Melissa Scott - Mighty Good Road

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MELISSA SCOTT

Customer Reviews

Linguistic Science Fiction, August 7, 2000

Reviewer

Perhaps not Scott's flashiest work, but thoughtful and as always with a perceptive eye on

the interaction of technology and culture. A first contact novel worth reading. Various

science fiction authors keep tabs on findings in various sciences -- most of them are

interested in the "hard" sciences. This novel shows a lot of knowledge about the science

of linguistics.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events

portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance

to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

book or portions thereof in any form.

Baen Publishing Enterprises

260 Fifth Avenue

New York, N.Y. 10001

Cover art by Tom Kidd

Distributed by

SIMON & SCHUSTER

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, N.Y. 10020

Printed in the United States of America

Quality Printing and Binding By:

ARCATA GRAPHICS/KINGSPORT

Press and Roller Streets

Kingsport, TN 37662 U.S.A.

Oh, the Rock Island Line, it is a mighty good road

Oh, well, the Rock Island Line, it is the road to ride.

Now if you want to ride it,

Got to ride it like you find it,

Get your ticket at the station for the Rock Island Line!

Contents

chapter 1

chapter 2

chapter 3

chapter 4

chapter 5

chapter 6

chapter 7

chapter 8

chapter 9

chapter 10

chapter 1

The Memorial glowed in the somber light that mimicked Earth's setting sun, or the

reddened light of fires. It was a disturbing light, to anyone who'd spent any time on the

orbital stations of the Loop, and deliberately so. At the center of the pool of light were the

statues, twice life-size, a man and a woman crouching together, their bodies arched

protectively over the huddled shape of a fallen child. The pale stone stood out in high

relief against the blackened metal that sealed off what had once been the entrance to the

Cross-Systems Railroad's Platforms Four and Five. There were flowers at the woman's

feet, real flowers, already wilting a little from the heat of the lights: an extraordinary

expense on any station, but especially here.

Gwynne Heikki shivered, seeing the frail bundle, and glanced for reassurance back

over her shoulder toward the bustle of the still-working platforms. Signs flashed above

the entrances, the mass of the most recent arrivals ebbing away through the multiple

customs barriers. Few appeared to notice the statues, or the other signs of the disaster, the

charred softiles, bare metal, melted wires hanging in tatters, that were still carefully

preserved on the memorial wall. Nor did they pay much attention to the man who sat

cross-legged on the floor tiles just outside the band of light that defined the memorial,

protest banner dangling limply overhead. The green circle stood out sharply against the

black background, three interlaced gold "R"s inscribed on its surface. They stood, Heikki

knew only too well, for the Retroceders' creed: Remember, Repent, and Return.

Remember that the railroad has failed once, repent of your dependence on it, and return

to the planets from whence you came.

Heikki shook her head, and turned away. Popular though that creed might be in the

Precincts, for the planets not yet connected to the Loop by a spur of the railroad, it was

hardly practical. Settled space depended utterly on the Loop as its economic and political

center, and the Loop in turn was dependent on—more than that, was created by and

existed only because of—the railroad, the network of permanently open warps that

allowed virtually instantaneous travel between the Loop's stations, the thirteen Exchange

Points. But the railroad in its turn was dependent on the Papaefthmyiou-Devise Engine,

and that, Heikki thought, was the weak point that the Retroceders could and did exploit.

After all, a PDE had failed once, here on Exchange Point One, and the station was still

recovering from the disaster a hundred and fifty years later. Despite the engineers'

assurances—and they swore it could never happen again, that it had been the strain of

trying to open a fifth warp in an already crowded system that had caused the PDE to fail

—not one could be entirely certain that they were right.

Heikki shook herself then and turned away, annoyed at having given Retroceder

propaganda even that much consideration. She stepped onto the slidewalk that carried

arriving passengers toward the center of Point One, swinging her carryall deftly out of the

way as barriers rose to either side. The flexible carpet picked up speed, and signs flashed

overhead, warning riders to use the handrail to either side. Heikki balanced easily,

shutting out the hum of the machinery and the shop displays flickering past outside the

barriers. She should deposit the draft from the ProCal job as soon as possible, now that

she had access to Loop banks and the better exchange rates they could offer. Even if she

had to search a little to find an open console, she'd still have plenty of time before her

next train left for EP7.

