Hidden Fires Read online

  Hidden Fires

  Katharine Eliska Kimbriel

  Table of Contents

  Book View Café

  Copyright © 1991, 2010 Katharine Eliska Kimbriel

  ISBN: 978 1 61138 031 6

  Dedication

  For my parents, and grandparents, with love:

  Katharine Layman Schell Kimbriel

  who has taught me patience;

  William Donald Kimbriel

  who has taught me prudence;

  Frances Eliska Stricklin Kimbriel

  who taught me graciousness;

  Harry Augustus Kimbriel

  who taught me generosity;

  Mary Katharine Turman Schell

  who taught me honesty;

  James Layman Schell

  who taught me endurance.

  Thank you all —

  Second Edition Acknowledgments

  There are always special people involved with the birth of a book. When I wrote geologist Ann Palen and miner Al Mosch of the Independent Mining Association, I hoped for a few suggested references. I did not expect an invitation to see their mine and their work through their eyes — everything from the Phoenix Mine in Idaho Springs, CO to the Buffalo Bar and Grill! They said: “You must see it to understand it.” At the least, I know what they meant, and I hope I have conveyed a bit of the wonder and terror the hardrock mines inspire. Their tireless efforts on my behalf led to one of the most incredible experiences of my career — a tour of the AMAX Inc. Henderson Molybdenum Mine in Empire, Colorado.

  Thanks to their work with AMAX Public Relations Manager Terry Fitzsimmons, I spent the better part of a morning 2,000 feet beneath the earth. Kudos go to General Manager William R. Hinken for graciously allowing the tour, and enthusiastic thanks to Chief Engineer William G. Doepken and Industrial Engineer Eivind B. Jensen. Bill gave me the bird’s eye-view, while Eivind took me to the depths, giving me a solid base on which to build a trinium mine. If this book even hints at the realities of mining, it is greatly due to their efforts. All errors and wild flights of fancy are my own.

  The search for Element 110 (back in 1990) was long and tiring, and Mike Inbody helped ferret out articles I simply didn’t have access to — thanks, Mike! And again, thanks to Jack Crain, Weatherford, Texas, designer and maker of fine handmade knives. His love of his craft comes through with every word he speaks, and I hope the antique Crain cat knife is worthy of him.

  Finally, current challenges would have made this e-book launch infinitely more difficult without the expert help of Vonda N. McIntyre, P. G. Nagle, Jennifer Stevenson, Amy Sterling Casil and Don Dixon. I offer my heartfelt thanks for their generosity with their time and expertise.

  Enemy:

  One who desires to harm or destroy a person or thing to which he is opposed. SYN Enemy and Foe both indicate a person, group, thing, etc. that is hostile to one.

  Chapter One

  CAESAREA STATION 2389 A.R.

  He had spent a hundred years seeking the woman called Silver; he still didn’t know if he was going to kill her.

  It was an idle thought, floating through a haze of weariness to the front of his mind. Garth slowed, his eyes focusing on the gaudy calendar filling the display window to his left. Tiny white lights framed the safety glass, clustered like wild grapes at the tops and sides where the curve was pronounced, trickling off like fireflies through the blazing dates. Had he lost track?... No — there was the Axis year, in the corner. It was the last month of 2389, and his parents had died in 2288. A hundred years of searching, and the prize was as elusive as ever.

  Damn Hobbs and his penchant for gambling! Damn the Caesarean port authorities for discovering his smuggling operation and demanding reciprocity when they did. A few hours, I only needed a few hours.... But the port authorities at Norwood had sealed off the ship, seizing the cargo. No money for the crew, no money for fuel — no way off Norwood Station, or even onto Norwood, as in Garth’s case. Bundled back into Sleep and returned to Caesarea Station for questioning. Damn, damn, damn! How many years lost?

  No one had seen any of Silver’s recent partners since a trip made to Norwood, so the people to question would be on Norwood. No sense in asking other free-traders. No one in “the business” talked about anyone else... it was a marvel they got any work done at all.

