The Artifact

  Dazed by it all, he refilled the scotch glass to exactly a finger and settled in the conforming chair, kicking his feet up. His gut twisted like a wrung cloth.

  “Captain. I’ll be most happy to consider your actions.”

  Sol stared absently at the bulkhead, and shook his head. “The man who ambushed Sword . . . and now I have to take his orders?”

  “Permission to make a suggestion?”

  “Granted, ship.”

  “Actions do not always accurately reflect motive. Accessing the data and running comparative and correlation programs, it should be noted that Archon disappeared immediately after the incident with Sword over Arpeggio. Further, discreet inquiries as to the Speaker’s location have been made over the years by Arpeggio. It doesn’t take an algorithmic brain to deduce the Arpeggian incident might have been as painful to Archon as it was to you.”

  Sol grunted, lost in scenes from those final days on Sword, the ship’s brain failing, men and women dead, some with eyes bugged out, fluids draining from their bodies from decompression, others a flat jelly-red paste impressed into deck plates where grav plates had failed. Happy’s grim expression would be burned into his brain as they boosted, the reactor fizzing in and out, for a jump they had no guarantees of surviving.

  “And I suppose you’d advise waiting for recriminations?”

  “It would seem prudent—unless you question the Galactic Grand Master’s judgment.”

  Damn. I’m tired.

  Sol sipped the Star Mist, lips pursed. “Circles within circles? Then I’d better bootstrap myself up to some sort of command efficiency.” A pause. “And who could be my saboteur?”

  “I have insufficient data to make that determination, Captain.”

  He gestured in futility, happy to have something to engage his mind besides memories and cartwheeling confusion. “How, in the name of Shiva’s seven heavens, am I supposed to find a bomb among all those diplomats? We couldn’t even search their luggage under diplomatic seal. Pray tell, do I walk in at dinner and say ‘Would the person who would like to blow up this ship and everyone aboard please hold up his hand?”

  “You could scan for explosive materials, Captain.”

  “I would if I . . .” Sol stared at the speaker. “You can do that?”

  “Captain, I contain the most sophisticated programming and sensing ever built into a Brotherhood ship. If you wish, I will scan for explosive devices of the magnitude to do serious structural damage.”

  “Do it!”

  Seconds passed.

  Boaz startled him with, “There are no antimatter or conventional explosives in the quarters of the diplomats. Containment for any regular nuclear devices would register in the air conditioning and gravity plate monitors. Further, analysis of air samples—rudimentary at this stage—shows no polymer compounds from chemothermal devices or substances.”

  “So maybe there isn’t a saboteur aboard?”

  “I cannot rule that possibility out,” Boaz replied, tone almost formal.

  “I wonder if Archon was lying?” Sol stared at the white paneling over his head.

  “According to his heartbeat, respiration, and perspiration, he was not. Galvanic skin responses seemed normal. At no time did I detect pupil dilation which would indicate stress associated with extreme prevarication. Further, I agree with his political assessment of Confederate stability. Any major event, discovery, or political blunder could easily precipitate intergovernmental violence.”

  Solomon Carrasco shook his head. “What other tricks do you have hidden in your gallium arsenide soul?”

  “Tricks, Captain? I’m not sure I understand.”

  He chuckled and then went cold, a sudden memory of Gage winding out of his fatigued brain—almost a physical pain.

  “Captain?” Boaz asked. “I detect severe emotional trauma.”

  “It’s nothing. Just monitor the passengers and leave me to get some sleep, ship. If you detect anything suspicious, let me know. It seems you’ll also have to learn to be a watchdog as well as a ship.” He rubbed his eyes and shook his head. How long since he’d slept? Tossing off the last of the scotch, he rose and rearranged his quarters to fold out the bunk.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Tayash Niter tapped at the pressure door with his cane. “So? We go no farther.”

  Nikita growled and slapped his palm against the lock plate of the heavy hatch.

  The speaker above repeated the monotonally irritating phrase, “I am sorry to inform you this a secured section of the ship. Ingress is not allowed except under special order of the captain.”

  “Think you can wear the speaker out?” Tayash jabbed his cane at the grillwork. “It’s a new ship. I think you’ll be here a while.”

