Settlement

Weddle IX

Grace had set up a hollow map in the centre of the apartment’s main room. It showed the western area of the continent overlaid with their sensor readouts from the previous flight, leaving one section in high resolution, with the others in more pixelated form as the initial scans taken from orbit were all that was available.

Miles walked in and looked. “We need to put together a methodical flight path,” he said.

“What do you mean?” replied Grace.

“Well, look at this,” he said, lifting his right arm and waving it over a 150 km radius around their initial dig location. “So we are reasonably sure, based on what we have to go on, that we would expect to find the ship somewhere here.”

Grace nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I’m assuming to be the most likely.” She walked around the table to come at it from a different angle.

“So,” said Miles. He held out both hands. his index fingers and thumbs making L shapes. He put them together in the shape of a rectangle, as if viewing it on a monitor. “We think the centre of the search area is the most likely, so it makes little sense to spend too much time on the periphery,” he added, now indicating the further afield areas. “So we want to fly in a spiral,” said Miles, “starting from our initial dig and circling around and further out.”

“Agreed,” Grace said. “Exactly.”

Miles had a wide grin; he seemed happy to have had something to contribute.

“That makes sense,” said Grace, “and I wouldn’t have thought of it.”

“I’m sure you would have in time,” said Miles.

“How did you even know this?” Grace asked.

Miles stepped over to the control pad at the base of the table and started the computer calculating a search pattern. Various spirals began appearing over the map, with a small image of the ship rotating around them.

“I was with the army,” said Miles.

Grace’s eyes went wide. “You? the army?” she said, realising immediately she should have tempered her surprise, but Miles seemed more amused than anything.

“No,” he clarified. “I was with the army as an embedded reporter. This was going back twenty-five or thirty years.”

Grace tried to remember any major conflicts that happened during her childhood. Nothing came to mind except for—” Oh, the New Titan food riots?”

Miles confirmed. It had been too recent for Grace to have studied it in school, nor something that was written about in history books—yet not recent enough to have been covered by current affairs either.

“I’m so sorry,” was all Grace could think to say.

Miles waved this away. “It was a long time ago,” he said. New Titan had been on the edge of the cluster, one of the more remote colonies. Some kind of fungus had spread through their agricultural fields, destroying seasons’ worth of crops in a matter of weeks. Supplies had been shipped in from across the colonies; Grace still remembered the charity fundraising. But the shortages had been extensive, and it took weeks for the replacements to arrive, in which time the cluster military had been sent in to keep the peace. It was the closest example to civil war in human-controlled space since humans had left old Earth.

“We were searching for one of the insurgents,” said Miles. “We didn’t use this exact plan, but the same principle applied.”

Grace looked over; the animated ship continued to repeat its search pattern. She tapped a few controls and downloaded the path to her slate. She copied it over and sent it to the ship’s computer for the morning.

“Well, this should help us now, then,” Grace said.

They made their way into the township. There were market stalls and a small café. It wasn’t a large community, much more rural than anywhere Grace had spent any considerable amount of time, but there were still more people around than she had expected. Miles was taking photographs. She lifted her arm and gently nudged the camera back down towards his chest.

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“Maybe let the locals get used to us first,” she suggested, and he took the hint. They were getting stared at wherever they went. Grace had expected this, simply from not being a known member of the community. They had parked the ship in the centre of town, and there was a collection of landing spots, three-quarters of which were empty, but there were a couple of other ships dotted around, mostly for getting between continents rather than breaking orbit. Nothing made within Grace’s lifetime, certainly nothing from the last twenty years.

The ship took a quick retinal scan before opening the side hatch. Grace moved through the living area to the cockpit, where she fired up the main systems. She instinctively began the engine warm-ups and pre-flight checks when an alert bleeped her. She looked down at the dashboard readout to find a large red indicator with a land lock. The sound of a camera’s shutter release startled her back to reality, and she turned to see Miles looming over her.

“I will smash that thing,” she told him.

“Good,” he said. “What?” she replied.

“I’m capturing your passion. This is what makes a photo.”

She raised her right arm, and he stepped back, suddenly realising she wasn’t being cute. She was Grace Dakota. Why do people keep expecting her to be cute?

She took a look over the readout. “Someone has taken a land lock out on us,” Grace said. “Wait, no, it’s a blanket no-fly ruling. The hell?”

“They’re much more common out somewhere like this,” said Miles. “Brewster probably made a donation to the local government and block-booked an amount of time.”

“How many people do you really think are going to complain about it outside usual business hours?”

That was true enough for Grace. “Well, then, we’ll just have to find an alternative,” she said, standing up and walking back out of the ship. She didn’t stop to reactivate the locks, instead pulling out the slate and initiating them remotely. The shuttle bleeped. Miles broke into a slight jog to keep up with her.

She looked up and down the sandbanks that passed for the main street. It was late morning, but the bar was already open. She walked in, and, as expected, the half-dozen patrons all turned to figure out who she was. She pulled up a stall at the bar and ordered two of the natively brewed beer. It was warm, and she didn’t care for it, but made damn sure no one picked up on that. Miles pulled a face, and she needled him.

“Delicious.”

He spotted this and just said, “Grace,” This was not the kind of bar you’d get on busier worlds.”

The barman looked at her suspiciously. She flicked a two-credit coin over to him. He pocketed it, and she added another half credit. “For any trouble,” she clarified. He shrugged—not so low of a tip to be insulting, but not enough to win him over.

“So Brewster’s lot have the airspace booked the rest of the week,” Grace told him.

The barman paused but did not come any closer. He was certainly listening.

“We can’t fly, but we can drive.”

“We don’t have a…” said Miles, clearly trying to figure out what the correct vehicle would be. “A motor vehicle?”

“No doubt,” said Grace, “but I bet we can find one.”

“You’re with those archaeologists?” the bartender now asked.

Grace spat half a mouthful of beer back in her glass. “We most certainly are not,” she said, more offended than if he’d questioned her virtue. “I’m Grace Dakota, and this is Miles.” She realised she didn’t know Miles’s last name, nor did she give him time to say it. “We’re independent contractors.”

“So you’re working against them?” the barman said.

“Damn right,” said Grace.

“They have not made themselves very popular in this town,” said the barman. “They’ve only been in here once. Who comes to a place like this and doesn’t even check out the local?” asked Grace, offended on their behalf.

Miles had barely made it through half his glass, and she had at least a quarter remaining, but needed to get on the right side of this guy.

“And you say you’re wanting to hire a vehicle?” the barman said, pouring the drinks.

“Yes, exactly,” said Grace, picking up the second.