“Newbrum’s like that,” Philyra said, sitting down. “Nothing works properly.”
“So I see,” murmured Fornax. “Care for a drink?”
She felt Philyra’s eyes follow her as she retrieved the bottle from the sink, cracked it open and poured two generous measures. Fornax had brought a few bottles of Sonoma Coast Pinot Noir with her from Los Angeles, having been warned off Ascension local brew.
“I am only fifteen,” Philyra pointed out, but took the offered glass.
“In this business, being young is an asset, not a crime,” replied Fornax. She sat down beside her. “So you’re a reporter? And you want to interview me for your school paper. That’s very sweet.”
Philyra blushed. “Actually, no. I want your help.”
“My help?”
“I want to be a holovid presenter, just like you,” Philyra confessed. Fornax smiled and waited for the pre-prepared speech, for the girl was trying her best to stop the words coming out in a mad rush. “It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do! I’m here because I’d like you to take me on as your assistant while you’re in Newbrum. I’m quick to learn, really keen and don’t expect you to pay me. Unless you really want to,” she added hopefully.
Fornax smiled and let the moment drift into silence with a lingering sip of wine.
“That’s quite a pitch,” she said, as Philyra began to fidget. “The answer’s no.”
“I could get inside information,” offered Philyra. “I know students at the dig.”
“The answer’s still no, kid.”
“I’m not totally clueless. I have broadcast experience!”
“Really?” Fornax raised a surprised eyebrow. “That’s cool. What exactly?”
“I was at the Epsilon Eridani peace conference on Daode late last year,” Philyra told her. “I did an undercover report on the plot to brainwash Raja Surya.”
“That was you?” Fornax remembered a political journalist friend of hers getting quite excited at the time. “Maybe you do have what it takes. You say you know people on site?”
Philyra nodded. “A girl named Ravana,” she said, then blushed. “And a boy called Xuthus. He’s from Bradbury Heights.”
“A boy, eh?” Fornax smiled, seeing the girl’s sudden coy expression. “Not that I’ve been directed anywhere near the dig itself. I’m down to interview some professor at Bradbury Heights and maybe do a bit of digging of my own into these black-market artefacts. I don’t think you can help me with that. Do you know anyone at the university?”
Philyra pulled a face. “That bunch of fat heads? They’re all rich, stuck-up Americans who think they’re the centre of the Universe,” she retorted, speaking with venom that took Fornax by surprise. “Xuthus is the only one who speaks to me as if I’m human.”
“And he’s on Falsafah,” reflected Fornax. “So you don’t have any useful contacts?”
“I have a friend at the spaceport,” Philyra suggested cautiously. “One of the ground crew. If there’s any strange deliveries coming into Newbrum, he would know.”
“Is that so?”
Philyra shrugged. Fornax was pleased with the information, albeit unaware Philyra was thinking of Endymion, who would probably be the last person to notice anything odd happening around him and so laid-back he could fall asleep pushing a broom.
“A spy in the spaceport,” Fornax mused and smiled. A spot of investigative journalism was just what she needed to restart her stalled career. “If there’s one thing I could teach you, it’s that this business is not about what you know, but who you know.”
“Is that a yes?” asked Philyra excitedly. “Can I be your assistant?”
“Hell, why not.” Fornax took another sip of wine. “If nothing else, you can help me make sense of life in this crazy dome.”
The Dandridge Cole was the second of two asteroid colony ships launched towards the Barnard’s Star system a century ago and the only one to arrive. The oblong lump of detritus from the birth of the Solar System was ten kilometres long and half as much wide, inside which had been hewn a vast cylindrical chamber five kilometres long and a kilometre in diameter. At the centre of this cavern sat the artificial sun, suspended upon three five-hundred-metre radial pylons, which had the freighter Platypus not crashed into it several months before would now be shining upon a concave country landscape of farms and villages. The affectionately-known hollow moon had been Quirinus’ and Ravana’s home for over nine years. Now the pilot was back, he found it a cold, grim place in more ways than one.
Quirinus stared at the holovid screen, his heart thumping harder with each passing second. Ravana had never let him down like this before. Behind him, Professor Wak nervously pretended to be busy with various pieces of workshop equipment, with the air of someone dreading the cue to say something reassuring. Wak had spent the last few months virtually alone on the Dandridge Cole and social conventions were easily forgotten when the only regular company kept was with maintenance robots.
“Are you quite sure?” asked Quirinus. On the screen before him was the pilot of the Sir Bedivere, a rather surly man who did not seem at all pleased that Quirinus had called during a complicated orbital insertion. “She wasn’t at Arallu Depot?”
“Not as far as I’m aware,” the pilot said wearily.
“Did anyone from the excavation come to meet you?”
“Doctor Jones and three of his students,” he replied. “Professor Cadmus stayed behind at the dig for some reason. Probably because he owes me a drink, the tight little…”
“Hey, that kid was asking after the Indian girl,” interrupted a voice off screen, the owner of which Quirinus assumed was the ship’s co-pilot. “They thought she’d come back with us last time. The boy was down with some seriously bad vibes.”
“She didn’t,” reiterated the pilot before Quirinus could ask the question again. “I’m sure your daughter is fine, but if you’re worried I suggest you contact the authorities on Aram. They can put a message through to Que Qiao police on Falsafah.”
“Yes, but…” began Quirinus.
“I can’t help you,” said the pilot. “Please don’t call me again.”
“Charming,” muttered Quirinus. The screen went blank.
With a heavy sigh, he rose from his seat and walked to the window. There was little to see, for the cavern in the heart of the spinning asteroid was in darkness, as it had been ever since the evacuation of the hollow moon some months before. The light streaming from the windows of Dockside was enough to show the heavy frost upon the barren ground outside, but the streets of the deserted hamlets beyond were unlit; with fuel supplies low, Wak was running the remaining fusion plant at minimum power and doing all he could to conserve power. The only lights visible outside were the faint electric flares of welding torches high within the frame of the artificial sun, where robots were busy fitting new energy coils and reflectors to replace those damaged by the crash of the Platypus.
“Perhaps she’s busy,” Wak suggested, breaking the silence.
“Busy?” exclaimed Quirinus. “Too busy to bother with the once-a-fortnight chance to call her father? No, something’s wrong.”
He whirled away from the window. With a determined grimace, he strode across the workshop towards the door, a bemused Wak not far behind.
Dockside completely encircled the inner front end of the hollow moon, in a curious strip of ramshackle buildings wedged together in a loop over three kilometres long. As it was currently the only part of the Dandridge Cole with heat and light, many of the abandoned family cabins now housed pigs, chickens and other asylum seekers from the hollow moon’s frozen farms. The smell of hay and animal sweat mingled with that of hot oil and ozone in an uneasy alliance between nature and machine.