Sagitta Page 7

  “Good,” said Angel, her voice oozing with bloodlust. “We haven’t had a fight in ages. Let’s go hunting.”

  Hrain patted the bulkhead. “I wasn’t going to suggest anything else.”

  Chapter 8

  Liz eyed the beige three-story complex. “So, your family owns Greenfield Grain?”

  “Yeah,” said Morgan. “That’s the research building. A few dozen scientists and process engineers work there, plus the facilities staff and the finance people. A lot of the space is automated labs, or conference rooms for hosting visitors. We contract with other labs and farms all over to develop the actual product.”

  Morgan turned left and drove around the side of the building.

  “So, you live in there?”

  “In the lab? No, the house is out back.”

  “Lame. You can’t ever get away from work. Rice, you said?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, that’s one of the main products. Hearty varieties engineered for space travel and cultivation. We also design the hydroponics equipment.”

  “Well, I guess someone has to come up with that stuff,” said Liz.

  Morgan considered that for a moment. Usually when people found out that his family owned the biggest business in town, they put on an air of amazement, or at least seemed enthusiastic.

  “Sorry,” she said, noticing his puzzled look. “It’s just not my thing.”

  “Mine neither, to tell you the truth. But, it’ll all be mine someday whether I like it or not. I don’t have any brothers or sisters, and Greenfield Grain has been the family business for three generations.”

  “I see,” said Liz. “So, you guys are loaded?”

  He grimaced; he’d been hoping this topic wouldn’t come up. “We do alright.”

  “That’s nice, having your future figured out,” said Liz. “You should be happy.”

  Morgan pictured himself as a fat old business man, beaming at the holographic magnification of some new wheat germ. Ick. He turned into the driveway and drove up to the large two-story home. It was of conventional design, having been printed in modules at some distant facility and molecularly bonded together on site.

  “Here’s the house. We can grab some food from the kitchen.” And then maybe watch a holo or something. What do you think? His heart pounded. If only he had the nerve to actually say something like that.

  “Sounds good,” she said.

  They drove around the solar harvesters to the attached garage. Morgan guided the Scorpion to the door, which opened automatically. He parked inside and shut off the engine.

  Liz whistled as she hopped out of the Scorpion. “This is nuts, you have your own lift!” Morgan followed her over to the middle of the garage. “Wait a minute, where are the force pads? Is this thing hydraulic?” She placed her hand on the lift’s operating cylinder.

  “Yeah,” said Morgan. “No repulsors, just oil. It’s my grandfather’s, on my mom’s side. It’s been here forever, since when gramp was a kid. My parents aren’t into cars, but when I turned fourteen they said I could have all this.”

  “I officially hate you,” said Liz.

  It took Morgan a few seconds to realize she was kidding. Man, lighten up, she’s just teasing, you thick headed lump! He chuckled. “Yeah, I am a spoiled brat. Then again, you’re the one who gets free sports cars from her dad’s dealership.” He knew from the look on her face that he’d made a mistake.

  A chirp from the workbench saved him.

  “Page from mom,” said the computer.

  “Er, sorry,” he said to Liz. “Hold on.” He went over to the bench and clicked on the intercom.

  The image of a plump woman coalesced, seeming to stand on top of the cluttered bench. Helen Greenfield fixed her gaze on Morgan. She must have been working this morning, since her hair was still in a neat bun. Never one to have servants in the house, Morgan’s mother had thrown an apron over her work attire to make lunch. She pointed the pair of salad tongs at Morgan.

  “There you are, finally,” she said. “I was about to call. Did you win?”

  Morgan glanced across the garage at Liz. Maybe. That depends. He shook his head, and said “Not this time.”

  His mom smiled. “Next time then. Lunch is ready. Make sure you wash up before you come in, and leave those boots out there.”

  “I will.”

  Her image dissolved.

  “Are you sure she won’t mind my being here?” said Liz.

  “Of course not,” said Morgan. Are you kidding? She’ll be thrilled! Apprehension gripped him. Maybe it hadn’t been a good idea to take her home. He hadn’t had a chance to give his parents a heads-up.

  “This is gonna be awkward,” he said.

  “Why?” said Liz.

