The Stars Down Under Read online

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Teaser

  Chapter One

  Tor Books by Sandra McDonald

  Praise for Sandra McDonald

  Copyright

  To Sue Factor, Janine Shahinian, and Angela Gabriel

  for a decade of friendship and encouragement

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing the continuing adventures of Jodenny Scott and Terry Myell would have been much more difficult if not for the gang on Kelleys Island, Ohio. Their kindness and goodwill will not be forgotten. Special thanks go to the very talented Sarah Prineas and Paul Melko, who read the entire manuscript in its raw form and offered invaluable advice.

  Thank you also to Jeff Kellogg, James Macdonald, Patrick Nielsen Hayden, Stephanie Wojtowicz, Terry Berube, and my family.

  PROLOGUE

  The boy fled for his life.

  Across the sun-baked plain, his bare feet kicking up dust, he ran from his father and brothers and uncles. He was a good child, known throughout the tribe for his kindness and laughter. He was helpful to his aunties and respectful to the old men. But fear had stained and ruined him.

  His brothers shouted, “Coward!”

  His uncles shouted, “Become a man!”

  The boy carried no water, and soon his parched throat was closing up. Sharp rocks and dried brush scratched at his legs and tried to trip him. The ocher painted on him for the initiation rites streamed off in the wind. He fell once, scrambled upright. Fell again, pulled himself up with a strangled moan. Managed several more steps and then felt the hot jarring thud of a spear as it pierced his right leg and shattered the bone.

  He fell for the last time, sobbing. His father and brothers and uncles gathered around him.

  “You shame us,” they said. His father spat on him.

  The circle of men parted for the arrival of the aunties, his kind and loving aunties, who came at the boy with their sticks and landed a dozen blows.

  No one spoke in the moments afterward. The boy’s family stood back from their grisly work. The boy’s eyes stared at them sightlessly. The descending sun had left red streaks across the sky and the bitter air smelled like blood. At last one of the aunties glanced up and saw the great Rainbow Serpent coiling down from the clouds with fire in its eyes.

  The boy’s family screamed and fled.

  The next day, when they came for whatever parts of the corpse had been spared by the gods and wild animals, they found only a smooth black sphere. By noon the sphere was taller and wider than any man of the tribe. By nightfall it was larger than five men. The wind pushed dust against its side. The ground beneath it cracked, then heaved upward. For the next thousand years the sphere grew and grew until it was the largest rock in all the world. In the shifting light of day it turned pink and green, yellow and red, much like a rainbow.

  The locals named the rock Burringurrah, in memory of the murdered boy.

  The white men who came later called it Mount Augustus, in the land down under.

  Terry Myell, when it was his turn to be murdered atop Burringurrah, was also visited by the Rainbow Serpent. They say the Serpent saved him and his wife and his wife’s lover. They say the three of them rode the Serpent’s back into the sky, where even now, on those rare clear nights, they can be seen riding the tails of comets and dancing on the face of the moon.

  Those stories are wrong. This story is true.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Terry Myell drizzled oil on the vegetables in the wok, reached past his comm-bee for seasoning, and jumped back in surprise as a crocodile scurried through his kitchen.

  “Christ!” he yelled, bumping up against the hard countertop. It was just after seventeen-hundred hours, a sunny afternoon in the military suburb of Adeline Oaks on the planet Fortune. His wife, Jodenny, would be working until midnight and he was cooking dinner just for himself. The last thing he had expected to see was a three-meter-long reptile with sharp teeth, gray scales, and black, hook-shaped claws that screeched against the floor tile.

  The creature whipped around the refrigerator and was gone so quickly that surely he had imagined it.

  “Betsy!” he said to the house computer. “Report.”

  A soothing woman’s voice flowed out of the microspeakers in the ceiling. “Inside temperature is twenty degrees Celsius. A front stovetop element is operating at a setting of two point seven. There’s a slight leak in the guest shower—”

  Myell fumbled for the longest knife in the silverware drawer. “Any mammals, reptiles, supernatural creatures?”

  “There’s a spider in the living room closet, and several termites burrowing through the rear foundation. A gecko is hanging off lanai screen number four. That’s all I have to report, sir.”

  Myell crept forward. The floor showed no gouge marks or smeared dirt. The dark beige carpet in the living room was similarly unmarked, and the front door was closed. With cold sweat on his neck, he headed for the master bedroom. He edged past half-empty packing boxes in the hall to the ajar door. From outside came the sounds of a neighbor’s kids kicking around a soccer ball and the hum of flits as parents returned from work. Everything else was quiet.

  “Come out, come out,” Myell murmured. “Show yourself.”

  The master bedroom was awash with afternoon sunlight. His dress white uniform hung neatly on a hook outside the closet doors, the ribbons and insignia carefully aligned. The bed was a messy rumple of blue linens and pillows. Beneath them, a hump moved back and forth slowly, obscenely.

