Prophet." Bishop Sully smiled broadly. "I wasn't expecting you to come."

"At my age every day comes as a new surprise." Norman Bissell pulled himself out of the buggy.

"You must be tired after the journey," said Caleb. "I'm sure Brother Born would be happy to give you a meal and a room to rest in."

"Yes, we'd be honored, Prophet." Silas Born sounded almost eager.

Norman shook his head. "Thank you both, but when the Elder Council meets, the leader of the Church should be there."

"Of course, let me help you down." Did Sully's warm expression crack just the tiniest bit? The bishop reached up to offer a hand to Bissell, who took it and climbed down from the buggy rather unsteadily. "I'm glad you were able to make it."

"I'm glad to hear it." Bissell smiled back, enjoying the younger man's not-quite-concealed discomfiture. He's caught, and he knows it, and now he's going to try to limit the damage. They walked up the stairs, and though Norman's joints ached after the hours of enforced sitting the journey had required, he accepted the pain and stood straight and walked briskly. I won't have him see me as a broken old man. Still the effort told, and he was glad it was a short walk to the meeting room at the back of the church. It was a plain room, large and airy, with hardwood floors and big windows, open now to let the prairie breeze take some of the heat away. Simple wooden chairs were set around a simple wooden table. His bishops were there, and they rose to greet him.

"Blessings, Prophet . . . Blessings, Prophet . . . Blessings, Prophet . . ." They filed by to shake his hand. He might have waved them all back to their seats, but he didn't. Let them acknowledge my power here, and it will be that much harder for them to take it away. He looked each of them in the eye as he greeted them, looking for signs of loyalty, of uncertainty, of deception. What he saw was not encouraging. It's worse than I thought. But of course it would be. Caleb Sully wouldn't have made a move this overt if he wasn't sure of his support. There was a display projector on the shelf at the far end of the room, and a fuel cell to power it. They were switched off now, but still tangible evidence of the council's intent.

He went to the head of the table, chose the chair that he thought was Sully's and sat in it. "Please, Brothers, sit down. There's no need to stand for me." He smiled when Sully had to go out of the room for another chair, and then squeeze it in between two other bishops at the foot of the table. Sully was a force to be reckoned with on the Elder Council, but the council was too small and well mannered a body for him to have learned how the game of power was truly played. He looked around the room, meeting the gaze of his erstwhile followers. "A moment of prayer, please, Brothers."

They all stood, having just sat down, but he remained seated, a privilege of both his age and his position. "Blessed and Holy Father above," he began, "guide us, Your humble servants, that we may follow close upon Your path. Give us loyalty and humility and allow us to daily rejoice in the glory which is Your presence . . ." He went on at some length, one part of his brain measuring the passage of time while another assembled the familiar invocations into phrases almost automatically. The words mean nothing, but the time spent is something else. He kept speaking, keeping his head lowered and his eyes bowed, until he could hear his audience start to shift their weight on the hardwood floor. Let them wait, and let them know their discomfort is delivered at my whim. There were a thousand techniques for one man to establish dominance over another, and the True Prophet of the Church of Believers had mastered them all before most of his bishops had even been born. Eventually he judged they had suffered enough, and finished his imprecation to the holy spirit. "Amen."

"Amen." His bishops answered as one, and the relief was evident in their voices. There was a scuffling of chairs as they sat down.

"I apologize for being late, Brothers," Bissell said. "Unfortunately Bishop Sully's message didn't reach me until this morning." He nodded to Sully, who nodded back but didn't manage to keep the sour expression off his face. He had no doubt calculated that a man in his upper eighties wouldn't choose to embark on an eight-hour journey to attend a meeting with last minute notice. "Please." Bissell waved a hand. "Go on with what you were doing. I'll listen and catch up."

Caleb Sully stood up. "Actually, Prophet, we were about to adjourn for the day." There were murmurs of assent around the table.

"No, Brothers. I know Caleb, and all of you, are just thinking of providing an old man with some rest after his long journey. I do appreciate your concern, but I'm not quite so old as you think I am. Bishop Hatley, if you'd be so kind as to switch on the projector?" He pointed to the bishop nearest the shelf. "Bishop Sully, please finish your presentation."

"Yes, of course." Sully smiled again, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. Hatley turned on the projector, and a slide entitled "Outreach Initiative" appeared, with an animated graph showing Church membership numbers over time. The graph slanted steeply upward into the future. Sully explained it, clearly uncomfortable at being caught going behind the True Prophet's back with an already rejected plan to expand the Church, but he was forced to go through with the charade. He could have refused, of course, but he hadn't yet consolidated his power, and to defy the True Prophet in front of the Elder Council would cost him his hard-won position as first-among-equals. Norman Bissell felt sorry for him. He only wants what I had, when I was his age. Ambition isn't a deadly sin, but it should be.

He paid little attention to the presentation as it unfolded, concentrating instead on his bishops. They were uncomfortable too, but as Sully went through slide after slide, detailing a media plan, a public-relations plan, a missionary plan and all the other machinery required to activate a populist evangelical movement their discomfort faded, and their interest grew. They were with Sully, every one of them. Some will share his ambition, some only owe him allegiance. Sully himself probably didn't realize the depth of his support, or he might have risked challenging Norman right then and there. Indeed, had he not put them all in their place the moment he walked in he could well have. This is rebellion, nothing less. They won't dethrone me today, but I can't hold this off forever. He would need to make a drastic change.

Sully finished his presentation and asked for questions. He had overcome his discomfort and, emboldened by the True Prophet's silence during the presentation, was coming across with easy confidence by the end of it. The other bishops weren't quite so brave, and nobody put a hand up.

"Nobody has a question for Caleb?" Norman asked, challenging them directly. "Well, I have a few words I'd like to say. Thank you, Caleb, you can sit down now."

Bishop Sully nodded, trying hard not to let his sudden anger show. His presentation was over, and with the Prophet taking the floor he had no choice but to sit down as commanded, put thoroughly in his place in front of the council, his status now considerably reduced.

Norman stood up. "Brothers," he said, in a tone calculated to make them expect a dressing-down. "Simplicity is the watchword of our Church. A simple life is a life open to God. A simple life is a life free of the temptations so prevalent in our world today. We must always bear this in mind, and use modern tools only so long as they do not come between us and our families, us and our community, us and our God." He paused for effect, saw the bishops looking chastened. "We who lead the Church are bound even more strongly by this requirement. I came to this meeting late, but I came in a horse-drawn buggy for as much of the way as I could, because that is our way." And I will not add that I also took a charter jet to save time. "I have to admit I was surprised to find Brother Caleb giving his presentation with a display projector." He looked directly at Caleb Sully, who couldn't meet his eye. He thinks I'm about to strip him of his bishopric. Let him. He paused and let the silence drag out, allowing his audience to squirm. They were all complicit in the sin of the projector, and they all knew his feelings on evangelizing. Time now to reclaim my position. "Nevertheless, I am pleased to see his thoughts so closely echo my own."

Nobody said a word, but there was shock written on every face. It was not what they'd expected him to say. "Bishops, and fellow ministers, I'm glad to have been able to come to this question, because it's an important one for our Church, and our people. We embrace simplicity; the question has always been, how much simplicity? We live in a time of machines and science, and we can't simply ignore that. Instead we have to pick and choose what we will bring from the wider world into our homes, our families, our lives, and what we will leave outside." He paused to let them absorb that. "Caleb is right. We have become too inward-looking. We need to bring the word of God to every soul on Earth. We need to sing His praises from every rooftop, put missionaries on every street corner. This Church once led a flock of millions upon millions." Bissell's eyes flashed, his posture straightening automatically, his voice growing deeper, louder and more commanding. It has been so long since I've allowed this side of myself to come forward, but it is necessary now, to save everything else. "I stand here today to tell you I am going to lead it forward to that pinnacle again, and to peaks higher still. May God bless us in our quest to serve him." He bowed his head. "Let us stand, and pray for his guidance."

And dutifully the bishops stood and prayed with him, though half of them still looked stunned. Caleb Sully in particular looked like he'd been kicked in the stomach. And little wonder. I have given him everything he asked for, and taken away everything he desired.

He ended the prayer, and raised his hands, signalling his bishops that they could leave. As they turned to go he said, "Caleb, wait a minute, will you please."

Caleb Sully did as he was asked, trying not to look uncomfortable.

"I understand you've appointed an inquisitor."

"I know you've spoken against them, Prophet, but—"

"But nothing." Norman Bissell cut him off. "We guide people to our way of life. We don't enforce it with fear. This man will be removed from his position, am I understood?"

"But you yourself—"

"When I was young, I was stupid. Now I'm old and I know better, and you're young. Are you also stupid?"

"No, Prophet."

"We'll see. I will not have an inquisitor in my Church." He put venom into the words. "You are dismissed."

Sully turned and left without another word, thoroughly chastened, and Norman watched him go. He will behave for a while now, but he will not give up. He knows I'm old, and he thinks he need only bide his time until I die, and then he can seize control of what I'm about to build for him. Which only shows he still doesn't understand power.

* * * 

"I'd like to talk to Brison Keyls, please." Wallen Valori smiled politely.

From the other end of the chief engineer's conference room the image of the man called Royer smiled back. "As I've said, Director Keyls is not available. Please, Mr. Valori, we've already been over this ground several times. You are illegally occupying United Nations property. We're prepared to be reasonable. In fact, we've already been reasonable, more than reasonable, but this has to stop. You can't defy the secretary-general's decision like this. You simply can't." A note of something between pleading and exasperation had crept into Royer's tone by the end of his last sentence, and Wallen was sure that, in his small and bureaucratic mind, it was literally unthinkable for someone to defy the edicts of the secretary-general the way the spaceborn were.

Does he even have a first name? Royer always opened the conversation by saying "It's Royer, of UNISE," as if Wallen might have forgotten since the last time they'd talked. He took a deep breath. "You might be interested to know, Mr. Royer, that we've gone ahead and occupied some more United Nations property. Specifically, we now have people on board all six orbital power stations. We're also prepared to be more than reasonable, but I think you need to do a little more negotiating than you have been."

Royer looked shocked. "Are you threatening me?" Across the room and out of the camera's view Dmitry Levenko looked pleased at Royer's discomfiture. He had also dealt with the UNISE underling, and found him exasperating beyond words.

"No, I'm asking, nicely, to speak to Director Keyls." Wallen put the same stress on Director that Royer had, to emphasize that perhaps the bureaucrat was operating out of his depth.

Royers face stiffened. "I'll relay the information. In the meantime, I have to continue to insist—"

"Thank you, Mr. Royer." Wallen cut him off. "I'll wait for Brison's call." He disconnected without waiting for a reply. He had already spent far too long speaking to Royer.

The return call came in under a minute. "It looks like you got their attention," said Gervois, who was sitting opposite Dmitry.

"Let's hope the rest of this goes as easily." Wallen tapped the desk to connect, and the display filled with the image of a florid-faced, balding man. "Brison Keyls."

"Thank you for getting in touch so promptly." Wallen smiled, putting on his best diplomatic face.

"Let's not waste time with pleasantries." Unlike Royer, Director Keyls was a man with power, and it showed in his demeanor. "You claim you've taken the solar power satellites. I presume you intend to blackmail us into granting your demands."

Wallen shook his head. "We don't intend to cut power shipments downwire, if that's what you mean. We haven't even done that with our own solar array. We just want to call attention to how serious we are about achieving a negotiated solution to this."

