Cardomon Pt. II Early Material

Erin Koip Orinitus rose from her camp bed, slipped into a warm robe and fetched her baby out of his crib. Sitting on the edge of the cot, holding Sikar II to her chest, she looked through the open front of her shelter tent down the short graded approach to Lucy’s estate, morning mist smoked the treetops and heavy dew damped the terrain.

A second cot adjoined Erin’s, standing head to head, it was empty, only holding disturbed blankets in a heap. Around the foot of her bed a folding mattress lay on the ground, a sleeping figure stretched across it.

Her empty hand took her pillow and threw it at the man, hitting the back of his shoulders. “Wake up! Your wife is out running already, Grube is with her.”

Chilperic sat up and let the covers fall over his lap. He yawned and scratched a stubbled chin. “Don’t do that! I feel like I just got to bed.”

“Didn’t you? You were still drinking with those guys when Chris, Grube and I turned in. I bet you were up half the night!”

“Sometimes it’s the only way I can sleep.”

“You should relax with your wife, not with alcoholics. I don’t need you two here—go home and fuck, you’ll both feel better.”

“She hasn’t been in a good mood… ”

“So what? Just take her, she needs it. Sikar never asked about my moods and we had a lot of fun. Go—be a man.”

“Our marriage doesn’t work like that.”

“Your marriage isn’t working at all, as I see it. You’re up drinking with the guys all night and she’s out at sunrise running! Grube will move in on her before long—if he hasn’t already. I can’t let that happen—Grube is mine.”

“And how does he feel?”

“That’s irrelevant. Once I marry him, he will feel just fine.”

“You’re full of plans, aren’t you?”

“I’m looking to the future of my son. Sikar II needs a good father.”

“Grube isn’t half what his brother was.”

“Grube is strong enough—stronger than you. He’s quiet and determined and no, he doesn’t blister with passion like Sikar. Few men do—I don’t see any on this planet.”

“Isn’t that what you loved? How can you stand Grube in the comparison?”

“He has it and I’ll bring it out of him, if it kills him. For a man like Grube that’s the best life can be and he deserves the experience.”

“You will kill him, and yourself and probably your baby too.”

“Shut up, get dressed. Go get me breakfast.”

Chilperic gave her murder-eyes and a snarl braced by a nasty throat noise but he reached for his clothes and pulled them on, buckled a pair of shin-high brown boots, then went outside.

A second shelter covered a field kitchen with a thermo-chemical stove. He started a reagent flow to warm the catalyst grill and turned to a bucket of water. Shivers wracked him when he plunged his hands in and pulled up a cold splash to mop down his hair, a trickle ran down the back of his collar.

Filled a kettle, enough for a crowd, put it onto the heat, put a pan alongside and he dived into the larder box, came up with sweetroot, cheese, chicken meat and an onion. He grated, shredded, minced and chopped, threw it all into the pan and stirred, breakfast sizzled. Chilperic got out the coffee and set up a large pot.

The water boiled and he poured it, he heard the gate open and shut behind the sleeping tent and Lucy Haines joined him a moment later—right on time.

He filled her a mug. “How are your guests?”

She took the coffee. “Hungry.” Went to the stove and commandeered the cooking, tossed in a fat pinch of salt, sipped, stirred. She was leaner and grayer than she once was, tired looking downcast eyes moved continually, she never seemed comfortable.

Chilperic brought out bread and cut it. He put slices on a corner of the grill for toasting. “What do you guys do in there?” He poured two more coffees.

“Fight boredom—we’re losing.”

“Sometimes I hear shooting.”

“My target range. They have tons of ammunition.”

“They may need it. There’s still a lot of folks want to drag them out.”

“The first ones over the wall will die.”

“I know that.”

“Erin and you all are saving lives.”

“That’s not why we’re out here.”

“Does it matter?” She took the pan off of the heat. “This is done.”

Chilperic brought over bowls, he took two servings and the toast, put them onto a tray with the coffees and went back to the bedroom tent, Lucy helped herself, the pan remained half-full. She covered it and got a second skillet, started another round cooking and ate one-handed.

Outside the kitchen thirsty colonists gathered. There was a log ring and a small fire pit of cold ashes, people sat, others milled. Lucy carried the full coffeepot out to them.

A man followed her to the kitchen, he got mugs for everybody and went back out. He returned with the empty coffee pot and started making up a second one. “Nice morning, Lucy.”

“Too chilly,” but she managed a weak smile. “The crowd is small today.”

“Yeah, the cold. It’s way foggy down in the canyons. Besides, this scene isn’t a novelty any more. People are getting back to routines.”

Her smile expanded a bit. “I had the World at my doorstep for a while. Small World that it is.”

He chuckled with her. “It’s easy to be famous on Cardomon.”

Lucy laughed. “Thanks, Sorgha. You lifted my cloud.”

The second pan of food was done and Lucy emptied it into a large dish, put a lid over it and went back to her house.

