Our pleasure cruise aboard Good Fortune ends in the dark of early morning, north of the main Morgan dome, opposite the side I’ve been through. The miasma risk is lower at this time of day, and night shrouds the ship as it approaches the coast. Gale descends to wind herself around me in farewell, enjoying my warmth one last time. Xiao offers Cleve a firm handshake, and when I emerge from the xenodragon embrace, I also get a handshake, as well as a pat on the shoulder with the other hand, a sort of half-hug. Either Xiao’s warmed up to me a little more, or Gale’s fondness for me is rubbing off on him.
The deck lights are all off, and the only sounds are our voices and the water lapping against the sides of the ship. “Three days,” Xiao reminds us, “and then the rest of the fleet arrives, and we start the blockade.” He and Cleve exchange a few words of tactical wisdom, then urge each other to be careful and stay safe.
“Don’t get killed,” Cleve tells him.
Xiao starts to give us elaborate instructions for how to arrange an early pick up if we need it, but I wave him off. Cleve has a flare gun, and I can attract Gale. We’ll figure something out if we have to.
With no combustion engine, the tender takes us quietly to shore. Then we’re on our own again, just Cleve and me—and a trunk full of Stepdaughters of Chiron goods. I’d be here by myself, with Cleve left to lead the troops with Xiao, but he’d hear none of that. Especially not after what happened in the Garden of Chiron.
Once we’re ashore, I set down the trunk and crouch down next to it, placing a hand on the ground to help me sense into the local environment. Given our nighttime approach, I wasn’t able to see with my own eyes how much wreckage was wrought on the landscape by the Planetary Security Force rolling out of here with its enhanced fungicide. Now I try my other senses.
It’s difficult to judge what’s new among all the incredible pain I tap into. There’s already so much development here. Was it always this bad? I can’t tell without having something to compare to, and last time we were here, it didn’t occur to me to take a baseline reading. One bright spot of screaming, however, I infer must be a fungicide processing facility. It’s outside the dome, a fully isolated manufacturing plant, and it’s operational. I can’t see the smoke coming out of its stacks—it’s still too dark for that—but I can feel it tearing through the atmosphere.
As I continue to expand my senses, I come across a spot near the factory that at first seems like a large, dug-in craw nest. Something else feels off about it, though. After a moment of prodding at it, I realize it’s a fake. Humans set it up and disguised it. I can’t tell if there are any people in there now—I can just detect traces of them. Pheromones, perhaps, but the old world kind. I really do believe this must be humans, not some fancy lure built by craws. The ones near the domes were smaller than Bluebell and Shroomnuts and didn’t seem as sharp. More like crows than con artists, they never tried to engage us directly.
I open my eyes and blink a few times, clearing away traces of input my brain interpreted as vision. When I’ve adjusted back to the low light of starlit pre-dawn, I straighten up. Cleve has moved quietly past me and is poking around at the ground farther ahead. His priorities are different from mine; in his words, this is an infiltration mission. When he hears me approaching, he turns and beckons me over, then points out what he’s found: vehicle tracks. And not from a repo squad truck or Shu-Fen’s drilling equipment. This is a vehicle with treads, like the Planetary Security Force has. And according to Cleve, it was here recently, within a few hours.
“Hmm. Interesting that it’s so fresh right near the dome,” I say quietly. “That might mean Corazon and the others have caused enough havoc that Morgan’s keeping some of the forces local for patrols. So that’s fewer available to roll over Data Haven.”
“Maybe we should just hide until we get some disguises going,” Cleve says.
“What do you mean, disguises?” I ask, confused. “We’re just people.”
“That have been here before and were recognized last time,” Cleve points out.
“You were recognized by a repo squad during the day and like a month ago. Cleve, you’re a pretty normal looking guy, generally speaking.”
“I think you might be a bit more recognizable and a bit more notable,” he counters. “Hopefully they don’t have our pictures somewhere.”
“I don’t see how they would have our pictures, unless there were cameras somewhere that we didn’t notice. There wasn’t any CCTV at the network node, and we stole both the robots there.”
“I was thinking of an artist’s sketch, based on repo squad descriptions,” Cleve says. “Yushi may have that one skill.”
I gesture at the shroom trees and vines all around us. “What kind of disguises could you even do?” The corner of my mouth quirks up at the amusing mental image of Cleve in a beard made of Spanish moss.
“Well, I shaved this all off last time,” Cleve says, running a hand over his month’s growth of sandy hair. He looks down at his jacket, mouth twisted in thought, and then asks, “What were you wearing last time? What was your hair like?”
“I had my blazer. And a different dress shirt than this one.” Both those articles of clothing, victims of a siege worm attack, are now with Fritz for repairs. “And a different cane. If it will make you feel better, I’ll put the poncho on over my vest,” I offer.
I hear a soft growl of frustration from the back of Cleve’s throat. “You have nothing that doesn’t stand out,” he groans.
“Yeah, that’s by design.”
Cleve sighs. “Well, it is a concern. You could be recognized. I doubt that people are taking as much notice of me.”
I don the poncho, giving myself a distinctly different look than the last time I was here… a whole month ago. And as an even greater concession, I put my hair up. It’s been over two months (subjectively) since it was last cut back on Earth. I’ve been able to get away with that because of how well the loose curls obscure my hair’s length. But if I pull it all back, maybe I can secure it in a small bun. I set my shaving mirror in the nook of a convenient branch and set to work, first seeing if I can do this without gunking my hair up at all, but no, it’s too voluminous. Normally, that’s fine. I like the relaxed, tousled look. But at this awkward length, the hair really needs to be slicked back if it’s going to stay neatly in place as a high bun. It needs to look good, both for my peace of mind and because, well, I’m going to see Fritz again. I don’t want to look a mess. I return to my shaving kit, this time for oil.
“It looks fine!” Cleve insists in a whisper after I’ve done and redone the bun a few times and am working some more oil into my hair for one last go at it. It does not look fine. My sideburns complement the loose curls; they don’t go with tightly pulled back hair. That would really require something more like a light boxed goatee, and— “The patrol!” Cleve hisses, pointing out a flash of light through the foliage. “We’re going to get killed,” he mutters. “Mariah! We need to go!”
I snatch up my mirror and stuff it in my satchel. The hair’s not perfect, but it will do. I grab the trunk and hoist it up onto my right shoulder, clapping my right arm around it. With how overgrown this area is, wheeling it along behind me is out of the question. We don’t want to leave tracks or have it get caught. I steady myself with the cane in my left hand as I pick my way along behind Cleve. That works for a little while… until a sudden splash of light momentarily blinds us both.