In her latest communication, Margo Abibi had been circumspect. Offering the bare minimum of detail. Just a note that she had Soukup, a Taglioni, a Radcek, a Grunnel, and a Suharto, along with thirty marines aboard. And that they needed to talk. Face-to-face. To do that, Kalico would have to shuttle up to Vixen to use the photonic com.

Which meant what? That the family members were to function as a sort of mini-Board to run The Corporation’s operation? That they would use the thirty marines to bring Port Authority back under The Corporation’s boot? Good luck with that!

She smacked a fist against her coveralls, feeling frustrated. She needed more information.

Now that she had hit a bonanza at what they’d come to call “The Southern Diggings,” she could concentrate on getting ready for Turalon’s arrival.

Because, after all, she had a few surprises of her own. And no one aboard Turalon—not even Margo Abibi—knew what kind of woman Kalico Aguila was these days.

Chapter 7

  7  

Derek Taglioni flew a wide circle over Port Authority, staring down at the town. Surrounded by its high fence and ditch, the place reminded him of pictures he’d seen of Iron Age forts. And the green fields surrounding to the west and south added to the effect. They stopped abruptly at the bush. There, the aquajade and chabacho made a speckled pattern on the light-green background of ferngrass and shrub. The bush was lined with the lighter red of trails lefty by chamois, crest, fastbreaks, and hoppers.

To the east, and abutting the fence, the landing field stuck out like a swollen thumb. The setting sun cast a shadow from the wall of cargo containers. Three layers thick and stacked seven high, they gave the field the appearance of a fortress surrounding the flat where Port Authority’s shuttle was parked. From this altitude, the forklifts and loaders parked along the fence looked like toys.

On the west, the aircar and airtrucks were parked in rows that radiated out from the gate. The outer row of vehicles—being stripped carcasses and scavenged frames—had been left on blocks to molder and decay. Not that duraplast decayed that much. Solar panels on the fence fed cables that kept the still-operative vehicles charged.

On Port Authority’s north, the bush ran right to the big gate that sat astraddle the mine haul road. A twenty-meter-wide strip of graveled dirt that ran a couple of klicks due north to the open pit mine with its shops, buildings, and gaping depths.

Home. The center of Dek’s world.

He banked again, taking in the weathered domes, the hodgepodge of building styles, some with stone walls, others just flat-roofed shops. And interspersed among the structures were lean-tos, sheds, and derelict equipment.

He could imagine what Falise and her bloodsucking companions were going to make of it.