Ballistic (The Palladium Wars), стр. 36
“You said this is your first visit to a different planet?” Gisbert asked. Her corporate chaperone was the vice president of operations, a tall man with a generic sort of handsomeness that went well with his generic personality. He was one of the old guard her father had hired and molded, people smart enough to be adequate and not adventurous enough to swim against the current.
Solveig nodded, finding herself unable to tear her attention away from the large viewscreen on the forward bulkhead of the executive compartment. There was an almost hypnotic quality to the swirl patterns in the atmosphere. The planet stood out against the darkness of space like a semiprecious gemstone on a black velvet cushion.
“I was fourteen when the war started,” she said. “And by the time I went off to university, we’d lost. First Papa said I was too young for trips, then it was too dangerous, then I was too busy with school.”
“Sometimes I forget how young you are, Miss Ragnar. You carry yourself like you’ve been at this for a decade.”
Solveig gave him the smile he’d expect for the compliment.
So he’ll be using his face time with the Old Man’s daughter and heir for some career building, she thought.
“It’s too bad that it has to be this one for your first,” Gisbert said. “It’s not a pretty planet. I mean, there really isn’t anything to see. You can’t even spot the surface. It’s all just noxious clouds. But I guess they’re all lacking compared to home.”
“Well, then someone needs to explain the war to me again,” Solveig replied. “If none of the other planets measure up to what we had already, I mean.”
She could tell that he was trying to figure out how to take her comment, and whether she really wanted an answer. He went the safe and easy route and smiled noncommittally, the way people smiled when they’d been told a joke they didn’t get. Solveig picked up her water bulb and took a long sip to have an excuse to look at the screen again, so Gisbert wouldn’t think she was trying to engage in deep conversation on the subject.
Just noxious clouds, she thought. What insight. Those noxious clouds were the source of Acheron’s main export, the reason for its wealth and shipbuilding prowess. Graphene, extracted from atmospheric carbon, let the Acheroni build lightweight and resilient spaceships, corrosion-proof habitat modules for Oceana’s floating cities, and a thousand other things that had become indispensable to the system economy. The Acheroni corporations mined sulfur and metals from the surface of their planet, but their real riches came from the atmosphere in which their cities were suspended.
Solveig’s assistant Anja came up the spiral staircase that connected all the decks and walked to the seating area. She was wearing her hair in the usual tight braid, and her face was always composed and business neutral whenever she was around any of the vice presidents, but Solveig thought she saw just a fleeting shade of dislike on it when Anja looked over at Gisbert before stopping next to Solveig’s seat.
“We will be docking in twenty minutes, Miss Solveig,” Anja said. “The flight crew wanted me to remind you that Acheron Six is a spin station, so moving around will feel a little weird once you are off the ship. But we are docking on the outer ring, so it shouldn’t be too disorienting.”
“I’m sure I’ll be able to manage, Anja. Tell the flight crew I thank them for the advice and their skill. It has been a very smooth ride.”
“Yes, Miss Solveig. We will not be on the station for long. The Hanzo people are already waiting to take us down to Coriolis City.”
Anja walked off again in her purposeful gait and ascended the staircase to the flight deck to deliver the compliment from the VIP. Solveig turned her attention to the viewscreen one more time.
“Well, at least it’s only five days, right?” Gisbert said.
She nodded and took another sip from her water bulb.
Too bad it’s only five days, she thought. A million people on Coriolis City, and almost nobody knows the Ragnar name. I want to spend a month down there.
Hanzo Industries had a team waiting to escort the Ragnar delegation all the way from the airlock. The head of the escort team was a fashionably dressed young man with high cheekbones that looked sharp enough to cut paper. He introduced himself as Kee in fluent Gretian, and he showed pleasant surprise when Solveig returned the greeting with the proper phrases in Acheroni.
“Please forgive my mistakes,” she continued in the same language once she had reeled off the formal greeting, just so he wouldn’t think she had merely memorized the basics. “I am still learning.”
Kee’s smile widened. “You honor us with the mere effort. Your pronunciation is very good. And nobody would be so impolite as to correct your mistakes.”
“Your Gretian is much better than my Acheroni,” Solveig said and returned the smile. “Where did you learn it?”
“It was my choice in business school. I’ve taken instruction ever since. Thank you for your very kind assessment.”
If there was an ID pass check and a security screening here at the station, Solveig never saw it as they were whisked through the passageways to their atmospheric connection. Their little delegation was just six strong—Solveig, Gisbert, their two personal assistants, and two protection specialists from Marten’s corporate security division. Marten had put himself on the roster as her personal bodyguard, and only a considerable amount of gentle pleading and careful arguing had convinced him that there was no point in tying up the head of corporate security with an off-world assignment for a week and