"Hmmph. Blackmail is blackmail, however you choose to describe it. What is it you're looking for?"

"First of all, the release and safe return of Petra Krychovik, with all charges against her and Aurora Brady dropped. Second of all, the return of any of our people who've gone downwire, should they want to come back. Third, normalized relations between Ark and the United Nations, allowing us to sell power, from our own array, in return for water and dirt and whatever other supplies we need to complete the project."

"You're aware that Aurora Brady has vanished. We don't know where she is ourselves."

"I'm sure she'll turn up when it's apparent she can come back upwire without being arrested first."

"I'm sure she will." Keyls looked down, considering something. When he looked back up his hard expression had softened somewhat. "Are you speaking for everyone up there, or just yourself?"

"I'm speaking for everyone."

Keyls nodded. "There are some things you need to understand, before you take this any further, while all this can still end well for everyone concerned. We don't really care if you stay up there or come down. It's unfortunate that the feeds have made it into more of an issue than it really is, but they have and so we have to deal with it. That forces the secretary-general into a position where he has to be seen to win the standoff."

"We've already offered—"

"Yes, I know that you have." Keyls cut him off brusquely. "The thing is, you've upped the ante now, and the game is going to get hard. The United Nations is built around the single, fundamental proposition that no single person, no group, no nation or continent is more important or has more rights than any other. The underlying reality is that some people, some groups, some nations are very much better off than the vast majority of everyone else. That's a fundamental inequality that goes all the way back to the dawn of civilization, and it's been the cause of war and death and suffering for all that time. The job of the United Nations since its inception has been to reduce those inequalities, and we have been doing so. We do it slowly, over years and decades, so those who enjoy wealth do not experience too much loss, while those who do not can hang on to hope. It happens to be the right thing to do, the fair thing to do, but that's not why we do it. We do it because if we didn't do it, the entire system would fall apart."

"That's very eloquent, Director, but I really don't see what that has to do with us."

"It's simple. You want to be given what belongs to the people of the world, for your own use. What you're asking for is independent status, in effect to become a nation unto yourselves."

"That's not quite true. That's simply one arrangement we're offering, if the United Nations doesn't want to be seen supporting the project out of taxpayer euros. All we really want is to keep on living the way we have been, and keep working on the project we've devoted our lives to."

"Very noble, but what you're overlooking is that it is simply not your decision. You are not a nation, you are employees of the United Nations. And you cannot be allowed to become a nation, regardless of the cost. The secretary-general has decided that we need the power you're shipping downwire right here on the ground. Now, I happen to know that he didn't make that decision lightly. He made it because we are in serious trouble. Population growth hasn't stopped, and the world can no longer afford the resources that are poured into your project. That's a dangerous situation. Disease and hunger are spreading again, as they haven't in five hundred years. If we give you what you want, every group on the planet with a grievance or a desire will rise up and demand what they think is theirs. War will rejoin plague and famine, and that will be the end of our world."

"All the more reason to finish Ark and see it launched, to ensure something of civilization endures."

"A very convienient point of view, Mr. Valori, but not relevant. I've given you the reasons for the secretary-general's decision, but really the reasons don't matter. What matters is that Secretary-General DiAngelo is the senior elected representative of everyone on Earth. He is charged with making decisions on their behalf and this is the decision he has made. I understand your frustration with it, and as I told Chief Engineer Brady we are prepared to do everything we can to mitigate the impacts on those of you who are affected by it, but we do expect you to abide by it."

Wallen nodded slowly. "You're overlooking one thing."

"Which is?"

"We have control of the solar power stations."

"I see." Keyls nodded slowly. "So it's come down to blackmail after all."

"I'd call it negotiation from a position of strength."

"Call it what you like." The UNISE director shrugged. "You have power here, I hope it doesn't cost you too much in the long run. I'll take this to the secretary-general. You'll hear from us shortly."

The display blanked. Wallen looked across to Gervois and Dmitry. "Well, that's that."

Dmitry looked pensive. "We'll see what they do."

After that there was nothing more to say. Wallen went down to the hangar and took an auntie out to look at the fields, but he couldn't concentrate on the problems of farming. This situation is getting out of control. He hiked into the scrubland, trying to lose himself in biology, but where once he could spend fascinated hours watching the subtle interactions of the ecosystem he now found the details beneath notice, his mind occupied with speculation on what DiAngelo's response would be. Ark was built tough, but nothing was indestructible. If UNISE decided to crash a shuttle into the foredome it would shatter, the ship would depressurize, and they would all die. Would the secretary-general go that far? And if not, what other tactics might he employ? There was no way to know.

Eventually he gave up and went back to the flier, back to the hangar, back up to the chief engineer's office. His intent was to call a senior staff meeting to hash out possible UN reactions, but as he came in a call from downwire came through. He pointed it live and Royer appeared.

"Mr. Valori, the secretary-general has agreed to your terms. Shipments of dirt and water will be resuming immediately, and all charges against your people will be dropped as soon as we can process the paperwork. Our staff will be working out details for a power sales contract. The proposal we're looking at is that Ark be incorporated as a private limited company, with UN assets transferred under terms to be negotiated."

Wallen breathed out. That was far easier than I feared it might be. "Please tell Director Keyls and the secretary-general that I appreciate their cooperation."

"I certainly will." Royer seemed pleased, but then he always did.

Wallen called the staff meeting anyway, to let everyone know what was going on.

"It's a trick," Bernarde said. "Even money says the first boost car up is full of Interpol in riot gear."

Gervois shook his head. "They wouldn't risk it. They know we'll shut them down. They gave in because they had to."

"And even if they keep their word, how do we know they'll keep on keeping it?"

"At some point we're going to have to trust them."

"Trust has nothing to do with it. Power flows from the muzzle of a gun. We just proved that ourselves."

"And we still have our people on board the solar stations, that's power enough."

"Gentlemen." Dmitry raised and hand to interject. "I think the wise thing to do is meet the first boost car with enough force that we can deal with any treachery."

Wallen nodded. "We'll do that." He turned to face Bernarde. "Can you make us some of those kinetic reentry missiles you showed me, just in case?"

"I already have, and some adaptor racks so a u-carrier can launch them."

"Let's get those up to the spin platform and mounted."

Gervois raised an eyebrow. "That's a dangerous game you're playing, Wallen. We're a lot more vulnerable than they are."

"I know. I'm hoping things won't go so far."

Bernarde snorted. "Hope is not a course of action."

It took three days to get the first boost car upwire, and while it was climbing the Cable Wallen was kept busy dealing with the reams of legalese Royer started sending up to establish the corporate structure Ark would need to deal with the United Nations as a private entity. After he'd spent six hours trying to navigate the dense tangle of boilerplate, Gervois suggested they hire a downwire lawyer. That immediately became a problem because their bank accounts were still frozen. Wallen addressed that with Royer, who promised to get them unfrozen, but first they had to indemnify the UN from any damages that might arise from the freeze. He sent up the relevant paperwork, but because the money was in individual bank accounts every single person aboard Ark had to sign off on their own individual copy, made up in their name with the correct account numbers. Organizing that was an administrative nightmare, which Wallen was happy to leave to Gervois. Once that was done, UNISE had to have certified original copies of the indemnity agreements. Wallen argued with Royer that digital signatures should suffice, but the bureaucrat refused to budge on the issue, and finally Wallen capitulated and had the paperwork loaded in a boost car and sent downwire. That meant a three-day delay for them to reach the ground. In the meantime he had another argument with Royer over notifying the spaceborn and Siberskniks who'd gone downwire that they could come back up. "Not until the legal structure is in place," the bureaucrat said, and nothing Wallen could say would change his mind. He began to have fantasies of targeting one of Bernarde's kinetic missiles on Royer's office, and then calling him just to watch the impact. He was more successful in getting to talk to Petra, who called on the second day to say she was on a plane to Kenya, and again on the third day to say she was getting on a boost car.

That was the day the first of the cargo cars was due at the spin platform, and Bernarde organized thirty riggers armed with shockrods at the Cablehead transfer lock, ready to take on Interpol should his original suspicion of a trick come true. Wallen waited with them, one hand on a handhold, a shockrod in his other hand. He didn't expect a fight—he was doing it to show leadership—but he still practiced swinging the rod. It was more awkward than he expected in zero gravity. But we'll be better practiced than they are. The car arrived at last, and as it came through the transfer lock he realized that it was a cargo car, as expected, and full of topsoil as promised. He breathed a sigh of relief at that. Finally things are getting back to normal. They kept a reduced team of ten riggers ready at the lock just in case, but all the subsequent cars were full of dirt or water or, most wonderfully, fresh food supplies. The news of food they didn't have to grow themselves went through the crew like wildfire, and the general mood, which had remained tense, suddenly became euphoric. There was a feast that night in the construction shack, and someone produced a tub of vodka, freshly distilled from Ark-grown potatoes.

The next day the mood was much more subdued, with a significant number of people nursing hangovers, Wallen included. Dmitry, who seemed completely unaffected, organized six relatively sober crews to fly to the solar power stations to relieve those who had gone the first time. The team from Solar Two came back with the news that the maintenance crew had shown no resistance, and had actually helped the u-carrier crew familiarize themselves with the power station's systems, simply because they sympathized with Ark's cause. Wallen reported that to Royer, who mostly seemed pleased that the newsfeeds hadn't learned that anyone had been captured, if that was even the word for it. Slowly the tension that had crept into Wallen's shoulder blades began to relax.

Petra's boost car was due at the spin platform that evening, and he spent the rest of the day organizing the restart of the soil spreaders, hampered only slightly by the lack of techs. With food supplies assured they could start getting back to building the ecosystem. He took an auntie out to see how his succession species were faring, and was able to spend two relaxing hours immersed once more in his specialty. He was tempted to leave his pad behind and take more time, but he was hoping for a check-in call from Aurora so he could fill her in on the changed situation and arrange to get her back upwire as well. She didn't call, which worried him slightly, and when the sun started to fade from the mirror cone overhead he went back to the construction shack and took a boost car up to the spin platform to meet Petra.

He arrived just as her car was arriving on the Cable. There was a few minutes' delay while it was decoupled from the boost tracks and cycled through the transfer lock, and then the pressure door swung open. Wallen pushed off his handhold and drifted forward to greet her. He saw two men in blue riot gear, anonymous behind body armor and visored helmets, weapons in the shoulder. Interpol! In the instant he recognized them they launched themselves down the center of the receiving bay toward the open door at the opposite end. He started to shout a warning, and there was a series of sharp reports. Something hit him square in the chest and his world exploded into blinding pain. He collapsed into a ball, twitching and gasping for air as the riot cops sailed past, firing as they went. The riggers with their shockrods went down as quickly as Wallen had. More Interpol followed behind the first pair, weapons upraised, spreading out through the spin platform. The squad behind them had zapstraps, and they grabbed him out of the air and trussed him to a handhold. One of them tugged at something on his chest and he felt a sharp pain, though nothing like what had felled him. The cop discarded whatever it was he had pulled free and it floated away. A stundart. The Interpol were awkward in their movements, clearly unused to zero gravity, but the superiority of their weapons more than outweighed that. Shouts rose in the background, but he couldn't see what was happening, he was happy enough to be able to breathe. The last two cops closed the lock and cycled the boost car back out onto the downwire track. A second boost car was already arriving at the dock, and someone was yelling something about search teams. He remembered Royer's friendly smile as they had hammered out the legal and logistic details he thought they'd agreed to. I came to trust him, and that was a mistake. The realization was crushing. He'd be lucky to escape prison now, but what happened next seemed of little consequence. I've lost it all, not just for myself but for everyone.

