Star’s twins have made the Asteroid Belt too hot to hold them and Charlie keeps trying to get Star laid, so when Star is offered a commission to survey the fabled ruins of Cydonia on Mars she jumps at the chance.
Are Richard Hoagland’s ruins real? I don’t know, and I don’t much care. I just want us to go to Mars so bad I can taste it. This book took me there.
About the Dedication
for Sean Stewman, David Carlson and Eddie Parish
up, up and away, boys
Three young men I hope will go up, up and away someday, maybe even in a balloon around Mars. Sean is Kathy’s daughter Marie’s son, Eddie is Loralee and Doug’s son, and David is my cousin Hank and his wife Deb’s son.
Audio Excerpt
Hear an audio excerpt from this book at Odeo.com.
Book Excerpt
Star travels from Belt habitat Outpost to asteroid 1Ceres, there to conduct…
…Miners’ Court, convened once a month to address all Belt grievances, real and imagined, civil and criminal, presided over by a rotating bench of three magistrates selected by a popular vote of the League of St. Joseph once a year. The only reason I was here was because I’d been unable to con or bribe Simon into taking my place. It was really Perry Austin’s month but she was conveniently downarm, settling yet another dispute between 7683Gypsy and 8102Rom. I only hoped the Gypsies took her for the fillings in her teeth.
I pushed and shoved my way to the OK Corral, one of the bigger saloons holding most of the early drinkers. The bartender and owner, a diminutive, plump-breasted, bright-eyed man, waved me over to the bar. “Good morning, Ms. Svensdotter,” he yelled.
“Morning, Birdie,” I yelled back. “Court’s in session.”
“One moment, please.” He disappeared for a second, to reappear with an air horn. The single blaring jolt of sound stunned the crowd into momentary silence, broken by someone yelling, “Here come de judge!” but they dispersed amiably enough. Birdie closed the door behind them, hanging a sign on it which read, “Court in session. The Honorable Star Svensdotter presiding. The bar is closed until further notice.”
The two of us working together pushed the stools against one wall. Birdie produced a table and a chair more his size than mine, and stood on the chair to help me into a black robe, a ceremonial garment only recently introduced into the proceedings. The collar was too tight, the hem barely covered my knees, and the sleeves fell a good ten centimeters over my hands. I sat down, wedged my legs beneath the table (the judge used to stand behind the bar and personally I preferred it but it offended Birdie’s rigid sense of our dignity), and took the gavel Birdie handed me with a ceremonious bow. “Okay, Birdie, call the first case.”
Birdie’s red-cheeked countenance stiffened into what he considered to be a properly bailiffed expression, his usual bobbing gait lengthened into an authoritarian stride, and he stalked to the doors and flung them open. “Hear ye, hear ye! This Miners’ Court is now in session! The Honorable Star Svensdotter presiding!” He consulted a clipboard hanging next to the door. “First case, Kandinsky versus Townsend, assault.”
Two figures pushed through the crowd, to be overtaken by an enormous third clad in the dazzling white jumpsuit and red badge of the Star Guard. “Sorry, Star,” he puffed.
“It’s okay, Joseph, we’re just starting. Birdie, enter Joseph Smith as today’s sergeant-at-arms.”
“It’s James, Star.”
“Oh. Sorry, James.” The trouble with triplets. Identical triplets all three of whom were members of the Star Guard at exactly the same rank and so wore exactly the same uniform.
“No problem.” James grinned, displaying two adorable dimples in an otherwise perfectly blue-eyed, clear-skinned, square-jawed face, and perched on a stool next to the door.
The two smaller figures behind him now came forward. “Beth.” I rose, with difficulty, and extended a hand from which I had to peel back the sleeve of the robe.
Beth Townsend took it in a warm grip. “How are you, Star.” She was slim and wiry, as so many Belters were. We consumed vast amounts of calories and expended equally vast amounts keeping warm in vacuum, and the result was a lot of muscle and bone and very little fat. She shaved her head, something many do for convenience but a style few look good in afterwards. Beth Townsend had the cheekbones for it; she looked like Bathsheba when David fell for her.
This morning Beth was looking uncharacteristicly subdued. “I just want you to know this wasn’t my idea.”
“No? Whose idea was it?”
“Mine. Joel Kandinsky.” I disliked him on sight, a freckle-faced, sandy-haired man with a permanent scowl who exuded self-importance the way a British peer did superiority.
“You’re bringing charges against Beth?” He nodded, and I said, “What for?”
“She assaulted me for no reason, an entirely unprovoked attack that resulted in injuries to my person and caused me extreme mental anguish!” He looked down his nose at me as if he expected me to pass sentence on the spot.
I looked at Beth, who looked resigned. “He stole my p-suit.”
Kandinsky erupted. “I didn’t steal it, I just borrowed it for a while, I–”
“He what?” I stared at Beth, who nodded. I looked back at Kandinsky. “You took her pressure suit?” He nodded. Even more incredulously, I said, “And you admit it?”
“Yes, I took it, I had to get to 2Pallas, I had a deal pending there that–”
I looked back at Beth. “He ask your permission?” She shook her head. “He hurt it?”
She hesitated. “Not much.”
“Not much?” She remained silent, and I said to Kandinsky, “And you have the gall to sue her for assault?”
Kandinsky’s face turned the color of old liver and he huffed out an impatient breath. “As I tried to explain–”
I cut across his words. “Mr. Kandinsky, there is no explanation adequate to your offense. You’re on an asteroid, orbiting in space 1.8 astronomical units from Terra. There are a hundred thousand other rocks in more or less the same orbit, half of them uncharted, and each and every one with its own eccentric orbit. Every Belter lives with the daily prospect of collision with another asteroid. Their only hope for survival in the event of a decompression event lies with their pressure suit being exactly and precisely where they left it, and in working order. Archy, when’s the next Volksrocket scheduled to depart?”
“Tomorrow morning at eight.”
“Good, he gets only three free meals off us.” I nodded at James, and he rose from his stool to stand behind Kandinsky. “Kandinsky, you are convicted of pressure suit theft. You are fined whatever valuables are on your person, to go toward any necessary repairs to the suit you stole, with any remainder to go into the judicial fund of the League of St. Joseph. I also sentence you to serve–how much do I sentence him to, Arch?”
“Twenty-one hours, 36 minutes, boss.”
“I sentence you to 21 hours, 36 minutes in Piazzi City Jail, or until such time as the next Volksrocket departs 1Ceres. Upon your release, you will be issued a blue ticket for HEO Base and escorted to the departure terminal.” I leaned forward. “Mr. Kandinsky, a piece of friendly advice? Don’t miss that rocket.”
“Now wait just a minute! This is no kind of court of law! I demand an attorney! I have my rights! I–”
Again I interrupted him. “Mr. Kandinsky, count yourself lucky that it was Beth’s p-suit you stole. Another Belter would have stuffed you out the nearest airlock, and I would presently be ruling on a case of justifiable homicide.” James hauled Kandinsky out, yelling for his lawyer all the way.