  Without really noticing Garth had started moving again. If he had thought about it, he would have simply said the area in front of that display window was stuffy. In truth the vacuum beneath the alloy grills below his feet had been defective; the lack of air movement around his legs had made him nervous. It was only a sectional breakdown — the familiar sucking motion now pulling at his soles soothed the uneasiness within. A spacer reaction, an instinctive reaction... the type of knowledge that could save a life. Only those who learned it in their bones lasted more than a few years at this trade.

  “Garth! Garth Kristinsson!” The voice was low and almost furry; Garth turned his head in response. A dark, slender man appeared to his right, his personal gear still stored in his bakit. “They sprung you?”

  “No reason not to,” Garth replied, fixing the speaker with a steely eye. Jamar could be very good company, but his tongue tended to wander too freely when he was among friends. A dangerous habit on a wheel....

  “Of course.” Jamar flinched back into his shoulder pack as he took the hint. “Now what?”

  Garth knew that he meant work. Idiot. “I’m hungry,” he answered. “What’s good right now?”

  Since Jamar had been on Caesarea Station before transferring to Hobb’s ship at Norwood, the deportation had given him a quick round trip. “Blue Diamond and Lowe’s are still good, and Rest has been good lately, I heard.”

  Studying reflections in the polished aluminum walls, Garth said: “Let’s try Lowe’s.” Was that the same man he had seen outside the Protectorate offices? Undistinguished, the type Caesarea preferred as police....

  “Turn here,” Jamar prompted, nudging Garth slightly to the left. Using his long years of experience, the wiry little man led the way into the maze of the wheel.

  How did they keep it so clean? Most geosynchronous wheels quickly acquired the grimy, beaten look of the stations circling Gavriel and Emerson, but Caesarea was different. It must have something to do with their image, Garth decided, keeping one eye focused on the deep green pack strapped to Jamar’s back and the other on the man following them. “Commerce” was every Caesarean’s middle name, and “gold” was their lifeblood. The face presented to potential clients and customers must be immaculate.

  A sharp left turn took them off the rim and onto a spoke of the wheel. Sweet Jesu, he hated spokes — the soundproofing wasn’t as good as the rim, and the echoes of voices made his head ache. Why a wheel entirely of steel, aluminum, and chrome? Norwood System’s discovery of petroleum meant plastic was cheap again. They could replace a few interior panels for variety.... Although what glass there was faced away from the star, it was still darkened, and lent little relief to the scenery. In this row glass was almost non-existent. Most of the free-trader bars were along this strip, as well as a few eating places popular with Axis Forces. Free-traders were much pickier than military or pirates; food and liquor had to be good, and the establishment had to have a few quiet, private areas. Entertainment, be it hologram, interaction, or even live, was of no account with free-traders. Word of mouth kept these places going, much to Caesarea’s chagrin. Military served a purpose, and pirates could be boarded, their cargo confiscated — but free-traders usually managed to slip through cracks in the floor. Their favorite haunts were much as they were — destructive in their own way, like rats, for instance, but not dangerous unless approached.

  Lowe’s was a perfect example of why authorities d
isliked free-trader hangouts. It looked like a dive from the outside; walls and dark glass smudged and dirty, the metallic paint over the door flaking, making the place “I owe” to the uninitiated. If Lowe still owned it, Garth imagined it was purposely left in poor condition; it would be Lowe’s idea of a joke. To Caesareans either outbound or meeting for business on the wheel, the facade was a clear warning: This place is not for you. Stay out.

  Inside was another story. Lowe’s was licensed for food, liquor, and gambling — the sex outlet was upstairs, and regulars considered it to be separate from the main operation. A cousin of Lowe’s handled that end... Garth suspected Lowe didn’t like the cousin. Lowe himself was in the “passive entertainment business,” as he called it. Good food, strong drinks, and a pleasant place to hide out; it was clean, but not fancy. If you wanted music, or something else, you went elsewhere. At Lowe’s, you were getting the extended family treatment. It was a good enough combination that he actually made profits Caesarea knew about. If the police knew Lowe also sold information, they couldn’t do anything about it.