The end-of-strip lights flashed overhead, breaking her reverie, and a moment later a

dulcet mechanical voice repeated the warning. She stepped from the slidewalk as soon as

the barriers went down, disdaining the slow-down strip or the grab bars. To her left rose

the massive arch that joined the Station Axis to the Travellers' Concourse, the gleaming,

gold-washed metal engraved with the names of the people who'd died in the disaster:

Exchange Point One wanted to be certain no one would ever forget her losses. Heikki

made a face, and looked away, adjusting the strap of her heavy carryall.

Outside the arch, the Concourse was crowded, as always—Exchange Point One was

still the unofficial capital of the Loop's Southern Line—but Heikki wove her way through

the crowd with practiced skill, heading for the massive staircase that led to the

Concourse's upper level. After several weeks in the Precincts, and in the open air,

working sea salvage on Callithea, the noise and the faintly chemical smell of an over-

worked ventilation system were almost pleasant: this was home, or close to it. Heikki

allowed herself a faint, lopsided smile, and took the upward stairs two at a time, dodging

a group of giggling tourists whose clothes marked them as inhabitants of the Danae

cluster. The first four uni-bank consoles were occupied, lights on and doors blanked. The

fifth was empty. Heikki started toward it, then checked, abruptly understanding why. A

group of neo-barbarians crouched in an alcove less than three meters away from the

cubicle's door—probably between trains like any other travellers, Heikki knew, but neo-

barbs had a deservedly bad reputation on and off the Loop. In the same moment, she saw

a florid, soberly dressed man whose high-collared jacket bore half a dozen variations on

his corporate logo, obviously hesitating to use the same cubicle. He saw her glance, and

sneered slightly. That was enough to make the decision for her. This was EP1, the

Travellers' Concourse of EP1, not some planetary spaceport. If the neo-barbs were stupid

enough to start something, the securitrons would be on them in an instant.

Even as she thought that, the group in the alcove stirred uneasily, scowling down the

length of the Concourse and murmuring to themselves. One of the Point's security teams,

a half-armored human and his mechanical enforcer, was making its leisurely way along

the walk. The neo-barbs pushed themselves to their feet, the single woman tugging

nervously at her greasy skirt, the three men hastily collecting their heavy, shapeless bags,

and started back toward the station axis. Heikki waited a moment longer, then stepped

into the cubicle, ignoring the veiled annoyance of the florid man. As she latched the door,

lights faded on inside, while the clear material of the door darkened to opacity behind

her.

Like most people who did business both on the Loop and in the Precincts, she did her

banking through Lloyds/West, with its well-earned reputation for being able to handle

any local currency at an acceptable rate. She settled herself in front of the console and

keyed Lloyds' codes into the machine. The screen blanked, the internal mechanisms

clicking to themselves, and she leaned back in the little chair to fish her data lens from

the outer pocket of her belt. She fiddled with the thick bezel, adjusting the setting to

match Lloyds' privacy codes, then squinted through it as the prompt sequence appeared.

She keyed in her personal codes and the serial numbers for the local draft that was the

payment for her latest job. Viewed through the lens, the string of numbers was perfectly

bright against the dark background; when she opened her other eye, she saw only a blank

screen. The machine considered briefly, then signalled its willingness to accept the draft.

Heikki fed the embossed datasquare into the port, and watched through the lens while

numbers shifted on the screen. The exchange rate was better than she'd expected, almost

two Callithean dollars to the pound-of-account. Nodding to herself, she touched the keys

that would accept the transaction. The machine beeped twice, and recorded the transfer of

13,128.49 poa, less service fee, from the negotiable draft to the account of

Heikki/Santerese, Salvage Proprietors. Even after twenty years in the business, Heikki

still smiled a little, seeing the name.

She shook herself then, slipping the data lens back into the belt pocket, and touched

more keys to close the terminal and retrieve her access card. The cubicle door swung

open, plastic fading again to transparence. The florid man was still waiting for a cubicle,

his face prim with disapproval. Heikki hid a grin, and started down the Upper Concourse,

still heading away from the station axis. It would be almost five hours, by the exchange

points' standard time, before she could board the train that would take her to Exchange

Point Seven, and there was no point, she added silently, in spending that time in the

station's common waiting rooms.

