Trident's Forge by Patrick S Tomlinson Page B

quasi-uprisings among the group fighting to leave the surface and go back to living on the Ark. They were called Returners, but they weren’t going anywhere.
    Valmassoi was already campaigning for Shambhala’s first actual elections coming in the next year and was polling very well. That was mostly a matter of knowing which squeaky wheels to grease to keep the whole rickety contraption hobbling forward. But that required an intimate familiarity with the players involved and the intricate web of relationships, favors, patronage, jealousies, and vendettas that bound them all together.
    What Benson had trouble with was seeing how that skillset dovetailed with the task at hand, where everyone was basically walking in blind.
    â€œYou look preoccupied. Still nervous about the flight?” Korolev whispered.
    â€œHmm? Yes, but no, just thinking about how ridiculous this whole thing is.”
    â€œAgain?” Korolev smirked. “Aren’t you bored with that yet?”
    â€œIt’s hard to ignore, and our leadership isn’t inspiring a great deal of confidence.”
    â€œAny particular target today?”
    Benson cocked his head back to where Valmassoi sat two rows back and on the other side of the aisle.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with him?”
    â€œApart from shanghaiing me into this mission? I’m concerned about how he’s going to kiss alien ass when we don’t actually know where their asses are.”
    Korolev nodded sagely. “A valid concern.”
    â€œThat and he’s leaving Merick in charge of the colony for however long this expedition lasts.”
    â€œMerick is deputy administrator, you know.”
    â€œHe’s a glorified personal assistant, at best. What if something happens while we’re gone? Like the Returners start up again?”
    â€œThose whiners? They want to go back to the Ark because life is too hard down here. Not exactly the building materials for a violent mob. Theresa can handle whatever comes up, you’re worrying too much.”
    â€œI hope you’re right,” Benson said and looked at his feet.
    The sudden banshee cry of the shuttle’s six immense turbine engines spinning to life cut their conversation short. An airliner of old Earth would have bothered with sound-deadening insulation for the cabin and efficiency-sapping modifications to the engines and contours of the fuselage to reduce noise over populated areas. The Ark’s shuttles weren’t built for such delicate sensibilities. They were constructed to be light and powerful workhorses, with no regard for the comfort of either their passengers or the people living outside.
    The flight engineer emerged from the cockpit and checked the crash webs of every passenger in turn, tightening straps where needed, then giving them a thumbs up before moving on. Once she was sure her cargo was secure, she announced one minute until takeoff and disappeared back behind the flight deck door.
    Benson shut his eyes once more and tried to pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist. The brakes released, and the shuttle rolled forward, gently at first as the pilot centered the immense craft on the runway. Amazingly, the shuttle was capable of vertical takeoffs using a network of ducts that diverted engine thrust to nozzles at its three corners. The maneuver burned a staggering amount of fuel, of which there was precious little surplus to begin with. There wouldn’t be an opportunity to refuel during the trip, and chances that the Atlantians had built a serviceable runway on the other side of their destination seemed remote. They were cutting close to the shuttle’s maximum range as it was, so every drop counted.
    The engines throttled up as the shuttle charged down the runway. Really, it was just a straight patch of hard-packed dirt that had been scraped level with interlocking metal strips laid across it to improve traction. It was far from smooth, but the shuttle’s