The Artifact

  “Your constituents listen to you.” Lietov leaned forward. “You’ve been representing them for so long, you’re like an institution. Once major industry comes to Gulag that provincialism they’re so fond of would come tumbling down in the wake of prosperity. Social evolution requires—”

  “What you really want, Mark?”

  Lietov stopped short. “Your reputation for bluntness is deserved. The Sirian delegation provided hie with a complete file on you. They said you were a particularly astute and quick man.”

  “I get by. Enjoy flattery, too. It has purpose?”

  Lietov lifted a shoulder. “I’ve developed a lot of respect for you, Nikita. Have you ever thought of advancing yourself ... as well as your Sector?

  Here it comes. “A man always thinks of that—at least if he wants to survive for any length of time in vicious political circles of Confederacy, eh?” Nikita slitted his eyes. “What do you have in mind?”

  Lietov pursed his lips, an intent look to his raptorian features. “By now you’ve guessed that a great deal hinges on this jump to Star’s Rest. You’ve heard the talk in the halls—that the Confederacy may topple as a result. For the moment, I’m simply looking for your unqualified support. If everything comes apart, Sirius would make a better friend than enemy.”

  “Gulagis don’t have great love for Sirius. Myself, I’ve stopped your plans more than once.” Nikita raised a finger.

  Lietov smiled superficially. “A fact I’m more than aware of. Not everyone is so eloquent as you, or so powerful as Gulag Sector, for that matter. If the system were to change, your popular appeal might vanish. Your power might hinge on your actual military-industrial capabilities. Your appeal to the rest of humanity might be dimmed. The future’s an uncertain place at best.

  “I, however, am not so naive as to bear a grudge over past problems, not when there’s a chance I could turn talent to my benefit. I’m making that offer.”

  “And my people?”

  “To start with, special trade status. That investment capital I mentioned earlier. Beyond that, I think you should consider the ramifications of what’s happening in the Confederacy. We could offer protection—and Gulag Sector, with its independent stations, depends on the Patrol to discourage raiding.”

  “So? Sirian fleet isn’t exactly known for military prowess. See if recollection serves right. Sirius usually hires Arpeggians through back door when situation gets sticky, eh?”

  Lietov laughed, and slapped his armrest. “I do like you, Nikita. In a galaxy of lying politicians, your honesty shines like a beacon. I assure you, however, that with the conclusion of this venture, Sirius will be the power in the Confederacy.”

  Nikita cocked his head. “And Patrol?‘”

  Lietov sighed wistfully. “They served their purpose-once. It’s time for a new order. Sirius will be in the position to provide it and to effectively restructure human space.”

  “And I should side with you?”

  Lietov met his level gaze. “Nikita, consider the alternatives. Look at the players involved. I’m offering you— and Gulag—a chance to get in on the ground floor. If Sirius loses out, whose will and power would you live under? The Terrans? Want Medea for a ruler? New Maine? Your Gulagis would bow to a king? And then there’s Palmiere, who would be Emperor Palmiere the First. Last, but not least, look around you and tell me. the Brotherhood isn’t interested in playing the biggest hand of all. Battleship diplomacy? And all that from a secret power elite that won’t even maintain a seat on the Council?”

  Nikita sipped the last of the brandy and smacked his lips. “Have always suspected Brotherhood of exploitative oppression. Trickle down of technology comes too slowly. Who pays for lack of medical and such ships as this, eh? Slick-tongued Grand Master? Or sweating workers struggling honestly to feed and shelter families?”

  “There you have it.” Lietov spread his hands.

  “I do?”

  “Nikita, I promise you, on my word of honor. You help me, help Sirius, to prevail in this—and you’ll reap the benefits.” His eyes hardened. “Working with us would be much, much more enjoyable in the end than acting against us.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  Lietov ran a slow finger around the lip of his glass. “Don’t. Very soon now, Sirius will have the capability to destroy all of its enemies. That’s not much of a balance, is it? A little political support—a little trust and good will—against annihilation?”

  * * *

  “Constance?”

  She turned, seeing Jordan leaning out the hatch of his personal quarters. He smiled uneasily, a slight sheen to his flushed skin. “Could I see you for a minute.”

  She hesitated. I don’t want to do this. It’ll be disastrous. “A minute? Very well.” She walked back, stopping before his hatch. He wore a loose white blouse, unzipped to the middle of the chest. Fawn trousers hugged his legs, the top restrained by a gaudy red sash. His features appeared slightly inflamed, a redness about his cheeks that matched the burning intensity of his eyes.

