The Dark Reaches

Table of Contents

 

 

“Excellently crafted and lyrically penned, Kristin Landon’s
The Hidden Worlds
explores loyalty, politics, intrigue, and desire as two protagonists from divergent worlds find themselves pawns in a game much larger—and much more deadly—than either realizes. Landon’s sharp characterization and deft twists and turns of plot keep you hooked. A riveting read. I highly recommend it.”—Linnea Sinclair, author of
Hope’s Folly

 

“[A] promising debut novel.”—
Sci Fi Weekly

 

“With an interesting concept and deftly drawn characters, this is a fantastic science fiction yarn. Landon’s created a world with plenty of intrigue and action and high-tech devices while still leaving it accessible for readers new to the genre. There are layers of complexity here, both moral and political, that are sure to give readers plenty to think about.”

—
Romantic Times

 

“Kristin Landon has written a spectacular sci-fi thriller.”

—
The Best Reviews

 

“Kristin Landon’s novel
The Hidden Worlds
is a space sci-fi with a splash of romance and a dash of politics mixed together to make a very interesting read . . . The story is a great emotional ride.”—
Yet Another Book Review Site

THE HIDDEN WORLDS
THE COLD MINDS
THE DARK REACHES

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

 

THE DARK REACHES

 

An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

PRINTING HISTORY
Ace mass-market edition / July 2009

Copyright © 2009 by Kristin Landon.

 

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

 

eISBN : 978-1-101-06133-6

 

ACE
Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ACE and the “A” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

 

 

Once again I thank Anne Sowards, for her patience and guidance; my writing group (Patty Hyatt, Karen Keady, Candy Davis, and Skye Blaine), for their continuing support and honest assessment; my agent, Donald Maass; and finally my family and friends, who were so patient with my absence and absences.

Linnea Kiaho stepped forward under the eyes of the village, her hands tight on the wreath of sea grass and pale yellow crocus flowers. The stark new memorial cairn loomed above her, a shadow against heavy blue-gray clouds, dominating the little square in front of the village church. The cairn’s meticulously laid stones and new-white mortar gleamed, wet from the recent rain. Ready for its first Feast of Saint Andrew.

Linnea heard the shuffling and whispering of the villagers filling the square around the pillar. She felt their hard stares on her back. Her heart raced, her breath caught, as the wild impulse flared: to bolt for the skyport at Middlehaven, back to her jumpship, back to the rich, welcoming beauty of otherspace—

Back to her purpose, the work she could do best.

She took a deep breath.
No. Not yet.

Carefully, with what grace she could muster, Linnea laid her wreath at the foot of the pillar, beneath the old metal plaque that had been moved there from the porch of the church. Beside the old plaque, a new one gleamed, etched with the names of the men who had died more than five standard years ago in the explosion of the village’s fishing boat, the
Hope of Moraine
. That disaster had driven Linnea from her village. Driven her to a servant’s contract on the decadently luxurious world called Nexus. Twisted her life into a strange new shape.

Linnea made herself look at the old, fogged plaque, searching the ranked columns of names for the one she had always sought as a child. DONIAL PIOTR KIAHO. Da, drowned sixteen years ago. His face had mostly faded from her memory. She bent her head in the ritual gesture of grief, then stepped back to her place in the crowd.

Marra, beside her, was next. Linnea watched as her sister laid her own wreath at the base of the new plaque, flanked by her children Orry and Rosie, whose father had died when the
Hope
was lost. A cold, rising wind ruffled the flowers piled around the cairn, hissing around the hard stone corners of the church, flapping the heavy skirts and shawls of the village women. The dark morning was getting darker. Linnea glanced up the village street toward the ridgetop, to judge the weather coming in from the sea. Strange how black that one cloud was. . . .

Then she saw the flames at the base of the cloud. Smoke. Fire, licking up from behind the long row of houses. Fire at the top of the street. She took a breath to shout. Then saw the others there, watching her. Looking from the fire to her. Keeping silent.

So they knew of it, and still went on with their ceremony. No one had cried the alarm. Which meant—

“Marra,” Linnea said, her voice strained and strange, “they’re burning Ma’s house.”

She would not let them see her hurry. She walked, steadily, beside Marra up the steep, muddy street, at the head of a silent crowd of villagers. Near the top of the slope, she stopped. Ahead, clear to see now, was the small house where she and Marra had been born, where they had lived all their lives until the
Hope
was lost.

The house was nearly gone. A column of flame, greasy with the black smoke of burning plastic, blazed against the darkening sky. A few men stood silhouetted against the flames. Watching. Making sure it didn’t spread.

Marra caught up to Linnea and stopped beside her, looking aghast at the fire. “Linny,” she said, her voice thick with tears. “Why would they do this? No one was even living there.”

Linnea did not answer her sister.
You know damn well why.
She started forward again, splashing through the wind-ruffled puddles that filled the ruts in the street. Icy water soaked the thin, city-made shoes she had put on for the memorial ceremony. The men watching the flames did not turn as she approached. Well before she reached the stone fence around the old house, she felt the heat of the flames against her skin. They must have started it with lamp oil—it would never have burned so fiercely on its own.

Linnea turned and faced the crowd of watching villagers. At their head, close behind her—as she had expected—a tall, heavyset man in the long black robe of a priest stood looking past her at the flames, his hands in the pockets of his raincoat. She took a step toward him. “Father Haveloe. Why?”

The priest looked down at her, his broad ruddy face set grimly. “You know why. An infested man entered that house. For all we know, some Cold Minds nanobots are still lurking in there.”

Linnea’s fists clenched. “The house was cleaned completely,” she said. “Marra told me what they did. There was no chance that anything was left.” She took a breath. “That house was my sister’s property. It was important to her family. She could have sold it for school fees for the children.” From the corner of her eye she saw Marra’s chin tremble, saw her clutch Orry closer.

“The house was, of course, the property of Marra’s new husband,” Father Haveloe said. “Not hers. But in any case, there are higher matters than property rights. The safety of this village is paramount.”

“Then why did you wait until now to burn it? Until Marra was here to watch? That was cruel!”

He shook his head slightly, pityingly. “They weren’t thinking of Marra.”

She said nothing, but his meaning was clear: They had done this because
she
was here.
To put an end to any thought that this village was still my home.

Linnea took her place at Marra’s side again, slid an arm around her sister, and stood silent for a while, watching. Beside her, Marra wept quietly as the home of their childhood collapsed into lopsided ruin. The metal frame of the house creaked and sagged, part melted by the intensity of the flames from the ancient plastic floors and walls and windows. No one had dared to live there in the two years since its contamination.

Linnea looked around at the faces of the men watching the fire. Some she had known all her life. Eddo the medtech—she’d thought him a friend, a sensible man. Beyond him stood an old neighbor, one of the few Moraine fishermen who hadn’t been out on the
Hope
when it blew, all those years ago. He gave Linnea a cold glance and turned his back on her.