  Morgan looked at her. “Well,” he said, losing his nerve. “You know, because.”

  She blinked. “Because of what?”

  He blushed. “Well, you’re the first, uh, the first—er, never mind. Let’s just eat, I’m starving.” He stumbled forward, opening the door that led to the interior of the house.

  He kicked off his boots next to the bathroom, then made a half-hearted attempt to wash his hands and straighten out his hair. His cheek was darkening where Victor had struck him, but the bruise didn’t stand out too badly yet.

  He finished up, then traded with Liz. As he waited in the hallway, he wished he’d thought to call home and explain things. It had been ages since he’d had a friend to bring home, and never a girl. He felt a twinge of pride, and more than a healthy dose of apprehension. Please God, don’t let them embarrass me.

  Liz came out of the bathroom and fixed him with a curious stare. “Is everything alright?”

  He assured her that it was. Come on man, chill out! He led her down the hall. The door at the end opened into the kitchen. His mom wasn’t in sight, but she could be heard. He put on what he hoped was a casual, uninterested expression.

  “Harold, put that tablet down and come to lunch.”

  “Hold on,” said his dad. “I just need one more minute…hey, give that back!”

  There was the sound of running feet, and a victorious Mrs. Greenfield came skidding into the kitchen. She waved a computer tablet in the air. She caught Morgan’s eye. “Your father can’t part with his work, as usual. I—oh!” She stopped dead as she noticed Liz. “Why, hello there.”

  Morgan’s father bounded into the kitchen. He reached for the tablet, stopped at the sight of his wife’s face, then followed her gaze.

  “Wow,” said Mr. Greenfield, looking from Morgan to Liz.

  Morgan fought the urge to slap his face with the palm of his hand. Geez, thanks dad.

  “Wow?” said Liz.

  “I mean hi,” said Mr. Greenfield. “Sorry, we just weren’t expecting any visitors. Especially not someone like yourself. I mean, it’s just that Morgan here…” Mr. Greenfield trailed off.

  Morgan wished he could melt into the tile floor. He glared at his father.

  “Quiet, you buffoon,” hissed his mother out of the corner of her mouth.

  Liz turned to Morgan, one eyebrow raised. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

  “Uh, yeah,” he said. “Guys, this is Liz.” His mom blinked at him. His dad made a small beckoning gesture with two fingers, coaxing him on. Morgan grimaced. “She’s a friend from the track.”

  “Nice to meet you, Liz,” said Mrs. Greenfield. “I’m Helen, and this one is Harold.” Behind her, Mr. Greenfield was a grining bobble-head doll.

  “It’s nice to meet you too,” said Liz, taking a cautious step forward into the kitchen. She shook hands with both elder Greenfields. “Morgan was nice enough to give me a lift after the race.”

  “Oh,” said Mrs. Greenfield. “Did you have a good view? How did Morgan place?”

  Liz shook her head. “I wasn’t in the stands.”

  Mrs. Greenfield’s looked Liz up and down. “Your clothes…oh my, you’re a racer? But you said Morgan gave you a ride?”

  “I wrecked my car.”<
br />
  Mrs. Greenfield’s eyes widened as she registered the dried blood on Liz’s dusty jumpsuit. “Oh no!” She rushed over to Liz. “Did you get hurt, dear?”

  “No, I’m fine,” said Liz. “The paramedics fixed me up.”

  Mrs. Greenfield didn’t look convinced. “Why didn’t you go home? You should be resting.”

  “That was the original plan.” Liz glanced at Morgan, who dropped his gaze to study his feet. “Let’s just say my dad wasn’t too happy to see me.”

  “Oh,” said Mrs. Greenfield.

  There was an awkward pause. Morgan cleared his throat. “I thought maybe we could have lunch here, until things cool down. That is, if that’s ok.”

  “Of course it’s alright,” said Mr. Greenfield, looking right at Liz. “I’m glad you’re here. Morgan doesn’t have many friends, you see. It’s nice he’s found someone besides that silly car of his to talk to. Tell her, Helen.”

  Thanks for wrecking my image dad, thought Morgan.

