“Yes, Admiral, I received the updated estimates as soon as I arrived at the space station.”

The fact he spoke via a vidphone link didn’t stop Harrison Fairfax from pressing thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, trying to quell the dull headache that only worsened his nausea.

“Is there a problem?” Admiral Derocher asked brusquely, managing to cancel the pleasant cadence of his Jamaican accent.

Fairfax looked up, hoping he wouldn’t lose his meager lunch in front of the admiral. “No, not at all. Four billion is still well within my range. I’ve already got my accountants working on it. If you’d like to check back around five o’clock, I can give you an update.”

“That would be fine.” Derocher cleared his throat. “I hope you have a pleasant trip.”

Fairfax swallowed, smiled wryly. “So far it’s been a living hell. But thanks anyway.”

Derocher nodded once. Fairfax, assuming the admiral was finished, broke the vidphone connection and carefully stretched out on the narrow couch. One hand fumbled in the overnight bag on the floor, eventually emerging with a large dark blue bottle. The space station’s doctor had given him a prescription, but Fairfax had left the little foil packet of pills in the bathroom. He’d tried those pills before—they were useless.

He tipped the bottle to his mouth and took a swig. A product of Fairfax Pharmaceuticals, the travel sickness medication lacked a patent and a few levels of government approval, but it worked.

Ever since his parents and older brother had died in a plane crash fifteen years ago, Fairfax hadn’t been able to fly in any vehicle without medication. Fortunately, the nausea had begun to fade when he’d reached the space station. Apparently his subconscious didn’t differentiate between airplanes and space shuttles, but the big, stable space station was acceptable. Hopefully the big behemoth of an interplanetary vessel wouldn’t upset him, either.

He sat up gingerly, and the room didn’t spin. Good. Flipping on his computer pad, he dialed into MediaNet.

Not for the first time, he wondered exactly what kind of situation he was getting into. Two days ago he’d been sitting at home in New SanFran, hacking into State Department files, when Admiral Derocher had called. Nothing to do with the hacking, thank God. Rather, he’d been interested in discussing an investment opportunity. One extended by EarthFed President Schumann himself. Could Fairfax be on a shuttle in twenty-four hours?

Of course, Fairfax could. Even billionaire financier Harrison Fairfax didn’t say no to EarthFed President Schumann. So here he was, over 20,000 miles above the Earth, waiting for his accountants to work up a plan for investing in the Earth colony of Denahault.

He still wasn’t completely sure why.

He took another swig from the bottle, probably putting himself well over the recommended daily dosage. His search of MediaNet had provided a nice selection of public domain files. He scanned the information, nodding to himself from time to time.

Information on the Denahault colony was spotty, but there was no mention of financial problems. Access to the detailed records, unsurprisingly, had been denied. So why was Derocher in charge of courting Fairfax’s investment? It wasn’t the kind of thing admirals usually dealt with, and the colony didn’t even appear to need the money.
Fairfax had his suspicions. There was nothing for it but to see how things played out.

The next part held more immediate interest.

The departure of the EarthFed starship Starchild had been delayed until late tomorrow to accommodate Fairfax’s arrival. The ship’s captain was one Trieka Cavendish. She’d graduated with honors from the EarthFed Academy, maintaining a spotless record since. Not necessarily a good sign. Unquestionable loyalty, as far as Fairfax was concerned, spoke rather poorly for her.

Then again, he probably knew things she didn’t.

He read the rest of her rather impressive professional bio, then turned off the computer. He was scheduled to meet her at six p.m.—he’d size her up then, see if he could get some sense of what she might know.

Not that he expected to be able to trust her. In his position, Fairfax could afford to trust no one.

* * *

Captain Trieka Cavendish was fifteen minutes early for her evening one-on-one briefing because she hated to be late and had little patience with those who were. Hopefully, her guest wouldn’t be so punctual, so she could vent some of her annoyance on him.

“Mr. Fairfax,” she pictured herself saying. “You may be a civilian, and you may own half the United States and selected chunks of Europe, but while you’re on my ship, you’ll obey my rules. And one of those is punctuality.”

Trieka smiled a little, crossing the small private dining room to look out the viewport. She wasn’t normally so vindictive, but it had been a long and frustrating day.

The viewport at the moment afforded a view of Earth, partially obstructed by a protuberance of the space station. Watching Earth drift out of viewing distance with the rotation of EarthStar II, Trieka thought not of the distances and what she would leave behind, but of her desire to begin her mission.

