Forsaken Skies by D. Nolan Clark

lawn of real grass where Navy officers drank tea and played lawn games with their port wives. Recently it had become popular with the enlisted men, too, because they could stand on the platform and throw beer cans at the officers’ servants.
    â€œTell me that’s not where we’re going,” Lanoe said.
    â€œDon’t worry,” Valk said, laughing. He took Lanoe up a staircase to a door made from an old salvaged pressure hatch. It hung open, one hinge rusted in place, and noise and light blasted out from inside. The place looked packed, mostly with people in space suits. A couple of them came tumbling out as they approached, tossed out by the bouncer. Valk got a glimpse of one of them, a woman with cropped hair and a shoulder plate painted with a blue and yellow constellation. He realized too late she was headed right for him, her arms outstretched. Before he could move she slammed into him and bounced away.
    The pain was bad. Bad enough that the white pearl in the corner of his vision started flashing. He staggered and, much to his chagrin, Lanoe had to grab him to keep him from falling over.
    â€œYou all right?” Lanoe whispered.
    â€œFine,” Valk said, getting back on his feet. He looked up to find the woman who had knocked into him. She and her companion were already hurrying away, but she glanced back for just a second. Maybe she felt sorry for running him over.
    Except she wasn’t looking at him. She was staring at Lanoe, with a look of utter terror on her face.
    â€œEhta?” Lanoe said. It sounded like a name.
    The woman didn’t respond. Her companion grabbed her by the arm and then they were lost in the crowd.
    â€œSomebody you know?” Valk asked. The damned white pearl kept popping up every time he blinked it away.
    Lanoe shrugged. “I’m three hundred years old. I know a lot of people.”

    The old woman refused to talk about anything but business. Before the salads had even been cleared from the table she pulled a minder from her satchel and started scrolling through old messages. “We were rather surprised,” she said, “that you were willing to talk to us. I have here the transcript of our distress call to the Terraforming Authority—”
    â€œNo need to play it,” Maggs said, holding up one hand. “I’ve heard it.”
    â€œYou have?”
    â€œI took an especial interest in your case the moment it came across my desk. Of course, the wheels of bureaucracy had to turn in their appointed rounds, and I was not able to intervene directly. The thing had to make its way through official channels.”
    â€œThey said our evidence was inconclusive, and that further investigation was required,” the old woman said, her hand shaking as she paged through the legalese and red tape on her minder.
    Maggs had, in actual fact, seen it all. He’d been privy to several communications not shared with the Nirayans, as well. He knew that Centrocor had never heard of anything like what happened on the old woman’s planet. There had been no official protocol for it. Minor functionaries had wrung their hands and wondered who they could pass the matter off to, and a few highly placed people had actually been consulted, though their contributions had been minimal. In the end a formula had been worked out, an algorithm for determining the risks and benefits of intervention. It had been decided, after much crunching of proverbial numbers, that Niraya wasn’t worth it.
    It would cost more to save the planet than to let it perish. Even after the inevitable lawsuits were filed. Even after insurance claims had been adjusted.
    A tragedy, really.
    â€œFurther investigation,” the old woman said, her lips pursed. “Dozens of people are dead, thousands at risk, and we’re supposed to wait for further investigation.”
    Across the table, the girl reached for another slice of bread. Maggs gave her a smile and nodded