The Dark Between The Stars

TWENTY-EIGHT
LEE ISWANDER

1,543.

The number haunted him. 1,543. Lee Iswander wasn’t even convinced the count was accurate, but that remained the official casualty number from the Sheol disaster.

Once he and the evacuees had arrived safely at Newstation, two days’ starflight away, Iswander felt it was his grim obligation to scroll through all the names of the dead. It bothered him that so many of these people were unfamiliar to him. Yes, he knew a handful of team leaders, shift supervisors, some of the crew chiefs, the five smelter barge pilots, but he simply didn’t recognize hundreds of his own workers; in many cases, even their clans were unfamiliar.

Frowning, he called up the personnel records, their images, studied how long those people had worked for him, reviewed any commendations or reprimands they had received. He did recall a few of the faces from when he walked through the cafeteria chamber in between shifts at Tower Three, but most were just random strangers to him—men and women who had families, people with political leanings, people who loved their work, and people who hated it.

1, 543.

The escapees vocally blamed Iswander’s lack of foresight, his failure to design proper protective systems. In the grief, shock, and anger, no one gave him credit for the nearly five hundred who had survived. Didn’t that count for something? They only saw that he’d placed all those people in danger for the sake of his profits, that he had not provided adequate safety margins, that there had been no comprehensive disaster plan, not even enough escape ships. He had managed to save a quarter of them.

But three-quarters of his personnel were dead.

The deaths had not all been swift and painless, either. Even Iswander cringed as he thought of how many were trapped inside the sunken smelter barges or the collapsing towers where they had fled for safety… only to be roasted alive. It gave him nightmares—as well it should.

His ambitious Sheol facility should have been a shining example of Roamer ability to succeed while dancing on the cliff edge of danger. Lee Iswander was proof of both Hansa business acumen and clan ingenuity, yet all of his accomplishments had been swallowed in a whirlpool of molten metal and stone.

In his own defense, he submitted engineering records to show that the structural materials and heat shielding should have been sufficient against the Sheol environment. Normally, Roamers would have been sympathetic in the face of a planetary catastrophe… but Iswander had been warned. Garrison Reeves had made no secret of his concerns that Sheol itself was changing, and Roamers knew how capricious the universe could be. They did not ignore warnings. Iswander simply hadn’t wanted to spend the money, hadn’t let his operations be inconvenienced by a potential disaster.

The evacuees took refuge at Newstation. Clans met there, Roamers exchanged assistance, other ships came in to offer help to the refugees. There in the giant wheel habitat, they recovered, and they talked.

Normally, Roamer clans pulled together in times of crisis. Throughout their existence, they had faced setbacks, and their history was full of tragedies. But Iswander could tell by their harsh whispers that they did not feel sorry for him or forgive him.

Reunited with his rescued wife and son at Newstation, Iswander holed up in his usual suite with all the amenities. Always before, it had been a room where he slept and prepared for business meetings; now, it became a place to hide. He couldn’t stay here for long.

He sat in the chamber, staring at reports, reviewing his losses. He was ruined, of course. The Sheol disaster would drain him of everything he had. Lee Iswander would be reviled, disgraced—and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.

1,543.

Londa brought him a cup of pepperflower tea. It had never been his favorite—too sweet—but she felt as helpless as he did, and this was her way of making a gesture. “It’ll be all right,” she said, finding nothing absurd in her statement. “I can talk to some of my family. Maybe they can help.”

“Thank you, Londa.” He took a sip of the tea, then shooed her away as politely as he could.

“Would you like me to bring lunch? I can make your favorite.”

He wondered what she thought his favorite was. In fact, Iswander didn’t even know he had a favorite, but it would give her something to do. “That sounds nice. I’ll have to go soon, though.”

As Londa bustled off, Iswander felt metal jaws of guilt gnawing at his stomach. He knew most of the clan heads, but not well enough to consider them friends. He couldn’t guess how any of them would react. He tried to think of what he would say at the clan gathering, whether he should be defiant or defeated, whether or not to beg for understanding and forgiveness, a second chance.

He knew, however, that Iswander Industries would never be able to secure funding for even a traditional, stable Roamer business such as skymining, despite the continuing demand for stardrive fuel. Nor was he likely to find large crews to work for him.

He stared at the list of unfamiliar names, all the people who had burned on Sheol. 1,543. He could think of absolutely nothing he might say.

The door slid open and his son burst in, his eyes wild. Arden was fuming rather than sobbing, his face flushed with emotion. He sported several fresh scuffs and bruises.

When Iswander rose to his feet, Arden whirled as if ready to throw a punch, but his shoulders sagged. His voice hitched. “They hate you! They called you… they said—”

Iswander faced his son. “I don’t care what they say. They weren’t there. They don’t know.”

Arden looked up to him, even though they rarely spent close time together. Once in a while, Iswander gave him encouraging talks. He checked on his son’s grades, emphasized how important it was that he become educated, intelligent, and the best he could be, reminding Arden that he would run Iswander Industries someday. He felt a knife twist in his heart at that thought.

