of money, in fact, along with the promise of six crates of fresh food. Even after Prumble’s cut, it was too tempting a reward to pass up. “All we want is to know the fate of our father. Bring us something, anything, that we can give a proper burial.”
Like a finger. Skyler yanked the container from its cord and slipped it into his inner jacket pocket.
He activated the intercom. “Sam, Jake, I need you to bury that welder.”
A few seconds passed before Samantha replied. “We could toss it overboard. Pick it up later.”
“Negative. We’re over the maze.”
“You’re not going to land, are you? Call their bluff,” she said. “They won’t waste a missile on us.”
Skyler bit back an urge to argue. The welder, a special model suitable for work aboard a space station, had a large reward associated with it. The highest out of everything they carried. Trying to wrestle it back from the occupants of the slum below them would be difficult, and very dangerous.
Angus interrupted the thought. “Five seconds. We’d better answer them.”
Unhappy with the alternative, Skyler sighed. “Acknowledge it. Change course for Nightcliff, and drop to two hundred meters.”
Within seconds the aircraft began to turn and descend. The fortress of Nightcliff, which surrounded the Elevator’s base, came into view.
Samantha’s voice crackled over the speaker. “I guess we’re playing along then?”
“We can’t risk our lift privs, Sam. Can you and Jake go through the crates and put anything valuable at the bottom?”
With a frustrated groan, she said, “Aye, aye,” and clicked off.
Skyler grunted. He thought of placing a few choice items near the door—an unspoken bribe—but that might backfire.
Through the rain-streaked canopy, Darwin looked like it had for years: a nearly perfect circle of chaotic slums and dense shanty neighborhoods, graduating to taller buildings toward the center. Gardens flourished on the more defensible roofs.
At the heart of it all, perched on the coastline, the fortress of Nightcliff surrounded the space elevator.
A flotilla of derelict barges and rusting cargo ships radiated out into the ocean beyond.
“The climbers aren’t moving,” Angus said.
Skyler looked from the tower at Nightcliff all the way up to the clouds. Sure enough, the climbers were frozen in place.
“Very strange,” he said. He kept deeper concerns to himself. No traffic on the Elevator meant no trade. No way to move the goods they’d plucked from Malaysia.
Damn the luck, he thought.
Angus did another half turn in his seat. “Should I ask Nightcliff about it?”
“Don’t bother,” he said. “We’ll know soon enough.”
Angus guided the Melville in a wide arc to approach the fortress from the east, as instructed, handling the gusting winds with quiet precision.
“Mind your altitude,” Skyler said. The kid flew with natural skill, and giving him the pilot’s seat, even for brief periods like this, built confidence. Yet even as the Melville leveled off for her approach to Nightcliff, Skyler caught himself mimicking the pilot’s actions. He loved to fly, to feel the bond between man and machine. The desire flowed deep within his psyche. Passing on the flight duties felt like the end of a lifelong friendship.
Someone has to lead, he reminded himself. With a smirk he contemplated putting Angus in the captain’s chair. The thought of returning to the simple pleasure of flying would almost make it worthwhile.
The sun, now set, left only a thin red smear along the western horizon. Darwin hid mostly in shadows. It looked almost peaceful from above—a cruel deception.
Few structures had electricity this far from the Elevator. Those that did were fueled by miniature thorium reactors buried deep underground. Based on the large payments offered to Skyler for finding spare parts—breakers, insulated wire, and the like—he knew such buildings were prized among the citizens. Electricity meant power, in every sense of the word. The ability to run lights, an air conditioner, or even spool capacitors could make all the difference in laying claim to a neighborhood.
Closer to Nightcliff, the buildings became taller. Gardens blanketed every rooftop, giving the skyline an eerie, forest-like silhouette in the waning light. The gardens were defended even more jealously than power sources. The wealthy, if they could be called that, barricaded themselves into the upper floors in order to protect their private food supply, their cisterns of water. Garden owners did not have to squabble over rationed food sent down from orbit. They could live in relative ease, trading any surplus for whatever goods and services they required. Like the recovery of the bodily remains of some left-behind patriarch. Skyler patted the vial inside