By Jupiter!

Chapter 1: Who Made the Sunshine

DATE: Year 308-B, Sol 475

LOCATION: Mercury Perihelion

Solar wind and radiation hammered against the hull of the Mighty Sparrow.

Phoenix sat in the pilot's seat, sweating. The cockpit temperature was pushing forty.

-Shield integrity at thirty percent, the computer announced. Hull temperature critical. Recommendation: Increase distance from solar body.a

-Don't say that, Phoenix rasped. Hold the line.

He gripped the stick. It was hot to the touch.

Out the viewport, there was just the big white ball of fire. They were dropping into the gravity well of the sun, skimming the corona to pick up speed.

Using the Oberth effect. The kids of Mercury did it for fun. Sun skimming.

If you burned your engines at the lowest point of the orbit, right when gravity was crushing you the hardest, you could steal momentum from the star itself. It was the only way to get a ship this heavy to Jupiter without spending six months drifting in the dark.

The dive was the exciting part. In their small personal carriers, the kids didn't get far, but they went hot and fast.

Phoenix reached up to wipe the sweat from his eyes, and his thumb brushed his bare wrist. He paused.

-Three times for a miracle, he whispered to an empty cockpit.

It was just him.

He was a solo pilot again. Just like before the MTC pulled him out of the Halo for some crazy mission.

It felt like he was in a coffin.

-Warning, the computer droned. Radiation spike detected in the medical bay.

Phoenix swore. He engaged the auto-pilot, a rusted clamp he swung over the stick, and unbuckled.

-Keep her steady, he told the empty chair.

He floated back into the small living quarters. It was dark back here, lit only by the red emergency lights.

Himalaya Market was strapped into the medical bunk. He looked terrible.

The kid was skeletal, his skin was translucent. He was stripped to the waist, and the geometric scars on his chest were pulsing with a violent, blue light. They looked like circuitry burning under the skin.

Next to the bunk, bolted to the floor, was the Black Box.

Phoenix had tried to stow it in the cargo hold, but whenever he moved it more than ten feet away from Market, the kid would start screaming in his sleep. The device and the boy were entangled.

Now, a thick cable ran from the Box to a set of electrodes taped to Market's temples.

Market was thrashing against the restraints, his eyes moving rapidly under closed lids. He was muttering in a language that sounded like binary code mixed with speaking tongues.

Phoenix grabbed the hypo-spray from the med-kit. It was the last dose of the sedative he had scavenged from the Marley's supplies.

-Easy, kid, Phoenix whispered. Just sleep.

He pressed the spray against Market's neck. Hiss.

Market gasped, his back arching off the mattress. Then he slumped back. The blue light in his scars dimmed. The thrashing stopped.

Phoenix exhaled. He checked the monitors. Market's heart rate was slowing down.

-We're almost there, Phoenix promised the unconscious boy. Just hold on until we get to the doctors on Jupiter. Your people.

The ship lurched.

A roar filled the cabin, the sound of the hull expanding under the thermal stress.

Phoenix scrambled back to the cockpit. He strapped in just as the G-force hit.

-Perihelion achieved, the computer stated. Initiating injection burn.

-Do it, Phoenix grunted.

He slammed the throttle forward. He could see why the kids did it.

The Mighty Sparrow screamed. The main engines ignited, adding their thrust to the massive gravitational pull of the sun.

Phoenix was pressed back into his seat. His vision blurred. The G-meter climbed. 4G. 5G. 6G.

The bolts rattled in the bulkheads. The solar array groaned as it fought the drag of the solar wind.

Outside, the white fire of the sun began to recede. The stars returned, streaking past the window as they accelerated.

They were falling outward now. Away from the heat. Away from the light.

The Sparrow shot out of the inner system like a bullet, riding a pillar of fire.

The G-force eased. Phoenix gasped, sucking in a lungful of the foul, recycled air.

-Burn complete, the computer said. Trajectory confirmed. Destination: Jovian System. Estimated time of arrival: Forty-five sols.

-Forty-five sols, Phoenix whispered. Still a long time.

He looked at the black void ahead of them.

He looked at the empty co-pilot seat again. He imagined Bit sitting there, asking if they were there yet. He imagined Hap buzzing a warning about his blood pressure.

Phoenix closed his eyes. He tapped his bare wrist three times.

Chapter 2: Small

DATE: Year 308-B, Sol 480

LOCATION: Aboard the Red Giant (En Route to Io)

Clara sat at a bolted-down table of the Red Giant mess hall, pushing grey protein mash around her tray.

Across from her, Okie and Tepp were playing cards. Okie was a massive Belter. Tepp was a silence-monk from Titan who only communicated in shrugs and grunts.