 

It was a sunny day, and Aurora Brady sat on the back porch swing of the Bissell farm, watching the wind blow through the trees and not even pretending to read. There was a rhythm to farm life, she was learning. Joseph, the young man who'd first greeted her at the head of Norman Bissell's drive, was Norman's senior farmhand, in charge of arranging the work. His younger brother Michael looked after the barns and stables. Both of them lived in a smaller house a kilometer up the road from the Bissell home, still on the farm property, but with its own separate driveway. The brothers would be at work by first light, milking the cows and feeding the horses before going out to the fields. Sometimes neighbors would come over, to help take off a field of hay, or to lend a wagon or plow. Sometimes they came to ask for help with their own farms. At meal times Deliah would call Aurora to help her set the table, which had become her token domestic task, and then ring a big bell hanging by the kitchen door. Norman would come out of his woodshop and not long after the brothers would arrive from the fields for the meal. Prayers were brief, and the food was always tasty and plentiful. Lunch was a short meal, meant mostly to provide sustenance to fuel the afternoon's work, but dinner was more relaxed, and the household would take time to talk. Conversation would open with some piece of news from what the Believers called the wider world, but Aurora quickly learned that this was almost a formality. The topic would quickly shift to family and community, and once shifted it would stay there. She found that frustrating at first, when a subject she found intriguing vanished to be replaced with local gossip she knew nothing about. Eventually she came to accept that this was simply the way the social rules worked. It was the Believer way of including the wider world in their lives without allowing it to interfere with the important business of the community.

A gust set the windmill spinning, pumping water up out of the well to the cistern. Aurora watched the blades turning, counting the revolutions almost reflexively. Another hour until lunch. The meals were the day's anchor points, and so she had been surprised to find Norman gone at lunch hour two days previously. He had gone to the Elder Council, Deliah told her. He was still gone, and she found she missed his calm presence. Her pain over Abrahim's death, which had begun to fade, returned as well. Have I replaced Dedka with Norman as a grandfather figure? She laughed at the thought, but there was an underlying truth to it. She had never wanted a family of her own, perhaps in reaction to her early loss of her parents. Instead she had channeled her energy into Ark, partly out of loyalty to her grandfather's vision, but also because in devoting herself to something that would endure far longer than she would, she was insulating herself from another loss.

And when did I decide to do that? She remembered making up her mind that she was going to become chief engineer, that was the day she had declined to play with Jenika Donnaz because she had to study for a math test. She'd been eleven years old, and finally coming to terms with the fact that her parents were really never coming back. Somehow that awoke in her a fierce desire to excel, to become the best at everything she did. She began to compete ruthlessly, with her classmates, with her friends, most especially with herself. Getting the highest mark on a test wasn't acceptable if the mark wasn't at least an A. Coming first in a race wasn't good enough unless she also beat her own personal best time. But what was I running from? The truth, only visible in retrospect, was that she was running from herself, from the reality that the universe was much bigger than she was, and could devastate her life on a whim. And I have been running ever since, to the top of my class, to the top of my profession, to my grandfather's rank of chief engineer.

She got up from the porch swing and paced, uncomfortable with that thought. The backyard was edged with tall trees, and beyond them were wide fields of young corn. She felt the urge to run again, to physically run, and though she didn't like open spaces on Earth she went down off the porch into the yard. The grass was cool under her bare feet and she realized that she had never gone farther than the porch since she'd come into Norman Bissell's home. And how long have I been here? She'd lost track of the days, but long enough that the corn had grown up considerably since she'd arrived. She walked quickly, driven by something she couldn't identify, to the lane that ran past the barn to the fields. It was muddy in places but she didn't care, responding only to the need to move. Farther down the lane became sandy and drier, and she started running, feeling her muscles stretch and flex, ignoring the pebbles that dug into the soles of her feet. She ran until her heart was pounding, and ran farther still, up a hill and along a line of rusted wire fence, until the lane ended at a tree-lined country road, where she turned to jog down the centerline. The rough pavement hurt her feet too much to ignore, so she simply endured it, letting the pain cleanse her as she ran on, out into the tremendous, unknown vastness that was planet Earth. It was frightening and exhilarating at the same time. When she'd gone to Cambridge she'd carefully limited her world, moved on a fixed track between her rooms and her classes, and declined invitations that might have taken her out her accustomed orbit. It was as if she was trying to preserve in her mind the enclosed universe of Ark, a world where nothing could get in to hurt her, where no one could take away what she loved.

And yet they are taking it away. She felt anger then, at Brison Keyls for the way he'd canceled Ark, at the secretary-general for finding it expedient to order the cancelation, at Norman Bissell because he wouldn't sacrifice his world to save hers. She came to an intersection and kept on running, channeling her anger into her muscles, running harder, letting the pain in her abused feet feed her fury. They took away everything I ever worked for, everything I ever cared about, and now I'm trapped here and I can't do anything, not one single damn thing. She screamed in rage, and found herself even more infuriated when the trees didn't splinter in response. And I'm never getting Abrahim back, or my parents, and I've worked so damn hard for so long and it's wrong, wrong, wrong! And she didn't want the thoughts that she knew were coming, so she screamed again, louder this time. The trees still didn't shatter and she ran off the road to the closest one, a medium-size oak, and started tearing branches from it, still screaming, but the larger branches were too big for her to break so she hit the trunk instead, beat it with her fists as though with sufficient ferocity she could destroy its very existence. The effort hurt her hands but she didn't care, taking the pain as a welcome substitute for the loss and fear she could no longer keep at bay. She kept on until was too exhausted to continue and then collapsed at the tree's base, putting her hands to her face to weep uncontrollably, not even conscious of the sting where her tears trickled down to mix with the blood seeping from the torn skin on her knuckles.

 

The Interpols left Wallen and the other prisoners hanging on the wall by the spin platform's transfer lock, like so many sausages in a butcher's shop. He found it a thoroughly humiliating experience. As time wore on the prisoners had to ask for water, for food, and to use the washroom. Just two officers had been left in charge of them while the remainder of the cops took boost cars down to secure the construction shack. Because the prisoners badly outnumbered the guards they refused to remove the zapstraps that secured their hands behind their backs. That meant that one of the guards had to serve as escort on every trip to urinate, to help the prisoner on and off with their clothes. Inwardly, Wallen seethed.

Not that there's any point in showing resistance. The guards had the upper hand. Instead, Wallen concentrated on listening to what they were saying, trying to learn what he could about the operation. Over time he gathered a handful of facts. There were two platoons of police, which he figured amounted to about sixty all told. Their orders were to round up all the spaceborn, and then transfer them downwire as soon as possible. He had hoped to overhear what was coming over their radios to learn how the operation at the construction shack was proceeding, but their radios were silent. That's because they aren't set up to use our systems. Almost everything in Ark was built with stainless steel, which very effectively shielded radio frequencies. To get around that problem the ship had an internal transponder network to relay signals by wire where they couldn't go over the air. There was nothing special about it, but you had to be using the right frequencies and the police didn't have them. That tells me two things. First, they put this together too fast to get all the intelligence they needed. Second, they can't communicate well. Both facts might become important later.

Eventually someone came up from the shack to tell the guards to bring their prisoners down. They were unstrapped from the walls and herded into boost cars. When they arrived at the shack the Interpols had everything under tight control, and Wallen gathered that they'd encountered little resistance. They'd established their command post on the administrative level, and Wallen had to stand in a line outside his own office with a bunch of other late-arriving prisoners, still zapstrapped, waiting for whatever Interpol would do with him next.

"Have you heard?" asked the woman in line next to him.

"What?"

"Two of us have died."

Wallen's eyebrows went up. "Do you know who?" Anyone I know?

"One was Gervois Heydahl. He had a heart attack when they hit him. I don't know the other one. I heard he fell from the spin platform."

"No talking," interrupted a guard, his hand on his shockrod.

Wallen's muscles twitched with the desire to hit the guard. Gervois is dead. He felt numb. He was always the one trying to calm things down. He was summoned to the next room, where they photographed and retina-printed him, a completely unnecessary step since all his biometrics were on his personnel file, as they were for all UN employees. From there he was taken to the gymnasium, which the Interpols were using as their main prisoner-holding area. Gervois is dead. Wallen felt a cold anger build within him. It should have been me, Bernarde, even Dmitry. He was innocent, completely innocent. The entrance to the gymnasium was guarded by cops carrying stundart-loaded shotguns, but conditions were better than they had been in the spin platform's boost-car dock. Inside there were plastic folding chairs set up in widely separated rows, full of silent crew members, sitting and waiting. More cops watched from the spectator galleries on the second level on either side of the gym floor. Once he was inside, his zapstraps were removed and replaced with a single band on the left wrist with a number on it corresponding to the number on his chair. Food and drink were provided, in the form of a bottle of water and a sealed package of UN disaster rations waiting under their chairs. He found himself sitting next to Bernarde Groot and wanted to ask him about Gervois, but guards were patrolling the rows of chairs, strictly enforcing the no-talking rule with their shockrods. Wallen opened his food package and found his appetite gone. He forced himself to eat anyway. Because who knows when I'll get another chance.

The cops were calling people by their numbers, taking them away and then returning them. The process took hours, and as one of the last brought in Wallen was one of the last ones called. The punishment of captivity is endless tedium. He was zapstrapped again and escorted down to the chief engineer's conference room. The Interpols were using it as an interview room and he smirked a little at the irony. His escorts sat him down across from a fit-looking female officer with iron-grey hair.

"Your name?" she asked, sounding bored.

"Wallen Valori."

She wrote that down, and recited without looking up. "Wallen Valori, you are under arrest for criminal trespass and conspiracy to commit theft of United Nations property. Please be advised that anything you say can and will be recorded and used against you in a court of law. You are entitled to legal representation of your choice. If you cannot afford legal representation the government will appoint a representative on your behalf at no charge to yourself. Do you wish to speak to a lawyer?"

"I'd like to know about Gervois Heydahl."

She looked up. "Who?"

"Gervois Heydahl, he's one of my . . . one of our people. I heard he died."

"I'm afraid I can't discuss that. Do you wish to speak to a lawyer?"

"What do you mean you can't discuss it?" Wallen's voice rose in anger. "He was my friend, a peaceful man. He was innocent. What happened to him?"

She sighed, as though she had expected better from him. "Sir, I can't discuss that. Do you wish to speak to a lawyer?"

He looked at her and felt the urge to hit her. So maybe it's just as well I'm cuffed this time. "Yes," he said through clenched teeth. "I'd like to speak to a lawyer."

She looked to his escort. "You can carry on with him."

"Yes, ma'am."

He was returned to the gymnasium as unceremoniously as he'd been summoned, unstrapped and sent to his chair for more waiting. When he sat down Bernarde met his gaze, and held it. Wallen raised an eyebrow, a silent question mark. Very deliberately Bernarde lowered his gaze to look under Wallen's chair, then raised it again and gave a small nod.

