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Poor Michael's life was a trail of bitter enemies made. And some day the pigeons would come home to roost.
Thirty: 2878-3031 AD
The world wore the name Bronwen. It was far from the mainstream. Its claim to fame was that it had been the first human world occupied by Ulant. It would be the last reabsorbed by Confederation. In the interim it resembled one of those gaudy, chaotic eighteenth-century pirate havens on the north coast of Africa. Sangaree, McGraws, and free-lance pirates made planetfall and auctioned their booty. The barons of commerce came looking for bargains in goods worth the cost of interstellar shipment. Freehaulers came looking for cargo to fill their tramp freighter holds. Lonely Starfishers came down from their rivers of night for their rare intercourse with the worlds of men. Millions changed hands daily. The state was not there to watchdog and steal a cut. Those were brawling, violent days, but Bronwen's rulers were not displeased. Fortunes stuck.
Michael Dee should not have visited the world. He should not have risked having his name co
The Sangaree came to his flagship, the old Glowworm, that Michael had acquired through straw parties when war's end had thrown scores of obsolete ships onto the salvage market. The man did not pretend to be anything but what he was. Michael found him vaguely familiar. Where had he seen the man? In the background in press rooms during the war, he thought. And, possibly, once when he was a child.
Dee did not like puzzles. He did not like not being able to remember clearly. Memory was his best weapon. But the man had never impinged directly upon his reality... The Sangaree initially claimed to be a buyer. Michael watched the man pass through his security screens, wondering. He did not look the type. Too fat, too self-confident in that intangible way powerful men have. Fencing stolen goods would be a chore for fourth-level underlings. Dee secured his observation screen and waited.
The man entered his cabin, extended a hand, said, "Norbon w'Deeth. The Norbon."
Michael's underworld co
This was a Head! And his Family's name was turning up everywhere these days. The Norbon had exploded into prominence wherever Sangaree operated.
He took the proffered hand. "An honor. How can I be of service?"
Michael masked his thinking well. He did not betray his consternation and curiosity. The Norbon was just another businessman for all the reaction he showed.
The man was damned young for a Head, he reflected. But you could never be sure in these days of rejuvenation and resurrection. He had the hard lines in his forehead and at the corners of his eyes. The man inside was old in thought if not in his flesh.
The Norbon eyed him. "How's your mother?"
The question took Michael by surprise. It came at him from the least expected angle. "Well enough, I suppose. I've been out of touch with the family."
"Yes. The war did disrupt things, didn't it? And helped some of us profit."
The slightest of frowns crossed Michael's vulpine face. He felt a case of nerves coming on.
"And the rest of your family?"
"Good enough. We Storms are hard to kill."
"I've discovered that."
Michael used a toe to caress an alarm button. In seconds a needlegun, in the hand of a reliable man, began tracking Dee's visitor from behind an apparently solid bulkhead.
"None harder than I, sir. You make me uncomfortable. Can you get to your point?" Michael was surprised at himself. He was never this direct. The Sangaree had him shaking.
"We have Family business. With the big F. Your Family and mine. There's an unsettled matter between the Norbon and Storms. No doubt you know the tale. I came to find out where you'll stand."
"You've lost me." The man had Dee totally baffled. It broke through to his face.
"I see I'll have to go back to the begi
Michael shrugged as if to say, "So what?" and did say, "Those are the breaks of the business."
"Yes. That's the human attitude toward risk and reward. Not that much different from our own except that those men felt compelled to make it a slaughter instead of a raid. It stopped being business when they took that attitude. It became vendetta. I survived. It's my duty to exact retribution."
Michael had begun to get the feel of it. His nerves were steadier. "There's a needlegun on you."
His visitor smiled. "I never doubted it. You're a reasonably cautious man."
"Then you're not here to kill me?"
"Far from it. I'm here to sign you up for my side."
Michael's jaw dropped.
The Norbon laughed. "That's the first time I've actually seen anybody do that."
"What?"
The Norbon shook a hand in a gesture meaning never mind. "You're in the middle, Michael. You've got one foot on each side. I want to get them both on mine."
"You confuse me. I don't have any special love for my family. That's common knowledge. But I don't have reason one to want them destroyed, either. In fact, it's a valuable co
"I understand. Yes. The problem is that I've been too obscure. I assumed you knew. Let's go back to your mother. She was slave-born, as humans say. You know that much?"
"Yes. So?"
"She was born and trained at the Norbon facility on Prefactlas. She was its only female survivor. For ten years she and I fought barbarians, Confies, Corporation beekies, sickness, and plain old bad luck together. And we made it through. Our relationship became as deep as one can between a man and a woman. We even parented a child."
Michael began to glimpse the shaggy edges of it. And it was a monster indeed. Yet... Yet it would explain so much that had puzzled him.
It was almost too simple an answer.
"You expect me to believe that crap?"
"It's happened before. It's genetically certain that human and Sangaree spring from the same ur-stock, sometime deep in proto-history. That both races are repelled by the idea doesn't alter the facts. There were races here before ours, Michael. Who knows what experiments they performed, or why, before they faded from history's stage?"
"And who cares?"
Deeth ignored his remark. "There's a curious thing about Homeworld, Michael. It's perfect for human habitation. A lot like Old Earth was before the Industrial Revolution. We Sangaree fill the human ecological niche there. But, and it's a curious big but, there's no archaeological or anthropological evidence of our presence before about the time Cro-Magnon appeared on Old Earth. There's no evolutionary chain. Nothing to co
That conclusion was irrelevant in an essentially emotional context. And Michael was responding to feelings, not reason.
He had grown up with an absolute presumption that the Sangaree were racial enemies. They were to be exterminated—unless momentary intercourse offered profit or advantage.
I can't be my own enemy, Michael thought.