  He smiled, and gestured her in. At her reluctance, he chuckled. “I don’t bite.”

  She smiled slightly, steeling herself, and walked past him, catching the scent of Arcturian whiskey on his breath. Good Lord, he’s not drunk, is he? She turned, studying the gleam in his eyes. Damn it, he was—and the hatch hissed shut behind her.

  “I’m running on a tight schedule, Earl. I really only have a minute.” She crossed her arms defensively.

  “I wondered if perhaps you would allow me to restate my case. I’m not sure you understand exactly what I tried to say to you last time.”

  “I think I know . . .”

  He waved it off. “Then I did it rather poorly. You must understand my position. You see, I simply—”

  “Don’t worry about it, Earl, I—”

  “No, I’ve told you. Call me Fan.” His smile worked loosely about his lips. “I really don’t think I managed to get my point across very well last time. What I was trying to say, was that I’ve given it a great deal of consideration. You and me, that is.” He blinked, frowning slightly, as if he’d lost the thread of his thoughts. “And we could . . . could remake humanity in our images.” He reached up to finger her hair.

  She stepped back, disentangling his fingers with her own. He twisted his grip, locking her fingers in his.

  “I think that’s enough, Fan. You don’t have anything new to tell me.” She tugged halfheartedly at her fingers, the chill turning to dread. The damn fool didn’t think he’d-

  “But I do.” His smile grew as he pulled her close to stare down at her. “I’m an earl, Connie. In line to the throne of New Maine. And we’ve . . . we’ve taken steps on the other side, you see.”

  Connie froze, poised on the verge of jacking a knee into his crotch. Steps on the other side? “On the other side of the jump?” She cocked her head, staring up into his smug face.

  “Did I say that?” He tried to swallow a burp, the sweet odor of whiskey cloying in her nose. He chuckled, his other arm going about her, trapping her against him. “Well, never mind . . . But you see, we plan ahead. That’s where you and I come in. You need me, Connie. You really do. And I don’t intend on letting you go. You . . . you’re worthy of me, you see.”

  She got her arms up under his grip, body tight. “What did you mean, on the other side?”

  “Being smart, Connie. That’s why you need me. Planning ahead, you see. Making sure . . . one way or the other.” He bent down, breathing deeply, as he smelled her hair. “And now, you and I will begin our—”

  “You can let me go now, Fan. You don’t want to push this any farther. If you do . . .” She stiffened as he kissed the side of her neck. “Fan, damn it! Let me loose and we’ll forget this happened.”

  “No, Connie,” he whispered in her ear. “You don’t seem to realize my power. I’m the Earl of Baspa. My word is law. Last time, you didn’t take me seriously as a man. I can’t allow you to make that mistake again.”

/>   “You’re drunk.” She struggled against him, starting as his hand dropped to squeeze her buttocks. “And you’re about to make the worst mistake of your life.”

  He laughed, running hot hands possessively over her. “I’m going to rule the galaxy! You and me, Connie. I’m going to be the man—”

  She threw herself backward, overbalancing him, opting to flip him instead of using her knee. Neatly, she threw him off as they fell, rolling away. Jumping to her feet, she sprinted for the hatch. A heavy hand grabbed her from behind, spinning her back.

  Off balance, she teetered for a second in recovery. Too long. He caught her up, lifting her powerfully, an arm locked about her throat.

  “Shouldn’t have done that, Connie. It’ll make it worse. No one . . . not even you whom I’d give the galaxy for ... can do that to me. I’m an earl, Connie. I take what I want when I want it, and right now I want you.”

  She struggled against the forearm choking her. “You’re cutting your own throat, Fan,” she gasped past the lump of her tongue where it filled the back of her mouth. Flipping and twisting, she fought him as he bore her down. The padded floor trapped her as he used his weight against her.

  She looked up into his enraged eyes as he pinned her arms down. “Damn you! You’re out of your mind! Fan, you’re on a starship! Hear me? Rape me and they ‘II space you!”

  “I’m the Earl of Baspa! My word is law.” He reached down to unclip her belt, bearing down with obvious experience.

  “Don’t, Fan. I mean it, they’ll kill you. This is a ship. Not your planet. I . . .” She tensed as he unfastened her pants.