And what does he mean by that? Wallen nodded back, and reached under his chair to pick up his half-eaten ration pack. As he did something caught his eye, a small pair of diagonal pliers that had been hidden beneath the package. Casually he picked them up and slipped them into his back pocket. They would serve to cut open a set of zapstraps, if it ever became expedient to do so. He looked back to Bernarde. And where did he get them? He remembered the cops shouting about search teams as the second boost car came through the transfer lock, but he'd never been searched himself; he even still had his pad on his belt. Maybe the follow-on group thought he was being searched by the cop who'd plucked the stundart from his chest. It doesn't matter why; they overlooked me. Bernarde would likely have been captured while working in the flexfab, he might well have had the pliers in his hand at the time. If anyone could beat a search, Bernarde could. With his bad leg escape wasn't an option for him, but he'd just made it a possibility for Wallen. Where to escape to is another question entirely. If he could make it to the hangar he could get an auntie and fly it up to the spin platform. From there he could shut down the boost track, and the Interpols would be caught on the ground, suddenly prisoners themselves, unless they could persuade one of the spaceborn to pilot a dadushka up there. Not likely. He had to assume that the UN had taken back the orbital power stations when they launched their raid on Ark, but having sixty Interpol cops as prisoners . . . Not hostages, not hostages . . . would give him considerable leverage, especially if he went public with Royer's bad-faith bargaining. But is the platform guarded? He had to assume it was. It's still worth trying, if I get the chance. Rationally it seemed unlikely to work, but he found that rationality didn't matter. He was angry at his treatment, angrier over Gervois, and the Interpols had become the enemy, it was as simple as that.

Time dragged past, and then the guards called a bunch of prisoners, who came back a while later to distribute blankets. People were stretching out on the patch of floor in front of their chairs. How long are we going to be kept like this? Wallen wanted to talk to Bernarde to tell him he'd been right in predicting bloodshed, to ask him about Gervois, but it simply wasn't possible to do it without attracting the guards. Prisoners caught talking were hauled away zapstrapped, no doubt to await their fate in some much less comfortable way, so he stayed silent. Some prisoners dozed, and he lay down on his blanket and closed his eyes, but he found himself too wound up to actually sleep. Eventually he dozed, and then some time after that one of the cops came in and announced they were going to be moved in groups of twenty, back up the boost track to the spin platform, and then downwire to Earth. For some reason they started with the highest numbers instead of the lowest, which meant that Wallen was in the first group. They were zapstrapped one more time and herded in single file down to the administrative level. With some shock Wallen realized that if he was going to escape it was now or never.

He checked front and back, and saw the cops at either end of the line were too far away to see what he was doing. It was easy to slip the pliers from his pocket into his right hand, but he quickly discovered it was absolutely impossible to maneuver them to cut the zapstraps. Now what? At the Interpol command post there was more paperwork to be finished, and the prisoners waited in a silent single file while it was done. He saw Dmitry Levenko at the other end of the line and a plan occurred to him.

"Excuse me." He pitched his voice so the nearest cop could hear him.

"Yes?"

"I need to use the facilities."

The cop rolled his eyes. "Fine." He called over another Interpol, who escorted Wallen to the washroom. Wallen endured once more the indignity of having someone else lower his pants so he could urinate, but it was worth it. When they got back he simply fell in at the end of the line, beside Dmitry, as if he belonged there, and the cop didn't question it. He traded glances with the senior pilot, turned around and waved the pliers so Dmitry could see them. Dmitry nodded in understanding, and turned so he was back-to-back with Wallen, took the pliers and, surprisingly quickly for a man working with his hands cuffed behind his back, got them around the zapstraps. The pliers dug into Wallen's wrists as Dmitry worked, chewing his way through the tough plastic. He ignored the pain, and suddenly the pliers' jaws met with a clack, gunshot-loud to his ears. He held his breath, but the cops didn't appear to notice. They both turned again, backs to the wall, and Dmitry gave him a tight smile. Wallen nodded, visualizing the route he'd take to the hangar, going over the Antonov startup checklist in his mind.

They kept waiting and Wallen, now impatient, had to restrain himself from simply making a run for it. A cop came down the line to verify their just-taken retina prints, and then, finally, they were told to line up to be taken down to the boost car. They filed out to the corridor with an Interpol at the front and back of the line. This is it. He separated his wrists, just to confirm in his own mind that they really were free, and as they passed the cross corridor down to the senior-quarters section he turned left and dashed down the hall. Shouts rose behind him, but the guards would have to fight their way past the line of prisoners to catch up and that gave him a running start. He ran with a plan, turning left at the first intersection. The administration level was a newer part of the construction shack, the senior quarters were older, built before Ark got her atmosphere. At the boundary between them the pressure doors were still in place. He came to the first door, dived through and slapped the seal release. Nothing happened, and he realized with consternation that the system had been long disconnected. He slammed the door shut by hand and spun the handwheel to engage the locking dogs. It seemed to take forever but they finally slid into place, just as a dull thunk announced that someone had put their shoulder to the other side of the steel. Almost immediately the handwheel began to unspin. He grabbed it and used his weight to hold it down. The wheel jerked in his grasp several times and then stopped. Have they given up so easily? It seemed unlikely. There were a dozen more Interpol on the administration floor, and while he was holding the door shut they could send someone around and behind him, delayed only by the length of time it took them to figure out the layout of the shack's corridors. That might take them as long as ten minutes, certainly not much longer than that. He could do nothing to stop them. Voices came faintly through the metal, too faint to understand, but they had the flavor of shouted commands. The Interpols were taking action. The wheel jerked again against his hand.

And I need to move. Now. Before he could do that he needed something to wedge the wheel. He looked around, but there was nothing remotely suitable within reach. Come on, Wallen, think. He had nothing in his pockets, only his pad on his belt, nothing on him but the clothes he was wearing. Shirt, pants, socks, shoes. With sudden inspiration he tore off a shoe and shoved it into the handwheel's spokes. It came heartbreakingly close to working, but the shoe wasn't quite large enough to jam it shut. Cursing, he tried again and got the same result. The wheel moved again. The cop on the other side wasn't making a serious effort to open the door, he was just making sure Wallen had to stay where he was until his teammates could get around him in the parallel corridors. Wallen grabbed the wheel and yanked it back. Nine minutes, maybe eight. Think! With the other hand he started to put his shoe back on, then stopped. Maybe, just maybe. He held the wheel with one hand and started unlacing the shoe with the other. Seven minutes. He got the lace free and started tying one of the spokes to the door's locking bar. Five minutes. Done! He kicked off the other shoe and started to run, down the corridor past the senior quarters. He could hear shouted voices ahead of him, coming down the ladderwell from the section ahead, and he turned back the way he had come. A long-closed hatchway led down a level, and he spent a precious minute struggling with its locking lever while praying it hadn't seized shut. Boots thumped in the corridor.

He wrenched at the lever with desperate force and it came free, sending him over backward. The hatch popped open, and he dived down it, heedless of the pain of the thin metal rungs on his sock-clad feet. The next corridor led to the flexfab and he ran down it, his socks slipping on the smooth industrial carpeting on the floor. In the flexfab nobody had told the machines to stop, and the ranks of mechanical arms were still bending, picking, placing, working, passing, in an intricate and strangely beautiful choreography. He didn't stop to admire it, he just ran down the central aisle full-tilt, sliding under the central conveyor in his socks. The sounds of pursuit were close behind him. Interpol had found the open hatchway and followed him down. On the other side of the flexfab was an automated warehouse and the machines there were equally busy, fetching, loading and sorting, the quiet whir of their operation undisturbed by the day's drama. On the other side of the warehouse was another pressure door, but with no way to secure it he didn't bother to shut it. And I should have kept that other shoelace. He had no time to regret the decision. Beyond the pressure door was a staircase, and he ran down it past the fuel cells and support equipment to the hangar.

There was another pressure door at the entrance to the hangar and he stopped here and caught his breath. I made it! He stepped through and started to shut the door, then froze. On the opposite side of the huge space the massive hangar doors were open, but a pair of figures in Interpol riot gear were guarding the entrance that led up to the control tower. They looked alert, but they didn't seem to be actively searching for him. That didn't matter, because he'd never be able to get an auntie out of the hangar while they were there. There were footsteps above him. I can't stay here either.

He went into the hangar and dropped to a crouch behind a wheeled cargo trolley, then made a quick dash to hide behind the landing gear of one of the dadushka carriers. He stole a glance around the wheel strut, then risked another dash to the closest auntie, and was momentarily tempted to get in. But there's no way you could get airborne in time, Wallen, so just stop thinking about that. He looked back to the pressure door he'd come through. His pursuers would be on him any second now, he was rapidly running out of time. There was an open space ahead of him, and then the skeletal bulk of a partially assembled colony lander, sitting at the bottom of the silent lander-fabrication line. Marching down the kilometer-long gallery were six more of the towering craft, each progressively more complete, waiting patiently for the robots to begin working on them again. At the far end of the line the finished landers were moved into Ark's departure gallery, there to endure through the long, dark millennia until the ship arrived at Iota Horologii and the colonists needed them to descend to their new home.

There was nowhere else to go, and no time for second guessing. Wallen sprinted for the assembly line. Once there he moved to the yellow-painted center line. Doing that slowed him down because he had to dodge around fabrication machines and equipment, but it gave him more cover than he would have had running down the clear aisleways by the walls. The far end of the facility was an eternity away, and for the entire distance he expected the explosive pain of a stundart slamming into his back. Nothing happened, and when he reached the nose of the last lander he stopped, panting hard and trembling. He crept forward to a tool cabinet and peered around it, back down the aisleway in the direction he had come. The Interpols were there, at the far end of the line. They hadn't seen him, but they had to know he was there, because they were searching diligently, coming toward him. There was a length of titanium bar stock on top of the cabinet and he grabbed it. It wasn't much of a weapon in the face of stundarts, but it was better than nothing.

And of course they know I'm here, because they knew I couldn't have gotten out of the hangar. On the other side of the aisle was the open entrance to the departure gallery, thirty meters high and a hundred meters wide, big enough to roll a lander through. The gallery doors were stainless-steel and a solid meter thick, to prevent intermediate generations of colonists from disturbing the landers before they were needed. He had twenty-five meters to cover to get inside the gallery, all of it full view of the cops. They were still too far away to catch him, but if they saw him and gave chase they'd be through before the ponderous doors could close.

And there's no point in waiting. Wallen took a deep breath and sprinted. He was through and into the gallery in seconds, and then it took him a precious minute to search through the control panels on the other side to find the door release. He pulled down the heavy switch, a hydraulic motor whined, and the massive steel slabs started to slide shut. Directly over his head the warning klaxon sounded and he jumped back in sudden panic. Red lights were flashing on either side of the doors, and any hope he had of maintaining stealth evaporated. Heart pounding, he turned and ran down the gallery, paralleling the heavy-duty trackway set in the floor. Overhead lightpanels blinked on as they sensed his approach, casting oversized shadows on the walls and floor. The departure gallery ran around the entire circumference of Ark's forward rim, and even with its thirty-meter height the curve of the hull made the ceiling seem to press down on him. The launch racks in this section were empty, so even in socks his footsteps echoed endlessly in the cavernous space. Somewhere, he knew, there was an accessway to the computer station that controlled the whole gallery complex, but he didn't know where. Logic dictated that it would be somewhere near the construction shack, but on a project the size of Ark the most logical design didn't always make it into the final plans. And maybe it's in the other direction. It was too late to go back now, all he could do was run until he found it, or was caught.