She turned away, her smile turning wry but not quite bitter. Thanks to Admiral Derocher and the too-rich-for-his-own-good Mr. Harrison Fairfax, she’d have to wait another twelve hours.

The door slid open and Trieka glanced toward it, expecting Fairfax. Instead a waiter breezed in, carrying a large tray of fruit and cheese. Mabel’s Station Café had supplied private waitstaff to go with the private room. If Trieka had been briefing any other passenger, she would have had to do it shipboard, in one of the claustrophobic closets reserved for the purpose.

“Is this acceptable?” the waiter asked, setting the big silver tray on the big silver table. “Commander Anderson suggested it.”

Trieka nodded, eyeing the cheese squares hungrily. “This is fine. Apparently our guest won’t be up to rumaki.”

The fresh-faced waiter smiled engagingly. “The commander suggested a change to the entrée as well. The cook settled on a bland pasta dish.”

Trieka nodded. Now Fairfax was ruining her dinner. She’d been looking forward to that filet mignon. “Sounds appropriate. Thank you.”

“Can I bring you anything else?”

“Just water, please.” Fairfax wouldn’t be up to wine, and Trieka was on duty.

“Good enough. There’s a call button under the edge of the table if you need anything else.”

“Thank you.”

As soon as the waiter was gone, Trieka pounced on the cheese. Busy with preboard all day, she hadn’t had much for lunch. And then she’d gotten the call from Admiral Derocher.

Her departure had been delayed to accommodate Fairfax, who would be joining the two hundred and forty-eight colonists traveling to Denahault, by direct request of EarthFed President Schumann. EarthFed had apparently decided to court private investors to support the colonization effort, and Fairfax was the first target. It was an important development that would draw media and put Trieka in the kind of political position she generally tried to avoid.

The strong white cheddar practically melted in her mouth. No dehydrated, reconstituted shipboard rations here. She glanced at her watch: 1610. He was late.

Trieka wasn’t surprised. She’d spent part of the afternoon watching media vidclips of Fairfax and thought she knew something about him. Poised, handsome, self-assured, richer than God, he wasn’t the kind of man who would care particularly if he left someone like Trieka hanging. She picked up another cheese square and let herself seethe.

The door slid open again and Trieka turned. The waiter returned, behind him her late guest.

“We’ve arranged for a private dining room, Mr. Fairfax,” the waiter said, setting two carafes of water down on the table. “Dinner will be served in about half an hour.”

“Thank you, Carl.” Fairfax stepped back to allow the waiter to walk past him out of the room. Trieka quirked an eyebrow. The waiter hadn’t worn a nametag. This guy was good.

Fairfax turned his attention to Trieka. “Captain Cavendish, I presume?”

“Correct,” Trieka replied as Fairfax extended his hand. Trieka took it. She had to look up to meet his eyes, but she did it squarely.

He shook her hand once in a comfortably firm grip. “Good to meet you. I’m sorry I’m late. I was tied up on the phone with Admiral Derocher.”

So, not only was he polite, but he had a good excuse. “I suppose I can’t fault you for that. Have a seat.”

He moved past her to sit at the table. He was taller than she’d expected, an inch or two over six feet. Not quite as handsome as she’d thought, either, since the vidclips de-emphasized the too-long nose and slightly weak chin. Though well-tailored, his gray-blue suit still hung a bit. Trieka didn’t know much about men’s fashions, but she knew enough to realize the suit plus the shoes would have cost her a couple months’ salary.

She waited until he’d settled before choosing her own chair. He smiled a little as she sat. A nice smile. His mouth was beautifully shaped, his eyes the color of an autumn storm-sky. Perhaps he wasn’t the perfectly handsome and incredibly eligible bachelor the media made him out to be, but Trieka had to admit he certainly wasn’t ugly.

“How are you feeling?” Trieka asked. “Medical told us you had a rough trip.”

“Better,” he said, “but not quite up to Mabel’s famous chili.”

Trieka smiled. “That’s all right. We’re having a nice, bland pasta dish.”

Fairfax nodded, then made a questioning gesture toward the cheese.

“Help yourself.”

He picked out a few cubes of white cheese, avoiding the yellow ones, and placed them in a neat row on the table in front of him. Then he picked up a grape and looked at it.

“Air travel’s never really agreed with me,” he said. “Apparently shuttle trips are no better.” He rolled the grape between long fingers, then set it down. A plain gold band circled his left ring finger. Why? She was fairly certain he was a widower, and the vidclips she’d studied to prepare for his arrival had been careful to mention his bachelor status as often as possible.