  He steeled himself and yanked the sheets away.

  Karl the Koala blinked up at him with golden eyes and rolled over.

  “Rub me, rub my tummy,” he sang.

  Myell let the knife drop. “Go to sleep, Karl.”

  The bot rolled to his haunches and scratched himself. Though he understood basic commands, the programming defaulted to mild disobedience. A real koala would never follow orders like a dog, anyway. Nor would it talk. Myell still wasn’t convinced they needed any mechanical pets underfoot, but Karl
made Jodenny happy.

  “He’s so cute,” she’d said when they saw him at the mall.

  Myell could think of something much more adorable and cuddly, but Jodenny had said she wasn’t ready for kids.

  Betsy spoke up. “You have new imail in your account, sir. Four challengers have questioned your score in the latest Izim tournament. And I believe your dinner is burning.”

  Cursing, Myell hurried back to the kitchen and pulled the wok off the stove. Betsy’s vents began sucking up smoke that reeked of burnt oil and blackened string beans. He dumped the mess into the disposal and accidentally knocked the knife off the counter. When he tried to catch it, the blade cut into his finger.

  “I detect blood, sir. Do you have a medical emergency?” Betsy asked.

  “I’m fine,” he said through gritted teeth. The slice was long but shallow. “And I’ve told you, stop calling me sir. It’s Chief Myell, or Terry. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A little self-sealant took care of the cut. The stir-fry was ruined, so he threw together a salad instead. Afterward he checked the imails and saw three more media inquiries. Reporters, always damn reporters. He deleted them, as he had all the other requests that had come in during the last four weeks.

  He took a beer to the sofa and kicked his feet up. “Betsy, are there references to crocodiles in Australian Aboriginal mythology?”

  “I find several instances in which people are reputed to have been eaten or transformed into crocodiles. One tribe revered the crocodile as a totemic god. Would you like me to send the information to your bee?”

  “No. Forget I asked.” On the Aral Sea he had experienced visions of an Aboriginal shaman, and on a long, strange top-secret trip across the galaxy he had seen a Rainbow Serpent. He’d hoped he was done with all of it.

  Karl climbed up onto the cushions beside him.

  “Koala, my ass,” Myell said. “You’re probably a god in disguise.”

  The robot rolled backward and repeated his plea for a tummy rub.

  “Talk to Mommy,” Myell said.

  * * *

  Betsy was the oldest house in the neighborhood, and her nighttime temperature controls were erratic. Though he meant to stay up for Jodenny, Myell fell asleep on the sofa and woke every hour or so because he was too cold, or too hot, or too cold again. When he did sleep, he dreamed of crocodiles in a deep cave, hissing and snapping their razor-sharp teeth. At oh-four-hundred he woke shaking with dread, and stumbled to the bathroom to splash cold water on his flushed face.

  He went to the bedroom and burrowed into the sheets. He was just dozing off again when the wallgib beeped and Jodenny’s image rolled into view.

  “Betsy told me you were up,” she said. “Everything okay?”

  “Fine.” Myell turned his head into a pillow, then turned to eye her. “Why aren’t you home?”

  “There was an accident with some academy students, a big mess.” She was as beautiful as ever, but dark circles hung under her eyes. Her lieutenant commander bars glinted on the screen. “They borrowed a birdie for fun and crashed into the ocean. I’ve been fending off the media for hours. I don’t think I’ll be home before you leave.”

  He shrugged one shoulder.

  “I wanted to send you off to your new job in style,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  Myell was sorry, too. Their last ship, the Aral Sea, had barely entered orbit before new duty assignments arrived in their queues. Fledgling plans for a honeymoon had been abruptly discarded. Jodenny’s new position at Fleet was prestigious but demanding. Lately he’d seen more of his reflection than he’d seen of her.

  Jodenny touched the gib screen, as if trying to pat his cheek. “Be kind to your students, won’t you? I remember how hard it was for me to memorize everything.”

  “I don’t think they’re going to throw me in front of a classroom today.”

  “They should. You’ll be great.” A gib pinged, and Jodenny glanced offscreen. “Got to go. Call me later.”

  “Love you,” he said, but the connection was already dead.

  Further sleep eluded him. He played Izim for a while but got killed multiple times. Just before dawn he pulled on some gym clothes. He opened the top drawer of his dresser and palmed a small dilly bag. Inside were two carved totems of geckos. One had been a gift, and the other had been his mother’s.

  For the first time in months he tied the bag around his waist and felt its comforting weight.

  Outside, the air was hot and dawn was just lightening the sky. The faux-brick homes were a bit affluent for his tastes, but Jodenny’s rank had its privileges and he supposed he’d have to get used to them. At the end of the street was a steep wooded hill dotted with senior-officer homes. He jogged up it, the dilly bag bouncing against his skin. The exertion left him winded but the view at the top was worth it.