He ran until his legs burned and had to slow his pace. Still no sign of it. Footfalls echoed behind him and so he forced himself forward. A loaded launch rack appeared, with three of the massive landers lined up nose-to-tail in front of the huge launch-bay doors. The racks behind it were full too, and he ran with renewed hope. The Interpols would have to slow down to search between the big birds, and that would buy him time. He was halfway to the closest one when he saw a thick conduit running across the ceiling, and then branching out into tributaries that ran to the launch racks. He followed it with his eyes, across to the inner wall of the gallery and down almost to floor level, to a point where it penetrated the wall and disappeared. Beneath the end of the conduit, flush against the inner wall of the gallery and hardly distinguishable from it, was a pressure door. He ran to it with a last, desperate burst of speed, hauled it open and staggered through. The titanium bar he'd taken as a weapon served to jam the handwheel. Safe, for now at least. He bent over, hands on knees, breathing deeply to recover, then looked up to see where he'd found himself.

The space behind the pressure door was twenty meters on a side and four or five high, jammed full of electronic gear racked in glass-fronted cabinets taller than he was. There was no question of using modern processors to run Ark's systems; they could not be guaranteed to last the journey. In the racks were banks of core memory, tiny ferrite toroids strung on hair-fine wires, immune to stray cosmic rays and the erosive force of electric current. The processing elements were hand-size diamond-substrate slabs with etched-on transistors big enough to see with the naked eye. The interconnects were corrosion-proof gold, thickly plated onto silica-glass circuit boards. The room was eerily silent after the echoing emptiness of the departure gallery. He moved deeper inside, hoping for another door. There was none. I'm safe, but trapped. The only way out of the departure gallery was back through the hangar complex, and Interpol wouldn't leave it unguarded.

And yet power has to get in here somewhere. The ceiling was covered with a maze of cabling channels spreading from the big conduit over the door. They dropped thick tentacles down to the equipment racks, but the cables all looked like data carriers; none were heavy enough to provide power for all that equipment. So where does it come from? He examined the racks more closely and found that each rank of cabinets was mounted on a heavy metal base a handspan above floor level, just enough room for cables to be run. He went back to the far end of the room and found the bases all connected there to a square metal trunk running along the base of the wall. In the far right corner the trunk ran up the wall and vanished into the ceiling, and there beside it was a recessed pressure hatch. Jackpot.

The question now is how to get up there. He tried jumping for it, and felt foolish when he didn't come near it. He studied the problem for a moment, decided that he could reach it by standing on the closest equipment rack. There was nothing to climb on, so he just jumped up and grabbed the top edge of the cabinet, but the slick metal didn't give him enough grip to pull himself up. He tried again, and again, and came frustratingly close, but it became obvious that he wasn't going to get up that way. Think, Wallen, think. If he broke open the cabinet and used the circuit boards inside as footholds, he could get up easily, except he doubted they'd take his weight. Think. He tried bracing his back against the cabinet and his feet against the adjacent one and levering himself up like a mountaineer climbing a chimney formation, but again the metal was too slick to give him enough purchase.

The solution, when he finally found it, was painfully simple. The thick conduit over the door to the gallery was at the same height as the cabinet tops, but much easier to get a grip on. Wallen jumped, grabbed it and pulled himself up, and with some precarious maneuvering was able to jump to the nearest cabinet rack. From there it was a series of easy hops from cabinet to cabinet to the one nearest the hatch. He leaned over carefully, got his hands on the locking lever and found it stuck. Of course it's stuck, they're always stuck. He cursed under his breath and yanked harder, but he lacked leverage and it refused to budge. He clambered down, went back to the pressure door and retrieved his length of titanium bar, scrambled back up and over to the hatch, praying that the Interpol cops wouldn't try the pressure door before he got up and away. With the bar for leverage the hatch opened easily, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He considered rejamming the pressure door, decided not to bother, and stuck the length of titanium in his belt. The hatch revealed a set of rungs leading up into darkness, and getting through it was a matter of jumping for the bottom rung. He made it, barely, and dangled, then pulled himself up, rung by rung. It wasn't easy and he bashed his face against the steel when his grip slipped on the fourth rung, barely avoiding a nasty fall.

He cursed and gritted his teeth, pulling himself up again through sheer force of will, until he was able to get a foot on the bottom rung. He nose and cheek throbbed painfully. But you're through, Wallen. He'd planned to close the hatch behind him, but there was simply no way he could in his current position. If they find it, they find it. He wasn't going to climb down and rejam the pressure door at this point. The titanium bar had nearly fallen from his belt in his struggle, and he took a moment to readjust it before he started climbing.

The access shaft was unlit and the light from below faded almost immediately. The steel rungs were painful on his sock-clad feet, and his breathing echoed strangely in the confined space. He climbed until his arms burned and he had to stop to rest. Fortunately the shaft was narrow enough that he could lean back against the wall behind him with no risk of falling. That helped his arms, but there was nothing he could do but endure the abuse his feet were getting. He climbed again and rested, climbed again and rested, and began to wonder just where he was climbing to. He had expected the shaft to connect to the forewall ledge. That would allow him to get on top of the construction shack and make another try for an Antonov, this time from an unexpected direction. Only I should have climbed that high by now. The ledge was only a hundred meters up. He looked up, straining his eyes to see even a glimmer of light, but there was none. And nothing to do but keep climbing. He started counting rungs, resting after every hundred, but then he lost track of how many times he'd stopped and started again. Four, or six, or eight? The darkness started playing tricks on his eyes, and every step became agony. He started stopping every fifty rungs, and then every thirty, and he began to fear he would climb in darkness until he died. And what if there's a hatch at the top that I can't get open? That didn't bear thinking about. He gritted his teeth and climbed onward, and when the light came on it nearly blinded him.

Interpol! But no barked commands followed the light and he slowly opened his eyes again, squinting against its intensity. Level with his head, on the right hand side there was a landing with a closed pressure door, with the power trunk leading through the wall beside it. The access light had sensed his presence and turned itself on. Above him the ladder continued on into the darkness. He climbed onto the landing and unsealed the door, went through and found himself in a room full of arcane equipment. Daylight streamed through three large openings in the opposite wall. He went to the nearest, looked outside and was immediately struck with vertigo. He was halfway up the forewall, five hundred sheer meters above the ground and several kilometers around the forewall base from the construction shack. Far below he could just make out the ribbon of the forewall ledge. No way down. He sank back from the opening and sat on the floor, letting his feet recover. How long have I been climbing? He thought to check his pad for the time, but he couldn't remember when he'd started.

The largest single feature in the room was a huge mechanical rack system, loaded down with what looked like stainless-steel ingots. It was attached to a simple conveyor that looked like it was meant to carry the ingots straight out the middle opening and drop them down the forewall. How strange. The third opening was easier to understand. There was a large bronze bell hanging in it, and a striker attached to what had to be an electromagnetic driver. The bell was to help the colonists keep time under the perpetual daylight the fusion tube would provide. The first opening, the one he'd looked through, had only brackets on the floor, space for equipment not yet mounted. Farther back in the room was a computer rack, but it was empty, with the power-trunk umbilicals dangling unconnected. They haven't finished this yet . . . 

He realized he was thirsty but there was no water supply, and nothing to do but go back to the ladder and climb onward into the darkness. The pain in his feet spread up his calves to his knees, and the shaft became a grueling test of will. He kept on only because he had no other option, wincing on every rung, until he found the overhead hatch by slamming his head against it. He saw stars and fell backward, grabbed in panic for a rung and hung on, shaking his head to clear it. Get a grip, Wallen, you've got a long way to go yet. He got the hatch open and climbed out onto a wide ledge, directly beneath one of the four massive support pillars that had cradled the foredome in the proper position while the forewall was being assembled. The support soared up above his head in a graceful convex curve, and on the other side of the crystal clear foredome the sun was brilliant in a jet-black sky, unfiltered by any atmosphere. The power trunk continued up the support pillar, and so did the ladder. Wallen looked up at it with shock. I should have seen this coming. Ark's power came from its solar array, connected to the ship through the spin platform, The power trunk could have lead nowhere else. He was going to have to climb all the way up.

For a long time he stood, looking up at the overhanging curve of the pillar with something close to shock. I can't do this. He had just climbed a thousand meters and the effort had exhausted him. The spin platform was four kilometers higher. Worse, the foredome's inward curve meant that he would be climbing partially inverted almost the whole distance. The ladder, when he looked closer, wasn't even a proper ladder. It was a series of handholds, meant for use in zero g and no doubt last used when the foredome was still being assembled, long before Ark was spun for gravity. The handholds were smaller than ladder rungs and spaced farther apart. They would be difficult to climb in the best of circumstances, which these most definitely were not. He looked down at the hatch he had just come through. I could go back . . . Interpol would be waiting for him down there, it would mean surrendering, but even prison would be better than the long, slow fall that awaited him if—no when—he slipped and fell off the pillar. He looked back at the handholds. There's no way, Wallen. He had planned to fly to the spin platform, not climb.

And still, something made him walk over to it, grab a handhold and lift himself up. He climbed a step, then another, and held himself there, judging. There was definitely more strain on his arms, but not as much as he'd expected. Why? Because this far up gravity is down to four-fifths what it is on the ground. Taking that into consideration, maybe the overhang wasn't impossibly steep. He could climb it, perhaps, if he could figure out a way to rest now and then. He contemplated the chain of handholds for a long minute, then stripped off his shirt. It was long-sleeved, heavy denim, and it just might do . . . He wrapped it around his waist, arms to the front, and tied the left sleeve around the right with a double hitch. The right sleeve dangled free from the point where the knot was. He went back to the handholds, climbed up and looped the free end around a waist-level rung. He found he didn't even need to tie it off, the handholds were textured to give a good grip, and he could keep the shirt from slipping just by hanging on to the free end. He leaned back, bracing his feet against the lower handhold and letting the shirt take his full weight. It held. I can do this.

A sudden clacking sound startled him, and he looked up to see a bird swoop low past his head, snapping its beak. It pulled up, pivoted on a wingtip and swooped back down at him, close enough that he ducked instinctively. It was a peregrine falcon. He hopped off the ladder, went to the opposite side of the support pillar. The pillar cradled the foredome with spring steel flanges, and built on the lowest one, right at eye level, he found a messy-looking nest with three fluffy chicks in it. The falcon screamed and swooped again, and he jumped to the other side of the pillar, laughing.

"Well, ma'am," he said to the bird. "It's good to have some company."

In answer the falcon dived again. Wallen waited until she was safely past, and then began to climb with a smile on his face. She came back at him, this time so close that he felt the beat of her wings on the back of his neck when she braked to pull up. Her beak and claws could do a lot of damage, but as long as he was moving away from the nest she was unlikely to use them. He climbed quickly, and found that the extra load on his arms made it easier on his feet. Thirty meters up he paused and wrapped the shirt arm around a handhold. He turned to look back over his shoulder and saw the landscape below reflected in the mirror cone, a spectacular sight. The peregrine had been joined by her partner and they were both circling, occasionally sliding in to take a closer look at him, but seemingly satisfied that they had chased him off. He started climbing again, putting effort into it and only resting when he absolutely had to. It took him two hours to climb what he estimated to be the next thousand meters, and by then he was parched thirsty and hungry too. His shoulders were on fire and his feet were in agony, but at the same time the climb was getting noticeably easier. The curve of the support pillar was less steeply inverted, and his weight had decreased by nearly half.