  “Cunning Brotherhood conspirators!” Nikita grumbled. “So, that’s it. We’ve taken all corridors, looked into all rooms. What you think? Is Brotherhood ship magic like legend? Or does this look like any other ship?”

  Tayash lifted an antique shoulder. He sighed loudly. “I think it looks like any other ship I’ve ever seen.” He stared speculatively at the heavy hatch. “But Nikita, I’ve been counting steps. The ship is over a kilometer long. We’ve missed seeing Weapons, the bridge, Engineering, Comm Central, and who know what else? Do you remember seeing an atmosphere plant? Hmm? Nor have we passed inspection crawl ways. Seriously, we can travel from our cabins to the lounge to the observation blister and to the gymnasium. I think it’s premature to say the mythology of Brotherhood ships being sentient is bunk.”

  “Um.” Nikita glared at the hatch through slitted eyes. “To Gulagi, secret is challenge.”

  * * *

  So far Boat had performed above expectation for a new ship. The grav plates in spectrometry module 4 had failed through a computer glitch. Damage control had caught it before the 20 g acceleration tore the telescope loose from the mountings and sent it through the graphite fiber skin. Meanwhile, gravity had been restored through all five of the backup systems and crosschecked. Here and there powerlead shorted under the decompression and refrigeration tests. But then, materials reacted differently at 3° Kelvin under zero atmospheres. Better to find it now than in a decompression emergency.

  Sol slipped his coffee cup from the dispenser and sipped at the hot liquid. Despite hopes, sleep had been laced with one nightmare after another.

  “Captain Carrasco?” At the tone in Bryana’s voice, Sol jerked his attention from the daily reports.

  “Yes?”

  “We have two vessels approaching at the edge of detector range.” Her black eyes studied his, evaluating, as her image filled the comm screen.

  “Let’s see. Boat, tie in. Give me a projection.”

  On the monitor beside Bryana’s face, a holographic display demonstrated Boaz’s position and two dots of light arcing to parallel her course on either side.

  Sol pursed his lips while he thought.

  “I don’t suppose they could just be part of the usual clutter around Arcturus?” Bryana asked.

  Sol rubbed his brow, studying the vectors the bogeys were establishing. “No. It looks like they’re matching. Hail them and see what you get.”

  Sol sipped his coffee, a curious burning in his stomach. “No response, Captain.” Bryana seemed to lose a little color.

  “Well, they know we know they’re there.” Now what? Is this another of the games? Some threat? Why won’t they respond? A cold twist of premonition tickled his spine. Tensing, he fought a flashback of the bogey closing on Gage, originally a mere pinpoint of light as these were.

  What can I do about it? They already have our vector. Outrun them? Turn and prepare to fight? I . . . Easy, Sol, you ‘re jumpy. No, until you have proof they ’re hostile, let it be. You know they’re there. That’s the important thing. You ‘re smart enough to be patient.

  “First Officer, keep track of them. If they start to close, holler. Meanwhile, coordinate with Cal Fujiki and Engineer Anderson. If anything else breaks, inform me immediately. ”
/>
  She stared at him. “That’s all?”

  Sol blinked up at the monitor, worry sinking needle teeth in his gut.“Any suggestions, First Officer?”

  She frowned for a half-second. “Well ... I ... We don’t know they’re hostile, do we? I mean ... if ...”

  Sol exhaled. “I think you understand. Even if they’re pirates bent on taking the ship, we’ve got to have evidence first.”

  “Pirates? Trying to take a Brotherhood ship? That’s—”

  “Ever heard of the Enesco?”

  “Yes, sir.” She looked up at her screens, chagrined, logging the conversation.

  Sol grabbed up his coffee and stared at the screen after he’d terminated the connection with Bryana. Two ships?

  “Boat, do you have any ID on those vessels? Anything from spectral readings? Acceleration curves?”

  “I can only ascertain they are running a standard Star Class IV hull with at least twenty percent augmented reaction and maneuverability.”

  “High performance. So they’re most likely military?”

  “Statistically that’s the most probable assumption.”

  “Thank you, ship.”