A few meters further along the concourse, a sign flashed invitingly above a General

Infoservices multiboard. Heikki paused, glancing over the charges engraved on the plate

beside the tiny numeric keyboard—as on most exchange points, the basic locator service

was free, but further inquiries were assessed at an increasingly exorbitant rate—then

fished her data lens out of her pocket. After a moment's thought, she twisted the bezel to

the Explorers' Club's standard setting, and held the five-centimeter-thick cylinder over the

multiboard's screen. Within the charmed circle of the lens, the chaos of colors and shapes

vanished, to be replaced by the Club's greeting and the location of its nearest members'

lounge. As she had hoped, it was on this level of the concourse, perhaps a quarter-hour's

walk from the multiboard. She slipped the lens back into her pocket and turned away,

unconsciously lengthening her stride. The disapproving glance of a dark woman in a

maroon corporate uniform reminded her that she was no longer on a Precinct world, and

she shortened her step to something more appropriate for the exchange points.

The Club lounge was a small place, a sort of alcove off the main walkway that not

even dim lighting and carefully sited distortion units could make spacious. There was,

however, a bar and an autokitchen, and the two dozen tables were arranged around a

four-seater news-vendor. It was not particularly crowded, only a few men and women

tucked into the corner tables, barricaded behind their printed flimsysheets. Heikki slipped

her membership card through the sensor gate, and seated herself at the empty

newsvendor. There were some new options available—a general fiction listing, for one—

but she ignored that, and punched in the personal codesequence that would give her a

customized precis of the day's news. The machine murmured to itself for what seemed an

interminable time, then spat sheet after sheet of closely spaced print. At the same

moment, the service charge appeared discreetly in the corner of the screen. Heikki

winced, but tore off the last flimsy, and headed for a table by the wall. An order pad was

set into the polished surface. She touched the keys that would bring her a 'salatha gin—a

sequence so familiar she hardly looked at the pad—and settled back to scan the flimsies.

Nothing much was happening on the political scene, either in the Loop or in the

Precincts, and she lifted the sheets to allow the Club's human waiter to set the tall glass in

front of her. The Loop's Southern Extension was accusing the Northern Extension of

more than usually Byzantine dealings in the bidding for the new FTL depot; there had

been Precincter riots on Bacchus; there was trouble between neo-barb incomer-workers

and the eco-fundamentalist settlers on Hauser, in the Tenth Precinct—but that particular

problem had been simmering for the past three years, standard. Neither side was likely to

listen to reason at this late date.

Heikki sighed, and made a note to put Hauser on her personal watch list when she got

back to EP7: it was not a place to be accepting work, just now.

The technical news and markets were more interesting, including an article culled from

a scholarly journal describing the exhumation of an ancient Lunar waste-disposal site.

Heikki had advised on several similar projects, though always in-atmosphere, and read

through the article attentively, noting technique. The next article was culled from an

unfamiliar source, the Terentine Argus of Precinct Six, with a screaming headline, Local

Business Under Siege from Off-world Magnate; Insiders Baffled. Heikki stared for a

moment at the glaring type, wondering what had possessed the compiler to slip this piece

of trash into her file, and then saw the first line of the story. Local salvage proprietors

Foursquare confirmed today that they are the object of a breach-of-contract suit by the

Iadara-based crysticulture firm Lo-Moth, following Foursquare's refusal to complete its

search for the LTA craft lost on Iadara eight months ago.

Heikki's eyebrows rose. Salvage proprietors did not break contract even with mid-rank

firms like Lo-Moth; or rather, she amended grimly, one broke a contract in the full

knowledge that one was also breaking one's career and company. Something must have

gone very wrong, to force Foursquare to give up like that. . . . She skimmed quickly

through the article, but it said nothing more about the reasons for the breach,

concentrating instead on the suit and the possible legal consequences for Foursquare. The

dateline on the article was nearly two weeks old.

The final flimsysheet was less than half full, and contained only a single entry. Lo-

Moth of Iadara announced today the settlement of its dispute with Foursquare, salvage

proprietors, Terentia, in exchange for all data collected by Foursquare during the term

of its employment. Lo-Moth is presently accepting bids (licensed proprietors only) for

completion of the project abandoned by Foursquare.

"Holy shit," Heikki said aloud, and winced as the red light flashed above the orderpad.