  Slipping in the front door, Garth followed Jamar’s lead, hoping Lowe was out on business. Lowe was one of the few who remembered his father, Kristin Arnason, and therefore was certain to remember Garth. After six hours of questioning, Garth was in no mood for the old man’s subtle prying.

  Someone was cooking fresh pea pods and tofu, and the smell was heavenly. Jamar found a small table to his liking and placed his bakit on a chair. While he went to the bar — liquor service was from the bar only, or had been the last time Garth was on wheel — Garth settled in the chair facing the door. As he had hoped, the undistinguished man had disappeared. Or had he? Garth glanced up at the screens lining the top of the aisle wall. Only one was an omni, broadcasting news; a few showed the gambling activities in back, or the formal dining room behind the bar, but most showed current scenes from the wheel. The central arboretum, the landing bays, the administrative sector... the spoke outside the door. Framing screens on opposite sides of the wall showed both sides of the aisle. And there was his pursuer, loitering at a push vendor hooked a meter or so down the way. Dumb. All push vendors were assumed to be administrative spies. Definitely not a free-trader, then. Probably police.

  “Wheel activity fascinating tonight?” came a soft voice. Growing still, Garth mentally cursed Jamar. True, the authorities would not dare follow him in here — legally they might enter, but whether someone followed them back out and cut their throat was anyone’s guess — but Garth really did not want to talk to Lowe. He had the lecture memorized. Besides, he was angry with the old man. One of Kristin Arnason’s best friends, and he kept saying he knew nothing about a woman called Silver. Horseshit on that — there was nothing worth knowing about free-trading that Lowe didn’t know. If it was nothing else, Silver’s elusive career was the stuff of which legends were made.

  “Just one spoke,” he decided to answer, keeping his voice casual. A drink appeared in front of him. Lowe must have brought it himself; the waits did not truck liquor around. Knowing it was safe, Garth nodded his thanks and sipped the sweet drink. It would have been rude to refuse, even though it implied a slight debt to accept it. If Jamar would just —

  Damn. He’d spotted a woman he’d obviously known his previous jump here, and was trying to turn their recent problems into a humorous story. Not funny to the police, who had received an entire shipload of workers ignorant of the smuggling... and obviously didn’t believe in their innocence.

  “Will you dine with me in back?”

  This required facing the old man. Lord, what had he done to deserve this? All he wanted to do was relax, fill his stomach, and get a line on cargo ships going to Norwood. Now he’d be tied up an entire evening. Slowly Garth angled his body toward Lowe.

  This time Lowe actually looked older; the FOY treatments must have reached their limit. That bothered Garth. Lowe might have been a pain the last few times they’d spoken, but the man was one of the pillars of the station. Too bad there wasn’t really a Fountain Of Youth, despite the company’s claims. Only Sleep gave extended life, and even it had its price. Lowe’s hair was still dark, but lines were beginning to show in his face. He’s lost weight, Garth thought. He looks tired, not like Lowe. Thoughts of using Jamar as an excuse withered. This might be the last time; Garth could stand the lecture if only Lowe would spare him any questions.

  “I’ll have to make my excuses to Jamar,” Garth started, his fingers entwining around the delicate, fluted glass.

  “I’ve already spoken to Jamar. It’s better that Hobbs’ crew see very little of each other in the next few days... and take separate ships out, if possible.” Slowly turning, the man moved with stately grace toward the stairs and the casino. What with a noticeable weight drop — Garth estimated he’d lost at least fifty kilos — Lowe more than ever looked like his establishment. The silvery suit and dark, high-collared shirt made him resemble his own front door. But then Lowe was taller than most men, and could draw attention accordingly. Pushing two meters, Lowe was hard to miss in a crowd. Yet he had been a famous free-trader... it took many different links to form the chain.

  Finally the words sunk in, and Garth stood to follow. Better they not see each other? Damn! Worse than he’d thought. All this shit and only standard wage? He was tempted to tell Lowe he wanted storm pay, and let him negotiate it with Hobbs for his usual fee. First the dinner; it was an honor to be asked to dine in the club area, one Garth had never had without his father present. There had to be a reason. If he was patient, Lowe would tell it to him.