  “Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Greenfield. “But Morgan should have called. All we have are deli meats and a bag salad. I wish I had something more well-suited to the occas—”

  “That’ll be fine, mom,” cut in Morgan, his cheeks flushing. More well suited to the occasion? You’re killing me here, mom!

  “That’s fine,” said Liz. “And thank you.”

  Mr. Greenfield had been studying Liz. “So, you race too?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  Morgan’s father put his hands on his hips. “Funny, Morgan hasn’t mentioned you before. How long have you two been friends?”

  Mrs. Greenfield waved her hands for silence. “None of your business Harold.” She looked from Morgan to Liz, as if she thought it was very much her business. “Come on Liz, some food will help you feel better. Here, let me get you a glass of ice water. Or would you like a Coke?”

  “Water’s fine,” said Liz.

  “Coming right up,” said Mrs. Greenfield.

  To Morgan’s relief, lunch went smoothly. He and Liz filled his parents in on the events of the race, although Liz didn’t offer any more details about Victor. As curious as he was, Morgan was too afraid to ask about it. He also didn’t mention his fight with Victor. Liz hadn’t seen that, and he wasn’t sure it would be in his best interest to bring it up, especially not with his parents around.

  Eventually the thread of conversation turned to the family business. Liz listened attentively as Morgan’s parents went on and on. Morgan found himself zoning out, until the conversation somehow turned to Luna Seven. This was his mom’s favorite topic as of late. L-7 was a sim-stim narcotic, and one of the most commonly smuggled contraband within the solar system. It had been developed in the underworld of New Chicago, then made its way up to the Moon’s surface and then from there to Earth’s space ports and to everywhere else.

  “It’s a downright epidemic,” said Mrs. Greenfield. “And the ISF is completely incompetent in stopping it. They can’t catch the small drug runners, so they make a show of stopping the easy targets just to keep the UN humanitarian subcommittee happy.”

  “The freighters carrying our shipments to Mars have been searched dozens of times,” added Mr. Greenfield. “Each delay adds weeks to the trip.”

  “Did they find anything?” said Liz.

  Mrs. Greenfield laughed. “Never! We hire only the best traders. Honest captains that wouldn’t mess with running drugs. Still, the ISF stops everyone they can catch.” She snorted. “All the delays are making the freight companies charge triple for what used to be milk runs. L-7 is killing our business.”

  “Drugs kill other things too,” muttered Liz. “Like people. And relationships.”

  Mrs. Greenfield looked slightly taken aback. “Well, yes there is that too, of course.”

  Morgan watched Liz intently. She met his eyes for a moment, then looked away. I wonder if Luna Seven killed her mom. Lutstone said something bad happened.

  “Attention,” said the home computer. “A visitor is at the front entrance.”

  “Morgan, could you get that?” said Mrs. Greenfield.

  Morgan stood up from the table and walked toward the front of the house, glad for the interruption. He opened the door without checking the holoscan. It was a bad habit, but the home’s computer wouldn’t unlock the door if it detected any weapons, or if the visitor’s face matched anyone with a warrant or a criminal record.

  On the front landing was a middle-aged man in a Hawaiian shirt and blue jeans. His finely-trimmed black hair was graying near the temples. The man pressed a finger to his temple and his holographic sunglasses winked out. His dark eyes flicked over Morgan’s face.

  “Can I help you?” said Morgan.

  “I hope so,” said the man. He looked Morgan over. “Morgan Greenfield?”

  “Uh, yeah.” This was weird. How does he know my name, and why does he want to see me? No one ever asks for me. The car in the driveway caught his attention. It was a blue Porsche with a crumpled bumper. Oh shit.

  “Something wrong?” said the man.

  Morgan stepped back. “Look, if this is about that fender bender, it wasn’t my fault. The guy in front of me—”

  The man held up a hand. “Don’t worry about that. I’m not after your insurance policy.”

  “Oh, ok.” said Morgan.

  “Although I am after you.”

  Morgan took another step back. The man was shorter than Morgan, but muscular. Morgan doubted he would be as successful in a fight with this guy as he had been with Victor. He wondered if he could slam the door shut fast enough to keep the guy out.

  “I’m just here to talk about the force,” said the man.

  Morgan stared. “The what?”