-Eat up, Little Bit, Okie grunted, slapping a card down. You need the mass if you're gonna survive the gravity well.

-Don't call me that, Clara said sharply.

Okie raised an eyebrow. Little Bit? It's a term of endearment.

-But I've got a name, Clara protested. Unlike my brother. Small, she said to herself.

Dr. Murray sat down next to her. She looked out of place among the roughnecks.

-It's a sore subject, she said.

Okie sighed. He folded his hand.

-Look, kid. We're happy to give you a lift to Io. The Giant needs the ballast anyway. But you gotta be realistic.

-I am realistic, Clara said.

-You're going to Io because some guy who looked like he had a kid in his cockpit with a helmet on that your brother once had slang shot from Venus past Mercury to Jupiter?

-Yes, Clara said, as if nothing was surer.

-Even if that was your brother, he's sold him by now. It was no use lying to kids.

-He didn't sell him, Clara insisted. He kept him.

-Even worse, Okie said. Why?

-Because Small is good with fixing things, Clara said. Her voice wavered. We grew up on a ship, before--

She paused. She didn't want to talk about it.

-Our dad taught us how to do everything on a ship. Me and Small both, even at our

ages.

Tepp grunted sympathetically.

She looked up at Okie. Her eyes were hard, burning with a ferocity that made the big Belter flinch.

-Phoenix has him.

-And he's heading to Jupiter? Okie asked.

-The flight path matches a Solar Oberth maneuver, Dr. Murray interjected. If he survived the sun-skim, he has to brake at Jupiter. And Io is the only port that sells dirty fuel.

Okie looked at Tepp. Tepp shrugged.

-Io is a rough place, Okie warned. The JLF don't like strangers. And they definitely don't like kids looking for lost pilots.

-I'm not looking for a pilot, Clara said. She stood up, abandoning her food. -I'm looking for my brother. Are you stopping there?

-Well, yeah.

She stormed out of the mess hall.

Okie watched her go.

-That is a scary little girl, Doc.

-She's a survivor of the child raids in the Belt, Murray said.

-You think she'll find him?

-I think, Murray said, opening her datapad, that no one can stop her from trying.

Chapter 3: Emergency Meeting

DATE: Year 308-B, Sol 476

LOCATION: The Old Hotel, New Paris (Mars)

The worse the news at an NEC emergency meeting, the better the food and amenities. There had been more and more emergency meetings to the point where they'd lost meaning. Real emergencies were handled in special extraordinary meetings.

Vanderpool stood on the balcony of the domed Old Hotel, one of the oldest extant structures in the New Paris Colonies. Below him, the pressurized city was a grid of red dust and expensive glass.

Inside the ballroom, the delegates of the New Earth Consortium were arguing about water again. One of the aquifers had dropped another five percent. How to cut the rations required a lot of negotiations.

-Getting some air? a voice said to Vanderpool.

Vanderpool turned. Standing in the shadow of the archway was Denny Denbigh, the Chief of Staff for the NEC President. He held a glass of real wine.

-Just watching, Vanderpool said, gesturing over the balcony. As a Director of the Earth Zionist Movement, he wore the simple, homespun wool of his order, but it was tailored by the best weavers on Mars.

-The agrarian bloc is ready to riot, Denbigh said. If the President doesn't announce a solution to the water crisis by tonight, the coalition falls. I'll need a new job.

-Chaos is bad for business, Vanderpool noted.

-Speaking of chaos, Denbigh said, lowering his voice. -What happened on Venus?

Vanderpool didn't blink.

-I thought that was a training accident.

-Warden May is making noise at Checkpoint Zero, Denbigh said. He claims MTC ships fired on your refugees after the arrived in Venus. But it was some kind of refugee scheme?

-They've got one of our rogue captains, Clinton.

Denbigh leaned in.

-If that story breaks while we're fighting over water, the administration collapses.

-It sounds like you'll need a tribunal to figure it all out.

A third man stepped onto the balcony. He was large. It was Senior Vice President of External Affairs Grove of the Martian Trading Corporation. The MTC didn't usually send such high ranking officials to emergency meetings. He was here for the two of them.

-We can't have a tribunal, Grove said. The market is too fragile.

-You can fix it, Vanderpool said. We don't have to lodge a formal complaint about the refugees, right Denny?

-The MTC was using the EZM, Denbigh began, to funnel people to Earth. How do you think that's going to go over? And you're not going to complain?

Grove looked at the EZM chief commissioner. He hated dealing with the Zionists, but he needed them.

-The MTC is prepared to make a... philanthropic gesture, Grove said to Denbigh. To help with the current crisis.