“Then may I ask why you decided to invest in off-planet property?” she asked.

“They told me space travel wasn’t as likely to cause me any problems.” He picked up the grape again and put it back on the tray. “They lied.”

“You didn’t have to leave Earth to invest,” Trieka persisted.

Fairfax looked at her, his eyes a bit too shrewd for her liking. “I never invest in property I haven’t seen.”

“I see.”

Trieka poured herself a glass of water, then filled Fairfax’s glass without asking him if he wanted any. He nodded thanks and drank.

“The trip on the Starchild will be considerably different from the shuttle trip,” she said. “Have you heard of hyperspace sickness?”

She found his grimace perversely rewarding. “Please tell me I’m not going to spend the entire trip in the head.”

“Probably not. It’s just something you should be aware of. Acute sickness can cause hallucinations and severe disorientation. It has to be caught early.” He seemed to be listening as he switched a slightly too-small piece of cheese for a larger one. She went on. “A list of symptoms is posted on the wall of each passenger’s quarters.Sickbay personnel are available at a moment’s notice if there are any problems.”

He shifted a few more cheese cubes into a pyramid. He still hadn’t eaten any of them. “That’s acceptable.”
Trieka pressed her lips together. “I run a tight ship, Mr. Fairfax. You’ll be expected to follow orders without question. There’s to be no interference with my crew. I’ll go over the basic rules of conduct while we eat. Any breach of these rules could get you confined to quarters at my discretion.”

She paused for breath, and Fairfax leaned forward, looking directly at her. A lock of hair fell down to curl against his forehead. Trieka stopped halfway through the breath, captured in his gaze.

“Captain Cavendish,” Fairfax said mildly, “if you’ve brought me here to tell me not to try to run your ship, you’re wasting your time, because I have no intention of doing so. If, however, you’d like to tell me how to avoid this hyperspace sickness, or explain to me exactly how much more vomiting I can expect to endure before we reach Denahault, then talk away, because I consider that useful information.”

Trieka opened her mouth, then closed it with a snap. He was walking all over her, and quite politely, too.
Fairfax leaned back in his chair, pointing at the pile of dark yellow cheese squares. “Is that sharp cheddar?”

“No, it’s fairly mild,” Trieka answered, still a little off-balance.

Fairfax picked up a few yellow squares and added them to his pyramid. Trieka took advantage of the moment to collect herself.

“I apologize. It’s been my experience that people of your stature are supremely bad at taking orders. Especially from women. I wanted to be certain there were no misunderstandings. I hope I haven’t offended you.”

“I’m not easily offended, Captain.” He had one too many cheese squares for his structure. He ate the extra piece, making a face as he swallowed.

Trieka studied him. She’d transported a few world leaders to various space station summits and they’d carried a similar aura, one Trieka found compelling. It was an unconscious, easy self-confidence that pulled ordinary mortals into unwilling orbit.

He looked at her again and his power struck her full force. She refused to look away, unwilling to cede even the slightest fraction of authority.

“I get the feeling,” he said, “that you don’t want me on your ship.”

“Earth-lubbers don’t belong on colony ships. The people I’m taking to Denahault worked for two years to prepare for this trip. I don’t think it’s appropriate they should be delayed in this way, and if the order hadn’t come from the president I probably would have protested.” She paused. “And now you can relay that back to Derocher, and I’ll lose my job.”

To Trieka’s surprise, Fairfax laughed. “I don’t think so. Derocher told me basically the same thing. That I should expect a somewhat less than warm welcome. That your concern is first and foremost for the safety and welfare of your crew, and that I wasn’t likely to contribute a great deal to that.” He added a few more squares of cheese to his growing pyramid, still laughing softly.

Trieka bit down hard on her pride to keep it from escaping. After a moment of recovery, she said, “I don’t like politics and I never have. I suppose I’m a disappointment to him in that respect.”

Fairfax looked at her, still smiling, and with unwarranted warmth in his eyes. “On the contrary, I got the impression he would have been disappointed if you’d responded any other way.”

“I think he knows me a little too well.” She folded her hands neatly on the table. “I apologize, Mr. Fairfax. I suppose I have no business telling you how to run your affairs.”

“No more than I have any business telling you how to run your ship. I assure you, I’ll be as little trouble as possible.”

“Maybe not to me, but I think you’ll keep medical busy.”

Fairfax grimaced. “That’s the least welcome prediction I’ve heard today.”