Keep at it, Wallen. The next thousand meters took him only an hour and a half. The sun had gone by then, but the moon was full and it provided enough light to climb by. Overhead the lights of the spin platform's landing deck appeared around the curve of the pillar. I'm doing this, I'm getting away with it. He was climbing easily now, with his weight just a fraction of what it was on ground level. As the spin platform grew closer and the g-level fell toward zero he found he could almost run up the handholds. Some time after that it became unnecessary to use his feet at all, and he just pulled himself along with his hands, using a steady, alternating rhythm that felt closer to swimming than climbing. As he came to the last few hundred meters it was more like flying, and he had only to grab every second handhold to guide himself. He was nearly to the platform when he missed a handhold.

It was a trivial mistake, easily corrected. His momentum was still carrying him up, and he had only to grab the next one. He did grab it too, but because of the first miss his timing was off, and so he didn't come off it squarely. He missed the third handhold entirely and then he was slowly falling. Even that wouldn't have been a problem if he had been in a true gravity field, but Ark used centrifugal force to substitute for gravity, which meant the Coriolis effect came into play. It appeared as a gentle spinward offset to his motion as he slid past the handholds, just enough to make him miss the fourth handhold as he drifted down past it, and then suddenly all the handholds were out of reach. The support pillar was drifting sideways away from him as he fell, and he knew he had just killed himself.

It took a long time to fall the first fifty meters, long enough that he had time to curse, and then to compose himself and think. In that distance he had drifted perhaps ten meters from the pillar, and seemed to have stopped moving away. A few seconds later he was clearly getting closer again, and understanding dawned. I've passed the inflection point on the Coriolis curve. He would get one more chance to save himself. He positioned himself carefully and waited for his moment as the pillar accelerated back toward him, picked out the handhold he would grab, and lunged for it as it came past. He came painfully close, actually touched the handhold with a single finger, but he was falling perpendicular to the rotation axis, and the foredome curved out and away from him as he got lower. After that he was falling free, with an accelerating counterspinward drift. He began to feel a gentle breeze on his face as his relative motion increased, and when he looked up he could see the spin platform start slowly rotating. Soon he would have more relative motion counterspinward than he did downward. It would take a long, long time for him to reach the ground, spiraling steadily around Ark's axis of rotation the whole way down. When he finally hit he'd be going sideways so fast he'd leave nothing but a long red streak on the ground.

Unless! He looked up and counterspinward, searching in the darkness for what he knew had to be there. The foredome had four support pillars, each certain to have handholds like the one he'd just climbed. In less than thirty seconds the next one would be sweeping past. He'd be farther down the foredome's curve and so even farther away from it, but if he could contrive to bring himself closer he might be able to grab it. The foredome was still only a couple of meters away, tantalizingly close. I just need to change my velocity vector. Before he'd even finished the thought he was grabbing the titanium bar from his belt, praying that it had enough mass to do the job. He did a zero-g twist to face counterspinward, and then threw the bar away from the foredome with as much force as he could. Ahead of him he could see the oncoming support pillar looming out of the darkness. At first the bar didn't seem to have given him any appreciable velocity toward the dome, but then he saw that it had. He drifted slowly closer as the support pillar came around, and he saw that he was going to make it. He twisted again as he came toward the dome to make contact. Gently, gently. The last thing he needed to do was push off as he was touching down. He extended his hands toward the surface and let his fingertips graze it ever so softly, trying to finesse his touchdown, but the pillar came up too fast. The impact was hard and he grunted in pain. His horizontal velocity was gone, and then he was sliding slowly down the corner formed between the dome and the pillar. He pressed his palms flat, one on each surface, hoping there would be enough friction to stop himself, but there wasn't and he kept going down. And you're going to die for certain now, Wallen.

And then suddenly his hands hit something solid, and he grabbed on with the long-dormant instincts of his tree-dwelling ancestors. It was so reflexive an action that it took him a second to realize that he was no longer falling, and when he did he just clung there, trembling with reaction, his hands clamped so hard his fingers hurt. Only slowly did he realize what had happened. He had slid past one of the pillar's spring flanges, like the one the peregrines had nested on, and it had saved his life. On the other side of the foredome there was an infinite sea of stars and he let himself hang there until the shaking subsided. All I have to do now is get back on the handholds. The gravity was still low enough that it was no trouble to hold on, even with just one hand, but he found it psychologically impossible to relax his grip with the vision of the long drop death so fresh in his mind. Instead he reached around the pillar with his right leg, and slid it up and down the inboard face until he got his foot secure on a handhold. Only then was he able to let go with one hand to reach around and grab a rung. He was almost on the ladder when the dangling sleeve of his shirt snagged on the very flange that had saved him. Very carefully, with his free hand, he untied the knot that held it to his waist. When it came free he didn't bother trying to recover it, he just left it where it was and got back on the ladder. After that he climbed cautiously, one hand, one foot after the other. The time for easy grace in microgravity was over.

He was feeling somewhat better by the time he reached the bottom of the landing deck, but when he finally climbed up onto a maintenance platform he found himself suddenly, violently nauseated. It was only the fact that his stomach was totally empty that prevented him from throwing up. He took a moment to gather himself, looking down to the dimly moonlit ground far, far below. I climbed, all that way. It hardly seemed possible, but the throbbing pain in his feet and the burn in his shoulders told him otherwise. He caught a glimpse of himself, faintly reflected in the foredome, his hair plastered flat with sweat, a huge bruise on the side of his face, shirtless and shoeless. He laughed, quietly at first, and then louder, heedless of who might hear him.

A distant whine rose to a loud whir, and he looked down to see an auntie rising toward him, riding lights flashing. He could tell from the turbine note that the pilot had his fans tilted backward, braking his upward flight. His stomach felt suddenly heavy. Dear God, please don't let it be the Interpols, I've come so far . . . He climbed up into the lower level of the landing deck, then launched himself up the central access tube, at home again in zero gravity with walls on every side. He grabbed a handhold at the main-deck level, and moved down to the the cargo area. He found a good place there, in the shadow of a dadushka cargo module. It gave him cover and a clear view of the deck, with the accessway immediately behind him so he could vanish if he had to. There were a lot of places to hide in the spin platform, but first he had to see what he was dealing with. And I'm not going to give up that easily.

The auntie pilot was good, bringing his craft up and over in a smooth arc and sliding smoothly between the safety nets before killing his forward motion with one quick surge of the fans. The craft settled gently until the landing-deck magnets grabbed the skids, hauling it down the last quarter-meter to land with a solid thunk. The turbine shut down with a falling whine, and the canopy popped open. A dark figure floated out, with a weapon held to his shoulder. Interpol! Wallen turned to kick himself back inside, already mapping out where he was going to run to, when something made him pause. The figure had a weapon, but no helmet, or riot gear, and there was something familiar about the way it moved . . . 

"Dmitry! Zdras, muydroog!" Wallen let himself float up into view, but not too quickly. He had no desire to get hit by another stundart, no matter who fired it.

"Wallen! Is that you?" Dmitry lowered the weapon and kicked off gently, to float in a shallow parabola into the cargo area. "Ezoomlyet! But how did you get here? And where's your shirt? And your socks?"

Wallen laughed. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you." His expression grew serious. "We should see if there's any Interpols up here. They would have been foolish to not leave a guard."

 

Aurora Brady picked herself up from beneath the oak tree, looking dazedly at her damaged hands. What's happening to me? Never in her life had she had an episode like the one she had just experienced. She looked up at the oak, reminded that oaks were Abrahim's favorite trees. And why did I come here? She had no answer to that. She got up and winced in pain, looked down and saw that the soles of her feet resembled raw hamburger, caked with blood and dirt. Carefully picking her way through the ditch she hobbled out to the road, looked left and right, and realized that she didn't even know which direction she had come from. I think I'm losing my mind. I need to get back to Ark. Even as she thought it she knew there was something wrong with her reasoning. Ark had not kept her from losing Abrahim. Sacrificing her life to its construction had not saved her from the pain of living, and the ship couldn't save her from insanity, if that what was really happening to her.

So why do I want to go back? The answer came unbidden. Because I've used Ark to hide behind. Ever since she had decided to become chief engineer she had let nothing stand in her way, and in doing so she had very effectively avoided having to deal with . . . with anything. She had confined her love life to brief and shallow liaisons, rejected the spiritual world as a complete waste of time, kept even friends at a distance. In devoting herself entirely to her career she had systematically cut herself off from any emotional ties at all.

It was no wonder she'd finally run down the road, screaming in nameless fury when she'd lost Ark. All those long-buried emotions hadn't gone away, and it had been the one thing that kept them at bay. They were bound to erupt. And why did I run from the True Prophet's porch? The answer was stunningly obvious the moment she asked the question. Because I found peace there. To think she had enjoyed her quiet days reading and contemplating! I didn't guess where that would end! She laughed an unsteady laugh and then looked at the road again to figure out which way to go. A trail in the long grass showed her the way she'd first run up to the oak tree, and with that as a clue she turned back the way she had come, walking with slow, mincing steps. I need help, but first I need to get home.

She had gone a tedious distance when the rhythmic clip-clop of hooves came from behind her. She stopped and turned around, to watch a Believer buggy draw close. Joseph was driving it, with Norman beside him. They pulled over and stopped, and Norman leaned out. "Aurora, what are you doing out here?"

"I went for a run," she answered, because she wasn't ready to explain it all yet.

"Well, climb in and we'll give you a ride home." Norman offered his arm to help her up. She hesitated, not wanting to show him her hands, but then took it and climbed into the buggy. She saw his eyes take in her bloody knuckles, and then move to her feet, but he said nothing. They rode in silence back to the farm, and only then did she realize how far she'd run. Miles and miles, fast and hard. Joseph dropped them in front of the house and then took the buggy up to the barn to put the horses away. Norman helped her inside and through to the back porch, to sit her down on the same swing she'd started her mad flight from. She saw him look at her feet again, but still he said nothing. He's a very good minister. He knows when not to ask questions.

"So, would you like my news?" he asked finally.

"I would."

"The sleeping dragon has awakened. The Church of the Believers is going to rise again."

She raised an eyebrow. "I thought you were dead set against that."

"I am, but life didn't offer me the option I wanted. I had to take the best of a bad set of choices."

"Which are?"

"Lead my Church or see someone else lead it." Norman smiled without humor. "I've decided to lead it, much to the chagrin of my striving younger bishops. How would you like my help in recovering your ship?"

"In return for a place aboard it?"

Norman shook his head. "No. I'm going to do this because I have to do this. Any populist movement needs to oppose the government on something, and the issue of Ark will work as well as any. I still hope you'll change your mind, but I'm offering this without condition."

Aurora considered that. "Ironically, I'm not sure I want to go back to Ark now."

"Oh?" Norman leaned forward. "Why is that?"

Aurora hesitated. Should I tell him? She wasn't sure wanted to tell anyone about her . . . What was it? Not a breakdown . . . about her episode.

And yet she also recognized the genuine concern in the old man's eyes. He wasn't there to judge her, he had been nothing but kind to her for the duration of her stay. She took a deep breath and told him, of her run and the tree, and her tears, and of her sudden understanding of the not entirely positive role her career had played in her life.