-Go on, Denbigh said.

-We will fully fund the South Pole Terraforming Refurbishment, Grove proposed. It's an EZM-backed initiative, isn't it, Vanderpool?

-It is, Vanderpool nodded. Restoring the ice caps. Lots of good jobs for restless fanatics.

-It's expensive work, Grove corrected. -We build the pumps, we supply the power. We pay the workers. The water turns back on within the year. The President announces it tonight. He saves the harvest.

Denbigh's eyes lit up. He looked at the ballroom. A solution to the water crisis would make the President a hero.

-That would save the administration, Denbigh admitted. And in return?

-The NEC clears the docket, Grove said. Classify the Venus incident. Some of the charters will get mad at you but it'll blow over. The Venus Sky Cities haven't sent a representative to an emergency meeting since the A.

-And the witnesses? Denbigh asked. Warden May has two men in custody. Captain Clinton and Commander Doremus, one from each of you.

-Release them, Grove said. -Release them, both, to our custody. We will conduct an "internal review."

Vanderpool smiled.

-That works for the Movement, Vanderpool said. Captain Clinton is a rogue anyway, lacks spirit.

Denbigh finished his wine. He looked at the screaming delegates inside, and then at the two men offering him a lifeline.

-I'll draft the Presidential Order. The water pumps for the pardon.

This cost us a lot, Grove growled to Vanderpool as Denbigh walked away. The Board of Directors isn't going to like it.

-They're going to have to wait, Vanderpool said coolly.

-The EZM hasn't gotten a deliverable to Earth. That was the whole point

-Go ahead and file a complaint with the NEC, Vanderpool laughed. You'll have to wait.

Chapter 4: Pick Up

DATE: Year 308-B, Sol 478

LOCATION: NEC Frigate Custodian (Brig)

Captain Clinton sat handcuffed to a steel table. His flak jacket had been confiscated.

Without the armor, he looked small. Just a middle-aged man with thinning hair and a bruise on his jaw.

Warden May sat across from him. He scrolled through a datapad with the exhaustion of a man who had seen too much paperwork.

-You know the problem with conspiracies, Clinton? May asked, not looking up.

Clinton didn't answer. He stared at his hands.

-They leave a paper trail, May finished.

He slid the pad across the table. It showed a financial transfer. A massive one, from the MTC Department of Asset Management to the EZM High Commission Charities Fund.

-That's a forgery, Clinton croaked.

-It came off the block chain, May said. The account numbers are verified. Vanderpool was sloppy.

May swiped the screen. A new document appeared. A flight plan.

-And this, he said. The Dead Men protocol. We recovered this off the Defiance's data core before your crew could wipe it.

It was an executive order signed by Vanderpool. Objective: Total loss of asset. No survivors.

-You sold them, Clinton. The MTC paid the EZM leadership to send that fleet to Earth. It was a disposal service.

May leaned forward. His eyes were hard.

-Why?

-I just follow orders, Clinton spit back.

-Not anymore, May said.

He tapped the table. A news feed projected onto the wall.

MTC PRESS RELEASE: Rogue elements of the Earth Zionist Movement seize MTC vessel 'Defiance'. Corporation pledges full cooperation with NEC investigation.

Clinton's face went pale. He read the headline twice.

-Vanderpool disavowed you, May said softly. To the solar system, you aren't a corporate officer. You're a pirate.

-He wouldn't, Clinton whispered.

-He did. And pirates don't get trials. They get sent to the sulfur mines on Io.

May stood up. He walked to the door.

-You won't last six months in the pits, Clinton. Your lungs are too soft.

-Wait, Clinton said.

May stopped, his hand on the doorframe.

-If I give you the keys, Clinton stammered. If I give you the encryption for the Department of Asset Management. What do I get?

-Protective custody, May said. A cell with a window. And real air.

Clinton swallowed. He looked at the news feed, at the face of the executive who had cut him loose.

-The codes are in my implant, Clinton said. File 77-Alpha.

May signaled the guard.

-Process him. Extract the data.

May walked out of the brig and onto the bridge of the Custodian. It was a hive of activity. Officers monitored the shipping lanes of the Checkpoint Zone.

-Sir? the comms officer asked.

May handed him a data-chip.

-I have the encryption keys for the MTC Asset Management division.

-What are your orders, Warden?

May looked out the viewport at the distant stars. He thought about the refugee fleet limping toward Venus. He thought about the pilot who had stood up to a warship with a garbage truck.

-Execute a System-Wide Asset Freeze, May ordered.

-Sir? The officer blinked. That's a declaration of economic war.