He ate a few pieces of cheese, slowly demolishing the carefully stacked pyramid. Each succeeding piece seemed to go down more easily. Trieka wondered if the pyramid had been an avoidance tactic. She picked a few strawberries from the tray, feeling her stomach rumble. She hoped Carl would bring the pasta soon.

“Anyway, in the spirit of not causing trouble, I am going to have to ask you for a favor.” Fairfax gave a slight shrug, as if in apology. “This whole situation has caught me rather unprepared. I need to download some information from the EarthFed public archives to complete my overviews, so I’ve brought my own computer equipment.”

Trieka nodded. “I can help you with that. It’s a bit tricky downloading from space, but it can be done.”

“I appreciate any help I can get.”

Trieka smiled a little. “Dairy products are helpful.”

He looked up questioningly, obviously unsure how dairy products could help him download from the EarthFed public archives. “For what?”

“Hyperspace sickness. Dairy products usually help.”

“Now that,” he said, his mild voice becoming suddenly emphatic, “is something I need to know.”

* * *

Later, Fairfax walked the corridors of EarthStar II, unable to sleep. He and Cavendish had eaten, then she’d finished the briefing, explaining the standard operating procedures of her ship and a little bit about the colony on Denahault. Not that Denahault would matter much to him in the long run. It was just a means to an end, both for himself and EarthFed.

Finally she’d dismissed him, subtly making sure he understood the situation was exactly that. He didn’t mind, and hadn’t bothered to battle her for dominance. He’d gotten the feeling it had annoyed her.

Now he walked and admired the sleek lines of the space station’s interior architecture, the smooth, reflective silver of the walls. He recognized the space-forged alloys—one of his companies owned several of the patents—but he’d never seen them in action. The smooth merges from walls to floor to ceiling and the dull reflections combined for an effect that was disconcerting but strangely comforting. The not-quite familiar material stood as a reminder that he walked a corridor several thousand miles above the surface of the earth. But, at the same time, it threw back at him the most familiar element in his world—his own face. The architect in him, which had come out when he’d funded the post-quake reconstruction of New SanFran, wondered if there was any way to recreate that effect with Earth-based materials.

Finally he stopped in the observation lounge. There was an empty table near the window wall. He sat down, looking out at the blue-and-white curve of the Earth. The simple beauty of the spectacle arrested his thoughts. If he angled himself in his chair just right and leaned forward, he felt like he might topple right through the window and fall until he embraced the smooth surface of the planet beneath.

“May I get you a drink, sir?”

Jerked out of the spell, Fairfax looked up to see a tuxedo-clad waiter standing next to his table. “Scotch and soda,” he answered. The waiter nodded smartly and departed.

The waiter’s near-military posture brought Cavendish to Fairfax’s mind. Smallish and slim, polished to a military sheen that was oddly offset by her short red curls and the freckles on her narrow nose, Captain Cavendish carried with her an aura of complete control and self-confidence. Fairfax found her intimidating. He hadn’t been intimidated by anyone since the day he’d met Katharine.

An investigative journalist with a reputation worthy of a pit bull, Katharine Maier had been the last person Fairfax had wanted to see on his doorstep that day. But the story she’d come to investigate had proven to be smoke, and she’d dissipated it with aplomb. Then she’d bought him flowers, and later they’d dated, then married, and then she was gone. She and her father and a private plane, gone as if they’d never existed.

The waiter returned with his drink and Fairfax took a long swig, feeling the alcohol sear his throat. He still found it difficult to think of Katharine, even after seven years.

Which was, of course, why he was here.

Cavendish had agreed to help him with the computer—she’d had no reason not to. He could acquire the last few files en route to Denahault. The picture should become clear then, and the only hurdle left would be how to pass the information on.

Absently rotating his wedding band with his thumb, he looked again at the tranquil planet turning in the wide window, thinking about what lay hidden beneath the peaceful drifts of white clouds. Katharine would be proud of what he’d accomplished so far. Soon, he’d have all the facts. He’d lost his entire family and the cosmos had offered him no explanation. In the loss of his wife, he would have answers no matter what it took.

Strangely, his mind turned again to Cavendish. That wasn’t right. She sat in his brain as a distraction, and he didn’t need that.

But what if she was involved? She could be—she was obviously intensely dedicated to EarthFed and her longtime association with the colonization program made it all too likely. But she’d also seemed basically decent.

He’d have to find out for certain before he could make a judgment. And, if she was in any way involved, he would take her down without a second thought.

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