  “You pushed me to this, Connie. You pushed. You’ll see now, see what it means to —”

  She jackknifed violently, batting him off and leaping to her feet. He scrambled after her. Connie turned, kicking him in the side.

  He howled, “You struck a nobleman! Damn you, you whore! You’ll pay for that. I’ll make it hurt, woman. Hurt like you’ve never hurt before.” He staggered to his feet, gasping, holding his side.

  Connie dropped to a combat crouch, heart pounding. She tensed as he approached. “I don’t want to kill you, Fan. I-”

  “Jordan!”

  She backpedaled, seeing Carrasco approaching from the hatch, violence in his eyes.

  “Get out, Captain,” Jordan gritted. “This isn’t your business. As Earl of Baspa, I order you—”

  “You order nothing! Cease and desist. NOW!” Carrasco took another step. “I mean it, Jordan. Or I’ll jail you like—”

  “Royal prerogative—”

  “Is meaningless on my ship!”

  Jordan pivoted on his heel and Connie saw her chance, slipping behind him, tripping and bringing him down cursing, as she twisted an arm up behind his back. Jordan screamed and bucked. Connie reached down, practiced fingers applying pressure to the arteries in his neck.

  “Connie,” Sol warned, “Don’t—”

  “He’s drunk, Captain. He’ll be trouble until he’s out.”

  Jordan flopped for several seconds and went still. Connie looked up, chest heaving. “Damn, I thought I’d have to kill him.” She stood, pulling loose strands of her hair back, refastening her pants, clipping her belt closed.

  Carrasco bent down, feeling for a pulse. “Elevated heart rate. Breathing’s strange, too. What the ...” He stood looking around, finding a vial next to Jordan’s half-empty glass. “Hyperoxy.”

  “Oh, hell. Damned fool. I smelled whiskey on his breath.” She shook her head, eyeing the vial. “With that stuff, he could kill himself. Oxygenates the blood, reduces the effect of alcohol. They sell it in most of the raunchy bars from Far Side Station to Luna Transshipment.”

  Sol walked to the comm. “Hospital, send a med tech to Representative Jordan’s cabin.”

  “Affirmative.”

  She stood, head down, watching Jordan uneasily.

  “And you?”

  She rubbed the backs of her arms. “I’m all right. Thank you for showing up when you did. I . . .I’d have had to hurt him.” She shivered, closing her eyes. Carrasco’s arm settled around her shoulders reassuring, warm and safe. Sighing, she leaned against him. “And God alone knows what the ramifications of that would have been.” She lifted a hand to rub her eyes. “Damn, I’m tired.”

  “Want to press charges? Assault with intent to rape?”

  “No.” She swallowed hard, looking up. “Let’s consider it closed. He’s going to wake up tomorrow with a hell of a headache and probably feel like a damned fool. He just didn’t seem ... but then, that’s hyperoxy for you. You’re fine until you quit inhaling and the alcohol‘ gets you.”

  “Nasty stuff. They inject it in the air in the Pantie Club on Vicos Station.”

  She glanced up at him quizzically. “You’ve been to the ... You? I mean, of all people, you . . . Well, there’s another bubble burst!”

  Carrasco grinned evilly. “Happy did it to me.”

  The tech arrived and immediately went to work on Jordan. “He’ll live—but it’ll be close. Blood alcohol’s point three eight.”

  “He’s all yours,” Sol grunted, nervously removing his arm from Connie’s shoulder as if he realized for the first time what he’d done. Off balance, he looked at her. “Come on, I’ll buy you dinner.”

  “All right.”

  As they walked down the corridor, Carrasco added, “Sure didn’t look like you needed a rescue.”

  She laughed. “What can I say? I’m my father’s daughter. Us mercenary types, we’re trained tough. But, to be honest, I was scared enough to have killed him there at the end.”

  “I still think you should press charges.”

  She looked up at him and winked. “I don’t think he’ll be back. It would hardly be fitting if a meek and mild rape victim like me broke his Royal jaw.” She paused. “And by the way, just how did you happen to get there? That hatch was locked as I recall.”

  Carrasco lifted a shoulder. “Had a complaint about noise in the hall.”

  She gave him a scathing glance. “Uh-huh. One of these days, Carrasco, that’s going to wear a little thin.”

  “Kept you from killing him.”

  “Does Boaz monitor everything said and done?”

  He looked around, pulling her close. “Honestly, and since you have the Word and Signs, she does. If you ever get in trouble, holler. I’ll be right there.”

  She nodded slowly, the ramifications seeping in. “I’ve read your privacy code. Monitoring could get you spaced—just like rape.”

  Sol met her gaze earnestly. “Then I’ll just have to trust you.”

  Something inside warmed as she stared into his eyes. “I guess that makes us even. Now, didn’t you say something about dinner? Or do you want me to starve to death? Beating up earls leaves a girl famished.”

  He laughed, a twinkle in his eyes. “I wish we . . .” He looked away self-consciously.

  “You were saying?”

  “Nothing.”

  * * *

  “Enter,” Nikita called as the hatch announced his visitor.

  As the heavy white portal slipped to the side, Medea, the Terran Vice Consul, strode into the room, gown billowing around her in a loose flowing wave of shimmering colors.

  Nikita stood, bowing slightly, studying her carefully. Medea might have been as old as one hundred and twenty but with the latest medical techniques, she looked no more than forty, trim, healthy, her body lithe and vibrant. Rich black hair piled in a tight coil above her skull to accent the olive tones of her eastern Mediterranean ancestry. Cool black eyes lit warmly to augment the smile on her thin lips.

  “Good of you to see me, Representative.”

  “My pleasure, Vice Consul. Come, sit. Could I get you anything?”

  She settled easily in a gravchair, expensive fabrics pooling around her as she leaned back, elbows on the armrests, fingers interlacing in a pyramid. “Do you have anything from Gulag? A drink perhaps? Something delightfully cultural?”

  Nikita
winced slightly. “Actually, I do have bottle of Gulagi vodka. It’s not exactly something sane man brags about. In fact, only reason I’ve got it is because Andrei packed bags for me. Always includes Gulagi vodka in case sneaky constituents catch me in off moment. Is better to produce bottle of Gulagi rocket fuel instead of Star Mist. Makes it look better to suffering masses, you see.”

  Medea laughed, watching him, long fingernails extending like spikes from her thin fingers. “I’d love some of your . . . did I hear you right? Gulagi ‘rocket fuel’?”

  Nikita grimaced. “I am pleased to serve. Perhaps after experiencing our liquor, Gulag will have found new way to extort grand old Earth. You send us money—and food and slave labor and fancy new electronics—and in return we do not send you Gulagi rocket fuel. Equitable, eh?”

  She laughed again as Nikita dug out a dusty bottle with a hand-printed label. He poured one for her, and, looking horrified, one for himself.

  “To health soon to be ruined by rotgut.”

  She smiled and raised her glass, sipping thoughtfully at the bitter drink, working her tongue, a slight frown to her patrician brow. “I must say, Mister Representative, it’s not as bad as you might think. I think I prefer it to our retsina. And I’ve often heard that compared to turpentine.” She drank again, lifting the glass, draining it.

  Nikita swallowed hard. She’s crazy!

  “If you please, Mister Representative?” She extended the glass.

  Nikita poured. She’s not crazy. Woman is raving insane lunatic! “Please, Vice Consul, I am called Nikita, or Malakova, or hey, you, or many other things perhaps not suited to ears of gracious lady like yourself. But ‘Mister Representative’ implies social superiority most disturbing to good Gulagi. Conniving constituents of mine would cheerfully cut my throat if they heard such honorific applied to me.”

  “And you may address me as Medea.” She cocked her head, frowning. “Tell me, do Gulagis really react so . . . hostilely? Do they really chafe at authority?”

  Nikita lifted a slab of shoulder and eased his big body into a cramped antigrav. “Is old wound. Consider. Soviet was hard on counterrevolutionaries of any brand. But were hardest on subversives from within original Soviet Republics. Is one thing to punish Australian nationalists recently deprived of political autonomy. Even Rashinkov in blackest moment of deportations could understand such resistance. But when own people began to accuse him of betraying revolution? Was different. When Russian people began to react against decisions of Politburo, was considered slap in face to World liberators. My ancestors were sent to worst of Gulags. Many lived by cannibalism. In those days, people paid for air and water and heat. Couldn’t pay? Broke a leg? Spaced. People had no medical. Nothing. Only had flimsy stations, work quota, and belief that humans should be free. Suffering reinforced ideal. Otherwise, what was purpose? Looking back, perhaps wisest thing would have been to have given Gulagis everything. Resistance to authority would have melted away—diluted by riches and silver spoon in mouth—instead of becoming fanatic with driving philosophy of life sucked up from mother’s breast at birth.“