Arden trembled with rage or with shame. “They said all those people died because of your Big Goose ways. They say you’re not a real Roamer, that the facility failed because you cut costs and took risks to increase your profits.”

Iswander quelled his angry retort and calmly pointed out, “Anyone could see that Sheol is a risky place. And yet when I first announced my operations there, they applied by the hundreds to work for me. They were excited to sign up for profit participation. Roamers know that life is hard and dangerous on the edge.”

Arden burst out, “It’s not your fault!”

But Iswander knew that it was his fault, at least in part.

His family couldn’t stay here at Newstation. The more visible he remained, the louder the recriminations would be. Better to lie low, find a quiet place out of sight until the anger cooled. He decided to take them back to Sheol, settle in one of the orbiting transfer stations that had quarters, food, life support. He needed time to figure out what to do next, to see what could be salvaged.

But he had to stay for the vote. He felt obligated to face that, at least.

Londa came back carrying a tray of food, noticed Arden’s tears and his flushed face, and her mouth dropped open. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

Iswander thought it was ridiculous that she couldn’t guess. He said, “Look, your mother brought you lunch. She’ll take care of you, son.” Iswander glanced at the clock as if it marked the hour of his execution. “I need to go. The clan gathering is scheduled soon, and I don’t want to be late for the voting.”

When Lee Iswander entered the speaking chamber, he heard a distinct change in the low conversation that hummed from the filled seats. No, he would not get a sympathy vote.

He wore his best business suit and a veneer of all the pride he could manage. He reminded himself that he was one of the greatest Roamer industrialists in recent history. But he felt very small. 1,543.

Because he and Sam Ricks were the two candidates for Speaker, by tradition they would stand at the heart of the assembly area while the audience voted. It made Iswander feel naked to have so many eyes on him, though it gave him a well-defined place to be, rather than sitting among the clan representatives. He wouldn’t have to risk an awkward moment when others got up and changed seats to avoid being near him.

I will get through this. He made a point of recalling his earlier accomplishments, triumphs that any Roamer would applaud. But those were eclipsed by one incident. He silently wished Elisa Reeves were there at his side, but she was gone—and overdue to return. I will get through this.

Sam Ricks chatted with several companions as he walked along the lowest row of seats, waving to clan members. He seemed energetic and confident, much more than in their prior debate. And why not? Iswander felt a distinct chill in the room, and it was directed toward him.

Speaker Seward took her place at the elevated podium and decided it was time to get down to business, no matter what the clock said. “Exact schedules are for Hansa types” was a new Roamer saying. Though the Big Goose had been gone for two decades, it was still used as an insult.

“We’re all here,” Seward said. “Let’s wrap up this election so I can retire.” At any other time attendees would have chuckled, but today there was too much tension in the air.

Before the clans could start voting, though, Olaf Reeves stood. His dark gray hair was thick, not quite unkempt, but he certainly didn’t pay much attention to it. Sitting beside him, his son Dale remained dutifully silent.

“Before you start with the nonsense,” Olaf said without waiting for the Speaker to recognize him, “I want to make an announcement. My son Garrison warned that something bad might happen at the lava-processing plant, but Iswander didn’t act on it. In past times, no Roamer would have ignored possible hazards just for the sake of profit.”

Many members of the audience turned toward Iswander, and he forced himself to remain calm, turning his annoyance back on the gruff clan leader.

Olaf ignored him. “Lee Iswander is only a symptom, not the cause. It isn’t just his industries—it’s all of you. My clan cannot tolerate the direction the Roamers are going. You’ve sold yourselves out to the Big Goose.”

“It’s the Confederation, Mr. Reeves,” Iswander said. “The Hansa is long gone.”

“Different name, but no different in the ways that matter. You’ve all lost what you really are. Everything handed to you, nothing earned. Easy lives, full bank accounts, peaceful settlements, pampered homes.” He jabbed his finger in the air as he made a pronouncement. “A knife loses its edge unless it is sharpened. And you have all become very dull indeed.” He shook his shaggy head.

“My clan found a place outside the Confederation and away from the Ildiran Empire. We are going to pack up and leave the Rendezvous site, make our own lives far away.” He gestured insultingly toward Iswander. “It’s your problem now.” With exaggerated bustle and disruption, Olaf Reeves and his family members worked their way out of the seats and left the chamber.

Isha Seward made light of the incident. “That was an unusual introduction to our official proceedings. Now it’s time to elect my successor.”

She called upon Sam Ricks to cast the first vote, for himself, of course. Next, she turned to Iswander, who cast his vote, and the chamber was filled with an immensity of silence.

Iswander listened to one member after another say the name of Sam Ricks, most of them with little enthusiasm. He just endured. In his chest, this heavy disgrace felt as spectacular as the disaster on Sheol.

After Speaker Seward called upon every clan head, Iswander had received only a single vote, the one he had cast for himself.