Kuivahr meant “refuge” in the Ildiran language. The halfbreed Ildiran researcher Tamo’l managed her medical sanctuary domes not far from Del’s distillery, but the mixed-breed genetic misfits kept to themselves. They had been on Kuivahr longer. Ildirans, as a race, took comfort in bright sunlight and areas of higher population. Though humans and Ildirans lived in separate settlements on Kuivahr, they benefited from living close together and traded with each other on a regular basis.
Below, Del heard hooting laughter out in the water and saw five Ildiran swimmer kith, the sleek otterlike breed, splashing about. They tugged polymer coracles behind them as they harvested kelpflowers. The swimmers reserved the richer, more intense plankton slime for Tamo’l and her facility, but they gave Del most of their harvest, so long as he brewed the nasty kirae they liked to drink.
Since Ildirans didn’t understand economics or payment, it was hard to convince the swimmer kith to bring in regular deliveries of ingredients so Del could plan his distillery process lines. But they were good neighbors, he supposed. He made do.
A grating buzzer sounded from the speakers mounted above the distillery decks. Shift change. He had been meaning to get rid of the abrasive tone: workers should be pleased when their shift ended, and that noise sounded like a punishment. He would get around to it, but these days he didn’t get too concerned about small things. He’d had enough of that during his fifteen years as Speaker.
He entered the distillery office levels, greeted the off-shift workers going either to the recreation hall or their own quarters. Many were his distant cousins, or apprentices from other clans who had applied for jobs because they felt Del owed them favors from old political days. He wasn’t sure that working in his distillery counted as a “favor,” but it was a decent job and better than many Roamer outposts, such as the lava-harvesting operations on Sheol.
Marius Denva, his line supervisor, met him at the rec-room hall and led him to a table, where he had set out four goblets filled with khaki-colored liquids that exhibited varying degrees of murk.
Del placed a hand on his stomach, which had grown much rounder in recent years, though he pretended not to notice it. His beard was now almost entirely salt with very little pepper. Serving as clan Speaker was enough to ruin anyone’s health and peace of mind, and he had promised himself he would get back in shape as soon as he had time to focus on that again. Someday.
“Del, we’ve got samples of Batch Nineteen,” Marius said. “Different filtration levels, residual yeasts, and three separate plankton varieties.”
“How do they taste?” Del asked.
Marius had curly, dark brown hair, heavy eyebrows, and smoky eyes that squinted when he showed off his trademark smile. “I’m not going to be the first one to taste it.”
“Yes you are.” Del handed one of the goblets to the man.
With a hesitant frown, Marius took a sip, taking great care to maintain a neutral expression, though the flinch at his eyes was unmistakable. “Tastes like shit—but noticeably better than Batch Eighteen.”
“That’s a relief. The seasonal plankton blooms are so unpredictable that the taste varies widely. At least we have six batches good enough to distribute. It sells well.”
“As a novelty, not because anybody loves it. Give people time to develop a taste, while we improve the process.”
Moving down the line, he and Marius sipped the alternate varieties, their grimaces growing progressively worse. They were attempting to brew a unique celebratory beverage to be served after the new clan Speaker was chosen.
“Anything’s better than that Ildiran kirae, by damn.” Del shook his head. “We’re shipping tankers of the stuff, but I still think it tastes like eyeballs boiled in urine.”
“One of these days, Del, I’m actually going to cook eyeballs in urine, so you can do a comparison taste test.”
Del laughed. “Don’t need to, and the Ildirans can’t seem to get enough kirae, so we’ll keep it flowing. Maintain the goodwill between races. A long time ago, we Roamers took over their skymines and supplied stardrive fuel from gas-giant planets. Supplying Ildirans with their new favorite liquor needs doesn’t sound as essential, but it’s profitable, by damn.” He set the sample aside. “Well, I suppose this batch is good enough if Iswander wins. And he’s going to win.”
Marius maintained his smile. “I thought you weren’t interested in politics anymore.”
“I’m not. Not in the least.”
“Right. Don’t tell me you haven’t looked at the new Roamer Charter to see if there’s a way you could run for Speaker again.”
Del made a rude noise. “I’d sooner fight the hydrogues again.” He even thought he meant it.
After the end of the Elemental War when the Roamers came together again, there had been more than a year of convocations. Fed up with the ineffectiveness of squabbling clans and committee meetings, Del Kellum had put himself forward as Speaker. He was a blustering businessman who pretended to modesty, as if he could convince anyone that he wasn’t really interested in the position of leadership.
He wanted the clans to be strong, and he wanted decisions to be made. His slogan had been “decisions not dithering,” and Del was not a man who dithered. In fact, some complained that he didn’t take enough time to contemplate his decisions. Over the course of fifteen years as Speaker, though, the shine wore off. He had more arguments than triumphs. The Roamer clans had changed. Some integrated themselves so well into the business mindset of the former Hansa that they were indistinguishable from the people they had despised in the past. Like Lee Iswander.
Five years ago, Del retired after one particularly ridiculous feud over two clan embroidery designs that the families felt were too similar, and neither clan wanted to change theirs. Del hadn’t taken the argument seriously—until it came to blows and even bloodshed with one young man attacking and injuring the leader of the rival clan. Stupid people!
Del tried to make it look as if his decision to retire was not made in anger, but that maddening feud was when he made up his mind that he wanted nothing more to do with the nonsense. He gave eight months’ notice and set about picking his own successor—a competent, uninteresting woman named Isha Seward, who was so bland and unprovocative that none of the clans could object to her selection.
Del retired to a warm and sunny beach on the planet Rhejak, planning to drink ale and lead an idyllic existence among the reefs. He’d always kept aquariums of angelfish and exotic sea creatures even in the ring shipyards of Osquivel, so he expected to enjoy having Rhejak as his personal aquarium. Within a year, he was bored out of his mind.
After months of intensive research, he established the distillery here on Kuivahr and got back to work…
He and Marius walked the process lines, smelling the tang of saltwater boiled with kelpflowers and the wickedly pungent smell of fermenting kirae. He did hope that one of his aqua vitae concoctions made from kelp and plankton extracts might become a real fountain of youth, but he was more pragmatic than that. “I’d be happy just to create something that tastes good.”
“And is marketable,” Marius added. “I think you need to change the name from Primordial Ooze, though.”
They were standing above the giant copper pots that gurgled as they slow-cooked kelp mash when Del received notice that the Klikiss transportal had been activated. A new arrival was not itself unusual, except that the visitor was a lone man requesting to speak to the distillery manager. His name was Tom Rom.