A moment later, numbers streamed across the little screen: the Club's monitor program

assessed a fine of ten poa for immodest language. Heikki made a face, but pressed the

acknowledgement button silently.

"Oh, dear, Heikki," a too-familiar voice said, and a second, equally familiar voice

added, "Slip of the tongue?"

Heikki looked up slowly, allowing herself a slight, lopsided smile. Piers Xiang and

Odde Engels, known without much fondness as the Siamese twins, smiled down at her,

the expression particularly at odds with Engels' hard-edged blondness.

"What's up?" she said in return, and did not offer them a chair.

To her surprise, however, the two men lingered, Xiang's green eyes flickering

sideways in what might have been a reproving glance. "I see you've seen the news," he

said, in the clipped Havenite accent he'd never been able to erase.

"Which news?" Heikki asked warily.

"About Lo-Moth." Xiang paused, round face suddenly serious. "May we join you,

Heikki?"

Exchange point etiquette required that she say yes— though 'pointer etiquette also

decreed that the question should never have been asked. Heikki hid her annoyance, and

gestured to the chairs that stood opposite. "Make free."

"We heard you spent time on Iadara," Engels said. He did not reach for the orderpad,

and Heikki did not offer it to him.

"Staa, Eng," Xiang murmured. To Heikki, he said, "I assume you and the Marshallin

will be bidding?"

"I only just heard about the opening," Heikki said. "We haven't spoken."

"It is, from all accounts, an excellent opportunity," Xiang said.

Heikki hid a sigh, recognizing both the ploy and her own imminent capitulation. "I

haven't seen much about the job," she said aloud, "but Iadara, now. It's an interesting

planet."

Xiang leaned forward a little, folding his hands neatly on the tabletop. In that position,

he looked rather like a young and somewhat naive monk of some ascetic sect. Heikki,

who had seen the act before, eyed him with concealed dislike. "Lo-Moth lost a lighter-

than-air craft that was carrying some important research cargo, on a flight over the—I

gather unsettled—interior. The locator beam went off the air, and the crash beacon did

not fire. Lo-Moth is, not unreasonably, curious."

Heikki leaned back in her chair, her dislike of the Twins fading in the face of an

interesting problem. "Crashed in the interior? And a research cargo—so it probably went

down in the 'wayback. The weather's very bad there, there's a central massif that sets up a

bad storm pattern during the planetary autumn. The storms have been known to—" She

caught herself before the monitor could respond, substituted a more modest word. "—

interfere with beam transmissions before now. But of course, that wouldn't explain the

beacon. I take it no one's walked out?"

Engels shook his head silently. Xiang said, "I understand they don't expect anyone to

do so."

"They wouldn't," Heikki said, and allowed herself a grin. "There's an indigenous

primate, nasty job, semi-bipedal and tool-using—probably well on its way to intelligence.

They're fairly territorial, the orcs, and they find humans a pleasant addition to their diet."

"Don't try to scare us, Heikki," Engels said.

Heikki spread her hands, opening her eyes wide in innocence. "Oath-true, Eng. The

Firsters—the first settlers—were just lucky they landed in the Lowlands. The orcs don't

come down there."

Engels frowned, and Xiang touched his shoulder. The blond man settled back in his

chair, lips closed tight over whatever it was he had been going to say.

"Still," Heikki went on, the mockery fading from her voice, "orcs and bad weather—

that shouldn't be enough to make pros break contract. Who is FourSquare, anyway?"

Xiang shrugged. "I don't know the company, myself. They were—still are, I suppose—

licensed in all the proper ways, so...."

Heikki nodded thoughtfully, as much to herself as to the Twins. Something had gone

very wrong on Iadara, that much was obvious—something political, possibly; companies

had been paid to break contract before now; maybe something technical that wasn't being

reported for fear of scaring off other companies that might bid for the job. Almost

without wishing it, she found herself adding up the costs of the job, framing an

acceptable bid.

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MELISSASCOTTCustomerReviewsLinguisticScienceFiction,August7,2000Reviewer:PerhapsnotScott'sflashiestwork,butthoughtfulandasalwayswithaperceptiveeyeontheinteractionoftechnologyandculture.Afirstcontactnovelworthreading.Varioussciencefictionauthorskeeptabsonfindingsinvarioussciences--mostofthemareintere...

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