  Uneasy, Sol stood, shutting down his systems. Coffee cup in hand, he walked, the soft soles of his boots whispering on the deck plates.

  “Two ships that won’t answer hailing are paralleling our course. Who? Who’d follow us out of Arcturus . . . and why?”

  Unconsciously, his steps took him to one of the observation blisters. There, he stopped, legs braced as he sipped his coffee, staring out at the blackness and the hoary dusting of stars beyond. Somewhere out there, two ships followed. A cold shiver played through him, a biting ill wind of premonition. He closed his eyes, staggering, remembering Mbazi crying out, “Captain! We have a bogey!”

  And Gage died.

  “But this is supposed to be a time of peace. Why do ships have to travel armed? Why are people dying? Ships dying?”

  * * *

  Jordan’s voice carried a slight accent, cultured: “Personally, I wonder at the Speaker’s integrity.”

  Connie immediately bristled, head tilting to hear the conversation engaging the three men behind her. Quietly, she worked the dispenser on the bar, ignored as she filled her glass.

  “Bah! I worry over everyone’s integrity,” Malakova insisted.

  Fan Jordan, the Earl of Baspa, lifted his arms, staring up at Nikita. To Connie’s practiced eye, Jordan might be termed an immaculate male specimen. Lightly built, he moved precisely. This evening he was dressed sportily in a desert tan carapace tunic, a white sash tied tightly at his waist. Light brown trousers, heavily creased, flared over his gleaming black boots. Not a single strand of his sandy hair looked mussed or out of place. The patrician features of his long nose, high cheeks, and thin mouth gave him a dashing appearance in contrast with the bluff Gulagi.

  “He went straight to the Brotherhood,” Fan insisted pointedly. “What does that tell you about his motives?”

  Nikita Malakova had his arms—like number twenty powerlead—crossed on his massive chest, the tip of his ink-black beard dusting the tops of his forearms. “What does it tell me, eh, Earl? When I hear you—cousin to a bourgeois king, of all people—telling me to be suspicious of others, I wonder what you’re up to? You know? Eh? You have knowledge of what this is all about? Then you tell me. Why are we here, in ship, headed to ends of space? We do what out here?”

  “Come, come,” Mark Lietov, the Sirian, added softly from where he stood at the third point of the triangle. “It’s no doubt some silly conference President Palmiere thought up to curry favor for a vote.”

  Connie sipped quickly to keep from spilling her now overfilled glass and turned, seeing Malakova watching her. Black eyes flashed as he smiled in a dazzling display of large white teeth behind the full stygian bush of beard and mustache.

  Lietov, Connie noted, stood with feet planted, dark eyes locked on Jordan in deep speculation. He wore a formfitting black jumpsuit with three thin lines of lime green laser light glowing diagonally across his breast. His skin like burnished bronze, Lietov’s features had been branded by his flickering blue-white star. Crow’s-feet gave his hatchet face a perpetual mocking squint. Now, as he listened, one hand covered his mouth as if to hide his expression. Otherwise, he looked perfectly in place, a predator in his own arena.

  “You believe that? That this is junket to make us dance to his tune? Bah!” Malakova shook his head. “I think is more to this.”

  “Archon’s done something to bend Palmiere to his will. Perhaps slipped a couple million credits into his palm to bring notice to his backward little planet. What’s he after? Publicity to elicit investment? Some bizarre scheme to get suction toilets on his rock of a world? You know, he had quite a reputation as a pirate. This is no doubt another of his—”

  “Would you care to elaborate on that, Mr. Lietov? You’ve got my entire attention.” Connie kept her voice cool despite the actinic anger surging inside her.

  Lietov shot a hard glance her way, a perfect smile immediately remodeling his lips. “My dear Constance, I didn’t hear your stealthy approach.” The smile grew more plastic. “I meant no discredit to your father. In fact, I

  and my government are more than anxious to help anyone improve their station in life. That’s one of the credos of Sirius.“ He clasped his hands together before him, lowering his chin. ”But we, as all serious investors, must approach any endeavor with caution. Especially during these trying times.“

  “Caution, Mr. Director? Indeed? I’m glad to know you’re aware of the virtues of prudent action. I hope to see such behavior demonstrated in the future.” She narrowed her eyes. “And as a cautious man, I’m sure you don’t want to alienate any parties . . . ‘during these trying times.’ ” She shot a heated glance around the circle, before adding, “If you gentlemen will excuse me?”