Norman listened and nodded, asking gentle questions now and again to uncover points she hadn't considered herself. When she had finished he sat back, stroking his chin thoughtfully. Finally he spoke.

"Would you like an opinion?"

"Certainly."

He looked away for a moment, looked back. "You've learned something through this. You've had time and space, for maybe the first time in your life, and some underlying truths came to the surface." He smiled gently. "Maybe more dramatically than you have liked."

She nodded. "Yes, I think you're right."

"You've changed today, and because you've changed, everything in your world has changed. Ark served a purpose in your life, but if you go back to it tomorrow it won't serve that purpose any longer, because you've moved beyond that."

"So what should I do? I had Ark, now I have nothing."

"Do what's in your heart."

But my heart is empty. Aurora didn't say it, but even the thought hurt. "That's what Wallen always tells me," she said instead. They sat in silence for a while, and then Norman got up. He came back with Deliah and a bowl of water. They used it to soak the crusted blood and dirt from her feet. It hurt but she bit her lip and didn't cry out, while the water ran black and red. The bowl was emptied and refilled and the process was repeated until her self-inflicted wounds were clean. Deliah wrapped bandages on her feet, and then the process was repeated on her hands. They were in better shape, really just badly skinned knuckles, but it was nice to have someone fuss over her a little and so she didn't protest. When it was all done Deliah went to prepare supper, and Norman excused himself to look after suddently urgent Church business. She sat alone on the porch with a pitcher of cool mint tea and watched the sun edge down toward the horizon. Her footprints were still in the mud by the lane, and it seemed as if she were watching herself set out on her mad run. Not watching me, watching another woman, with another life. It seemed surreal that that woman had been herself, just a few hours ago; she felt so different. Do what's in your heart, Aurora.

The bowl of water that her injuries had been washed in was still sitting on the porch beside her, tinged red with her blood. She leaned over and scooped some out, contemplating it in the palm of her hand as it slowly drained through her fingers and back into the bowl. Life is like water, always flowing, always changing. You can never hold on to it. It was a surprisingly simple observation, made more surprising because it had never occurred to her before. She scooped more water out of the bowl, and on an impulse poured it over her head. It dripped down her bangs and onto her shoulders and she whispered words she thought she had long forgotten: "In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost I baptize thee Aurora Bethany Brady, Chief Engineer of the starship Ark."

She smiled to herself at the private ritual and stood up, feeling reborn. She walked gingerly into Norman's study, and was surprised to find him with his desk switched on, talking to a tall man in a business suit. He held up a finger to ask for her patience, still talking.

"Yes, that would be good. Thanks, Mark. I'll talk to you soon." He made a gesture to end the call, and turned to Aurora. "You're looking better."

She nodded. "I've decided I'd like your help, it it's still available. And I've decided I'd like your people on my ship, if you still want to come."

Norman smiled. "Of course, and of course. Let's get busy."

The peace in the True Prophet's home vanished in that instant. The next several days were frantically busy, and she spent them almost entirely at Norman's desk being introduced to people. The first call was to a lawyer named Allison Skell. Norman had Aurora outline her legal situation, then assigned Allison to get the charges against herself and Petra stayed, an option Aurora hadn't even realized was available. The next call was to a high-powered businessman whose company built experimental installations for CERN. He had a considerable amount to gain from a reinstatement of Ark's fusion-drive research program, and arranged to fly out to the farm to speak to Aurora the next day. After that was a prominent personal-rights champion, who rearranged his schedule to come in to help frame the debate over the rights of the crew in their dispute with the UN. The introductions continued until Deliah rang the bell for dinner, but in a sharp break with Believer etiquette Norman kept on talking about the campaign they were about to embark on. That effectively excluded Deliah and the brothers from the conversation, but Norman made no apology for the discourtesy, and after dinner he took Aurora back to his study, where they worked late into the night by the incongruous combination of oil lamp and the light from his desk display. There were more calls, incoming and outgoing, and Aurora was astounded that Norman was able to command the time of so many movers and shakers so quickly.

"I thought you'd given up all your power," she said, after he'd finished getting a commitment of support from a five term assemblyist.

"Power isn't something you have, it's something you make, or you take. The favors people will grant me are limited, based on old loyalties and debts. What people will do for me in return for my service in their own cause is something else entirely."

She nodded, slightly in awe. The True Prophet was reemerging in Norman Bissell, the humble carpenter crumbling away to reveal him as he had been in his prime. Despite his years he still possessed tremendous energy, and the flash in his eyes had become a presence that demanded attention when he spoke. The dragon has awakened, and his name is Norman Bissell. She went to bed exhausted and woke up at dawn, to find him already working when she came downstairs. There were more introductions. "You are going to have to handle these people," he told her. "You have to know them, know what they can do for you, and what they cost."

"You do that so much better than I ever could."

"So learn. I'm an old man, you won't have me around forever."

"I'm lucky to have you now," she answered, and she meant it.

He taught her some basics of human interaction and psychology, how to use eye contact to establish dominance, how to stand, how to enter a room as if she owned it. After that they launched into another round of calls. Many of the highly placed people they talked to called him Prophet, and she was surprised to learn they considered themselves Believers. Their lifestyles obviously had nothing to do with simplicity or humility before God. She asked Norman how that could be so.

"These are the people I left behind," he answered, and left it at that, which was explanation enough for Aurora.

Allison Skell called before noon to report that she'd succeeded in getting all charges stayed against both Aurora and Petra. Petra had been released and a volanter was on its way to pick her up. She would be at the farm in four hours or less. In the meantime Aurora could consider herself no longer under an arrest warrant. The news was a tremendous weight off her shoulders.

Allison had more to say. "You should know that beyond these two cases Interpol is heavily involved in something to do with the Ark situation."

"What are they doing?" Aurora asked.

"I haven't been able to find out yet. Baikonur launched a bunch of shuttles with Interpol personnel aboard, and the Mount Kenya site has been closed to public access, that's all I know right now. I've got some inquiries out there, I should know more soon. I'll call when I do."

"Thank you," Aurora said, and Allison disconnected.

Aurora turned to Norman. "That's worrisome." She put her hand to her lips while she considered the news. "I'd like to know what they're doing up there."

"Allison will know soon," Norman reassured her. "Her firm is one of the best."

"I can do better than that. Now that it doesn't matter if they track me, I can call Wallen from here." She went to get her pad, more pleased than she would have imagined at the opportunity to hear his voice. In all the years we've been friends we've never even kissed. She found herself surprised at that thought, and wondered where it had come from. Was he one of those things I've been hiding from?

 

Wallen closed and tied shut the pressure doors that led up from the four support pillars, just in case the Interpols below tried to follow his suicidal climb. While he was doing it Dmitry did the same with the doors to the spin platform's landing deck. With their backs secure Wallen led Dmitry forward, searching for any Interpols who might be guarding the platform. He wasn't eager to get hit by another stundart, but he had no weapon and Dmitry did. If he took the first hit Dmitry would have a chance to get off a shot, and that was more important. And I hope there's simply no one here. They went through the Ark side first, stopping in the control room long enough to depower the boost track down to the construction shack, then cautiously checked through the cargo areas and service bays. It was strange to see the spin platform without the usual bustle of jacks and riggers. He felt tremendously vulnerable with neither shirt nor shoes, and kept his eyes open for something, anything that would serve as a weapon. He found nothing, but fortunately they didn't find any police either. But I didn't think we would, not on this side, because they would have come to the landing deck when Dmitry flew in. Once they had the Ark side secure they went through to the space side, drifting cautiously from handhold to handhold through the rotating transfer tube. If there's any police, they'll be here. The big pressure doors on the tube irised open loudly, and Wallen cringed at the noise, but there was nothing they could do about it. Again they found nothing, and kept moving forward.

They went straight to the control dome; if there were any Interpols on watch that was the logical place for them to be. The only way to enter the dome was straight up the access tunnel in the middle of the floor. He came up to the intersection with the tunnel and looked cautiously around the corner. The pressure door at the top of the tunnel was open, a flagrant violation of procedures. But the cops won't know the procedures. He traded a glance with Dmitry, who moved into position to cover him. When Dmitry was set Wallen launched himself up the tunnel and into the dome, gritting his teeth against anticipated pain. The pain arrived in due course, not through an Interpol dart but because he was so intent on the impossible task of scanning all three hundred and sixty degrees as he came through the floor hatch that he neglected to grab the handrail on his way past. He wound up cracking his head on the top of the dome. Dmitry was right behind him, but there was no one there. Don't relax yet, Wallen. Dmitry searched through the command screens and put the Cable's boost-car receiving lock on manual. With that done no one arriving from downwire would be able to get into the spin platform. They went back down, sealing the pressure door behind them, and kept searching. It was eerie to see the platform so deserted, but he gradually began to believe there really was no one there. They slowly worked their way down to the hangar level and went down the access tunnel to the hangar itself. He was completely unready when the shot went past his ear.

It was Dmitry who fired, at the closer of two Interpols who appeared from inside the hangar, just ten meters away. His shot caught the cop on the arm and the Interpol went down, twitching. The second cop raised her weapon and fired. Had she targeted Wallen, who was closer, Dmitry could have gotten another shot off and with the range so short the fight would have been over. Her training was better than that, and she went for the most dangerous threat. Her dart went past Wallen's head, and Dmitry screamed and gurgled behind him. Without thinking Wallen launched himself at the Interpol. She had already pumped another cartridge into the chamber and she fired again, but she wasn't used to zero gravity and the recoil of her first shot had started her slowly spinning. Her dart went wide and she pumped the shotgun again, but before she could fire Wallen was on her. His momentum slammed them both into the wall, to rebound and drift into the middle of the tunnel. He swung a punch and hurt his knuckles against her helmet, while she kicked at him and tried to bring the shotgun to bear. He flailed upward and forced the muzzle out of line just as she fired again. Pain burned in his forearm, but it wasn't the paralyzing pain of a stundart. Powder burn, some distant part of his mind told him and he grabbed the barrel. They struggled for control of the gun, but in zero gravity neither had any leverage, and they tumbled, bouncing off the walls in random directions. She broke the stalemate by driving a knee into his groin, spiking pain as bad as a stundart through his testicles. She wrenched the weapon free at the same time. Wallen doubled over, moaning while she pumped the gun and raised it to her shoulder. With strength born of desperation he kicked her away, and she careered toward the hangar, spinning too fast to aim. At the hangar door she collided with her still paralyzed colleague, bounced down and had to let go of the shotgun to grab a handhold and stabilize herself.

Wallen had recovered from his own spin by then, and saw the shotgun floating free in the middle of the tunnel. He overrode the pain in his groin and launched himself for it at the same instant she did. They wound up colliding with the gun in the middle. She got a hand on it but he knocked it clear. It spun away, smacked hard against a hatch cover and went off, sending another dart richochetting around the tunnel. He held onto her, intending to beat her with sheer size and mass, but she was trained and strong and wearing body armor. He needed a weapon, but before he could relocate the shotgun she head butted him with her helmet, hard enough to make him see stars. While he was recovering from that she drove an elbow into his face, hitting his jaw where it was already bruised. Dazed he kicked at her, but his bare foot wasn't going to inflict damage through her armor. It did send her spinning away again, which gave him enough respite to clear his head.

