Free Island in a Sea of Stars by Kevin J. Anderson

thing he could do about it.
    1,543.
    Londa brought him a cup of pepperflower tea. It had never been his favorite—too sweet—but she felt as helpless as he did, and this was her way of making a gesture. “It’ll be all right,” she said, finding nothing absurd in her statement.
    â€œThank you, Londa.” He took a sip of the tea, then shooed her away as politely as he could.
    â€œWould you like me to bring lunch?” she asked. “I can make your favorite.”
    He wondered what she thought his favorite was. In fact, Iswander didn’t even know he had a favorite, but it would give her something to do. “That sounds nice. I have to go soon, though. The election…”
    As Londa bustled off, Iswander felt metal jaws of guilt gnawing at his stomach. He tried to think of what he would say at the clan gathering, what excuses he might use, whether he should be defiant or defeated, whether to beg for understanding and forgiveness. A second chance.
    They saw him as a powerful Roamer industrialist, one of the wealthiest people in the Confederation. He knew most of the clan heads, but not well enough to consider them friends. He couldn’t say how they would react. Many had made their fortunes operating huge skymines that harvested ekti in gas giants. Stardrive fuel was hard to obtain, expensive to produce, but the demand made the effort and investment worthwhile. The disgraced Iswander Industries, though, would never be able to secure funding for even such a traditional, stable business venture. Nor would he ever find large crews to work for him.
    He stared at the list of all those unfamiliar names, all the people who had burned on Sheol. 1,543 .
    He could think of absolutely nothing he might say.
    The door slid open and his son burst in, eyes wild. Arden was fuming rather than sobbing; his face was flushed with emotion, and he sported several fresh scuffs and bruises.
    Iswander rose to his feet. Arden whirled as if ready to throw a punch, then his shoulders sagged. His voice hitched. “They hate you! They called you … they said—”
    Iswander faced his son. His hands remained at his sides. “I don’t care what they say. They weren’t there. They don’t know.”
    Arden looked up to him, even though they rarely spent any close time together. Once in a while, Iswander would give him encouraging talks. He checked on the young man’s grades, emphasized how important it was that he become educated, intelligent, and the best he could be, because Arden would run Iswander Industries someday. He felt a knife twist in his heart at that thought.
    Arden continued to tremble with rage or with shame. “They said all those people died because you’re not a real Roamer, that you’ve forgotten our ways. That the facility failed because you cut costs and increased profits.”
    Iswander quelled his angry retort and calmly pointed out, “And yet when I first announced the Sheol operations, they applied by the hundreds to work there. They were excited to sign up for profit participation. Roamers know that life is hard and dangerous on the edge.”
    Arden burst out, “It’s not your fault!” But Iswander knew that it was his fault, at least in part.
    They couldn’t stay here at Newstation. The more visible he remained, the louder the recriminations would be. Better to lie low, find a place to be quiet and out of sight until the most intense anger died away. He decided he would take them back to Sheol, settle in one of the orbiting transfer stations that had quarters, food, life support—until he figured out what to do next.
    But he had to stay for the vote. He felt obligated to face that, at least.
    Londa came back into the room carrying a tray of food, noticed Arden’s tears and his flushed face, and her mouth dropped open. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
    Iswander thought it was ridiculous that she