Teng looked relieved. “Well, there are several springs. Fa’thezam says they’re deepwater springs that won’t dry up except in the most severe and prolonged drought. In which case we could always run a line from the Ho.” She tapped a key.
The map widened to include half the continent. “These blue arrows indicate major native trade routes. We can use the Ho to transport our goods for barter; upstream past Three Trees and Cruath, all the way to Holme Valley; downstream to Southmeet and the coastal trade.”
“The soil?”
“McIntyre gave the all-clear,” Teng consulted her notes, scrolling rapidly. “Rich, well-drained, well-protected by root systems. That means not much danger of erosion. Apparently the—”
“Give me a separate report on that. Let’s keep this general. Anything else?”
“It’s easily defensible.” The map changed to show elevations. Danner nodded.
“Plenty of natural resources: clay, wood, workable stone. Olla.”
“Has Gautier finished her report on that?”
“Not yet.” Again, Teng scrolled busily. “But it looks promising. She says that the chemical valences of the olla are such that if—”
“Later. All I need to know is that progress is being made, and things are looking good. That there are no substantial snags.”
“That about sums it up: the more we know about Dentro de un Rato, the better it looks.”
Danner turned off the screen. “Tell me, Teng, do you think we could live there if Company cuts us off? If something happened like, oh, say, we lost all our equipment here.”
Teng sucked at her lower lip, but Danner made no sign that it was a habit that had always irritated her. Teng was slow, but methodical. Danner had never known her to make a single major mistake: everything was checked and double-checked before Teng would commit herself. Danner trusted Teng’s judgment, no matter how impatient she became with her methods.
“Hard to say.”
“Take a shot at it.” Don’t think, she wanted to say, react. Tell me your gut feeling. But that would only confuse her stolid deputy.
“Well…” Teng sucked her lip some more. “If we could start sowing crops now, and if nothing untoward happened—no fires or floods or droughts—and if we had help from the natives: seed stock, a breeding herd, advice, good trade relations…
then, maybe. Maybe we could.” She looked pleased with herself. “Yes, I really think we could.”
Danner smiled. “Good. That’s good. I want a copy of every report, with your comments. I’ll read them tonight. I’ll also consult with Day and the viajera T’orre Na, see if we can get a guarantee of that native cooperation.” She drummed her fingers a moment. “Yes.” She stood up, decisive. “Teng, if you’re not too tired, I’d like you to put in some time today and tomorrow laying down a preliminary evacuation plan. I’ll rely on you to deal with the broader logistics. If it turns out we hit a major flaw with this site, though I don’t think we will, much of the planning could be translated for another site.”
Teng did not stand up but shifted uncomfortably in her chair.
“There’s something else?”
“Yes.”
Danner sat down, gestured for Teng to go on.
“Several people have approached me about… about leaving. About taking the gigs up to the Estrade.”
“Ah.” Danner had hoped this would not happen, but there were always those to whom reason meant nothing, who would not believe what they did not want to be true. “How many?”
“Seventeen.”
“Seventeen? That’ll strain Estrade’s life-support systems to the limit.”
“They understand that.”
Danner sighed. If they did not want to stay, she did not want to keep them. “Very well. But only one gig goes, the other stays here. If they can stand the overcrowding once they’re up there, they can sit on top of each other on the way up. If they don’t like those arrangements, then tough. We keep one gig here. You never know.” Why did she insist on hanging onto these hopes? When Company went, the gig would be useless. Still… “Who wants to leave? Anyone we can’t afford to lose?”
“Here’s a list.”
Danner took the flimsy. It was in alphabetical order in Teng’s usual methodical style. A name, second from the end, leapt out at her as if it were in thicker, darker print than the rest. “ Vincio? Vincio—you’re sure?” She felt as though she had been jabbed lightly in the stomach with stiff fingers. She could not believe that Vincio—her loyal assistant, the one who brought her tea every day, who never seemed to sleep, who always knew when Danner could be disturbed and when she needed to be left alone—was leaving. Abandoning her.
She took a deep breath. If Vincio wanted to go, she would not stop her. She rubbed the bridge of her nose, looked at the list again, frowned. “Relman’s not on it.”
“No.”
Danner sighed. Life never worked out the way it should. “Recommendations?”
“Let them go. Let Relman stay. She’s a good officer. She’ll be especially eager to please, now.”
But we’re not officers anymore, not any of us, Danner wanted to say. But she did not, because if they were not officers, then what, who, were they? She knew she was not yet ready to face that question; none of them were. They would live the fiction a little while longer: in confused times, people, especially militarily-trained people, liked orders, firm leadership. If she could provide it.
“Give them ten days to think it over. Meanwhile I’ll talk to Sigrid and Nyo about making the platform’s functions tamper-proof, accessible only from our uplink station. We’ll need those facilities, especially the satellites, as long as we can get them. I don’t want a bunch of disaffecteds screwing with the programs. If we can lock those systems in, then let’s let them go.”
After she dismissed Teng, Danner read the geologists’ reports on Dentro de un Rato. Her thoughts kept wandering. Why did Vincio want to leave? Why did she think she had anything to gain by going up to an orbital station where she had a good chance of dying, either immediately, courtesy of the Kurst, or later, due to failed life support? And if—a big if— Company did take them all off, where did Vincio expect to spend the rest of her hopelessly contaminated life?
Danner contemplated calling Vincio into her office and asking her why straight out, but in the end decided not to; she was not sure she could face the answer.
Danner walked slowly across the grass from Rec, her face still red from Kahn’s fencing workout. She wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. It came away sticky with pollen. Damn this planet. It just kept getting hotter—thirty-eight degrees Celsius according to her wristcom.
Her mod was blessedly cool. She had a fast shower, resisting the temptation to stand under the revitalizing water for longer, and pulled on summer-weight fatigues.
Her stomach growled, and she glanced at her wristcom. She would have to eat while she talked to Gautier, the ceramicist, about her report. There were not enough hours in the day.
She had just stepped back out into the muggy heat when her wristcom bleeped.
“Danner,” she answered, walking toward the cafeteria.
“Vincio, ma’am. Another message from SEC rep Taishan. Do you wish to follow code-five procedure?”
Banner was already changing direction, angling toward her office. “Yes. I’ll pick it up personally.”
Day and T’orre Na were sitting on the bench along the far wall of the outer office when Danner got there. She nodded to them both. The viajera was running a knotted cord through her fingers; bright threads flickered through her tanned hands. “It came on a herd bird,” she said.