  She nodded, marching past, color rising in her cheeks at the rapacious look Jordan had given her. She’d monitored him, seeing the gleam of excitement in his hazel eyes, that glittering appraisal. Only Malakova had appreciated her as a person, a twinkle of enjoyment in his black eyes. And Lietov? A dangerous man.

  The white-hot anger had settled to a smolder as she left the lounge, fury-generated adrenaline charging her muscles. Drink in hand, she paced the corridors, winding around the endless white hallways, thoughts in a storm.

  “Connie?”

  She looked back to see her father hesitating at an intersection.

  Filling her lungs, she sighed, backtracking to where he stood, a worried look on his beetling features.

  “I know that walk, Constance. Elbows stiff, knees tight, back straight, and head high. You’re on the verge of throwing things. Something up?”

  “The Sirian, Lietov, thinks we’re greasing Palmiere’s grubbing hands to trick investors into buying us suction toilets. Jordan accuses you of something unethical, while-”

  Archon chuckled. “Unethical? Me? Hell, yes! The goddamned politician swindlers! What do they—”

  “Father!” She glared at him. “Damn it! You know what’s at the end of this trip! I just. . . Well, I’m worried sick! One mistake . . . that’s all it’ll take. And you know what we’ll let loose on humanity.” She closed her eyes, stilling her roiled emotions. “I hate to think what would happen if someone like . . . like Lietov got control of. . .”

  He grasped her hands in his, gently pressing her fingers. “I know, girl. I’ve seen the worry in your eyes. You’ve been right about most everything. I listen to you, I really do. Only I’ve had a feeling recently that we’re on the right track. Call it—”

  “I don’t trust your feelings, Father.” Pleading, she looked into his softening gray eyes. “It’s not you. I mean I ... Well, things that you . . . You’ve changed. That’s it. Something about you just wasn’t the same after standing next to that monstrous creature. Or was it the green-brown knob? You just didn’t . . . well, you acted strange after that. You—”

/>   “Paranoia, Constance?”

  She shook her head, confused. “I don’t think so. No. Though, God knows, we’ve every right to it.”

  He reached to smooth her hair, running a gentle knuckle along her cheek, his concern making her soul ache.

  “Girl, trust me. Hey, here, look at me. There. That’s better. Now, remember your old war-horse father? Hmm? Remember the times I’ve pulled triumph out of disaster? I don’t intend on letting humanity down, girl. I’ve had a fleet of my own, each of the crew depending on me. Sometimes whole planets hanging in the balance. I didn’t let them down, did I?”

  She shook her head slowly. “No.”

  “Well, I won’t let you or the Master down either.” He winked, patted her, and added, “Cheer up, girl. I’m late for a meeting with the ambassador from Chouhoutien. What’s his name?”

  “Wan Yang Dow.”

  “That’s him.” Archon waved as he hurried away with a spacer’s wide paced gait. “And don’t forget dinner’s in a half hour!”

  Connie nodded, rubbing the back of her neck. “Right.” She stared after him until a curve in the passage hid him. “And why don’t I feel any better?”

  Unmollified, she continued along the long white hallway, hearing the soft murmurings of the ship around her. So large and clean, she’d never been aboard a vessel like Boaz. Knowing Archon’s clearance, Engineer Anderson had taken them through this wonder work of Brotherhood ingenuity.

  And it’s made by HUMAN hands. It’s safe . . . an artifact of our physics and realities—despite its advancements.

  She rubbed nervous palms along her arms, massaging the cold skin. “Human made. God, how wonderful that is.”

  Connie turned, heading for the observation blister, stopping short when she saw the man, sick looking, bent over and braced, as if on the verge of collapse. Drugged? Grieving? He seemed pathetic. Viewed from an angle, the man’s face looked pained, blanched by some internal horror.

  He wore a captain’s . . . Blessed Gods, it’s got to be him!