Pain jolted through his arm and he jerked back reflexively. One of the stundarts had drifted past and its charged prongs had grazed him. That gave him an idea, and he took two long seconds to carefully grab it by its tailfins, clenching it in his fist, prongs forward. He looked up to see her launching for the shotgun, which had drifted to the far corner of the tunnel. In desperation he kicked off, but there was no way he could catch her before she got the gun. She grabbed it, and managed to twist herself around to bring it to bear. He was in midleap and unable to change course when she pulled the trigger at point-blank range. The firing pin fell with a dry click. Her face registered surprise and then panic and she racked another cartridge into the chamber with desperate speed, but it was too late, he was on her. He jabbed the stundart into her thigh, and she screamed and convulsed. He grabbed her weapon and spun to train it on the other cop, who had recovered enough to move and was trying to get to his own gun. The cop stopped moving, meeting Wallen's gaze. Wallen nodded approvingly. "As long as we understand each other." The words came out through clenched teeth.

Dmitry had started to recover as well, and he pushed himself over to the cop, took a set of zapstraps off of his equipment belt and cuffed his hands behind back, then used a second set to attach him to a handhold. He then went to do the same to the woman, who was still curled up and moaning. Finally he fished the other two shotguns out of the air.

"Are you okay?" Wallen asked.

"Pizzdets, muydroog, It hurt more last time." Dmitry was still moving cautiously. "Let's see what they were doing in the hangar."

"You aren't going to get away with this," warned the male cop.

Wallen looked at him in disbelief. He pushed his shotgun over to Dmitry and kicked himself over to the cop. "Look," he said, locking eyes with the man. "I've had a really long day, and this platform has a lot of airlocks, so let's just be friends, da?" The cop's eyes widened in fear, but Wallen didn't wait for a response. "Come on, Dmitry."

Dmitry passed him back his shotgun and slung the extra one on his back, and they went into the hangar, weapons ready. There was no one there, which only made sense. Had there been more Interpols they would have responded to the fight.

The hangar was the last space they had to search, and when they were done Wallen lowered his shotgun. "Whew."

"Da." Dmitry floated over to a racked u-carrier and straddled its nose as if he were riding it. "Now what?"

Good question. "We take stock. We can do a few things. Do you think they took the power stations back too?"

"They must have. They couldn't leave them with our people on board."

Wallen nodded. "Maybe taking them wasn't such a good idea."

Dmitry shrugged. "Maybe none of this was. Who knows? Did you want to go and live downwire?"

Wallen shook his head. "No."

"So we had to do something. We haven't lost yet."

"No." Wallen looked up at the ceiling, thinking. "We're secure in here, for now. We have food and power. What options do we have?'

"Lots. We can dial down their power. We have Bernarde's kinetic penetrators." He pointed to one of the other u-carriers. "Already mounted."

"I don't want to escalate this any further. We've already lost Gervois."

"Gervois was a grown man. He knew the risks."

"Did he?" Wallen cocked his head at Dmitry. "I'm not sure I did."

"Pizzdets, you were a fool if you didn't."

Wallen shrugged. "Maybe I was. Maybe DiAngelo was making the right decision." He looked up to meet Dmitry's gaze. "Ever think about that?"

Dmitry laughed. "You're a fool now for sure. You're thinking of what that fat parasite Keyls said. Twice pizzdets! Do you think this is really about the poor and hungry on Earth? This is about the secretary-general's power, nothing more. All those billions of euros he's saving in canceling us aren't going to feed starving children, they can't eat money." He spat on the floor in disgust. "They're going to line the pockets of the wealthy, as they always do. Our problem is we have no constituency downwire anymore, all us little spaceborn believing in the importance of our dreams." He swept his arm. "They think they can shut us down easy. Surprise, we shake up their cozy little world a bit. So what, they need it." He tilted himself forward on his perch. "Just imagine. The secretary-general is wetting himself right now, waiting to hear back from his cops and getting nothing. How many people can say they made the secretary-general wet his pants."

Wallen laughed. "At least we're standing up for who we are."

"That's the spirit, muydroog," Dmitry came over and clapped Wallen on the back. "They're lucky we don't deorbit a thousand tons of steel, that would wake them." He pushed himself off, heading back to the accessway. "Come on. We're going to be here a long time, let's go find some food, and see if our guests in blue know how to drink."

Wallen pushed off after him. He was halfway there when his pad rang. It was a voice-only call.

"Wallen, it's Aurora."

"Aurora! Zdras! What's happening?" He put out a hand to grab the launch rack next to him so he wouldn't float out of the hangar. No need for the Interpols to overhear this. Or Dmitry.

"A lot. What's the situation up there?"

"Not good. Interpol raided us. Gervois is dead."

"Oh my God! Gervois?"

"Da, I'm afraid so. Dmitry and I have gotten away to the spin platform, barely. Everyone else is a prisoner in the construction shack."

"Everyone else?"

"So far as we know. The police are all down there too. We've shut down the boost track, and the Cable too."

"So they can't leave?"

"Not unless we let them. What's happening downwire?"

"We've got Petra released, and we're putting together a campaign. It's early yet, but promising."

"What do you need us to do?"

"It sounds like you're doing the best you can already. You've bought us time, just don't let them ship people downwire."

"Not going to happen."

"Good. I have to go, Wallen. Your news is going to change things, bolshoi, but my pad is on full-time now, keep in touch." She paused. "Wallen, I miss you."

"You too," he answered, but she was already gone.

 

The power and sophistication of the True Prophet's organization astounded Aurora, especially considering the speed with which he had put it together. It made the naïve attempt at a news conference she'd attempted with Petra seem exactly as amateurish as it was. There were two magic ingredients. The first was money, which seemed to flow in unlimited streams from the Church's coffers.

"Where does this all come from?" she asked him, after she happened to see an astronomic bill for the transportation and housing of two thousand people for a demonstration.

"From tithing," he told her. "All Believers give generously to the Church, and the Church spends little." He chuckled.

"And you can spend the Church's money like this?"

"Why not? I own the Church." He saw her shocked expression. "It isn't quite that simple, but the short answer is, I can do what I like with the money. I live simply by choice, not necessity"

And I'm looking at the proof of it. The second ingredient in Norman Bissell's power recipe was people, getting two thousand bodies to fly somewhere in the first place. There were, she learned, thousands of churches around the world who owed their allegiance to the True Prophet. He had only to stand up to claim their loyalty, and when he did their members thronged to his cause. In the first week five thousand Believers marched on the Secretariat building, protesting the cancelation of what they called God's Ark. In the second week the demonstrations were tens of thousands strong. These were a third class of Believer, Norman told her, neither the core group of rural-dwelling, simplicity-embracing, polygamous farmers who truly lived the faith, nor the power players who embraced the religion as a necessary accessory to their position in life, not materially different from a golf-club membership. These were largely middle-class, living lives indistinguishable from those of their neighbors of any other faith, but watching their lifestyle erode in the face of ever-widening shortages. For them the simplicity inherent in the Believer creed was a touchstone, a reassurance that no matter how bad things got they and their families would be able to survive.

"Of course, that's not true," Norman added. "If they want that kind of security they can't have the life they're used to. They have no idea what it really means."

"So why don't you show them."

He laughed at that. "Peace comes to the peaceful. I learned that, a long time ago. They think they can buy what can only be earned"

Her own role was to be the face of Ark, and it was a demanding one. Allison Skell's firm set her up with a public-relations team and she was on three feed shows the first week, but it was the Interpol debacle of having two police platoons trapped aboard the ship that really threw fuel on the fire. In the second week she was on twelve feed shows. The feeds had already been playing up the confrontation and they became relentless in trying to pry inflammatory statements from her, as they had with her first disastrous press conference. This time, wiser and well coached, she dodged them every time, staying focused on her message, which was to continually present the myriad benefits the Ark project had yielded humanity. On Ark, Wallen and Dmitry started sending the Interpol cops downwire two at a time, and the feed frenzy grew wilder still. Petra was also fully occupied on the feed circuit, and every evening they met with Norman and the public-relations team to plot out how they would handle the next twenty-four-hour feed cycle, incorporating the day's events and the government's response to their message. Royer was on the feeds at least as much as she was and looked a lot more harried, his permanent smile seemingly frozen on his face. Director Keyls appeared twice, expressing his hope for a positive resolution to the situation.

"They're ready to deal," Norman told her when he saw that. "It's just a matter of time now."

At the start of the third week he showed Aurora a feed of the now constant Believer protests in front of the Secretariat building. A young man in bishop's robes was addressing the crowd, relating their experience to that of Noah in the Bible.

"What do you think of him?" Norman asked.

"He speaks well," she answered, not sure what he was looking for with the question.

"I was thinking I'd put him aboard Ark as your Prophet."

She gave him a look. "But you're the Prophet."

"Yes, but I'm not going aboard your ship."

"But . . ." Aurora gave him a puzzled look. "I thought you wanted to come aboard Ark."

"No, not me. I'm going to ride my dragon until it goes back to sleep. After that I'm going to stay on my farm, and work wood and grow corn, for whatever years I have left. All this is for my people." He pointed at the display. "Young Caleb there is a good man, hardworking and smart, but he needs to be delivered from temptation. This will do that. He can be the link between the crew and the Believers. They will farm, and their tithing will go to him, and he'll make sure you get fed for keeping the ship running. Make sense?"

Aurora nodded. "I suppose it does."

That Sunday the True Prophet stood in his robes before a cheering crowd of a quarter million to deliver a sermon on Ark. On Monday the government capitulated, exactly as he had predicted it would. Of course, it was not called that. What Aurora presented to the public, in a press conference, sitting beside Brison Keyls, was a negotiated deal that saw the incorporation of an independent public corporation to administer the Ark project, with the Church of the Believers as a major participant. Economically the corporation would be self-supporting, with revenue generated through existing on-orbit solar-power facilities. The buyout of government-owned assets would be amortized over the lifetime of the project. It felt strange to be sitting beside men who had made themselves her enemies, working towards a common purpose. But I have not beaten them so much as overcome myself. She had won Ark, but more importantly freed herself.

There was a final flurry of paperwork, of meetings, of arrangements to be made, and then suddenly it was over. She flew back to the Bissell farm one last time, to collect the meager few belongings she had there and to say good-bye. She hugged Deliah, and Joseph and Mark, and Norman himself took her out to the main road in his buggy.

"I'm sorry you're not coming upwire," she said. "You've taught me a lot."

"I'm sorry you're leaving," he said. "You've been a delight to have in the house."

"I'll be back downwire, I'm sure. It's going to take years to finish loading the soil aboard. We'll need to talk about which families to take."

"I'll be here."

She blinked back a tear when he said it. He won't always be here. He said himself he's only got a few years left. For a moment she didn't want to leave. But life is like water, you can't hold on to it for long. She hugged him, hard, and then climbed down from the buggy and crossed to the waiting volanter. The ride to the airport was storm-free, the jet flight to Nairobi was interminably boring, and then there was another volanter flight to the Cable base tower. As they came down she could see trains of hopper cars dumping good African topsoil onto conveyors, to be processed and sterilized, loaded into boost cars and sent upwire to Ark. And the sight made all her efforts seem worthwhile. Petra was already down there, waiting for her at the passenger terminal, company for the three-day ride into orbit. Three days of peace. She was looking forward to it.

But there's something I have to do first. She took out her pad, placed a call.

"Wallen Valori."

"Wallen," she said, smiling. Do what's in your heart, Aurora. "It's Aurora. I'm coming home."

 

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