Metal Swarm - Kevin J. Anderson [58]
Thirty-three
Patrick Fitzpatrick III
By the time he reached Yreka in his borrowed ship and nondescript clothing, Patrick no longer thought of himself as an imposter. Flying around by himself had given him time to think. He felt like he was becoming a different person, shedding all vestiges of his rich and powerful family. He was tired of carrying around dark secrets, like unwanted cargo that had begun to go bad… Painful as it might be, he had to clean house. Patrick Fitzpatrick III could be his own person for once.
Yreka had changed even more than he had, transforming from a small, relatively uninteresting Hansa colony into a bustling commercial hub. When he flew in, he expected the Yrekans to demand identification, but they put the Gypsy in a holding pattern, gave him a number, and told him he'd have to wait an hour before beginning his descent because of all the traffic.
Ships rose into the air, heavy cargo vessels like metal bumblebees and small swift scouts and couriers marked with Roamer clan symbols. Other vessels were colony spacecraft that had been grounded during the extreme ekti shortages. Stardrive fuel was no longer an issue, since Roamers had gone back to skymining, and they clearly provided their allies with plenty of ekti. The Hansa and the EDF were still desperate for fuel, but he shook off any guilt as soon as he passed a former Hansa supply ship and noted that the encircled Earth symbol had been aggressively sandblasted from its hull.
When he finally received clearance, he followed the instructions and landed on a designated plot of what had once been cropland - cropland that he and the EDF had destroyed in a gesture of pique. Patrick had led part of that crackdown, blowing up an unarmed colonist ship that attempted to escape. At the time he'd been smug about his actions, sure that they were the only way to teach the unruly colonists a lesson. He hadn't given a second thought to what pressures might have driven these people to defy the Chairman's draconian rationings.
Another weight on his shoulders.
Patrick stepped out of the Gypsy wearing a plain jumpsuit and went to explore the town and search for the information he needed. New permanent structures were being erected around the landing field, while the slapdash marketplace grew like a weed. People had set up tents and shops everywhere.
All of Earth had access to only one or two green priests, but he already saw five here on backwater Yreka. Two green priests had even set up a business in an open stall, sending personal messages for a token fee. Food stands shaded by embroidered awnings in sizzled forth enticing odours that made his mouth water. Patrick had to stop at three stalls before he found someone who grudgingly accepted his Hansa credits. He continued through the crowded streets, savouring the taste of spicy meat in his mouth.
Patrick wondered what his grandmother could have done if given free rein to set up a new government here. The old Battleaxe would have enjoyed the challenge.
Taking in the sights, he listened to the gossip. Many people excitedly discussed the prospect of the Confederation arming and defending itself. He was strangely delighted to hear the name of his old Roamer rival Tasia Tamblyn come up, but when they also mentioned Robb Brindle, Patrick dismissed the rumours, he knew Brindle had vanished a long time ago.
In the middle of town, he stopped where a crowd had gathered. First, Roamer engineers and Yreka colony builders used heavy equipment to lay down a stone platform, then other workers used antigrav handles to manoeuvre into place and adjust an artfully rendered alloy sculpture of a man dressed in Roamer uniform. He looked brave and heroic, his features handsome, his long hair wild and free, as if blown by an imaginary stellar wind. The sculptor herself, a pot-bellied Roamer, stood shouting instructions and making corrections. When the statue was finally in the right spot and the antigrav plates removed, the heavy object