  Dinner was impressive; fresh chopped salad made of vegetables native to three worlds, followed by real meat, delicately roasted and seasoned, a crumbly white cheese melted on top. Fine brandy and whipped chocolate finished the meal, filling the few remaining empty spaces in Garth’s stomach. Not wishing to borrow trouble, Garth neither calculated the value of such a spread nor tried to guess what Lowe wanted in return for such generosity. Instead he politely inquired about current wheel gossip, and listened as the secrets of half a dozen worlds strolled across his ears.

  At last Lowe gestured for the wait to leave the brandy. In the stillness that followed, the old man slowly turned his glass stem between a strong finger and thumb, watching the reflections thrown by the fluid within. “And what of you, Garth?” he said finally. “It has been a while since you graced my establishment.”

  “Here and there,” Garth replied, hazarding a grin. “Norwood most recently.”

  “A very quick trip. You intend to find another ship heading that way?” Keen grey eyes angled to meet a gaze of icy blue innocence. “I can save you some looking. A transport left a few days back — there won’t be another until next month, at least.”

  Probably true... it was too easy to check the story. Was Lowe actually going to hire him for something? But the old man preferred experienced free-traders — Garth knew his own training was still too meager to satisfy Lowe.

  “Let us dispense with fencing. I take it you are still searching for Hank Edmonton and Silver Meath?” Lowe’s voice was very quiet; Garth did not remember it as so quiet.

  “Silver Meath. Hank Edmonton is dead.” He tried to keep the reply simple as he concentrated on the heady vapor of the brandy.

  “People die,” Lowe said conversationally, almost as if agreeing with something.

  Garth acknowledged the unasked question. “Natural causes, apparently. He pushed FOY as far as it would go, and his heart finally gave out. I think he left free-trading not long after dad died.” Tell only the truth; Lowe had a nose for ragged tales, and it was said he could smell a lie at ten paces.

  “I noticed during your absence that a century had passed since the unfortunate demise of your parents. A hundred years is a long time to follow someone merely to ascertain your father’s last emotions before death claimed him.” Lowe’s gaze had not swerved from his face.

  That was essentially what Garth had told Lowe. No one knew the entire story
— good luck and a glib tongue had kept all secrets safe. But an uneasy feeling traced his spine; Garth had a feeling his luck with secrets was about to run out.

  “Rumors still surface about that job... about the aftermath. Almost five hundred bars of gold vanished from that vault. Must have been, oh, 150, 160 a piece for them. You certainly don’t need to work. Is your only goal in life to find this woman?”

  “Yes.”

  Lowe’s eyebrows lifted slightly at his emphatic tone of voice. “A hundred years, and only a few months for you.... Any chance you might tell me the entire story this time?”

  “Are you calling me a liar?” Very soft; Garth felt muscles starting to bunch and fought it.

  Lowe’s expression softened. “No, you’re not lying. You’re simply not telling me all you know or suspect — it’s quite a different thing.” His gaze dropped to his brandy snifter. “I can’t help you unless you tell me what is going on. And this is probably my last chance to help you. Information is my lifeblood, Garth — why have you never used the best source at your disposal?”

  “Because you always tell me to give it up!” The return to normal volume sounded like shouting, but Garth couldn’t help it. Old resentment mingled with new pain, as the old man obliquely confirmed earlier guesses. Time was running out for Lowe...there would be a new pillar of information on Caesarea Station the next time Garth passed through. “I’m going to find this woman if it takes a thousand years! All your meddling to keep me on false trails has only made it harder — it hasn’t changed my mind.”

  “You think I’ve tried to stop you?” Lowe looked up once again. His face was intent — then Garth thought he saw a trace of humor. “I haven’t done anything more than keep a vague eye on your travels.” Lowe reached absently for a piece of the cheese the wait had slipped onto the table. “Do you really think someone has muddied the waters? Beyond what Hank, Silver, and your father did after the job,” he added.