Book 1 - Shadowline Read Free Page A

about what you’ve told me,
Rhafu.” The Norbon’s hand settled onto Deeth’s
shoulder again. “Department Heads meeting in the morning.
We’ll determine a policy then. Come, Deeth.”
     
    They inspected the sithlac in its vast, hermetically sealed
greenhouse. The crop was sprouting. In time the virally infected
germ plasm of the grain would be refined to produce stardust, the
most addictive and deadly narcotic ever to plague humankind.
    Stardust addicts did not survive long, but while they did they
provided their Sangaree suppliers with a guaranteed income.
    Sithlac was the base of wealth for many of the smaller Families.
It underpinned the economy of the race. And it was one of the roots
of their belief in the essential animal-ness of humanity. No true
sentient would willingly subject itself to such a degrading, slow,
painful form of suicide.
    Deeth fidgeted, bored, scarcely hearing his father’s
remarks. He was indifferent to the security that a sound,
conservative agricultural program represented. He was too young to
comprehend adult needs. He preferred the risk and romance of a
Rhafu-like life to the security of drug production.
    Rhafu had not been much older than he was now when he had served
as a gunner’s helper during a raid into the Ulant sphere.
    Raiding was the only way possessionless Sangaree had to
accumulate the wealth needed to establish a Family. Financially
troubled Families sometimes raided when they needed a quick cash
flow. Most Sangaree heroes and historical figures came out of the
raiding.
    A conservative, the Norbon possessed no raidships. His
transports were lightly armed so his ships’ masters would not
be tempted to indulge in free-lance piracy.
    The Norbon were a “made” Family. They were solid in
pleasure slaves and stardust. That their original fortune had been
made raiding was irrelevant. Money, as it aged, always became more
conservative and respectable.
    Deeth reaffirmed his intention of building raiders when he
became Head. Everybody was saying that the human and Ulantonid
spheres were going to collide soon. That might mean war. Alien
races went to their guns when living space and resources were at
stake. The period of adjustment and accommodation would be a
raidmaster’s godsend.
    Norbon w’Deeth, Scourge of the Spaceways, was slammed back
to reality by the impact of his father’s hand. “Deeth!
Wake up, boy! Time to go back to the greathouse. Your mother wants
us to get ready.”
    Deeth took his father’s hand and allowed himself to be led
from the dome. He was not pleased about going. Even prosaic sithlac
fields were preferable to parties.
    His mother had one planned for that evening. Everyone who was
anyone among the Prefactlas Families would be there—including
a few fellow heirs-apparent who could be counted on to start a
squabble when their elders were not around. He might have to take a
beating in defense of Family honor.
    He understood that his mother felt obligated to have these
affairs. They helped reduce friction between the Families. But why
couldn’t he stay in his suite and view his books about the
great raiders and sales agents? Or even just study?
    He was not going to marry a woman who threw parties. They were
boring. The adults got staggering around drunk and bellicose, or
syrupy, pulling him onto their laps and telling him what a
wonderful little boy he was, repelling him with their alcohol-laden
breath.
    He would never drink, either. A raidmaster had to keep a clear
head.
     
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Five: 3052 AD
    My father once said that people are a lot like billiard balls
and gas molecules. They collide with one another randomly,
imparting unexpected angles of momentum. A secondary impact can
cause a tertiary, and so forth. With people it’s usually
impossible to determine an initiator because human relationships
try to ignore the laws of thermodynamics. In the case of the
Shadowline, though, we can trace everything to a man called
Frog.
    My father said Frog was