  “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

  “No, except that Marc Lutstone said you were a track sponsor.”

  “Ah, I can see how this is confusing.” He held out his hand. “I’m Captain Michael Batson, International Space Force. You can just call me Batson. I saw how you drive and I’m impressed. That car of yours is incredible. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  After a second’s hesitation, Morgan shook Captain Batson’s hand. His grip was crushing. He had a shiny pin on his breast pocket. It was a rocket with four stars underneath.

  “So, you didn’t stick around at the end of the race?”

  Morgan shook his head. He thought about explaining the whole thing, but it was too complicated and he doubted the captain would be interested in all the details.

  “Well you missed my spiel then, but no matter. Have you ever considered a career in the military?”

  “No, not really.” Morgan pointed down the road at the lab building. “I’ve kind of got something lined up here, you know. Family business.”

  “But you know about the ISF?”

  “Everyone knows about the ISF. We were just talking about you guys inside.”

  Batson’s face lit up. “Really? Good things, I hope?”

  “I guess,” said Morgan. It was probably better to not bring up the finer points of that discussion.

  Captain Batson looked at his car, and then back to Morgan. “Well, I’ll keep it quick.” He pulled a data drive out of his pocket and handed it to Morgan. “Here’s all the standard promotional material. You can watch it whenever. As for me, I’m an old friend of Marc Lutstone. A while ago, Marc and I realized the skills needed for fighter pilots are the same as for racecar drivers. The Starfighter Academy is short on new cadets. I figured some of the racers at Blairsford might be interested. So, here I am.”

  “You’re a recruiter?”

  Batson nodded. “I saw how you drive, and you’d make a great pilot if you could pass all the quals. It’s like racing, just in space with lasers.”

  “Yeah,” said Morgan. “I’ve played the video games.”

  “It’s better than any game. You’d love it.”

  I probably would. But mom would kill me. And besides, I can’t do it. He cleared his throat. “Sorry, you p
robably didn’t notice. I’m a vanilla.” He took off his watch and pointed at the scar underneath. “My body rejects all biosynchronous technology. I almost lost my hand when I was six. My body rejected the health monitor they grafted on for school.”

  Batson held up his hands. “I thought you might be a non-augment. Trust me it’s not a problem. ISF pilots rarely rely on biotech to fly.”

  “They don’t?”

  “Hell no,” said Batson. “Bio mods might make a person’s day to day existence more interesting, but good old eyes, ears, hands, and feet are all we use to fly. There’s less latency, less delay waiting for the implant processors to send data to the brain. Besides, the space craft’s user interface can do a better job at sensory enhancements than anything you can build into your eyeballs. Most mods, like muscle cell augmentation or hearing range expansion, are useless in a fighter ship.”

  “I see.” I wonder if any of that is true, or if he’s just trying to bait me.

  Someone cleared their throat.

  “Oh, hello ma’am,” said Batson, looking past Morgan. “I’m Captain Michael Batson, ISF. I was just asking your son if he’d ever thought of a career in the force.”

  Morgan turned. His mom’s face went from suspicious to downright accusatory. “Hello,” she said, ignoring Batson’s outstretched hand. “And no, he hasn’t. My son doesn’t need a career that involves getting shot at.”

  Morgan grimaced. “Mom, I can talk you know.”

  “Ok, then tell him,” said Mrs. Greenfield.

  Morgan opened his mouth, paused, and then said, “I think I have to go now.” He patted the thumb drive, which he had pocketed. “I’ll think about what you said.”

  “Good,” said Batson. “Tell your girlfriend too. Something tells me she might be interested in getting off this rock. Oh, and I’m glad she’s ok. I watched the race record. There was no dodging that car, no matter how good your reflexes are. Tell her I’m sorry about her POD.”

  Morgan looked over his shoulder and was relieved to see no one else was standing behind his mother. “She’s just a friend,” he said. “But I’ll tell her.” He shook Batson’s hand.

  Batson grinned. “Well, you and your friend have a good day now.” He nodded at Mrs. Greenfield. “You too, Ma’am.” He turned, took a step down, and then exclaimed, “Oh, I almost forgot.” He pulled two slips of red paper from his pocket and handed them to Morgan. “Here.”