The landing pad was dimpled into the ground, a mile-square apron surrounded by a sloping berm with a forty-foot vertical drop on the far side—the blast wall. Beyond that lay the structures for spaceport operations. A mound of drying mud occupied one quarter of the apron, tractors with heavy trailers brought polluted soil out of the marsh and added to the pile. Heady chemical vapors wafted from the heap and roiled the air in a mirage pattern.

A landing was scheduled, the apron cleared of personnel, one man—Homer Blairsden—walked out to the designated parking site and deposited a beacon on the ground. He trotted back to the blast wall opening, turned and went through a door on the back side.

Inside was the control room for landing/takeoff operations, waiting within were Arrolon Stemple, Charlene Hanson and Naomi Mukourji, the welcoming committee.

Homer sat at the communication console: “Almanor, this is Cardomon, Blairsden reporting. Landing site is secure, you are clear to initiate planetfall.”

“Thank you Homer, Chockswindae here. We are on schedule to commence maneuvers in four minutes.”

“Very good.”

An optical system projected an image of the landing field across a blank wall and made the darkened room into a camera obscura. The colonists sat in a row, awaited the ship.

The one previous visiting vessel, years before, had made a spectacular (and hazardous) display of power to announce the arrival of the Brahe Merchant Delevan Glatz.

Being of more modest and frugal temper, Hermione Chockswindae landed the Almanor in a simple ballistic arc. High density reaction fuel burned with supercompressed atmospheric gasses, most of the exhaust was water vapor and a steamy white cloud shrouded the vessel. It descended as a column from the sky, crosswinds blew wispy tracers into the jet stream.

The noise boomed across thirty miles of countryside but it was eerily quiet inside the blockhouse. It shook, and a monitor beeped at each thousand feet of descent but only a faint rumble penetrated the door.

The interval between beeps increased, stretched to a long minute and longer, vibration and rumble mounted and the vapors clouded over the camera obscura lens.

A final beep with a flattened tone signaled landing and the room went still. A red light above the door indicated toxic exhaust fumes lingered beyond, after a moment it turned green.

A quick check of the instruments showed Homer that the Almanor was within a half-inch of the landing target—close enough.

A tractor stood outside, the colonists boarded and drove toward the ship. She had simple lines, a tall black silo rising from a bell shaped base, the domed summit came to a point four hundred yards up in the sky, the body was fifty yards across and the bell’s diameter was one hundred yards.

As the tractor approached an opening appeared high on the Almanor’s flank, a davit extended suspending a cylindrical carriage ten yards wide. It traveled to the ground and the colonists drew up to it.

They climbed from the tractor and walked to the elevator car. It had sliding double doors that opened when they neared, there was a single occupant.

She stood in a relaxed posture, one hand by her thigh, the other below her chin, and had a gentle smile. Her clothes were simple and crisp, white trousers, short gray jacket, pastel orange blouse, they bore no insignia. Alert gray eyes glittered in deep shadowed sockets around a long thin wedge nose, a firm square jaw, poorly tamed white hair loose to brow, ears and neck, with skin pale from long exposure to only synthetic lighting. She blinked at the bright day: “I’m Hermione Chockswindae, Master of the Almanor. Permission to come to ground?”

Homer: “Granted. One formality—are you carrying any weapons?”

“No, I present myself at your mercy.” She bowed her head.

“Thank you, my fellow settlers insisted that I ask. Welcome to Cardomon. I’m Homer Blairsden.”

Naomi came forward: “Quite silly, but under the recent circumstances, understandable.” She grinned and opened her arms: “It’s wonderful to see you again.”

Hermione stepped from the elevator, received the hug and smooch.

Arrolon approached her with open hands, he wore his widest smile.

Hermione took the hands in hers and returned the grin: “You’re married, I understand. Happily?”

“Very, we have two children, and I love it.” He bent slightly, they touched shoulders and lip-kissed quickly.

“A pity, R & R in your company was always most rejuvenating. But I can share you with a wife and family. I trust you still have the first class cellar?”

“Best on the planet,” Arrolon said modestly. “We planted vines over the winter and the villa will be open by summers end.”

“Excellent. You certainly know how to live.” She broke from her former lover and turned toward the biologist: “I haven’t the pleasure… ”

Homer came back into the scene: “This is my wife, Charlene Hanson—she’s the colony’s biotechnician.”

Charlene was not as slender as she once was, Homer’s cooking, and her own, bulked her midsection and filled out her bosom, her face was round and moon-like, hair trimmed to an efficient shoulder length wedge, she pinned it back around the ears and her eyes tended to an outdoorsy squint. She smiled and hugged the visitor: “Welcome, have a pleasant stay.”

“Thank you. It’s a joy already, breathing fresh air and seeing new people.” She addressed the whole group: “There are one hundred persons in the Almanor’s crew. I request ground privileges for them. They can come out in small parties so as to not create a disturbance.”

Homer: “Of course. There aren’t many facilities here at the spaceport, or even in town, we’ve never had visitors. But a few people are offering space in their homes, and we can provide tractors. Your crew won’t need a map, there’s only one road.”

“Excellent. Let’s go see your town.”

The group sauntered toward the tractor.