  “Good morning, Kimberley,” he said.

  The rising sun sent yellow light streaking over Fortune’s capital city. Myell could see the Parliament buildings, the graceful expanse of the Harbor Bridge, and a wide, disorienting expanse of silver-blue ocean. He hated the ocean. In the center of the city stood the Team Space pyramid, blue and clean and beautiful, the hub of its interplanetary operations.

  The birds had woken up, kookaburras and doves mostly, and over their song he heard the unmistakable sound of an approaching security flit. Myell kept his gaze on the city and his hands in plain sight on the railing.

  “Good morning, sir,” a woman’s voice said behind him. “Routine security check. Everything all right up here?”

  Slowly he turned. “Good morning, officers. Everything’s fine.”

  The woman was a brunette with the insignia of a regular tech. Her nametag read M. CHIN. Her partner, Apprentice Mate H. Saro, was smaller and slimmer, and had the coiled tenseness of a dog with something to prove.

  “Do you live here, sir?” RT Chin asked.

  “Chief Myell. I just moved in. Twenty-four hundred Eucalyptus Street,” he said.

  “Chiefs don’t live in officer housing,” Saro said.

  Myell pushed down a flare of annoyance. He reached carefully into his pocket and handed over his identification card. Chin retreated with it to the flit. Saro rested one hand on the mazer in his belt and tried to look fierce.

  “Are there regulations against people taking a morning walk?” Myell asked him.

  “Most people don’t walk around when it’s still dark out.”

  “Sun’s up,” Myell pointed out.

  Saro glared at him. “And they have the common sense to exercise in the gym.”

  “Fresh air’s better for you.”

  Chin returned. “Sorry, Chief. You’re all clear. People get nervous when they look out their windows and see a strange face, that’s all. Welcome to the neighborhood.”

  “But he’s not—” Saro started.

  “Shut up, Hal.” Chin nodded briskly at Myell. “Can we give you a lift home, Chief?”

  “No. I’ll walk.”

  Saro gave him one last suspicious look before the security flit drove off. Myell started downhill. He imagined eyes watching him from every window. An hour later, after forcing down breakfast and checking his uniform for the tiniest flaws, he joined the morning crowd at the monorail station. He hung back against the railing so he wouldn’t sprain his elbow offering salutes. A few curious glances came his way, but no one spoke to him or challenged his right to be there.

  He didn’t flaunt his Silver Star, but a lieutenant with bloodshot eyes said, “Earn that the hard way?”

  “Is there any other way, sir?” Myell asked.

  The lieutenant squinted at Myell’s deployment patches. “That’s the Aral Sea’s emblem. You help beat off those terrorists at Baiame?”

  “Something like that.”

  The lieutenant raised his coffee cup in salute, then turned away as a train pulled in.

  Kimberley’s public transportation system was a hub-and-spoke design. At Green Point Myell transferred
to another train and rode several stops with civilians, students, and other military personnel until they reached Water Street. Supply School was easy to find. It occupied a pierside base wedged between shipping companies and freighter lines. The flags of Fortune, the Seven Sisters, and Team Space flapped overhead, bright in the sunshine. The air smelled like fuel and vile salt water.

  “Second building to the right, Chief,” a gate guard told Myell. “They’ll help you over there.”

  Once Myell was inside the steel and glass building, a receptionist took him past cubicles where RTs and civilian staff were busy socializing. The enlisted men saw Myell and got to work. The civilians were slower about it. Large vids on the walls displayed student status, lists of instructor assignments, and announcements for Saturday’s graduation ceremony. The name of the Supply School commander, Captain Kuvik, was prominently displayed everywhere.

  The cubicle maze ended in a small office where Moroccan rugs hung on the walls and hand-woven baskets decorated the shelves. A bald sergeant with brown skin rose from his desk, offering a smile and a handshake.

  “Bob Etedgy, Chief,” he said. “Welcome back to Supply School.”

  “Thanks. In truth, I never came through in the first place.”

  “Got all your training in the fleet? Me, too.” Etedgy cleared off a chair for Myell. “Don’t let them hear you say it around here, but direct experience is always better than sitting on your ass in a classroom.”

  Etedgy had already arranged for Myell’s security pass, had requisitioned a parking slot in case he ever wanted to drive in, and had put together a bright red orientation folder emblazoned with the Supply School emblem.

  “You’ll be meeting with Captain Kuvik at oh-nine-hundred. He meets with every new instructor, nothing to worry about there. Until then I’ll take you on the guided tour. Officer training is down the street, in their own building with their own faculty and staff, so we’ll skip that. I’ll also get you set up with a locker down in the training room. Most of us commute in civilian clothes and change into uniform here—saves on the wear and tear, you know, and it’s okay as long as it’s before the students arrive. Captain’s not keen on us being seen as regular human beings.”