-They started it, May said. Freeze their accounts. Flag every ship on their payroll as hostile. Ground their shuttles.

May watched the command execute on the main screen. Red warning lights began to blink across the sector map as MTC bank accounts locked down.

Let's see how loyal their dogs are when the paychecks stop clearing.

Chapter 5: The Gardener

DATE: Year 308-B, Sol 490

LOCATION: Sky City 7 (Venus)

Bit wiped his hands on his oversized jumpsuit. He was kneeling in the center of the hydroponics deck.

When the refugees had arrived, this room had been a graveyard of dead plastic and dried algae. Now, it was a jungle.

-Pressure holding at ninety percent, Bit muttered to himself.

He tapped the gauge on the irrigation line. It was an old MTC fuel pump he had scrubbed clean and repurposed. It chugged rhythmically, pushing nutrient-rich water through the PVC pipes.

Bit reached out and touched the vine in front of him. Hanging from the green stem was a single, perfect sphere. It was starting to turn red.

A real tomato. Not paste. Not powder. A fruit.

Bit smiled. He adjusted the bracelet on his left wrist, a loose string of heavy wooden beads that kept sliding down his forearm. He shook his wrist to settle them.

Three times for a miracle.

The blast door opened.

A massive figure stepped in. It was The Welder. She wore a heavy leather apron and a mask pushed up on her forehead.

-You're gonna drown those roots, kid, The Welder rumbled.

-They're thirsty, Bit said, not looking up. The humidity cycler is acting up again. I need a spare compressor coil.

The Welder grunted. She walked over and inspected the tomato.

-Red, she said.

-It'll be ready to eat in a week, Bit said proudly. I'm saving the first one for Jimi.

The Welder went quiet. She took a rag from her pocket and wiped grease from her hands.

-Kid, she started gently.

-Did you check the scope? Bit interrupted, standing up.

-I checked the scope.

-And?

-Nothing, kid.

Bit frowned. He adjusted the prayer beads again.

-You checked the long-range bands? The deep radar?

-We check them, the Welder said. There's no transponder signal. The Sparrow isn't out there.

-He's flying dark, Bit said quickly. He does that to save power. Or maybe he's in the drift. You can't see ships in the drift.

The Welder sighed. She put a heavy hand on Bit's shoulder.

-It's been fifteen days, Bit. It's a long run to Jupiter. And an old ship.

-He made it, Bit said. He was stating a fact. He's a good pilot. The best.

-You wouldn't know, The Welder said. Space is big. And old ships break.

-Not the Sparrow, Bit said. I fixed the Sparrow.

He pulled away from The Welder's hand and went back to the pump. He grabbed a wrench and tightened a flange that didn't need tightening.

-He's coming back, Bit said to the tomato plant. He promised. And he's bringing Market back. And then we're going to make sauce.

The Welder watched the boy for a moment. She saw the oversized beads dangling from the thin wrist.

-Alright, kid, The Welder said softly. I'll check the scopes again at shift change.

-Check the thermal bands too, Bit called out.

-Yeah. I'll check the thermals.

The Welder turned to leave. At the door, she looked back at the green oasis in the middle of the rusting city.

-Save me some seeds, gardener.

-Get me that compressor coil, Bit retorted.

The door shut.

Bit was alone again. He put down the wrench. He touched the prayer beads. One. Two. Three.

He looked up at the UV lights, imagining they were stars.

-Hurry up Jimi.

Chapter 6: Alone

DATE: Year 308-B, Sol 498 (Sunday)

LOCATION: Somewhere between the Sun and Jupiter

To save power, Phoenix had killed the Sparrow's main reactor.

It was Sunday by the church count. A threeday in the 8-day Martian week calendar.

Phoenix liked when the Sundays fell on eightdays. The end of the week, it felt right. Keeping the church count always made Phoenix feel grounded.

There was a lot of space around him for much of his life. What was a threeday in an eternal night?

He unbuckled from the pilot's seat and floated back into the living quarters.

It was freezing back there.

Phoenix opened his locker. He reached into the back and pulled out a small, leather-bound book. The missal he picked up at the start of every year, liturgical. There was a small closet off to the side, extra storage, he usually sat in to read and pray.

Since they left Venus he's been going to the medical bay instead.

Himalaya Market lay strapped to the mattress. He looked like a corpse. The only color came from the geometric scars on his chest, which pulsed with a faint, rhythmic blue light, the wretched Black Box. Phoenix wanted nothing to do with it anymore.

-Wake up call, kid, Phoenix whispered. It's the Lord's Day.

But Himalaya was in his chemically-induced coma.

-The Solemnity of the Holy Spirit, Phoenix read from the missal. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirt.